As I've no doubt gone on about many times on this blog over the years, I do rather imagine that so called inanimate objects are somewhat more than that. Yes inanimate but perhaps able to soak up snatches of the past and contain them - I suppose that's why our house is full of old, weird things we have acquired along the way and are rather sentimental about - books, china, furniture, and just objects for the sake of objects.
One of the very first objects I acquired - which had a use - was an 1920s saxophone which my dear mother bought for me in the vain hope I would actually play an instrument, not just fiddle about with one, like I did with the piano which mostly sat neglected apart from me composing odd tunes on it with names such as 'Big Bad Mouse'.
I did have a few lessons on the saxophone; took it with me to art college where I played it stridently and badly in a art punk group called Agitpop, and then largely forgot it as photography and painting took over. It then became part of each move over the years - various London bedsits and flats, equally dingy Nottingham abodes, onto rather nicer places in the Peak District, a rambling semi detached in Birmingham - where it did receive an overhaul from a German music student who lodged with us - and then a big move on a lorry destined for Southern France where it sat unused again for many years.
Why had I never sold it? That daft sentimental attachement thing - memories of art college, Mum, and vague ideas that I or Ezra our lad might take up playing it. But no . . . another move up to the Loire Valley where the poor thing remained in its case until recently I decided no one chez nous was ever going to play it and it was time to sell it, and probably a whole ton of other stuff . . .
I had it valued, put it on 'leboncoin' and dropped the price after the usual scammer rounds - I am very interested in your instrument; we will send a van, you give the driver a cheque and he will give you a special document which you will then take to a tabac and you will gain twice the demanded amount . . . or similar crappy nonsense. A couple of other people expressed genuine interest, offered ridiculously low amounts, or just disappeared, and so the sax stayed on the site and I almost forgot about it, until a few days ago.
"There's someone interested in the sax," said Mark over breakfast. "Oh yes?" said I, "van . . . cheque, offer of 20 euros, or, you are charming woman I send photo of my big sax and we make beautiful music?"
"No, really. He's going to come over at the weekend." And he did. Lovely young guy who stayed for a fair while, chatted over tea about favourite musicians, and tried out my old sax and his regular modern one for comparison. Great playing, and I must say that my ancient silver instrument had a rich, warm tone when played properly; actually a much more interesting sound that his modern one. So . . . he bought it and we agreed that meaningful objects either have a certain 'presence/soul or that perhaps a piece of oneself is contained in the item in someway. Whatever, I think he will treasure it and be happy that he met the person who had owned it for so many years. I look forward to a promised video of him playing the sax when his band perform. One less item in our overstuffed house . . . and I'm very happy to know where it is.
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