THE RETURN OF THE JERK

Miami Herald, The (FL)
May 3, 1987
Author: GENE WEINGARTEN Herald Tropic Editor

Before I acquired a wife I lived alone in an apartment that resembled the interior of an igloo, in that it was wholly without color or character or, to be frank, furnishings. My art collection consisted of van Gogh's The Potato Eaters, which I had cut from a magazine and Scotch taped to the wall.

Because of my wife, my current home looks OK, except for the crayon doodles low on the dining room wall, and the dog. The poor dog is so old and slow and doddering that she seems like part of the furniture, except more bedraggled, sort of a misshapen old hassock that drools. (This dog is so feebleminded that she once stood in front of the back-yard swing, which was occupied by my daughter, whose foot kept bopping the dog in the face on every upswing. The dog just stood there. She couldn't figure out a way to make the punishment stop.)

But we're not here today to disparage a dog, we're here to disparage me. And to talk about design.

It is said a person's car reveals a lot about his tastes. My car is arguably the ugliest thing on the road. In addition to your basic dents and rust and paint that has faded from green to the color of Spam, this car is also distinguished by cigar burns in the dashboard and rips in the upholstery so profound that I frequently find myself, while at work, idly picking little clots of foam rubber off the seat of my pants. The other day I fell in love with a clock, and purchased it. It was my taste exactly. It featured imitation Victorian stained glass with phony gilt scrollwork and fat ladies in repose and cherubs up the gilhooley, and on the bottom, in a special recessed display case, was a cheap plaster bust of Aphrodite. I know it was cheap because you could see the seam. I know it was Aphrodite because her name was carved into the base, only it was misspelled. My wife took one look at this particular clock and refused to admit it into the house. The woman wouldn't let it in the front door. So I sold it to Philip Brooker, Tropic's art director, a man who appreciates the beauty of the truly ugly. He kept it in his house for a few days but then decided, he says, that "I couldn't live with it a moment longer" and so he pelted it with rocks until it was unrecognizable. I am not making this up.

About a year ago in this space I wrote a column (entitled "The Jerk") confessing that I dress like a real dufus, that when it comes to clothing I have no taste or sense or judgment. This was to explain why, as a favor to readers, I left the execution of that day's magazine -- a fashion issue -- entirely in the hands of others.

Today, we write about home furnishings, a microcosmic look at small touches that work, sweet and elegant details of design.

Philip Brooker and Assistant Editor Alison Owen and photographer Chuck Fadely conceived, planned, and executed the whole thing. I didn't lift a finger.

You're welcome.

Memo: FROM THE EDITOR
Section: TROPIC
Copyright (c) 1987 The Miami Herald