I went to sleep one night and woke up in an alternate universe. How do I know? Because I walked into the furniture store of the kibbutz next door and was instantly transported to the Versailles stock room of the Bourbon kings of France. Or rather, to the prop room for the movie version.
Styles change, this I know. Minimalism and its bare-boned cousins wouldn't last forever, I know this, too. But I was not prepared for a 180-degree, turn-fashion-on-its-head about face of a sea change. (Those of you who spend your time counting mixed metaphors, this last sentence is for you.) The shop was packed to the rafters with rococo gilt mirrors, baroque painting reproductions and gilded settees. It was the sort of stuff King Fahd would have thought was over the top.
All I wanted was a mirror for my Mediterranean farmhouse. I should not have been so surprised. I had noticed that women's fashions had become frillier and that jewelry had gotten big, ornate and expensive. Interior design was the next logical step. But I was not prepared for Rococo Revival.
On my way out of the store I spotted a meter-and-a-half tall Technicolor statue of Bacchus, bunch of grapes in one hand, flagon of wine in the other. I paused for a moment and considered. In the garden by the bamboo? Nah.
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