Chaotic Beauty
Naghi’s (Corner of
St. Ann and Royal Street)
Monday 7/10/17
10:15AM
Crystal chandeliers
sparkle, drawing first my eyes and then my feet into Naghi’s boutique. “Do you
mind,” I ask the man, “if we come and write here awhile?” Without hesitation he
waves us in. “Come, come. Enjoy!”
The center of the
room is a kaleidoscope of fountains, the largest in the middle and moving out
in a five foot radius, a hodgepodge of cultures and water spouting magic.
‘Purple Rain’ is
painted in vivid variations of eggplant, lavender, and indigo acrylics. It
boldly takes up the entire wall above the brick fireplace, filling the corner
as brashly as Prince himself might have done when he was alive.
Behaving as if they
belong there, frightening African masks scowl, laugh and silently scream at me
from their positions on the walls. Mixed intermittently among them is a shining
white marble statue of three Greek gods, frozen forever in wrestling battle,
naked, and tortured for all eternity.
I am surprised by a
nearly life sized Japanese warrior who suddenly stands in front of me. I do not
remember him when I stopped. His battle shield is held strong in his grip. He
is fierce and proud.
Six feet of wooden
crocodile bump my heel as I turn, its tail curled in warning, mouth open and
threatening. Bending down, I remove the rectangle of loose wood carved from
mid-back, where I find two rows of six smoothly carved circles. What would rest
here, I wonder. Was it built to hold a dozen crocodile eggs, and if so, why
would anyone want twelve eggs of a crocodile, wooden or otherwise. Then, I
think, for that matter, why would anyone want six feet of wooden crocodile.
Yet, someone must have at some point. It must have guarded a home, been a
favored belonging to a royal or possibly and eccentric collector, before coming
to rest on the concrete floor of Naghi’s.
There are too many
things, and I cannot stop finding more favorites. Overhead, a gaudy and
deliciously ornate chandelier takes up the top four feet of ceiling space. It
spreads out over at least another four feet in diameter. Unable to resist, I
check the tag: Handmade Italian chandelier, $26,000.
From a wall sized
mirror that rests on the floor, my own legs reflect back to me, along with the
proudly high, large, firm buttocks and protruding breasts of some African
fertility goddess, water bowl atop her distorted face. She is simultaneously
terrifying and beguiling.
My pen has not stopped
moving since we entered the shop. I want to sit on the coolness of the cement,
lean against a giant fish that once sprayed water in some grand European
garden, spoon beside the crocodile, gaze up into the crystals of one of the
hundred chandeliers, pray to the gods-Greek, Egyptian, Christian, Hindu, all of
them here for the choosing. I could stay inside Naghi’s forever, but for the
call of the next spot and the next round of writing.
As we return to the
sidewalk, I glance over my shoulder, and feel the eyes upon me in final
farewell.
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