During Easter, I was overwhelmed with a burning desire.
A calling to curate.
As I don't live in an idyllic BBC village in the Parish of Quirky, known for its beloved vicar and suss murder rate, I had to follow a different light.
Then there's the fact that a tea towel has more religious zeal than me. I could never take on the pastoral responsibility of a curate. But I can curate.
That's lucky, because one cannot simply decorate or equip one's home these days. One curates. Curators were once found only in museums and galleries, researching and developing meaningful collections.
Now, everyone curates, mate.
Who hasn't arranged a couple of twigs in a bespoke vessel (test tube or bed pan) and spent hours contemplating whether the piece creates the correct tension with the surface of the coffee table?
It appears I have spent years curating my home. Now, I need to curate its air.
Candles. I need candles.
Candles have evolved from the days when you'd get a pink lump of wax labelled "Strawberry" or "Bubblegum" for Christmas. Both smelled like burnt fairy floss.
I made a pilgrimage to the candle aisle at TK Maxx (I call it Maxx Waxx). I bought two "hand-poured" candles of great promise. One is called "Fresh Linen" and the other is "Inspired at Dog Beach on the California Coast". The first one smells like sun-dried white sheets (yes, white has a distinct smell. Don't argue). The other doesn't smell like any dog beach I know. I detect mango on a frangipani breeze with no whiff of dog "litter" or wet fur.
Dude candles are also a thing.
At The Maxx, there's a strong note of hipster on the wind. I sniffed a little number called Barber Shop. It didn't transport me back to the '70s when, as a kid, I amused myself with comics on the barber's bench while Dad got his ears lowered. The candle was sophisticated, spa-like. No hint of talc, Brylcreem or cigarette butts.
However, it seems the modern male candle-fancier likes a note of nicotine. Who would have thought Warm Tobacco Pipe would flip someone's wig? Or Tobacco and Patchouli? I picked up a candle (made by Manly Indulgence) that's inspired by an "Ivy League gentleman", which I'm pretty sure is a mythical creature. But, if he's ever tracked down, he'll reek of citrus and oakmoss.
I've decided to curate a candle line. My scents will lure the confused Tinder-online dating set. I have two ideas. One's called First Date Femme - base note: fear; middle note: dubious Chanel No.5 bought in Bali 10 years ago; top note: warm prosecco (objectionable). The other is First Date - Pour Homme - base note: fear; middle: Lynx; top: coriander (deeply repellent).
My second batch will be a triple release with the names Poll, Petrol and Property. Curating this line is proving difficult. How does one recreate the smell of collective despair? Pork pie is the closest match.
But if all goes to plan (and everyone has regained their sense of smell after COVID), this hot trio will at least recapture a nostalgic time. The line will be called Money to Burn.
It'll be lit.
deborah.richards@newcastleherald.com.au
