Heather's picture storybook house, wherein every wall in every room is hung with a profusion of sketches and pictures and paintings.
Wherein father Martin will follow you around, unlocking each work in turn: swinging back their frames and glass, and pouring out their unique stories upon you.
I return to rooms, and the art appears to be breeding: multiplying and migrating--new works jumping out behind their hung brothers to surprise and delight when you think you've seen them all.
As we open our mountains of presents on Christmas Day, Martin and Frances deal out art to each other and to all of us as if it were the banal everyday of CDs and DVDs. Small-run, woodblock prints and imitation scrimshaw locking boxes and 1940's silver lipstick containers and copper ingots melted down from historically-salient sailing ships. From the treasures they produce out of their bottomless sacks, you'd think them less father and mother Christmases and more pirates or explorers: dealing in the lossless media of yesterdays.
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