For two-and-a-half years, I’ve been writing this column: ‘On the Shelf’. It was supposed to be about books, with a little ironic nod to my (mostly) happy, (mostly) single life: a sort of ‘relationship status update’ to the world, GSOH needed. But I realised that I’d never actually talked about what our non-metaphorical actual books really sit on.
The humble bookshelf can be a thing of beauty and wonder, yet is rarely considered in and of itself. I thought things might be different in a book called The Ideal Bookshelf , but no. A hundred writers, artists, designers and creative types were asked to line up, and write about, their favourite books. Each essay is accompanied with a painting of their ‘ideal bookshelf’ by the artist Jane Mount — only, despite the name, her paintings are only of the book spines: not a shelf in sight. They float in mid-air, exactly like books don’t.
When I packed up my house and moved back to England from Delhi last year, most of my possessions were left behind. The only things I had shipped were several crates of books, which have been sitting in boxes ever since, waiting for the moment when they, too, could join me in taking in the Somerset air.
Every time I walked into someone else’s house, I was overcome with shelf-envy and cupboard love, and a crippling anxiety about my own ability to do anything about it.
One day, few weeks after I moved in, a kindly neighbour took pity on my bare walls and complete lack of grip, and gave me a stack of high quality MDF (that’s medium density fibreboard to you non-shelvies out there) that he had to spare.
There then ensued several months of cogitation. I viewed my empty alcoves with a critical eye, stroking my subconscious beard and sucking in my metaphorical teeth. Occasionally, I would visit the MDF slabs in the shed and stand in silent communion with them.
Finally, it was Nike who came to the rescue: the goddess of victory pointed out, quite pertly, that if I didn’t Do It, It would never get Done. Just. So I rolled up my non-literal sleeves.
There should be a sign above my door: abandon all hope of right angles, ye who enter here. No matter how I sawed and sanded, nothing quite fit. I screwed up and urgently wanted to get hammered. I cursed my school for having made me do needlework not carpentry. Then again, given that I can barely thread a needle, maybe not. At times, I would raise my eyes to the heavens and implore that son of a carpenter to take pity on this poor supplicant. If Jesus was a carpenter, he must have had the patience of a saint.
My brother helped keep my spirits up and the shelves on the level, more or less. Following the great British tradition of naming your power tools, we struggled manfully — then womanfully — and then manfully again (Jesus, those things are heavy) — with Killer Drilla and The Mighty Boosh. With a little help from my son, we managed to finally Do-It-Ourselves.
When I put the final nail in (a metaphorical nail: it was a screw), I stood back to admire my handiwork. The process of constructing my bookshelves has taught me many things — as well as expanding my son’s vocabulary in unexpectedly colourful ways. I realised that bookshelves bought are sweet, but bookshelves made are sweeter still. I still feel a pang for the shelf unit I left behind in India, made from the huge wooden box drawer from beneath a queen-size bed, turned on its side and with planks nailed to the inside. It was a thing of jugaad beauty.
Half the pleasure of the shelves in my new house is their second-hand nature. Constructed from bits of plywood found in the shed, someone else’s off-cuts, leftover cans of paint and borrowed brushes, they are a patchwork of other lives, upcycled to form part of my own. It’s an aesthetic choice that has furnished the entire house: a donation here, a charity-shop raid there, a cast-off over yonder. Round here, people often leave stuff outside their gate with a sign: ‘help yourself’. The table I’m sitting at, the chair I’m sitting on, the mug I’m drinking coffee out of have all been gifts. My house is unmetaphorically furnished with generosity.
Apart from all that, the fact of the matter is that at this point in our lives, our world simply has too much stuff in it. We consume half a planet more than we can replace: the only ethical choice has to be to recycle, share, mend and make-do.
Well, they are done. Finally. The shelves are up. And have — miraculously — stayed up, so far at least. The only problem now is, if I put books on them, they’ll be hidden. Bugger.
( Anita Roy is a writer, editor and publisher ; www.anitaroy.net )