The Elephant in the Room

For years, this piece hung on my wall, and I saw exactly one thing in it: on the left, a woman drinking wine; on the right, what I was absolutely convinced was a naked bottom, legs and all. I liked it, I could afford it, so I bought it — and I never looked any closer. I always wondered about the title. An elephant in the room, a comment on drinking too much? I genuinely never worked it out.

I was diagnosed autistic at 46, and it's given me a lot of new language for things I've always done — including, it turns out, exactly what happened with this painting. I looked once, formed a snap read, and filed it away as settled. Eleven years passed without me ever looking again. That same trait — locking onto a first impression, but also the flip side of it, an intense, sustained focus once something genuinely catches my attention — is a huge part of why I've collected the way I have. When a piece pulls me in, I don't just like it and move on; I go all in, learn everything I can, and keep going back to it. It's shaped this entire collection as much as any eye for art has.

Going back through my collection recently to photograph and catalogue each piece properly, I looked at this one again — really looked — and realised what I'd been reading as a bottom was the elephant's head. It had been there from the very first glance. I'd simply never checked.

Once you see it, you can't unsee it. I love this piece even more now than I did the day I bought it.