Towel Twisters
We are not the only resident artists at the Hotel Mosaique; house cleaning also has an artiste making the rounds. Ayman is the man and uses our rooms as his studio. Towels are his medium, sculpture his form. Last Monday I discovered an elegant swan swathed in my necklaces sitting at the edge of a heart-shaped pool – this oeuvre sat on the socle of my bed. Two days later, he towel sculpted a cowboy wearing one of my hats, and my favourite writing apron. The buckaroo’s eyes, nose and mouth were cut from a discarded Kleenex box and he wore my necklaces and my rose stone mala. I immediately fell in love with him and danced him around my room; alas, his features promptly fell, no glue held them in place, but even faceless he’s a delight to squeeze.
Down in the reception I sang Ayman’s praises to the manager and of course, thanked Ayman profusely. “You are an artist!” I rang out. “What talent!” The following day, he sculpted a long alligator, and I believe the menagerie of towel sculptures would have proliferated had not one of our fellows said “Stop the towel twisting please” (I believe she objected to the alligator) which thwarted Ayman’s élan, alas.
Like Momo in my novel The Baby of Belleville Ayman is an artisan by trade, an artiste dans l’âme. When Momo changes Jane and Charles toilet and creates a resplendent throne of mosaics, Jane is both awed and ashamed: “I was pulled by two contrasting emotions – the tragedy of spending two hundred euros on a toilet and the unforgiveable slight of paying an artist so little for so much.” So it will be for me, I am sure, when it comes time to tip Ayman for his services.