Every now and again, Herself gets this look in her eye which tells me that it’s inevitable: she’s going to buy something. This isn’t clothes or shoes or hats – though she does enjoy a handbag – it’s not even something that, strictly speaking, you could say is for her. It’s usually something decorative, which puts it in the “for the house” category, but also, potentially, the “treasured memories” category. Because this purchase always happens on holiday.No, of course you’ve never done it. You’re far too sensible. You’ve never gone into some artisan-looking shop to escape the heat and suddenly felt a strange tingle; a sense that you should reward the hard work of the ceramicists and woodcarvers who have probably spent hours making these pieces. One might look okay on the mantlepiece. Briefly, you forget the existence of online shopping and convince yourself that this is the only chance you’ll ever have to buy that pot. Which breaks in your bag on the way home. Or, months later when dusting it for the millionth time, you notice “Made in China” emblazoned on the bottom. For quite some time, Herself had a weakness for holiday-bought bowls, but more recently has accepted that our bowl needs are fully catered for. Just to warn any interested parties: when the grim day comes to read Herself’s last will and testament, guess what you’re getting.So, she moved on from bowls to art. Not the painting of the bay at sunset variety, but what you’d find in the swankier venues filled with work by local artists. In these shops, the pieces are often abstract, accompanied by a note explaining the use of medium or themes. They are usually way beyond our price range, which in turn throws up some interesting economic and philosophical questions. Balanced against Herself’s occasional urge for a holiday spend is her default setting of always searching for a bargain. And if you walk into a random art shop and view the work of an artist you’ve never heard of before, how do you know if it’s value for money? Do you have to do research into their standing on the international art market? Do you assess it based on the amount of time and effort that went into its production?These questions, and the cost, are what have largely prevented holiday art purchases by Herself. Until last summer.This time, the shop was in Ireland. So, I’m going to be a little circumspect about some of the details. I don’t want to offend the artist. (I don’t want to get sued by them either.) But on this day, Herself got that fevered look in her eyes, which was immediately spotted by the shrewd sales assistant. They were over like a shot to describe a particular piece and the biography of the artist: ancient, almost forgotten skills embodied in an object. There was even a tinge of sadness to the spiel, like the art in front of us was a remnant from a dying land. Within 10 minutes, she had been relieved of a sum I’m legally precluded from revealing and we were out of the shop.It now sits on a bookshelf in our house. And if you were to see it, you’d be forgiven for thinking that it’s something we found in the back garden. People have asked where we got it, and they didn’t mean a shop. Without the sales assistant’s explanation, the original meaning has been dissolved.Or it has changed. I pass it dozens of times a day and occasionally ask myself: is this art? I don’t know. But perhaps that’s the point of it now. We live in the era of the hot take, of politicians who peddle simple answers to complex questions. If a collection of twigs can serve as a reminder that the real world is muddy and confusing, then it’s doing its job.