An Irishman's Diary

THERE was a poignant, end-of-era note to that lead story in the Property supplement on Thursday about a house in Sandycove called “Matisse”.

The place was so named not because of its bold use of colour, its strong lines, its sense of solidity, or any other similarity with the work of the Fauvists – the early 20th century art movement Henri Matisse founded. No; according to the report, it was just that the owners loved “the south of France”.

Even so, the story could not but remind one how much better the international art market is holding up compared with property. Apparently, Matisse-the-house was withdrawn from auction in 2007 with the reserve at €3.75 million, and is now of offer for a lot less. By contrast, Matisse-the-painter – or at least one of his works – fetched $33.6 million at auction barely a year ago.

In another way, too, the story captures the mood of our times. As my fellow art lovers will know, Matisse and the other Fauves (literally “wild beasts”) established their movement as an almost violent reaction against the deliberate methodism of the neo-impressionists, especially Seurat and Signac and the rest of those so-called — excuse me while I spit — pointillists.

But looking back now, I can see that there were similar excesses in the work of late Celtic-Tiger-era estate agents. Members of the real estate school have always differed from the impressionists in one key respect: whereas the latter painted subjects in all kinds of light, the former only ever represented the properties they were selling against the background of a light blue sky.

As with the neo-impressionists, however, when estate agents described, say, “a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to acquire this magnificent, deceptively spacious two-bedroom townhouse, set in a leafy and much-sought-after neighbourhood”, you often had to stand well back from the picture and scrunch your eyes up to see what they meant. And while you were doing that, someone else would be buying the house for twice the guide price.

Impressionism was not the only strain of artistic thought represented in boom-era property ads. Alongside the real estate agents, as I recall, there were a few surreal ones too. Certainly some of the houses they sold could have been named “Magritte”, after the Belgian painter of such famed works as La Trahison des Images (“The Treachery of Images”).

You may remember that this was a picture of a pipe, accompanied by the caption: “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”. At the height of the Tiger years, one sensed that there were similar contradictions at play in property ads.

Back then, you might have found yourself viewing what was described as a “perfect family home”; but looking around it, you would be moved to mutter “ceci n’est pas plus grand qu’une boîte à chaussures!” or words to that effect. And while you were saying this, some other family would be buying the house for twice the guide price.

Now, of course, the tables have turned. There are a lot of properties on the market currently that could be called “Van Gogh”. Or “Van-Gogh-before-he-died”, to be more precise. Because famous as the tragic Dutchman is now, he sold only one painting during his lifetime – an experience some contemporary realtors must fear replicating.

The idea of a tortured estate agent is still hard to imagine. But you wouldn’t be completely surprised to see one with a bandaged ear these days, despairing of his inability to convey the intense beauty of the property on his books to an uncaring, bourgeois public.

READING about the house named “Matisse” has set me wondering which artist I would call my own home after. On balance, it would probably have to be (Jackson) “Pollock”. This is not just because of an obvious similarity in our painting styles – although critics, notably my wife, have suggested that the parts of the house decorated by me look as if I threw the paintbrush at the wall, and the tin after it.

But there’s also the fact that, in common with many city houses, it has a number, as did many of Pollock’s paintings. My house is entitled simply “No 3”, which is tantalisingly close to Pollock’s “No 5”, the painting that set a world record a couple of years ago when it went for $140 million. Although our road already has a “No 5”, I’d chance re-titling my house accordingly, and confusing the postman, if I thought it might boost its value.

I suppose if you were so inclined, you could define every place you’d lived in terms of a different artist. Certainly I’ve stayed in at least one bedsit over the years that was like something by Hieronymous Bosch. I also had a brief spell once in a London squat vaguely reminiscent of Hogarth’s “Gin Lane”. And then there was a flat I shared years ago with a lad from Kerry.

It was all right in itself, and the mice seemed to like it too; but, in common with many young men, neither of us was much of a housekeeper. So looking back now, if I had to give the flat an artist’s name, it would probably be “Munch”, after the painter of The Scream. That was certainly the response it provoked from my girlfriend the first and only time she visited. I still think it was a bit of an over-reaction.