The first is a series of portraits of Wimbledon's mostly ancient rivals, which suggests an alarming intensity of competition involving huge sums of money, divorce, and bitterness. Or is he? Early on, there are two small, unsettling pieces. Wimbledon Green - he's the real thing alright. I was furious! Of course I had no Tiny Tales. And upon leaving, he thanked me for the wine, walked off, and then turned and said: Good night sir! I've never really considered a collection anything beyond amateurish without a complete run of Tiny Tales. Upon completion of my little tour he had but one comment: My copy of Smoky Stu is of a superior condition. (Now here's something you'll enjoy!) By the end of the evening he would barely utter a word. He radiated a sullen aura! (We've barely scratched the surface.) I must admit, his sulkiness only encouraged my desire to parade enviable items before him.
(The only copy!) His mood fouled by the moment. I pulled out rare oddities and seldom seen editions. I showed him my treasures - my one-of-a-kind items. (A lovely wine, m'boy.) But this subtly changed as I led him through my collection rooms. I decanted an excellent vintage from my wine cellar - a 1928 St. Green would appreciate a private viewing of my exquisite pieces. Here, for example, is another collector, equally bereft of social skills, and hats off to Seth for so sensitively observing the fine line between shared enthusiasm and - on Chip Corner's part - showing off, and in Wimbledon Green, the prideful jealousy of someone determined to be the unequalled expert: Ask around, however, and you'll start to hear several other sides to the man and his personal history. But he just seems like one of those eccentrics that know more about their chosen enthusiasm than they do about human interaction. Pompous, to be sure opinionated, certainly and obsessed with ancient comics to a far further extent than anyone I've ever met. On the surface, Wimbledon seems to be a harmless old buffer.
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