Open Writing

Art may be viewed at the larger suburban shopping malls when there is a special exhibition, usually staged by a service organisation to raise funds for some worthy cause. Unfortunately, though without denigrating the effort and the skill of the painters, I confess that I am not too keen on the results. They are usually landscapes, and are usually over-priced. There is a depressing sameness about them. At one such exhibition, however, I noticed a series of painting done almost in the style of the French Impressionists. I found the artist.

‘Congratulations,’ I said, ‘you are a real artist’.

I had no idea how she might react.

She smiled quietly.

‘You seem to have a style of your own. It’s so refreshing.’

She was quietly delighted, and showed me a folder of photographs of her other works. They were all in styles reminiscent of Cezanne, Monet, Seurat and others.

‘Unfortunately,’ she volunteered, ‘they don't sell very well. People prefer the chocolate box style. But I do get commissions for portraits.’

I felt rather embarrassed that I could not actually afford one of her paintings, but wished her well. Here, I felt, was a distinguished artist.

One of the most memorable visits I paid to a suburban gallery, during my browsing years was to a rather up-market affair. They always seemed to be having white wine and cheese occasions for their launchings. The folk were rather well dressed, and spoke loudly. I wandered in one day, wearing my old corduroy jacket, and smoking a pipe. Those were the days when you could not only smoke in public, but you could smoke a pipe in public. I didn’t have to be brave to do it; it was all quite normal.

‘Excuse me,’ said a voice at my side. The vowels were well rounded, and the intonation precise. ‘Could you tell me how much this is?’

It was one of those voices that reflected a determined but failed effort to overcome the Australian accent and pretend to be south-country English. Its owner was a pleasant elderly lady, dressed comfortably in furs.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know,’ I responded.

She looked astonished. There was obviously a misunderstanding.

‘Oh,’ she cooed, ‘I’m sorry, I thought you worked here. You look so distinguished.’

I knew from that moment that I had ‘arrived’ in the Art Establishment, and held my head much higher whenever I visited a gallery. Perhaps that, and the Ballarat fireplace*, were the greatest achievements of my career as a Gallery Crawler.

© Copyright 2007 Brian Barratt

NOTE: To read about the Ballarat fireplace please click on
http://www.openwriting.com/archives/2007/08/yes_but_is_it_a.php#more