The Scrivener: Yes, but is it Art?
…There was an exhibition of contemporary sculptures. At least, I think they were sculptures. One, I remember, consisted of a wooden frame like an elevated trestle table, from which hung about half a dozen furry things that looked for all the world like dead rabbits…
Brian Barratt tells a gloriously funny story about a visit to a a well-known art gallery.
For more of Brian’s memorable words please click on The Scrivener in the menu on his page. And do visit his celebrated Web site The Brain Rummager www.alphalink.com.au/~umbidas/
There used to be a little art gallery in one of our local shopping centres. It didn’t occupy a real shop. It was tucked away in a narrow space between a hardware store and a bank, hardly visible to anyone driving by. Unfortunately, it was rendered even less visible by the fact that the shopping centre was well away from any main road. Nevertheless, a few faithful followers used to drop in on a Saturday or a Sunday to views its wares.
‘Few’ is perhaps an over-statement. I don’t actually recall seeing anyone in there but the owner and myself. Perhaps that is why he always gave me a profuse welcome. It must have been awfully boring, sitting in the back of the tiny hide-away, waiting for viewers and buyers.
Conversations and cups of coffee were more frequent than purchases, but I did buy a set of bowls one weekend. My good friend never forgot that purchase.
‘And are you happy with those six bowls, still?’ he would enquire. I think he treated each item like a child sent out for adoption, never forgetting the real parent.
I discovered another gallery, many miles out into the hills, where I was afforded a similar friendly welcome. The range was much wider, the prices much higher. But cups of coffee and conversations were always on hand. I became a fairly regular visitor to this rambling oasis of culture and colour set among paddocks and trees.
When overseas visitors wanted to buy something special to take home, I would take them there and introduce them to the good lady who ran the establishment. She became involved with the family, in the sense that, once a year, she would meet a different relation.
‘Now let’s see,’ she would ponder, ‘you were here last year?’
‘No, that was my other sister,’ I would explain. ‘This is my sister-in-law and this is my brother,’ introducing them by name, prior to their inevitable purchase.
In a quite different category are the city art galleries, with their fine collections of paintings by often well-known artists. It was at the Ballarat gallery that we saw the finest masterpiece.
There was an exhibition of contemporary sculptures. At least, I think they were sculptures. One, I remember, consisted of a wooden frame like an elevated trestle table, from which hung about half a dozen furry things that looked for all the world like dead rabbits. Another consisted of lengths of string and pre-loved kitchen implements. No doubt they all had some deep, emotional meaning.
‘Look at the symmetry of this one,’ I said, moving across to the wall.
‘I like the way it complements its environment,’ my companion suggested.
‘And look how it uses natural materials, everyday media, like bricks, and timber.’
‘The holes are rather modestly placed, don’t you think?’ I asked.
‘And they are so delicately rendered.’
‘Such care in the craftsmanship,’ we agreed, 'and yet such an abstracted conceptualisation'.
We spent so long admiring and discussing it that other folk came over to see what artistic gem we had discovered. It was actually the bricked-up remnants of a fireplace which had been removed when the building was renovated.
© Copyright 2007 Brian Barratt
