My friend Rosa works for a modern art gallery in the heart of Soho, the sort of place where a charcoal of a penis will set you back a couple of thousand pounds and a resident artist paints with his own blood. I popped to her preview after work yesterday, where the spectrum of artwork ranged from moody monochrome landscapes to pencil sketches of fornicating lesbians. In the corner there was a roll of wallpaper that looked like it had just arrived from Farrow & Ball. I stood staring at it, clutching a glass of wine and attempting to unlock its meaning by copying that studious-looking head tilt people do in galleries. After a while I gave up:
‘What’s that all about then?’ I murmured to Rosa
‘Look at bit closer’
The floral wallpaper was in fact a minute patchwork of female genitalia.
‘…..Oh. OK. Nice’
‘I think it’d be great in a downstairs loo, see how many people notice’
Rosa is very good at selling art. This isn’t just because she’s beautiful, though she is; men get a rabbit-in-headlight look when she talks to them. A mutual male friend of ours once said to me, without a hint of irony:
‘I bet it’s hard for you being friends with her. You must get no action’
This, coupled with a rare combination earnestness and dazzling charm, means that Rosa could sell ice to the Eskimos. Unfortunately I accidentally bulldozed one of her sales early in the evening, with the subtlety of a toddler crashing through a cobweb.
‘This is Lewis’ she said, gesturing to the smiling (glazed-looking) man in front of her.
‘Hi Lewis. Are you going to buy some art?’
I felt Rosa pinch my elbow. Apparently you don’t ask someone if they’re going to buy something right away; it’s the art-selling equivalent of proposing on a first date.
Lewis threw his head back and laughed ‘Wow! Very direct!’
I scuttled off to the window seat to stay out of the way. A man who had been staring intently at a print of the word LOVE spelled out in guns turned and introduced himself.
‘Are you a friend of Rosa?’
‘Yes. How do you know her?’
‘I come in here from time to time, I love the art’ (translation: I love your friend)
He was a tall, blonde, gangly-looking chap, who was standing in an unnerving way, with his legs spread out as if midway through the splits, or stretching before a race.
‘What do you do? Are you in art?’
He leaned his stretched-out weight from foot to foot as he thought about this.
‘Mmmmmm. I’m a performer…’ he said, in that vague, ponderous tone arty people take, like it had only just occurred to him.
‘What sort of performance?’
‘Mainly static trapeze’
‘Sounds interesting. Is that your main line of work?’
‘No. I also design creative learning systems’ he said nodding emphatically, in strong agreement with himself.
‘What does that entail?’
‘Oh, many things’ he said with a sigh, as if I had just asked him to explain complex variables, ‘at the moment, I’m seeing how you can match chewing gum on the pavement to star constellations. It’s a way of unlocking patterns of learning and creative thought. And, yeah….. it’s pretty beautiful….’
‘I see. And what do you use this for?’
‘I lecture’
‘To who?’
‘Oh all over the place… you know’
I didn’t know. And I was pretty sure this wasn’t much of a money spinner, nor was the organisation of the universe in any way related to where thoughtless people had spat out their gum. I glanced around for Rosa, who was now over on the other side of the room, talking to Lewis in front of a cubic portrait of Tiger Woods. I turned to the trapeze man’s friend, but he was Costa Rican and didn’t speak much English so we didn’t get past my repetition of the word trapeze eight times, until I gave up with one of those jovial ‘never mind’ waves people use when a language barrier defeats them.
Half an hour later, when both had left, I went up to the desk where Rosa was printing a receipt for Lewis, who had just paid £800 for Tiger Woods.
‘Hey honey. Having fun with Dirk?’
‘Chewing gum trapeze guy?’
‘Yeah sorry, should have warned you. He’s pretty weird’
‘I gathered’
