The Visitor

With the kind of confidence that perhaps only a certain kind of truth can exude, I watched this morning as the artist prepared the living room for the visit from the gallerist. The bright red sofa was pulled to one side. The African mat was rolled up and moved. The round red table was squeezed into the corner. Dust was wiped. Blinds were hoisted. (OK, I helped.) Then, one by one, the artist carefully slid the heavy completed pieces from their precarious resting place by the front door - space, like art, is a premium round here - and we posted them in various positions around the room. I then worked on the bathroom, cleaning the sink and bath and mirrors. I had already opened the front and back doors and a cool air blew through the flat. Then I blew up a yellow balloon. This was to leave outside the house for the visitors' taxi. Anyway, all done, I kissed the artist and wished her well. Her visitor was imminent. She had phoned, even left a courteous and friendly email confirming the visit. As for me, I was on my way to see a friend and former Marine for lunch. I was almost there when the artist phoned. Apparently the woman was as I remembered in her gallery a week ago - informed, gentle, confident - and the artist told me that she thought the work was fantastic. The artist sounded the kind of positive you want. A meeting without the artist will take place next Monday at the gallery during which the artist's work, with the benefit of some printed images, will be discussed. The gallerist will then get back to her. I am pleased it went well. The artist is trying to be philosophical but I knew there is real trust there. I also noticed a real strength in the artist's voice when she told me her news. It was as if the currency of their exchange was high art indeed.