My kind of town

Obviously I'm no real authority on art and do remember a lighter side, in particular sitting at the front desk of one of the galleries I worked in across the ocean having been told by my flavour-of-the-wall gallery boss that a group of academics were coming in shortly and would I do the cause of great art a service by giving a brief talk. ‘A talk?' I said. 'On what?’ (I’d just been in a war and was confused as hell.) ‘Oh, the history of the place, that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘But it’s only about six months old this gallery,’ I said. She smiled knowingly. Anyway, half an hour of obviously important history later, the door squeaked open and this erudite long face looked round and said Pee-wee Herman-style: ‘We’re here!’ I brushed aside my wheeled executive chair like a small pet and immediately shepherded everyone in. Oh there must have been at least twelve of them and I stood in the middle of the gallery nodding like a priest as they looked round before launching into a long and winding road of freshly bottled information about the gallery, gentrification, new collectors, visual rather than literary culture. Sometimes in mid-sentence I’d hang there like a fish in the middle of a fish-tank with its mouth wide open taking in the bubbles. On occasion the odd pair of eyes would prop me up as I randomly sparked my campfire thoughts about this movement and that movement, and when it came to the artists themselves I did my best to raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. Anyway, each person came up to me afterwards and firmly shook my hand. ‘Much more than we imagined,’ said one. ‘Exceeded our highest expectations,’ said another. I must admit I was chuffed. I sat down satisfied and alone at the front desk and had just placed my hands behind my head when the door opened. ‘Excuse me,’ said this person. 'Can I help you?' I said. ‘We’re here for the talk,’ he replied. God knows who those first people were.