Disembodied Voices

The artist is attending the opening party at an exhibition this evening and the two children are half-asleep on the bright red sofa. It is good for everyone that the artist is out. It took some persuading, a few moments in which she seriously considered cancelling, but she looked positive when she left and is now - I hope - enjoying herself. She knows many players in the art game and owes it to herself to explore these connections again. No matter how much it may feel like several steps removed from the art itself. In truth, there are no steps back to be had. It is all forwards. I can imagine the sounds. The disembodied voices. I made a film once about an artist. The scenes I hated most were the ones at opening parties. This was to do with the sound as much as anything else. The camera would pan with pretentious seriousness across what it hoped were interested or interesting faces, but underneath it all, on top of it all and through it all, was this inaudible and complacent din. It was the din of voices, laughter, clinking. Nothing of any sense was being espoused. But there were moments of delighted innocence. Art-loving at its purest. Only when the main subject spoke - the son of a tuba manufacturer, bizarrely - did we hear anything we understood, and this only because of the wireless microphone pinned to his shirt. (As it happens, I am in the process of purchasing a set right now, which reminds me - I must look into frequencies.) Anyway, just as I was about to check up on the children a few moments ago, the artist has just phoned. ('They are asleep,' I told her.) She said she was on her way home having enjoyed herself greatly. I was annoyed with myself. I had meant to text earlier, having wanted to say the most recent piece on the wall worked well. She wasn't so sure when she left. I hadn't wanted this to debilitate. Don't tell me I was underestimating the thickness of the artist's skin.