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.

No Pressure

The gallerist is coming to see the artist next week, not this week as it happens. I met the gallerist myself today. I met her in her gallery. A broad, refined space which literally gave me shelter from the storm. (My light brown cordoruoy coat looked like a cammy leather afterthought.) Immediately, I thought the gallerist charming, bright, unaffected, and the gallery measured, respectful, epic. Her thoughts stroked the work on the wall, which were largely contemplative and contemporary landscapes. I enjoyed talking to her - we even discussed the seventieth birthday celebrations last weekend - and I hope the meeting next week is a success, because as people alone the artist and the gallerist seem a cut above the rest, and they could be good for each other. A good service. This in fact is one of the things with the artist's work. It requires an unlazy mind to appreciate it properly and the artist's journey to date is not one in which the participants are particularly required to party, talk 'dosh', or deliberately lack cohesion. Its society should bubble, yes; the talk should prosper, certainly; but it also needs the right space and the right person, and this one person I met today was impressive. Meanwhile my trip grows closer and my running in the morning marginally less cumbersome.

I Beg Your Pardon

I take a seat in an empty room full of chairs. A rude film crew stumble in, noisily setting up, the legs of the chairs scraping. They are laughing, speaking what I think is Persian or Farsi. One of the people organising the talk enters with her arms folded, defensively. 'Why didn't you give me a phone call telling me you were filming?' she says. The man in question deliberately ignores her. He nods, saying one or two niceties, but basically he is very busy hoping she does not tell him he cannot film, which is something he does by looking away and studiously engaging one of the men he is with. There is a Dylan song that comes to mind, in which he sings about how everything is broken. This morning the artist went off so positive and polished, only to have the person she was meeting stand her up. This was the important art world connection. The man who was going to put her in touch with a gallery. But the man she was to meet is busy, he has just become a father again, he is running one of the largest databases, he is hanging a show, he was about to fly off to Milan, he is ... bla-bla-blah. He had an appointment with the artist and did not make it. Of course, the artist forgives him. She is the last person in the world who ever wants to be a bother to someone. But that is not the point. Anyway, the rude guy in the room full of chairs waits for the woman to leave, which she eventually does, and he sighs with relief, even laughs. I feel like going up to him and pulling out the plugs to both his cameras and mikes, but I, too, am a guest. Anyway, I am at a talk and the room soon fills up. Appropriately, given my mood, the talk is on war. There are photographs of suffering on the wall - famous war images. Why is it that when reportage shows suffering you take it seriously but when so much of what passes itself off as art these days contains suffering, a large part of you simply does not buy it? (One female artist who makes millions for her art was worried about her cat in the national press the other day.) I look around the room. There is a man to my right. He didn't get back to me either. Someone a few rows behind was going to get back, too, get someone to get in touch with me. He didn't. What rank odour do we create that has us treated so? Or has there in fact been a total breakdown of manners and respect in our culture? (Everyone seems to care only about one thing and that is themselves.) Fear not. We shall not cease from exploration. At the end of the talk, given by a very senior soldier, someone told this very soldier that he had been filmed throughout for a TV programme and he hit the roof. He thought it was in-house. A couple of government image minders were called to the stage. They didn't really know what to say. There was chaos. It's not my job to watch people's backs. (I'd be good at it, though.) But someone ought to. They might want to deal with people's manners while they're at it, too.