for today. See you later, Toby, see you Rupert . . .' and suddenly I find myself walking down the street side by side with her, without quite knowing whose idea it was. 'So, where're we off to now, then?' she asks, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her black vinyl coat.
'Actually, I'm just on my way to the City Art Gallery.'
'The Art Gallery?' she asks, intrigued.
'Yeah, I thought I'd, you know, check it out?'
She wrinkles her nose, says, 'Okay. Let's "check it out"!' and I follow her down the street.
Ah, the timeless old check-out-the-art-gallery ruse. I've been waiting to try this for some time actually, because it's not really possible in Southend, but this is a proper art gallery; hushed library atmosphere, marble benches, security guards dozing on uncomfortable chairs. My plan, ideally, was to bring Alice here on a date, but it's good to have a dry run with someone else first, so that I can work out my spontaneous responses in advance.
I don't mind admitting that my response to the visual arts can be pretty superficial; for instance, I often have to resort to pointing out that someone in the painting looks like so-and-so off the telly. Also, there's a certain amount of art gallery etiquette that I need to get the hang of - how long to stand in front of each of the paintings, what noises to make, that kind of thing - but Rebecca and I soon settle into a nice, comfortable rhythm; not so fast as to seem shallow, not so slow as to be deathly bored.
We're checking out the Eighteenth Century room, standing in front of a not particularly remarkable painting by someone I've never heard of, a Gainsborough-esque Lord and Lady stood under a tree.
'Amazing perspective,' I say, but drawing her attention to the way objects get smaller as they get further away seems a little basic, so instead I decide to take a more Marxist, socio-political approach.
'Look at their faces! They certainly seem pleased with their lot!'
'If you say so,' says Rebecca, uninspired.
'Not an art-lover then?'
"Course I am. I just don't think that because something's been put in a big, bloody gilt frame, I should be obliged to stand around in front of it for hours, rubbing my chin. I mean, look at this stuff . . .' Hands still plunged in coat pockets, she gestures dismissively round the room, with the bat's wings of her coat '...portraits of the idle rich surveying their ill-gotten gains, chocolate-box portrayals of backbreaking rural toil, paintings of spotlessly clean pigs. I mean, look at this monstrosity' - she gestures towards a creamily pink, plump nude reclined on a chaise-longue - 'soft-porn for the slave-trading set. Where's her pubic hair for crying out loud! Have you ever in your life seen a naked woman who looked like that? I contemplate telling her that I've actually never seen a naked woman, but I don't want to blow my artistic credentials, so I stay quiet. 'I mean, who's it actually /or?'
'So you don't think art has any intrinsic value?'
'No, I just don't think it has intrinsic value because someone somewhere decides to call it "art". Like this stuff - it's the kind of crap you see on the walls of provincial Conservative Clubs . . .'
'So I suppose, come the revolution, you'd burn this all down . . .'
'Och, that's a really endearing little habit you've got there, reducing people to a stereotype . . .' I follow her through to a room full of still-lifes, and decide to steer the conversation away from politics. 'What's the plural of "still-life"? Is it "still lifes" or "still-lifes"?' This strikes me as a pretty sophisticated Radio 4 kind of thing to say, but she's not biting.
'So what are your politics, then?' she says.
'Well, I suppose I'm a sort of left-wing liberal-humanist.'
'Nothing at all in other words . . .'
'Well, I wouldn't say th . . .'
'And what are you studying again?'
'Eng. Lit.'
'What's Ingletr'
'English Literature.'
'Is that what they're calling it these days? And what attracted you to Inglet, apart from
'Actually, I'm just on my way to the City Art Gallery.'
'The Art Gallery?' she asks, intrigued.
'Yeah, I thought I'd, you know, check it out?'
She wrinkles her nose, says, 'Okay. Let's "check it out"!' and I follow her down the street.
Ah, the timeless old check-out-the-art-gallery ruse. I've been waiting to try this for some time actually, because it's not really possible in Southend, but this is a proper art gallery; hushed library atmosphere, marble benches, security guards dozing on uncomfortable chairs. My plan, ideally, was to bring Alice here on a date, but it's good to have a dry run with someone else first, so that I can work out my spontaneous responses in advance.
I don't mind admitting that my response to the visual arts can be pretty superficial; for instance, I often have to resort to pointing out that someone in the painting looks like so-and-so off the telly. Also, there's a certain amount of art gallery etiquette that I need to get the hang of - how long to stand in front of each of the paintings, what noises to make, that kind of thing - but Rebecca and I soon settle into a nice, comfortable rhythm; not so fast as to seem shallow, not so slow as to be deathly bored.
We're checking out the Eighteenth Century room, standing in front of a not particularly remarkable painting by someone I've never heard of, a Gainsborough-esque Lord and Lady stood under a tree.
'Amazing perspective,' I say, but drawing her attention to the way objects get smaller as they get further away seems a little basic, so instead I decide to take a more Marxist, socio-political approach.
'Look at their faces! They certainly seem pleased with their lot!'
'If you say so,' says Rebecca, uninspired.
'Not an art-lover then?'
"Course I am. I just don't think that because something's been put in a big, bloody gilt frame, I should be obliged to stand around in front of it for hours, rubbing my chin. I mean, look at this stuff . . .' Hands still plunged in coat pockets, she gestures dismissively round the room, with the bat's wings of her coat '...portraits of the idle rich surveying their ill-gotten gains, chocolate-box portrayals of backbreaking rural toil, paintings of spotlessly clean pigs. I mean, look at this monstrosity' - she gestures towards a creamily pink, plump nude reclined on a chaise-longue - 'soft-porn for the slave-trading set. Where's her pubic hair for crying out loud! Have you ever in your life seen a naked woman who looked like that? I contemplate telling her that I've actually never seen a naked woman, but I don't want to blow my artistic credentials, so I stay quiet. 'I mean, who's it actually /or?'
'So you don't think art has any intrinsic value?'
'No, I just don't think it has intrinsic value because someone somewhere decides to call it "art". Like this stuff - it's the kind of crap you see on the walls of provincial Conservative Clubs . . .'
'So I suppose, come the revolution, you'd burn this all down . . .'
'Och, that's a really endearing little habit you've got there, reducing people to a stereotype . . .' I follow her through to a room full of still-lifes, and decide to steer the conversation away from politics. 'What's the plural of "still-life"? Is it "still lifes" or "still-lifes"?' This strikes me as a pretty sophisticated Radio 4 kind of thing to say, but she's not biting.
'So what are your politics, then?' she says.
'Well, I suppose I'm a sort of left-wing liberal-humanist.'
'Nothing at all in other words . . .'
'Well, I wouldn't say th . . .'
'And what are you studying again?'
'Eng. Lit.'
'What's Ingletr'
'English Literature.'
'Is that what they're calling it these days? And what attracted you to Inglet, apart from
Similar Books
