What
are
A set of recollections by Hannah Dawn Henderson
He swaggers, saunters, strides. Each of
his passing footsteps resounds of entitlement, punctuated by the metronomic tap of the walking stick that accompanies
you
looking
him on each visit. I say ‘accompanies’ rather than ‘aids’, for it too commands its own presence – strutting and skipping with broad tilts and confident swings.
as my previous attempts to entice him to the temporary exhibitions have resulted in me being the unwitting audience of one of his less-than-riveting lectures (of which his repertoire is copious, if not truly unending) on Each time he enters the gallery his eyes – why contemporary art is intellectually vapthose two undersized black dots that lie in id, morally dubious, and all just a little bit… the shallow valley between plump mottled well…unpalatable: cheeks and a perpetually knitted brow – lock onto the donation box. He approaches it and “If a woman is to be shown naked in art, then with slow, deliberate movements he removes she ought to have a lyre at hand – in the guise from his blazer pocket a £2 coin; he holds it of Sappho – or don some other vague accesup, as if presenting it to the sculptures that sory or allegory of the classical world. She encircle the entrance. He does not seem to should not be sat upon a bicycle seat, legs notice that The Age of Bronze’s eyes are cast spread apart, or unravelling scrolls of drab elsewhere, and the Elgin marble replicas are text from her nether-regions.” too fixed in their own choreography to take note. Needless to say, he is no patron of performance art. With over-enunciated enthusiasm, he flicks his wrists and delivers the coin into the box. He strolls through room after room of arisIt lands upon a bed of purple and green notes tocratic portraits, Pre-Raphaelites maidens with a dull thud, a sound that for a fleeting with their dazed amiss stares of utter boremoment tugs at the smile that has been up dom posing as sublime crusades of thought, until now upholstering his face with exag- and pastiches of the Greek pantheon – often gerated exuberance. It is hard, I sense, to flanked by paintings of Christ in what can feel like the embodiment of social gran- only be called ‘ironic curating’. deur when one’s bank balance is a great deal smaller than one’s aspirations. Nevertheless, It is the way in which he negotiates the space he sweeps past the donation box, mounts the that intrigues me – the way in which he flitstaircase and ventures into galleries one to ters from one painting to another with a brief nine. but scrutinising gaze, counter-balanced by one hand neatly tucked behind his back and I have learnt to never offer him a floor-plan, the other placed upon the furl of his walking
stick. It is not the lingering or searching look of someone who has entered into a dialogue, or an affair – for we all, at some point or another, experience that almost amorous fascination for a particular artwork – rather, it is a more blunted, prosaic glance. He doesn’t look, search or fall in love. He inspects, and I suppose that is his right, because this is a municipal gallery after all. And he even donated £2. That’s £1 more than the recommended donation. Before he departs after his inspection, he leaves a comment in the visitor book, which echoes all the other observations he has left over the last few years: Everything up to scratch, keep up the good work.
* * * ****** * * * ******* * * * *******
ysses in the distance. They, a young couple who speak no English, continue their choreography until it finally dawns on me that they wish for me to take their photo with the painting. I take their camera in hand and direct them where to stand as I take several steps back so as to frame the entire painting within the LCD screen’s perimeter. The camera clicks and I return it to them. Something is amiss though. Their lips become pursed and their brows draw close as they consider the photograph. The mime begins again – fingers pointing here and there – but my prolonged blank stare seems to communicate my total lack of comprehension. They return to me the camera and they go through the previous photos they have taken.
at?
A collection that turns into a selection | 6 A YEAR PUBLICATION PJOJECT BY VASILIKI SIFOSTRATOUDAKI
It is a curious sight.
Self-portrait after self-portrait of one another in what appears to be every room in the gallery, with brief glimpses of paintings in the Their faces are beaming with that sort of ea- background – a bit of Rossetti’s Lizzie here, ger aura that young tourists possess. They the arm of Millais’ Ophelia there – but meregesticulate repeatedly to their camera, and ly as a backdrop for the central portrait. then to me, and then to the William Etty painting behind them. It is a tall and wide I think I understand now. painting – well over three meters across – featuring a beach strewn with corpses, aside They return to the spot where they had been three nude sirens, who beckon a robust Ul- stood and I raise the camera once more. I
Pictures by Sifostratoudaki Vasiliki when visiting several exchibitions
zoom in as far as I can, cropping Etty’s grand This announcement, preceded and concludpainting to just a slither of colour around the ed with a series of chimes, serves as a signal pair. I take the photo. for me to request remaining visitors to make their way to the exit. When I show them their mouths prick into broad grins and they simultaneously gesture There is one visitor to whom I can never find a thumbs-up. I am perplexed, but they seem the words to make that request. satisfied. She stands before a painting of Christ, her shoulders hunched in an intimate, hermetic stance, her nose but a few inches from the * * * ****** * * * ******* * * * ******* glass. She visits weekly. She can stand there for over an hour, sometimes with a small leather book clasped in her hands, open at a particular page. I assume it is a bible or perI have never acquired the habit of wearing a haps a book of psalms. watch, yet this never seemed to matter much whilst walking the gallery floor. Time pass- Her expression is one of dazed serenity, es at a much slower pace in between restored something between sedation and meditation. oil paintings and decade old sculptures una- Perhaps it is simply because of the fragility ware of how outdated they already look. of her form, contrasted with the stubbornness of her posture and position, but it ofThe only indicator of time I actually have in ten strikes me that what she is experiencing the gallery is that of the public announce- by studying that painting touches upon the ments, declaring that closing time is ap- realm of the sublime. I feel that I am looking proaching – in fifteen minutes, to be precise. upon the pieta – that in the glaze of her eyes
towards the painting lingers even once she is almost out of the room. Once she has left – I have never asked her to leave. I cannot ask for she is always the last to leave – I close and to her leave. lock the room’s door, turning off the lights in the process. In the stillness of those last few moments of the gallery’s opening hours she shifts from her spot with sluggish movements. Her gaze she cradles the image of Christ.