I’ve just been to enter a painting in a competition hosted by the local library. The prize is thousands of dollars, but, more importantly, it would be a good inclusion on my art CV.
A few days ago, my neighbour, who pays his mortgage by selling his paintings, showed me the correct method of fixing brass hangers to the back of the piece, so they work with the uniform hanging system, which all galleries use. So I was ready to go; all very professional.
But I've got flu or Ebola, or some hideousness, so just to get myself out of bed by late afternoon to enter the painting before the deadline, I needed to give myself a serious talking to. By the time I was in the car, my internal dialogue had descended into a slanging match.
I arrived at the art show with the entry fee and painting. And I stood in line, red-eyed, shivering and sweating; trying to stop my eyes rolling back in my head, and half-expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and direct me to the local injecting gallery.
My turn. I paid the entry fee and left the painting with some little, old lady. Time for bed via the pharmacy. But just as I was leaving, the lady looked at the back of the painting and asked where the wire for hanging the painting was.
“There isn’t any.” I said, confidently. “There never is. The rings are there for the hanging system. It’s the same for all galleries.”
“Well,” she croaked, with far too much relish for my liking, “this isn’t an art gallery; it’s a library. You need to get some wire from somewhere. I’ll leave the painting on the side until you get back.”
I imagine, it would have been frowned upon to punch her head clean off her shoulders, so, dutifully, I dragged my fevered corpse on a wire hunt to the nearest hardware shop - in the next suburb – where I’d just come from. I just wanted to go back to bed.
Half an hour later, I wobbled back into the library. I got down on the floor with my painting and was cursing my inability to either breathe properly, or to focus my glassy eyes on the tiny wire loops, when an authorititive sounding lady somewhere above me asked,
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
I looked up, and she frowned at me over her halfmoon glasses.
“What the fuck does it look like?” I said inside my head and looked around for the old hag to point my shaking finger at. But she was probably out the back somewhere stirring a cauldron. So I calmly explained I was attaching the wire just as I'd been instructed.
“Well, we have a hanging system. We don’t need any of that, but you may as well finish now.”
I did finish it. Then I took a deep mouth-breath, gathered my dignity off the floor, smiled and left.
That’s how massacres start.
“What the fuck does it look like?” I said inside my head and looked around for the old hag to point my shaking finger at. But she was probably out the back somewhere stirring a cauldron. So I calmly explained I was attaching the wire just as I'd been instructed.
“Well, we have a hanging system. We don’t need any of that, but you may as well finish now.”
I did finish it. Then I took a deep mouth-breath, gathered my dignity off the floor, smiled and left.
That’s how massacres start.
