Arty Types

On Wednesday nights the Art Gallery of NSW is open until 9pm. It’s pleasant to walk across the park after dark, and see the pompous gallery building rise up at the end of the path, backlit columns gleaming. It looks like the house of a dictator.
I was in some distress because my skirt had broken, and my temporary repair using a keyring had failed. I needed to fix it or else my skirt would slide right off, revealing my stark white petticoat. We had been looking on the ground for paperclips or safety pins, I looked extra hard outside the parliament building, hoping to repair my skirt with a politician’s paperclip. The street was very clean and yielded nothing, and I ended up tucking my skirt into the top of my stockings and constantly checking it to see if it was sliding.
I get as much, if not more pleasure watching people looking at art as I do looking at the art myself. We were strolling through the Biennale exhibition, past a giant bunch of flowers constructed according to an artist’s specifications, shiny wheels of synthetic hair, large photos of a cervix (enlarged to the size of a head, apparently). One woman said to her kids "What do you think that is?" pointing to the cervixes. We stopped, wanting to hear how she’d explain it to an eight year old boy. The boy didn’t care, he shrugged and said "a peach?" She didn’t correct him. She was asking for her own amusement.
In the next room the kids rushed over to a metal frame. "Is this artwork?" the boy asked loudly, grabbing it and squeezing the bars before being wrenched off it by his parents. His sister was in the middle of the room, spinning, enjoying the feeling of space flying through her outstretched fingers. When I went to the Ian Potter Gallery in Victoria I noticed that alongside certain artworks they had kid’s comments about it posted up. Although I am loathe to coo over children, their responses to art are generally very funny and original. It is because they haven’t been taught how to see it, so they don’t view an artwork within the boundaries of an art piece, they view it as widely as they’d view any new object. I try and do this with art, but it is difficult to forget the way I’ve leant to see it.
I don’t have a long concentration span for galleries, about an hour and a half, and I tend to wander past the works until I see something I really like, then spend a long time looking at it.
If there’s nothing that catches my eye, I just look at the people.
In the twentieth century section, I sat on one of the low, long couches and watched The Style Triplets. The members of The Style Triplets included a man with rectangular-framed glasses, a cap of dark hair that looked painted onto his head, and a well tailored suit jacket. Both women had quirky modern handbags, one was wearing a 50’s style short sleeved dress in checks of red, beige and blue (it was an ugly, sack like dress but she looked fabulous in it, especially since it was winter and everyone else was wearing coats) with black ankle boots with short stampy stiletto heels. I couldn’t help but imagine their apartments. Upon entering there’d be a hush, all outside noise would be eradicated. Japanese inspired décor, a feature wall in a bright colour, a few vintage conversation pieces on display, a neat bookshelf full of the kind of thick expensive art books I will never be able to afford. There would be nothing normal and ugly, such as a Telstra standard issue telephone, or free magnetic calendars from real estate agents on the fridge. Their appliances would be respectfully quiet when switched on, the vacuum cleaner would purr, the microwave announce itself with a muted pulse.
I wished I could visit The Style Triplets in their apartments. I’d have to be very careful not to knock things over, I’d put on white cotton gloves to read their photography books and sip at a glass of wine. I’m not sure what we’d talk about, but we must have some things in common.
The other exhibition at the gallery was titled Australian Postwar Photodocumentary. I inched my way along one wall, examining each photo and allowing myself enough time to come to a thought or an impression about each, whilst at the same time sensing the space between me and the other people looking at the same wall. I didn’t want to break any reveries or step on any toes. There was one man who was particularly captivated by a photo a few along from where I was looking. He had been staring intently into it for five minutes. When I realised he wasn’t going to move I stepped back, and saw what had been the object of his fascination. It was a portrait of a group of seventies surfers. Two boys slouched behind a blonde girl with perky, full breasts standing topless and defiant. This man was very captivated by these breasts. He made me think of times in history when people must have come to art galleries to be able to look at naked people. I imagine adolescent boys standing hunched over with their shirts pulled over their britches to hide their obvious excitement at oil paintings of nymphs.
On the other side of the room, two Eastern suburbs girls stood in a cloud of strong, sharp scent. The scent matched their asymmetrical haircuts, tight pants and eighties handbags. Their makeup made their faces gleam and cheeks blush an artificial rose. I called them Socialites in Training. Designer eighties-inspired clothes can be so ugly, although I can understand why people wear them. Like the hair, the clothes are asymmetrical and jagged, all sharp points and layers. There’s something futuristic and post-apocalyptic about it which must make people feel as if their striding through a cartoon when they’ve got their eighties inspired clobber on. They want to feel as if they’re on the edge.
Before we left, I stopped in at the gift shop to check if it still sold "Director’s Socks". For as long as I can remember, it has sold pairs of odd socks, because the Director of the gallery had a habit of wearing "artfully odd socks". Hey, didn’t know it was an artform, many people all over the world are unknowingly making artistic statements, they are not just victims of a disorganised sock drawer or poverty. I aim to one day see someone purchasing some of these odd socks, I want to ask them why. I have an idea they’re the same stock from ten years ago, regularly dusted to keep them looking fresh. The socks are $9.50! What a terrible present!
At the postcard rack, a couple looked over the selection and picked out a Leunig cartoon. Of all the possible things they could have picked, they chose the cartoon guy from the weekend paper. What’s more, they said "Leunig!", delighted as if they’d come across a picture of one of their own long lost relatives. I hate Leunig, I find him sappy and mediocre, his withered little mung bean men pop up far too regularly. What’s worse, he is held in such reverence. Another one of the worst presents ever, a book of Leunig cartoons. After three pages steam would start shooting out my ears and my face would turn very red and I’d start kicking things, swearing at old ladies and glaring at children. Things that are meant to be heartwarming and offer insights on the human condition often fill me with embarrassment at best, rage at worst. I can’t think about the art gallery any more, all I can think about is what I’d leave on Leunig&rsqu o;s doorstep if I had the chance. No! He’d just draw a wistful comic about souls left on doorsteps. Worst of all, he’s actually sucked in people I respect! Help! Someone please come in with a bucket of water and dump it on me, I need to calm down.
Outside the gallery I started to play a game where I pretended Tim and I were having a race. I’d run to a pole or a tree and tag it with my hand, then look around and say "I won!" or "You’re not playing properly!" pretending that we’d actually agreed on the game, rather than it being ruled by my whims alone. I was distracted from my game by a rat hopping through the bushes underneath the fig trees. When I read an article about the increased rat sightings in the city I was excited and hoped to see one. My rat fascination comes from stories my grandparents used to tell me about the rodents in Shanghai in the 1930’s. "As big as dogs," apparently. I’m not sure what breed.