Time whizzes by and I, I write of glimpses I steal

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Blue poles

Bourgeois, he thought. The paintings were so bourgeois. Horse races, ballet dancers and nudes in their toilette. Not really avant-garde today. Was it ever? And the crowd was lapping it up. Young couples on their date. Holding hands and nodding knowledgeably at brush stroke or colour or whatever it is that impressed people. Old men and women. Retired. Bored. (And the coffee at the members lounge, well! that was something)

A little girl in the middle. Divine. Unselfconscious of these staring morons. He fought the urge to cover her in a white blanket away from their polluting gaze. She shouldn't be here. He wobbled out. Need some air. What suppressed and suffocated him in this well-aired gallery? What was this scent?

Outside foyer. Pretty girl at the ticket counter. Small talk. And there it was in front of his eyes. A National Gallery flyer. Grey black blue orange. Jackson Pollock. It can't be true. They couldn't possibly have a Jackson Pollock here. Is this... is this Jackson Pollock displayed here?, he asked. She didn't know. This was her summer job. Art wasn't her thing. She hoped to be in real-estate someday. But she was courteous enough to tell him to check with one of the security people. They do the rounds, you see, and they may know what is where. If at all.

He ran in as much as one can run within a gallery. Bespectacled lady disapproved. The first security guard in sight, he begged him, please tell me if there is a Jackson Pollock on display.

Jackson who? Never heard of him. But that painting in the flyer, it is down the hall and to your left.

Down the hall and to his left...

Blue poles