The Exhibition

A poster in the art gallery window caught her attention. She had the afternoon to herself so she could delay returning home until teatime, there was no one to worry. The directions to the exhibition pointed up a steep metal stairway. On entering she noted that all the pictures were portraits, and that the artist who had painted them was there, sitting alone at a table, his back to the room, a sign on the desk indicating that this was the great man himself. The room itself was bright, modern, expensive in that over-hauled lottery-intervention way, but despite the slick appearance it was quiet, the distant throb of the high street could barely be heard. Traffic and holiday-makers seemed a long way off. The atmosphere was church like: the clean lines of the gallery providing a perfect backdrop for the portraits displayed. There was something sterile about the environment, a large sign told the viewers DO NOT TOUCH THE EXHIBITS, not even a please or thank you. There was no café, no hot drinks, no signs for lavatories. This was not a place for living. Even The windows were opaque, with simple pale blinds discreetly shutting the outside world out of range.

Did he remember each face, body and character? It must be a wonderful diary of all the phases of his life, phases recalled instantly by each image. All ages, backgrounds and personalities were present: a truly marvelous way of getting to know people.

As she moved through the gallery, she became aware of a low half-whispered mumble from two spectators. From their dress; the statement trilbies and linens, she assumed they had not stumbled into the room by chance. Academics? She thought, perhaps. They were discussing the relationship between artist and sitter. Does the technique of getting the correct colour, shadow and strength overcome the interest in the sitter? Must the actual portrait be taken as it is seen by the painter, or can the portrait be influenced by communication between the artist and sitter, in which case rapport must have some effect on the portrait? Their arguments went on with more and more opportunities for diverse ideas occurring to them. She smiled to herself; these two had never painted a portrait or sat for one. They continued discussing their problem - if the painter knew the sitter well, did that make it more difficult to portray? Does the memory of the artist hold on to too much to give a true portrait of the sitter? She nearly interrupted them but held herself in check; it was all a long time ago.

The academics moved on to chew over another portrait, but she stayed where she was; it was still easy to hear them as they got more heated. They discussed whether when looking at a portrait should you wonder about the sitter? What of the reactions of an audience? There must be very different reactions from viewers to a pretty nude, than those to a grumpy old man. Surely technique is what attracts the viewer, otherwise the public would only see attractive portraits. And … one of them continued, there must be an essence about the person being painted which should be recognised by the viewer. The artist is informing, advising the viewer about the person he is portraying. He is conveying a truth about the sitter not just a reproduction or

photograph.

The sound of the town clock brought her out of her thoughts. Her dog would be getting restless. She looked over to the artist but he was still engrossed in his work, his back to the room, not wishing to engage.

Carefully she went back down the metal stairway, one hand clinging to the narrow handrail, and out into the alleyway and into the main street. The car was not far away. Her dog looked accusingly at her, how could she abandon him. But it would all be forgotten in an instant, a wagged tail, a slobbering kiss, dogs had so little capacity for memory. Perhaps this was a blessing.

She drove home slowly with many thoughts running through her mind. It was just about getting dark as she arrived back. The noise of the boiler welcomed her into the house. She made a cup of tea and took it through to the small sitting room, the dog following close behind her. She opened her bag and took out a faded photograph of herself and smiled. She had not dared produce it earlier. She turned in the chair and looked at the portrait hanging on the wall behind her. It was far too big for the room but how could she possibly have given it up? Those memories would last forever. She went up to the picture and ran her fingers over the signature. Of course she could have said something, she could have tapped on his shoulder, got him to turn and see, but she really wasn’t one to make an exhibition of herself.