Yesterfang (38)

THE PASSER-BY

Having been a Visitor, I decided simply to become a Passer-by.

Visiting entailed taking an active interest in what was about me, like talking to the inhabitants of the place visited, creating a character for myself, or, rather, from myself. There were some restrictions as to who I presented myself to be, bearing in mind that I had a given physical presence with only limited means to disguise it or blend it in with the requirements of the new environment or mould the body’s features into any character I had hoped to become so as to take full advantage of the place which I had decided to visit.

Passing-by, on the other hand, was far less difficult than Visiting. I could swagger by, nose in the air, caring little for what others might think of me. I had no axe to grind, no intentions to exploit the place past which I passed, no thoughts as to integration with the natives, no ambitions to mould any whom I met into my own devious ways, no thoughts of blending past with future to make a present.

A Passer-by, however, did sometimes need to stand and stare.

Imagine walking around an art gallery, letting the paintings or sculptures simply be absorbed by your wayward glances; not too serious about examining any particular work in detail; having avoided buying a guide-book or squinting close to the labels to make out the artist’s name or biographical background.

Then, suddenly, you see something that truly catches your eye. In this case it was a painting simply entitled ‘Panoply’. I stopped long enough to establish at least that fact. Then I stopped longer than I first intended so as to establish it wasn’t really a painting at all but a construction made to look, from a distance, like a painting within a frame. It was intrinsically yellow, made of woven straw, dried parchment and raised bridges of tacked wood that, on closer scrutiny, stood out from the surface for a good few inches. A deep texture where gaps and spaces were established by way of appliqués that threatened to dislodge themselves at the slightest breath. It did not seem to represent anything rational as a shape or design. A pure abstraction. Yet, as I lingered even longer before this work of art without really realising exactly how long, I began to see things I hadn’t expected to see, if I had expected anything at all. A plot or plan of intentions seemed to have led towards this exact state of construction it had somehow reached at this precarious point in time.

It was then I spotted the beetle or other similar type of creature passing below one of the ‘bridges’, only to disappear into a thicker part of the design where close-weaving had taken over from loose assemblage.

Precisely when one passes from being a Passer-by to a full-blooded Visitor it is difficult often to know.

“Great painting, isn’t it?” asked a gruff voice.

I immediately turned – quite upset by the interruption – but cringed when I saw the challenging face of one of the gallery’s guard-attendants who usually sat in a chair in the corner. Challenging because he was obviously an ex-serviceman using his retirement for gainful employment, but retaining his officious character with a stern appraisal of the one who he considered to be an idle Passer-by, not worthy of viewing any art at all. Not that a mere Gallery attendant could appreciate it with the full understanding that ‘Panoply’ deserved in my estimation. I refused to be cowed by such as him.

“It’s not really a painting,” I said, trying to hold on to my credentials as a Passer-by. Today was not the day to let my guard slip. It was not a good day to take risks and mix with hoi-polloi.

Slowly, despite my efforts to withstand the temptation, I began modifying my own character to meet that of the officious gallery attendant. We eyed each other in steely silence.

Meanwhile, a young couple had entered the room where 'Panoply' had been hung. They seemed to be oblivious of all else, as they gazed in awe at the work to which they had made a bee-line, guidebooks in hands that weren’t holding each other’s hand. Why such an evidently loving young couple should feel the need to afford to shell out for two guidebooks was a mystery.

“It’s gorgeous,” the young lady said softly. She was beautiful in a mature way whilst retaining a bearing of youth. Her eyes spoke much learning. Mischievously serious yet innocent and wide-eyed, classically pretty, on second thoughts, rather than beautiful.

“But is it real?” asked the man who accompanied her. He was handsome in the traditional way. Too young in hindsight to be called a man, however. “It looks different from when I last saw it.”

“Can you see…?” she began to ask.

“No, it must be hidden from view somewhere,” he replied, peering closer with his face – so close his nose almost touched one of the fragile-looking bridges.

“Hey, careful!” snarled the guard, suddenly drawing attention to himself. “There are alarms behind all these paintings!”

“Oh, sorry,” said the boy.

The girl dropped the boy’s hand and pretended to read her guidebook. She was about to point out that ‘Panoply’ was not deemed by the artistic world to be a painting at all. She thought better of it, however, having studied the guard’s face. There was a photograph of ‘Panoply’ on the page she was looking at which seemed to indicate it was a painting after all, as opposed to a construction or ready-made or chance happening. Only face-to-face could 'Panoply' be seen to be what it was. Not a painting, indeed, but a fly-trap for Passers-by.

The young couple left hand in hand and the guard resumed his corner seat, from where eventually came gentle snores.

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