Interested freeloader
(The New Contemporaries Opening Night at the RSA: Edinburgh, Scotland)
Last night I accompanied a good friend, Andrew to his opening night as part of a new exhibition in Edinburgh’s Royal Scottish Academy (RSA). The evening passed very swiftly, but I did have time to see all his new drawings which were, as ever, completely stunning in their execution. He has a gift for taking so much care with a pencil when drawing, that his work is often mistaken for photography. He enjoyed the evening too, I think – there were several people from his graduating year that he knew and even a tutor or two, so he was by no means undetected. Exhibition openings are ever mystifying experiences, swarming with a bizarre myriad of people, all milling about with occasional strange expressions on their faces. There are the artists themselves – plus their arty companions – who range from the freakishly normal to the comfortably odd, there are the patrons of the arts, recognisable by their earnestness, their visible chequebooks or their nonchalance*, then there are a strata of people left over who enjoy the ambiance, the feeling of importance and the free alcohol; the freeloader. These people may indeed possess a healthy interest in the arts, but it is not strictly necessary. They have procured a ticket or been invited to said opening and they tend to take advantage of its many perks and amusements. There are many different forms of freeloader; at this exhibition, I would call myself an interested freeloader, I viewed almost all the artwork, sampled several free beverages, but not in a gluttonous or embarrassing manner and chatted casually to practically anyone who couldn’t escape quickly enough. I generally find the conversation at exhibition openings amusing in the extreme; oftentimes I discover that a person I chat to is surreptitiously drunk (amusing), or that they are conceited and rude (even more amusing) or that they are in fact a very open and diverting companion. I met all of the above last night and I loved it.
* The gentleman in the foreground is possible an example – I wish very much that I had a chance to speak to him.
There is a certain atmosphere at openings that I revel in – it is the only time I find myself being genuinely insincere. After all, if I am viewing a painting I believe is utterly abhorrent and I am approached by the artist, I can hardly tell them that their £5800 piece is causing me artistic distress. I retain an air of casual interest and either attempt to say nothing at all about their work, or I make vague comments on how impressive it is or how much work must have gone into it, or my favourite, asking them to explain the piece. Sometimes I like the work, I’m interested and really want to know, but other times I am seeking a little bit of fun. I never really feel any artwork is inherently bad, just that some isn’t to my liking. One of my first memories of the Art School Degree show when I was nineteen was standing, red wine in hand, looking at a colossal painting containing a rather abstract squealing pig in a torn red jerkin – there were many other elements and figures in the painting, but it was the pig that caught my eye. Two men were discussing if it was a comment on modern Communism or not and I had to leave the room for fear of bursting out laughing. Anyway, Andrew and I left last night’s exhibition in high spirits (as it were) and after a brief dinner we met a friend and we all went out dancing. A terrific end to another Edinburgh overnight trip. (Today Rosie is seeing her Gran and watching the OxFem film in Glasgow, Scotland)
That is reality.