An Ordinary Person

An Ordinary Person

The excitement was reaching a crescendo. Agatha, the proud owner of the North, South Art Gallery stood at her desk anticipating the moment when she would reach the peak of her career.

The crowds were gathering and had started to pour through the gallery entrance. The Wandsworths were there, Elaine and Alan, Elaine, dressed in her Louis Vuitton outfit and clutching a handbag from the same fashion house. On her arm was a Breitling watch and round her neck a Montblanc Souvenir D’etoile. Alan was in a Brioni suit and smelled of Brioni Eau de Parfum.

Along with these personages came, the Foxscrafts, the Goldsmiths, the Kowalskis from Poland and many other players from the art world. Victor Kowalski had come from a family of blacksmiths in Poznan and was now the owner of ‘Simplex Commodities’ based in New York, the makers of a kitchen gadget that peeled carrots and potatoes and other such vegetables without any human intervention. Victor had added the word ‘Commodities’ to the company name, in case any other inventor came up with an ingenious device ready to be exploited in favour of the Kowalskis. Growing up near Poznan had acquainted Victor with mechanical devices, mechanical devices that preceded the electronic era. He had always been fascinated by the goats butting their heads at noon, on the town hall clock.

Agatha breathed in the aroma surrounding the rich people of the world. What an accomplishment to be able to get them all together, the cream of the art world. They would be vying for their slice of her cake, her slice of fame. What an accomplishment that they were coming to her gallery in the Southern Suburbs, coming to her! She, who had been brought up in the rural part of Philippi on an allotment where her mother had struggled to grow vegetables and flowers to make a living.

“Agatha if you want to get an education you will have to get it yourself. I cannot help you.” Her mother had said when she was sixteen years old. And she had. She had been ruthless about it, practising shop lifting to make extra money. Her friends and acquaintances had sometimes been at the receiving end of her ruthlessness.

“Marjorie, “ she had said to her friend, “I did not steal your essay, I won the competition fair and square. I deserve the prize money,” she said, on the eve of her departure for college in Grahamstown, having deposited the R100 000 in her bank account.

Marjorie knew full well that Agatha had copied her draft for the competition from the communal computer . It was almost word for word with only a few changes, though she had no proof that it was hers.

Since then Agatha had climbed the ladder of success with her degree in Fine Arts

Now there was a busy hum of voices around her.

“My dear Agatha,” said Gail Foxcraft, coming up behind her and tapping her on the shoulder with a manicured finger nail, “where is it? I can’t wait to see it!”

“I’ve put it in the centre hall on its own.”

“It was clever of you to find the work and buy it on the auction sale last month. Were there many bidders? Alec and I would have like to have been there. We would have given you some competition. Here you are, in your own Gallery, with the most unique art work of the 21st century. Everyone would give their eye teeth to have it.”

“The whole world is waiting with baited breath, to see what you will do with the work. If you decide to put it on the market, I sincerely hope you will inform me ,” said Victor.

“Yes indeed, “ said Esmarelda his wife at his elbow, “I have heard this work is comparable to the best in all the world , comparing favourably to the best of Andy Warhol in his heyday of ‘Pop Art’, comparing favourably to Picasso, what more can you ask?”

“Oh, the beauty of it,” sighed Elaine Wandsworth, “ so pure, so original.”

“There it is, a completely genuine work of art,” said Alan, “ I don’t know how to get it across to the less enlightened people of the world.”

“ I can’t think of the right words to describe it. It is dazzling to the eyes. It is heartbreaking to the emotions, it is appropriate to this day and age, to be adored by the world,” said another visitor.

Agatha had arranged with a caterer, to appear 30 minutes after opening the doors to the exhibition.

The waiters, all dressed in black suits and ties, mingled with the crowd, offering delicate snacks and fluted glasses, filled with Bollinger Special Cuvee.

“Oh, How marvellous to see such a work of art and in Cape Town too. Agatha you are a genius to have brought this to our country. Now we will be famous all over the world for our expertise in art,’ said Janet Murdoch, inching her way a little closer.

“We will be visited by tourists and art lovers, just like the Louvre in Paris with its Mona Lisa.”

In a back street behind the University campus, two students shared digs in a boarding house, the Clarendon. The windows of the Clarendon looked out on to a bleak looking car park that was a beggars’ paradise. Empty chip packets discarded the night before by student revellers, blew across the street. The grey buildings around the park were grime covered with years of smoke from the outdoor fires of the night watchmen. There was a stale odour of cooking oil coming from the doorway of the Chicken Take Away on the corner.

Inside their room, everything was clean. Do-it-yourself furniture was arranged around a reversible coir rug. In the kitchen alcove, there stood a table with a kettle and microwave, next to a shining copper jug filled with purple flowers.

 “Come with me, Amy,”said George, “ I want to take you to the local Art Gallery near here, there was an article in the newspaper this morning about the new acquisition there. It was about a famous modern work that has caught the art world with its mouth wide open . The Art Department staff are all discussing it. “George pulled on his T shirt and put his sneakers on. His T shirt was worn and faded, with the print of a pirate ship on the front. He combed the hair off his brow and he was ready.

How good looking he is, thought Amy with a sigh looking at his muscular arms.

On his wrist he had a cheap Seiko watch with black leather strap. She admired his hands with the rough, strong fingers and could imagine him as a farmer looking after animals and driving a tractor, not as an artist in front of an easel. She tried to concentrate on answering him. He was waiting for her to say something. What was it he wanted her to do?

“Why are you asking me? I’m just an ordinary person. I know nothing about art. I can’t judge a piece of art, especially something that has the art critics gasping.”

“ I am taking you, Amy, because I see things in a different light when I am with you. I see things through fresh eyes. It will help me with my examination at the end of the month. Just getting your opinion will be enough for me.”

When they got to the gallery entrance, they were stopped by the doorman.

“You can’t come in.”

“Why not?” asked George.

“You are not dressed appropriately, that’s why not.”

“Please call Agatha, I have an invitation and letter from my professor saying we should attend. He is a personal friend of the Gallery owner.  We would like to come in, if only for half an hour.”

“ Very well but only for 30 minutes then.”

George and Amy walked in to the centre hall. The crowd was thick but they managed to get near to the object of attention.

Amy stood in front of the art work and in a loud voice said.

“ What is it? It is called ‘Chapter One,’ It is a blank white canvas. It is nothing at all.”

She started laughing and looking around her laughed more noisily, rocking back and forth with gusts of mirth. The audacious artist had thought he could fool all of the people , all of the time.

The crowd stopped their murmuring. A few faint titters could be heard, eventually swelling into a rumbling sound of increasing intensity.

“ There is nothing there but a blank white canvas,” could be heard being repeated around the room.

Mark Twain wrote in the 19^th century: “Whenever you find that you are on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.”

Amy had not been on the side of the majority in this case. She was just an ordinary person.