Last Sunday I got up at the ludicrously early time of 6:45am. I know, on a Sunday, what was I thinking? Well in a moment of weakness, I agreed to help a close friend hang pictures for her art exhibition which opened later in the day. The alarm screeched and I thought about the folly of it all, whilst trying to blast myself awake in the shower followed a few minutes later by gulps of some truly appalling Nabob coffee. Yes, I was suckered by the lure of a cheap sticker price. Memo to self: “Buy some fresh decent coffee and put that snazzy new unemployed coffee grinder to work. And turf the Nabob, turn it into compost”.
Back to the project on hand. Luckily the café, which doubled as an art gallery, was a couple of minutes walk from home and I dragged myself over there by 7:30am. As I arrived, my friend Freda, the artiste du jour, rolled up in her small red car which was packed to the gills with paintings. Also in the vehicle, somewhat obscured by picture frames, was her heavily bearded six foot something, spousal unit, Norman. The artwork was wonderful; mostly bold oil paintings of musicians, dancers and some still life. There was a picture of two banjo players in the pub, playing up a storm, with the inevitable half full beer glasses on the table beside them. A female Flamenco dancer taking the plaudits from the crowd at the end of her act. In the past I have been at festivals with Freda and she was always either taking photographs or sketching; getting ideas for her next artistic creation.
Back at the café, with the help of a couple of other friends, we carefully unloaded the car in short order and transported the booty into the café. Slightly bemused customers looked at us with interest and not a little suspicion as we took over the place with our paintings, and our concentrated frowns and the appearance, completely without foundation, that we actually knew what we were doing. Freda proceeded to drive home to get the other dozen paintings for the show, in particular the three or four that were "not quite dry.” She always worked well to a deadline, sometimes taking it to the limit. No doubt those last three were completed around 5am this morning. Meanwhile at the café the work crew were assembling, most of us, clearly caffeine deprived, wondering around in a fog like state, not unlike that morning’s weather.
Thankfully there was a floor plan of the café detailing where the paintings were to be hung. So “Flamenco”, “Cathedral” and “Plough Time” were moved below their allotted spots on the walls. I’d got to know many of these paintings very well over the last few years and I wasn’t at all sure we should be selling them to just anyone. I wanted to make sure they go to good homes. If you took “Cathedral” for example, a wonderful painting of Freda’s husband Norman walking their big brown shaggy dog, Skegness on a snow covered path in Lizard Park, with the huge fir trees looming behind them. You got the sense of quiet companionship between man and dog, and you could see their tracks in the snow trailing behind them. Skegness has long gone to that doggie paradise in the sky. How could Freda possibly part with that one? The answer was easy. Pictures in an artist’s studio did not contribute a cent towards the grocery bills. So the painting had to be sold.
When the café patrons started coming to look at what we were doing and reviewing the paintings, I vetted them as suitable purchasers. I must say I had my concerns about most of them, particularly the woman with purple hair and a noticeable nicotine problem, undoubtedly the owner of a tiny yapping doglike creature tied to a chair outside the cafe.
The next issue was actually hanging the beasts. Down came the wires and hooks from the previous art show. No wires for us. There was a ten second lesson from Norman on how to hang a picture using fishing line.
“So you hook it through there, and there, and knot it there; and then hey presto, you’re done.” He then added: “Use this line for twenty pounders and below and that line for the big fish.” I must admit I’d not thought of paintings in that fashion before and I experienced some anxiety as to what a big fish might actually look like. Still, there was work to be done. Two of us found a sturdy looking ladder down a dark narrow corridor at the back of the cafe and I was impressed that we transported it back into the main seating area and against the wall without decapitating any customers. My companion had forgotten his reading glasses which made threading fishing line through small hooks a bit of a challenge at the best of times but nigh on impossible at the crack of dawn on a Sunday with minimal sleep. So I was the one looping the line through the hooks while he waited impatiently giving me unwanted advice.
It took us about five paintings before we got the hang of it and a production line of sorts got going between stringers and hangers. I soon became a proud card carrying member of the stringers of the world. As if you’d see me on a ladder hanging paintings – “Yes, right, up an inch. No, down a bit. No, up another inch.” Not on your nellie. Somebody else was going to go hand, my feet were staying firmly on the floor.
Meanwhile, throughout these shenanigans, more early morning patrons started staggering in for their shots of caffeine. Some looked on with interest, checking out the paintings, most nodding appreciatively. Others completely ignored us as if we were wallpaper, which in a sense, we were. Eventually a woman came up to me and confidently told me she really liked my work but there was just one thing I needed to know. She lowered her voice a few decibels and said we’d got the arrangement all wrong. “All the dance pictures should be together and the musician pieces should be over there,” she whispered knowingly. After working for two hours on hanging the paintings, I believe I was well worthy of beatification when I smiled and simply told her we would consider her request. Oh, and yes, I did mention that I wasn’t the artist but would convey the information in double quick time. I mentally drew a picture of the woman stuffed by a taxidermist and mounted next to the east window.
Thirty two paintings later and they were all in place. We took extra special care with the piece called “Bowl of Fruit” because it turns out the grapes were still wet. I've a feeling they were probably apples earlier that morning. By 10:30 am the chain gang were beyond starving and Freda bought us all breakfast, and I lashed into some blueberry crepes.
The show opened later that day, accompanied by a group of Freda's musician friends in the corner. A few dozen friends and acquaintances came by. Wine and cheese were consumed in unequal measures and it was considered a roaring success. For myself, I still had a strong sense of impending loss over the paintings. The exhibition opened with one painting having a red dot on it, denoting that it was already sold. The thought of that picture disappearing with a stranger never to be seen again was too much. Three weeks later when the exhibition ended, one painting was brought to my house. I bought “Cathedral” on the first day of the exhibition and it has pride of place in my hallway.
