Framed by Benacquista Tonino

Author:Benacquista, Tonino [Benacquista, Tonino]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781908524140
Publisher: Bitter Lemon Press
Published: 2012-08-30T16:00:00+00:00

Canvasses six and a half feet by five, oils. White gloves compulsory. Nice work, except for one piece, which should have been about eight inches higher because of the plinth which is a bit too obtrusive. And there’s another one, a smaller one, which could have done with being at eye level. In one of the rooms I get the feeling the lighting was done in a bit of a hurry, a spotlight casting a nasty shadow over a sizeable area of canvas. Other sorry but inevitable details: the hopeless efforts to camouflage fire extinguishers. No colour in the world can rival the bright red of those delicate instruments; it’s every gallery-owner’s downfall. The cards with the titles and dates are nailed too close to the paintings; Jacques always managed to forget them. Apart from that, nothing to say, nice exhibition. It would have taken my colleague and myself three days, tops. We preferred the tricky things, where there was some twist to every piece, glass balls balancing on a point, mobiles suspended without any visible means of support, bicycle chains in perpetual motion, frescoes with strange optical effects, anything fragile, breakable, cryptic, wacky, funny and – in a word – unhangable.

The bar is open, I can tell from the subtle ebb of people instigated by it. I insinuate my way into the wave. In the room where the buffet is laid out it’s all noise. A concert of chatter punctuated by interjections and discreet laughter. A few familiar faces, critics, some less prudish painters, an official from the Ministry. I revolve very slowly on the spot as I activate my sonar. And a few feet from the dense cluster of people around the glasses, I pick up a definite beep-beep. Looking through the press pack I come across a photo taken at the Biennale in Sao Paulo, a row of artists posing as if for a class photo with Delarge standing to the right in pride of place, like the teacher. He is here, in the flesh, a few feet away, with two other men a little younger than himself. Linnel is on his right. He’s playing his part as the artist at his own private view: shaking the hands proffered to him, thanking sundry enthusiasms without worrying about their sincerity quotient. An artist in the place of honour can choose not to smile and not to say anything, it’s one of his few privileges. He does, however, have to agree to meet journalists, but would rather avoid buyers – there are other people for that. Alain Linnel seems to be playing the game, limply, a bit serious, a bit affected, a bit absent. A waiter brings them some glasses, I move closer and position myself a couple of feet or so from them, with my back turned to them and my ears wide open, pretending to squeeze through to the buffet.

I’m in luck. I very quickly understand the situation, I haven’t cocked up, the oldest one is Delarge and he’s introducing his prodigy to an art critic, one Alex Ramey.

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