Out of the house.

 Out of the house.

I don't really want to go. Cold dark evenings in November are not best suited to trekking up the hill to Nottingham Castle’s art gallery. But what does one do instead on cold dark November evenings? I need to get out of the house more. So I do.

The occasion is the opening night of an exhibition; the gallery a place I myself had shown in a decade ago. But the real attraction for me is that this particular artist's work was some I'd seen in the past, when I was just about to embark on a career in teaching. Back then I was still far too distracted by the superficiality of the night club scene, and not yet painting with any serious regularity or direction. Seeing his work had helped motivate me towards changing all that.

So, I get the bus into town. The market square, decked up for Christmas, is between shifts of daytime skateboarders and night-time revellers. In a pub at the base of the hill I decide on a brandy, its taste somewhat tainted by an extortionate price, and the smell of frying fish permeating the room. But at least I’m out of the house.

Upon reaching the gallery it seems I am one of the first to arrive, then I realise everyone else is in the bar. It gives me a chance to watch the exhibition’s accompanying video without distraction. I like to watch an artist at work. I’m into processes. After the video I decide on a glass of red, compliments of the gallery. Apparently the reason for everyone being in the bar, apart from the obvious, is that they are waiting to hear the speeches before looking at the paintings. The event is very well attended, but I do see an empty table at which one person is sat. I approach.

“Mind if I take a seat?” She doesn't look up. Just raises her book a little more above eye level. I'm not trying to chat her up, although I confess a little female company to share opinions about the paintings with might be nice. Her book becomes a wall. I sip my wine and check out the rest of the room. These are not my people.

The speeches are probably much shorter than they seem, read verbatim from rather dull notes. The artist himself says little. He doesn’t have to. The work on the walls is superb. Just as I remember it. It is almost exclusively “old” work from the late 70's early 80's, depicting a bygone age of a more industrial Midlands. But its merits are undiminished in my eyes.

After it is over I take the opportunity to congratulate him on his paintings. I tell him how I'd admired them years ago in a very small local gallery; of how clearly I remember that night, no doubt on my way to the clubs, snacking for the first time in my life on the gallery's caviar; of how I’d been inspired to pick up a paintbrush once more. That particular small gallery is now a thing of the past, much like the industrial subject matter of his paintings. But it was nice being able to share that memory with the painter himself. He enjoyed it to.

Text copyright Ian G Craig.