A Visit from the King
Today as I manned NKN Gallery’s city space, in Melbourne, a middle-aged man wandered
in. He was tall and wore a fluorescent-orange workman’s vest. He beamed
at me and said hello. Then he walked around the gallery, scrutinising
all of the paintings on the walls. He then stood in the middle of the
room with his hands on his hips,
“This reminds me of being in school!” he observed, nodding at the abstract paintings before him. I gave a pleasant reply and smiled. Then the man strode over to where I sat at the desk.
“Now, can I pick your brain for a minute?” he asked. I replied that he was most welcome to do so. “So, if I bring a painting of mine in here, would you guys plonk it up on the wall for me and sell it?”
“Well, the short answer to that is: probably no. You see these artists are all part of the gallery’s stable and they are represented by the gallery.” He was undeterred by this answer.
“You see, I’ve got this painting in my shed. I painted it twenty years ago. It’s a beauty. But I want to get it out there and get some exposure for my artwork.” Wondering whether he just might be an undiscovered genius, I asked whether he had many paintings in his shed.
“No, mate, I only ever did one painting. It’s in oils. It’s a beauty. It’s of a young girl with no clothes on. Beautiful figure. Nice bust. Lovely face, and golden hair. I didn’t quite get one of the eyes right.” I began to tactfully suggest that a career in art was not so easily embarked upon. He cut me off.
“See, I want a gallery to show the painting. But I want the gallery to be on the corner of Flinders Street and Swanston Street, so that hundreds of people see the painting every day. I’d be like Jesus Christ of the art world.” I mumbled something in response and he must have picked up my accent.
“Are you from London?” I told him that I was. He became rather excited and launched into his history. “My relatives are from London. They came over here. I was put in an orphanage run by Germans and Jesuits and Lithuanians and nuns. And the cats and dogs all knew my name, and even the little mice would talk to me and tell me who was coming into the room. I was badly paedophiled and skewered and nailed on a tree, and I had no hair or fingernails, but still expected to say thank you and smile while they did it, with the nails and the hammer.”
“Oh dear,” I tactfully offered, “that sounds pretty terrible.”
“Yes, but when I’m the second coming of Jesus there’ll be a few changes made in this country.”
“Well, good luck with your reign.” I smiled warmly. “And will there be a new flag to go along with that?”
“I’m wearing the flag right now,” he said, removing his white cap and waving it beneath my nose to show it to me up close. “And it’s specially designed - by me!” And then, to prove his credentials, he lifted the sleeve of his tee-shirt to show me a crude tattoo emblazoned in black ink on his left bicep. It featured a badly drawn, wonky crown, around which was printed: ‘KING OF AUSTRALIA’. I told him that I thought it was very nice. Then he shook my hand and told me that it was a pleasure talking to me, and he strode out of the gallery with a huge smile stretched across his regal face – no doubt off to find some water to walk upon.
“This reminds me of being in school!” he observed, nodding at the abstract paintings before him. I gave a pleasant reply and smiled. Then the man strode over to where I sat at the desk.
“Now, can I pick your brain for a minute?” he asked. I replied that he was most welcome to do so. “So, if I bring a painting of mine in here, would you guys plonk it up on the wall for me and sell it?”
“Well, the short answer to that is: probably no. You see these artists are all part of the gallery’s stable and they are represented by the gallery.” He was undeterred by this answer.
“You see, I’ve got this painting in my shed. I painted it twenty years ago. It’s a beauty. But I want to get it out there and get some exposure for my artwork.” Wondering whether he just might be an undiscovered genius, I asked whether he had many paintings in his shed.
“No, mate, I only ever did one painting. It’s in oils. It’s a beauty. It’s of a young girl with no clothes on. Beautiful figure. Nice bust. Lovely face, and golden hair. I didn’t quite get one of the eyes right.” I began to tactfully suggest that a career in art was not so easily embarked upon. He cut me off.
“See, I want a gallery to show the painting. But I want the gallery to be on the corner of Flinders Street and Swanston Street, so that hundreds of people see the painting every day. I’d be like Jesus Christ of the art world.” I mumbled something in response and he must have picked up my accent.
“Are you from London?” I told him that I was. He became rather excited and launched into his history. “My relatives are from London. They came over here. I was put in an orphanage run by Germans and Jesuits and Lithuanians and nuns. And the cats and dogs all knew my name, and even the little mice would talk to me and tell me who was coming into the room. I was badly paedophiled and skewered and nailed on a tree, and I had no hair or fingernails, but still expected to say thank you and smile while they did it, with the nails and the hammer.”
“Oh dear,” I tactfully offered, “that sounds pretty terrible.”
“Yes, but when I’m the second coming of Jesus there’ll be a few changes made in this country.”
“Well, good luck with your reign.” I smiled warmly. “And will there be a new flag to go along with that?”
“I’m wearing the flag right now,” he said, removing his white cap and waving it beneath my nose to show it to me up close. “And it’s specially designed - by me!” And then, to prove his credentials, he lifted the sleeve of his tee-shirt to show me a crude tattoo emblazoned in black ink on his left bicep. It featured a badly drawn, wonky crown, around which was printed: ‘KING OF AUSTRALIA’. I told him that I thought it was very nice. Then he shook my hand and told me that it was a pleasure talking to me, and he strode out of the gallery with a huge smile stretched across his regal face – no doubt off to find some water to walk upon.
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