Another week, another gallery. Mayfair’s pavements glistened under the illuminated sign of Gazelli Art House. A queue huddled under umbrellas and filed down the street. I joined the back. For the next ten minutes I alternated between staring into the distance and talking to a man in a Spurs beanie whose daughter went to ballet classes with Ian Dury’s daughter. Dozens of people lined up behind us. We weren’t queuing for a private view per se, rather we were the eventual audience for a talk about an artist. Once inside, the atmosphere was different. Instead of milling around we all sat down on plastic chairs. Instead of sinking cheap white wine with my friends I was alone and empty handed.
My friends weren’t invited because I was there for business, not pleasure, with a vested interest in the artist in question: Pauline Boty. She was a pop artist and had died just under 60 years ago. We were surrounded by her paintings, vibrant echoes of swinging London. In front of the audience sat six panellists and a moderator. Four were making rival documentaries about Boty and another was the producer of a short film about her. The most prominent speaker was an author called Marc Kristal, who I had gotten to know when I was looking to find Boty’s famously lost painting Scandal ‘63 (pictured below).
The last time we met was for the launch of Marc’s biography on Boty, British Pop Art’s Sole Sister, in a Holland Park bookshop on a wet October evening. I was also there for business, wanting to meet someone who could help my search. But I left under a cloud of shame. For starters, I was dressed like the Michelin Man, my puffa jacket fine for the day but inappropriate for a rammed bookshop. For seconds, my ability to talk to strangers at arts events was at rock bottom. I didn’t want to interrupt any conversations and out myself as a social climber. For thirds, it became clear that this was not an event to gain anything from. After an hour I wanted to go home but thought I should say goodbye to Marc first, who was signing copies of his book and crowded by people. He was a few metres away but he didn’t hear my initial goodbye. I repeated. No reply. Someone important-looking in the crowd looked at me with go away eyes. A rush of red flushed my face. I had to leave. Quickly. Too quickly, as it turned out. Between me and the door was an immovable sea of ladies wedged between a coffee table and a bookshelf. I pushed through and with all the grace of Bibendum knocked two ladies to the floor.
My hopes were now pinned on this talk at Gazelli Art House. I got very close to the lost painting but it wasn’t enough. Some extra information from people I’d never met would have been welcome. Maybe one of these documentarians knew something about Scandal ‘63’s whereabouts. Maybe Marc could introduce me to someone interesting. This was all that ran through my mind during the talk. I eschewed listening in favour of fiddling with some loose skin over my knuckles and waiting for the drink-and-mingle bit at the end. An hour passed. Would I be walking home buoyed?
The day’s omens made it seem unlikely. Walking back from the shops in torrential rain, my umbrella snapped in half. My body was about 80% water by the time I got home and needed to make lunch. I then cooked some dubious eggs on toast that forced my stomach into unseemly shapes. On the way to the gallery, I changed at Brixton to get the tube to Green Park and saw a man under the stairs walking around with a bottle that was on fire.
The talk had finished and it was time to shine. Nerves overtook me. Everyone vacated their chairs and climbed up to the upstairs gallery to hover around a booze-filled trestle table, which was empty by the time I reached the top floor. The murmur of interesting small talk filled the room. Marc found me and introduced a woman who asked about my search for Scandal ‘63. She looked important. My hands and voice started to shake. I told the unabridged version of my search. Every nook and cranny I went down. Every red herring. Every person I met. Every lead I chased. How close I got. She looked distracted. I stopped talking. “So, there you go,” I said. “I really don’t like that painting,” she replied. A pregnant silence followed. I slunk out and walked back to the station.