The Shock of the Old

At the university I left my friends and made my way to the car park. On the way I came to the University art gallery and on a whim, perhaps hoping to experience the transformative effect of art, I went in.

There were a large number of paintings by an artist whose name I have managed to forget. They were portraits in oils, that medium being applied with a trowel, thickly and in great daubs. Despite the crudity it was quite clever and it was even possible to tell who was being depicted. There was Captain Cook and Albert Namajira that I could discern without too much effort, and no doubt I would have recognised others had I tried. Both those pictures were “inspired” by well-known paintings from a previous era. Perhaps the artist felt they needed improving upon – or needed a modern interpretation in the post-modern manner. I suppose if the theatrical world has its Barry Kosky the world of art must have its…

Yes clever, but to use Orwell’s words, “Like farting Annie Laurie through a keyhole, clever but not art.” Yet oils, en masse, are such a delicious medium, evoking such ineffable unconscious infantile pleasures the effect of what’s-‘is-name’s work was quite agreeable.

But I soon had had enough and found myself transfixed in front of the pipe organ – left over from the days when the building was a concert hall. I took in the heart-stopping beauty of it, admiring the classical shapes it displayed – all determined by function, unimpeded by the need to intrude on the viewer’s own perception. And the colour of it, nearly monotone with subtle graduations of tone that gently emphasized the white and black of the knobs on the console.

As I stood there gawking, my meditation was interrupted by a young lady attendant who engaged me in conversation. I confessed, “I am trying to work out why I find the organ more visually exciting than the paintings.” She replied in a polite non-confronting manner and spoke of the organ recitals that were conducted there and directed me upstairs where there was an exhibition ironically called, Triumph in the Tropics.

If I had failed to be shocked and confronted by the paintings as I suspect I should have been, I was definitely shocked and confronted by this display. It consisted of posters, booklets and other surviving artefacts from the past. My youth was there, all on public display. How dull and crass it all was. But this is not how I remembered those days. It was a shameful libel. I am reminded of one of my children when little, after viewing old photos, wanted to know if the olden days were in black and white! I tried to explain that it was just as colourful, perhaps more so. The sky was as blue, the girls were as pretty, the boys were just as uncouth. I staggered out, clutching an image of the logo of the Department of Public Instruction close to my heart for comfort – a memory of happy school days.
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