someone was trying to reach

I was strolling through "The Triumph of Painting, Part 2" at the Saatchi Gallery when a large canvas, by an artist I couldn't identify, made me stop and look. He had painted two men in the middle of a large, windowless room, barely furnished, with paintings on all the walls. Were they lost tourists, voluntary prisoners of a foreign museum? An artist and his collector surrounded by his latest acquisitions in his living room? Or a critic and a curator discussing the newest stakes in contemporary art? I was literally sucked into this play on reflection. 'I knew it.' The other man's eyes instantly opened wide: 'Knew what?' 'That it would be this good between us.' 'Oh,' he smiled…'And when did you start thinking that?' 'The moment I entered your exhibition.' He frowned roguishly: 'You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?' 'No. But it was hard not to be won over. Have you been in London long?' he continued, fiddling unconsciously with a lock of his hair. The question caught him unawares, seemingly irrelevant without quite being so. It was only a simple question, but it took him a long time to answer it. 'Er… no.' A silence followed. 'I don't know why, exactly. I've been coming to London regularly for years and…' He couldn't go on. It wasn't easy to explain, in the circumstances… He yawned. 'Oh, my God, I understand… I'm not surprised you were so upset… Oh, I'm sorry.' 'You're sorry?' he repeated. 'What for?' 'I didn't understand what you were feeling just then. I shouldn't have been so uncompromising…' 'But you didn't know.' He plunged a look full of compassion deep into his eyes, then lifted a lock of hair from his face: 'It seems impossible,' he murmured. 'Why?' he said, sadly. 'It can happen to anyone. Why not me?' A pale smile crossed his face: 'I don't know why. Because you seem so fulfilled, so happy.' He smiled back, but his eyes were blurred by withheld tears: 'You know your words are meaningless.' 'Yes, I know.' His features were taught, as though he was incapable of putting up with this emotion. He asked a few questions. Technical questions, which he answered frankly. A mobile phone rang. I plunged my hands into my pockets, automatically, hunting for my mobile, then realised I wasn't the one someone was trying to reach. Freed from my reverie, I headed towards a painting hanging nearby.


CC, London, October 2005
Translated by Gail de Courcy-Ireland