Appreciation Anxiety at the City Gallery
Ok, I like what they've done with this room, its fun. Its black and covered with thousands of yellow dots: no kidding, the walls, the floors, the big blow up shapes hanging from wires, the gallery attendant...
No, hold on. The attendant is wearing normal black gallery clothes, and it kind of ruins the effect. She just stands there, not being part of it. A visitor asks her if it gets boring, standing in this spotty room all day. She shrugs agreement, but says they rotate so its not so bad. The dots change. This explains the neutral clothing, I suppose. It'd be a hassle to have to change spots with every shift, but it does ruin the effect a little.
I step into the spotty room and try to, you know, get amongst it. I glide between the globules, I unfocus my vision, I try standing on just the big spots. But that gallery attendant is right there. She's watching me, judging my experience. She's been around, she knows when the patrons are faking it, and I'm behaving like a spotty 14 year old. Its coming back again, the feeling I always get in these situations: acute appreciation anxiety. I get agitated, nervous, lose confidence. Am I getting anything out of this? Why can't I just relax and just have fun with all the dots? They must have taken someone hours to do, after all. The pressure of the ten dollar entry fee doesn't help- I hate it when its all built up and nothing fires.
The gallery assistant is still in the same spot, and she has nothing to do but look at me. If she'd just go out for a while, give me some space, I could focus, get something fizzing. For god's sake, its only art, nothing to be anxious about. Maybe I should have loosened up a bit beforehand, had a wine, got a bit high. I can't perform in front of a stranger.
I reckon I'll go home, find a small room, say a broom cupboard or the bathroom, and sticker the shit out of it myself. Then I can go in and relax, have some tea, put some music on, get naked. Ten dollars will buy me a lot of dots.-Ralph
Ok, I like what they've done with this room, its fun. Its black and covered with thousands of yellow dots: no kidding, the walls, the floors, the big blow up shapes hanging from wires, the gallery attendant...
No, hold on. The attendant is wearing normal black gallery clothes, and it kind of ruins the effect. She just stands there, not being part of it. A visitor asks her if it gets boring, standing in this spotty room all day. She shrugs agreement, but says they rotate so its not so bad. The dots change. This explains the neutral clothing, I suppose. It'd be a hassle to have to change spots with every shift, but it does ruin the effect a little.
I step into the spotty room and try to, you know, get amongst it. I glide between the globules, I unfocus my vision, I try standing on just the big spots. But that gallery attendant is right there. She's watching me, judging my experience. She's been around, she knows when the patrons are faking it, and I'm behaving like a spotty 14 year old. Its coming back again, the feeling I always get in these situations: acute appreciation anxiety. I get agitated, nervous, lose confidence. Am I getting anything out of this? Why can't I just relax and just have fun with all the dots? They must have taken someone hours to do, after all. The pressure of the ten dollar entry fee doesn't help- I hate it when its all built up and nothing fires.
The gallery assistant is still in the same spot, and she has nothing to do but look at me. If she'd just go out for a while, give me some space, I could focus, get something fizzing. For god's sake, its only art, nothing to be anxious about. Maybe I should have loosened up a bit beforehand, had a wine, got a bit high. I can't perform in front of a stranger.
I reckon I'll go home, find a small room, say a broom cupboard or the bathroom, and sticker the shit out of it myself. Then I can go in and relax, have some tea, put some music on, get naked. Ten dollars will buy me a lot of dots.-Ralph
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