Wolf at the Door

Today found the wolf grinning at strangers.
Probably as unsettling for the 'grinees'* as it was for the grinner. Smiling is something he does a lot, so as not to frighten people; grinning of course can go either way.

Having dropped his son at the rather excellent Exchange gallery in Penzance and while chatting to a couple of the delightful art folk who help run it, the wolf hears that there is a shortage of volunteers due to a sickie being thrown. Presuming it was to aid in the progress of the kinetic workshop his cub is enrolled in, he offers to help. After a few 'are you sure' volleys between the three parties concerned, and for whose benefit the wolf is not entirely sure, he is led to the reception desk, given a dead walkie talkie and told to welcome people to the gallery.

Settling behind the desk and fastening a 'welcoming' grin to the front of his skull, the bemused wolf considers his position. Presumably having walked in through the door, the punters clearly want to come in to the gallery. How exactly would having an unwashed (he had just completed his morning run and now hadn't had a chance to shower) heavily tattooed werewolf grimace at them enhance their experience of the delights on offer?

There is a folder marked FOH on the side of the desk which he picks up. He works out it must mean 'front of house' and is soon deeply immersed in the world of the volunteer grinner. He is fascinated by the utterly useless and pervasive HSE detail and particularly the advice given to dealing with potential trouble makers. This is looking up. There is a panic button. Maybe there will be assaults on the gallery by rabid Stuckists, or murderous and bereted watercolourists, distraught at the lack of hanging space given to sensitive studies of badgers, or pallid seascapes or of orchids captured in charcoal by sandal wearing 'alternatives'. Bring it on. The wolf has worked doors and is no stranger to the powerful metaphysical and philosophical significance of the door (having had a conversation on the way to the gallery with his cub, pointing out the doorway is never merely a gap in a barrier, it is always a transition from one social space to another) and the powerful emotions that they can generate.

Sadly there is none of this. The people who choose to walk through the door for the few hours the wolf has been given responsibility for are exactly the people you would expect to. Several of his friends walk by the gallery, all (one doing a double take and realising it can't possibly be the wolf), continue by. Those that do enter are what it is probably deeply un-PC to call middle class. So be it. They are.

He is cheered later though, by a conversation with one of the art pixies who ignites when she talks about her role in engaging children and (and local people) with the gallery - with Art really, although she doesn't say this. People who love what they do fascinate the wolf, those doing something he enjoys even more so. She is, in the wolf's opinion, luckier than she knows. His son is is arting his socks off in the room next door and here is someone employed specifically to make sure that he does. And that is an excellent use of a civilisation's resources, in the wolf's opinion.

Museums and galleries, commercial or otherwise are to the wolf one of the things that make civilisation worth it's salt, right up there with a professional army, V8s, democracy, free speech and the NHS. The display and exposition of others views and insights, past and contemporary have been a comfort and inspiration for the wolf over the years, and he is always disappointed that more people just don't get it. It doesn't matter whether you like what you see or not; if you don't like what you see then you are immediately challenged by it - which is in the wolf's opinion A Good Thing. An art gallery is not a massage parlour or a spa; it should be a blood soaked arena, or a lover's bed. Fighting or loving, you should respond to what you experience there with passion and with honesty above all else, always.

Later, another of the art folk is very concerned that the wolf may be getting bored with his duty, which is touching but misplaced. He loves the beautiful space he is sitting in, is being supplied with excellent coffee, is drunk on power (he has a badge!) and is watching people. What's to be bored about?
She gives him a cake as she does not realise this, which is a kind thing to do.
The wolf wishes it were a sausage roll, but accepts that Art can be challenging.
And bites it.




*copyright Martin Amis, London Fields. Sort of.