The Rise of the Purple Cow

You know, I thought that venting about The Voice would be enough to sate my vice of disliking verbal incontinence, but I was wrong, three assaults on common sense and courtesy inside of 24 hours deserves a mention and a vent. A lesser known evil is amongst us in the class, someone who tends to only show up as and when she feels like it, and when she feels like it, she turns up with a vengeance.

Let's call her Purple Cow.

Why this nomenclature?

If the fashion police were around today they would have said this:

'We said the same thing when you wore this yesterday: "Two two's: Too much purple and two sizes too small!"'

No need to elaborate, I'll just let your imagination go from there.

I digress, this charmer turns up as and when...and yesterday, when she did at a Christeby's sale preview for Old Master's paintings I know that more than one person wanted to stab her with a pencil by the end of it. Now, these are not normal impulses for people to have, unless of course they are a psychopath.

Either I'm in a class with a high proportion of psychopaths or this girl is pretty bad.

I'll go with the latter rather than the former.

An uppity false English accent streams out of her, why false? She's not English. And this wouldn't be so bad if she were a little less pretentious and had less of a tendency to cut off her fellow students, lecturers, and tutors on occasion.

There is only one correct opinion in the class.

That of the Purple Cow.

'Can anyone tell me what the difference between a fake and a forgery is?' asked the Christeby's expert.

I knew it and decided to swot up and grab some time to shine, 'A fake is something that's been created in order to deceive and a for--'

'Actually! A fake doesn't really deceive...blah blah blah blah um, err, blah blah blah blah, um, blah, um, er, blah blah...'

Everyone looked at her in disbelief, and my mouth was drawn in a hard line. As she finished there was a definite air of murder in the air. The expert could sense it (Everyone save Purple Cow could sense it, I'm sure the people bidding on fine furniture in the next room could sense it.), and so he cleared his throat and said,

'Well, no, a fake is out to deceive.'

The rest of the morning went on without a glitch, though most everyone walked up to me in passing and mentioned some sort of stationary-related injuries they'd like to inflict on her. Pencil stabbings, stapling things to forehead, taping mouth shut, pushpins on seat...we're a creative bunch.

That's why we're in the art world.

Today she had a presentation. My quartet was dreading it, most everyone probably was. She went on for 18 minutes, and the topic, dull. The presentation of the topic? Worse. Cocker Spaniel counted 188 'um's' or 'err's'. Let's break that one down, shall we? That's at least 10 per minute, a little over in fact, so, approximately every 6 seconds she paused and word vomited.

Which, um, isn't very, err, em, pleasant to listen to for, um, 18 affected minutes.

Lastly, her most amusing offence today, in my eyes, was cutting off another student answering questions about the topic they'd just presented only to answer for them (Because she knew better).

The whole room was full of cat butt mouths. I couldn't help but stifle a laugh.

Honestly, how dense do you have to be?

Quality.

Discrepancies

Presentation day... the day of reckoning. The day we stand up and bare our intellectual souls to the scrutiny of the entire class.

Great day.

Cocker Spaniel was up second. Out of 30 plus.

She is probably the most shy of our group but her presentation was confident, assured and interesting. Very thorough. Most people were so impressed they failed to ask questions.

meh.

I can imagine her, the night before today talking into a mirror and giving her presentation and practicing the hand gestures, when to pause and point something out with the pointer. It was probably funny. Not in a bad way, but in a Cocker Spaniel way, with moments of 'Oh! That's a good idea!' Followed by a jotting down of a note in the presentation margin that eventually came out this morning in a little smile of momentary shyness that only those of us who know her, could recognise.

But she did it.

The Voice was meant to go one slot ahead of me after lunch. But something happened as I sat down, a tutor came up and said in a low voice, 'Do you mind going straight away? There's been a bit of a change.'

'Yea, sure, errr, let me get my notes.'

I had them laughing pretty hard at times.

Not at me mind you. With me.

The laughter of the classroom relaxed me enough that I could get through the presentation without too much sputtering. Because even those who seem to be forever relaxed and confident still get the jitters. That's normal.

After the presentations were all over for the day I started to ask around, 'Hey, does anyone know why The Voice didn't go today?'

'Uh. -No. Was she supposed to go today? Oh, yea, she was.'

I kept quietly shopping the question around until I finally heard something, 'Oh yea, she went up to the tutor's office and had a panic attack in front of them and they told her she didn't have to do it if it was upsetting her that much. They assured her it wouldn't be a big deal.'

Maybe saying I saw red would be an overstatement of the truth, let's go with I saw hot pink.

I didn't give away what I really thought, after all, gotta play nice with the other kiddies.

Later on the tube ride home I leaned over to Cocker Spaniel and told her why The Voice had been let off.

Her reaction was similar to mine.

What I really want to know is why did anyone fall for that bullshit act? A girl who has self-promoted her way into the internship at a prestigious showroom in the heart of the city's art and antiques market as well as gotten (and refused) the Christeby's internship is now too shy to give a presentation in front of her classmates of 8 months?

Bullshit.

Bull fucking shit.

Who fell for it? Why did anyone buy it? When will the injustice stop?

Is everyone else goddamned blind?

A Day in Review

24 Hours ago I was walking up Parliament Hill which overlooks the whole of London after visiting Kenwood House. It was breathtaking and really refreshing to spend a sunny afternoon in London, but on Hampstead Heath, which doesn't feel like London at all until you walk up that fateful hill.

(If you don't know why it's fateful, ask Guy Fawkes.)

After a very relaxing afternoon stroll post country house visit, it was a dash to get back to my flat and get ready to go to a networking event being held at the Royal Academy. Some contemporary Russian art show.

Contemporary.

Networking.

And me. Interesting combination.

The show wasn't of much merit in comparison to earlier art, interesting and possibly some of it will continue to see the light of day in 20 years time, we shall see, but I don't really recall the art (How sad.). Rather, I recall the curator saying in his speech that the fall of the Berlin Wall as in 1990.

Pfft. Contemporary Art Historians. Anything before 1995 clearly falls under ancient history and therefore exact dating doesn't matter. 1990 indeed.

Contemporary Art Bird was there, but not in her usual spirits. While Cocker Spaniel and I interacted with a piece you're meant to sit in and enjoy, she refused and instead considered it then walked off, rather shyly after I shouted to her, 'Oh c'mon! You should give it a go. It's fun. You need to interact with your art.'

She smiled and laughed a little nervously and then skittered away.

Cocker Spaniel smiled, and said, 'I liked that - "Your art".'

We chuckled and the director of the event walked in and asked us if we were enjoying ourselves. A few minutes of small talk later, we had successfully procured business cards.

We did a little dance in the loo to celebrate afterwards.

Hey, a triumph is a triumph.

Following the event, we were flanked by Afghan Hound (who had also attended), and went to get a few G&T's down before heading to Mahiki, as the art group had organised for us. And wouldn't you know, Greek God turned up as well?

The evening was no longer a networking opportunity, and instead it was an opportunity to cut loose, drink, dance and have after hours fun. Cocker Spaniel had a fruity libation before heading home, clubbing isn't her thing (and fair play to her). Feeling the strength of our drinks, Afghan Hound and I cut shapes out on the tiles for the next 4 hours.

Greek God drank for the whole Europe and ending up nearly licking a girl's face off on the floor, one from our course no less.

That was entertaining.

Eventually we were all kicked out of the club around 3 only to drag ourselves by foot, bus, cab or private car home. I went for the bus-foot route.

5 AM is a late bedtime. But worth it.

24 hours on from Hampstead Heath I've dragged myself into the library for research. I sat down by a seat that was empty, but had a stack of books beside it. Thinking nothing of it I grabbed mine on reserve and came back.

What do you know? They're researching Gainsborough and Reynolds, the English counterparts to Raeburn. Brilliant they have some books on the London art market in the early 19th c. that I'll eventually need.

Oh, slip of paper with a name, I wonder if I know them.

Lean over and peek...

I've sat down next to The Voice.

fuck-a-doodle-doo.

£262,000 Later...

Or at least that's how much monopoly money I spent in the auction room today...

Christeby's was holding auctioneer training today and they needed bidders, who did they call upon but their student body.

AKA: Willing volunteers who will do most anything for insider information and a cup of tea.

And so we did. We watched while some people had their careers ripped up and shredded into little itty bits by their non-capabilities in crowd control whilst simultaneously performing calculations to ensure landing on the right foot. Other soon-to-be auctioneers soared and blossomed up on the podium, as did the bids.

Out in full force were the four of us: Afghan Hound, Cocker Spaniel, Golden Retriever and myself. And while it was clear that we were all friends to any of the other people in the room, our bidding styles were all dramatically different and possibly a reflection on our personalities.

Kinda like the Sex and the City girls - they all have different complementary personalities, only our story involves a lot less sex and a lot more city.

Afghan Hound was the cool, sleek and hawkish professional. Nothing deterred her will or her gaze from the bid. Her paddle flicked up with grace and ease.

Next on the scale, was me. I lacked the refinement, but not enthusiasm. Quite the opposite, when I did bid my paddle went flying up, as if in a spasm and usually at some inconvenient moment that created either a nuisance (as any ex would tell you) or reeked of comic timing (as any friend would tell you).

Cocker Spaniel was less keen and overall reserved. She smiled and kept her nerve, but was an early bidder on popular lots, driving them up and then, while it was pretend bank accounts, she refused to pretend outside of reason. Cocker Spaniel is lovely in that she's willing to play make believe, but is more apt to play the 'How would you spend the money from a contest?' Rather than the 'What would you wish for from a genie in a bottle?'

Cocker Spaniel and reality are in close contact without the necessity of a first name basis.

Golden Retriever decided she was to be the observer today with only one item 'bought' to her paddle. She smiled and laughed when I'd jump in and frustrate someone else's last minute bid, or how Afghan Hound's steely gaze made even the auctioneer flinch a little. She'd coo a little sigh of sympathy when Cocker Spaniel gave up because reality set in and generally encourage all of us to bid.

We backed off her Signac.

But hey, what are friends for unless to make you smile and let you buy pretend art with pretend money?

Someday we'll get around to those Manolos.

Hopefully My Luck Will Hold

It has been a good day. A very good day. I am not a failure, not quite the opposite, I'm not a success, I'm merely really fucking lucky.

This 'luck' stems back to a book I have by Pat Montandon called 'How To Be A Party Girl'. I have never read the book cover to cover, I've skimmed it. Kinda.

One thing that has stuck with me, aside from wandering around the house naked before going to a major event because bra strap marks are unflattering for anyone, is that you should be nice to everyone because you never know when that ugly guy who flirts with you might have a hot banker friend of your dreams he just happens to introduce you to and then you get married...just, to paraphrase.

She was right in a very 1960's way, I expanded her philosophy past the limited scope of husband hunting and into everyday life. We postmodern women must do these things, especially when living in a country where one's accent makes everyone predisposed towards hostility.

Just sayin'.

Today was a case in point.

I have made random friends in many different ways over the past couple of years here in London, one friend (whom I met on the tube), kindly introduced me to someone who has today become an important part of my life. Professionally of course, both of these men are old enough to be my father.

After months of chasing down the Scottish Hart I've finally managed to corner him and have a face to face meeting RE: Raeburn.

Turns out he owns four.

Fuck. That's cool.

He also owns two sources on Raeburn that are very hard to find, to which I am now welcome to use.

My god, the generosity and fortuitous tube ride that lead me here!

Over tea I had a discussion that has lead me down the rabbit hole and closer to my more fantastic professional dreams, of being published, rubbing the right elbows (or shoulders if you fancy), and generally getting a little bit closer to a career in the art world rather than merely being a random wannabe outsider.

Given that after the interviews (which were merely to confirm availability according to Cocker Spaniel), The Voice decided to turn down her internship in favour of teaching English in France next year, I have to say that while she was given the internship in the department I'd wanted, this is better. I might have just managed to make up for some lost ground.

Fuck you The Voice, I'm getting from A to B via X, and the road is a hell of a lot more interesting.

And yea, there's like, totally other things I can do.

While this may seem cocky, some people might just call it fate.

Frozen Tundra

One of the privileges we have as Christeby's students is that we get to tour old aristocratic homes privately, some of which are not even open to the public. It's quite an honour really, however, today even the class Russians were complaining about the cold.

'Golden Retriever...can I lean into you?'

'Yea, go on. You can keep me warm too.'

In I leaned and we both let out a collective sigh of shared warmth. (And relaxed our tense shivering muscles.)

I'd dressed for a UK spring, so, not shorts or a mini skirt, but three layers should have sufficed, right?

No.

Our teeth chattered away while guest lecturers patiently educated the huddled masses that were knitting themselves closer and closer behind their backs.

Golden Retriever, Cocker Spaniel and I were one little clump almost linking arms while the Russians, ironically, whined and complained louder than any other group.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't Russia have some pretty harsh winters? I would have thought English springtime would have been a walk in the park.

Evidently not.

By the time the lecturers had done a pass off, we had one laughingly tell us to either never accept an invitation to dine with the aristocracy, or if we do, to be sure and wear cashmere knickers and our best fur coats.

What I want to know is how is it that they can afford all these Titians, Van Dycks, and Turners but no central heating. C'mon 73rd Duke or Marquis of Wherever! Sell something less valuable to keep the heat on.

No one likes a head cold...

The Gods Walk Among Us

So, here I sit in the IT room, every one of us girls is quietly clacking away. I'm going through databases to find out how many potential sources I have for my fledgling dissertation idea. My poor little nugget of inspiration might have to survive off of articles rather than real live books. Oh well, maybe an archive will have something?

I start to think a little bit more abstractly and my concentration is broken. Greek God has decided to join us gals in the IT room.

'Hi Greek God!' shout girls from all over the room. I look up and can't help but smile a little bit. More out of amusement than anything else. Suddenly the room is flung deep deep deep into lip biting and hair flicking. Even I catch myself playing with a lock. (Then put it away because I have to have some self-respect after the hazy glow of testosterone wears off).

On my program there are 33 people, 30 of which are female, meaning you wouldn't have to try hard here. Somewhere in the ether of fate, someone overshot the mark with this guy. It's really funny in a wry sort of way. (And it's great to see someone enjoying how spoilt for choice they are, as he does.)

I laugh to myself while girls start to ask him what he's doing, can they help with projects, what's his dissertation on, could they meet up sometime. I can't believe this is happening. I bet these girls would crucify me if I said, 'Hey, while you're looking for things other than your own topic, would you mind plugging in "Raeburn" for a quick search? Thanks.'

I'm going to think the better of that one and just continue to amuse myself with human folly.

And the odd glance.

'It's Easter, and goddammit, Jesus drank red wine too!'

Or so I slurred whilst roasting a chicken on Easter Sunday.

The sacrilege did not stop there, but I will.

We've finished exams and I couldn't be happier. I can now go back to cooking for myself in the evening rather than cramming the last few scraps of random knowledge into my head, such as, 'Why is a raven like a writing desk?' Only it's more, 'What's the visual difference between Braque and Picasso?' or 'How do you tell if it's St. Cloud or Rouen?'

Answers:

1. Nothing. One costs a hell of a lot more.

2. St. Cloud has a glaze that looks like melting ice cream, Rouen has a more dense pattern and less visible body. (And one is soft paste porcelain whilst the other is earthenware....)

Now that the tedious daily 'brush-up' is over and done, I've been able to quickly rid myself of the pesky grey cells I have been carefully cultivating by drinking with my adopted British family in Bournemouth. In the state I was in whilst cooking I would have probably broken expensive crockery (fine ceramics to some), and backed into paintings (I can do a hell of a lot better than 30cm into a Picasso!).

But now that the exams and long weekend are over I am preparing my dissertation proposal, as is everyone else.

Golden Retriever has no idea what she wants to do. Just that it's probably going to be ceramics. Cocker Spaniel is quite excited by Scottish furniture or costume within paintings and Afghan Hound is leaning toward European ceramics. Me? Scottish portraiture of the late 18th century.

In a desperate bid for attention The Voice went up to the tutor after our explanatory lecture and said, 'Yea, I have like, no idea what I want to do. I mean, I like, know I don't want to do ceramics, but I could like see myself in furniture or old masters or modern art.'

The tutor suggested she consider doing a PG Dip instead of a MA.

HA! I wonder if maybe the tutors are just as fed up with her as we are?

I'll drink to that.