Excerpt: Handwaving

Lionel Bloomer pulled the door shut behind him, for the last time. Another TAZ gallery closed.
He didn’t look back.
When he first opened an art gallery he had found it so exciting he hadn’t been able to think of anything creative to fill it with.
They had given him the room to do with as he wanted, and he had walked into that huge white cube of a room with a sports bag full of spray cans, felt tips, some paper and sketching materials and had sat on the floor, dead centre, to consider his position.
A few days later you would still have found him in that big white room, pacing around, talking to himself, gesturing, leaning against the wall, appealing to the gods, and wondering what the hell he should do first.
He would put in several hours a day, and then check out to return to his home space for a while, where he would break out the Jameson’s and spend some more time with paper and pencil before finally lying down on the mattress on the floor, and running through his visualisation and relaxation exercises before falling asleep in the hope of having a visionary dream which would make his following day easier.
Come the morning he would brew strong coffee with his kettle and filter, shower, then make his way to ‘work’ to once again prowl around his solitary confinement cell, trying the view from the corner, the view from the centre of the room, facing the door, facing away from the door, staring at the top corner of the room where three lines met. He would go back out, close the door, take a deep breath, then fling the door open one more time to make a grand entrance – only to find a big, white empty room – in the middle of the floor a pile of creative tools, art materials, drinks and snacks, step-ladders, a comfortable chair, all the things he had gathered, day after day, to bring him inspiration.
Still nothing.
He went back out and tried a diffident entry, opening the door just a crack, and peering in, as though he didn’t have an invite.
He tried leaving the door open, going back up the corridor, then strolling by and glancing in.
No joy.
Eight hours a day he wrestled with ‘Art’ and what it might mean to him and to others. At the end of the working day he would have re-arranged his art materials, laid them out in different patterns, sat in the chair, climbed the step-ladder for a different viewpoint, but whichever way he looked at it he had no idea what to do with a white room , all his own, for the opening of a new art gallery.
They guys who had planned their grand opening in the near future had given him, and a few others, a room of their own.
He hardly dared glance into the other rooms, but he could hardly miss the sculptures coming in on trolleys, on forklift trucks, or carried by guys in overalls. From other rooms he could hear the hiss of airbrushes, the hammering of nails into walls, the sound of people moving stuff around and discussing positioning and lighting.
Loud music came from some of the rooms, either the music to keep labourers happy and grafting, or the sounds that would accompany installations on the day.
There were doors with No Entry signs, doors flung open, a hive of activity – comings and goings of men in suits, bohemians of all colours and stripes, workmen, roadies, people who looked and sounded like PR men, agents, critics and groupies...
Everyone seemed to know what they were doing.
He took to keeping his door closed, and eventually added his own ‘Absolutely no admittance’ sign, which he spent eight hours over designing and making, but still the big white room stayed pure and unsullied.
Every evening he would head home to his cluttered and neglected crashpad, and every morning check back into ‘work’, following his own guidelines tos treat art as a job.
He began to despair. Everywhere in the new gallery he could hear the activity, when he came and went he felt aware of the tension in the air, but he noticed everyone seemed too busy to even enquire how it was going for him.
He knew that for some this felt like an opportunity, for others just a chore. The building seemed to house all kinds of people, from career artists to chancers, from graduate students with degrees to anarchic bohemians whose careers had never taken off.
Lionel had no idea who might show on day one. He didn’t want to even attend on the preview days, to confront the investors and gallery owners, the critics and hangers-on, the press and the reviewers, the know-alls and the know nothings.
He hoped the public might change the vibe a bit, but his own previous cynicism didn’t seem to carry him through. He had anxiety attacks, he tried to spy on what others were up to, but some of it truly demoralized him. Whole teams of people seemed to have taken on their projects, while (as a one-man band) he felt he had no moral support, no feedback.
He had discouraged any input or support from others, but had simply ended up appearing mysterious. He took to locking his room at night, when leaving. Even his Keep Out sign started to look pretentious and amateurish.
Panic began to take hold. All he needed was one original idea. He had no gods to pray to. He had no collaborators to lean on. On the day of the preview he didn’t even show up, just left his room locked, with his new No Entry sign just consisting of an elaborate sign with a large arrow pointing to the keyhole. Not much of a reference to Duchamp’s last posthumous work, and pretentious to say the least. His last day had consisted of peering through the keyhole and re-arranging his chair, stepladder and art materials so they looked ‘interesting’ when glimpsed through the keyhole.
Not many of the press bothered with a room they couldn’t go into, and none of the reviews mentioned a ‘mysterious room’. No-one bothered to use a keyhole camera to catch a glimpse, with a new building to explore, and so many artists (old and new) to consider.
That day he sat at home, with his bottle of Jameson’s, ignored his phone (letting the answer machine speak for him) and noticed that after a couple of calls from the gallery owners the phone went quiet.
Sitting at home, surrounded by clutter and dust, computers, tv, and landlord’s furniture he considered simply posting the key to the room back to the gallery owners, with a brief apology and no explanation.
He hated the idea of ending up labelled a ‘moody artist’, or a failure, or having his behaviour analysed as some kind of feeble artistic ‘statement’.
He missed his big , clean, white, empty room.
The following day he skimmed through the morning papers, but didn’t find too much about the preview. Some of the art critics had planted teasers, or hyped the possibility of viewing the work of some of their favourites. Others had given the opening a mention as a chance to view the work of a new generation of up-and-coming artists, good ‘investments’ for the money people.
It didn’t help.
Come the opening day, he decided to face the music, bite the bullet (he spent the night writing down clichés of bravery) and just go sit in his room as a work in progress.
He missed the empty space.

Day One
So on the day of the opening he sat in the middle of the room, still awaiting inspiration. He left the door open, but was aware that the step-ladder, splash clothes on the floor, paints, and other materials just made the room look as though the decorators were still finishing off.
It looked exactly the same as it had when he had first been shown it, and guys in overalls were clambering around on scaffolding, painting the whole thing white, with their boom box pumping out radio rock, and their roll-ups, and their cheerful mockery of ‘art’.
He didn’t feel like going along the corridor to see how it was going in the other rooms, or to mingle with the other artists.
He sat. Doodled on his pad. Stared at the wall.
People strolled by, and glanced into his room, but kept going. He could hear the hushed murmur of discussion of what they had seen, what they were seeking out (from the programme), the discussions of art, craft, technique, theory, history. He had no idea how well versed these people were with the art movements of the past, whether they were shopping for ideas or for something that would look good over the fireplace in their room.
Whenever he heard laughter in the hall he assumed it was about him, whenever he caught the pretentious phrase of the ‘wine-taster’ passing his door he scowled.
The sound of barbarians sneering at something they had just seen made him rage.
Then a guy with long hair, in a colourful patchwork waistcoat, put his head around the door.
“Is this room open yet?” he said.
“Oh sure,” said Lionel, with an open-handed gesture to the huge empty space.
The man strolled into the room, looked around, and up to the ceiling, back to the pile of art materials that Lionel had arranged and re-arranged a thousand times, and then looked him the eye.
“So what’s the big idea?” he said, not unkindly.
Lionel sighed.
“I mean, after some of that stuff out there it’s quite a relief to come into such a minimalist space. Very Zen, very soothing.”
Lionel looked at him, tried to find some hint of irony, and found none.
“It’s a work in progress,” he offered, without much hope.
“I like it.”
The guy wandered around the room, peering at it from several angles, posing here and there, making a square frame with his fingers and peering through.
“Do you mind if I take a photo?”
“Feel free,” said Lionel.
“Can I include you in it?”
“So long as you don’t want me to pose.”
“Oh no! I just like the image of the artist, tooled up with materials, sitting before the blank canvas and waiting for inspiration”.
“Knock yourself out,” said Lionel, but couldn’t help re-adjusting his slumped posture just a little, and trying to look like someone about to launch into an inspired moment.
The guy took out a small but expensive looking camera, and positioned himself right in the corner of the room, to get the widest shot. Then he started to move in, twisting the camera from horizontal to vertical, shooting closer and closer until he had Lionel and the pile of paint pots, aerosol cans, pens and assortment of natural objects (pinecones, leaves, twigs) and bits and pieces that Lionel had brought in on various days to try to get himself motivated.
“Is it OK if I move this?”
He was pointing to Lionel’s vacuum flask and an assortment of sandwich wrappers from previous days.
“Do what you want,” said Lionel, now busy with his pad and pencil, trying to look like an artist at work.
The visitor re-arranged the food stuffs, and clicked a few more.
Two women looked through the door, unsure what to make of it, then drifted into the room, trying to stay out of the line of sight of the camera. They circled the room, apparently unsure which bit was the art, or even which of the two men was the artist-in-residence.
Eventually they tip-toed up behind the guy with the camera.
“Sorry to be so stupid, but what does this all mean, exactly? We haven’t been to many art exhibitions, and I have to say we find it all a bit puzzling. I only came because my son is showing his paintings down the hall, but I’ve never understood him, or his friends.”
The women looked at each other, unsure if it was OK to admit ignorance.
“Oh, I don’t work here,” said the man in the waistcoat. “He’s the artist,” he pointed at Lionel.
The women fluttered a little, then looked around the room again.
“What’s it going to be?”
Lionel decided he had to declare his total creative bankruptcy.
“I haven’t even started,” he said. “The idea is that each person who comes into the space sees what they want to see, and brings what they want to it, and makes of it what they want.”
“Oh, “said the older woman, “we don’t do art ourselves, so we probably don’t really belong here.”
By now, the camera man had moved back, and was taking pictures of the artist, his materials, and his audience.
“I’ll bring you some of the pictures,” he said, “if you’d find them useful.”
“Sure,” said Lionel.
“Or I could email them to you.”
“Whatever.”
All through the day, people wandered in, looked around, felt a little lost, and left.

Day Two
The guy was true to his word, and arrived with some nice glossy prints the next day.
As the great blank surfaces still confronted Lionel, he decided to stick the photos on the wall, just to make a start.
The next group of people came in, and by-passed the sculptural form of the artist at bay in the middle of the room, to go peer at the pictures, then look back at the live model in the room.
Then they took pictures of themselves in front of the pictures. And arranged to send them to him.
Rather than scribble down any more addresses, he spent some time making a Visitors’ book, that they could sign their promises and comments into.

Day Three
People began to come in to look at the photos, and read the visitor’s comments, and take pictures of themselves signing the book.
Eventually, a young guy asked if they could sign the wall instead. Lionel nodded.
The guy picked out some spray cans, and made a rather good tag on one of the virgin white walls.
He grinned at Lionel as he left. “Thanks, man, I enjoyed that!”
People began to graffiti the Visitors’ Book, and get bolder with the felt pens. They borrowed the step-ladder to take high angle photos.
And so it had gone on.

Day Four
Lionel had brought in his laptop, to pass the time between visitors writing. He could also look at the photos and videos people were sending him, so he would leave the laptop open and running so others could see. He began to encourage people to move stuff around, and to possibly add to the room. Some of the bolder visitors grabbed paint and did a little bit of Pollock style splashing around, while others took felt tips to delicate filigree greetings on the wall, and then got friends to take pictures of themselves at the art gallery, in front of their own contribution.

Day Five
The room had begun to become an attraction. People brought their friends along to see their own stuff, to drop off pictures, to bring him coffee and sandwiches, to sit and chat. He had added a couple more chairs to the middle of the room, and avoided all talk of conceptual art.
For some reason, many people seemed to enjoy his room more than reverently wandering around other rooms in the gallery, discussing the works in hushed tones.
He had added a small sound system, and a video screen, with a camera and microphone, so that people could record their impressions of the room, rather than have to sign a book, and so that he could play back videos people had made of their friends adding graffiti to the walls.
By the end of the week the room had developed a life of its own.
He knew he had to give it back to the gallery, so he arranged to have the decorators come back in, put up their scaffolding and return the walls to pristine white, while visitors were still passing through.
And recorded the whole process.
And in that week he had developed the idea of the TAZ galleries that would keep him busy for the next few years.
All those thoughts and memories flitted through his mind, as he walked away from TAZ gallery 23.