She said to meet her at the gallery. I arrived, stepping in from the
cold and looking around for her. The room was white-walled and brightly lit.
The mingling crowd was surrounded by close-up, full-face photographic portraits
of weight-lifters at full strain, eyes open and blown up to twice life size.
Looking through the people there I couldn’t spot her. It was the usual unvaried
morass of gallery-goers: inward-turned, champagne-handed and voices bleating
over the background buzz.
I weaved through to the next room, separated by a thick blackout
curtain. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the lower light. The photographs
were calmer this time, of subdued, attentive audiences, possibly for classical
music, in rows of tiered seating. Pine panelled walls echoed the photos and the
mood seemed to have filtered through to the guests. People spoke in quieter
tones, like a massed conspiracy, a prelude to a coup. I could move more easily
through this room and, seeing she was not there either, pushed aside the curtain
to push on.
I was greeted by a chaos of waxwork sculptures in jubilant poses,
wearing bright military marching band uniforms in disarray. There were no
weapons but dented tubas, drums and trombones littered the marble floor. The
sculptures crowded the room so I could not see the opposite wall and the guests
were forced to take a circuitous path around the still riot. I weaved through, peering
ahead and anxious to find her.
I saw her ahead of me, framed by false wax bodies and all the more
alive for it. She looked so elegant.
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