'In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo'

I like the general idea of art galleries. I like the fact one can browse unimpeded, sure in the knowledge that even if one is a cultural cretin, nobody else in the room knows that. All that is necessary is to stand reasonably well back from a painting, scratch one’s chin pensively, nod, utter a “Hmm,” and even the most stalwart fine arts snob will not have a clue that you had formerly thought Escher was the name of a contemporary singer.

It is also beyond refute (at least in myth) that galleries are great places to meet members of the opposite sex.

“So, do you like Turner, or what?”

“Ike or Tina? Oh – right – that Turner. The painter. Yes, I’ve always admired his – uh – intensity. And maybe, dare I say, his passion?”

“Ooh, you flirtatious devil, you.”

See. It's ever so easy, if you're looking for that sort of encounter. And now that acquaintanceship has been established, you can then – this works especially well if you’re in a European gallery – ask your new ‘acquaintance’ if she would like to saunter down to the bar and discuss Turner some more and maybe -- if you are feeling especially brave and worldly -- Modigliani. You know, what with pubic hair showing and that sort of stuff. Risque, yes, but you are deucedly cosmopolitan.

If you are on a genuine quest to establish an aura of culture (not to mention some more new friendships) you can hang out at the gallery on a regular basis, and also convince yourself and your loved ones you are not wasting time. How can you waste time surrounded by works of art? You will actually impress others by the intensity of your cultural acumen, and they will never suspect you of being the deadbeat you actually are.

All you need to do to pull off this ruse is to master a few stock phrases like: post-impressionist, neo-cubist, proto-classicist (this calls for a certain mastery of the well-tuned adjective), and then throw around statements like: “Well, Cezanne is Cezanne, but Matisse always expressed it better, in my humble esteem.” Now, who can argue with a guy who says things like that? At best, your enthralled public will even nod their heads in agreement.

Now, I don’t mean to convey the seemingly cynical idea that there might be some pretentiousness afoot in the world of the finer things, but perhaps you might want to check out the gallery scene in Woody Allen’s Manhattan, where he says much the same thing – only much better than I do, no doubt. Of course, if you happen to think that Woody is a tad pretentious in his scathing indictments of pretentiousness, then we aren’t getting anywhere, are we?

There are rules to be followed whilst in galleries. Laughing out loud is frowned up, and automatically categorizes you as hopelessly philistinic. Laughter is in especially bad taste (as is pointing and exclaiming loudly “Will you get a load of that thing!” or, "Look at the rack on her!") when the artist is present. And, no matter how much you might like to believe it, your eight-year-old simply cannot paint better than David Hockney.

Other rules include eschewing any thought of stating: “But, I know what I like.” No you don’t. Certainly not in pretentious artsy circles, you don’t. You may know what you 'think' you like, but you would be wrong. They ‘know’ because they are authorities on art. They may even be, critics. Many critics innately sense that they (the critics) know much more about the work of, say Jackson Pollock, than Pollock himself did, when he drew the odd sober breath.

Something else to consider when looking at any work of art. Master widespread use of the word ‘interesting.” It works for almost all contingencies. It’s non-committal, and it suggests knowledge when absolutely none, in fact, is present.

In gallery protocols, there are other rules to be observed. Do not attempt to take surreptitious photos of paintings and other works of art. Galleries are businesses. And part of their business is selling prints, books and postcards of the works within. They will, of course, hand you some sort of BS about the light from the flash having negative impact on paintings, but its mainly about separating you from a bit of your money if you are seeking a souvenir.

Of the latter restriction, I have a bit of firsthand experience. I once tried to take a clandestine photo in a gallery, and this resulted in a bit of a contretemps with a guard. My encounter wasn’t as severe as the one I observed a few years earlier in a tour of the Vatican, in which a young female American tourist, who had dared to sneak a photo within the Sistine Chapel, was challenged by a thuggish looking Swiss Guard, who grabbed her camera and ripped the film out of it. Swiss Guards may have cute clothes, but they’re mean mothers.

Anyway, my encounter was with a rather venerable chap who looked like he might have served in the Boer War, and then spent many years as a model for Giles cartoons. You get the picture.

It was in the Fitzwilliam Gallery in Cambridge, England. The subject I wanted a picture of was a delightful Hogarth engraving – part of the Rake’s Progress series – that showed a rather zaftig young woman with a most fetching flush on her face, who was obviously pleasingly satiated by a sexual encounter with the rake in question. It charmed me, so I thought I would grab a quick photo, since the aforementioned guard was obviously dozing.

As I raised my camera a Lazarus-like transformation came over the man and he marched (using the term ‘marched’ advisedly) over to me and demanded, in a rather churlish manner, that I desist. Others in the gallery turned and looked disdainfully at me. I felt like someone who had inadvertently tracked dogshit onto somebody’s front foyer carpet.

"Bloody colonial rubbish," I thought I heard an onlooker mutter.

What I had been about to do was obviously “not done” and all those judgmental bozos staring at me obviously knew that. I mumbled something about just checking to get a light reading, and smartly made a hasty exit.

As a closing thought, I have often thought it must be nice to be a full-time artist. A successful full-time artist. A full-time artist who makes lots and lots of money and is a darling of the pretentious everywhere. The sort of artist who has enough of a repute and backlog of work that I could spend the bulk of my time, either attending openings, in the South of France, or in the tropical Pacific, a la Gauguin, pretending I’m painting.