Second prize winner for KCL/RNIB creative writing competition
It’s Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy.
Crammed full with people.
Crammed overfull with too much art to take in.
Our Audio Description (AD) guide has a voice which means that – even in the cacophony of the crowd – if I’ve stayed behind extra-looking at something superspecial, I can always find him when our group moves off.
I’ve got a helper. A personal helper. Carrying one of those folding stools specially for me.
She seems scared we’re going to lose the AD guy. Shoos me away from the jewelled chimp. Too vulgar to value. But too extraordinary not to stop at.
I trot on. And when I catch up with the group, they’re part way through looking at a shield, laid flat on the floor, with two spears crossed over it.
“It’s made from lots of different woods”, the AD guy explains. And now I squint and peer and can almost see some different colours.
“Even the spears?”, I ask. “Surely the tips are metal?”
“All of it is just wood”, he says.
“Woods”, he corrects himself.
“From Australia. Properly jointed. No glue”, he adds.
And as he starts to list the names of the trees, I drop to my knees to look closer. A lot closer.
I start to see how very beautiful this shield-and-spears is.
I start to notice the wild wood fragrance.
Fragrances.
What a …
At which point my personal helper turns up. She’s smaller than me. More polite than me. So she got much more stuck in the crowd than me.
The next thing I know she’s squealing. Grabbing my arm. For a few seconds, I actually fight back. While also trying very hard not to roll down onto the wooden wonder.
But I quickly work out that she thinks I’ve collapsed.
She’s doing her health and safety thing.
I shake her off, almost shouting: “No, no, no!”
I’m quickly calmer and quieter. “I’m fine”, I say. “I’m looking. And scenting. It’s great. What a … masterpiece”.
And it truly is. I’m back on my knees. Leaning over and down. Still trying very hard not to roll down over the wooden wonder.
Since I can’t quite see the subtly different colours and wood grains, I can’t quite count the little pieces of wood. Not well enough to be certain, anyway.
I set out to try to count the smells.
Which is ridiculous since I’m quickly getting an audience. Mainly of women who, that morning, washed in scented soap, or used scented deodorant. Some of them are even wearing actual clouds of actual scent.
I shake my head. Blow down my nose to try to clear my nostrils.
And concentrate.
Next time I’m at the Royal Academy it’s an Anthony Gormley exhibition.
I don’t even like Anthony Gormley.
More accurately, I don’t know anything about Anthony Gormley other than his standing men. But it’s one of those special, early opening private sessions that you’d be a fool not to go to. Since we’re visually impaired, we’re even going to be allowed to touch some of the sculptures.
So, of course, I turn up.
I can’t see, don’t find the sculpture baby that’s famously in the courtyard.
And when I get into the first room, there are lots of blocks laid down on the floor.
What? I don’t get it!
But if the Academy thinks these blocks are exciting enough to fill a room the size of a football pitch, there must be something to them.
I’m not sure if they’re made of something fuzzy. Like rough concrete. Or if that’s just my eyes?
But as I let it all wash over me, I start to wonder if, well, maybe that set of blocks is a figure lying down?
One small block for the head, bigger block for the torso, skew block for legs.
And when I lower myself to the floor, I exactly fit.
Or maybe it’s that the blocks exactly fit to me. They’re smooth and slightly shiny. Just like skin.
What I first thought was an abstract set of static blocks is actually a just-posed, ready-to-spring human.
Gormley’s a genius!
I crawl across the floor, shove myself to not-quite-spoon front-to-back with another Humanoid / Gormleyoid.
Splay out to play at being another.
There’s surely much more here about being-with than looking-at.
I love it!
And as I stand up and disengage with becoming an actual Anthony-Gormley-sculpture, the same helper-woman who thought I’d collapsed arrives. With another folding stool, just for me.
“It’s you!”, she laughs. “On the floor again!”
“Of course!”, I say. “I’m being properly physical this time.
With more masterpieces!”
Afterwards, I internet-researched Gormley – and he says:
“In the end the viewer (singular) will be the subject of this show.”
So I got it! I truly got it!