A phone call: do I fancy seeing Van Gogh: Poets and Lovers at the National Gallery? It’s a 09.45 slot on a Saturday. The answer is a simple, “Yes, please”. It’s good having a friend who seems to be a patron or member of just about every gallery in the city and whose generosity with his plus-ones regularly saves me from sinking into some ticketless cultural wasteland.
Blockbuster shows such as the Van Gogh exhibition always pull in diverse crowds but, even so, our morning visit makes me realise that not all gallery-goers are after the same outcome from their visit (ie looking at art; perhaps buying a postcard to remember the day; a scone in the museum’s café).
Take the two elegant women in their early twenties, who take it in turns to pose with dramatic pouts by each picture. Photos are taken, checked, rejected, then retaken. But then I guess it’s hard to know what’s the right facial expression to conjure up when you are keen to look hot but your backdrop is a wind-buffeted landscape painted by a man who is going to kill himself any day with a bullet to his chest. They settle for a sort of shy Princess Diana stance. I guess it works.
Next there’s the young man who is taking in the show solo and who is definitely not succumbing to any of Van Gogh’s melancholic nonsense. I watch him wait patiently until he can ease in front of a painting of the hospital in Saint-Rémy where Van Gogh admitted himself during bouts of mental anguish. Seizing his moment, he spins round, flashes the happiest of smiles and snaps his selfie. I like his jolly face, though I am not sure whether I would want him visiting me if I was feeling suicidal. I get the feeling that he would have told Van Gogh in no uncertain terms to cheer up. “What’s with the Debbie Downer face? You’ve still got one ear and a box of paints.”
Then there are the gallery-goers who feel that they are as wise as the show’s curators. We clock a man in his sixties waiting patiently for his plus-one. He looks affable with something of a Lucien Freud face. It seems as though he’d be just as happy at home reading the paper. Later we see him paired with his guest, a willowy woman who is rather loudly and lengthily explaining the significance of each picture. The museum suggests setting aside an hour to get around the show but I have a feeling she might still be imparting her wisdom as the lights go off. I prefer Mr Smiley.
Standing by one of the famous sunflowers paintings are two women, perhaps old friends on a day trip to London. “It’s nice,” says one of the ladies. “But I wouldn’t want it in my house. I don’t like the yellow. We had a yellow bathroom once. I hated it.” Now here is someone I can finally relate to because I also find myself walking though galleries and museums wondering what might look nice in my house if I could take a conversion course and switch from journalist to cat burglar.
Afterwards, moved, entranced, delighted by our morning art expedition, we get routed out through the gift shop and there are my two new friends. One has a reproduction vase in her hands, just like the one used by Van Gogh in his sunflowers paintings. It even says “Vincent” on the side. We carry on but I hope that she bought it. After all that hidden sadness and talk of suicide, a little shopping is just what you need to perk yourself up.
