Silly Old Twit

                
                It’s 12:30 and I’m sitting in the cafeteria of the National Gallery of Ireland. It’s a medium size room with plenty of natural light. And it’s busier than you would think. The gallery itself is perhaps twenty minutes walk from my flat. I have been here many times , sometimes several times a week over quite a few years but this is the first time I find myself in the cafeteria. I don’t like it , it’s noisy and a little too full and I have just now spilt my tea all over the table. It’s the tea pot , not me that’s at fault , it’s one of those that looks nice but isn’t practical.  I’m dying for a nice hot cup but I’m afraid to even try pouring another one.
           There are families here. Men with their wives and children , young men , the sort who bring their kids to the local gallery. You know the sort. You can tell their politics at a glance.
      I had the idea that I would come here and write my blog. I figured that the atmosphere would be conductive to good writing but I was wrong. It’s much , much too noisy. There is a drone of what passes for conversation all around me. The proletariat are noticeable by their absence and in their place…. As a very dear and departed friend of mine would say…

                                            ”Wallpaper , wallpaper . It’s all just wallpaper”.

     They could be anyone , characterless , interchangeable types that you pass on the street every day. They are one short step away from their working class roots and have mastered the art of amnesia. Their children are healthy and will attend good schools. They are better educated than their fathers and mothers or so they think. They believe in multiculturalism even if they are not quite sure what that means. They are ‘inclusive’ in outlook. They are part of the mainstream. It’s was an easy transition.

                     …wallpaper , wallpaper.

     This is all a bit too familiar. It’s reminds me of those images on tv . The cafeteria , the faces , the background noise and then the gun shots and cups falling to the floor. I can understand how these things happen. “The jungle is never far away”.
      There’s a book shop here and they have a small volume ,’ erotic sketches by Kokoschka and I’m tempted. Edith Piaf is gently moaning in the background and I’m still dying for a cup of tea. Outside the bookshop I stand facing the cafeteria. It’s full now and they are having dinner. Dinner!. Dinner! They obviously came here to eat. They will mention this visit to the galley in casual conversation.
            As you enter the gallery the bookshop is on the left , the cafeteria to the right. There is a flight of stairs up ahead and at the top of these you walk through three large rooms , hung of course with paintings. In the far left corner of the last room , almost hidden and hung in what’s almost a recess  is a small painting. To see the detail you need to get right up close like a man who is shortsighted. It’s Fra Angelico’s ” The attempted martyrdom of Saints Comos and Damien”. It was acquired for the gallery in 1886 and is part of a set the rest of which are scattered about in galleries throughout the world. The artist died in 1455 but it looks as if it might have been painted just a few years ago. If we didn’t know better we might think it’s the work of a child.
        It’s my favourite picture in the entire collection but I could not for the life of me explain why. There is something naive in it. It’s almost cartoon like. Five hundred year old and the colour is as fresh as it was when first painted. This is what keeps bringing me back to this gallery. There is no need for a lesson in art appreciation here , all we need are our eyes.
       
         I will walk home by the Grand Canal. Then I will look through my art books and relive the day.