Guns in the Gallery

‘I don’t think so.’ Before Carole could stop her, Jude had rapped against the artwork with her knuckles and been rewarded by a hollow sound. ‘Fibreglass. He bought it ready-made.’

‘But where would you buy a ready-made fibreglass cannon?’

‘Prop-maker. Lots of stuff like that gets built for television and movies.’

‘So if Denzil Willoughby didn’t even make the cannon, where is the art in what he’s done? He’s just bought something and put it on show with his name attached.’

‘Ah, no. When he bought it, the cannon didn’t have photos of murdered black kids on it.’

‘And is that what makes it a work of art?’

‘Of course it is. Carole, you might come across a fibreglass model of a medieval cannon . . .’

‘It doesn’t happen very often to me in Fethering,’ said her neighbour sniffily.

‘No, but if you were to come across one, then you might say to yourself, “Oh, look, there’s a fibreglass model of a medieval cannon” and think no more about it. You wouldn’t have the vision to cover it with pictures of teenage victims of gun crime.’

‘No, I certainly wouldn’t.’

‘But Denzil Willoughby did have that vision. Or “concept”, if you prefer.’

‘So rubbish like this is “conceptual art”, is it?’

‘I guess so. Denzil Willoughby thought of the concept of juxtaposing a medieval cannon with images of murdered black teenagers.’

‘And is that what makes it a work of art?’ Carole repeated.

‘I’m sure he’d say it was.’

‘But what do you think?’

Jude shrugged. ‘If you can say something’s a work of art, and get people to hand over money to possess it as a work of art . . . then I guess it’s a work of art.’

‘Huh. The day you catch me frittering my money away on something like that, Jude, you have my full permission to have me certified.’

‘If that moment ever comes, I can assure you I will,’ said Jude with a twinkle. She looked round at the other exhibits, most of which were actually in frames and hanging from the gallery’s walls. ‘Maybe you could see some of these fitting in better in High Tor . . .?’

She had expected this would prompt another ‘Huh’, and she wasn’t disappointed. The actual frames were the only parts of Denzil Willoughby’s smaller works that Fethering residents would have recognized as art. The contents of those frames were startling and ugly. In keeping with the GUN CULTURE theme, the images were composed of weaponry parts; a rifle bolt here, a trigger there, the butt of a pistol, a sawn-off shotgun barrel. Mixed with these oddments of metal were more photographs, whose highly coloured violence was too graphic ever to have appeared in newspapers. And the components within the frames were set on misshapen blocks of shiny blood red, a brain-like porridgy white and a brown that reminded Carole of things she didn’t want to think about too deeply.

Needless to say, these creations all had titles like Butt-Naked #3, Chamber Pot-Shot #12 and Telescopic Site-Specific #9. And the prices on the printed sheet were no less ridiculous than the one quoted for Bullet-In #7.

Yet, in his welcome to the Cornelian Gallery Private View, Giles Green kept harping on about the works’ ‘investment value’. Carole Seddon was beginning to think that she had somehow stepped into a parallel universe.

When Giles finished his introduction, the applause he received was surprisingly warm. Though the denizens of Fethering had resented his disparagement of their village, they were basically all well-brought-up middle-class people. And Bonita Green was, after all, one of their own. It wouldn’t do to appear stand-offish towards her son. Also, the wine and very good nibbles catered by the Crown and Anchor were free. Common politeness in Fethering dictated that the mouths of gift horses were never to be examined too closely.

Giles Green raised his hands to quell the applause. ‘Anyway, you haven’t come here this evening to listen to me. I know you’d much rather hear from the creative genius whose stimulating and challenging work is all around us here at the Cornelian Gallery – Denzil Willoughby!’

Though Giles was smartly dressed in one of his City suits, the artist looked, to Carole Seddon’s eyes, extremely scruffy. Maybe it went against the creed of his calling, but she thought he could have made a bit of an effort.