Exhibit

Red dots. The universal language of ‘sold’. Who knows where these red dots are springing from, from this crowd, this room of people mostly more dark-clothed and covered up than a city exhibition opening, many with hats and only a few with a glass of red wine. They don’t look like the buying type – not flashy, ostentatious, not many business suits here, no pearls, no chrystal blondes bobs and gash red mouths, no perfect budding white cleavage strung with beads.

But the red dots are coming from somewhere, coming in a steady stream, under the coloured wash drawings of cityscapes, under the occasional curved naked body, under a pile of books. It is very crowded, which is a relief – no one wants to be at a too-small party, with the pressure to perform, to stay, to enjoy yourself.

It is also a relief because the bodies packed together bring warmth. The glass-rimmed building shines out warmth in the night.

A woman turns around quickly just as another is stepping forward, wine in one hand, juice in the other. There is a collision. Juice spills on the floor. There is a pause as they both look to themselves for damage, for anything on clothes or handbags, there is none. They exchange apology and absolution, neither is overly warm, there is something of two cats about them, two cats negotiating a potential adversary. The Gallery Manager comes with paper towel and covers the puddle; the problem disappears, being sucked up by wicking effect into the dry spaces held between particles of wood fibre.

People who have done workshops and courses together find each other and reminisce. ‘I leave just feeling so relaxed..’ ‘oh the cake and coffee, I miss that’ ‘we only ever got biscuits?’ ‘No not the community college course, the Tuesday mosaic class – did you ever go?’ ‘Oh yes! That cake. That was good.’

The artist looks content and flushed (wine? a response to so many tongues wagging about him around this large room?). He is not puffed up and boastful, he looks grounded and engaged with people. He knows almost everybody here.

There is chat and murmur, the crowd grumbles and buzzes. There is no music, music might have helped fill the gaps between conversations, between having seen all of the drawings on the wall and leaving. It is ok though, the exhibition doesn’t summon up many demons, no-one leaves with more existential angst than they arrive with, although more than a few are reminded of their inability to purchase such works; and also their inability to produce them.

More than a few renew their vows to themselves about drawing classes taken and studios spring cleaned, about time made for painting. It is a mixed joy then this sharing of art, and it magnifies unfinished business.

At least though there are no sculptural pigs heads in boxes, or damning grotesque images of family life, or anything too political to prick them all and make them feel guilty for the way they live their lives or make them think about values. This is a shining warm and nicely lit world, earthy with beanies; and beneath the glass made whimsical in sketchy ink is the traffic and poverty and mental illness of our town wrapped up in the warm arms of the artist’s visage, decorating sketchy streetscapes. It is comfortable, it is joyful, it is casual. And so are we.