Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 17

To my surprise Farrell is looking like it all makes complete sense now.

‘Bibi’s right. You have to do this Amber.’

‘I’m not Head of Marketing for nothing,’ she says. ‘Now come on Farrell, we’ll go outside and start on the public.

‘What about Egg?’

We look over at the shop and can see through the transparent walls that Egg is playing one of the board games on display and is currently engaged in a very serious conversation with a toddler. He has the same sort of conversations with Rupert.

‘We can come back for him in a minute,’ Bibiana says. ‘He looks like he’s having too much fun.’

I leave them behind and take the escalators to the next floor. I should be feeling anxious as I queue up for the gallery behind a group of college students, but instead I’m feeling sorry for Egg. It’s obvious his feelings for the temperamental Argentinean are not reciprocated and I’m wondering if I should break the news to him so he doesn’t bankrupt himself trying to keep up with her. He must have spent his weekly budget five times over today.

It’s only when I’m inside the gallery space that my thoughts begin to clear and my eyes settle on the strange white installation in front of me. It looks like a shagpile carpet that has developed huge elongated tumours. Each growth looks swollen and like it’s reaching out to escape the carpet it’s growing out of.

And as I stand there staring at it, two things occur to me. One is that yes, they do look a lot like unpainted penises made of sandbags, and two, I’ve managed to walk into the gallery without showing a ticket and I was so deep in thought I didn’t even realize.

***

My chest feels tight as I continue to stare at the mutant shagpile carpet in the middle of the large room. There are only about five other visitors, which is quite modest for a Saturday afternoon. However, it’s still five visitors too many. They walk around the installation, the wood floor creaking with their every step and they examine the penises with great curiosity.

I can’t do it. I can’t just boldly walk up and deliver my bananas into the clutches of all that monstrous genitalia. It’s not that I’ve grown protective of my art; it’s simply that I’m chickening out. I’ve frozen. I can’t do it. And yet I have to. Overcoming fear is what separates the ‘somebodys’ from the ‘nobodys’.

What’s the worst that can happen anyway? Does this really count as vandalism? Depositing a bit of brightly coloured fruit on something that won’t last the century isn’t comparable with slashing a Van Gogh. I mean, what the hell is all this anyway?

‘Do you work here?’

The voice gives me such a fright that I bring up my hand to my chest and involuntary slap my fake identity badge. I keep it there, covering up Bibiana’s face. The owner of the voice, a thin man wearing a long, beige gabardine, stares at me with impatient brown eyes. He doesn’t apologise for scaring me. He just waits for me to compose myself.

Just say no, I think.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘And what do you make of this?’

‘Excuse me?’

He waves his hand at the white tumours.

I swallow and try to gather my wits. ‘What do you make of it?’