Final word: The art of good conversation

James Griffin. Photo / Dean Purcell

"Are you going to say what you really think?"
"I think I might," I replied.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

The above is an excerpt from a conversation I had with the Beloved a wee while ago, at the opening of the Walters Prize exhibition, at the Auckland Art Gallery. The broader sweep of the conversation was about how I'd been asked, along with my friend and sometime writing partner Oscar, to speak on a future Sunday at the Gallery, to unfortunate punters who happen to wander into the room at the time, about our responses to the four finalists for said Walters Prize.

This conversation, which took place just after I'd seen the finalists for the first time, was, as I said, a wee while ago. The problem now is that the talk I must be part of is this weekend and - quite frankly - I am worried about it. Deeply worried about it, as a matter of fact.

I love art. If I had my way and about a billion dollars, I would spend copious amounts of both time and money trying to fill my home with as much great New Zealand art as is humanly possible. But loving art and being able to talk knowledgeably about art are, I'm afraid, two very different things. Thus putting me in an art gallery and expecting me to make sensible conversation about arty stuff is, I fear, a spectacularly bad idea.

The main problem for me, in as far as I can express it clearly, is that the moment people start talking about art, they start talking bollocks. There is something about the language of art-speak - the grandiose verbosity of it all - that makes me want to mercilessly mock it every time I hear or see it. I know this is wrong of me and disrespectful to artists and art people everywhere, but I can't help it.

"It's a bit like shooting fish in a barrel, isn't it?"

This is from another Walters Prize-related conversation I had, with a friend, wherein I tried to give voice to my fear that I would be stoned to death with Terry Stringer sculptures at the art gallery, on a Sunday afternoon, for the crime of art heresy after I publicly mocked something that a lot of people take awfully seriously - art.

After I explained to my friend that, thanks to an episode of Mythbusters, I knew that shooting fish in a barrel is actually incredibly difficult, I did have to agree with the logic behind his erroneous assumption. Because there is something about art-speak and, I'm afraid to admit, certain forms of modern art, that just sits up and begs to be hit - like Ross Taylor pulling a juicy half-tracker over square-leg for six.

I think it is within me, at a genetic level, that if I think something is complete tosh, then my default reaction is to mock it. I fully acknowledge there is nothing pretty about cynicism - especially when it is played out in front of a crowd that could potentially inflict a thousand paper cuts upon my person with their copies of Art News New Zealand. But sometimes the urge is really difficult to control. It's like I have arts-bollocks Tourettes. I should probably get help for this condition or take mind-altering (and mind-opening) drugs for it. I suspect I may have left it a tad late - given that today is Saturday and tomorrow is Sunday.

Personally I blame my ignorance. When it comes to art I feel like I'm standing out on the footpath looking in to where all the pretty pictures are on display. I'd really like to go inside, to get up close and personal with the pretty pictures, but it's a private club and the man on the door won't let me in until I know the secret words that make everything make sense. So I remain outside, in the cold, resorting to poking fun at those who are much more art-clever than I, whilst all the time yearning to be one of them.

"Actually that's all bollocks too, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes, I suspect it is. But it sounded quite good, didn't it?"

This is an excerpt from a conversation going on in my head, right now. It is a conversation designed to convince myself that I am not a complete prole, about to defile New Zealand's most prestigious art prize (one worth $50K - imagine how many cool paintings I could buy with that) with my boorish lack of appreciation. I don't think it's a conversation that's going to turn out well for me.

So, tomorrow, if you see a man fleeing from a crowd that is trying to stab him with paint brushes, that'll be me.