BY JAMES BEMBRIDGE

An art gallery in Shoreditch, about nine in the evening. 

In front of me is, according to the gallerist’s demented assessment, an art piece: a blue squiggle on a blank canvas. And behind me are ten people gathered to hear my verdict on it.

The fact is, I have passed myself off as an art critic in order to crash one of those chi-chi gallery parties.

Once the doorman said my name wasn’t on the guest list, I repeated it in as arrogant a tone as my nerve could summon:

‘James Bembridge – as in the art critic.’

The poor sod not only believed it but apologised for not having recognised me sooner and ushered me in with the kind of care my newfound fame suggested. 

So, there I was, mingling among socialites without their suspecting a thing. Starved, shrunken creatures who shuffled about the room in a kind of aimless trance. Hollow chests and protruding ribs to which glittered gowns clung like burial shrouds.

These were the guardians of the arts, and by passing through their gates, I felt I had entered another realm, completely removed from time or taste. A vast jumble of squiggles, blurs and loud, lurid images screaming at me from every direction. One showed a man in Mickey Mouse ears with his tongue hanging out like a rutting mutt and flecks of random paint spittle added for worse measure. Mickey, was the artist admitting to taking it?

Snobs think that in order for something to be in good taste, it must first be unpalatable to the public, and everything in this collection was aligned to that purpose. I suppose these pieces keep their value because their appreciation is in such short supply.

And as for the rich art snobs? They met my poorest expectations. I felt less of a fraud when I discovered they knew as little about art as I did. None of them dared say a thing lest admit to having nothing to say. Their eyes darted around the place like those of cornered rats, in search of any distraction that might save them from conversation.

Little did I know that I was to be the distraction.

‘James, this piece really…’ The pregnancy of her pause suggested she might be on the cusp of some profound observation. ‘… Speaks to me.’ This was Kate, a woman who worked in interior design – that is to say, didn’t work – and had large brown eyes brimful with ignorant wonder. Her remark set the intellectual tone of the evening.

‘James, how did you get into the business?’ 

‘Darling, one doesn’t get into the art business; art invades itself into every pore and fibre of our being. Art is… all of our business.’ 

‘Wow. That really – ’

‘Speaks to you? Yes, I thought it might.’ My smile scarcely hid my contempt. 

Before I knew it, I had a court of loyal followers clinging to my anus like lice without realising that was the organ from which I spoke. Some of them even thought they recognised me from some soirée or another, some acquaintance or another, some memory or another blur.

After this series of successful bluffs, I almost began to believe I was a famous art critic and that these people were damned lucky for me to have favoured them with my company. Meek mortals inhaling the exhalations of my superior breath.

But it wasn’t long before this dream took on the qualities of a nightmare.

‘James, as an art critic, I’d like to hear your thoughts on this piece,’ asked a woman while pointing to the blue squiggle.

We all have that nightmare, don’t we? Sitting an exam for which we are naked and unprepared.

‘Well, I like to keep my thoughts to my writing.’

‘Nonsense, we’re all very discreet here,’ another woman protested.

So, that is how I came to be in my current situation. That damnable blue squiggle. What do I think about it? That it is as hideous an example of postmodern, pukey garbage as can be imagined.

‘Well, it’s clearly self-referential. A confession piece of sorts. The artist is saying he is more in love with the idea of art than the practice itself.’ What did that mean, where did it come from? Buggered if I know, but it was met with muted murmurs of approval.

Just as I am about to plead tiredness and leave, one of the women begins googling me. ‘James, I see you are a writer, but I can’t see that you write about art. In fact, you seem to have written some horrible, misogynistic things about Emily Maitlis.’ Cue waves of horror and indignation.

‘Get out of here! Your name will be mud,’ threatens the gallerist.

‘Oh, it’s already several layers below that, madam. And what is the bigger deception, me passing myself off as an art critic, or you passing this battery acid swill off as champagne? You want to hear my real critique? Fine, here it is: not even the lowliest criminals would choose to launder their money with this artistic excrement’.

Thereupon security is called, one woman near faints and numerous iPhones flash to document my ejection.

What was their problem? They came there for art, and I gave it to them. That was performance art. I was an artist. They were just angry that I showed them how shallow the whole grotty business is.

Hell, everyone’s a critic these days.

James Bembridge is the Deputy Editor of Country Squire Magazine. This article was first published on December 15th 2022 in the first edition of the quarterly print version of the magazine. Print edition subscriptions are available here.