Hey Jules, don't make it bad.

On a dull November afternoon in 1966 Arthur is in the Tate Gallery looking at the Gauguins. He has some time to kill before meeting his friend Simon. They haven’t seen each other for several months because Arthur doesn’t get up to town much. When he does the Tate is one of his stops.

He can’t remember exactly when his interest in Gauguin began. Reading ‘Moon and Sixpence’ maybe? Old Somerset Maugham had visited Tahiti not many years after Gauguin’s death. The paintings had captivated Arthur the first time he saw them. They were a way of escape. It didn’t take much effort to step into the lush tropical paradise, to hear the women’s voices on the beach above the distant roar of the surf breaking against the coral reefs, to enter the bamboo hut with its naked golden female form, to see the fireflies flicker and to taste the exotic fruit. Would anyone ever paint like that again? They make Picasso look like a cartoonist. And what’s all the fuss about Francis Bacon? Just blobs of paint smeared on canvas as far as Arthur can see.

“There you are!” Simon comes skipping up to join him, looking very ‘with it’ in a lilac-coloured suit with mauve polka-dot shirt.
“Nice boots.” Arthur says. His own look a little worn but they go well with his jeans and shapeless corduroy jacket.
“Thanks. Annello & Davide.”
“Where’s that? Carnaby Street?”
Simon snorts. “You’re joking Arthur. Carnaby Street is for tourists and proles. I get my gear mostly from Blade’s and Mr. Fish. How about you? What have you been up to?”
“Oh you know. The shop keeps me busy. I read a bit. Watch telly.”
They look at the pictures together for a while.
“You still like Gauguin eh? Duchamp knocked all that on the head for me.” Says Simon. “I just got back from America.”
“Oh, how was that?”
”Bloody amazing. I went with the Stones. It was non-stop craziness. The Americans loved us.”
“Us?”
“The tour. The Yanks went crazy. It was as if we’d taken over the whole country.”
“How did you get on that?”
“Magazine paid me. I do music journalism now.”
“What’s that?”
Simon explains. “You follow bands around and write about them. All you have to do is say how much fun you had at so and so’s concert and what a great band they are.”
“So what’s the point?”
“Well the money’s good that’s one thing. And it’s exciting being on the cutting edge. Crumpet of course. Lot’s of girls around. It’s not exactly literature but….”
“I know,” said Arthur, “it’s only rock and roll but you like it.”
“That’s a good line. Excuse me a sec…I need to write that down.”

Outside on Milbank they watch a string of barges plowing slowly downriver. The late afternoon sky is gray and overcast, leaves are beginning to fall. Westminster Bridge looks like a Monet.
“I could try my hand at writing I suppose.” Says Arthur.
“Why not?”
“But what could I write about?”
“Anything. Write about being a tobacconist. You could be the next Harold Pinter. The times they are a changing Arthur. You need to get with it. Loosen up. Have a go. Just jump and the net will appear…you might want to think about changing your name to something …er… groovier. Arthur sounds a bit archaic.”
Arthur looks confused. He’s never liked his name much but…‘archaic’?
“I’m not really into music.” Arthur says.
“What about politics?”
“Well I don’t like fascists. And anarchists scare me. Communists want to own things. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose.”
“You could be a serious writer Arthur. There’s a touch of the old intellectual about you. I stay away from politics myself but there are all kinds of magazines out there now. They call themselves ‘alternative’ whatever that means. There’s ‘Oz’ for instance. They want to subvert the Establishment. ‘Private Eye’ but that’s mostly university types. And ‘Time Out’…‘International Times’…you could write something for them. How about your trip to India? That sounds pretty groovy. Lots of people would like to read about that I’m sure. I could introduce you to Barry Miles if you like. Want to come to an opening?”
“A what?”
“A gallery opening. At Indica. Very avant-garde. Do you have a camera?”
“No why?”
“May be a few faces there. You could get some pictures. Might be worth something one day.”

They stroll together up Horseferry Road and across St. James Park to Mason’s Yard, a small square tucked behind Jermyn Street. The gallery itself is small, not much more than a shopfront, with people wandering in and out. Inside a Japanese girl has set up some exhibits. There’s an all-white chess set, an apple called ‘Apple’ priced at 200 pounds, quite expensive Arthur thinks, and a white board with nails in it with a sign inviting visitors to have a bash. Something is happening here but he isn’t sure what it is. Dashing young gallery owner John Dunbar, tailored Levis, collarless shirt, waistcoat and granny glasses, explains…

“Yoko is a friend of John Cage. She came over from New York with her husband to make a film about bums. Bottoms I should say. There was a happening here a few weeks back…she had some people cut her clothes off with scissors.”
“So they can see her bottom?”
“Not exactly Simon. More a case of communicating her internal suffering through her art I think. Or you could see it as a commentary on identity if you like. Gender, sexism that kind of thing.”
“Sounds a bit heavy.” Simon has his notebook out.
“Not really. This new work is very playful. It’s conceptual, to do with events, Zen. Hang on, I’ll get you a press release.”

In the center of the gallery is a ladder leading up to a black canvas. Arthur looks up and sees a magnifying glass attached by a chain. What’s the idea he wonders. Are you supposed to climb up? Feeling adventurous Arthur decides to have a go. He climbs up the ladder until he can look through the magnifying glass at some small letters on the ceiling. The letters say “Y E S.” Yes. A very positive message. So why does some nasty little voice at the back of his mind say no?

Simon seems to know a lot of people at the opening. Arthur watches him in action, chatting with fashionable friends and other arty types, a Beatle or two. It’s all a bit much. He feels completely out of place. To Arthur it just seems phony and pretentious, nothing to do with art. He mutters something to Simon about being in touch then he’s off to Victoria Station to be reabsorbed into the anonymous multitudes.