Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
empty white walls of his gallery wondering if this was the end or
the beginning.
The Art Collector had dedicated the last fifteen years to building
his extraordinary collection and as a consequence, his love life had
been virtually non existent. Now that his business commitments
were no longer a priority, getting himself back ‘in the dating
game’ was top of his list.
The emptiness he felt reminded him of the way he had felt when
he purchased work by an artist only known as “X” who made
portraits of children. X’s provocation lay in that he depicted
the beautifully sculpted children but their limbs and faces were
contorted horribly which was extremely unsettling and each time
Troy revisited the work, it provoked those unnerving feelings that
he had not been able to describe.
He had conferred with many physicians and psychiatrists
trying to get to the bottom of his angst. Some interviews had
been conducted on-line whilst he attended others in luxurious
consulting rooms. All the experts he consulted claimed to have
‘studied’ him and with an air of authority, they each presented
him with the hard facts of his condition.
“Mr Anger, it seems that your condition stems from low levels
of carbohydrates in the evening. Perhaps if you take this tablet
first thing in the morning, it will prolong the release of glucose
from the energy giving nutrients in your diet and increase its
overall Glycaemic Index.” When Troy had enquired how
Dr Sinclair had come to such an astonishing diagnosis, the
eminent, yet ill-mannered physician had quickly pronounced
that it was a “Matter of faith in the medical profession,” before
reminding the patient that “I am the doctor and you are the
patient.” Then the doctor quickly waved Troy away to the care
of one of his attendant nurses, giving him no time to respond or
gather his thoughts.
All of doctors he had seen were the same. Perhaps, he wondered,
they had all gone to the same medical school where they spent a
decade learning how to be rude and dismissive of people. Even
when Troy was paying top rates for their attention, none of their
interpretations felt genuine whether it was, diet, depression,
melancholia, erectile dysfunction, compulsive obsessive disorder,
low thyroid, dwindling testosterone, histrionic personality type
or being dismissed as just plain awkward. Troy had ignored all
their advice and filled his bathroom cabinet with the pills and
potions that had been diligently prescribed. As he performed his
morning ablutions he would open the mirrored cabinet and be
horrified at the number of medicines that he might have taken
over the years. Were they trying to poison him? He dismissed
the medicines as the product of institutionalised witchcraft and
decided that he did not need any of it.
By chance, he had actually seen the artist hanging around some of the
cafes he frequented before he knew her work. She was a striking figure,
always cloaked in black and with her face whited-out so that her
facial features were indistinct. Troy had struck up a conversation
with the mysterious character whilst standing in a coffee queue
when it became apparent that she was an art student and she had
invited him to her studio.
He spun around again on his chair and enjoyed the dizzy feeling
that it gave him, so he spun round again.
Troy sunk into his chair and meditated on the sterile, white,
bareness of the gallery and slowly it became clear that his
pointless string of diagnostic encounters had been prompted by
emptiness.
The Art Collector would abandon the ephemeral values of Art and
instead would invest in unlocking the secrets of youth. When these
were unravelled in a tangible form he would use them to transform
himself into a young man again. Troy rose from his chair feeling
animated for the first time in as long as he could remember. He
stretched the skin on his face to make creases disappear and likened
his appearance transiently to the contorted expressions depicted by
artist X. As his jowls relaxed he felt elated and suddenly rejuvenated.
The answer to his angst was so obvious and simple that this personal
vendetta against the ravages of age seemed a particularly artistic,
pragmatic and peculiarly personal voyage to make.