H. Beagle woke up drenched in stink of yesterday’s joy and was having a bath when he made the grave error of answering to his telephone. Laying in the bubbles he tried to understand the position of the art buyer letting the bubbles tickle his throat as he signs the cheque, the concept of value increasing by being ignored. This works with art, but not with vegetables and again the dog knew that technology says more about humanity than biology and stretched his legs with a relaxed sigh.
He was satisfied, nothing was going smooth and everything was going smoothly. Somehow all his initial pessimism was on point, and yet in the confines of this pretentious shopping mall good things were happening amongst the hordes of visitors. His crew was having a lot of fun.
People were buying art because it engaged them emotionally, viewing the object of action and not investing in the speculated stock of star building galleries.
H. Beagle thought that the fair principle of making all prices visible was excellent. You never call to inquire about a flat, a car or even a girl if the price isn’t clear from the start and this answers to the common gallerist ideology, which follows the lines of: if you have to ask the price, you probably can’t afford it. Beagle’s ideology was that if they don’t show you the price, either they don’t care if you buy it or you can only get ripped off. So much of art is smoke and mirrors, the industry around the poem. He thought of the fair and recognized that he was beginning to feel at home there. The bubbles, the bath water, a surprising return to the litter, he was feeling so positive that when the phone vibrated he pushed the green button.
“There’s been an incident, I cannot discuss it by phone and need to see you immediately.”
