Throwing Caution to the Colorful | Alex Turner

wankers from the art society

may, 2005 (london)

It was the biggest night of my life, and I was fucking miserable.

I had spent months on this film, buying every single piece of equipment with my hard-earned money, teaching myself a billion different editing programs, splicing and editing and coloring and narrating all on my own time and money, paying the price for submission into this stupid fucking contest in the first place, and this was the treatment I got?

The organizers had shoved me into a back corner of the winding gallery they had designated for the London Youth Art Show, and I was pretty sure that the tiny room I had been assigned to was the absolute farthest from the entrance.

How else would you explain the complete dearth of people?

For three agonizing hours, I sat on the uncomfortable wooden stool in front of my display, sweating to death in the jumper that I should've expected to be absolutely unsuitable for a late spring night in London, watching as crowds of adoring family members and loud friends and dignified art critics congregated in front of every piece of art except for mine.

My asshole of a boyfriend hadn't even bothered to stop by. But then again, I wasn't even sure if we had crossed the line from just hooking up into dating territory. I wasn't really sure if I wanted to, anyways. Like I said, Jeffrey was an asshole.

So he didn't count.

The only people that had even stopped by was some group of artsy uni kids that I vaguely remembered from high school, but they were all only here because all of their work had been accepted, and when I asked them if they wanted to maybe watch a few minutes of my film, they all suddenly became very busy.

Fucking typical.

Even worse, the complimentary snack and refreshment table had gone empty at about 9:00, and I was absolutely ravenous.

I glanced at the clock mounted on top of the white-washed wall directly across from me. 10:45. The gallery was almost empty, with just a few of the other artists from my hall milling in the far corner. I'd be free in fifteen minutes, free to leave this hellhole of pretentiousness behind me and crash into bed with a bag of crisps and a whole lot of self-pity. I resumed reading, or attempting to read, the latest James Baldwin book I'd bought, conscious of the fact that I had re-read the same paragraph about ten times and still couldn't absorb the information.

"Excuse me."

I glanced up. It was a guy, who looked about my age, wearing a red t-shirt with a worn logo that read "The Little Flames". Probably another wayward visitor asking for directions to the toilets.

"Down the hall, make a right, third door with a satirical poster of Margaret Thatcher."

"Sorry, I'm-"

"They gave her devil horns. You can't miss it."

He laughed, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Nah, I'm actually wondering, uh, if you're still showing your film?"

"Um." I was taken aback. "Yes?" I didn't move from my stool.

He stood there awkwardly for a second. "Can I see it?"

Still in shock, I nodded and handed him a pamphlet that explained the film. Brushing aside the curtain that blocked off the room, I led him to the small bench and got to work setting up the old-fashioned projector that stood next to it. I had shot on film, of course, hoping that the nostalgia value would bump me above the other competition. I guess it had worked, although evidently not enough for me to get a better spot in the gallery.