Installations

Every time I walk into the opening of an art exhibition, whether it takes place in an art gallery or in some space properly fitted out for the event, I become invisible. I know that because:

a) Nobody looks at me

b) I always get stepped on.

Always.

People push me around to go back and forth as if they wanted to do it through me; they don't even react to my I-want-to-pass face when they're standing in my way, and they don't bat an eyelid when I move them out of my way to do it either. To tell the truth, I suspect I’m the victim of an obvious attitude of contempt towards me. And although this could be seen as an excess of susceptibility on my part, the truth is my poor and crushed toes can prove that I’m not exaggerating.

This could be the reason why I seldom go to art exhibitions on my own initiative. I either get invited by a friend who is exhibiting his own work or by a friend who’s got a similar commitment and doesn’t want to attend it on his own. This last reason made me take my feet to an art gallery yesterday, and I really wouldn’t have minded going, if it wasn’t for this inconvenient phenomenon that turns me into an invisible tread-onable being.
To make things worse, it turned out to be “An Installation”, with people walking around anarchically and no chance for me to exchange a look of complicity with anyone, to walk all over the place naturally, or keep my shoes and toes intact up to the end.

The place was absolutely crowded, and the exhibition itself was pretty disappointing. It was called “Living rooms” and it was divided into different areas, fully furnished as living rooms with weird details, like an old tv screen emerging from the wallpaper with futuristic news on, or an armchair with a back like a padded headstone. There was a corridor with some paintings too, and there I was, taking refuge, staring at a bit of wall between two paintings, happily imagining it was the space between two thoughts, when I suddenly felt the heavy weight of a shoe landing on my right foot.

The owner of the shoe turned out to be a hipster I had seen just after I arrived, holding a blue drink, discussing loudly with other hipsters the depth of the blacks of a painting that I swear was completely white. I couldn’t believe the crap they were talking; until I realised they all were dressed the same way, with weird-shaped jeans, retro glasses, and bad haircuts, and the similarity between them made me think I was facing a sect of pretentious morons who -if they could see me- would have thought I was a narrow-minded square.
I wanted to shoot him an accusing look, not only because of the stamp but especially because of his snobbery, and tell him: “Hey, asshole, you’ve just trodden on my foot.”

But maybe after this he would have looked down on my foot, said “sorry” and gone away. And I would have had to learn –from him– the difference between being invisible and being ignorable. So I didn’t say anything and kept calm, accepting my lack of coolness, and not offering any resistance to the fact that I don’t belong to places where people drink blue drinks, but still maintaining that the guy stepped on me because he couldn’t see me, because I’m a superhero and I can fade away until I vanish. Because I don’t usually fit but I don’t have to admit it in anybody’s presence. Even less so in someone’s who thinks the height of sophistication is wearing trousers below his arse. Hell no.