On Monday I worked as a waitress
for “the” catering company in
London. Think Royal Wedding, Simon
Cowell’s 50th, Elton John, Diamond Jubilee. Precisely. But on Monday night at Tate Modern I wasn’t
playing slave to celebrities of that nature.
Yes, there were flashing lights, dubious VIPs, Strawberry Bellinis and canapés
galore; but the clientele at this event leaned towards the “I sewed on my own
sleeves” sort of people, rather than head-to-toe Valentino. We’re talking fanboys – the artsy fanboys of
three generations. “Is this Champagne?” “No sir, it’s cava”. The sort of people who turn their noses up at
cava because either they’re American, or they think they’re entitled to the
best sparkling wine around. Or maybe because
they realised that cava doesn’t come with a capital C. The sort of people who couldn’t taste the
difference between cava and Champagne but like to think they have superior taste
buds. The sort of drivers you can’t
serve orange squash to because they require their soft-drink to contain Elderflower
and real raspberries. I’m starting to
think that these ‘connoisseurs’ of fine art weren’t coming for the free beverages
but rather for an excuse to flaunt their artistic license.
Before the night had even started
I had a spot of beginner’s luck; I smashed a picture frame. Thank God it wasn’t a Picasso original is all
I’m saying. It was merely a certificate congratulating the gallery on their generous
contribution to a hospice. I had taken
an innocent step backwards to let someone walk past and boom; I picked up the
picture frame from the floor to find that its latest addition was none other
than a mighty diagonal crack down the centre.
As tempting as it was to quickly pick it up and put it back on the wall
like nothing had happened, this was actually the second time it had fallen off and people were beginning to stare. It was definitely a pity stare; the sort of
stare people give you when they’re just grateful they’re not in your shoes. The girl beside me tried to lighten the mood
with “don’t worry, it was probably only £5 from IKEA”, but I spent the next 30
seconds concentrating on not turning the colour of a prune.
Apart from my faux-pas with the
picture frame and the “disappointing” liquor selection (they had cava laced
with a strawberry crème de frais for Pete’s sake), the night materialised
rather splendidly. I was expecting ball
gowns and top hats but it was certainly an evening of jeans and patchwork. The evening more importantly marked the
opening of the oil tanks at Tate Modern.
Originally I thought they just said “tanks” and I had this vision of
dark green army tanks being driven through Tate Modern. Not quite.
Turns out these are actually former oil tanks and they’re the start of
an extension currently happening at the famous art gallery. The tanks were decommissioned in 1981 and
have now been converted by Swiss architects Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron
to create a space for “art in action”. The
tanks used to carry over one million tons of oil but will now be host to a variety
of art performances, experimental films and giant installations. The opening of the tanks marks the first exhibition
space in a major museum permanently dedicated to these criteria – how exclusive
of them!
Apart from standing up for five
hours holding ten tons (I exaggerate slightly) worth of cava for the 1000 or so
guests whilst letting my feet blister themselves to shreds, almost die of
hunger pains and dehydration; I enjoyed myself. Or shall I say I learnt how to
pretend I was having the time of my life?
The music being played was the sort of music people get “high” to; eerie
and echoic. The sort of place where you
could imagine meeting ladies snorting cocaine in the toilets and every other
person you bump into wants to know where the cigarette balcony is located. I’m not trying to give the gallery a bad name –
just alluding to the fact that the music created a certain “ambience”, not
helped by the deep blue lighting and overhead spotlights. Men and women tilted their glasses horizontally
when asking for a top up because they thought it was helping you. Instead, the bottle chinks the glass and you’ve
committed waitress felony. The art of “topping
up” is to do so with zilch contact, and I mean nada.
But amongst the smashed glasses, floor
mops, faux glamour and popsicle sticks were the picturesque pillars belonging
to London’s finest gallery. I almost
expected to see a woman’s high heel propped up behind one as she embraced her
lover against it, hiding her face behind an oversized wine glass – a Jane Austen
contemporary in the making.
Watch this space.
Montana
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