Lady with a Fan
a sale room psychodrama
Two hooks on an expanse of purple plush.
I kept glancing at them as I circled the room— are we too late, has she been withdrawn? The grey captions stencilled either side recording her history seemed like an epitaph.
So I enquired.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be back in a few minutes,” said the chirpy girl in sensible trousers covered by a dark blue apron and black clumpy prison warders' shoes (patent — mind you, because this was Sotheby’s.)
On the afternoon of the last viewing day, the Lady was prised from her divan by two handlers. They grasped the top of her slender bare arms and carried her off to a separate room where she could be viewed in private by a client. In the meantime, dapper courtiers with posh voices and smooth soles padded by and secret boudoir doors, cut deep into the walls, opened and closed.
I went to cool my heels in front of the Kandinsky in the next room and when I returned, a security guard was standing by the purple enclosure, one hand on the ropes. Here she comes. I glimpsed her humble wooden back as they carried her in and offered her up once more to the public gaze.
I imagine Klimt in his studio, in sweaty kaftan, perhaps even smelling of beer, with brush in hand — his movements brusque and impatient, moving from palette…
