The Bed was a new piece. People worried and the newspapers raved. What had it all come to? All was in end, they said, all was in end, the youth are doomed, their brains made of mush! They worried, and took to the forums; it was their money that was funding this! And what was it? Centre stage, a new exhibition, highly regarded amongst the bohemian populus that wandered aimlessly around SoHo at night (it’s not what it was) only to arise past noon, penniless and malnourished. And what did they know? They were too little to know anything, they didn’t know anything and spoke as such, muttering weary aphorisms designed and uttered purely for the reason of impressing the people that hanged out and about the scene. Oh yeah, man. They defended it. The rest wondered how they possibly could. All Oh, come now. Said someone’s grandfather. There is no defending that. That! What has it all come to? All is in end! It is all nonsense and repetition. Nothing new, nothing good. And to think, it was us that bought it! I tell you, I have already bought enough. Three artworks, all alike! One in each room upstairs! I should sell them myself, make a fortune from this, this, this ridiculousness!
The Bed had a room to itself. All around was white, and The Bed sat placed exactly in the centre of the room, untouched by those who came to see it, untouched, unguarded. Please, please, do not touch. Looking at it, you could understand what all the fuss was about. It was a bed. A single bed, two pillows at the head, duvet and sheets tucked into the sides, as your mother would do when you were little. The sheets were white and the covers blue. That was all. But how could it be seen? Those people who tried tended to ask. All sorts were given, some impressive, some juvenile. Oh no, no, you’ve got it all wrong! Ah yes, I see what you mean. I see what you mean. What exacerbates the rage of the majority who enter to see The Bed is in the rooms surrounding. There are paintings there, pretty paintings, expertly devised in every conceivable way. There are portraits of beautiful women and great noblemen, images of the English countryside which, indeed, suggests to many the observer that Jerusalem need not be built, for it is already manifest. They exclaim, oh, oh. That is our country. How beautiful it is. In those rooms all is quiet, subdued in that platitude of tranquility brought about by all that is brilliant and nice. Even the frames are nice. Some gilded, others plain, but complimentary to the image that lies within. More a work of art than that… thing… through there, someone says. But it is practical, no? I am not sure that it matters. They walk away from the room with The Bed, onward to more beautiful things. And such, the people that walk toward The Bed are shocked. They had read about it in the paper, but did not know which room it would be in. They do not expect it to be next. Quite the contrast, someone says. There is not much to see. They look at it, trying to make sense of it. The Bed is made. We are yet to rest. Perhaps. They wander away to think about it some more, before the evening, when they have forgotten about it completely. It is like an orange, I suppose. There is just something about it that makes it an orange. You can talk about what constitutes it, the chemicals and that, but that’s no fun. There is an essence to it. Yes, there is an essence to this. The essence is the essence of a bed, and it has no place here. Hm. Another couple come and go. It’s not a question about understanding. It’s a question about asking. Another couple come and go. But what is it? There must be something to it. It is in a gallery, after all, and not just any gallery. An art gallery. Perhaps something is said about it in the papers. We will have to read the papers to find out what all of it is about. Another couple come and go. No, nothing in the papers. The only focus in there is politics, taxes, public spending and that. Perhaps in some magazine. We will have to have a look for something about it in the station before we go home. Yes, let’s do that. Another couple come and go. But then, what use is it to simply say something? It is not representative. It is merely a mechanism for prompting conversation. Such is this. I wonder what you could call this. Another couple come and go, and then another.
A family walk in from the portrait room. The little girl squints her eyes. They are too sensitive to all the white that surrounds The Bed. The father pushes a pram, and the mother holds the hand of a young boy, no older than five, and the squinting little girl. They stop and look at it for a while, not saying anything. They are ready to leave. It has been a long day for the two of them, never mind the little ones. Culturing the children really tends to take it out of you. They hear the chatter of the people around them, all speaking desperate things, grasping at certain words for reasons they were not quite sure of. They listen to the people for a minute, all before the young boy climbs atop of The Bed, rests his head on the pillow and shuts his eyes.
By Evan Colley