The Scottish National Gallery is well worth a visit. Alongside Henry Raeburn's skating clergyman, Landseer's Monarch of the Glen and John Singer Sergeant's Lady Agnew there is Allan Ramsay, David Wilkie, Gainsborough and Gauguin, a Rembrandt self-portrait, Velázquez, Vermeer and Van Gogh.
I could go on; Van Dyck, Constable, Monet, Hogarth, Goya, Botticelli, El Greco, Pissarro, Sisley, Degas, Tintoretto, Titian, Leonardo. Not too shabby.
But we weren't there for the art. At least, that wasn't the primary focus. The mission was to observe real people and how they engage with the space, the art, each other; whatever we could glean in order to create something from life. How arty.
Main task #1
I clocked them as soon as I entered the gallery, the bobble-hatted couple, and was so drawn to them that I followed them (subtly of course) for forty minutes.
The woman is plainly dressed in a long skirt and cardigan in muted Amish colours and style, with hiking shoes and a tan handbag, but then she has accessorised with a heart covered belt, purple tartan scarf with a burst of yellow and a woolly bobble hat of teal, green, lime and mustard. Her boyfriend is dressed for trekking; green from head to toe, khaki cargo rousers, a lime windproof jacket and emerald and grey bobble hat. They both have matching grey green masks.
They are taking their time to silently look at all the art in each room, enjoying the Gothic and Renaissance rooms in particular and an ornate kist.
Eventually they end up in front of a Stubbs horse and I finally hear them speak, or at least, I hear him. He has removed his hat to reveal a top knot and I realise how she is like a character on a Rumspringa gap year, full of contradiction and strangeness. Whereas he is a regular hipster who gives away a great deal in the single statement I overhear.
"You can tell who has painted this by the cracks; you can tell what it's painted on and even who has painted it. Well, not you."
Suddenly I'm not interested.
Main task #2
There are three types of people in art galleries, other than school and tour groups, who are generally "forced" to traipse around the colourful halls.
There is the epicurist; who knows what to look for, knows what they like and will bypass all manner of geniuses to get to their particular grand master. There they devour the masterpiece, drop by drop, though there probably know each canvas stroke.
Then there is the grazer; the visitor who skims over a room or era, dipping in to anything that catches their eye and almost never reads the information cards, except to find out the artist. Maybe.
And finally the gourmand, the gorger, the glutton, who wanders slowly among the art, looking at everything, reading the information cards but not always developing a taste for art, or discerning what art should do; make you feel something.
The danger for the gourmand is they can become bloated and bored after three or four rooms. Jaded, they morph into the grazer and miss out on the extraordinary culture in front of them.
The other thing to note is that the gourmand is rarely an art aficionado, any more than the grazer. They consume everything in an effort to understand, look cool, appear cultured or intelligent. Or maybe they just want to enjoy a few hours out of the cold and wet city streets.
Thoughts
Well that took a turn. I assumed today would be like every other session, a day of prose, of fiction, of stealing details from real people and using it to construct a storyline. But maybe because the guy turned out to be pretty undermining under his hipster vibe, my interest in them, in him, took a decidedly southward turn. And an opinion piece was the result.
I need to return to the National Gallery; I feel like I hardly looked at the art. There were so many incredible sights in a very accessible space. I am particularly keen to seek out the Reverend Robert Walker skating on Duddingston Loch, look Lady Agnew of Lochnaw in the eye, bask in Monet's moonlight and Vincent's blossom.
I cannot promise that I'll not be distracted by the punters, but at least the art will take priority, for a while at least.
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