At this point I inevitably lost myself in thought, pondering the many things one simply has to be able to do without the need for a diploma. In my mind I displayed the vast array of contraptions the successful operation of which is impossible without first digesting the manual, an exercise which time and again requires a spot of juicy meditation before I have steadied myself and realised once more that it's not my fault for not being able to translate the words of the user instructions into successful actions using the contraption in question, and so I arrived at a list of electronic and mechanical devices which I carry around with me or tolerate in my environment on a daily basis. I started with my pannier, which contains a tiny computer weighing in at 1,150 grammes which enables me, if push ever comes to shove, to collect my E-mail messages while waiting for the traffic lights to change, using the mobile telephone fitted with modem and infrared which I carry around in my trouser pocket and which has a display of such breathtakingly extensive capacity as to render it impossible for the elderly, or even the not quite so elderly, to operate it without spectacles (of course the traffic lights are not the place to start fiddling around with glasses on a chain or the faddish collapsible specs that still make quite an impression when you flash them around in a restaurant). My pannier also contains a digital camera of minute dimensions, which does not necessarily detract from the performance: I have a much bigger one which cost me just as much and which is no use at all. I'd be happy orally to provide you with the brand name. However, I should add that of the various contraptions I have listed so far it is only the useless digital camera which I find exceptionally easy to use. My pannier also contains a bicycle pump, a set of ring spanners, a tyre mending set, a collapsible umbrella, an empty box for orphaned nuts and bolts, a torn-out page from the latest flyer of a DIY store I somehow never get 'round to frequenting, and a sheet of kitchen paper doubled up twice to wipe my dirty hands in the event of having to mend my bicycle while en route, something which last happened in 1994 so that it takes a bit of perseverance to stick to this routine. Anyway, you don't need user instructions for mechanical items such as these, although they're always included these days. As a gallery owner, I don't have to elaborate on the bike bell, the dynamo, or the lock. However, it's a different story once we get to the gallery itself, which boasts a wireless telephone of the DECT variety with a host of options, a computer with CD rewriter, external zip drive and card reader, one full-colour and one ordinary printer hooked up to one and the same computer, with a switch I always forget to flick (helpful words on how to get a runaway printer to stop without a lot of ominous screeching not being available either for love or for money), a semi-professional scanner with acetate drawer, a deluxe coffee maker which doubles as a soup maker, a high-design electric kettle which again can be used for making soup, a laminator, an automatic spine gluing machine, a shredder, an electric boiler, a security monitor with four cameras that can be operated independently, a security system which knows who's master and who's a mere servant, a video player, a collection of contraptions which in the old days could have been referred to as a radio-turntable combination but which they now call a sound system, with - most importantly! - a dual cassette deck for making illegal copies (although this is now done by CD-rom), and finally, a most versatile air conditioner. I have kept all user instructions, but I somehow lack the time to consult them. So, what I would say in reply to the lady who asked me the question is that I would tentatively estimate the complexity of everyday life to be greater than that of running an art gallery. All it really takes is, first, to exhibit what you like (how difficult can that be?), second, to switch on the lights when you come in for work, and third, to be a dab hand in the wrapping paper and adhesive tape department. As there are plenty of galleries where you will never even need the third skill, this will leave you with plenty of time on your hands to enrol in a course in direct mail or history of art (preferably the former). However, we have now reached the point of no return. Soon you will find yourself spending the entire working day at the computer, and once you've arrived there, your whole life will be dictated by software. In terms of obscurity the average user instruction is child's play compared with a computer programme. If you're not careful, you will find yourself living the detective dilemma: as exciting and fun as the TV detective's job may seem, their real-life counterparts probably spend the whole day struggling with obsolete hardware and software. In this context I would like to share an unusual experience with you: when not long ago I visited my local police station to report the theft of a work of art, I found the jovial constable who attended to me to be using a computer the monitor of which came across as sort of Eastern European. One word had a special character in it, and I happened to know the ALT code. The officer happily keyed it in … causing the whole system to crash. Apart from the fact that this took up some more of my time, there's a valuable point to this story: all you have to do is bark an ALT code or DOS command and another borough council duly collapses. To cut a long story short, the lady sounded slightly dismayed when I had to assure her that there's no such thing as a vocational diploma for art gallery owners. |