A conversational aside about age and identity in an email from Kate Murdoch prompted a memory…
A few weeks ago I was strolling around a favoured local gallery with a friend.
Picture the scene… short, round, brightly dressed middle aged woman with grey(ish) hair and a patchwork bag strolls around the gallery in the usual manner, striding past some stuff. Getting her glasses out and peering closely at others. She approaches a sectioned off part of the gallery and the young(er) gallery attendant approaches her, her head to one side, and hands the woman a leaflet, and says that it might help her understand the installation. She mindlessly accepts the piece of paper, as if it were a coupon for McDonalds or Subway… and bumbles into the gallery…
One minute later… tall, slim, casually dressed man of a similar age with backpack slung over the shoulder lopes across to the installation. The gallery attendant smiles at him, he says good morning, and enters the same area, where middle aged woman is seething.
He thinks it is funny, but I get this a lot.
I don’t know what is worse, being invisible or being patronised.
