Who: Ludot Svenson What: working at the Psychosomatic gallery When: Friday evening, sunset Where: Psychosomatic, public gallery downstairs
Ludot was re-considering the gallery hangs, and trying to decide if he should replace them. Of course, replacement would mean extensive remodeling, given as how everything hung freely from the steel cables, and there were no actual walls to do hangings on. Which meant if he did change the cable system, he'd have to actually have some walls built as to have a place to hang the artwork.
Which he really didn't like.
He didn't like walls, exactly. He much preferred the cable system, where the artwork hung and directed the gallery flow itself, while still retaining an open, airy feeling. Open, anyway. But some critic or other had commented on how the cables hanging from the timber ceiling gave the gallery an "unfinished urban look" that was very unattractive for a city like Blackwood, who was trying to "create itself as a cultural and artistic destination."
Philistine. Ludot had seriously considered having the fellow over for dinner in a way that Hannibal Lecter might've. But he also knew that would raise more flags than he could afford at the moment, and so he contented himself by thinking very ugly thoughts about the man, and possibly planning his demise a few decades down the road.
He could afford to hold the grudge, after all.
His sleeves were pushed up past the elbow, and he was re-arranging some of the canvases on the steel cables. His own, of course, because he couldn't bear the thought of moving anyone else's work. Mostly because he wouldn't want hands other than his own messing about with his art, so he afforded other artists the same consideration.
Some of his work was for sale, other pieces just for permanent display--and the permanent display pieces were hung on the four walls of the building. "If it dangles, it's for sale," proclaimed the discreet sign in the front window, and he was even now moving some of his older pieces around to give space to some newer Toreadors that had just hung in his gallery. He didn't want to monopolize the spotlight, so long as he was given his due.
He'd deal with moving the statuary later; it really wasn't worth it right now to haul found-object sculptures or multi-media creations without daylight and full lighting. He just had to have it done by next weekend, because there'd been a small party scheduled. Nothing fancy, just ten or fifteen people, some kind of award gala or something. Paperboy of the Year, something like that. He paid so little attention these days.