There's the rake-thin, ultra-cool woman or man who studies the art quietly, thoughtfully, unobtrusively, absorbing every little detail, a shrewd connoisseur of artistic techniques.
There's the loud-mouthed man (usually a man) who holds forth to his companion (usually a woman) about whatever they're looking at, explaining what the artist was trying to achieve (according to him) and how hampered they were by brutal depressions, imminent penury and chronic ill-health. They're confident they're the world's authority on Rothko, Hockney or Lowry, but are generally oblivious to women artists, who are clearly only exhibited in the name of gender equality.
There are the artistically challenged tourists who're only in the gallery to satisfy their daily sight-seeing quota, and aren't sure what they're looking at. They scurry through the gallery in great haste, glancing briefly at the odd work of art to show willing.
There's the pretentious poser who's only in the gallery so he can tell his dinner-party guests he's been to this week's most talked-about exhibition. He secretly thinks the artist is an over-hyped second-rater but pretends to be a big fan.
At the entrance to the exhibition, there are always the slightly anxious types who're not sure about trusting their precious bags to the cloakroom staff, convinced their valuables will vanish in seconds the moment their back is turned.
Which type am I, you might ask? Well, obviously the ultra-cool guy who's a shrewd connoisseur of artistic techniques. Jenny laughs at the way I scrutinise the art so thoroughly, peering intensely at every last daub of paint and unusual brush-stroke.
I'm no expert on art and I'd never be foolish enough to pontificate on an artist's credentials. As long as they make me feel something, or think something, or gasp with amazement, that's good enough for me. I don't need to know that Rothko topped himself or Warhol was afraid of hospitals and doctors. So what?
