I couldn’t find the right polish for my tan suede shoes that morning, so they’re looking a bit unloved as they sink into the expensive taupe carpet. Nobody is sitting on the gaudy furniture, all tumbling scrolls and lion’s feet, although there’s not really enough space for everyone to stand, either. Someone flicks a rock-hard fake nail against a glass.
“We’d like to invite you to view the exhibition before lunch is served.”
I’m the first to take up the invitation. Surrounding the long table set for lunch is a series of 20 easels, each mounted with black-and-white photographs. My place is on the other side of the table, meaning I will have to go around the whole room, drawing on the siphon of guests to get everybody seated.
I reach the first easel. It’s harvest time, shot in black and white, and grape shears are being carefully manoeuvred through wires as what looks like evening sun ripples through the autumn canopy. The harvesters are quietly contemplative.
The harvesters are also, notably, topless models. The bunch of grapes in question looks like it may have been awaiting its fate for some time, like Goya’s resistance fighters being asked to wait against the wall until the light is just right. I take a quick scan of the room, looking at the 19 easels standing between me and my seat.
The next photograph confirms what seemed overwhelmingly likely. This time our underdressed workers are tackling a tractor load of grapes. I worry
