Goff or Go?

Strange though it seems, I hate to talk about art in an art gallery. I’d rather do that museum shuffle, hit the gift shop, gobble a panini (or what is essentially a toasted sandwich) and leave the whispering analyses to the culture vultures more in the know.

I’m always slightly afraid that one might overhear my transparent paraphrasing of the gallery programme, swoop down and brand me a philistine for my hopeless pronunciation of artists’ names. (Is it Goff or Go?)

Today at the Tate, I’ll admit, I took credit for some rather intelligent observations regarding Cubism that were not entirely my own. “Its radical fragmentation of the human body,” I said, glancing at the museum notes, “and aggressively angular forms could also be seen to reflect a troubled and changing world.”
“Gosh.” The lady was suitably impressed. “And who painted this?”
“Diego…” I began, having caught the first name in my discreet glancing. “…Maradona.”
“The football player?”
“That’s right.”
At this point, she too glanced at the museum notes. My eyes followed and soon realised that my hopeless pronunciation had exposed me again. The lady, also realising this, slowly pulled her jacket from the bench, shuffled towards the gift shop and left me for the vultures. It was Rivera, I thought. Bloody Diego Rivera.