Kishore Singh: Framed by the artist

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There aren't too many occasions when my wife and I visit a gallery together, so it was quite pleasant for us to spend some time admiring art at a recent event in town where close to a hundred artists had assembled to show their works before Delhi's discerning collectors.

Among these was a neighbour, herself an artist, who I often run into at exhibition openings. Because she's a familiar face, I've always looked forward to seeing her, since it gives me at least one known person to talk to.

Not that she wastes too much energy on me. "Now if you'll excuse me," she's prone to saying as soon as we've exchanged greetings, "I think I can spot one of my buyers who I must go speak with."

"Hmph," says my wife, whenever I mention running into her, "she's just a social climber." "That's not true," I try and convince my wife, "she's an artist in her own right, so I think you should apologise for saying rude things about the fine woman." "You fool," says my wife, "no one buys her paintings."

"If that were the case," I protest, "how is it that she participates in so many group shows?" "Because," says my wife, "she's pushy, she's relentless and she's aggressive." "I rather like her paintings," I say, for they're easy to understand, being still-lifes for most part.

Therefore, as usual, I was pleased to see her and made my wife accompany me so we could say hello. "I'm delighted to see you," said our artist-neighbour, looking not in the least pleased. "It is our honour," I said, "to know someone who paints as you do."

At this, our neighbour attempted to look gracious, "Then you must see my work," she said and seizing me by the arm, forced me through to one end of the hall where, surrounded by other works of art, I was quick to spot the only painting I understood: a still-life of flowers.

"Now, isn't that nice," I exclaimed. "Yes, and cheap too," said my neighbour, "and if you buy it, I can even give you a discount," accompanying the offer with a wink and a nudge." Gasping as much from the poke in my ribs as at the price, I must have turned pale, for my wife said, "I think he needs air, so if you'll excuse us, we'll go and stand outside."

We had barely made it out when my wife spied the curator of the show and cornering him, hissed: "How could you have included that odious woman's painting in the show?" Even though no names were mentioned, the curator seemed to understand the painter's identity. "That," he sighed, "was a mistake." "But how could she bully you," my wife carried on relentlessly, "when everyone else in the show is a senior and respected artist?"

The curator had lost some of his colour. "I was waylaid," he struggled by way of explanation, but seeing we did not understand, said, "I was turning into the driveway of a hotel when she and her husband screeched to a stop before my car and came to the car window and started to harangue me saying I had given no indication I was going to turn left.

When I insisted I had, they shushed me up and said I had almost killed them. When I apologised, they said they would refrain from filing a complaint provided I agreed to include her work in my show."

Wiping his forehead before returning indoors, he added, "My colleagues tell me it's the number one ploy she uses, and though she doesn't sell much work, she's made quite a name for herself by being part of the most prestigious exhibitions in the city."