Kishore Singh: Present arty, future tense

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I may be wrong, but there appears to be a slight lull in the telemarketers activity these last months. For some reason, the disembodied voices that used to call up at all hours of day (and sometimes night) to apologise for taking my valuable time, have stopped.

No so long ago they couldn't stop ringing to offer everything from restaurant memberships at five-star hotels where I could henceforth have meals at a discount, to volunteering services for insurance, credit cards or low-interest bank loans.

"I suppose they've found out about your credit rating," said my wife when I mentioned it to her. "It's possibly true," I agreed, not without regret "" it's one thing to be broke but another to be broke and have everyone know it.

But the relief was shortlived. The database that contains my telephone number seemed to have been leaked to a group of artists who made up what they lacked by way of skill with unalloyed enthusiasm. "You," they started off, "are a great mentor for unknown artists." Who wants creditworthiness when you can be a discerning patron instead?

Therefore, with the benefit of zero-interest post-dated cheques, I picked up works of dubious aesthetics, contributing my bit to keep the artistic heritage of the country going.

Word seems to travel fast in the rarefied circles of art, and before you could say Tina Ambani, I had become the patron saint for every struggling artist in the land. "Promise me you'll come," they'd beseech, while I hid behind excuses that ranged from illness to work. They weren't easily put off: If I couldn't come to their exhibition, they'd bring the exhibition to me. Some more canvases changed hands; some more post-dated cheques entered the economy. Not only was I broke in the present, I was already broke in the future too.

"Perhaps," I said to my wife, "by the time they get to cash the cheques, they will have become famous, and I'll be able to sell their paintings for profit." My wife was not listening to me. "No," she was saying into the phone, "my husband is out of town for the next three months." When she hung up, there was a peculiar expression on her face. "That," she explained, "was another of your impoverished artists trying to steal our money." "That was clever of you," I said to her, "to say I was not home." "But he was cleverer," she suggested, "saying you had told him to collect money from me while he would temporarily deposit his masterpieces with us as collateral. Is there," she continued, "no way of putting an end to this nuisance?"

In the end, it was she who found a solution to the menace. "Yes," she would say to artists who'd call, "we'd love to buy your work, but since art is beyond value, we'll trade it for something I got from your friend, who is also an artist." Having already bartered a few works in the last week, she is quite excited by the prospect. "These are lovely paintings," she'd coax callers, "so you'll have to give me at least two of your works as exchange for one of these."

In very little time, we have added to our collection by the simple method of recycling. But there is still the little matter of the recovery of our initial investment. So, if anyone calls to offer paintings for sale, my wife makes them a counter-offer, post-dated cheques and all. Only, as in the case of credit card salesmen, our phone no longer rings with offers.

"It's just our creditworthiness," my wife sighs, "but I don't mind that everyone knows the state of our bank balance, so long as they aren't selling useless things to us any more."