It’s never an easy task to eavesdrop smoothly, but thanks to the packed nature of the Tate this past visit, I was able to stay crammed next to two school students, around 15 or 16 I supposed. I mainly focused on creating a dialogue based off of how I perceived their relationship by observing their actions and listening briefly to their conversation
“I can’t believe we have to be here,” he complained, picking at a loose threat on his jumper.
“Yeah,” she replied, shrugging. “Beats sitting in the classroom though.”
“I guess. This is all so stupid though. I mean, this is a bunch of twigs stuck together with like, glue, and paint and shit. How is that art?” He was angry at more than just the art hung in the gallery. She noticed.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her in against him and kissed her cheek. Close to her ear he muttered, “Let’s leave and get high.”
“We can’t.” She pulled away. Examined her navy blue shoes. They were muddy from a freshly rained London.
“We can. We just have to be back by one, let’s go.”
“I don’t know.” Someone shoved into her side, hurried a “sorry,” and walked off. “I like this painting,” she attempted, staring into the green painted eyes of a painted woman. “I don’t want to get caught.”
“You seem stupidly sure of yourself.”
“I am. Now c’mon. Let’s go.” He took her hand, she didn’t grip it back. “What the hell? Do you actually want to stay in this stupid museum?” His brows were knit together, he hardly recognized the girl in front of him.
Her eyes darted to the woman in the frame with the green eyes, to the old woman now standing beside her where he wasn’t, to the infuriating mud on her shoes. She liked the painted woman. “Of course not. Let’s get high.” Her head started to ache. Her mother had been telling her they needed to see the GP about that.