I’m walking past a wall of posters for the Cezanne exhibition in London, on my way to the Underground. It seeps into me, this orange-ness, despite my efforts to avert my eyes. I drop them to the pavement but even though I won’t look at them directly, fat oranges sit on the edge of my subconscious all day. There’s an unexpected heaviness to oranges, a heft to them.
I know what Cezanne’s oranges are trying to tell me but I keep rolling them away from me. I am avoidant. I sulk. Then I do what I always do: panic and sweat and claw at the very last minute. I know I have to go.
The exhibition is completely sold out but a friend has a ticket for this afternoon. I make excuses, run from work, holding an umbrella against the rain. Suddenly, I’m there. I’m there in front of the Tate. I’m there in front of the oranges.
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