I recently saw an article about a new show called ‘Scent and the art of the Pre-Raphaelites‘ at the Barber Institute of Fine Art, Birmingham (UK), in which visitors ‘will be able to participate in an optional scent experience that will enliven the scent suggested in certain paintings’. It’s an interesting idea. Wondering if it will catch on, and if so, where it might lead, I was inspired to scribble out a rhyme…

There’s something blowing through the world of art,
Something new to shake up the establishment.
Something to help the galleries impart,
The intentions of the artists and what they meant
With their oily, two-dimensional representations
Of subject matter to diverse to mention.

Sight alone is no longer enough,
Now we’re being invited to snuff the air;
To breath in chemical assimilations
Intended to evoke the daubers’ intentions.

Freshly cut grass and harvested hay,
the scent of damp earth on a showery day;
All well and good for a dreamy Pre-Raphaelite scene,
But what if the subject is rather more obscene?
For a medieval depiction of drawn out intestines
The public reaction could well be interesting.
And Chris Ofili’s elephant dung series
Might elicit some irritated queries;

Dear curator,

Your gallery smells so strongly of poo,
We thought by mistake we’d ended up at the zoo.

Yours faithfully,

Mr & Mrs A. R. T. Lover

Brit Art – now there’s a Pandora’s box if ever there was,
With nightmarish aromas assaulting your noz.
Autopsied shark and formaldehyde – is that really the art;
Or has one of the attendants let out a fart?
And as for Tracey Emin’s unmade bed…
Sorry, no; let’s leave it unsaid. She’s dirty, that one!

But if the gallery-going public have had all they can take,
They can always break the glass and make their escape.
Unless… is that the fire alarm, or just another exhibit?
I wonder what it would smell of? Fear, maybe?

text & images © graham wright 2024
(urinal after Marcel Duchamp)