Freud had considered the surrealists to be “complete fools,” but meeting Dali changed his mind on that as he found mastery in his technique.  Yet historians say they met only briefly and that the nervous Spaniard was so in awe of the old psychoanalyst that he froze and said few words.  Maybe Freud still thought them fools and Dali spread the rumour that he didn’t…..or maybe Freud realised he was wrong.  Who knows?

She wondered about the contents of the book which the colourfully dreadlocked scruff was reading, but didn’t dare go over and ask about it.  A few more paintings and she’d be beside him anyway.  One was a pink tinged canvas containing a red image of Freud, entitled “Finding the Truth Behind the Great Masturbator.”  In this Freud’s hair was styled in the shape of a snail.  She knew that Dali had once said Freud’s brain was like a snail so that connection wasn’t hard to make.

Beside the seated reader was a small group of four miniatures of a cactus, a snail, a rainbow and a heart….. “Untitled.”  These were the last paintings in the room, but on the catalogue there was one more listing…..something called “He Was a Plonker.”  She stared at the last blank stretch of wall, wondering if something was missing.

“They all get confused here,” he smiled, hoping that she would be clever enough to see his little joke.  Her brain had been ticking over. 

“Am I supposed to ask ‘Why was Freud wrong?’ and are you supposed to say ‘He was a plonker’?”

“Yeah…..you’ve got it in one!  First person to get it,” he enthused.

“Does that mean I win a prize?” she asked, with just a tad of sarcasm. 

“Sure!  Why not?  Autographed copy of a print of ‘Unrequited Love’…..if you want it.  Would that do?”

She nodded.  He, a living piece of performance art, something bridging the gap between theory and instinct, led her into the foyer and autographed the print….. “Cheers!  Rainbow McFadden.”

“You’re McFadden?” There was no hiding her surprise.

“Rainbow to you!”  He offered her his hand in the shaking position and turned it to the American give-me-five position just as she was about to shake it.  She gave him a timid ‘less than high five’ thinking that perhaps there was more to an artist who seemed unwilling to be alienated from his art.

“You’re okay,” he giggled.

“Yes!  For a psychoanalyst,” she replied. 

He had always felt uneasy around ‘intellectual shrink types’ in case they could read him like a book or worse still really read his mind and know all those hidden secrets he’d like to keep in the dark recesses of his memory until they faded into nothingness.  He squirmed a little uneasily.  Now he was the one who was gobsmacked.  He’d just experienced that Dali-meeting-Freud feeling.

Struggling for words, he babbled.  “Ere…..Is your head like a snail?”

“Maybe!”  She began to walk away with her autographed print.  “Just maybe…..and is yours like a Medusa, or a nest full of rainbow snakes?”  Her words echoed eerily through the gallery as she glanced backwards, having overcame the discomfort he raised in her.  Her rather stony Mona Lisa stare froze him for a second.  She was intriguing.  He wanted to talk to her about Freud’s “Interpretation of Dreams,” about her dreams and his dreams.  But, would it be the beginning of a beautiful relationship or would it deteriorate into one of those client-therapist attachments, some kind of Freudian ‘transference’ thing where his erotic feelings would relate not to her, but to some other fantasy figure…..Or maybe Freud really was wrong about that? 

He thought he would take the risk, stuck a red spot on his book and went after her.