Only slightly exenterated for the benefit of the reader.

The third floor of London Met’s central house is usually reserved for BA fine arts students. During the year, the large area is partitioned into smaller studio spaces by large awkward dividers on wheels. During the summer it is converted from this studio arrangement into an exhibition ready gallery – or as closely as we can get it.

In preparation for our coming MA show, the partitions once again needed orchestrating. After a day of rearranging them, three partitions had no home but a tight space in front of an apparently unused office. There they remained untouched and unnoticed for several days before an annoyed short Irish woman rudely interrupted my conversation with another student one afternoon: Those partitions need to be moved. It was a demand, accusation and statement of authority blasted with a wash of a veil of patience.

I recognized her as the occupier of the office next to Gerry’s untidy sweltering excuse for one. For a reason only known to professionals with kitschy taste for ‘cute’ stuffed animals, this woman decided – probably a long time ago – to keep a stuffed dog permanently staring out of her office door window at the helpless passers by.

With a thick coating of patience I replied, I’m sorry, who are you? while lying dormant in the back of my head was the knowledge of how important of a proper introduction would have been. How many times had some snotty MA student asked her this question with the same squelched bad attitude?

Well this was the last time! There was no way I was getting a first name, let alone a formal ‘Ms. Something’. This woman slammed her department title down so quickly, you’d think it was sledgehammer and I was fly. I’m the head of the BA department. After a year of studying art at this university, with constant dealings with staff members all over the building, why hadn’t I met Nici Oxley until a week before the graduation show?

Hi Nici, I called around the corner as she stormed off. My name is Richard.

Oliver had spent a day searching for some vacant area to adopt those overpopulating partitions. After notifying him about the staff demand for their removal, he quickly assessed the situation: The current set-up provided no other space for their allocation and they are too tall to fit through the doors so they cannot be moved to a new room. With a sigh emblematic of the growing frustration this show was producing, he said with no veil of patience, Either she finds a place for them or they are dismantled.

With the realisation that Nici was going to get her way anyway, that I had to sort this issue out and that the partition placement was clearly not the real issue, I made an appointment the next day to chat with Nici. When I knocked under the bizarre gaze of her teddy-dog, the ensuing invitation to sit down was still filled with the same antagonism that characterized our first meeting. I entered with the clear intention not to solve the partition allocation challenge, but to alleviate this smouldering irritation that was so evident in her manor.

250 ml of sincere listening, 300 ml freshly picked frank and open dialogue, 235 ml of genuine offers to help and 1.5 litres of Canadian charm should cook up enough amelioration that the partitions will take care of themselves. She was the last of the members of staff that I had not successfully converted to my side.

I began the conversation with questions regarding the specifics of the situation: what was the office occupier’s name, when was she returning to work, will she need her office during the dates of the show and is dismantling a viable option etc. But Nici wouldn’t budge – in her mind, it was still not a matter for debate or discussion. She hadn’t quite realised that I could care less about the stupid partitions. She hadn’t quite realised my intention. From her perspective, I was there to convincer her that she must bow to the superior knowledge of a snotty MA student.

At one point she mentioned that if the partitions were not willingly moved, she would invoke some grand Health and Safety violation incantation. Considering that those guidelines ruled with an iron fist over all things London Met with the authority of ancient scripture, it was not an idle threat. Obviously my tactics needed revising. I began to describe some of the difficulties that the MA students had encountered along the road so far. We commiserated over the logistical frustrations that the university structure often creates. Nici was quick to point out the lack of consideration given her by past MA students and it became obvious that there was a definite lack of healthy communication between her and the MA staff.

After describing how the BA students more properly managed their exhibition, I asked her if she would be willing to write some of her suggestions down for future MA students. Still in feisty authoritarian mood, she shot back with a tone of intolerance, Why don’t you? It was a question that couldn’t have been a better gift from the heavens. I replied without a moment’s hesitation, I already have: 14 pages outlining all the steps from budgeting to marketing to installing – would you be willing to review it?

From the following shocked silence, I knew I was making headway through the murky fog of antipathy, slowly pulling her away from the Dark Side. After recovering her footing, Nici continued the conversation by describing how the MA students had shown a distinct lack of thoughtfulness by scheduling the show so close the next intake of undergraduate students. She had only three days to reset the space to its studio function. At which point I posed a very simple question. I asked with as much manipulative kindness as I could muster, Is there anything the MA students can to do make the transition smoother? I suspect now that it was the first time Nici had received such an offer of assistance from a snotty MA student. The extended dazed silence, the look of cognitive dissonance, the stunned jaw drop and the sound of some giant structure tumbling to the ground were all symptoms of a successful crack.

Nici gives me winks as we pass in the hallway now.

Tags: London