Definition of “pretentious”: Something vaguely original or interesting that one doesn’t like.

For the flip side, a quote picked up by my Uncle Mike:

“Just because I don’t understand you, doesn’t mean you’re artistic.”

I have no general education beyond GCSE level, and none of my 9 GSCEs was in Art. One couldn’t study Art as an Admirer, as I would have wanted it, only as a Practitioner. This didn’t stop me from educating myself. Thanks to being the son of art teachers, who ensured I had words like “esoteric” crowbarred into my vocabulary by the time I started primary school, and thanks also to the crash course I received osmotically working at Kenwood House (I can now happily drone on about the life and works of Vermeer, Rembrandt, Turner, Gainsborough and Reynolds to anyone who’ll listen and many who won’t), I like to think I know a little bit about art AND I know what I like. The arrogance of the auto-didact rears its aesthetically ugly head.

A few weeks ago. A call comes from the Institute Of Contemporary Arts. Would I like to be part of a living piece of art there? For money. I am terribly excited. I rather like the ICA. At last, I think. My chance to be the new Gilbert and George and get paid for something I think I could do. My heart leaps.

A day or two later. I am shown into a small deskless meeting room at the top of the ICA building, up far too many winding narrow stairs. There is a lift, but it looks older than Canada and not nearly as friendly. I pass a small army of backpacked foreign students sitting in the corridor chatting loudly in non-English. A common sight in London, almost heartwarmingly reassuring. They might well be there by mistake.

Half a dozen strangers are in the room with me. They are mostly students of art or philosophy with time on their hands. The artist, Mr Tino Sehgal, is seeing an awfully large amount of people to be in his work, and I am just one of many. Not a good sign for me. That he also needs to deal with his potential Art Performers via a staff of Small Busy Women With Smaller Busy Phones is a give-away. This is a major, professional operation. There is Money involved, and one can’t argue with Money. When I gave talks about the paintings at Kenwood House to groups of bored local schoolchildren, they suddenly perked up when I mentioned how much money the Vermeer was worth.

If Mr Sehgal uses me in his Art, I am told, I shall be paid by the hour, including rehearsals. But the right people have to be found. It is a job application like any other. Except not like any other.

The ICA woman who leads me into the room sits on the floor in one corner, falling into that common duty of many a PR, PA or other tireless administrative wheel-oiler: that of The Chaperone. She is fetching and parading human specimens for Mr Sehgal to peruse, taking them safely out of his sight afterwards.

Mr Sehgal is young, dark and casually dressed. He speaks with real passion and belief, though admits he is still not quite sure about what this Art piece will eventually turn out to be.

What IS definite is this. The art involves no paintings, no photographs, no films, no special lighting. Not even a light bulb going on and off. It is about using hired hands to be the art themselves. Choreographed performance and discourse with the Visitor. The visitor will wander into a bare room at the ICA and find a handful of Tino People coming to life and walking backwards towards them. The Tinoettes then start talking among themselves about the visitor. “What do they want? The Purpose Of The Art Is…”. They will say the same Art Phrases over and over again, as one, starting in a whisper. If the Visitor does not respond, they will fall to the floor in slow motion, in sync, slowing down the phrase as they fall. Or possibly none of the above.

Immediately I am in a dilemma. Part of me thinks this sounds all too much like a lazy parody of Modern Conceptual Art. As imagined by an frightened ignoramus in order to ridicule it. A sitcom writer’s idea of Modern Art. An embarrassing episode of Only Fools And Horses where Del Boy visits an Art Gallery.

Another part of me goes a step further and genuinely fears that Mr S is an actor, and this is all a set-up for an amusing late-night reality TV show at my expense. Made for Channel 4, or more likely, E4, by the likes of Dom Joly or Adam and Joe. Or Muriel Gray – again. I actually look around the room for hidden cameras, and when I get home, check the web to see if this Tino Sehgal really exists. He’s for real, all right, and he’s terribly acclaimed. I blush at typing this confession, and hope Mr S takes my doubt as a compliment. I think he thrives on doubt, actually.

Once I’m convinced that Mr Sehgal is not a living piece of someone else’s idea himself, I want to encourage and praise his courage, because to do otherwise means lining up with Pavlovian whelks like Brian Sewell, Richard Littlejohn, or that wretched government minister who described one year’s Turner Prize entries as “cold, conceptual bullshit”. Ridicule, as Mr Ant pointed out in the popular 80s song “Prince Charming”, is nothing to be scared of.

I enjoy a lot of things that dare to be regarded as pretentious, egregious, cod-intellectual drivel. (Unkind Reader’s voice: You can smell your own, Mr Edwards).

I admire the interesting and unusual, the thought-provoking, the challenging and the experimental. One of my favourite films of all time is “Liquid Sky”. My favourite film of 2004 was Mr Von Trier’s “Dogville”, with its black theatrical space, lack of set, and actors miming the absence of furniture or props. I also am a fan of Ms Emin, Mr Warhol, Mssrs Gilbert & George, Mr Beckett, Mr Jarman, and Mr Robert Wilson, among others.

So why does my stomach turn Cartesian Cartwheels as Mr Sehgal describes his piece?

Two words which always give me the screaming ad-dabs.

Audience Participation.

In my mind’s eye, Mr Sehgal is saying “I’ll get this side of the audience to sing “London’s Burning, London’s Burning”, and THIS section to sing “Fetch The Engines, Fetch The Engines.”, and THIS side to… Dickon, are you getting your coat?”

I’m also reminded of those museums where out-of-work actors are employed to dress up in period costume and play a part. My heart sinks if I see one, and I try to side-step them in such places. My leisurely day out to a museum or gallery has suddenly become a stress-filled game of Avoid The Actor. “Oh, God,” I think. “Please don’t talk to me in your silly attempt at a Victorian Accent. You’re not Lord Elborough, inventor of the Patent Steam Water-Radio, you’re Dave Davison, Equity Member (Clean Driving Licence, Dance: Jazz and Tap), in a bad false beard. Who once appeared in a 1998 episode of The Bill, or possibly Casualty, and is currently Resting. I’m glad that doing this means you’re earning money based on your skills, but please don’t approach me…! Give me panels to read, guides to digest, even one of those audio guides, but leave me alone to enjoy the Art and the History by myself, quietly, and in my own private space. Life is stressful enough.”

Back at the Art Audition, Mr Sehgal asks me what I think an innocent visitor might say when they find themselves with a gaggle of paid Tinoettes advancing backwards upon them asking questions.

I reply, “SECURITY!”

This gets a laugh from some of the other applicants, but not Mr S. It is my turn to explain:

“My worry is that you might have a problem with the dreaded English Reserve and their Fear of Embarrassment.”

“That’s not MY problem,” he snaps back.

I want to reply “I rather think it IS your problem”, but say nothing. I feel he doesn’t want to understand me. Which seems a mite unfair as I’m doing my utmost to understand HIM. But one must never ask for reciprocation of affection. That way, Dear Reader, lies misery.

“Anything else you want to ask?” he says.

“Will you be there to keep an eye on us?”

“No, I’ll be there to do that”, says the Chaperone in the corner suddenly. I suppose she’s the Stage Manager to his Director.

In the days after this encounter, I feel I’d better decline the job. Although I could do with the money, and it would make an interesting diary entry if nothing else (a common justification for much of my uneasy decisions in life), my heart and stomach says I’d rather not. I could see myself faring badly in my role, failing to keep a straight face, bumping into my fellow Tinoettes, giggling, falling over, getting beaten up.

I consult friends. Some say it sounds fantastic and unique, do it. Others say it sounds deeply embarrassing for all concerned, you’ll regret it, don’t do it. Perhaps this is how Professor Greer felt before agreeing to go into the Big Brother house.

In the end, Mr S decides for me. I get a call from an ICA apparatchik chick. Thumbs down, into the lion pit. He doesn’t want me.

In the way that it’s better to resign than get fired, I feel a bit hurt, my pride a little dented. But I put it down to, once again, the position being for a good Art Performer, not for a good Dickon Edwards.

Perhaps he thought my appearance is too visibly that of someone who wants to be Living Art. Perhaps he thought I was mocking him at the audition. I wasn’t – I was more uneasy about his expectations of visitors (though I suppose that IS a kind of mockery: a lack of faith).

Perhaps it was my dreaded Default Expression of Aloofness, something I don’t do on purpose, that he took exception to. As if I were silently sneering “I can see right through you, Mr So-Called Artist.” Which I wasn’t, but I know that’s something I do. Or perhaps he could discern, from just looking at me, my propensity for Frank Spencer-style clumsiness and a tendency to play the clown. Albeit the sad clown. Perhaps he could also tell that I’m very bad at working within a group, and at following group choreography. So it’s for the best in the end.

I later hear that Mr S has hired Mr Tim Chipping. Alan Bennett says good art should make you want to put it under your coat and walk out with it. Well, I’ve met plenty of people who’ve wanted to do that with Mr Chipping. Good luck to him and Mr Tino.

When I mention this sorry tale to an unkind acquaintance, he replies “You applied to be a piece of Living Art – and failed! YOU! That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” And laughs that kind of forced laugh that represents deliberate cruelty rather than spontaneous joy. I laugh with him. That’s the only way to react.

I am convinced more than ever that it all comes down to Comedy, to Humour, to Wit in the end. As Ms Laurie Anderson says, if you MUST create performance art or conceptual art, use humour. Take the mickey out of yourself. Send it up. If you can, make people laugh intentionally, rather than nervously. Even if – especially if – the laughter is tragicomic, bittersweet and wry. And don’t involve audience participation – you may not “have a problem with that”, but the terminally English do.

I’ve been to see Shakespearean tragedies, and found the audience laughing at anything vaguely resembling humour. People want to laugh. Being serious is so much easier than being funny. And so much safer. Best be funny on purpose.

Then again, could it be that the laughing little boy in the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes just had bad taste?