Lo Fi

November 1998.

The gallery space is already full when we arrive. My twin sister, Sophie, is ahead of us, forging against the crush. I lurk behind the towering figure that is my father. He enters and people turn and stare. He's a cop, a Detective Inspector. You know without asking.

The gallery space is large, square, with three additional boxy columns in the centre space. Every available surface is covered by panels, four feet by four feet, placed side by side.

This is the exhibition for Sophie's final year at University. The theme of her display is Lo-fi, images made with the lowest quality device available. She used a first generation web cam rescued from the garbage bin as the source. Grainy, poorly focused, blurred and fogged, and yet strangely beautiful. The quality and originality of her work means that she's been tipped for first class honours.

We approach Sophie's corner. There are several titles from her collection on display. Centerstage is her study "Obtuse Nudity", three panels depicting a plainly naked figure, though 'who' is difficult to ascertain. Sophie argues that if you, the viewer, cannot see who the subject is and cannot determine if they are nude, partially nude or clothed then does the painting depict a nude person? Art as pornography or pornography as art, or just merely self-indulgent clap.

When quizzed as to the identity of the model, Sophie openly lied. 'A model hired by the University' she said but, from my mother's expression, she doesn't believe her for one minute.

My father, the cop, turns and stares at his lovely, innocent daughter.

'Sophie, how could you?' he whispers. 'For everyone to see.'

Sophie just smiles, and moves on. She is the loud one, the difficult one. She is the girl who was told that she would be 'sent down' at the end of the first year for painting a large cock on the roof of the gymnasium block.

Later, caught drunk and topless at the back of a lecture theatre, the threat was repeated. 'One more strike and you're out', says her Tutor.

And yet she's still here.

The crowd filter past in ones and two, nodding an approving eye at the naked girl lying prostrate on the bed or standing by the bathroom door. They smile and point bony fingers at the thin, delicate arms and deep, heaving curves or the enormous patch of dark hair spreading out over a rounded belly. They applaud loudly when the awards are presented, and Sophie grabs the second spot. The first prize goes to a local photographer who had documented, first hand, the progressive melt-down of one of the region's biggest bands. He is the one who grabs the headlines. Sophie is largely ignored, but she is happy all the same. She has a stamp of approval from her elders and betters, and anything that the University can do now is of little consequence.

'I love this...' says a tall man to his partner, a short mouse-haired woman with deep set crow's feet around her eyes. 'It's so... wanton.'

I turn to face them. They're looking at Sophie's version of Manet's 'Olympia'. We had planned on recreating 'Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe', that's "The Picnic" to you and me, but we couldn't find enough bodies to help out in time. 'Olympia' was a compromise.

My father sees me standing beside this couple, listening to their comments, watching their reaction. He isn't really angry. I think he's more concerned at what his colleagues will say if they find out, and he resolves to keep Sophie's success a secret.

Then, slowly, the penny drops. Detective Inspector Knight solves the puzzle.

The girl in those pictures isn't Sophie. It's me, Sophie's twin. The quiet one. The intellectual one. The book worm.

I catch the look in his eye and he scowls. 'Oh my', he whispers as he shakes his head and stares at the floor. 'Oh my.' Then he smiles. I don't exactly have his approval but he's sort of proud.

The exhibition is a success. More so, there's some TV coverage and at least three of the local newspapers run a story. As you might expect, the winner is right out there, in the front. Sophie also rates a mention but she's in the background, as are her photographs. They may be little more than thumbnails but you can still make out what they're about.

The University is elated. Sophie is the rotten apple turned good. They can praise her, use her as a shining example of what their institution can achieve.

Two months later, on the last day of the exhibition, I return to the gallery for one last glimpse. I find a Curator and ask him if the show was a success. 'Not bad,' he says. 'Not as popular as some, more popular than most. Around 40,000.'

'40,000 what?' I ask, puzzled.

'Visitors,' he says. '40,000 visitors.'

I leave the gallery and head up Northumberland Street in Newcastle feeling slightly in awe of that figure. 40,000 people have seen me naked.

Wow...