National Art Gallery, Sofia (continued)

The lady behind the second door was much more welcoming. I took some joy from this and from the fact I’d chanced upon the correct establishment, although the gallery’s pictures, sadly, weren’t especially memorable. The main point I took away was the predominance of the number ‘three’; many of the artworks featured three of a particular subject, or were split into three areas, or otherwise were a bit triangulary. Or “trio-ish”.

Did I mention that the building and decor were magnificent? They became more so once it became apparent that, outside, rain was absolutely pelting onto and bouncing up off Battenberg. I poked my head outside, saw drains and gutters buckling and members of the ceremonial Battenberg guard being fairly washed away, down towards the Alexander Nevsky Church. I took stock, peered down at my already ‘atmospheric’ STINKING desert boots, and suddenly felt inspired to look round the Ethnographic Museum.

Once I had the correct ticket, my welcome to ‘Ethnographeee, Ethnographeee’ dramatically improved, even if my feet were squeaking. The exhibits were everyday and stuck on the dull side on the interesting/boring continuum; lots of smocks, tools, bad toys, dyes, things made from wood, hair and teeth. That sort of thing.

National Art Gallery, Sofia

National Art Gallery - top marks for location, namely the first floor of an old palace on Battenberg Square. That’s right, Battenberg Square. The first disappointment is that the Square outside isn’t paved pink and yellow. More puzzling, however, is the welcome to the Gallery. On entering the building, the Ethnographic Museum - the old palace’s other tenant - has a stand and a few items for sale. There’s nothing for the Art Gallery until you peer round the bottom of the staircase, where you might eventually see a sign hanging from the ceiling. “Tickets” it says in a few languages (English thankfully one of them) with an arrow pointing to the right.

And to the right, a closed door. A big, beautiful door - this is a former palace, remember - and in common with the rest of the interior and exterior architecture, the big, beautiful door is magnificent. But critically, from the ‘welcoming and drawing in punters’ point of view, it’s closed.

Once I plucked up the courage to enter, the ticket office was another beautiful, well apportioned room, sumptuously empty except for a small desk at the far end, which I approached as confidently as I could, summoning as much ‘Anton Diffring cool’ as possible so as not to look lost or shifty. My luck was in; I was sold a ticket. “Go up the stairs”, the helpful vendor directed.

And so, up the stairs. Regal stairs, straight from a period drama. At the top, a landing and three doors, all of which were predictably beautiful and predictably closed. I looked at the ceiling above each of them, but there were no signs - hanging or otherwise - or any clue which door to take. Maybe they all lead to the gallery. At any rate, the only other route away from this regal landing was the regal staircase, so if I wanted to progress, I needed to chance my luck and push on.

The door I chose was the wrong one, a fact immediately apparent as the bucolic exhibits were, err, devoutly ethnographic rather than artistic. My suspicion I was in the wrong place was confirmed by a battle-hardened attendant who rose wraith-like from a chair in the farthest corner of the room. She hovered across to me and peered at my ticket, before saying “Ethnographeee, Ethnographeee” over and over, jabbing me back onto the landing before shutting the door.

A moment’s pause in which I wondered if I’d done something wrong.