Memories of modernism

Perhaps not my first, perhaps not even my 50th but a young memory when I was but a tadpole I went to an art gallery that skimmed the side of the river. Grandeous with a Mr whippy ice cream van parked close enough to get sticky fingers we climbed the stair to the entrance I don’t recall. It’s a possibility that I was still finishing off my flake or not concentrating entirely but I was struck by modern art. A canvass of deoxygenated blood red with a smear of black. This car crash on the wall, I did not or could not read its name.