Cuppa Tea! Cuppa Tea! My queendom for a cuppa tea!

17 Sep

It’s been another weekend staggering about the city in an earnest attempt to avoid housework (honestly, I should be studied by scientists at how brilliant I am at avoiding such exertion).

Friday was a futile attempt at “keeping it real” and heading out to see a gig. If you’ve never seen someone fall asleep at a packed punk(ish) gig, get those scientists studying my housework-avoidance-mechanisms to fling you their field report. Because I was falling asleep in the middle of a Buzzcocks’ gig. And at least 2 decades (if not three) younger than the band members.

Saturday found me doing another spot of chin stroking at the Gallery, this time the Picasso & Dora Maar exhibit with the delightfully dark (as always) Red Minx. Red works with the dead, which is very Tru Calling of her, and she’s always a fascinating companion, filled with wonderful anecdotes and factoids.

May I point out at this moment that, to me, the scourge of galleries is not children (they are, without fail, well behaved in my experience). No, the true terror of the art gallery is the audio tour. Didactic little scripts herding art consumers about from painting to painting wearing an iPod around their neck like a seagull. It seems a waste, not to mention a nightmare when trying to navigate around, restricting the visitor from actually viewing and interacting with the art, forming their own interpretations, spontaneous emotional responses and asking questions. Perhaps it is a sign of falling volunteer guide numbers or simple economics (they do make some nice scratch from the hiring out of iPods).

Today has consisted of prolonged meandering dashes about the city. This morning I took an impromptu tour of Citylight public spaces and photographed madly. It was quite a self-conscious act and it felt bourgeois to so safely delight in their pieces. I thought about my friend on walkabout and wonder how he is able to take the harrowingly intimate and traumatic photos he does. How do you interact or communicate with someone after the staccato clip of the shutter, chipping away at their privacy?

Anyway, there is a spoil of amazing and merely amusing work to be seen lingering in the spaces. Some beautiful, some breathtakingly original and some merely derivative. But it is still an amazing thrill to walk into a lane (because it’s always a lane with me) and be overcome with the riot of colour and profusion of work.

A friend at work remarked to me the other day that he believes the tide is turning. That the reactionary and authoritarian conservatism and fear may begin to subside having hit it’s tidemark, allowing leftist and possibly more humanistic compassion. God bless him, but I do not share his optimism. I think things are going to get far worse before they get better.

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