arty stuff

The 'teapot and I took in a spot of "culture" at the Rupert Murdoch-sponsored ART sale yesterday. It was at the Royal Exhibition Building. Our own version of any given piece of architecture seated in Europe. Only not quite that old. And not nearly as beautiful.

We saw sauce bottles. Naked ladies. Lollipops. Tigers with inaccurately painted birdcages. Plastic shopping bag fish. Aboriginal art. Photographs. My brother's girlfriend. Dirty mattresses. Orangina. Children painting. Olives. A Warhol. Erin Smith. Lentil soup. A DJ that wouldn't wear his headphones. Words from Mandela. A box camera. My cubicle mate from work (in shorts and an awesome hat). And a hanging glass man.

Still we made no purchases. Except said lentil soup, some crap fish and an even poorer hot chocolate. (Oh, and some fortune fish from the Museum, just north across the "grassy" courtyard.)

And even though I didn't take home anything made by a struggling artist, I was mistaken for one. A strange encounter that has left me with the urge to bring out the starving, paint-covered artist within. So I'm off to buy some acrylics, more graphite and a new digital camera to begin my journey.

And by journey, I totally mean journey had by Idols, housemates and people that think they can dance. Wait for a montage when I fail.