I was brilliant enough to attend the artist's's party for the Sydney Biennale on Wednesday. It was quite a night, in less ways than ten. The party was held on Che Cockatoo Island, a glittering jewel in Sydney's otherwise shithouse harbour. We waited for what seemed like 20 minutes for the ferry to depart. From the top deck you could see the harbour bridge in the night sky and it was something else. The black steel, those girders, the lighting, the night sky, the gargantitude of it all. It was magical and it reminded me of the first Batman movie, my number one guy.We were shepherded through a hundred metres of scooped out sandstone and before us stood a great big hall, with a stack of arty types mingling, dancing, greedily scoffing free alcohol and food, and enjoying the many luxuries that accompany the life of an artist. I had the best time at that party. The wife and I thank the organisers very much. The party raged and we danced. We had to call it a night around 1, but not before some great peoplewatching, stimulating conversation, tomato juggling, and all around soaking up of island meets art culture. Oh Biennale. Boom shaka jam.
*It's the same principle as when you crack a thermometer and the mercury is toxic
2 comments:
Whence I return from betwixt my sojourns, you gots to take me to one of these warm art-hole openings. The reported level of positivity makes me want to cry out "excelsior" while eating only the biscuit covering of a gaytime, and leaving the soft, soft inner portion to the gulls.
To forgive is to love.
To eat is to poop.
I used to have a compass but it only had a very sharp point, no idea how it could be cracked
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