An overdue gallery visit on the weekend had me coming over all impassioned and swoony and the like.
See, I'm a qualified art teacher who doesn't work in a field even remotely related to art or education, so every now and then I'm compelled to dip my toe in the painterly puddle and wiggle it around a bit.
Dodging the recently-disgorged contents of a tour bus near the front pillars, I revisited ol' Agnes (that's what us cultured kids call the Art Gallery Of New South Wales, see. Because it's kind of an acronym, see. Esoteric, see) with a sigh and a warm, straight-out-of-the-dryer feeling.
I was in a Twentieth-Century Australian Abstract kind of mood, so I walked in and turned left. I'm a fickle old bitch when it comes to art – if paintings were lovers, I'd have to change my sheets every couple of days. Next time it might be Dada or French Impressionism. I'm a cultural commitment-phobe.
Also, as an equation, I consider myself equal parts highbrow and lowbrow, arty and farty, arse and class (and in fact have trouble liking or trusting anyone who isn't). So, in vernacular accessible to as wide an audience as possible, I'll say this about my recent aesthetic dabblings and current favourite:
Ian Fairweather is the shit.