National Art School exhibition: Lines Of Fire: Armed Services To Art School
Read this review on the weekend of the exhibition that Andy and I saw. The journalist picks up on our sentiments: we were left a bit cold by the contemporary works compared to the 1940s pieces exhibited. I was really fascinated by Fahy Bottrell's work, (A thinks thats because I'm a print making freak) and wanted to know more about what happened next.
That was such an amazing day. The National Art School buildings are of sandstone, old cell blocks, but the entire site has a fascinating atmosphere, productive, timeless, Australiana, I really liked it. From there we walked into the city, past gothic style terraces, steep walls, descending urban cliffs, wrought iron walls. You had the feeling of people disappearing into time, their gardens becoming overgrown as a kind of respite from the city, like his cousin Helen's terrace in Surry Hills that she no longer allows family to visit.
We walked from venue to venue for the Biennale of Sydney, snoozed in the Botanical Gardens, enjoyed the visual sites and sounds of the big bad city, the simplicity of being together hand in hand. I also liked the seediness and curiosity value of staying in Potts Point, mere metres from Juanita Nielsen's old terrace (see earlier mention in relation to Mess Hall). A walking tour that was esoteric and obscure enough for me. The Storrier was a curious venue, a narrow tall boutique hotel, a marvel of how to decorate space to a budget but to style, showcasing many Oxfram style international photographs against dark dark walls; using Storrier landscapes as the signature stationery.
Our bedroom was cute and droll, had black walls, striped bedlinenen, soft black faux fur bed rug, compact bathroom, small side window showing city lights. It had the background hum of the inner city, that nameless, timeless placeless atmosphere that I first glimpsed and yearned for as a kid when I'd be listening to favourite tunes (such as Hill Street Blues) or watching favourite TV shows (Dancing Daze). How lucky is my life, to be able to remember what I was that I craved in early childhood and recognise it when I find it in adult life?
From there we could walk via laneways and old worn sandstone steps down to Rushcutters Bay or around windy streets of Elizabeth Bay. In the park it was quiet, only sounds coming from bobbing moored boats and the night lights of the oval. Relying on our feet to take us everywhere made the city seem a calm and enjoyable place, a world away from commuter traffic grid stress.
That was such an amazing day. The National Art School buildings are of sandstone, old cell blocks, but the entire site has a fascinating atmosphere, productive, timeless, Australiana, I really liked it. From there we walked into the city, past gothic style terraces, steep walls, descending urban cliffs, wrought iron walls. You had the feeling of people disappearing into time, their gardens becoming overgrown as a kind of respite from the city, like his cousin Helen's terrace in Surry Hills that she no longer allows family to visit.
We walked from venue to venue for the Biennale of Sydney, snoozed in the Botanical Gardens, enjoyed the visual sites and sounds of the big bad city, the simplicity of being together hand in hand. I also liked the seediness and curiosity value of staying in Potts Point, mere metres from Juanita Nielsen's old terrace (see earlier mention in relation to Mess Hall). A walking tour that was esoteric and obscure enough for me. The Storrier was a curious venue, a narrow tall boutique hotel, a marvel of how to decorate space to a budget but to style, showcasing many Oxfram style international photographs against dark dark walls; using Storrier landscapes as the signature stationery.
Our bedroom was cute and droll, had black walls, striped bedlinenen, soft black faux fur bed rug, compact bathroom, small side window showing city lights. It had the background hum of the inner city, that nameless, timeless placeless atmosphere that I first glimpsed and yearned for as a kid when I'd be listening to favourite tunes (such as Hill Street Blues) or watching favourite TV shows (Dancing Daze). How lucky is my life, to be able to remember what I was that I craved in early childhood and recognise it when I find it in adult life?
From there we could walk via laneways and old worn sandstone steps down to Rushcutters Bay or around windy streets of Elizabeth Bay. In the park it was quiet, only sounds coming from bobbing moored boats and the night lights of the oval. Relying on our feet to take us everywhere made the city seem a calm and enjoyable place, a world away from commuter traffic grid stress.
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