French Masters

Just returned from the French Masters art exhibition in Canberra where it seems the entire population of Adelaide had converged on town. The parking was of Sydney proportions – aka  impossible – and the queue for the Masters spilled way out the front door, like a piece of multi-coloured human spaghetti.

But it was all good natured, even though the temperature was verging on catastrophic. No jostling, just a good natured acceptance that we should have bought the premium tickets and got special entry at 9am. Once inside, people gathered like a media scrum around the big guns – Van Gogh and Monet. But again, even though easy to get an elbow wedged in your armpit or a handbag wedged up your nostril, it still felt cruisy.

In a way it’s good to see so many people interested in the arts, even if like me, they wouldn’t know an etching from a sketching or a mosaic from a fake. I’ve read somewhere that more Australians go to museums or art galleries per head of population than anywhere. Even if that is a giant exaggeration, it seems art is not just for old fogies or poseurs – it’s for everyone.

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