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~ The Home Pub of the Famous Pink Drinks and Trotter's Ale

Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

Category Archives: Emmjay

The Parable of the Terry

30 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 58 Comments

Tags

forgiveness, Kindness

Well-known kind person

Sometimes a dear friend of mine is really hard on himself.  Like anybody who is human and who lives amongst his fellow men, Terry from time to time screws up.  So often it’s in the name of doing good works – since Terry has both a regular job and his non-paying good work job.  He’s strung out – meeting the commitments he makes to the many.

And when Terry screws up, in my experience, it’s only a worry in Terry’s own mind.  Most people appreciate the work he does selflessly and with admirable dedication and energy.  Nobody judges Terry like he judges himself.

I’ve encountered him from time to time, deeply depressed because of a missed deadline – that only HE was worried about.  I think Terry thinks that people judge him by the standards he applies to only himself.  He has higher standards than most people – and nobody I know would even notice his failures let along judge him harshly for them.

So I went with him one time to visit his psychologist.  This bloke has been practicing for almost 30 years and is a very seasoned professional.  His words, verbatim were “Listen, sport, you are absolutely known by everyone you encounter – as being the most loving and forgiving man any of us has ever met.  You forgive everyone – except one person.  And you are kind to everyone – everyone except one person, present here today.  YOU !”

His advice was for Terry to forgive himself his sins – real and perceived and rejoice in his good works.

He added “ Be a lot kinder to yourself:.

I think the advice was sound and I use it on Terry every chance I get.  Re-enforcement IS necessary because Terry works for a brilliant man – who for all his intelligence in his somewhat narrow but complex field, is almost completely oblivious to the need for kindness in his dealings with others – especially his faithful and long-suffering staff.  He is a truth first, foremost and in every way sort of professional.

This chap has never heard of kindness and he will argue an iron pot’s legs off in pursuit of truth.

I was wondering  (Sumner Miller style) why this is so.

I think that (let’s call him) Professor Smith, while richly-endowed with intellect is rather deficient in perception of the emotions of other human beings – including intelligent co-workers.  If I was guessing, I’d say his behaviour was typical of someone on the autistic spectrum.  Like a person with Asperger’s condition.  He is obsessed with his field to the exclusion of just about everything else – including missing the minute clues that his partners in discourse are looking for the shortcuts to the exit.

In fact, I’d speculate that the reason he’s so obsessed with “truth” is because he sees it as “HIS TRUTH”, and he is driven by an ego that needs to win intellectual arguments rather than use the vehicle of an argument as a means to reach an ‘absolute’ truth – or one that is shared by the cognoscenti as being self-evident and not in need of dispute.  His truth is understood by himself as an absolute and an unarguable truth.  “Kindness” does not come into his lexicon – he thinks of it as a synonym for intellectual weakness.

So Professor Smith is not going to take Terry’s psychologist’s advice and apply a bit of kindness – first because he doesn’t know what it is to be kind, and second – if he DID know, he would regard it with contempt for being a mark of intellectual feebleness.

It is very much his loss as well as Terry’s loss working with and for him.

Whereas “truth” might be relative – that is, it is someone’s perspective of what is true, can there be some kind of universal understanding (by people – shall we call them neurotypical as opposed to the non-PC term of “normal” ?) of what is meant by “kindness”?

I would argue that “kindness” is a universal human good.  We see it expressed through “giving” actions – forgiving others their trespasses on oneself, allowing people the space to express their own opinions no matter how badly they diverge from our own, treating others with respect, regardless of whether we feel they have earned it or not.  Seeing the fundamental good in one another.  Giving without the expectation of also receiving.

When we raise children, it is wise to focus on praising their excellence as opposed to punishing them for their perceived failings.  As adults we show children the forgiveness and the kindness they so deserve, but many of us are prepared to draw the line at family or perhaps at adolescents – or adults who for some reason do not meet our expectations.

It’s surprising that those old chestnut Ten Commandments DO exhort (apart from some Old Testy tripe about worshipping one God and hang the rest – OR ELSE), the useful code of doing unto others as we would have them do unto us.  Unfortunately this often gets re-interpreted in modern times not as an exhortation to kindness, but moreover the other Old Testy notion of ‘an eye for an eye’ – that is, if this person is a bastard to me, that justifies me coming out of my corner with fists flying.  I know there’s some “turn the other cheek” residue, but I’m fairly sure that its application went out with open toed shoes and white wall tyres.  Perhaps it’s time to amend the first Ten – or some at least – could we just say instead ….. Do unto others by showing only kindness.  And leave it at that.

Do be kind unto one’s self.  And to others.  Terry, towel not thy self nor thy neighbour up.

And the people saw that it was a good approach and there was rejoicing at the pub.

Laddie Come Home

30 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Poets Corner

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

First Dog on the Moon

First Dog on the Moon

For days, it seems, we’ve lost our dog
We wander round in hazy fog
Our fear, it seems, – he’s run away
He’s spat the bone,
No more Dog play.

We wouldn’t give him up for quids
Sad old Crikey runs his good dog vids
We want him back, and make it soon.
Return to us, First Dog on Moon.

But where’s he gone ?
Is it unsound ?
Has anyone looked down the pound ?
Has he gone for good ?
Will he be found ?

But hark, to all, he will prevail
Return to us with waggy tail
I bet he has an iron-clad reason
He’s been chasin’ chicks in doggy season.

Maurice the Window Washer

23 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

entertainer and bon-vivant, Matt Sutton Photographs, Maurice the Window Washer

Maurice - Photo by Matt Sutton - http://www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

It’s good to have a job.  One of the pleasures of my job is that after each day’s toil, on my way home to the Pig’s Arms, I am blessed.

So it doesn’t matter what kind of day I’ve had, there is always the potential for arriving home in a joyful (and of course, blessed) state.  I am blessed not only by having a job that helps to keep the roof over our heads, but I am blessed by Maurice.

Maurice wears different clobber – especially his amazing array of hats – every day, and one can be reminded of the season or special time of year according to his costumery.  Garlands of flowers for Spring, Lifesaver cap and zinc cream for summer, the Tiger’s colours when footy season is on, Sgt Peppers gear, and many many others.  He sometimes adorns his tiny median strip with flags, plastic shrubbery and soft toys to cheer the place  – and the punters up.

I have one of his free wash frequent flyer vouchers that I keep safely on my desk at home – to remind me how lucky I am.  Along with one of his Christmas cards.

Maurice is a local landmark in Inner West Cyberia, here beautifully captured by Matt Sutton outside their mutual watering hole – The Empire Hotel – on the insanely busy corner of Johnson Street and Parramatta Rd.

Maurice does not wash my window.  I haven’t had the heart to tell him that once another far less professional window washer scratched the shit of my windscreen – I presume through having a really sandy or dirty scrubbing thingo.  But he always offers and I always decline – but I give him some money every time – and he always says thank you and blesses me.  Sometimes he does use a paint brush to remove leaves from that channel under the wipers, but I never pay him for that.

Not paying him is very important.  Window washing at intersections in Inner West Cyberia –  for money  – is against the local law.  But there is nothing to prevent people giving money to whomever they wish – which is what I do.

But the truth is that sometimes sourpusses (reputedly local retailers – and I use the term loosely – because I am not the sort of person who would call them redneck shopkeepers) have lent on the upper eschelons of the local constabulary to have them “move Maurice on”.   There is a smokescreen excuse that dancing as and where Maurice does – sharing his unbounded joi-de-vivre , is a tad dangerous and I guess one should acknowledge that as a fair observation.

Odd that most people other than the local shopkeepers trust Maurice to keep his ferret arse out of harm’s way – and for the drivers to damn well pay attention.

Just before the last Christmas, Maurice was threatened that there would be consequences if he persisted in his lavatorial busking, and the thin blue line removed his set and props from the median strip.  But not in any way being a quitter, Maurice circulated a petition to let the Commander of the Inner West Cyberian command in on the significance and value of his contribution to the cultural and lavatorial spheres of our community.

Here is the result.

Massive support for Maurice - Photo by Matt Sutton http://www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

……. so, Bless YOU, Maurice ………. stay safe and have a great day………

Our thanks to Matt Sutton for generously allowing us the use of his photographs.

You can see more of his excellent work here at   www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

drop in and let Matt know that a Merv sent you.

Foodge 29 – Here’s a Toast for George

18 Wednesday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

dead cat, Foodge

Simulated George Cat

OK, it was a mistake to think that using the paddles of life was a good idea on a cat having a heart attack.

Well, it was an honest mistake.  Foodge really did think he was having a heart attack. No, I mean BEFORE Foodge applied the paddles of life.

How was the private dick to know that cats go all dramatic when they’re trying to cough up a fur ball.  It wasn’t his fault.  He was only trying to help.

“What’s that smell downstairs, dear” ?

“It’s nothing”

“It smells like something’s burning”

“I think it’s a moth in the halogen light”.

“No, I mean it really stinks – kind of like burnt fish – no wait, a seal caught crossing a hotplate”.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”.

Descending the stair, curiosity was about to kill the attempted saviour of the cat.  “WTF !!!”  she said.

“Uuhhm, I think George is looking a bit off his Snappy Tom”.   “A BIT !!!  A BIT !! He’s fuckin’ toast.  WHAT HAPPENED ?

“Well, I noticed that he was lying there doing these little jump and jive impressions.  I thought he was having a heart attack……. and …….”  “And so you went and got the jumper leads and clamped them on his chest……. ”  ” And WHAMMER-JAMMER”  “The thing is, he didn’t start, did he ?  Nope, he zipped and zapped and ……

“Look, let’s put a positive spin on this.  No more spraying in the house !  That’s a good thing “!  You could have cut the silence with a stone axe.  We were not amused.  Well, I was secretly a little amused but thought it wise to not display such callous disregard for the sanctity of feline life.  And the impending extinction of a minor blip on the private eye radar.

Foodge thought it wise to remove the evidence from line of sight.  While it was true that George was a major pain in the arse, it was also true that he was FM’s cat for a bit over a decade and although I had never quite warmed to the way he’d bring home his mousy / ratty nocturnal safari trophies – or maybe just a kidney or the back half of a torso, it was clear to me that FM HAD warmed to George’s little peccadilloes.  Foodge used an old towel to wrap this toasty little corpse and withdrew the former George from the back verandah.  And he discretely stowed the offending electronics.

By the back fence rested a row of greenish grey plastic yard chairs, bleached by years of exposure to the scorching rays of the inner west cyberian solar system.  Foodge placed G on the middle chair and withdrew to the house to take his abuse.

It was some hours before Foodge faced the daunting task of disposing of the corpse.  There was a choice between a private burial in the yard (not advised since Kali the dog had a reputation for Austro-Sino excavations in pursuit of subterranean protein), casual laying to rest in a back lane equivalent of a Tibetan sky burial – where the roles of vultures were acted by the local council collectors, or an extended procession to the skip in the Seven Eleven car park.

But lo, as Foodge approached the row of chairs, the body was nowhere to be seen.  It was a miracle.  Foodge made customary inquiries with the Dog.  She was coolly nonchalant and acted like she had no information.  Foodge checked the back lane.  The usual refuse and one junkie shooting up – but no George.  Foodge managed only a cursory peek into the Seven Eleven skip.  After all, it was not a useful addition to a private dick’s CV to be seen scouting for accommodation before dusk.

Curious.  Foodge pictured an exchange with the local vet.  “After I attached the jumper leads …… “.  No, that wasn’t going to work.  There was only one option.  To go back and try to appease the by now explosive FM.

“I’m very sorry, Aunty FM”.  “I know you are, dear.”  FM had resigned herself to the extinction of the in-house sprayer and was warming to the notion that no more of her curtains would spend more time in the dry cleaners than on the lounge room curtain rods.  There was some other small compensation – the accident had also put an end to the payments FM and Emmjay made on the Vet’s yacht.

One day passed.

As was his wont, Foodge rose at the crack of a quarter past ten and went straight to the front porch to collect his copy of Private Dick Daily, resplendent as usual on the Welcome mat.  “Meow” said the murraya in the concrete urn by the fence.

“It’s a miracle”, shouted Foodge.  Aunty FM, Aunty FM, it’s George !  I guess he’s down to 8 lives !  It’s George !  Back from the dead.  Foodge was convinced that George had some celestial recuperative experience and that there would be pilgrims any minute to witness the miracle of the Inner West.

George was non-plussed.  He jumped out of the concrete urn, turned on his heel, strolled across the hearth, down the hall, up to the drapes, reversed and raised his tail, did the shimmy and headed for the kitchen, secure in his remarkable territory and certain of a hearty breakfast of hard and wet  foods.

No Worries ?

17 Tuesday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

Worrying

When I was but a lad, it occurred to me that my Mom and her Mum (my Nan) used to spend a lot of their time worrying about just about, well, everything.

They seemed agitated and having not a lot of fun.  Money was tight.  Their husbands were unreliable and prone to drinking the small amount of cash that by some miracle filtered through the universe to our family.

These were women of the war and inter-war years, of the depression, of the post-war boom that carried the wealth that seemed to elude them nicely.

They wore cotton printed dresses, drank tea and got down to sharing some rather serious worry.

This went on for years.

Worry ranged from imminent financial doom, the travails of bowling club politics (she said this…. and then I said …. and she said …….) to seeing life as a precarious lurching from one medical condition to another.  There were women’s issues, one gathers – a mystery to me to this day.  And there was a myriad of other actual, imagined or looming corporeal disasters that were expected to yield to the might of modern medicine.  Defeating polio was the triumph.  Lesser terrors were a walk in the park.

But the unifying theme was worry itself.

It took me some time to start to think about what worry actually was and once I had started to ponder this valley of shadows, with the unbridled optimism of youth, I started to question the point of bothering to worry – in the face of so many actual and potential disasters – about which, the harbouring and nurturing of anguished concern would do absolutely nothing.

Hardly any point as far as I could / can see to worrying – as a futile act that merely immerses one in spirit-sapping decay.

Worse, I think was the realisation that so much previous worry had been about events that never materialised.  Worse than futile.

I did discuss these views with Mum – who could see the rational argument that worry was a waste of time and energy – time and energy that would be put to better use by actually doing something.  If money was a concern (as it was), perhaps getting a job in the post-war boom of the late 50s and 60s was a very workable and eminently sensible alternative to worrying about poverty.  Yep, she could see the sense in that, but it took her until I was nine to act on the issue.

Well, it was really the issue that she had to find some economic base in contemplating divorce from a man who in all probability might have been bipolar, but who had the more socially acceptable excuse of being merely a weekend drunk.  The tipping point was when he made a silencer for his .22  and pointed the gun at her.  My uncle – who had a car, showed up in a hurry, exchanged some stern words with Dad (I could just about hear the shouting from my temporary safe haven at the neighbours’ place).  Uncle removed the bolt from the gun and took it with him – for safe-keeping.  He was a wonderful bloke, my uncle.  Calm, collected, generous, funny – and a real man’s man.  He solved most of our extended family’s worries and stayed friends with everybody.

But Mum didn’t have to worry for much longer – about Dad, anyway.  She got a job, secured some independence from him and we were ready to hit the road when Dad was diagnosed with Type II diabetes.  He was in hospital for weeks while they stabilised him and sorted out his insulin regime.

Off the grog, and with his diabetes under control, he became something like the man that Mom had married.  And for ten years they enjoyed some kind of reconciliation and gentle poverty together.  Mom worried about his meals – and the timing and I guess she got her revenge in a very subtle way – she bored him to death with his diet.

But to return to the point – worry.  What actually IS worry ?

One can rationalise it as a build-up of anxiety – perhaps based on powerlessness in the face of adversity – real, impending or even just imagined adversity.  And one can see, I guess that it’s pointless and counterproductive for good health and well-being, but it seems nearly impossible to not worry to some extent at least.

What parent has never lain awake waiting for their teenager to return from the party where we know there will be risks of alcohol and other drug abuse, of non-consenting sex and other violence ?  What parent has ever felt worry-free when their children first took the keys of the car on their own ?  What parent ever went worry-free when it was one of their own children going off to war – or on a rather more positive part of life – giving birth to the first grandchild ?

So what is to be done about worrying ?

Nothing, mate.  She’ll be right  ?  I wish !

Next Instalment – Doing Something Positive – Mindfulness

Pig’s Psalm 19 – How God Speaks to Us …. and We Respond

23 Friday Dec 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Pig Psalms

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Pig's Psalms

It is said in the “Glass Canoe” (David Ireland’s 1980s Miles Franklin Award Winner) that beer is the “great golden god that has no voice and must speak through us”.

Three cheers for our host, Merv, from piglets one and all
We know that you are big and brave and muscular and tall
We know you will protect us when the Euro takes the fall
And super funds go guts up and leave us old with bugger-all.

When we’ve been speaking for the great gold God
And had too much to say,
Staring up from the tiles in the Mondrian loo,
Your majesty holds great sway.

But we all know not to fear you for you’re not the malevolent kind
Of leader some folk worship (that we pity but don’t mind)
We’re glad to stand beside our host
And drink to all, our Christmas toast
And raise with hope our future clear
For something far far better next year.

So kipping down, our stockings red
Are hanging on the end of the bed
And mine, I’m wondering, but hoping of course
How it could contain a thoroughbred horse
Or even if (and it’s a big if)
Perchance arrives a Zephyr diff.

Who’s a clever boy, then ? Gooboy !

15 Thursday Dec 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Poets Corner, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

First Dog

Thanks to Crikey and First Dog on the Moon - DO Subscribe

Best in Show

We have the greatest Moon Dog on Earth
He fills bleak days with riot and mirth
He never rolls over or has to beg
Just pisses on the bastards’ leg.

And in return gets pats on head
From all the Doggonauts well-read
In all his toons and bouts of whimsy
Lays bare the politics of flimsy.

He speaks for us with loud clear voice
Draws pumpkin scones like Barnaby Joyce
Destroying monster bigot rants with
Talking confectionery and underpants.

But best of all – and what a hoot
His Interpretive Dancing bandicoot
Presents the truth – don’t you agree
Far better than the ABC.

All hail to you, our Firstest Dog
More power to your right front paw
Keep on harassing disgraceful skunks, and
Chew the arse out of red swimming trunks

When tired from hard days of works
Of punching heads and dates of jerks
And stripping bare the false and venal
Go home to your loving pack and kennel.

Congratulations, Firsty and all the best from the Staff and Patrons of the Pig’s Arms

Albo on the Front Bench

07 Wednesday Dec 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Albanese, Dolly Parton

...Important for a minister to keep in touch with his constituents.... bags of fun too, apparently

Emmjay Goes all Spartan

30 Wednesday Nov 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

Ducati, Spartan, Sydney Motorcycle Show 2012

..... and it goes even faster than it looks.... the car, not the driver

Well, the 2011 Sydney Motorcycle (and Scooter) Show was an interesting affair – not merely because Ducati unveilled their new – soon to be world conquering superbike …. the 195 horsepower (145 kilowatts) Panigale 1198.  Nor was it that BMW showed their new 1,300 cc six cylinder monster (which, let’s be clear about this, is roughly the size of a four seater lounge …. but not as easy to move through Sydney traffic).

There were two highlights of the show – the first is this lovely hand made carbon fibre miracle – the Spartan V.  Why the Spartan ?  Because the designers and builders (aircraft engineers) Dad comes from Sparta.

This one above is truly an amazing car.  It’s a prototype, fully compliant with Australian automotive race car design – and when it goes into production it will cost about $90k.

Considering that the Spartan can thrash a Ferrari with less than half of the prancing horse’s power and just two cylinders – compared with the Ferrari’s big V8 – and with the Ferrari costing about five times as much, that’s not a mean feat.  The reason it can perform this racing miracle is straightforward – power to weight ratio.

The Spartan’s engine is a Ducati twin 1198 cc – a relatively simple but awesome donk with massive grunt – well-used by Ducati to win numerous Superbike World Championships.  But here’s the trick … (note ellipsis, grammar police).  The Spartan weighs just 300 kilograms (not counting a fat arsed geriatric driver).  Now considering that the bike from which the engine comes weighs 173 kilos, and  the roll-cage in the car must meet minimum crash strength standards, it’s amazing how the engineers can add a body, two extra wheels and race tires, steering gear and massive brakes for so little weight gain.

The Spartan can go from rest to 100 kph in under three seconds and pull up well before the driver’s lunch.

This machine is put together with such care and precision that it’s a joy to look at.  The design and craftsmanship is sublime.  I wish the men from Sparta all success for their baby rocketship.

But wait… there’s more.

Many modern bikes are huge capacity massive monsters that seem to be more like furniture or motor homes to me.  I’m a simple(ton) guy with simple tastes and I am attracted to the industry trend to what is referred to as “naked bikes” – stripped of all that fibreglass gee-gaw and gimmickry like bluetooth communications and heated handlebars   – down to the basics – engine, wheels, tank, seat, brakes, lights – all one needs to belt around and have a good time.

There were some pleasant naked offerings from Triumph and Moto Guzzi – as well as a thin slice of the massive baby-boomer brand reminiscent of chrome plated aircraft carriers – Harley Davidsons.

But best of all was a bike – near and dear to my own heart – from the days when the Beatles were still in short pants in primary school.  It was a display bike to attract attention to a book-selling fundraising lady (Alana) who was raising money in support of research into the rare genetic condition called Batten’s disease.  Batten’s disease is a heart-breaking motor-neurone degenerative condition that claims the lives of children sufferers usually before they are ten.

The bike was … a 1954 BMW 250 single – beautifully restored.  And it caught my eye because I have one too… not restored and not running since about 1970.  I bought it in that condition in 1980 from a chap who lived a couple of doors up the road from my place (at the time) in Wagga.  Here’s the real deal:

1954 BMW R25/3

Astute observers will notice that this bike lacks a chain – and as far as I’m aware distinguishes itself by being the smallest shaft-drive motorcycle.  More than that, the wild, post-war austerity Germans added knobs to the frame for the attachment of a sidecar.

This one has the sidecar knobs on the right – suggesting that it is an import from America.

Alana quietly let me in on a secret that I already knew “The owner says it’s a bit of a pig – he’s inclined to get off and walk it up hills”.  The bike came about when BMW (who had been making superb 500cc flat twin bikes went for parsimony and basically rooted a beautiful engine design by chopping the flat twin in half, stuffed the natural engine harmonics of the flat twin and turned the surviving cylinder into the vertical plane – also not helping the air cooling much).

Such is life.  But since this little BM was made for my first birthday, it’s a nostalgic favourite – and the only other one I’ve seen in the flesh in over 30 years of being interested in bikes.

Picasso, Schmicasso

21 Monday Nov 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic, Emmjay

≈ 116 Comments

Tags

Picasso Exhibition, Review

The Pig’s Arms’ resident art critic, Phil O’Stein was an early visitor to the NSW Gallery Members’ free squiz at the new blockbuster Picasso exhibition.  Here’s his take.

Ah, yeah, hi.  Well the missus and I (and I use the term loosely, if you catch my drift, Tarquin) were amongst the three or four hundred thousand NSW Art Gallery members to line up for an hour and a half in the stinking heat of a Sydney November Sunday afternoon to run our beady peepers across the latest imported nonsense from the National Picasso Museum of Paris.

The NSW Gallery lucked out and scored third pick of the Museum’s collection – in fact Picasso’s own collection at the time of his death (read …. unsold stuff he had in the back shed).  First and Second picks went to Seattle and somewhere in Asia.

This is not to suggest that the 150 or so works on display were to an individual tripe of the first order, but I could see from the look on the missus’ dial that she was not going to contemplate a major redecoration of the rumpus room on the strength of the works the NSW Gallery flung up on the walls of most of its ground floor display spaces.

It was in fact a trans-historical pastiche of the various periods identified in Mr P’s long and illustrationist life.  There were bronzes as well as flat-pack art, and my personal favourite sculpture of a bull’s head – made from the careful juxtaposition of a bicycle seat with handlebars was slung way up on one wall – obviously reflecting the unsafeness of such an object amongst the seat-sniffers represented in impressive numbers amongst the members.

Now call me Phil O’Stein, if you like, but I have seen quite a lot of this art and a superset in the actual Museum villa in Paris, and I have to say that something seems to have been lost in the translation.

I’m betting that the loss is something to do with below-par curation of the overall exhibition.  There was virtually no explanatory material.  The curator(s) had boldly gone for letting the works speak for themselves – which led to some intriguing dialogues amongst the arterartie having a butchers at the works.  “Look, there’s the woman’s head over there”.  “That’s not the head”.  “Is that really a guitar”?  “I’m buggered if I can see the saxophone”.  Clearly the troops were not always up to re-assembling Mr P’s disassemblages.

Let me draw a contrast.

The missus and I (nudge, nudge) went to the Dali exhibition at the NGV sur Yarra a while back.  Like the NSW G Picasso exhibition, this was intended to be a blockbuster – and it certainly was.  Over half a million people flocked to Paris sur Yarra to have a squiz.  And magnificent it was too.  There were all kinds of interesting objects, movies from the period, light, colour and excitement.

That was what was missing from the Picasso Exhibition.  The excitement.

It could be that in sending off the great man Ed Capon – after his magnificent 30 years steerage of the NSW G – they had expected that the mass of Picasso works would be exciting enough on their own, and that the target to hit was the logistics – namely getting the masses through the exhibition quickly and tidily – hence the booked timeslots for ticket-holders only.

Maybe it really is that the NSW G – is showing us that it is a tired old flog of a building and that it is incapable of really doing the blockbuster exhibition with the same flair and panache as either the National Gallery in Canberra or the NGV in Paris sur Yarra.

What concerns me is not just that the Picasso exhibition left the missus and I a bit flat.  I’m worried that this is the second in a trend of “should be great but look a bit ordinary” exhibitions – following the “Mad Square” show.

If the arterartie members were having a struggle extracting delight from the Picasso show (as seemed to be the case for people dotted through the inner circle throng – more interested in dinner to come or what they were doing about their own personal global financial meltdowns…. readily apparent in their attire), what might one of the hoi polloi – expected to show up in their thousands make of Picasso ?

Geeze, he can draw, but why does he make the hands and feet so big ?

For THE artist of the 20th Century, the curators could well have worked up a tiny tiny bit of sweat and led the punters through with a modicum of context.  It’s the least they could have done.

So, the missus and I are scouting around to see whether there will be at any stage the odd guided tour where a well-informed artertainer can supply the context and inject the excitement that Patrons de la Salle de Porc have come to expect – ever since the Mondrian Brothers (Abstract Plumbers to the Drinking Classes) retiled the loos at the Pig’s Arms.

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Patrons Posts

  • The Question-Crafting Compass November 15, 2025
  • The Dreaming Machine November 10, 2025
  • Reflections on Intelligence — Human and Artificial October 26, 2025
  • Ikigai III May 17, 2025
  • Ikugai May 9, 2025
  • Coalition to Rebate All the Daylight Saved April 1, 2025
  • Out of the Mouths of Superheroes March 15, 2025
  • Post COVID Cooking February 7, 2025
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