Xing

Today I visited this frightful little hole, called the Guggenheim museum. It’s where drawings by young children go to die. Ever wondered what happens to the papers people stick on the fridge once they move house or get a new fridge? They go there to witness grand openings of things like the rock garden, and listen to American tour guides (you can hear their voices from two rooms away!!! Goes perfectly well with the ambience created by the things on the wall, I must say) gently drawing the group’s attention to the finer aspects of their own mediocre brushstrokes, all day long. Can’t believe I went there- ordinarily I would never be caught dead in such a place (can’t believe the price either, they must be all worked up about the skyrocketing salaries of corporate fund-raisers), but I was quite misled by the guidebook. I feel so bad for the few poor lonely pieces of art, which deserved something better, one by Dali, a couple by Magritte, perhaps? No more than a handful and even then, those weren’t dazzlingly spectacular, so let them suffer. My ability to empathise only runs so deep. Oh, the deepest part of the Grand Canal is 5 metres! And it’s 4 km long. Its width ranges from 30-70 metres.

Know why it’s called the ‘Guggenheim’? Because that’s the sound babies make when they gurgle- either that, or the noise produced when people choke on their own blood, rising through their throat, as they walk through the rooms. Anyway, I consoled myself by sitting in the bookshop after that and reading all the interesting books they had (which was less than four).

P.S. I know I only seem to put up complaining posts- that’s because most stuff that happens, I enjoy, and of course I value privacy far too much to blog about things that really matter to me.