My pursuit of the perfect street art continues. So far, this one has my vote (it’s gorgeous and eccentric and I LOVE IT), but I’ve found a few more lurking in dark passages (no, not those dark passages, get your mind out of the.. oh never mind).
There’s something magical about beautiful/satyrical/dark street art slapped onto the side of a Victorian-era terrace house in inner-city Melbourne. Or on the arse of a 1960’s brick tower in the city, awash with air conditioning units and soot. Or on an industrial garage door tucked into a right of way.
I’m not talking about random tagging and vandalism, I’m talking about ART. I’m not an art gallery girl, I can’t draw or paint for shit, but this stuff draws me into the most unlikely of places. Into the city I call home.
… until I walked into Northcote Social Club looking like a parakeet.
I still don’t know what I was thinking. It was Saturday night. In a grungy pub in Northcote. I walked into the pub, headlong into a sea of muted greys and hipster black and was painfully reminded of the fact I hadn’t set foot in a proper pub for at least 2 years.
Clearly I thought the grunge factor would be welcomingly counterbalanced by a bright green parrot shirt, aqua pants and red shoes. Ahem. Not. I could feel the pitying looks of the patrons burning a massive collective hole in my back. But did I hold my head up high? HELL yes. I worked that parakeet like I would never step foot in a pub again. If the fashion police had a say, I probably wouldn’t.
It was not unlike a scene from a National Geographic documentary. A lone rosella mum, all puffy with egg-bearing duties and too many sugar-coated worms, leaving the nest momentarily, only to stray into a murder of territorial crows and magpies cawing, “Fashion faux pas. 3 o’clock”. I was half expecting a flurry of brightly coloured feathers to fall softly into their Coopers Ale bottles as I walked through the bar, my plumage massacred by the voice of the Melbourne people. Oh, overdramatic, you say? Indeed, but I deal best in extravagant hyperbole.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a willing slave to black, grey and denim. But sometimes I get as bored as batshit with the daily uniform and yearn for COLOUR in my wardrobe. I probably picked the wrong time and place for a rainbow display, however. Perhaps I should have saved it for the circus. Or the Zoo.