Sunday, February 4, 2018

if it's framed, is it art?

Wanted to jog the daily routine, see some friends, and a few sights. Got on the train for a few hours. Napped in the afternoon winter sunshine. Read.

Rented a room in a cheap hotel. This place took the definition of a room very literally. A Victorian house had been chopped into shapes to fit a bed and not much else.

And once we went to bed, we discovered that even the bed had been chopped. R is not a tall man but he was too long for the bed.

I can do without heated bathroom tiles but I insist on bedside lamps because we like to read in bed. R's feet were restless, dangling over the edge, but there were lamps.
(Sort of.)

And there was art on the wall. The paper looks worked but that's only the reflection in the glass from the window. The piece itself is orange construction paper. No more, no less. Under glass and framed. I'm not sure whether it's deliberately or unintentionally ironic. That's the thing with irony. And art.

Tomorrow... back to work.

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