I hadn't been to the new What if the World... space before, and I was impressed. It's a very professional looking space, with a nice hint of the industrial (there's a cool winch and pulley thing attached to a steel girder). Only problem is that 11 'o' clock openings do not suit, even if it does get the Market crowd in. I was there to take a look at Andrzej Nowicki's The Gloaming, a show of oils and watercolours. I really enjoyed the oils, they had a dark Neo Rauch feel to them, infused with a surreal espionage aesthetic. Never creepy, just sad and empty people going about their strange businesses and exchanges. I wasn't as convinced by the watercolours, which, in losing the monumental size of the oils, sank into being a bit more trendy Japanesey Internet Cartoonsy. Not that it makes them any less charming; they are saved by nice brushwork, and some surprising moments.
All in all, Nowicki is a painter to watch. I heard that the show sold out (although being What if the World... I wouldn't trust that the prices were anything near decent).

Labels: Andrzej Nowicki, review

I think an image that'll stay with me for life is Ed Young, getting shouted by the curator's mother. The poor guy couldn't get a word in edgeways. But the fucker probably did deserve the berating.
So here's the story: Carrie Timlin and Lily Luz are planning a series of one-night events at Blank. They are undergraduate students, and I think this is amazing initiative.
Carrie Timlin and Lily Luz didn't do many of the things expected from a curator. Like organise press, design an appealing flyer and buy booze. And didn't communicate fully with either the artist or gallerist. Not as amazing. Especially if you are using an artist's name such as Ed Young to bring attention to your project.

10:30 am. Ed Young gets irritated, and decides to not pitch up to the show. He turns off his phone.

5:25 pm. Robert Sloon gets a call from Jonathan Garnham (the gallerist), asking if he had seen Ed. Robert tells Jonathan he just left him at the Kimberly Hotel.

6:00 pm. Jonathan arrives at the bar, with rope. They drink beer. Ed Young is tied up. Ed is physically removed, and dragged into a car.

7:30 pm. Robert Sloon arrives to the exhibition to see general chaos. Carrie's mum is yelling at Ed. A surprising amount of people are milling around drinking beer and wine. Jonathan has stuck up the bill from the bar on the wall, so there is at least something to look at.

8:00 pm. The surrogate art work is burned.

8:30 pm. The thinning, but rowdy crowd trashes the gallery. Broken glass litters the floor. Wine stains the walls. Robert Sloon goes home to play with cat.

What more can be said?
Crap Show. Funny Story.

Labels: Blank, Carrie Timlin, Ed Young, Lily Luz, review

Image captured off Bell-Roberts Home Page
I missed the opening this week, being in a bad mood, so I dropped by the Bell-Roberts this morning for a quick look at Monique Pelser's Roles. A good friend and well-known layabout told me last night, "I was left waiting so long for my appointment with the Bell-Roberts that I actually had to spend more than a cursory minute with the photos, which made me realize they are very good." So I endeavored to do the same. I realised two things: 1. There could have been some serious editing, and 2. many of the prints' Fujicrystal Archival Paper had buckled in the frame. Other than that, the work was very engaging. The concept was that the artist would wear the clothes of people in various industries, and they in turn would wear hers, and take her photograph (Only thing that worried me was the truth of this: if you look closely most of the clothes look huge on her, how did the massive fireman/mechanic/etc fit into her clothes?). She plays the roles to perfection, keeping a similar expression throughout, but still managing to express a range of emotions, often seeming to fit the particular career she has chosen to play.
Only thing I'd wished for was maybe a deeper negotiation with what identity means, something more in line with Marina Abramovic's Role-Exchange (1975), in which she swapped places with an Amsterdam prostitute for a four hour period. The prostitute (who's only stipulation was to remain anonymous) attended the exhibition at De Appel opening while Abramovic sat in her Red Light display-window.


I think Pelser's photo's were very intriguing, but maybe it could have been a bit braver: in all the photos she never loses the identity of artist.

Labels: monique pelser, review

I believe I've called for the sterilisation of advertisers on more than one occasion, but I really like Ijusi. I think it's great, funny, witty design, with a good message, and best of all almost free of the spectre of money that haunts most design. I don't know if Garth Walker, the creator of Ijusi, made a dent in design in SA, I still see too much crap out there, like that stupid, badly designed ArtHeat blog. But at least these things make you believe that design can be a force for good.

Labels: design, review, south african art, south african artist

My feelings about paper are something I don't hide. Printmaking classes at art school left scars, that are continually abraded by the horror of the pretty box identity work that is the mainstay of young lost undergraduates and horrible artists. The idea of cutouts makes me cold sweat, and the words moleskine, fabriano, 2B and putty rubber make it freeze onto my body. Awful, mean, tactile material. Shudder.

So I walked into the AVA with some apprehension this afternoon. I missed the opening owing to a mixture of being mildly ill and discovering all six seasons of Sex and the City on DVD (it happens to the best of us). I must admit though instead of horror Liza Grobler's Nine Chicks and a Dick series left me pleasantly amused. The lines had whimsy, and the surreal (can one still use that word?) approach to drawing wasn't overblown, didn't leave a bad taste, and was funny. Only problem was there were 9 pictures of chicks, one portrait of a dick all making good conceptual senses, and then a strange and ugly drawing of an eye, and some balls of barb wire sculptures. One must ask why. Still better than the shite that normally adorns paper.

The next room was also nice. This show called Paper and Me was a group show about some artists relation to paper. Some was gross, and I can't even remember it, just a blur of little torn out things and some decorative crap that'd look good above my TV when I advance to all four seasons of Grey's Anatomy. But some of it was ok. Lynette Bester had a series called Bitter Sweet that was paper pulp moulded into the shape of tree bark, funny in the same way that that Sushi restaurant with the fish tank tables was funny. Just slightly less macabre. Marna Hatting made some nice mysterious drawings. There was someone else who made some cut and paste things, called Waiting for Information which was interesting in a cut and paste cutesy way. can't remember the artist because (see paragraph one) I wasn't carrying a notebook.

Kirsty Gallery Director asked me to promote the New Media room, which has had a dearth of submissions since it opened. She says with all the moaning about video art recently somebody should be getting off their arses.

Oh, and there were some paintings upstairs.

Labels: ava, review, south african art, south african artist

Sorry for the slowness of posts this week I'm not only a useless artist wanker, but also have a real job, which occasionally gets in the way, along with the odd hangover that debilitates my desire to write. I've been meaning to put up a review of One Million and Fourty Four Years (and Sixty Three Days) for a little while, but my copy fell apart at the spine, and I was too depressed to continue (at least the ISBN was easy to find: 978-0-620-38259-5). I hear rumour that a whole bunch of the books were sent back to the printer to be rebound in hardcover, so if you bought a crappy-spined copy like me, sorry, you were too eager, and you know what they say about the early worm.
However, and all that aside, Kathryn Smith did a good job of putting the content together, with a lot of interesting input from a variety of interesting people. Essentially, the book puts forward the question: Is the avant-garde still a viable/tenable notion in the current contemporary moment? You can read Zachary Yorke's review on Artthrob here as he is more capable of wading through a Colin Richards piece than I am. Some of my favourites were the more visual submissions, such as Gustavo Artigas' Spontaneous Human Combustion 1 where the artist burst into flames during a talk about Mexican artists and the avant-garde (see his website here, it's worth a look. You can also see a video of the SHC piece and some other awesome works) and Kristofer Paetau's Artforum Accident where the artist vomits at an art fair (his site here). The local Avant Car Guard sent some pictures which were also pretty funny. The text pieces were in a variety of styles, some short and aggressive, some long and dry, and some plain fascinating. My personal favourite was Stacy Hardy's Everyone Hates Me Because I'm Nerdy and White, an unsettling journey featuring Ed Young (partially fictionalised) and a blowjob. Other pieces that took a more academic or more formal stance were also enlightening, such as the contributions by Robert Storr, Bettina Malcomess, Liam Gillick, Sean o'Toole and others. I think the book is vital reading, not only because of it's diverse content, but also because it is an example of where books on art in South Africa should be going... not just monographs and surveys of South African art, but rather questions being asked and answered on valuable topics, that include a South African focus but refuse to be so insular.

Books available at Baobab Books, Clarke's Books both on Long Street, Cape Town. SMAC gallery in Stellenbosch has copies too, and I imagine you could order from them if Long Street is off your tramping grounds.

Labels: art, avant-garde, book review, Kathryn Smith, review, South Africa

I went to the latest offering from the Bowling Club (that collective that is holding "cultural events" once a month), this one hosted and presented by Andrew Putter, and I was blown away. It was a lecture on the science, culture and history of smells, along with a box of samples (some pleasant, some very, very mean). I think it's quite well known that smell has a direct link to memory and emotion, but I never before realized the breadth and depth of the industry that exploits that. And I guess that makes for a very good lecture, both interesting and illuminating. Keep your eyes open for more offerings from the collective.

Labels: 20 Smells, andrew putter, Bowling Club, review

Pictured above, we can see the starving Zimbabwean artist, Dan Halter, stalking an unsuspecting canape waiter. Most of us polite gallery-goers were shocked to see such voracious consumption, two handed, but were impressed with the quality of the scraps we could salvage. Two thumbs up to Kirsty Cockerill and the AVA for providing sustenance at these upmarket functions.

Later, I went and looked at the art inside. Then I started to down my wine at a fantastic rate. I don't have a problem with lino, per se. It's just, I believe, a fine line one must walk to pull it off, especially as it is a medium that has a large weight of heavy associations. Suffice to say that this was no John Muafengejo. Nor was it Wim Botha.

There was some paintings upstairs too.

Labels: review

Image by Henning Ludeke
I'm not sure what's happening at Joao Ferreira at the mo, but non-alcoholic beer, even at a minimal-style show, is a bit beyond the pale. It gives you the hangover without the fun of being drunk. Kinda like the exhibition itself: All of the process, all of the mystery of meaning, but none of the fun. Maybe I'm too young, but this modern approach to art leaves me feeling a little bloated.
That said, however, there is a certain kind of beauty of white paper in a white space, that is goosebumpy. Albeit those goosebumps are in nice precise rows.

Labels: review

Hero worship and objectivity don’t exactly have a benevolent relationship and the temptation here to just say “Conrad Botes! Conrad Botes! Conrad Botes!” is huge. For the sake of impartiality however, let’s say that the works arguably aren’t as effective as his Bitterkomix drawings and paintings. Maybe that’s because nobody’s unwittingly having sex with their elderly prostitute mother or being tossed into a flaming cess pit. Not to say that the works aren’t provocative, The Passion of the White Rat is more than enough to irk irritable religious types, likewise the ape detail in Tree of Knowledge. Continuing the fickle grumblings, many felt that the sculptures reeked of Claudette Schreuders (who, in a move of interesting curatorship is concurrently on exhibition); in fact it was a common misconception that they were collaborations. Apparently some of the works (White Rat for instance) have been on display before. The drinks at the opening weren’t free. The catalogue hasn’t been printed yet. To hell with it. Conrad Botes! Conrad Botes! Conrad Botes! Where would the South African contemporary art scene be without Afrikaner counter-culture?

Labels: review

You may remember Tanya Poole as being the joint winner of the Brett Kebble award in 2004 with her work Missing You, which was an accomplished piece featuring a nice pseudo-video art approach applying a degree of random narrative to two portrait paintings. That approach is repeated here with the work Drift Installation albeit sans the sound aspect. This effectively removes the randomness that made Missing You so good (the paintings “spoke” out of synch and thus the potential for them to speak at the same time emerged) and makes the work quite bland. Fair enough, I’m not sure how you incorporate sound into a work wherein one of the two figures is sleeping (snoring?) but without sound the work just doesn’t pique one’s curiosity. It’s well executed but lacks anything really interesting. Which is pretty much true of the entire exhibition. It’s also lacking somewhat in cohesion, it feels as though the works sit independently of each other rather than flowing as a nice, larger, dialoguing enitity. Perhaps my definition of exhibition constituents is too Marxist. Oddly enough it is a series of painted doors that seem the most fascinating. They are very well painted and, in move of effective curatorship, placed next to the actual “Private” door of the gallery; bringing into the exhibition the whole reality vs illusion idea.

Labels: review

According to the ever-reliable artist statement, the exhibition “explores the symbolic importance of farm animals and their slaughter within our contemporary society”. I’m not sure how simply presenting this reasonably varied assortment of post-mortem farm dwellers in faux-butchery poses is exploring any symbolic importance. It seems to just be stating “Chickens, pigs and cows are culturally significant” without actually delving into how or why. Fair enough beads as a material have specific connotations to them that would theoretically be bestowed upon the work but again that’s not really exploring anything about contemporary society, it’s merely extending an accepted material/culture association. Having said that, the exhibition works very nicely on an aesthetic level. The novelty factor of seeing these well executed (no pun intended) carcasses hanging in a gallery is great and makes for an entertaining if somewhat macabre gallery trip. Abundance (Nguni Hide)’s beaded cow hide is a lovely take on a “well-traveled” idea, while the slaughtered pig of Filthy Rich (Pig) provides an unfortunate proxy-conclusion to the exploits of the flying one in Storm Thorgerson’s Animals print, displayed in the front section of the gallery. The drawings aren’t too shabby either.

Labels: review

I've been struggling to write about this show all week, firstly having a bit of artworld sickness, and secondly because I enjoyed it and that is often harder to write about. Anyway, Lizza Littlewort almost let me off the hook by sending me the following:

Cardboard tears: Julia Clark's “Hypocrite's Lament”.

I've had another epiphany, without even being drunk or in 'the townships'. This time I was drinking water at the opening of Julia Clark's “Hypocrite's Lament”. What was similar about both epiphanies was a flood of relief at finding a space so conducive to a rarified self-indulgent pass-time called thinking. Both shows moved seamlessly past the glass ceiling that says “I studied art theory at university” into the big, uncharted, chaotic, shitty world beyond post-graduate studies where millions of people have to negotiate daily between a rock and a hard place for their spiritual survival.
Julia's show impressed me at first glance with its design sophistication. Boy, was that a good thing to see. Like manna falling from heaven compared with the diet of corporate schlock that masquerades as design in the wild-west capitalist outpost we call home. Another thing I liked was the show's generosity. To reach out to a wide audience and still keep your own integrity is a very hard thing achieve. Being obscure is a piece of piss, really, by comparison. Like doing about one tenth of the job. And thirdly, I thoroughly appreciated Julia's complex negotiation with her own darkness.
There's only one thing you could do better next time, Julia. Throw that book on Guy Tillim out of your bookshelf.

Which is nice piece of writing.

What strikes me, though, is that Julia experiences a fear of things. It would seem surprising for one who has clearly collected millions of things, objects and images, and for one who obviously knows how to use them. But there is a fear of what the profusion of stuff in contemporary culture portends. In the new show it seems to be the end of the world.

Which is not an unreasonable proposition.

Especially as we, she, are constantly involved in making more in a desperate scrabble to make sense of what we have, or where we've gone wrong. In ends up in a hypocritical cycle, impossible to escape, only lament. I'm a little afraid too.
The show spins out to grasp all sorts of diverse concepts from climatic catastrophe to post-colonial worry to personal identity to good old plain creation, and wraps them in a blanket of apocalypse (maybe appropriate here in both it's meanings revelation of knowledge; and end of the world).

Well, what can I say? I liked the show.

(Also if you were there at the opening there was another appearance of the Doing It For Daddy collective. There 15 minutes of frame project has become a real success, with loads of people milling about, some actually buying, and some influential artists giving up some frames.)

Labels: review

Well. What can I say, except boring and unprofessional. And I arrived too late for the snacks. If only the work you saw as you walked in was what you got, but disappointingly that was the only new work on the show. That is Ed Young's I LOVE NEW WORK, dominated the entrance hall, looking smashing in black. Next up was a video ripoff of Richard Prince, some bad paintings about demographics, a book about a web search (which was quite poetic, if not a bit mathematical), and then a sort of blur of works I've seen in that gallery twice already. Michael John Michael's upside down wine glass sculpture Untitled, was starting to leak, which was kinda funny because he said, "It's all the fat people walking around, that are disturbing it." How delicate.
Another piece of good fun was how the opening speaker Cheryl de la Rey, a big shot in the University, was sent the wrong date and didn't pitch (this on top of the invite giving the wrong time, no closing date, and no venue!). Bit of a kick in the bollocks, after all the debate on this site about Michaelis being the centre of the world.

Went to the AVA after for the From Here to There show. The new video lounge there looks amazing. The work was ok. A few moments of 'that's cool', but I'm not sure beyond that. I guess it is one of the more interesting shows I've seen there for a while.

Labels: review

I got an angry phone call this morning… some dick with my phone number, “What’s your fucking problem? I thought we were gonna get hourly updates on Cape. What are you doing?” Well, the only reason that I’ve got the energy now to write anything is because, luckily, I missed the new Goodman opening, and Afterlife at Michael Stevenson, due to prior commitments, so I have had some respite this weekend. But I swear if I have to hear another rambling, boring speech this year, the results are going to be worse than this hangover. I did manage to get to the press conference for Cape ’07 on Friday, at the ungodly hour of 9am. Clutching my coffee in one hand and a sickly yellow petit-four in the other, I looked in vain for the international journalists… but I suppose they look no different from us. Then came the information that the National Gallery, and it’s team of assistants couldn’t get the exhibition up in time, so the schedule had to be changed. Which would have been fine, except that was the only part of the bus tour I could attend. So I left after the speech, which was kind of an introduction and kind of an apology. Oh well…. I did get a press pack, full of all sorts of goodies, like a cool bag to put stuff in.

Later went to Early Friday, but everyone seemed distinctly tired and flat. ArtHeat’s own after-party was a resounding success, with the only person who can prove he’s an international journalist in South Africa pulling in for his free drink.

The next morning ISANG must have gotten a little worried by the crowds outside, so they opened their doors. By the time I arrived, the one video lounge was dead, the amp had blown, all the snacks were finished, the wine was petering out, and the space is so huge that, vowing to come back later in the week, I stepped back out side. On Rosenclair’s sculpture Soapboxes, was 15 Minutes of Frame, a installation thing by all-girl collective Doing It For Daddy. I was a bit skeptical about the original idea, which you can read if you scroll down a bit, but in reality it worked really well, with quite a bustle developing around the stall. And quite a few people submitting frames, including Linda Givon, Andrew Lamprecht, Christian Nerf, etc. The highlight was the shirts they were selling which read: “Show me the hegemony,” which I wore proudly as I drove through to Khayalitsha for the official opening at Lookout Hill. There were two highlights for me there, the first being a wedding in the hall next door, which no-one really expected, and the second being Brett Bailey’s witches from his recent play MacbEth. Dressed as the Butcher Boys, as in Jane Alexander's iconic sculptures, they sat on the hot tin roof in the sun for the whole afternoon. It was eerie to say the least. The lookout hill location is beautiful, the gallery must be 50m long. The art put up, wasn't amazingly exciting, pretty standard fare, Lolo Veleko, David Goldblatt, Nicholas Hlobo, etc. To be expected really.

The after party at the Kimberly Hotel (one of my favourite bars in the world) was fun, but a bit weird... lots of people I didn't know, so I got pretty drunk. There was some whole scandal about Gabi Ncgobo stealing Ed Young's stolen shoes (St Motherfucking Maxim's Day) from the SMAC show and leaving in their place a pair of rubber flip-flops. Ed called the cops on her, and they removed the shoes. I don't know Gabi and Ed, a tired gesture from both of you. The highlight of the whole incident was one of Ed's numerous exes sitting in the corner saying, "It's a conspiracy... it's a conspiracy for publicity." I got tired, and went home to my cat, who doesn't know about making art.

I guess though, that the thing is getting pulled off with fuck-all budget... maybe this means that the next one will be a different type of success, one with secured funding from interested parties who saw what fun could be had with zero funds and an inherited legacy of bad planning. I think this thing needs some positive spin and a positive response from the art world, or there won't be anything to grow-up.

I'll continue to check out the venues over the next couple of weeks, so watch this space. Anyone who has some impressions of the shows can also email me and I'll probably publish it.

Labels: review

Famous mourning in front of Nerf's memorial work The MacGuffin.

What a mission!I know I'm a "parochial worm" and seldom leave the fertile crescent, except under duress, but wandering around Stellenbosch trying to follow those directions got me quite lost. Maybe being a Michaelis graduate, though, could account for my directionlessness. Nevertheless, we did indeed arrive at Gimberg/ Nerf/ Sacks/ Young at Smac. As did half of Cape Town. Off the bat, I must say that it is an amazing gallery... a bustling office full of professionals, a beautiful space, and tasteful waiters bringing high quality Stellenbosch quaff and, bizarrely, popcorn. And also publishing a high quality book to accompany the show, something which will be reviewed in it's own right after I peruse it. I heard rumour that the gallery put up money for production costs too; an unheard of luxury. As for the show itself... the entrance hall was lined with rows of work by some of SA's finest young artists: Hindley, Halter, Henan and some others. The main show was busy, chaotic even, but with refreshingly good humour. Perhaps challenging...some works could have used some explanatory text, especially bits of Christian Nerf's work, though knowing some of the stories I thoroughly enjoyed his offering. Ed Young had some new work, which was surprising. It seems a different direction, stuffed bears and stuff, which wasn't entirely clear. But maybe it is the start of a new life for Ed's work... at some point being big only in Cape Town and Ghent must wear thin. Ruth Sacks had some new work too, not least being the announcement that she will be on Venice. Sweet Mecca. (If I might add, you could also see the book we did together I'll stop believing in you if you stop believing in me). Douglas Gimberg presented work which held up well against the work of the older artists. I hope the quality of his work, and unique humour, is something we'll see more of.
Finally, the long and purposefully rambling, boring speech by Ronald Suresh Roberts was a performance in itself. His words, leaving some red-faced with anger and others with laughter, just prove that people are more often judged by their images in the media, than what they are actually saying. A somewhat appropriate message, perhaps.

Wish we had a gallery like this a bit closer to home...

Labels: review

Dropped by Cameron Platter's show, Kwakuhlekisa, on Wednesday night, which was surprisingly empty (pity, because the wine was outstanding), even most of the usual suspect were absent. Still, it seemed like a theme for the show. Not that I think Cameron's work is shallow, but this show did have the smack of the formulaic to it. I'm imagining there must be some pressure on a young artist signed to a gallery, commitments and the such like. I enjoyed some of the works on an individual level... like the tires (Stolen Car, Rimmin' 365) and the door (Red Studio Private) which display his customary wit and playfulness. The problem seems to be a lack of cohesion in the exhibition as a whole, and lack of guts in the some of the works themselves. I was really excited by the little installation at blank last November, which I thought was a very strong direction for his work to move in. The freshness, narrative and tragedy that was evident in that work (Party Time) was pretty much absent from this show. Also, one of the joys of previous work was that although the work was uneven in nature the colour was meticulously applied (legendarily, by a host of assistants with pencil crayons). I'm not convinced by the paint, yet. But, as Brendon Bell-Roberts said, "The turnout's not good, but the people who buy will come during the days." What can I say, a man's got to make a living, and people aren't buying bloodstains. And, my negativity aside, Cameron's work is still some of my favourite ever. I mean I'd gladly own any of the works on show (except for the bizarre Wooolooowhateverthing)... I just wouldn't put them all on a show together.

On a different note, the Bell-Roberts should be putting Art South Africa online in the near future, and also there new design mag. They are also building their new gallery out on a farm in Somerset West, which sounds, if not quite my glass of wine, at least a little interesting.

I was quite late, but I took a quick sprint down to Dorothee Kreutzfeld at Joao Ferreira. They were closing up, and I only got a quick glance. Based on a Johnny Cash song (The Man Comes Around), listened to while flying over the Congo... its theme is African apocalypse rendered in paint by a white girl. Huh? I didn't get it either, really. The symbolism and the signs used in the paintings were kind of obscure for me. Then again, I did just dash in briefly...

And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts

And I looked and behold, a pale horse

And his name that sat on him was Death

And Hell followed with him

Dramatic, but personally I hope that the pale horse Death rides in on isn't a painter in a plane.

Labels: review

So I got an SMS at 6pm this evening, saying "secret brian eno exhb at michaelis. come now." Consequently, I did sneak into the invite only special opening, which had great canapes, and was glad. I am posting a video interview with Brian Eno so that I don't have to explain the whole thing. Brian Eno is a cultural legend, genius in the words of Andrew Lamprecht, but I'm glad I didn't have to sit through more than five minutes, especially with Top Billing (suddenly interested in art) filming the rapt audience. I got out quick before I got to see my image looking stupid on TV, or worse, before I started to feel a bit too ambient. Brian Eno himself looks remarkably well-aged for someone who has lived such a drug-interesting life, not particularly ravaged, and smart in a pin-stripe suit. Rumour has it that the Bowling Club (that new cultural collective thing, if you haven't heard about it yet) is having dinner with the man himself. Not that that makes me bitter in itself, anyone is allowed to have dinner. But I wander vis a vis the Bowling Club, what is the point of having another cultural society that is elite and exclusive? Do you think by any chance I could polish your balls and get access to some of the fun?

Labels: review