Wish You Were Here

I was watching the other visitors to the gallery. And felt kind of envious of all the people carrying cameras, wearing comfortable shoes and moving about more slowly than the rest of us. These are the holidayers. The lucky ones whose everyday lives have been interrupted with freedom and all those light feelings that go with being anonymous in an unfamiliar city.

I caught the tram home. Changed out of my favourite vintage boots, whose soles have worn so shiny as to warrant a cautious don't-slip gait on certain surfaces. Laced up my light-weight, water-proof, ugly-but-practical walking shoes (reserved for travelling), grabbed my camera and went back.

St Kilda Road, with its parade of elm trees leading to the Shrine looked kinda impressive. And the gallery, rubbing shoulders with the Arts Centre and the VCA, marked the city as an arty one. It was 2pm, so I joined a tour of the permanent collection. Doing tours of my hometown seemed like a no-go…like asking how to use the toaster. But the collections' walls and walls of works, their incredible span of histories and art movements, and their layers and layers of meaning became almost navigable when viewed with a guide.

I took photos, which made an occasion of the occasion. I bought a postcard from the shop and scrawled 'Wish you were here' to my boyfriend (who I saw this morning but he wouldn't mind knowing that I was thinking of him). And I put my hand in the water wall, which only children and travellers can get away with.

by guest: Eleni