Never mind the Pollocks

During our second tour of duty in the land-locked city-state of Canberra, Hazel and I were lucky enough to live within spitting distance of the National Gallery of Australia.

Every month or so I'd pop in, just to renew my acquaintance with Jackson Pollock's Blue Poles. Without fail, as I ogled at the eight flourescent poles suspended in their cerulean cosmos, some codger would shuffle past and say: "I coulda painted that".

"Well, Mr Pension Man," I would think, "aint it a shame your wasted youth is gone."

Which is why I despair at recent carping that Australia's oldest - and I think best - international arts festival has become too high-brow.

Besides the fact it's always been high-brow, the annual Perth International Arts Festival cannot come 'round soon enough for me.

When are these codgers, badgers and bludgers gonna realise that part of the joy of good art is taking the time to unlock its secrets?

Hazel and I have already booked our February tickets to see sax-man Greg Osby, who we heard for the first time on the radio only a couple of weeks back.

And we're gonna enjoy it - whether we like it or not.