Public Artiness In Wellington

Friday I happened to be in town in the late afternoon, walking back to Courtenay Place from the train station since it was a nice sunny day (for a change) and I was enjoying myself very much, toodling down Featherston, sticking my nose in various shops, looking forward to picking up my library books. I’d just bought a new hair ribbon when all of a sudden three pompadoured Vegas-style Elvises walked smack into me. “Sorruh, little laddeh,” one of them apologized in a perfect Graceland accent. “Thank yuh verruh much,” he said, and they bowled away, smiling and winking. I was still collecting myself when I realized that a) I had my camera with me, b) I should have taken a picture of them, c) they were too far away for me to sprint after them, and d) my chances of running into them again, literally or figuratively, were probably pretty slim.

As you might expect, I am still mourning that lost photo op, even two days later, but it turns out I have been taking some other pictures of funny-ish things around town that I can offer as a pale substitute for the marauding should-watch-where-they’re-going Kings Of Rock.

Here we have a statue of a man, his hat, and his dog. Hmm. This isn’t actually that funny. Except for the hat, maybe.

And here is a lovely painted caravan in the Te Papa parking lot. You see a tolerable amount of these around, especially at hostels and at tourist places. I used to have this weird desire to drive across the States in a pop-top Euro-van for some reason, so I secretly think it would be a little bit fun to do something similar in the South Island. My guess is that that sort of thing lives or dies based on one’s road trip partner…though I can’t help thinking that having a nice cobra air-
brushed on your ride would smooth down any little complaints or disagreements, as there is nothing like shared humiliation to bring people together.

I don’t know about you, but I when I go to a public bathroom, I prefer it to be adorned with a mural of an extremely long-lived yet unfortunately endangered reptile. (I have also been looking for a bathroom mural of an equally endangered kakapo, sadly to no avail. Yet.)

Heading over to Cuba Mall, we see a rather silly bucket…fountain….thing. Excellent for getting everyone wet and cold when it’s windy, which is EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Nearby we see the Pink Panther, sleeping it off after a big night out with a hair of the dog.

I saw these guys one day as I was walking down Cuba Street to the bus stop after bellydance class. I asked what they were doing and the guy with the tree painting was all “This is how I make my living, eh!” The other guy? He just saw the tree-painting guy setting up and asked if he could play too. I love how he’s doing a very serious rendering of an eighth-grade math-class doodle, there.

Going up Cuba Street, here we see some more awesome art in the form of the entranceway to the one and only Fidel’s.

Aw, Fidel’s! You big sweetie. I love you too!

Here we have the poster wall, right by the bathroom as you go to the back outside patio.

In the first picture, please note the Atomic ad, which is where I wanted to go last weekend but didn’t, and the Ladyfest poster, to which I did go the weekend before. In the second picture, please note the octopus/skull creature on the Fat Freddy’s new CD poster.

Okay! Headed in the exact opposite direction now, we have some arty-ish waterfront bridge stuff.

And here is a large silver fern ball thing–don’t worry if you don’t always get all my technical descriptions of stuff–suspended in the air above the courtyard between City Council chambers and the central library and the walkway to the aforementioned bridge.

Heading on home from town now, we see this very exciting ultimatum from a rather piqued bearded lady. Oh, man. I just had this great idea that Brad is actually her bearded-lady barber and that she’s very unhappy with the goatee he’s given her (she requested the full mutton chops, you see) and if he doesn’t get on it then this association between herself and Brad, this bearded-lady/barber relationship is totally over and she will take her business elsewhere which would be very sad news indeed for Brad (just look at his face!) because practically his whole livelihood is based upon the fact that he cuts a bearded lady. He has people all up in his barbershop (it’s called Brad’s Beards) who come to him for their beard-cuts, just because every time they see this fabulous bearded lady out and about—on the catwalk, on the red carpet, on a few day’s holiday in St. Tropez—they always scream out Who does your fabulous beard? and she always waves and smiles and says “Barber Brad of Brad’s Beards, of course!” and of course there’s been media attention, and he’d have never been able to afford to buy his own shop without the increased clientele. So. If Brad knows what’s good for him, he’s going to shape up.

LOOK INTO MY EYES.

Can’t argue with this sentiment:

Now, I know some of you have been very worried about punk lately. You’ve been calling punk and punk never seems to be home. Punk’s mom doesn’t know where punk is, and punk’s best friend hasn’t seen punk either. I just want you to rest assured, you don’t have to worry about punk. Punk is not dead, punk is absolutely fine–punk is really really sorry for all the trouble and confusion, time just got away from punk–and punk is looking pretty good in that tight shirt lately, you know?

Now this is what I like to see. Wouldn’t it be great if everywhere you went you saw people tagging walls with their coffee orders? CHAI LATTEZ 4 EVA. 12-OZ 2% LOW FOAM ESPRESSO. TRIM HOT CHOCOLATE WITH XTRA MARSHMALLOWS. I demand that everyone reading this run right out and get some spray paint and start decorating your town with your caffeine-delivery-system specifications. (But, please, for the love of arabica, please spell your graffiti correctly).

Back in my neighborhood, we have one of my favorite things I’ve ever seen in this city, or indeed in any city anywhere. I like to think that this was not just the product of errant Halloween shenanigans, but that the people in that house are loud and proud about their chiroptera predilections. The Joneses down the street? Hmph. Fifty, sixty percent bat, maaaaybe seventy-five. But in our home? One hundred percent bat, baby: it’s all bat, all the time, and we don’t care who knows it!

And this brings us back to Berhampore, after our rather exhausting day out looking at silly and fabulous public art. Maybe we should take the bus the rest of the way home.