Yesterday (also known as a beautiful, sunny, blue-skied, 26°C summer’s day in Canberra), my mum and I went to see the Ballet Russes exhibition at the National Gallery of Australia. Because mum and I quite like each other, such mother-daughter outings are becoming regular events. These events have two requirements:
1. They must be fun.
2. They must involve afternoon tea.
Our most memorable outings so far have included Floriade, where I fell in love with a zebra and lost three fingers, and the Yarralumla Nursery, where I overcame both physical and metaphorical obstacles.
This time, however, I went with the flow of the ballet costume exhibition theme, and became a ballerina exhibitionist.
Natalie Portman, eat your heart out.
Unfortunately photos were forbidden in the Ballet Russes exhibition, so I can’t take you on a Wayfaring Chocolate Art Tour. I can, though, tell you that the costumes were fascinating, not only for their colour and design but because so many of them were enormous and made of heavy material. Mum and I couldn’t help thinking that they’d be rather difficult to dance in. Has anyone else been to this exhibition? What were your thoughts?
Afterwards, mum and I put on our most regal expressions and ascended past the Plebeian’s Cafeteria* to the top-level Member’s Lounge, where we daintily ordered a Passionfruit Tart, a coffee, and chardonnay.
Following on from my recent restaurant experience with a lacklustre passionfruit tart that tasted of nothing but sugar, I was a bit nervous about trying this version.
I shouldn’t have been.
The National Gallery of Australia’s passionfruit tart had a wonderfully silky-smooth filling that was nicely balanced between tanginess, sweetness, and the strong flavour of fresh passionfruit. I tend to find pastry a rather boring component of tarts (I’d much rather let someone else eat the pastry while I nick off with all the filling), but even I could admit that this pastry was crisp and adequate, rather than soggy and a complete waste of space.
There was one thing about this outing that was even nicer than the tart, though. When mum and I were still perusing the exhibition, a woman approached me to say that she loved my dress, and that she thought it should be up on display alongside Picasso’s and Matisse’s Ballet Russes garments. I was so surprised, and so overwhelmed, that my face burst into a beam reminiscent of a crazy person. I chirped to the lady that this was my first time wearing the dress and that I had bought it in Florence, and then I beamed a little more.
After that (and after the passionfruit tart), there was only one path left for me to take.
The path of making a fool of myself in the Sculpture Garden.
Hey look ma! I’m a Rodin cast! Except without the male jangly bits!
Hey look ma! I’m a Rodin cast doing an interpretive dance about the miseries of being a single lady who doesn’t even have someone to blame for failing to put a ring on it!
Hey look ma! Where are we going next?
* Not the real name.