EVERY MORNING I would press my nose against the glass and try to imagine what this place could be. A bare room with white walls and beautifully polished floorboards in a shopfront next to a laundry and a bus stop. As I waited there for the last of the three buses to my new school, I saw pictures on the walls which were routinely replaced by others. Nothing else changed. What was this place for? What did the simple, hand-lettered name on the window-glass mean? There was no furniture, nothing obviously for sale, nothing to indicate a function. I was nine years old, and I had no idea that public places existed for experiencing and discussing art.
My new school was in Woollahra, in Sydney’s wealthy eastern suburbs, where for two years I studied evolution, ancient history, advanced science and mathematics, and art theory and practice. It was worlds apart from Eastlakes Public School, then part... Read more
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