Arty, arts, art

I mustn't forget we have done stuff while in Hong Kong. We have, slowly, some days without Tiger. But I need to log down our successes, because otherwise I might forget. And if we were to come away, I would look back and think, we didn't do anything at all. So, just for my personal balance, these are our particular triumphs.

Hours of quiet craft. Sticking, gluing, positioning ribbon, stitching paper, making origami dinosaurs, tiny books, little cards. Round each craft there's a story, a question, a wonder or a million thoughts. Some people might see it, and casually call this play. That word is not great and grand enough to convey what's going on in the sticky hands and purposeful minds of children, yet it's so simple and perfect, meaning all of everything, that it should come with a special protection to ensure Ofsted never grasp it between their corpsed and rigid lips.

Art group. It is true! I have booked all the gritlets into an art group! I walk down the main street of this miniature town to be hailed by someone who thinks I need an artist. How she sees that, I do not know. Call it the hippy hair, the look of hopelessness, the way I stagger my carcass in non-artistic styles. But I don't even need the sales patter. Within fifteen seconds I've enrolled three extra in her weekly pad and pencil brigade.

The Hong Kong Museum of Art. We wander about calligraphed, brush stroked, swept into shapes by paints and inks and water colours. Go and see, and come and join us. We'll be there again soon, climbing green inky mountains, sliding down blue ceramic pots, and balancing our noses against the art, story, and drama of Wu Guanzhong.