nuit blah

Murray Whyte of the Toronto Star asked yesterday: "is it art?"

Kicking off my boots at 5 AM today, I found myself wondering the same.

Sprawled across my futon, supine, and sipping tea with three of the finest people I know, I worried that maybe I'm just too common to understand the ins and outs of high or contemporary art. I was irritable and peckish and there was nothing to do but eat stale cereal and contemplate Whyte's woolly query.

After six hours on our feet, sated by wine, caffeine and curiosity, the four of us reflected on Nuit Blanche.

This year, we made a plan. Art first. Revel later. So we walked, and we walked, and we looked, and we tried to give life to our inner Charles Saatchi.

No matter how bright the lights, how loud the noise, or how big the crowd -- there seemed to be an absence of something integral, no matter where we went.

(I think it might have been, um, art.)

Some of the galleries showed pretty paintings, and photos and pop-up books that conjure up childhood memories – but aside from a pinch of nostalgia, there was little else to experience.

Art for art sake, or simply because the artist deems it so, is a confusing concept to digest while you're standing in a 15 minute line, holding your crotch and bouncing, waiting for a Starbucks bathroom.

Conceptually, the night is a wonderful idea. Civilians getting together, outdoors, with high hopes and warm clothes, all in the name of something called culture.

The reality is, however, that I would rather go to a hockey game and wait for the spotlight to pick me out of the crowd, giving me my "15 seconds of fame" on the jumbo-tron, rather than stand around with a bunch of suburbanites waiting for the same in Dundas square.

At least at a hockey game I'm usually the only one who doesn't get it, or simply doesn't care**.

But last night? I'm sure I wasn't alone.

** I've never been one for athletics.