- ICA or ICU? -

He knew from the moment he stepped into the lobby that he didn't fit in. An eye-opener, sure, the sort of place and event his exposure to which had previously been restricted to the occasional movie or book. Or nightmare.

The Institute of Contemporary Arts, London, was a white, elongated, imposing building, the sort whose massive, sprawling walls are painted in the most hospitalian shade of white, and each of which are adorned by no more than one relatively small (and most likely out of place) painting - in short, the type he found quite a waste of space. And tonight, it was playing host to The Continuum: Beyond the Killing Fields, the sound of which he hadn't taken an instant liking to. But he'd never been one to turn down an invite and gamely decided to attend, if for nothing else than to take a gander at what high society deemed art (he shuddered), and to perhaps shed his Philistine status, though he was confident that'd prove more impossible than the time he'd tried to pull that lovely little thing on the dancefloor. That it later transpired that the lovely little thing had a moustache and a rather profound adam's apple hadn't worked in his favour, of course.

There were the usual suspects, decked out in the garb he'd been under the impression were mere sterotypes. The yuppie artsy types, with their bandanas and designer (read: brown, thick-rimmed, plastic-framed) glasses. The token aged folk, men in their suits, ladies in the largest dead animal they could find to wrap around their very frail and osteoperosis-stricken shoulders.
The clueless students, looking dapper in their sunday finest, while wondering whether that last piece of plastic they passed had been meant for the centre of the room, under a spotlight, or in that garbage repository in the corner of the room.

Later, he sat through the play, all 2.5 hours of it. He cringed when the Cambodian dancers came on stage time and again to regale the audience with their unique brand of royal classical dance. He was touched when the survivors of the Khmer Rouge regime cried as they retold their stories. He emphathised as the true life story of Em Theay, the only royal dancer to have survived the scourge of the Khmer Rouge was replayed on stage. He referred to the notes when the entire production was performed in Cambodian.
He yawned, a big, thankful yawn, when it was all over. Beneath his Arlington and Green suit, he was still a Philistine after all.

Shadow puppets. Music. Dance. Khmer language. It was difficult to distinguish which was more confused - the production or its audience.

Note to self: 'Refreshments' at swanky art exhibitions tend to refer to wine served in sharp-based glasses, sipped seemingly elegantly with one arm folded and supporting the elbow of the arm holding said glass, as if deliberating on world politics or nuclear physics, while deep in discussion about a piece of canvas no one can seem to make anything of. It is by no means a replacement for dinner. Do not be fooled twice.