A Night At The Bunker
An adult art club implies a certain degree of debauchery, so; I willingly oblige. The champagne’s popped open in anticipation and the eyeliner is winged to a ludicrous degree. Ready.
The usual measures are taken to prepare for an art show: drinking games and ridiculous photos, then of course the selfie; snapped in the backseat of an Uber. We arrive at The Bunker, an adult art show in the inner city, and a bunker it most certainly is. Down the stairs, inside and onto the art. Art is displayed on the brick, bunkered walls, surrounding a set up of chairs for some shit talk that comes later.
I lock eyes with a little mannequin man, he judges me as I roam around the room. I try to beat him in a staring contest, to which he says nice try bitch. No dad, I didn’t win. This little man belongs to Vultures Nest, an artist whose sculptures and sketches are on exhibit around the bunker. His sketched scribbles depict visceral violence and voluptuous vixens. They’re comic book cool, with bright backgrounds behind characters that come at you.
Valentino Koch displays his work, and works his zipper down; displaying his cock. Valentino Koch describes his art as; preposterous, obscure and original, and that it is. With Valentino one can only expect the unexpected, his art is experimental; it’s layered and requires a second look. The art covers two walls, with two large pieces and a smaller set of four. The set consists of vaginas, each unique and individually anatomic in bold black lines. Valentino stands with his vaginas, and reminds us: you are what you eat. I implore you, peer into the pussy and find some meaning.
I continue to explore the bunker, making my way to the DJ set and dance floor. We are caged in from the stage, a zoo of techno trippers. The laser lights flash and the music assaults you, in all the right ways. Raki Raw slaps you with tunes and holds you back up, balancing you with a strong base. Her rhythmic bangers get you moving, and maybe even grooving.
The night unravels and unwraps as I walk around the Bunker. There is live painting, which I mainly miss as I’m too busy busting a move. I’m flask drinking, and not thinking, as I give out my number to men I won’t remember.
We leave early, but it’s quite late. Pink Mountain Events provides another night, showcasing the underground Brisbane art scene, and the talented artists continue to impress, whatever their canvas of choice.
I kick on and nang the night away. The birds rudely wake and tell me to go to bed; to this I oblige and pretend that I know when to call it a night.