| rev:text
| - I am not the standard Vegas traveler. I don't ride a scooter holding a cigarette and oxygen tank. I don't wear an upside-down over-sized visor while clutching a yard-long margarita. I don't go to clubs in my shiny shirt. And I don't get my perv on at the topless pools. I have absolutely nothing against those activities, nor those who seek to participate in them. Honestly, I don't. People are free to seek out whatever kinds of carrying-on makes their trip an enjoyable one and there seems to be something of an agreement that those I previously described can be seen as among the most popular, they're just not my idea of a good time.
No, when I'm in Vegas I'm there to eat. I do a little gambling. A little shopping, maybe. But the focus of my three-or-four-times-a-year sojourns in Sin City are focused on great food and wine. Las Vegas has positioned itself as a destination for the gustatorily inclined, amongst which I count myself and my small group of friends. So there you have it.
But what to do in-between meals? What indeed? It's a puzzle, isn't it?
Thank goodness, then, for the Bellagio Gallery of Fine art. And while not incredibly well curated, it does at least have interesting pieces on display whenever I visit. They usually let an exhibit run for 4-6 months or so, and though it's never anything TRULY exciting, it does at least offer a welcome oasis of high-culture in a desert of debasement.
You'll never see anything as outside the mainstream as a Jason Rhoades installation there. I don't think any Richard Prince retrospectives are in danger of being hung, but I did see some nice O'Keefes, Marsden Hartleys, and an Ashille Gorky on my last visit. There have been Picassos, Cezannes, and Monets in the past, and there's nothing wrong with that.
The space is a little cramped, which gets in the way of appreciating pieces at varying distances, and the flow of the space is a little odd, and maybe the paintings are grouped a little tightly sometimes... but I'm willing to forgive these little transgressions as grateful as I am to have something besides an 80-foot high mural of a showgirl's ass to gaze at while I'm waiting for mealtime to roll around. Not that... well... you get the idea.
As long as you manage your expectations, the 17 bucks you will drop for admission is pretty good compared to what that same amount will buy you out on the casino floor. Go on, get some culture! It's good for ya! There will be plenty of time for scooters and 'ritas and showgirl-ass later in the day. Trust me, there always is.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)
![[cxml]](/fct/images/cxml_doc.png)
![[csv]](/fct/images/csv_doc.png)
![[text]](/fct/images/ntriples_doc.png)
![[turtle]](/fct/images/n3turtle_doc.png)
![[ld+json]](/fct/images/jsonld_doc.png)
![[rdf+json]](/fct/images/json_doc.png)
![[rdf+xml]](/fct/images/xml_doc.png)
![[atom+xml]](/fct/images/atom_doc.png)
![[html]](/fct/images/html_doc.png)