Almost certainly I'll go to Art Santa Fe - a biannual art fair - tomorrow, to see what there is to see. It's in a new-ish building in the railyard development, just opposite the Farmers' Market, where I was early this morning (art visitors are not, the show presumes, up before 11 a.m., but those of us who want French chickens for roasting, and fresh arugula and basil and snap peas and very new potatoes and dandelion jelly and goats' curds with green chile and a bunch of sweet peas certainly are). So all that could be seen was a large pair of golden balls that usually sit on Paseo de Peralta opposite where the farmers' market was in its last incarnation before it moved to its permanent site (that's not an allusion to Posh Spice's name for David Beckham, which has, of course, irrevocably tarnished the phrase), and another concave bronze piece that looked to provide graffiti artists with an extremely tempting surface. However, what really caught my eye was the door that may or may not lead anywhere; that wasn't covered with a shy little canopy like the main entrance; that announced that whatever is inside, a large tin shed is just a large tin shed.
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