The Story So Far

Well after the wanderings around the Biennal I came back culturally enlightened but slightly confused. We seemed to more fall across the art works and gallery's rather than track them down but it did add to the day in a way.
We walked past a beaten down, old building with bizarre shop window displays, only one caught my eyes and caused the others to look closer....Del Monte plum tomato tins with the slogan 'Pure Murder' emblazoned across them.

We wandered in like small children, giggling and trying to look like we knew we should be there. Attendees looked straight through us.
We were super humans with invisibility at our side.
At first it wasn't clear what was 'art' and what wasn't. There were spray painted oil drums sparsely positioned around the room, with a room further down bathed in darkness.
Straightaway I headed for the darken room, no one else was around, and a bizarre film about a billboard made out of sparkler letters spelling out 'unemployment' was playing to the absent masses. the floorboards were made up of cheap MDF, and gave a more that satisfying 'click' every time I took a step. I increased and decreased my speed, losing my self in the rhythm of the situation. Another traveler came in and sensibilities creeped in. I leave the way Id came and discovered some stairs going further into the building.
 I took each step slowly and entered into the Labyrinthine that was Renshaw Street, Liverpool.
Whole corridors were pitch black, no maps or stuffy plaques declaring such as such's life work and the meaning this holds to them. I encountered videos about bipolar transsexuals viewed from a old plane seats and woman torn and imprisoned in their own bodies, lifestyles. I felt liberated but then the freedom was scary.
No highly positioned gallery know-It-All's to badger, no safe little leaflets.
I decided to leave, to run back to the arms of my organized black book or wheres and why fors of the Biennial.
My first taste of the day was sweet but left a bitter taste of confusion on my palate.