White-to-orange 

Yesterday I arrived in Milano by train from Paris via Zurich.  The view out the window from Eastern France, through Switzerland, was covered in an impenetrable white.  Snow covered fields, alps, and pitched-roof chalets dominated all of what I could see out the window.  Once the border was eventually crossed into Northern Italy, my eyes had to readjust to bright shades of orange and red.  Ochre-coloured houses lined the railway and shone against the beautiful blue of Lake Como.  In urban Sesto San Giovanni, red and white striped window awnings and sheets became a ubiquitous sight. 

Floating in London

It's my first time back in London since the pandemic.  When I left in the middle of 2020, during a lockdown, I felt the weight of the world's uncertainty and collective anxiety.  This time, it feels like the world is ostensibly on the other side of the pandemic (or has turned a blind eye).  Things have changed since I was last here; I've grown older, etc etc.  There's also more hope and greater excitement for the life that lies ahead.   I've been walking the streets in a dream-like state (almost floating down them).  After all these years of dreaming of returning, it doesn't quite feel real.  

I saw an exhibition of Giorgio Morandi paintings at the Estorick Collection of Modern Italian Art.  Floating vessels. 

I walked along the River Lea one morning and became intrigued by the people who live in the barges that float against the riverside.  I followed one man as he and his dog moved their barge from one part of the river to another.  I guess that these are people who are constantly floating, constantly shifting location. 

While I've been walking, I've been listening to this Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds song on repeat: Night Raid from their 2019 album Ghosteen.  Although it's an entirely different genre, the song (and album) may even be as good as Cave's early timeless work.  I love Warren Ellis' electronic bell sound and Cave's intense, solemn lyrics: 'your head in a pool of your own streaming hair, Jesus lying in his mother's arms...'  The song makes me float in a reflective revery.   In a recent interview Cave said that the song 'attempts to present the idea that the everyday human gesture is always a heartbeat away from the miraculous; that ultimately we make things happen through our actions, way beyond our understanding or intention.'  

A new year 

Following more criss-crossed lines of story and thought.

...and the world flew off its axis

Last week I saw a colourful suite of paintings by Elizabeth Newman at Darren Knight Gallery in Sydney in an exhibition titled ...and the world flew off its axis.  The show consisted of larger sized paintings on linen that emanated atmospheric shades of pale pinks and blues, and smaller works on cardboard boxes that required intimate inspection.  Patches of hastily applied colour and shape were untethered to any kind of compositional axis; were left afloat in their painterly improvisation.  I guess the same could be said for Newman's ideas: they were incredibly subtle and it took some time for me to warm to the complex and enigmatic quality of her work.  

The numerous text-based paintings in the show didn't necessarily steer me towards understanding Newman's references either, but instead contributed to a sense of lyricism.  These texts gently hinted at the demise of the 'age of humanity', with one ocean green coloured watercolour reading 'a dozen dead oceans.'  Further googling on the train back to Central Station revealed that this is a line from a Bob Dylan song that was inspired by a feeling of hopelessness in the midst of tragic world events.  The 'dead oceans' text was shown next to another painting that included two slivered geodes stuck to a linen canvas.  The geodes floated on top of an amorphously shaped area of foreboding dark grey as though they were the precious remains of a collapsed world.  A painter's palette is used as a found object in a similar vein in another painting with a fog-like patch of white paint stretching outwards from behind it.  Perhaps when the world flies off its axis all there is left is a painterly haze and evidence of artistic process.

It gradually became apparent to me that the intimacy of Newman's paintings can be felt by tuning into their subtle details.  Certain marks and movements with paint and colour suggest some of her thinking; where you can tell that she's put the brush down at one point and then recommenced painting again later, or perhaps where she's given up on an idea altogether and left it unfinished and exposed.  I spent time focusing on areas of her canvases that were untouched, or edges that were painted in an entirely different colour to the rest of the scheme.  After seeing the exhibition I was left thinking about the emotional affects of colour and texture.  Looking over photos I've taken this year, I've been really attracted to particular colours: warmer shades of red, orange, yellow and pink.  Perhaps my attraction to these colours correlates with the various states of desire, hope and introspection that I've experienced this year.  I might attach these colourful images to a separate blog post.  

Travel plans

I'm planning a trip to Europe over January: London, Paris, Berlin, Venice, etc.  Everyone keeps telling me that the cities will be very quiet, that the intense cold leaves a pervading stillness over Europe during the winter.  I don't mind participating in this seasonal quietness as I want to get a sense of a modern working city, not one that's on holiday.  As clichéd as it sounds, I want to be a part of the cities' mechanics: to blend in with locals, and feel as though I've always been there. 

While looking for books related to a uni assignment, I came across a library book of photographs by Eugéne Atget from the early 1900s.  The images capture desolate Paris streets, with a focus on architectural details such as staircases, doorways, and cobbled laneways.  The absence of people is palpable.  They occasionally appear as dim reflections in shopfront windows or as blurred ghostly movement.  Hints of life: brooms, carts, and street markets lie stationary and unused.  With their recurring linear perspective, I was compelled to look into the distance for a possible sense of presence within his frames- often to no avail.  A further sense of loss and absence can be felt through Atget’s sole focus on Paris’ pre-revolution architecture in the context of the city’s then rapid modernisation.  The photographs are a sentimental document of the exhausted and diminishing spaces of the “old Paris”.  In my dreaming and planning of this trip, Atget's images have become references of particular arrondissements.  Perhaps when I'm walking through a changed Paris in a few months, I'll recall these ghostly images in my mind.  

        

Two of my favourite images by Atget.  I can imagine walking the lengths of these paths.  They remind me of stills from a Béla Tarr film.

Absence after the storm

I come out of the studio and onto the street where I unlock my bike from a bike rack.  It’s late in the evening and everything is dark and desolate.  The only sense of movement is the shimmer of reflected street lighting in puddles.  The only sound I can hear is crackling static coming from a little portable radio that a man sitting on a nearby street bench is holding in his hand.  The radio bandwidth is out of frequency, and shifts between a woman singing to a discussion between two people and then to a football match.  I ride off into the distance, but the camera stays with the man on the bench.  He continues to look downward, occasionally taking a sip from a bottle of beer, and thinking intently.  The richly textured sound of static continues. 

Old age, time, space, memory

On my 23rd birthday I found myself sitting in silence with my 90 year old nana.  She was sitting in a chair opposite me, with one leg resting on a coffee table.  On this coffee table, between where we were sitting, was the ravaged remains of a passionfruit sponge cake and empty cups of tea.  We had just finished discussing my plans to travel to Europe early next year.  I watched her as she began to inspect a wound on her leg with an inscrutable expression.  The injury was the result of a fall the following week.  I continued to sit there and observe her body language, her thinking, her gestures, the silence.  As the silence between us grew deeper, the whistled sound of a plane became increasingly loud as it flew past overhead. 

Returning to spaces from our past in our 'night dreams'

An old man wearing a dark tweed suit stops on an oak tree lined street to look at a new house being built across the road.  This new house is in a faux French provincial style.  As he stands there, propped up by his walking stick, workers come in and out of the site lugging hard waste and throw it into an iron skip.  No one notices him standing there.  The man, a retired architect, has an expression on his face that bears the weight of his sadness and confusion.  This particular site was where one of his first designs was constructed: an early modernist dwelling that was cantilevered over a hill and hugged a cluster of gum trees.  Now, the trees have long gone and the site has been flattened and evened out.  The loud intermittent bangs of waste being thrown into the skip powerfully complements the image of the man standing there.  Because the site is so different to what he remembers, and also because of his increasing dementia, all he sees is a blurry image of something he once knew.  The camera stays with the man for a drawn out amount of time.  It dwells on his expression and presence.  It witnesses his behaviour, his solitude, his time.  He leans against a fence and looks on.  The sound of deep rigging reverberates around him as he dreams. 

When I saw this man on the street, I thought instantly of Tacita Dean's 16mm film, Boots (2003).  Dean captures an old man, ostensibly an architect, walking unsteadily from room to room within an empty old mansion: the Casa de Serralves in Porto, designed during the art deco era by architect José Marques da Silva.  I've only seen 'Boots' as still images in a book, but it gave me such a strong sense of architecture being a vessel that retains one's memories, desires.  The film's subject is a spectre of the house's former life, of memory, and so on.  Through dwelling on the lonely presence of the architect, Dean accentuates a feeling of desperate loss.  Gaston Bachelard wrote in his The Poetics of Space: 'all the spaces of our past moments of solitude remain indelible within us and precisely because the human being wants them to remain so.  He knows instinctively that this space identified with his solitude is creative.  We return to them in our night dreams.' 

Stills from Boots found in a book

on Tacita Dean's work

I can't think of a sound more touching than that of a mother singing to her child  

On the bus I listen to a woman singing a quiet folk song about "raindrops reflecting light" to her young daughter.  The pair sit in front of me, with both of their long ponytails hanging over the back of the seat.  I tune in and out of her voice as the loud motor of the bus draws my attention away from it.  Her voice lingers and gives me hope as I think about life, current tribulations, and films I've seen recently.  When I get off I stand at the bus stop for a moment as the bus violently pulls away behind me- back to life, back to reality. 

💧

From Hollis Frampton:

'Our rectangle of white light is eternal: here before we arrived and here after.'

'The levitation of our dreams confirms the gravity of our wakefulness.' 

This image was taken moments before sleep. 

The opaque windows of my bedroom become suspended lanterns at night. 

Two floating squares of white light. 

Time condenses and overlaps as the days/months/years continue to roll by

It occurred to me that I've been writing in this blog for three years (2019/2020/2021/2022), although it doesn't feel as though it's been that long at all. 

Turning the focus onto spring

On the first day of spring, as I pass the cemetery's periphery, I notice a group of crows gathering bunches of mulch and twigs to build a nest.  I hear their gargling birdsong and the sound of them trampling through crunchy dry leaves.  I then see this text on a headstone: FOREVER REMEMBERED. 

The temperature is warmer and I'd rather be spending a slow, idle day outside than within the opaque confines of the university.  At uni, time moves fast.  Deadlines approach quickly and I'm told things like: "this has no clear direction."   It's hard to say what you want to say succinctly, although I think that skill comes eventually with time and maturity: time's the key.

 

Observing process

The light in their spare bedroom is on for the first time since they moved in.  A man enters and sits at a desk where there's a small microphone connected to a laptop.  He improvises a little song, which I cannot hear.  He sings into the microphone like he's searching for something. 

The next day I see the man looking around the room, inspecting books and trinkets.

On the Wednesday, as I'm working at my own desk, I begin to hear a muffled beat: a synth. 

The following day an electric guitar is introduced, and then the vocals that were recorded days before.  He moves between being seated with the guitar to standing upright.

A few months later, I receive a parcel in the letterbox: his latest EP burnt onto a CD.  I put the disc into the player and listen to the lyrics.  They're about time passing, the monotony of bringing up young children, sleepless nights. 

Time

Writing & film quotes:

'I'm just writing it down, because otherwise it's going to get stuck'

From Memoria: I heard it in Tilda Swinton's voice amongst a dissonance of other sounds in the film's final auditory sequence. 

'Cinema is all writing, it's just different forms of writing.  The nature of the writing is the film.  Through the process of casting or choosing colours, you're writing the film'

This comment stood out from this conversation between filmmakers at MIFF: www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/the-screen-show/alena-lodkina-goran-stolevski-thomas-m-wright/13999668

'Cinematography is a writing with images in movement and with sounds'

From Robert Bresson's Notes on the Cinematograph.  In another interview, Bresson goes on to say that a film is less a play than it is an act of writing... the camera is a tool for creation, not reproduction.

My notebook awaiting my hand 

From Sydney

When I visited Brett Whiteley's former studio, now gallery, in Surrey Hills, this Van Morrison song played across the room from a stereo.  At the time I was on the mezzanine level, where there's a bricolage of images of work by friends, notes and quickly written quotes pasted across the walls.  There are photographs of the people he and Wendy hung around with at the studio, at dinner parties and exhibition openings.  On this level there's a collection of Whiteley's books, with titles on Basquiat, Francis Bacon and Bob Dylan.  There's also an unfinished painting of naked torsos sprawled across Bondi Beach and bent into a sensual shape typical of Whiteley's iconography.  The Art Gallery of New South Wales, the current caretakers of the studio, have created a studio mise-en-scene around the painting, with painting paraphernalia, partially burnt candles and bottles of wine messily assembled on the floor.  It's designed to give the impression that Whiteley is still present, that perhaps he's popped out for a moment, left the stereo running, and will return to finish the Bondi painting later.  I guess that people visit the Whiteley Studio for this reason, allured by the romanticisation of his hedonistic lifestyle, of his celebrity, to have an intimate encounter with his work and life.  

I love Whiteley's paintings... the reason is pretty shallow... I'm drawn (like everyone else) to his intense ultramarine blue (my favourite colour).  His work exuded pleasure and sensuality, was deeply personal and irreverent, and I love how he conflated those elements with the intense beauty of the Australian landscape.  Anyway, there was something about hearing the lyrics and dreamy lilt of Van Morrison's Inarticulate Speech of the Heart which connected so well with thinking about Whiteley's work and death that day.

Inarticulate speech, inarticulate speech of the heart

Inarticulate speech, inarticulate speech of the heart

Inarticulate speech, inarticulate speech of the heart

Inarticulate speech, inarticulate speech of the heart

I'm a soul in wonder (ahahah)

I'm a soul in wonder (ahahah)

I'm a soul in wonder (ahahah)

I'm a soul in wonder (ahahah)

Mark Leckey, freeway overpasses, & Wagner 

I took a walk around Melbourne's modernist Arts Centre after seeing a performance of Wagner's Lohengrin there in May.  It was a gruelling and heavy-themed opera and a cold, stark production by theatre director Oliver Py.  The set resembled a dilapidated, decaying post-war Berlin, littered with emblems of German Romanticism.  Sculptures that alluded to German fairytales were designed to give a much-needed sense of hope and innocence.  After almost a whole day of deep concentration, I left the burrowed theatre with a moon-blue/concrete grey coloured filter over my eyes.  Suddenly, I turned a corner and bore witness to this orange light cast against a concrete beam that supports an overhead motorway.  The warmth of the orange was a palette cleanser from the constant imposition of concrete.  

I immediately recalled the setting of Mark Leckey's 2019 exhibition O' Magic Power of Bleakness at Tate Britain.  In the gallery, Leckey had reconstructed the space underneath of a motorway bridge as a darkened, mysterious room to view a retrospective of his films and sound work.  His Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore collection of footage of Northern England's 90s rave scene was intermingled with a newer work shot on an iPhone (Under Under In) that depicted a group of kids entertaining themselves under a bridge, and gradually becoming immersed in the supernatural.  Utilitarian lighting bathed the gallery in various colours (such as the orange depicted in my images).  It was an eerie atmosphere undergird by a sense of longing: the bridge, like raves of the 90s, being a youth's tool for high-speed escape to something greater.  The dark and mysterious underneath space of the bridge, like below the Arts Centre, contains spectres of the euphoric hopes and dreams from the enlightened space above.

Excerpts from an interview with Wolfgang Tillmans:

Tillmans's idea of 'successful art' being a work's ability to hint at a personal and indescribable feeling, aligns with the same sensation that I seek when viewing art or films, and is also why I love looking at his images.  And then of course "London is the big continuum of my life" spoke quite directly to my deep attachment to the city.

A shelf dedicated to time & space: 

A piece of the Berlin wall in perspex souvenir casing, a severed piece of china and ceramic sewer (?) that I found while mudlarking on the Thames in Bankside, a small chiseling of brick from the exterior of Queens' College Cambridge, an alarm clock that no longer keeps time, and dried native seedpods found while walking: the long bean-like shaped one is like a curvy loop through which time passes and warps.

A Saturday morning scene framed by low-hanging branches and scattered bags: 

Just dots on a playing field.

More devotional light that I cannot grasp:

I've become attuned to this light that hits the floor through the blinds every morning:

A sweet scene seen from my window:

I peer down from my bedroom window into next door's garden.  A young girl in a yellow dress calls out to her mother and runs down into the garden and leaves the frame.  The house has just been sold and the family have returned to collect the last of their possessions.  My head pans upwards, to the right, where a line of trees are shedding their yellowed leaves.  The sound of blustering winds and children playing becomes foregrounded.

Agnés Varda, inner mental spaces & inarticulacy

Recently I’ve been looking at Agnes Varda’s installation Une Cabane de Cinema: a humble shack-like structure constructed of 35mm film (strips).  It’s an installation that plays with tensions between public and private spaces in that she used a typical domestic form to invite spectators to literally step inside her inner mental space and interpret her films and dreams through their embodiment of senses and memory.  The cabane is a simple space that has the potential to hold ideas, reverie, creative processes, the living of a life.  The physical and imagined spaces captured in Varda’s films are held together by the cabane structure: the house holds the archive, distils the vastness of time into unison. 

Film was a deeply personal medium for Varda because she used it to explore her creative instincts and to find connection with her subjects.  Varda’s cabane is an extension of this search for connection.  Within the cabane, the viewer is allowed to recognise something of their own creativity in Varda's inner mental space; to find connection with it.  The cabane’s intimate atmosphere is accentuated by the softened light filtered through the greyed negative strips; a counterpoint to the impersonal, public space-denoting gallery lighting.  The material’s transparency indicates Varda’s desire to connect with the external world, and that her inner mental space sought collaboration with others.  

I’m interested in attempts to overcome the tensions between an inner mental space and the external world.  It’s so difficult to express ideas and feelings that have only ever ruminated inside an internal space.  I’ve realised that communicative language makes it almost impossible for another person to truly empathise with what another feels inside: language is limited.  I struggle to formulate my ideas in writing, there’s always a quality that I sense is missing on the page in my ambivalent search for words.  I think I’m drawn to film and architecture because good examples of both contain atmospheres or spaces that invite you to experience what someone else sees and feels.  They are shared inner mental spaces that are inarticulate with ideas, references and experiences. 

This quote sums it up: 'Imagine... all these gestures hung in time & logic & human experience: all about inarticulacy stretching towards communication.'  John BERGER 

Varda's 'Un Cabane de Cinéma'
on the cover of a book on her work.

The Souvenir Part II

There's a scene about half-way through Joanna Hogg's The Souvenir Part II that I can't get out of my mind.  Julie, in the midst of making her graduate film based on her experience of being in a relationship with an illusory heroin addict, walks through the sound stage that contains her set.  It's a scene that eventually mirrors the divine final act, where Julie's creative voice finally culminates.  The image glows with the warm hue of pine, accentuated by its reflection in glass, and is then darkened as she walks across the black-and-white photography that resembles an exterior.  Layers of materials, fabrication, and memory are revealed.  The extent to which Julie is recreating her memory of the period with Anthony becomes apparent by the exact replication of her London flat (also a replica of Hogg's 1980s flat).  

Another layer emerges: Anthony's voice reiterates discussions that took place in that same flat, and the reconstruction of the flat brings him back to a ghostly life.  The image becomes even more layered with diegetic sounds that we recognise from previous scenes or 'Part I'; a ship's deep horn, the chimes of a Venetian bell tower.  The deep horn sound recurs throughout the film and becomes blurred with the pained grunts heard in Anthony's heroin come-down or Anna Calvi's throbbing lamentation in her song Julie.  The Venetian bells merge with the reverberation of Julie's flourishing creativity.  These sounds echo through the film as though they're heard within the sparse confines of a sound stage, a city, or within the artist's mind; bouncing off layers of creative thought and ideas.  It's never clear what space we're in or looking at, or whether it's a real or imagined space.  

This amalgamation of layered images, sounds and filmic references enthralled me, perhaps because it closely resembles what the inside of my own head looks like: a repository of feelings, images, etc that need an outlet, need to amalgamate.  The scene ends with an image of the reflection of a distant fluorescent square (a recurring image that culminates in the film's glorious final scene) that Julie walks through and out of the image, she's inspired and closer to making her film.  That moment was when I finally breathed out.

Here's another square that contains an image of construction, possibility & creativity.  It's a shell of a construction site that inspired me to film something in it.  Before I could plan anything, the whole site was filled with scaffolding which covered the beautiful colours of the walls and the multi-levelled nature of the floor.  It went from being an open, light-filled space to one that was enclosed and uninviting.

The construction site in question (prior to installation of scaffolding)

Recognising another's longing 

With every street corner that I pass on the long stretch into uni, I meet the eyes of someone in a corner pub or store.  A lone, Hopperesque woman looks out from the window seat of a Flinders Street pub.  A convenience store worker leans against a pile of boxes yet to be unpacked and looks out towards the passing crowd.  I move further along the street to the next intersection and make eye-contact with a young man waiting with a suitcase in a hotel lobby... 

I recognise their pause, their waiting for something... as I go to university and wait for my life to begin.

Recording a feeling of insularity 

Sometimes I can be sitting at my desk and be peering into my laptop, feeling uninspired and muddled, as I work on design-based assignments.  

Sometimes, when I'm feeling uninspired, I can take a step back and look at my desk from a distance and suddenly have a sense of clarity and perspective. 

This was my desk over summer, when I was idle and just reading for pleasure:

Vision

"Why are you closing your eyes?" he asks me at the cinema during the film.  "Why are you closing your eyes?" he asks me as we lie side-by-side on the bed. 

Closed curtains

I like taking the train home at night as it means I don't have to see the same view that I saw out the window during the morning's in-bound journey.  It's just a blackened view instead, as though my eyes are closed.  The fluorescent lighting of the train carriage is an extended flash through the dark.  

Rejection 

Here's a still image from Charlotte, a 16mm film by Steve McQueen.  I first saw it projected in a little room at the 'Biography of Daphne' exhibition at ACCA last year.  In a direct homage to Buñuel's Un Chien Andalou, the red-filtered camera focuses on a close-up of Charlotte Rampling's eye as someone else's finger continually probes it, forcing her to close her eye.  I recall it being a moving experience to have such an intimate encounter with another's eye projected as a small red square against the gallery wall.  The delicacy of it all made me stay in the room with the work for multiple durations. 

Steve McQueen, 

Charlotte, 16mm, 2004    

Here are some snippets of writing, a bit like a shot-list of images.  I find writing at this length an easy way to maintain a daily writing practice.  The editing page of this blog contains a whole collection of these snippets... layered feelings of desire, reverie, longing and anticipation.  

Waiting with a disparate group of people at city pedestrian lights.  Some with headphones on, with backpacks, clutching handbags; all waiting and looking forward as cars aggressively turn the corner.  Later that day while planning an essay, I read this quote from post-modern architect Aldo Rossi: 'One can say that the city itself is the collective memory of its people, and like memory, it is associated with objects and places. The city is the locus of the collective memory.'

·

The sound of machinery reverberating down city streets.  Deep ramming noises repeated at perfect intervals.  

·

As I walk past the RMIT Design Hub, my eyes follow a continuous line of Sean Godsell’s opaque glass circles.  Then, in the university library, my eyes follow a horizontal line of books as I try to find a specific cataloguing number. 

·

Workmen passing long panes of timber along to each other, putting something together, and partially obscuring my view of buildings and streets.  My experience of the street is alike looking at a view in the gaps between the slats of Venetian blinds; framed by construction.

·

A construction site I’ve been keeping my eye on, which was once bright and empty a few weeks ago, and revealed the remains of old pastel-coloured walls, is now filled with steel scaffolding.  Spotlights project austere light over the dense silver jungle of scaffolded shapes.  It's like a gallery with rotating exhibitions.

·

Listening to music with a consistent rhythm on my headphones.  The pace of my walk intuitively matches this rhythm. Sunlight streaming through tree branches casts a quick succession of flashing light, also matching the rhythm of the music, momentarily blurring my vision.

·

On my way home, as I wait for the bus, I look out for it by way of the reflection in the glass sides of the bus shelter.  Layers of reflections emerge: the trunk of an elm gives ‘birth’ to an oncoming Volkswagen, low autumn light intensifies an endless stream of students, also superimposed, as they pass-by like pilgrims.  As I wait, I self consciously notice my own reflection in the tinted glass of a shopfront window across the road.  The low-hanging branches of the elm slightly obscures my face. 

Enclosure & imminent openings 

I’ve been intrigued by these windows at home and wanted to express an idea of ‘enclosure’ and a feeling of anticipation through them.  They slide open to let in breezes, and I like the thought that they let in varying degrees of airiness.  When the sun is out and depending on the extent to which they are slid open, the frames create interesting shadows across the room.  The sliding mechanism also allows for varied framing of neighbouring things, such as chimneys.  Some of the compositional framing in The Souvenir Part II continues to inspire me.  Hogg frames people around open doors, through slits in walls, and this creates a sense of the young protagonist's gradual expansion; her creativity opening up to the world. 

I’ve been thinking of creating a sculpture that replicates these windows on a larger scale, and distils this atmosphere, this memory.  A work that could appear in the gallery, leaning against a wall, or perhaps in the middle of the space, dividing it, used to frame other works, etc. 

Pre-and-post film reveries

Wandering the streets of Melbourne, lost and in a state of isolation.  Long axes appear as though they lead to something greater, but gradually peter out to suburban nothingness.  

Going to the cinema on my own in the gaps between lectures and then afterwards re-entering the real world in a state of reverie.  I'm more attuned to everyday details: someone's hand tucked into a pocket, a woman's slouchy walk.  The busker playing improvised jazz fills every crevice of the street and my thinking.  I hold back tears as I do whenever I hear Handel or J.S Bach played on a keyboard instrument.  I keep hearing the saxophone, piano, harpsichord as I walk away from the cinema and closer to the end of the axis.  Lost and in a state of reverie. 

Here's an image of a dream-like photograph by Rudi Williams, which I saw while walking down Swanston Street.  This series of images depict a city under construction: architectural and civic disruption & transformation, and are presented on scaffolding around one of the city's many excavation sites. This one's near my uni building.  The other day I could hear mechanical sounds of excavation during a class.  The noise was so immense that I could feel the building slightly vibrating. 

Rudi Williams, Vantage Point