An elegy for forgotten spaces
I've always been interested in the use of neglected spaces, such as disowned empty sites and laneways, to make something beautiful and thoughtful. As a teenager, I used the lane behind my home to display sculptures I made from locally found detritus. The lane was somewhere I could retreat to after a school day and provided company with neighbours who are practising artists. They would offer encouragement, critique and share books or the names of other artists I should seek out. It was an inspiring social and artistic antidote to my secondary schooling. I cared for the lane for five years until I gave up the project, and the space returned to its original wild and dishevelled appearance. When I pass the lane these days, and see it in its current state of neglect, I'm reminded of all the memories I had there when I was younger. Those memories mean a lot to me, and it wouldn't necessarily be apparent to anyone else that this modest lane holds such emotion. It has made me think about other forgotten spaces and overgrown old ruins that hold quiet memories and stories.
The AIDS Memorial Garden is nestled in bushland alongside the Yarra River in Fairfield on the site of a former infectious diseases hospital. The garden first came to my attention in John Foster's 1993 memoir Take Me to Paris, Johnny, which recounts the intriguing life of Foster's partner Juan Cespedes until his death due to an AIDS-related illness. It was described as a rambling 'secret garden' set amongst gum trees and rose bushes, providing quiet repose for AIDS patients and their families. I was interested in visiting the garden, but I wondered what state it would be in or whether it even still existed as the site had since been taken over by a new institution. An old website that documented the garden's history revealed that the bare bones of the garden still remained, but it had otherwise fallen into a state of disrepair.
On my first visit, I walked for ages through an eerily quiet polytechnic campus in hopeful search of it. I felt as though I was trespassing. When I eventually made it there, I followed a sign that led me into an obscure clearing. There was a dilapidated rotunda that was falling apart, with a wild rose climbing up its side. Native grasses had grown tall and unruly and rustled in the wind like faint whispers. There are only subtle reminders of the immensity of the garden's history, such as the golden plaques attached to park benches. Each one reads as a dedication to the lives of the hospital's AIDS victims who had their ashes spread in the garden. Another weathered plaque, hidden by foliage, welcomes you into the garden: 'This garden area, a joint project marking the relationship between Fairfield Hospital and the Victorian AIDS Council in caring for people with AIDS, is for the use of all patients and their visitors at Fairfield (April 1988).' The garden's history, and its setting for sombre contemplation, as documented in passages from Foster's book, and also in Timothy Conigrave's 1995 autobiography Holding the Man, seem to be most felt in depths buried amongst overgrown foliage. It can be felt, too, in the almost-silent shifts of native plants in the breeze. Whenever I visit the garden I think of all the people I admire who have succumbed to AIDS around the world: Derek Jarman, Arthur Russell, David Wojnarowicz, Peter Hujar, Conigrave, Foster— just to name a few. Regardless of whether the garden has been forgotten or not, for me, it is loaded with their presence and links together all of their stories; their work and activism.
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| A rugged corner of the AIDS Memorial Garden, Fairfield |