Winter birds 

As the year moves into the cooler months in Australia, I was reminded of an image of a dead bird that I took on a cold winter's day last year.  I stood below an apple tree and admired a flock of little yellow-winged birds flit between the tree's bare branches.  There was a bitter chill in the air and I recall feeling a sense of emptiness and loss as the birds were the only sign of life I had hitherto had contact with that day.  I then looked to my feet to find a lifeless bird that had been separated from its flock and succumbed to the harshness of winter.

I recently looked at Margaret Tait's 1974 16mm film Aerial and loved the airy way in which she captured the elements of a Scottish winter.  Images include grass blowing in the wind, soil being turned over, and blackbirds flying from a snowy tree branch to Tait's window.  There's a hushed-ness, a sense of looking out at the world from the cosy confines of a living room window, with a fire providing warmth in the background.  The winter meanwhile slogs along through the heavy cover of snow and mud.  Winter's harshness is felt most deeply in an image of a dead bird: one of the birds previously seen at the window.  Its been returned to the earth, its feathers blowing in the wind like blades of grass.  

The birds I came across on that winter's day... in both life and death:

 

 

Paris birds

In the cavernous basement of the hotel I stayed at in Paris recently, I sat facing three tapestries of birds intermingled with flowers and leaves while I had my breakfast.  The hotel was right next to Gare du Nord.  The sound of trains entering and passing through the station were constant.  I heard nothing else but the mechanical sounds of a working city: screeching breaks, whistles, vibrations from the Métro below were dominant.  While I scraped away at my boiled eggs, marmalade toast and sipped my espresso, I was surprised to hear birdsong.  Perhaps my deep concentration on the tapestries had brought the birds to life.  Or perhaps I was just longing to be away from the city, imagining the peace of the countryside.

The tapestries in question

Fraught communication 

The difficulties of language is something that I think about often.  I guess that it's at the forefront of a lot of the writing on here; a kind of self consciousness around feeling as though I'm not a particularly good writer.  Being a visual person, I don't find it easy to bring out what I want to say through words.  I might say one thing, but I really mean another.  I feel that I always miss a beat.  But one must try their best to communicate, because being silent will not get you anywhere in life.  Here's a few things that dance around the idea of communication: 

Physical communication

I was on the Victoria Line.  Two teenaged boys made quite a strong entrance into the carriage by aggressively throwing themselves down onto seats opposite each other.  One boy threw a newspaper at the other boy.  I didn't hear laughter.  I then watched as they communicated to each other through sign language.  There would be an occasional pause as one boy would try to find the right word, while the other waited intently.  At one point, one of them picked up the newspaper, crossed his leg, and pretended to mimic the old English gentleman sitting next to him.  

Semi-extinct languages

Just yesterday, while spending an afternoon in my dear friend Valerie's pottery studio, a woman on holiday from Germany came in to look around.  We got talking about Europe, particularly the difficulties of sharing borders with multiple countries with different political crises and agendas.  She later mentioned that she had just been conducting 'field work' research in Papua New Guinea.  This involved documenting how semi-extinct languages, such as 'Qaqet' (only spoken by 15,000 people) is transmitted.  I found this really interesting, not only because I ashamedly lack awareness of Papua New Guinean culture and history, but because I was struck by the fact that a non-written language can become extinct.  However I was aware that prior to colonisation in Australia, there were over 250 Indigenous languages specific to different clans.  Only 40 of these languages are still spoken today due to the ongoing decimation of Indigenous culture as a result of policies made by settlers.  I read this article from The Conversation that briefly addresses the difficult link between Indigenous language and culture: "we have our culture, a strong culture- but without language, how are you supposed to keep it going?"

A Portrait of Cate Blanchett

I keep returning to a film work by David Rosetzky that I saw in an Australian portraiture exhibition last year.  A Portrait of Cate Blanchett focuses on the actor as she moves through a barren workshop used for the construction of theatre sets at the Sydney Theatre Company.  The setting nicely complements the film's exploration of artistic process and the creation of fiction.  The film begins with a close-up of Blanchett's hands; one hand moulding the other into different gestures.  Although the hands are performing this action, rather than Robert Bresson's imagery of innocent hands devoid of acting, the image from Portrait instantly brought to mind this great Bresson quote: "how many useless and encumbered words disappear when things are expressed with the hand, the head, the shoulders!"  The camera then moves backwards to gradually reveal either in-focus or blurry vision of Blanchett as the digital camera lens is changed.  Blanchett's voiceover begins by exploring the inconsistencies of identity: what is seen and unseen.  She finishes with a comment on interpretation: "I realised that exactly what I thought I was communicating would be received by someone in a completely different way- you can't control it.  You have to give interpretation over."  

In Todd Field's 2022 film TÁR, Blanchett plays a narcissistic conductor, Lydia Tár, who purposefully speaks in a way that eludes clear interpretation.  When discussing music with her orchestra or with peers, she uses ambiguous allegories to describe what she's trying to achieve.  I believe that the character performs in this way in order to alienate and gain the upper hand over people; one of many examples of her narcissistic personality and constant vie for power.  There's a revealing moment in the film's second half where she cries alone while watching her inspiration, Leonard Bernstein talk about music's emotional affects.  It's as though Tár is lamenting the fact that she's spent so much of her life performing a contrived version of herself and never been able to speak directly with an audience.  Bernstein gets to the core of what music achieves without over embellishing his point.  I liked what Bernstein said, so I'll take note of it: "music is the way it makes you feel when you hear it... you don't need to know a lot of stuff about sharps and chords to understand it.  Some of those feelings are so special, so deep that you can't even describe them in words.  We can't always name the things we feel."

A still from A Portrait of Cate Blanchett

Transcontinental encounters with Morandi

I kept seeing Morandi paintings within big museum collections and house museums across Europe.  At the beginning of the trip I saw his work in an exhibition in London, mentioned in a previous post.  His work then seemed to follow me from city to city, even appearing as props in films I watched.  Needless to say that I became quite acquainted with his airy, dreamy bottles. 

The images below are highlights from Centre Pompidou, Ca'Pesaro in Venice and Villa Necchi Campiglio in Milan.  Villa Necchi was used in Luca Guadagnino's 2009 film Io sono l'amore (I am Love).  In that film, it was the residence of a modern day haute-bourgeois Milanese family, used to reflect their modern and cultured taste and accentuate their attachment to objects.  After visiting the Villa, I rewatched the film in my hotel room and took note of a scene where a Morandi still life is passed on within the family as an engagement gift. 

In a library I came across a book from a 2016 exhibition by Edmund de Waal of ceramics set within intricate display interventions that draw on the lightness of Morandi's atmosphere.  Exquisite. 

And then back in Melbourne, I saw Elio Petri's 1961 film L'assassino (The Assassin) at the Cinémathéque and noticed a Morandi in the background of a scene.  I smiled to myself as it felt like an old companion had appeared on the giant screen in front of me... a reminder of all those discoveries and emotions felt while away. 

Estorick Collection, London 

Ca'Pesaro, Venice

Villa Necchi Campiglio, Milan

A page from that Edmund de Waal book

Io sono l'amore

L'assassino

The ascent 

In Melbourne I sometimes shut my eyes and see Waterloo Bridge in London.  I see buses whizz past in a flash of red.  My vision rapidly flies over from the windows of Somerset House, through the sky and across the skyscrapers of the financial district, to the textured concrete of the National Film Theatre.  I hear people laugh, bike bells and footsteps.  Students lean against the side of the bridge and throw their cigarettes into the Thames.  I feel the fresh Thames breeze blow my hair around my face.  

A young man with a backpack slung over his shoulder and with a feather sticking out from his hat walks across the frame.  He looks determined.  This is the first bridge that he crossed on his first entrance into central London.

Music 

London Tindersticks
Paris Nina Simone

Milano Only Lovers Left Alive Soundtrack (Sqürl and Josef Van Wissem)

Venice Monteverdi

Bologna Blood Orange

Florence & Turin Sade 

These are the musicians that accompanied the many hours spent alone in various near-empty hotel rooms and on otherwise mundane walks to the grocer in each city.  Random things led me towards these artists.  For example I saw a commercial for a film in black and white on the French Arte television channel that had a Nina Simone song playing in the background.  Allured by the warmth of her piano, I listened specifically to the Nina Simone Sings the Blues album as I passed through a chilly Paris.  While in Florence, I heard a muffled version of Sade's 'Like a Tattoo' coming from behind the closed doors of a house.  I stopped for a minute and recorded the hazy sound on my phone, and then kept listening to the recording for the rest of my time in the city.  

Venice was definitely the most pleasurable city in terms of audio.  The absence of cars and traffic increased the audibility of the sound of water dripping from pipes into canals, church bells echoing down tight passages, live jazz coming from bars, and footsteps heard from around corners.  Every sound was blended into a highly pleasurable auditory collage.  One afternoon, just around the corner from San Marco, I heard a recording of Vivaldi playing out into the piazza from an old church.  Upon further inspection I discovered that the church was actually a museum dedicated to Vivaldi's work.  I went inside, and wasn't necessarily enamoured by the modest collection of instruments on display, but did discover that a Baroque composer I love, Baldassare Galuppi, is buried there.  Music history was everywhere in Venice.  At the basilica of San Marco, I was struck by the thought that Claudio Monteverdi was once the master of the chapel choir there.  From 1613 until his death in 1647, the basilica was where the last of his liturgical music was composed.  On my last morning in Venice I traipsed through the basilica with other tourists, pulling myself up its steep stairwells and gazing up at its glistening gold domed ceiling.  The extent to which the atmosphere and acoustics of the church formed this music became apparent upon entering.  Last year, in Melbourne, I saw Pinchgut Opera perform Monteverdi concertinos from his time at San Marco.  The music was so incredibly nuanced, filled with so much emotion that effortlessly touched my soul.  The voices were texturally rich and beautiful, as is the basilica itself.    

At Fondazione Querini Stampalia, a housemuseum that contains a pretty big collection of Baroque paintings, there's a walled garden designed by architect Carlo Scarpa.  The main component of Scarpa's design is a fountain that runs the length of a lawn.  Water runs down from a larger square pond into a slimmer pond and then empties through intricate steel spouts into gold leaf embellished dishes.  Scarpa's design holds deep reverence for the sound of running water.  In this garden, every other sound in the city stops.  All you hear is water as it trickles and falls from level-to-level.  It seemed to be the pinnacle of everything I had heard in Venice, as though all noise had been distilled down to focus on the most relevant and important sound to the experience of the city.  It was an exquisite and highly meditative experience.

A still from a video I took in Venice while returning to my 
hotel after dinner.  Pretty sure I was listening to
Leonard Cohen at the time

A fellow traveller

On the train between Turin and Paris, I was seated opposite a German Shepherd.  The service dog had a window seat and looked out to a view of the snow capped French Alps.  When we'd pass through pitch black tunnels, he would stare at his reflection with an expression that looked like he was contemplating his own consciousness- like a human might.  The most confronting thing was when our gaze would meet.  I'd quickly look away out of embarrassment, but the dog would continue to look at me.  I felt awkward and judged by the seriousness of his stare.

As well as his human-like expressions, the dog was distinguished by a very long tongue that almost touched the table that was situated between us.  Over the course of the journey, the table became covered in drool from his consistent panting.  I, too, received the occasional flick of dog drool on my water-proof coat.  Everyone around me ignored his presence.  He was accepted and treated like a human passenger.  It made me think about how we live our lives alongside other animals with different modes of sentience and communication.

I looked out the window to a view of Grenoble while I listened to a Sade album through my headphones.  There was something exceptionally stunning about the combination of the snowy view with the elegance of Sade's voice, and yes, with the company of my fellow canine traveller too. 

(Multiflash) of a dog's tail wagging, 
Harold Edgerton, 1939

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: