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Gravity Reseach Institute, The Bland Project

photo Mayu Kanamori

Gravity Reseach Institute, The Bland Project

THERE’S NOTHING LIKE THE PLEASURE OF THEATRE THAT CONSUMES YOU AS YOU DEVOUR IT. ALAN SCHACHER’S THE BLAND PROJECT AT PERFORMANCE SPACE AND THE BARRIE KOSKY-TOM WRIGHT THE TROJAN WOMEN FOR THE SYDNEY THEATRE COMPANY WERE SUCH EXPERIENCES. I’M STILL DIGESTING THE DEMANDINGTROJAN WOMEN EXPERIENCE AS WE GO TO PRESS (READ ABOUT IT IN REALTIME 88), BUT THE BLAND PROJECT HAS BEEN PRETTY MUCH ABSORBED, SAVE FOR A DESIRE TO SEE IT AGAIN AND INGEST MORE.

the bland project

There was always a defining architectonic quality to the work of the performance company Gravity Feed, a way of working with materials to generate unusual, immersive spaces of scale—dark-suited men dancing with and manipulating door-proportioned slabs of timber into stark forms in In the House of Skin (1996) at Performance Space, the massive mobile three-metre high cardboard walls creating the spaces inhabited by performers and audience in Host (1999) in St George’s Hall, the huge metal framed red scrims constantly reconfigured around the audience in Tabernacle (1999) on the roof of a suburban carpark. But more than a mutable architecture or a living installation, was the suggestion of a potentially sacred space, of something being worked through by a silent team of men, somehow representing, containing, keeping us safe in ominous circumstances, and then releasing us.

Working as Gravity Research Institute with a range of collaborators, Gravity Feed mainstay Alan Schacher has now created The Bland Project, this time at Performance Space in CarriageWorks with four performers and an architecture created largely by video projection and mobile screens. As ever, the architecture is constantly reconfigured but this time more evanescently as images are multiplied and magnified over much of the high, long wall of the space or writ smaller as the screens travel, suspended from wires tracked from rigs each end of the space. Much of the lighting too emanates from the rigs. Again there’s the sense of a special place with its own shifting parameters and mobility, the screens largely appearing to move of their own volition.

The Bland Project too has the feel of occasion, ritual perhaps, as the bland unanimity of the four men mutates into something distinctively other over the performance’s contemplative duration. Of the same height, roughly similar build and clothing—plain shirt and trousers—the men greet us at the entrance to the theatre. They gesture as one for us to enter. In the theatre, close to the audience, hangs a large screen on which the men continue to gesture. We have time to take them in. And as the performance evolves we will look at them more and more, in greater detail, in the flesh, life size and larger on the mobile screens, huge on the wall, reading them as Asian and Caucasian, young, old, until we feel we know every feature, line, mole, chest hair (a surprising moment when this becomes an epic abstraction), a twisted nipple (writ large, intense) but never expression. The faces are masks, even when the body of each in solo moments is vibrated or racked by who knows what emotion.

Initially the men act as one. Soon they break into pairs in almost slow motion circlings. They travel with the screens, matching up with their own images. Later they will hold other screens before them as if asking us to check for correspondences. But there is one distinctive break from this massive exercise in the testing of the art of portraiture: moments when the men as one and individually seek comfort or refuge or sanctity (appearing like monks) in dark blankets that screen them from the eye of the relentless camera.

Although these enigmatic men remain in some ways bland throughout, by the end of the performance they have, through sheer physical expressiveness, through their wrought solos and instances of separation and panic, been revealed as individual, not least by the amount of attention we have paid every image of them in Sean Bacon and Michelle Mahrer’s magical mix of real time video and film. The patternings of images and their tonal texturing are bracingly pleasurable, with Sydney Bouhaniche’s swathes of light subtly transforming the space and in perfect balance with the projections.

As in any production associated with Alan Schacher there is a curious beauty about its totality; here it defies the very notion of blandness. It’s as if Schacher has looked at it and said, let’s rigorously sustain this blandness and subject it to every possible scrutiny and see what’s left—four distinctive men and an unforgettable experience rich in detail and a sense of reprieve for anyone ever labelled colourless in an age of excess like our own. The Bland Project deserves a very big audience. They will happily recognise this preoccupation with looking and estimation: after all, with the the revival of mass popular photography brought on by digitisation, never have so many been photographed so much.

Jack Finsterer, Anna Lise Phillips, Don’t Say The Words

don’t say the words

Don’t Say the Words belongs to the theatre of the floating signifier, kin to the Theatre of the Absurd and Harold Pinter’s oeuvre. Tom Holloway’s contemporary take on Clytemnestra’s murder of King Agamemnon at the end of the Trojan War has unnamed characters, an un-labelled war, a desire for vengeance for an unspecified cruelty, a murder that might not have happened or is possibly imminent, and an insistence by the soldier husband, his wife and her lover to only refer to husband and lover in the third person. While the wife admits to the murder in the first act and urges it in the penultimate scene, the men are circumspect, their quickfire quizzing of the wife oscillating between interrogation, rationalisation and rigging the narrative.

This floating world is earthed however by Holloway’s brisk, terse, highly rhythmic dialogue, replete with the violence of constant interruption and contradiction, and by hard-edged performances from Jack Finsterer, Anna Lise Phillips and Brett Stiller, all three on top of the considerable demands of the playwright’s language and director Matthew Lutton’s relentless pacing. Adam Gardnir’s meticulously realised, overtly filthy bathroom set, with its freshly applied grafitti and overflowing basin that later floods the stage, corresponds with the abject state of affairs in which the characters find themselves.

The most suspenseful and grimly funny scene is the play’s centrepiece and the one where the males are ultimately at their most evasive, and abject. The ‘war hero’, who doesn’t feel like one, and his cousin (the presumed lover) spar verbally in a bar, like old mates, testing the limits. The cousin calculatedly recalls his desire for his mate’s wife in days gone by. He pushes harder. He’s heard of a husband who maltreats his lovely wife. He directly accuses his mate of forcing anal sex on his wife while calling her by the cousin’s name: “I mean if ya wanna fuck me, mate…All you had to do was bloody—.” He admits he’s just winding up his mate, “just havin’ a lend, mate”, but is it the truth, or at least what the wife has told her lover in order to justify her infidelity? We expect violence, but the husband backs off: “Fuck this. They still got that Karaoke machine round here somewhere?…I feel like a fucking sing.”

Don’t Say The Words is an intriguing chamber piece, tautly constructed (only the wife’s solo account of the killing to an invisible detective fails to fit) and a brilliant exercise in expert dialogue writing. Although it was certainly hard to nail down all those floating signifiers and not leave the theatre without the suspicion that you weren’t taking away much more than sheer theatrical virtuosity, Holloway and Lutton managed to pull a large, fascinated audience with this brief, driven, interval-less puzzle that had something to say about the construction, in speech, of evasion and fabulation. There are words you just don’t say. It’s good to see Griffin, true to form, supporting an emerging talent like Holloway (writer of Beyond the Neck, RT82, p35) in partnership with the Tasmanian Theatre Company.

the trojan women, briefly

As we go to press, I’m just now recovering from seeing the Barrie Kosky-Tom Wright The Trojan Women for the Sydney Theatre Company, one of the most harrowing and unrelenting theatrical if grimly rewarding experiences of recent times, superbly performed by Robyn Nevin and Melita Jurisic, a trio of actor singers and an acutely engaged accompanying pianist. In a number of ways The Trojan Women is exemplary music theatre, intoned and sung. It’s a brief work, but the pain it conveys opens up a small eternity. In the same week I saw Adelaide’s The Border Project, also at the STC, do their Rock’n’Roll Highway Disaster, a kind of personalised rock concert as music theatre, dextrously realised in song, video and animation by a multi-skilled company. More later.

Gravity Research Institute, The Bland Project, director Alan Schacher, performers Ryuichi Fujimura, Teik-Kim Pok, Ari Ehrlich, Philip Mills, design Alan Schacher, Sean Bacon, video Sean Bacon, film Michelle Mahrer, composer, musician Boris Baberkoff, lighting Sydney Bouhaniche, moving screen system Russell Emerson; Performance Space, Sydney, CarriageWorks, Aug 7-9; Griffin Theatre Company, Tasmanian Theatre Company, Don’t Say The Words, writer Tom Holloway, director Matthew Lutton, performers Jack Finsterer, Anna Lise Phillips, Brett Stiller, designer Adam Gardnir, lighting Paul Jackson, dramaturg Peter Matheson, composer, sound Kelly Ryall; The Stables, July 4-26

RealTime issue #87 Oct-Nov 2008 pg. 16

Kyas Sherriff, Shane Nagle, Ed Wightman, The Bloody Bride

photo Christian Watts

Kyas Sherriff, Shane Nagle, Ed Wightman, The Bloody Bride

IN JULIAN LOUIS’ PRODUCTION OF THE BLOODY BRIDE, A DARK CYCLORAMA CURVES ABOVE THE STAGE, SHADOWY LIKE A GNARLED FIG TREE IN THE DYING LIGHT OF A SWELTERING DAY; BEYOND, A HINT OF MOON AND STARS. BELOW, A BEAT-UP OLD CARAVAN WITH MAKESHIFT AWNING: AN ESKY, A DIRTY RED ARMCHAIR AND SOLID WOODEN PICNIC TABLE. LIGHTS INSIDE THE CARAVAN AND MUFFLED MUSIC OVERDUBBED WITH INAUDIBLE WHISPERS ALL FEED A SENSE OF MENACE AND CLAUSTROPHOBIA. THE SOUND SEGUES INTO BEATING WINGS AND THE STAGE IS SUDDENLY FILLED WITH THOUSANDS OF SCREECHING BATS PASSING OVERHEAD—THE EFFECT IS STRIKING AND LOADED.

The teeming ritual nocturnal flight of the fruit bat is familiar to anyone who knows New South Wales’ North Coast sunsets in summer. But the theatrical image, reminiscent of Goya’s painting The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters, signals something beyond the naturalistic. In this impressive new work by Hilary Bell, we will be drawn into a metaphorical world of innocence corrupted by passionate desire, repressed sexuality, jealousy, nihilism and death; unusually heightened themes for Australian theatre.

The bats having passed over, now we are thrust into the lives of the three protagonists triangulated about the stage—Cassie (Kyas Sherriff) and Darren (Ed Wightman), a naive young couple from Lismore, and Leo an Irish ‘tourist’ (Shane Nagle). Having just met at a local pub before returning to Leo’s caravan on the outskirts of town, they are already drunk and the dialogue is sexually charged. Leo is the agitator here. Cassie appears to be enjoying the flirtation but Darren is awkward in his attempts to keep face against the jibes of this older, worldly rival. “Would you kill for her?”, challenges Leo while offering Cassie a drag on a mysterious ‘cigarette.’ Cassie accepts and is almost immediately aroused by an intense sensual reverie. When Darren asks what’s in the smoke, he is told “magic powder from Spain.” Leo chides, “Do whatever you want with her!” until Darren too takes a drag. In the final moments of this opening scene, as the action swiftly descends into a Dionysian underworld of projection and sound, we are confronted with the disturbing image of the frenzied young couple fucking on the picnic table while the tourist masturbates as he listens from the dirty red armchair.

There is something of a hint as to the genesis of The Bloody Bride in the ‘Spanish cigarette.’ Louis’ creative team were looking to contemporise Lorca’s masterpiece Blood Wedding into an Australian setting. There are some similarities between the works. Both deal with the clash of love/responsibility and desire/abandonment. And in each piece fatalism inexorably impels the action toward its conclusion. Leo might be the reincarnation of Leonardo—his murky past directly connects him to Lorca’s character. But the different settings make for different resolutions and the love triangle at the heart of both works unfold to very different effect. Lorca’s focus is lust, jealousy and revenge—the three protagonists all victims of a repressed and superstitious society. Stylistically, the intense Catholicism and ritual folkloric poetry of Lorca’s Spain don’t translate. The passionate Leonardo of Blood Wedding is not the machiavellian Leo of The Bloody Bride.

Instead, as Hilary Bell points out in her Writer’s Notes, the Lorca story becomes a departure point for an original work. Bell’s Leo has lost all desire–nihilism has become his creed, purity his enemy. As Leo draws Cassie and Darren into his suicidal plan, he is not, like Leonardo, driven by lust so much as the schadenfreude of destroying unsullied love. In Bell’s rendering, the love triangle becomes a metaphor for the loss of innocence at the hands of corruption. Ironically, this structural frame echoes the biblical story of Eden as Cassie is drawn into temptation knowing full well the world will rebel. There are moments when the tension between naturalism and metaphor threaten the suspension of disbelief. But there are still other moments of powerful emotional intensity. Ed Wightman’s portrayal of Darren’s vulnerability is particularly moving. As the sun rises and the bats flock home from their nocturnal feeding at the end of The Bloody Bride, there has been one death not two (as in Lorca’s play) and the naive young couple are forever changed.

The Bloody Bride marks a promising beginning to NORPA’s Generator program designed to develop new work. The audience at the performance I attended sat rapt throughout this swift, dark journey into the intimate emotions and conflicting ethics of relationships and sexuality. This is a most provocative piece of theatre and deserves to be seen beyond the North Coast.

NORPA, Generator Program, The Bloody Bride, writer Hilary Bell, director Julian Louis, dramaturg Janis Balodis, performers Shane Nagle, Kyas Sherriff, Ed Wightman, design Rita Carmody, lighting design Verity Hampson, sound design Toby Alexander, projection artist Marion Conrow; Star Court Theatre, Lismore, August 21-22.

RealTime issue #87 Oct-Nov 2008 pg. 18

David Guhl, Sete Tele, Get Downers

photo Bohdan Warchomij

David Guhl, Sete Tele, Get Downers

THE IMPORTANCE OF THE CURATOR IS AMPLY DEMONSTRATED BY RECENT EXHIBITIONS LIKE FREMANTLE ARTS CENTRE’S BON SCOTT PROJECT OR PICA’S OLD SKOOL SHOW. IN EACH CASE THE CURATORS TAKE OTHERWISE UNDISTINGUISHED WORKS, ORGANISING THEM INTO SOMETHING MORE THAN THE SUM OF THEIR PARTS TO FUNCTION AS A COLLECTIVE, MULTIFACETED EXPERIENCE. UNFORTUNATELY, PERTH SEEMS INDIFFERENT TO THE VALUE OF SUCH CRITICAL FRAMINGS. STATE FUNDING APPEARS TO FAVOUR THE SPLASHY, GENERALISED LIKES OF THE CITY OF PERTH AND BANKWEST PRIZES.

I was hoping that PICA’s shaggy dog of an annual mini-festival of live art, Putting On An Act, would return with some kind of shape. Alas, 2008 was possibly even less coherent than 2006. While under-rehearsed student premieres from local universities and colleges were thankfully less evident, they were replaced by non-professional community groups like the Scarborough yoga school. Although established as a home for that amorphous scion of performance art and the happening, “live art”, Putting On An Act doubles as a community outreach program—a role for which it is neither designed nor suited. Consequently, all audiences, irrespective of taste, are subjected to material they loathe. Supporters contend this enlarges spectator horizons. Yet these same supporters complain of enduring some ‘horrible’ piece or feigning a seizure as a reasonable excuse to depart. The utopian ideal behind the formula is failing and its continued employment is an embarrassment.

There is no shortage of alternative models. Andrew Ryan and John Kaye recently established Perth’s shambolic Kabaret Dada. Generically focussed around music- or sound-based live art, these loud, insane mixed bills work remarkably well. At a minimum, Putting On An Act’s devisors should centre each evening around genres, offering audiences a sympathetic guide and the chance that a genuine conversation might arise. The current formula recalls the cacophonous asocial behaviour at the Tower of Babel, everyone shouting internal monologues while ignoring the discourse around them.

Given the lack of vision, it is unsurprising that much of Putting On An Act was amateurish or of little interest beyond friends and family (who make up much of the audience). This is unfortunate for works which rise above parochialism to comment on the forms they deploy. Clyde McGill for example, performed a fine miniature, entering a largely darkened stage, his head obscured in a black hood, placing four rusted, spring-loaded animal traps in pools of light. His idiosyncratic method of setting them, using plastic pull-ties, produced an engaging symphony of close miked crackles, squeaks and metallic echoes in this simple but suggestive piece. Cat Hope has been performing serious bass guitar noise for years, most recently with improvisatory quartet Abe Sada. Here she collaborated with Chris Cobilis as The Plateau Of Screaming Popes. The pair played a monstrous sounding collection of frets and guitars lying on tables, with Cobilis adding computer processing. As the title suggests, the aim is to generate something fairly static yet with detail and movement scratched across the surface of an intense sensorial subwoofer ocean. The Plateau’s reprise at the Perth leg of Liquid Architecture was even more impressive, with Cobilis experimenting by dragging his table backwards and forwards, causing a chaotic, gargantuan waxing and waning of noise.

The real masterwork of Putting On An Act was the collaboration of dance-makers Sete Tele and Rachel Ogle with the Get Downers company. They have been working together for some months to the point where this group of performers with Down syndrome now plays at a professional level with a recognisable range of dramaturgical approaches and choreographed material. Taking their lead from dance theatre (notably Pina Bausch), the performers offer a series of solo portraits. What is striking about these is that each is highly individualised, designed to reveal the dancer’s tastes. One dancer continuously executes cartwheels with a fabulous nuancing of degrees of bravery before each tumble and an idiosyncratic, jarring straight-legged approach that becomes attractively brutal as repeated.

At the same time it is evident that the performers are also sketching crafted fictions of themselves. This produces an instability around these actions as ‘authentic’ and phantasmatic depictions of selfhood. Two of the female performers play with different degrees of seductiveness—in one case melded with a consciously affectionate naivety, performing to the strains of a mumbled German rendition of Falling In Love Again—while a male dancer mixes elements of Michael Jackson’s lightness and aggressive yet tongue-in-cheek hip-hop. Tele himself was injured, his arm in a sling, yet his solo remained a lesson in how limits can generate beauty. His floppy, slinking, one-handed game with limbs spoke wonderfully to the work as whole, before he joined his colleagues in a closing free-for-all. One hopes Putting On An Act 2009 will be programmed so that such gems shine rather than sinking amidst amorphous dross.

–

Putting On An Act 2008, PICA, Perth, July 22–26

RealTime issue #87 Oct-Nov 2008 pg. 18

Peter Fraser, Tarkovsky’s Horse

photo Mayu Kanamori

Peter Fraser, Tarkovsky’s Horse

BODYWEATHER DISTILS TIME. AS A PRACTICE, IT WORKS TO OPEN THE LINE OF CONSCIOUSNESS BETWEEN PERFORMER AND PLACE. IN ITS TRAINING METHODS, PLACE AND BODY BECOME MUTUALLY ALIVE: THE BODY STARTS TO ‘CHANNEL’ A PLACE WHILE PLACE IS INHABITING, AND BREATHING THROUGH, THE BODY. WHEN REFINED FOR PERFORMANCE, BODYWEATHER [A PRACTICE INITIATED BY JAPAN’S MIN TANAKA] BUILDS A STAGE POETICS OUT OF RECALLING EMBODIED ENVIRONMENTS. WHILE THE TRICK SEEMS TO SIT IN THE PERFORMER’S ABILITY TO USE, BUT ALSO TRANSCEND, PURELY INTERNAL STATES, SUCH PERFORMANCES OFTEN FOCALISE THE MINUTIAE OF EXISTENCE ITSELF: THE EDGE OF AN ELBOW, TWO CONCAVE FEET, A PAIR OF EYES LOOKING OUTWARDS THEN INWARDS THEN OUTWARDS AGAIN. STILLNESS. SLOWNESS. PERCEPTIVITY.

In Borderlines (Linda Luke), the body charts a path of slow awakening. Beginning flattened in darkness, this body takes at least 10 minutes to stand itself upright. Slithers of light (designer Travis Hodgson) help us to read this slowly clambering, half-flaccid body, by plotting small rectangles that gradually grow in dimension across the space and skin. Are these peepholes—is this a game between us and performer? Or are these metaphors of a body broken? (Half-hidden, the body doesn’t seem to comprehend itself as a complete form.) Or do we simply see an image of night breaking, dawn being drawn inwards through blinds, a stiff morning caterpillar body shuddering towards yet another day?

In its abstraction Borderlines plays structurally with the body in regimented space. The dimensions of the body are plotted in movements that grow in rhythmic and spatial ascension. Small twitches indicate a kind of paralysis. Soon, this rigidity is softened with the extension of limbs and the slow illumination of a tense red borderline (a diagonal cord) within the space. Luke dresses in red gumboots to play out a motif of childhood hopscotch—a game of boundaries that is repeated when she is entangled with elasticised cord in a dance of frustration: there is little release when it finally snaps unhinged across the room. Meantime, her shadows have been flapping, enlarged, on the sidelines—monstrous dopplegangers of an inner self wanting to break free.

Linda Luke, Borderlines

photo Mayu Kanamori

Linda Luke, Borderlines

In Tarkovsky’s Horse (Peter Fraser), moments of theatricality undercut the intensity of pure bodyweather action. Walking on invisible gridlines, this body is loose at the joints, its head wobbling in somnambulant reverie. Punctuating the piece with nostalgia, Fraser is framed by a scratchy projection of grasslands (video Sam James). As an homage to Russian film director Andrei Tarkovsky, this body seems immersed in the texture of film itself. Tarkovsky was well known for his long takes and scenographies of childhood beauty. Such themes of re-birth and reminiscence appear when Fraser takes on the guise of a newborn foal—clumsy, clambering on all fours, but trying to ambulate. There is some relief in this image: it is readable beyond mere internality. Other motifs likewise serve to break the abstraction of form—a rehearsed laugh and steady recorded audience applause; moments of looking at us, his watchers.

Both Borderlines and Tarkovsky’s Horse rely on sound composition (and Tarkovsky’s Horse also on video) to explicate the textures that performer bodies present. Michael Toisuta works live with Linda Luke to embellish the halogen hums, clock ticking and pop-flutey tones of rhythmic modernity with dulled screeches of electro-acoustic feedback. This improvised score of extended and manipulated strings amplifies a world that is at once haunting and exciting: the body is poised in a place of curiously warm isolation. In Tarkovsky’s Horse, Natasha Anderson uses the echolalia of computerised bubbles to evoke a mindstate of nostalgic lightness. The bubbles fizz, pop and turn into a gurgling percussive rumble that is overwhelmed by a loose viola slipping and sliding down chords.

Borderlines and Tarkovsky’s Horse offer visions of bodies in tension with their environments. For Luke this is a stiff, geometric tension placed against an unlocatable backdrop. For Fraser, this is an almost romanticised tension between the body and its sense of a former wholeness. We sense it longs to climb back into some warm womb. Both Luke and Fraser draw a murky line between the training practices undergone as part of the research for these works and the craft in (re)performing the works themselves. In this, they depict an internalised focus that is at once commendable and alienating, creating a performance state that is compelling, if difficult to puncture.

The Weather Exchange, Borderlines, performer Linda Luke, sound composition Michael Toisuta, lighting Travis Hodgson; Tarkovsky’s Horse, performer Peter Fraser, sound composition Natasha Anderson, video design Sam James, lighting Travis Hodgson; Campbelltown Arts Centre, Sydney, Aug 21, 22

RealTime issue #87 Oct-Nov 2008 pg. 20

BUBBLE PRESENTS THREE UNNAMED CHARACTERS (ANTON, ALEXANDRA HARRISON, AND INGRID KLEINIG) TRAPPED IN A MILDLY CLAUSTROPHOBIC DOMESTIC SPACE, EACH JUST HANGING OUT. THE SPACE IS CLUTTERED WITH AN ARMCHAIR, A BED, TABLE AND CHAIR, AN OLD SUITCASE UNDER THE TABLE, RUGS ON THE FLOOR AND A CRINKLY PAPER-COVERED WALL UPSTAGE. IT IS UNCLEAR WHAT THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN THE CHARACTERS IS, OTHER THAN THEIR BEING FORCED TO SHARE THIS SPACE. THROUGH SOME UNSPOKEN AGREEMENT, THEY DECIDE TO PLAY A GAME, AND CHASE EACH OTHER AROUND THE ROOM. THIS GAME ENDED, THEY TRY TO TALK, BUT RATHER THAN COMMUNICATING THEY EACH SPEAK OVER THE TOP OF EACH OTHER. WE CAN’T UNDERSTAND THEM, AND PRESUMABLY, THEY ARE ALSO UNABLE OR UNWILLING TO UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER. THE LIGHTS GO OUT.

When the lights restore, our protagonists have discovered more of their bubble world. A package has arrived, and ownership becomes contested, escalating into a physical struggle that spills out over the furniture. Other objects emerge—a letter opener, a stapler, a red texta, a wrestler figurine and a goldfish bowl. Each are brought into the realm of play, put to imaginative re-use in the endless struggles for position that form the basis of much of the choreography, becoming the focus for childish destructive rages, power plays and petty victories. The red texta is used to playfully threaten violence, drawn across the throat of its ‘victim.’ The wrestler figurine acts as a surrogate for its wielder, strutting and smashing objects in its path. The goldfish bowl is worn like a helmet, becoming another bubble layer.

It’s clear that for the characters of Bubble life is elsewhere, and this elsewhere appears as punctures in the surface of the bubble world—a book that when opened shows the light and sound of distant worlds; a hole torn in the upstage paper wall that allows the bright light of outside to shine through. These worlds outside are probably far more disorderly, more dangerous and presumably more interesting, but this bubble world seems strangely resilient, impervious. In this sense, Bubble could be a dance reworking of Sartre’s No Exit. Despite the clear desire to depart, our protagonists seem unable to recognise or exploit any potential escape routes, stuck instead in small variations on fixed patterns of behaviour. Even when all of the onstage furniture magically bundles together and rises into the air, leaving the performers to dance beneath the levitating detritus, there is little change in the interpersonal dynamic, it’s merely an opportunity to dance slightly more freely in the reconfigured space.

The tone stays mildly bleak, slightly melancholy. Despite the skill of the makers, and all the energy expended, Bubble never gets beyond fatalism. A film sequence played late in the performance seems to underscore this—modern life is depressing and alienating, but there’s no escape from it. It’s well-trodden thematic ground, and despite the physical inventiveness of the performers, Bubble offers no new perspective.

Legs on the Wall, Bubble, director Rowan Marchingo, performers, co-devisors Anton, Alexandra Harrison, Ingrid Kleinig, dramaturgy Wesley Enoch, set design Dan Potra, design associate, costume design Lucas Edge, lighting Trudy Dalgeish, Christopher Snape, composer, sound designer Carl Polke, film Judd Overton, Rowan Marchingo; The Studio, Sydney Opera House, July 23-Aug 2

MANAGING AND PRODUCING SERVICES (MAPS) IS THE AUSTRALIA COUNCIL FOR THE ARTS’ NEW INITIATIVE FOR INDEPENDENT THEATRE AND DANCE ARTISTS. IT IS OPERATIONAL IN VICTORIA, WESTERN AUSTRALIA AND QUEENSLAND AS A PARTNERSHIP BETWEEN THE THEATRE AND DANCE BOARDS OF THE AUSTRALIA COUNCIL AND RESPECTIVE STATE GOVERNMENT FUNDING BODIES. MAPS SEEKS TO CREATE AN ALTERNATIVE SUPPORT STRUCTURE TO THE TRADITIONAL COMPANY MODEL.

I spoke with John Baylis, Director of the Theatre Board at the Australia Council about the background to the initiative. He said, “In 2006 I began a discussion within the Theatre Board and with the wider sector about new approaches to theatre funding. Under the name Make It New a number of papers were circulated and forums held, culminating in changes this year to our funding strategies. The aim is to generate more dynamism in the theatre sector by encouraging more connectedness between independent groups, larger producing companies and the broader presenting infrastructure, and by creating new pathways for fresh companies to emerge. One strategy has been to support independent producers directly, and we ran a pilot project two years ago which offered $50,000 per annum for two years to four successful applicants: Marguerite Pepper Productions, Strut & Fret, Keep Breathing and Arts Projects Australia.”

The aim for MAPS is simple, Baylis says, “Artists get the support to plan a future without having to create their own administrative and producing platform. It is one of a number of strategies that we have started in order to create a middle way for artists, a place between the freedom but terrible uncertainties of project-to-project existence, and the relative security but deadening administrative burden of funded small company life. The new funds last year presented a once-in-a-decade opportunity to think about new infrastructure—light infrastructure.”

Baylis went on to explain how research into international models influenced the creation of the brief for MAPS. “Arts Admin in London is the logical reference point and I had a good conversation with co-founder Judith Knight. She expressed doubts about whether Arts Admin could serve as a model for anything, emphasising that it is the passions and idiosyncrasies of the individual producers involved that determine success, not the structure itself. Jennifer McLachlan—Director of Dance at the Australia Council and my partner on this project—also brought her experience of the mixed fortunes of arts councils’ attempts to set up such structures in the UK, so we had a good sense of the risks involved. We based our final brief on a 2005 Scottish Arts Council tender.”

The Australia Council tender issued in early 2008 was won by Strut & Fret for Victoria, Performing Lines for Western Australia and a new partnership between Metro Arts and Brisbane Powerhouse for Queensland. The tender requested that producers provide a vision and list of artists whom they would support. Baylis underlines: “A basic principle of MAPS was that the producers choose the artists. We believed that producers must be passionately committed to the artists they work with, and it would not be useful for funding bodies to dictate who those artists should be. The producers themselves need to be empowered, so it was important not to conceive MAPS as a mere ‘service’ to artists, but rather as the foundation for an equal creative partnership between producer and artist.”

At the time of writing, all three organisations are yet to announce the artists they will support. In each state the set-up is different and dependent not only upon the existing independent theatre and dance culture but also upon the nature of the producers. Each has the potential to make a profound impact upon the local scene as Baylis outlines it. “The MAPS have a three-year commitment from their funding partners. They are not conceived as incubators that will produce perfectly formed micro-businesses free of subsidy. Those that work could become part of the funded theatre and dance infrastructure for the next decade and beyond.”

Strut & Fret are based in Queensland but have had a Melbourne office with five staff for the last two years. They define themselves as “a vibrant young company that produces and manages events, theatrical productions, performers and venues with a unique ‘catch-your-breath’ style.” Producer Scott Maidment says, “We are excited that this initiative both allows us to continue to work with a diverse range of performing artists we have supported over the previous 10 years, and also allows us to develop exciting new relationships with dance artists and companies who we haven’t previously worked with. Strut & Fret support a range of artistic visions and develop a wide scope of opportunities for artists. We want to create and develop futures for independent artists and continue to broaden their exposure to new audiences nationally and internationally.”

In Western Australia, the Sydney-based, but nationally funded, producers Performing Lines won the tender. Performing Lines “works from concept to production and touring. It works with artists at every stage of their careers, from emerging artists to internationally recognised names—and in many cases, plays a critical role in artists’ development. It produces or tours works presented at all levels of the Australian performing arts industry—from the contemporary arts venues comprising the Mobile States consortium to regional venues large and small, to flagship venues such as Sydney Opera House, and to all the major Australian festivals.” General Manager, Wendy Blacklock says of MAPS, ”The structure is under the umbrella of Performing Lines until it can become completely independent. This may take several years but in the interim Performing Lines manages the funds from all areas, contracts and payrolls, covers insurances, deals with superannuation, audits and acquittals, thus leaving the producers free to concentrate on improving the standard of the work, and having time to familarise themselves with national and international networks, funding possibilities and opportunities. I have put in place WA Producer Fiona de Garis and will be choosing an Associate Producer further down the track. Our brief is to choose an equal number of theatre and dance companies/independent artists, so the Associate may very well be a dance person.”

In Queensland MAPS will be jointly managed by Metro Arts, a multi-arts venue and “centre for independent practice”, and Brisbane Powerhouse, a mid-size performing arts venue. Liz Burcham, Chief Executive Officer of Metro Arts described how the project is a logical extension of the organisation’s Biz Arts Makers program and how the partnership with Powerhouse naturally complements their services to artists. Burcham says, “We want to work closer and more collaboratively with artists to enable Queensland based independent artists to be better structured to access markets and opportunities internationally and nationally. A producer will be recruited to work between the two organisations and more funding will be sought to increase that person’s opportunities to travel and extend the scope of the brief over time.”

While there are high hopes for the project and negotiations with other States and Territories continue, John Baylis cites a sobering list of potential pitfalls, including, “artists’ unrealistic expectations on what are very lean infrastructures; producers mistaking their role as creative partner for that of an artistic director; artists receiving only project-by-project support, when the real need is long-term planning and commitment; producer burnout; an unthinking imperative to grow, in the mistaken belief that to stay small is to stagnate; funding body complacency that a few MAPS entities around the country has ‘solved’ the small-to-medium infrastructure issue; and the needs of the producing organisation becoming more of a driver than the original aim—supporting artists better.”

Baylis’ describes MAPS as, “an experiment” and like all good chemistry the results are bound to be highly unpredictable.

FOR 28 YEARS BATTERSEA ARTS CENTRE [BAC] HAS PLAYED A PIVOTAL ROLE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF THEATRE IN THE UK. OCCUPYING A VICTORIAN FORMER TOWN HALL IN SOUTH WEST LONDON, THE ORGANISATION WORKS TO DELIVER A MISSION TO INVENT THE FUTURE OF THEATRE. THROUGH STRUCTURED SUPPORT PROGRAMS WE NURTURE ARTISTS AND COMPANIES IN AN ENVIRONMENT THAT ENCOURAGES EXPERIMENTATION AND RISK.

With a loyal audience playing a central role in the development of new work, we have offered a critical resource for a broad range of theatremakers for over two decades. Over that time BAC has helped nurture hundreds of companies including DV8, Improbable, Kneehigh, Complicité and more recently Punchdrunk, 1927 and Ridiculusmus. BAC’s co-production with Punchdrunk, The Masque of the Red Death—a building-wide, immersive theatrical experience—completed an eight-month sell out run in April 2008.

staying at home

In January last year after a quarter century occupying Battersea Old Town Hall, BAC was threatened with closure. Wandsworth Borough Council, our landlord and key funding partner, took the decision to withdraw financial support and levy a commercial rent on the building after decades of rent free use. While highly prized by artists, our audience and backers including the Arts Council, it looked like BAC would have to vacate its premises. A campaign was launched and the team at BAC began to look at a range of options including closure or relocation. Eighteen months on and after a campaign that included a question to Tony Blair in the House of Commons, BAC has been saved. Wandsworth Borough Council has reinstated most of the grant it threatened to cut and we have just signed a 125 year lease on the building.

This story is important for many reasons. When the prospect of alternative sites was explored it became clear that much of the success of our organisation could be traced to the relationship we have to our Victorian home. Our success as a theatre and as a developer of new work is in part rooted in the fact that the building we occupy is not a theatre but a found space. Although we do offer black box studios, many rooms are relatively unchanged from their intended use as places for public and private congregation within a municipal building. From tiny attic rooms to a Council Chamber and a grand hall, BAC presents an incredible playground for artists and companies. The success of so many performances generated by BAC is partly attributable to this architectural provocation.

renovating the house

This attitude to space is at the heart of our emerging plans for the building. In our ‘co-production’ with a brilliant team of theatre architects, we seek a series of phased solutions that will retain the ghosts of our building’s Victorian past while embracing 21st century technologies and infrastructure for artists and audiences. We have begun a process that sees the building through the eyes of theatremakers and, over the long term, will unlock the potential of a contemporary performance environment across our half-hectare site.

We want our plans to develop in the same way that great theatre emerges from the rehearsal room. Much of the work we develop starts with an idea or a theme. The productions we support are forged in the rehearsal room, often by an ensemble committed to working collaboratively. In the same way our architectural project is seen as creative process where ideas are given time to emerge, develop, breathe, flourish. While we have bold and ambitious ideas for the building we strive to keep our options open. We want to experiment with space, slowly learning how different environments might be best used across the building. We are excited by the prospect of building a ‘home’ at BAC—a space where artists, producers and staff can eat and drink together; a new model for residencies in London where we can accommodate UK and international artists. We are tapping a rich seam of new ideas through a process that is deliberately fluid, flexible, mutable. David Jubb, with whom I share BAC’s artistic directorship, calls this process “playgrounding”—a new way of improvising with space that places theatre artists and architects at the heart of the design process.

the house producers

This process draws on our experiences of a decade of ‘scratch’ at BAC. Over this period BAC has refined a model of development that has now been adopted by dozens of other arts organisations across the UK and overseas. This methodology places an artist’s work, at an early stage in its development, in front of an audience for the first time. Encouraged to provide critical feedback, the audience plays an integral role in the development of new work. The bar becomes a place for debate and conversation about the journey that emerging practice might take. The environment is supportive. Seeds are sown. Critics are banned.

Critical to this process is the role of the producer. For the last five years BAC has pioneered a particular approach to this role. Every artist and company we support is assigned a producer who slowly and skilfully brokers the emerging links between an artist or company and an audience. Armed with an understanding of the creative process of making theatre fused with an entrepreneurial zeal, BAC producers are responsible for assisting the birth of many new works every year. From our participatory work with young people to the development of world class professional theatre, it is this role that drives our program and unlocks the potential in many artists’ work.

supporting producers

And it is this role that the Arts Council in England [ACE] has over the last five years taken greater interest in. As a previous employee and one charged with leading this funder’s relationship with an emerging generation of producers I developed a series of initiatives aimed at raising the profile of and support for dynamic cultural entrepreneurs working in the arts in England.

Between 2005 and 2007 the Arts Council made a series of interventions aimed at providing a more sustainable base from which producers could work. Foremost amongst these was a scheme that provided a small coterie of independent producers with regular funding as a contribution towards operating costs. These grants were made with few strings attached with the intention of providing core support for producers working in contemporary performance, music, live literature and new media and music. In each case, and with demonstrable results that exceeded the expectations of relatively minimal investment, these producers delivered. Some attached themselves to partner organisations to access broader networks while retaining their all-important independence. Regular funding was offered on the understanding that supported producers would be able to come back to ACE for additional finances for individual projects. The piloting of support for independent producers was deemed a great success. Some of the individuals supported this way are now funded on an ongoing basis and all have punched above their weight, many making significant contributions to their artforms.

the challenge

Faced with similar challenges and a champion in John Baylis, the Australia Council developed a parallel scheme. But back in the UK in 2008 the climate is changing again and while some producers now feel on a more stable footing, all are faced with dwindling project funds. The 2012 Olympic Games raid on lottery funds is now felt across the arts and the promised access to flexible project funds is fast drying up. Many independents feel better recognised and core support has increased the sustainability of many, but a curb on project funding is beginning to bite and producers’ ability to broker the relationships between artists and audiences is slowly being curtaiiled.

case studies

The prevailing ethos of the producer is echoed in The Producers: Alchemists of the Impossible. This book, a collaboration between the Jerwood Charitable Foundation and the Arts Council, aims to shine a light on a dozen or so producers working in the arts in the UK and mainland Europe and serve as an inspiration to a new generation of cultural entrepreneurs. It offers a rich set of individual case studies and aims to capture the qualities and attributes that lie at the heart of the producing mindset. One chapter focuses on David Jubb and the unique producing vision he has brought to BAC:

I reckon my most important quality as a producer is to create a flexible space for play in which anything can happen and to keep that space open for long enough for something extraordinary to happen. That often means keeping the space open and keeping people’s confidence in the space way beyond any rational position.

It is this desire to create oxygen around the creative process that lies at the heart of the producing mission at BAC. With a fleetness of foot and a healthy attitude to risk BAC continues to give artists and audiences genuine space to play.

ONE OF THE INTERESTING THINGS ABOUT THE MELBOURNE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL IS THE ‘PARALLEL WORLD’ EFFECT. THE FESTIVAL YOU EXPERIENCE MAY WELL BE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM ANYONE ELSE’S, SO MUCH SO YOU MAY SOMETIMES WONDER IF YOU WERE AT THE SAME EVENT AT ALL. THIS YEAR, A FRIEND WAS TELLING ME ABOUT THE ENGLISH COMING-OF-AGE DRAMAS, THE IRANIAN RITES-OF-PASSAGE FILMS AND THE IRISH HUNGER STRIKE RE-ENACTMENT THAT PROVIDED HER WITH HER MOST VIVID FESTIVAL MOMENTS. I WAS TELLING HER I FELT LIKE I’D BEEN AT FILM SCHOOL, WATCHING AND LEARNING ABOUT THE ART OF GUERRILLA FILMMAKING AND HOW TO WORK ‘RIGHT OUTSIDE THE SYSTEM.’ FOR MY FESTIVAL WAS FILLED WITH GEORGE ROMERO ZOMBIE FLICKS (ROMERO BEING THE ULTIMATE MAVERICK), THE ADMIRABLE PROGRAM OF OZPLOITATION FARE (EXCAVATING IGNORED STRATA OF AUSTRALIAN FILM HISTORY), AND THE WONDERFUL ‘EXPANDED CINEMA’ WORLDS OF GUY SHERWIN, BEN RUSSELL AND BEN RIVERS.

Sherwin’s films were shown in a dedicated program at ACMI, while the two Bens shared a program; Sherwin and Russell also performed at Who is Miss Roder?, a subsidiary festival event at 45downstairs, a gallery and performance space in an old city warehouse. Over three performances, it featured the two internationals plus Australian artists in a mix of experimental cinema, performance art, sound design and video mixing. This was a great idea, enabling Sherwin and Russell to present a different side to their work, and it really added to the sense that, this year, MIFF was something different.

ben rivers

At ACMI, the best of the Ben Rivers material was Ah, Liberty!, shot on 16mm black-and-white stock, an exercise in faux ethnographic, mockumentary weirdness: feral kids in sea monster masks scavenge in rusting machinery dumps while odd scenarios play out around them—a car with no doors, for example, being driven in circles on a muddy field. Rivers projects surreal horror vibes, radiating 10 shades of uncanny, with moments of hilarity jolting you into the realm of the simply deranged. Most of his work is like this: unsettling, weird, but nonetheless conforming to its own internal logic. The overall effect is surprisingly ‘narrative’, given the lack of dialogue, the ultra-rapid editing and the warped tableaux. Another highlight was This is My Land, Rivers’ portrait of the Scottish hermit Jake Williams. Rivers’ scratchy träume style is totally suited to Williams’ self-contained, eccentric lifestyle. As he tinkers with the compost, builds bird feeders and tends his ramshackle house, Williams, in his lilting Scottish voiceover, says whatever comes into his head: an internal world that, like Rivers’ films, conforms to its own weirdly centred chronology.

guy sherwin

Sherwin has been making his miniature masterpieces since the early 1970s, building and unpeeling layers of tone, texture and grain, above all with acuity to create a shifting world of perception. A camera is affixed to the back of a bicycle wheel, simply recording the shadows from the bike as it meanders under the sun, then through a puddle of water, calmly recording the wet tyre marks which look like unravelling DNA. A cat sleeps on a roof. The film is slightly sped up. The creature is dreaming, twitching and kicking its paws into the air. Suddenly, it wakes with a start, looks around and wanders off. An elderly couple stand around laughing and joking. Between them is a mirror, which reflects Sherwin winding the crank of the box camera recording this poetic little piece. The film is silent. We watch Sherwin watching the couple who watch us watching Sherwin. These films were all shown at ACMI, where Sherwin introduced them, expressing surprise that his work was being displayed via state-of-the-art equipment. Normally, he said, his films are screened in a small bar or café type environment, where an element of performance comes into play.

Who is Miss Roder? provided that environment. Here, Sherwin presented his work in partnership with Lynn Loo. Vowels and Consonants was a piece for six projectors that screened variations on a simple, flickering font printed from computer onto acetate and then transferred to film. O’s and N’s fly into frame like amoeba under a microscope, vibrating and oscillating in response, seemingly, to the treated voices that announce their arrival; I’m sure the letters were triggering sound somehow. Sherwin and Loo manipulate the projectors to introduce fades, cuts and cross-fades matching the overlapping effect of the voice. The letters fold and bounce off each other. The overall effect is synaesthetic, like you’re actually watching sound take shape (and in fact the sound design was really something too—an ominous, post-industrial hum).

Man with Mirror was amazing, but it’s complicated to explain, let me try. Sherwin stands in the middle of the space, holding a mirror, which is painted white on the reverse side. Onto the board, the projector beams film of a younger Sherwin (from 1976) doing exactly the same. With a twist of the board, young Sherwin morphs into the older version. He turns the mirror to the reflective side, while young Sherwin turns the board over to the white side, which the real-life Sherwin is doing also. The latter then turns his board over to reveal himself, and then flips back to the mirror, which is now reflecting back to us young Sherwin in profile, the board outstretched in front of him. He turns to face us, flips the board over to the white side and we see the older Sherwin now standing in profile, holding the board in front of him. And on and on in endless variations. It’s like a form of time travel: a man disappearing into light and shadow and reappearing as a younger version of himself. It elicited ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the audience, and rightly so: the choreography was mind-bending.

ben russell

At ACMI, Ben Russell’s films included one from a static camera fixed on a wildly stuttering neon sign and another recording workers leaving a factory in Dubai: field recordings, the unblinking eye of the lens inducing subtle changes in people’s behaviour just by being there. Then there was Black and White Trypps Number Four. Russell takes a strip of 35mm film from a Richard Pryor performance and treats, warps and re-projects it, so that it folds in on itself, as does Pryor’s spiel, which pokes fun at white people and their paranoia about black people. Pryor trips on stage, the image stutters, then burns away as if caught in the projector, melting, reforming, white gaps in the film becoming black, black becoming white, until Pryor ends up leached away to a white screen, his voice slowed to a scratchy burr, and we are left to interpret the meaning: is Pryor a reverse racist? Or is Russell just having loads of fun (artistically and philosophically) with ‘black’ and ‘white’, gaining maximum mileage from minimal materials?

At Miss Roder, Russell upstaged Sherwin, screening a loop from his fake ethnographic film, Daumë, which screened in full at ACMI and is a brilliant piece of work in its own right. Again, how to describe? Young men dressed as ‘natives’ engage in strange rituals, throwing chairs at each other, punching each other randomly. The events are seen from many different angles. Black and white, flickering film. Bizarre masks and a heightened sense of surreality. It’s no wonder Russell and Rivers feel simpatico. At the performance, wearing nothing but underpants and a Church of the Subgenius mask, Russell manipulated the loop with two projectors, blurring the films together, flying by the seat of his (under)pants, improvising a pure performance of analogue dexterity (also manipulating sound via a mixing board, spewing forth granulated sheets of noise). Here, the aesthetic and philosophy of filmmaking becomes a raging, malleable, shapeshifting beast.

more magic

All the Miss Roder acts were excellent. Other highlights included Jon Pak’s performance piece The Feast, in which a small restaurant is actually set up in the space. Two actors, a man and a woman, enter. They sit down to eat, served by an impudent waiter. Their every movement is wired for ultra-amplified sound. There is a video screen upon which their images are projected, electronically treated so that they appear to be underwater. They are nervous with each other and every gesture, burp and nervous laugh is magnified painfully and uncomfortably. Steven Ball’s Personal Electronics was an absorbing study of paranoia, surveillance and the thoroughly fruity modern day phenomenon of ‘gang stalking’ (Google it, you won’t believe it), with pixelated video footage snaking around a suburb, recording people, cars, houses, neighbours, while an unhinged woman in voiceover tries to make sense of a world she thinks is out to get her. Later, Ball did a spoken word reading from similar case studies in his detached tones, while the insane pixels continued to unfurl.

I left these performances feeling divided: half inspired that so much amazing work is being done with scant resources, old media and boundless imagination, half annoyed with myself for wasting so much time watching crap film over the last few years when there’s all this to explore.

The Guy Sherwin, Ben Russell and Ben Rivers expanded cinema program
tour to the Melbourne and Brisbane International Film Festivals was curated and organised by Danni Zuvela, Joel
Stern and Sally Golding (OtherFilm).

Guy Sherwin, Ben Russell, Ben Rivers, Melbourne International Film Festival, Otherfilm, ACMI, July 30; Who is Miss Roder?, presented by MIFF, Greyspace, Otherfilm, Arts House; 45 downstairs, Melbourne, Aug 1-2

HISTORIAN HENRY REYNOLDS MIGHT NOT BE A FILM SCHOLAR BUT HE REASSESSES FRED SCHEPISI’S THE CHANT OF JIMMIE BLACKSMITH (1978) WITH AN ATTENTIVE EYE TO VISUAL DETAIL—POINT OF VIEW, LOCATION, COSTUMING, MAKEUP AND SUNDRY TELLING INCONSISTENCIES—AND, ABOVE ALL, THE FILM’S IMAGERY AND NARRATIVE CONSTRUCTION. BUT WHAT’S MOST REVEALING IS HIS JUXTAPOSITION OF BLACKSMITH’S STORY WITH THE HISTORY OF JIMMY GOVERNOR (ON WHOM BLACKSMITH IS BASED). THE FILM, SCRIPTED BY THOMAS KENEALLY FROM HIS NOVEL, REVEALS HOW HISTORY CAN BE RADICALLY RECAST AS BASED-ON-FACT FICTION WITH, AS WE’LL SEE, UNFORTUNATE CONSEQUENCES.

Above all, Reynolds sees The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith as an emblematically 1970s film, its makers motivated to create for Australian Aboriginals an icon, possibly a black equivalent to Ned Kelly. However, the nature of the Governor/Blacksmith crime, the axe murder of a group of white women, undercuts any sense of heroism. More problematically, the murders might well have been triggered by the racist and social indignities heaped on the Blacksmith brothers, but their impulse in book and film comes from a deep-seated savagery, a return to a primal condition. I recall teaching the novel and seeing the film at the time of its release and being disturbed by this very factor. I was not surprised at the film’s poor reception, despite some public debate about wary audiences being in a state of racist denial. As Reynolds points out, the film’s violence, reinforced by the bloodied axe which was its promotional icon, confirmed it as a film of its time, working the sex and violence theme but here in a racial context. Reynolds sees Keneally and Schepisi, like the 19th century journalists before them, as racialising the violence (as an atavistic urge), when it was more likely to have been motivated by class tension, in a man who didn’t see himself as Aboriginal.

Of course, it was a bold move by Keneally and Schepisi to attempt to engender empathy for the plight of Aboriginal people by using such a challenging story, with its excesses of provocation and response. But what Reynolds reveals, in a few pages, is the very different circumstances of Governor’s life from the film’s identification of Blacksmith as a conventional Aboriginal of the time. True to the period of the second half of the 19th century, Governor was typical of many Aboriginal men of mixed descent who assimilated to varying degrees with white society, went to school, were literate in English, had jobs or made careers for themselves and did not necessarily identify with fellow Aboriginals (nor is there evidence of Governor’s being ritually initiated as Blacksmith is in the film). Of course, all of this was to change with the introduction of the Aboriginal Protection Board in New South Wales in 1883 (removing mixed descent children from their families), the growth of forced segregation and the establishment of reserves and, in 1901, “in the new federal government…Aborigines were denied the right to vote in federal elections.” A few pertinent, educated observations aside, there is little sense in the film of Blacksmith as a man of this period.

The film’s account of Blacksmith’s post-murder bushranging (contentiously signalled as a ‘war’ on white society) is largely diverted into moral point making in an encounter with a white liberal. It pales next to Governor’s three months as an bushranger. He was an effective strategist—there were many robberies—and he was brutal—four killings, a number of woundings and a rape. Fear of his gang was widespread and a huge operation was mounted to capture him. Had the filmmakers wanted a more heroic, if still deeply problematic Blacksmith, they might have attended more closely to Governor’s history. After his capture in the film, Reynolds reminds us, a speechless Blacksmith declines into torpor (recalling a line in the novel: “a fatalism native to his blood”). Governor, however, was renownedly garrulous, “with a cocky sense of achievement, of becoming a celebrity”, and spoke keenly to journalists and his captors of his achievements. Governor, and Blacksmith, had been shot in the mouth during the capture. In the film this prevents Blacksmith from speaking. Reynolds suspects, as he tracks the loss of voice for the Aboriginals in the latter part of the film, “It’s as though Keneally and Schepisi didn’t want him to talk. It’s their story—not his.”

Reynolds also finds the values of the film confusing. If a primal urge is first seen as being at the root of the murders then the second half of the film shifts towards a suggestion that Jimmie’s problem lies in miscegenation, that he is caught between primitive life (initiation, his full-blood brother Mort) and Christian culture, but is forever at the bidding of his Aboriginality. Reynolds sees this in the contrastive skin casting of the performers, in makeup and hairstyling, in Mort’s stereotypical ‘bush native’, Jimmie’s breaking into “an apparently ‘instinctive’ tribal dance” and “[w]hen on the run, Jimmie’s initial improbable ignorance of tribal law is gradually overcome as an inherent Aboriginality breaks through…” As with the opening shot of the film, Jimmie’s intiation, so it ends, after Blacksmith’s off screen hanging, with a shot of cockatoos rising in flight—”conventional romantic pantheism”, writes Reynolds, and a further muddying of psychological and cultural cause and effect.

Reynolds asks if it’s possible to make an Aboriginal legend out of an obscure historical figure, a complex, possibly psychopathic one with white ambitions and no sense of being a warrior on behalf of his people. (As Reynolds notes, Schepisi is happy to “interpret violence as war” without “allowing Blacksmith to explain what his political objectives were.” Instead, Blacksmith howls “War” into an oddly reverberant landscape.) Reynolds suggests that if Schepisi wanted a hero, and one reasonably well known he could have looked to Jundamara of the Kimberley region and his Bunaba resistance from the same period (his life was recently dramatised by Perth’s Black Swan Theatre Company with Bunaba Films, RT84, p34 ).

Reynolds takes particular exception to the film’s cinematography, not in terms of its skill or effectiveness, but in the inspiration taken by the cinematographer Ian Baker and director Schepisi from Tom Roberts and the Heidelberg School: “…we are faced here with two quite different and competing traditions with the dialogue aspring to contemporary relevance while the cinematography looks back to the aesthetic ideals of the early 20th century”, ideals freed of Aboriginal connection to the land.

The book ends by addressing the big picture: the effect on the industry of the film’s poor reception and its place in our cultural history. Schepisi lost a quarter of a million dollars on the film and has said he “felt very guilty about its effect on the Australian film industry.” Reynolds thinks, given the filmmakers’ noble intentions, it was ironical that “the commercial failure of Schepisi’s film made it very difficult to make further films about racial issues for 10 or 20 years. It became the conventional wisdom of the film industry that films about Aborigines, and especially about racial conflict, woud never be commercially successful.” It was a long path to The Tracker, One Night the Moon, Beneath Clouds and Rabbit Proof Fence—all released in 2002, two of them by Aboriginal filmmakers.

As for the film’s standing as a work of art, Reynolds declares it “an unsatisfactory hybrid.” He says of the novel what is true of the film, “[it] takes a real historical character but invents so much that the story loses its touch with past reality. It is neither one thing or the other.” As a cultural artefact, Reynolds feels that “we learn more of the filmmaker and the writer than we do about Jimmy Governor and his brother. What we see is the way in which progressive, liberal white Australia sought to come to new understandings of the nation’s history while still encumbered by remants of discredited racial thought.”

Above all Reynold says the film tells us more about the 1970s than the 19th century. For that reason and “[de]spite the commercial failure of the film, Schepisi created scenes and images which are unforgettable and which will remain as important contributions to the intellectual and cultural history of Australia in the second half of the 20th century.” This comes somewhat as a surprise after Reynolds’ thorough and eloquently argued challenges to almost every aspect of the film. But perhaps it’s the kind of thing you’d expect of an historian, for whom the film is a fascinating document of our recent past, of issues and events which still haunt us and inhibit the well-being of Aboriginal people. Now a generation of Indigenous filmmakers are in the process of making their own feature films. What history will they tell us, and what history will they make? Reynolds’ book is another fine addition to Currency Press’ Australian Screen Classics series.

Henry Reynolds, Australian Screen Classics, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith, series editor Jane Mills, National Film & Sound Archive, Currency Press, 2008

PETER KUBELKA’S VISIT TO AUSTRALIA WAS A GENUINE COUP FOR THE NATIONAL FILM AND SOUND ARCHIVE, WHO ORGANISED THE TRIP, AND A FABULOUS GIFT FOR CANBERRA AUDIENCES WHO GOT TO WITNESS THE WORK OF THE MAN STAN BRAKHAGE CALLED “THE WORLD’S GREATEST FILMMAKER.”

The handful of films Kubelka has made are among the most important in cinema history—their impact on avant-garde film is profound, and few who make work which explores flicker/perceptual address or sound/image relations are unaware of his standing. Despite the best efforts of former film collection curators and programmers, Kubelka’s film works—only available on their original format, 16mm film—have been unavailable in Australia until now. Among the legacies of the Canberra visit is the lodgement of a lovely new set of prints in the NFSA’s Non-Theatrical Loans collection (formerly the National Film and Video Lending Service—rebadged as of a couple of weeks ago).

Kubelka travels rarely, has never been to Australia before, and tends to be talked about in hushed tones by experimental cinema aficionados, amongst whom accounts of the great man’s brilliant lectures, films, curatorial work are traded as eagerly as the stories of exacting behaviour (a legendary inability to tolerate talking during screenings, public muzak etc). It was therefore wonderful to have the opportunity to experience Kubelka’s rarely-seen works, his three lecture-performance-screenings, as well as his new restoration of Soviet legend Dziga Vertov’s remarkable, kinetic 1930 film/sound/montage experiment, Enthusiasm: The Donbass Symphony.

The dispersed nature of the program, with Kubelka events spread over a month, made travel problematic for those unlucky enough to live outside our nation’s gracious capital. While the exclusivity clause is common practice in the cut-throat climate of contemporary institutional politics, it is a shame when there is such a potent movement of avant-garde film in other parts of Australia and so many up-and-coming filmmakers who could have benefited from contact with this cinema great, that a tour was not possible.

Over a three-week period, Kubelka delivered his three most infamous lecture-performances (though he disputes the applicability of the second word, gently chiding former pupil, outgoing NFSA director Paolo Cherchi Usai, for using it in his elegant introduction to Kubelka’s final address). These lectures all explored the utterly unique theorisations for which Kubelka is renowned with screenings, often repeated, of his films. The lectures began with Metric Cinema, where he outlined his use of precisely ordered shot-to-shot relations to amplify the film projector’s unique ‘flicker’ phenomenon to create intense phenomenological experiences. Next was Metaphorical Cinema, where he explored his formulation of ‘the sync event’—the myriad dialectical possibilities of non-synched sound/image, and, finally, the Edible Metaphor, where Kubelka lovingly demonstrated the relationship between cooking (“the most primal of all arts, the first art”) and other forms of creative expression.

Kubelka spoke to me on the subjects of film, archiving and programming, often with great emphasis, which has been preserved here.

kubelka speaks:

Of course I’m very happy to present my work here in Australia for the first time and maybe also the last time. I’m very happy now that my works will be available in Australia for young people who can also see the lectures and experience what I am saying.

archiving

I started out as a filmmaker, because of my own needs to make FILM. Later I became an archivist—I founded the Austrian Filmmuseum and then, with others, the Anthology Film Archives in New York. There are two schools of thought as to how archiving should be realised—on the one hand are the progressivists, who believe that now we have digital technology, that would solve all our problems, and the other, who think that if we do this, then we don’t have FILM history. As I have laid out in my lectures, archives do not preserve CONTENT—content does not exist without CONTEXT. Archives must preserve MATERIAL. This is easy with books—the content and the context is the same, we just see that it doesn’t decay—but where we have photographic support, we are in danger of losing the context if we use other mediums. Film is essential for film archiving because it’s the context.

My films have impact only in the form of cinema. I have bet my whole EXISTENCE on forbidding transfer to any other form of support. There were years when I was completely alone. My fellow filmmakers succumbed and their films were widely sold on digital formats. For example, Brakhage was afraid he’d be forgotten, so he sold his work to a digital venture, they made a DVD, and look what happened. Now all the places who teach Brakhage (whose work is so specifically tied to work on the EMULSION and thus is MISREPRESENTED by DVD) have acquired the DVD, and nobody rents from the co-ops which rent the actual film prints. The co-ops, who did so much to protect and support film and filmmakers, are going down. They’re going out of business. They can’t survive. It’s a very dangerous situation.

Then, along comes some new interest by new people who are working with film. On film. This has made me so HAPPY! It’s an incredible victory—these young people choosing to work with film. They will be making work for at least another 30 years—ample time to convince the industry to continue film! Of course, the film industry has no morals, no aesthetics. It has let down the art of film by discontinuing colour emulsion stocks and closing off other avenues. George Eastman (father of Kodak) would turn in his grave!

Fifty years ago the industry believed it should destroy prints—this forced early archives to STEAL prints—to protect them! This is what started the movement of film archives. I have even had my films stolen by archives, a long time ago. They’re forgiven now. For film, it’s a guerrilla war.

showing the archive

Yes, I was instrumental in forming ‘the avant-garde canon’ with Mekas, Brakhage, Sitney, Broughton, Kelman, and others, when I came to America in 1966. We had many, MANY discussions about what to do when showing films. The principle was all-inclusive when we started—show everything, without censorship, even if it’s dangerous to show (yes, Jonas went to jail for showing Flaming Creatures). That principle was actually working when we first started because there were so few and all were INTERESTING. It was an outcast thing and to do it you had to be so strong and had to sacrifice a civilised existence to produce a good film. But by the 70s, filmmaking became en vogue and the number was multiplying, suddenly there were hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of films around. My thinking was, we have to prove to a public who is not educated in our art the main works which represent our art and then they will see what they are ABOUT. So when they see them, they will not be disappointed or confused, but see a selection which makes sense, gives them a way to know the films’ context, not just content.

Then came the possibility to form Anthology Film Archives, and the two avenues were Jonas’ ‘show everything’ and my principle of selection. We decided that there would be a jury of five people who choose what they thought was representative. We created a body of essential works that would be shown in a cycle. If you’re a painter, IT IS ESSENTIAL that you go and see other great works of art. There are certain essential paintings you must know, you must study—if you live in a place where these works are based (like New York or Paris) these everyday representations are what you feed on! Similarly you need a good place for sport—if people play football, you give people a place where every day there’s some representation of sport, where they can play and learn about football.

Now film isn’t like painting, which is static. Film is like music, it has TIME. The cyclical programming, as we instituted it at AFA in NY, is important to the ART of film. We believed that there should be a continuing, permanent representation of important work, as do many other curators such as in Vienna or at the Pompidou. At times it was dangerous, a subjective choice. At different historical points in time it has changed, mutated. The art of film needs spaces and cycles, it’s specific like that. Like an orchid plant, it grows out of a certain culture.

Peter Kubelka, Metaphoric Cinema, Sept 10, The Edible Metaphor, Sept 14, Kubelka restoration of Dziga Vertov’s Enthusiasm, Oct 1; ARC Cinema, National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra

Uupekha Jain as Kali, When The Gods Came Down To Earth, Srinivas Krishna and Divani Films Inc

NIGHT AND DAY FOR A MONTH AT THE FLINDERS STREET ENTRANCE TO FEDERATION SQUARE, OPPOSITE ST PAUL’S CATHEDRAL, AND VISIBLE FROM MANY PERSPECTIVES, THE GODS OF THE INDIAN HINDU PANTHEON DANCED, PERFORMING THEIR ETERNAL ACTS OF JUSTICE AND BENEFICENCE. SOME ARE MULTI-LIMBED OR HEADED, OTHERS PART ANIMAL. SOME HAVE FLESH RICHLY HUED IN GLOWING BLUES AND REDS. IN RESPONSE TO A COMMISSION FROM FEDERATION SQUARE’S LIGHT IN WINTER FESTIVAL. CANADIAN FILMMAKER SRINIVAS KRISHNA [RT84, P20] CONJURES A BEAUTIFUL, OFTEN EERIE, OTHERWORLDLY POLYTHEISM IN HIS CREATION OF “A THREE-SIDED BEACON”, FULFILLING A DESIRE “TO TAKE THE GODS INTO THE STREETS.”

Inspired by the mass production of images of Hindu gods that commenced in India in the 19th century and its spread into many other media since, Srinivas Krishna clearly sees god-populated popular culture as a rich spiritual repository.

Using Toronto-based classical Indian dancers, Srinivas and his many collaborators have enriched the live action with hand painted sets, fine costuming, elaborate makeup, animation and a variety of digital effects. The elephant god, Ganesh, is a perfect merging of the human and the divine; the many-armed Kali is frighteningly spider-like; the “vision of Universal Being revealed by Krishna?to his friend Arjuna during a moment of doubt” is spectacular in its multiplication of heads and limbs; while the lotus growing from Vishnu’s belly is central to an image of beauty but also of the complexity of creation as a cluster of serpents hover above.

Each of the installation’s three screens plays the same loop of the gods in action, but not in sync, so that as you walk around the work a series of mysterious events unfold. Alternatively you can watch one screen, contemplatively, from a distance—aesthetically the best position given that the large size of each of the many screen units has a kind of pixelating effect close up. There are a few irritations.The absence of a sound score seems odd, especially for gods represented by dancers from a musically rich culture, and the dull grey of the supporting plinth seems inappropriate, not least when girded with municipal potted shrubbery. There was also no information about the installation that I could see. The artist’s website for the work (www.godsonearth.com) is a valuable corrective, providing images and names for each of the gods and footage of the installation in operation.

Given the noise of traffic, cafe music and public announcements of Federation Square, Srinivas Krishna told me he chose not to compete with a soundtrack, let alone face the economic and logistical challenges involved. However, he addressed the issue when the Institute of Contemporary Culture at the Royal Ontario Museum and the Toronto International Film Festival invited him to present When the Gods Came Down in Toronto in September as part of the festival’s Future Screens program, with the installion located outside the Royal Ontario Museum.

Srinivas worked with Toronto-based composer, Debashish Sinha, to create three to five minute compositions every half hour in a three-hour rotation, with the sound built into the installation and explanatory titles. He sees the sound as “focusing the attention of passers-by and, as well, signalling the time (which is what the images do when they are so typically used to adorn Indian calendars). In using the sound this way, I want to see if it will serve, in some way, to ‘frame the work’ and the experience of it for viewers, which as I had discovered in Melbourne, is the challenge of public art (unlike gallery art which already brings with it a host of viewer expectations).”

From Toronto, Srinivas writes that he “improved the facing and structure of the installation, added a new figure, Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge and the Arts,…repurposed the imagery and added a border because we were displaying on screens that were different proportions (but higher resolution than Melbourne).” Toronto’s The Globe and Mail declared, “The revelation came not in a cinema, but on the street…This utterly breathtaking video installation was far and away the strongest work in an especially strong TIFF, causing pedestrians to stop and gape. Genius.” [Sept 13].

Federation Square’s 2008 Light in Winter Festival also involved nine local communities—Indigenous Aboriginal, Vietnamese, Afghan, Japanese, Hispano-American, Indian, Sudanese, Turkish and Tuvalu-South Pacific—each displaying light-based works they had made in collaboration with artists. Doubtless these were best seen on the night of their premiering in Federation Square. By the time I saw them them they’d been tucked away into various locations, some easily found and with identifying labelling.The glass foyer leading to the NGV was spectacularly festooned with chains of internally lit richly and subtly coloured paper flowers created by the Japanese community.

The square itself was warmly re-cast in light sculpted by Nathan Thompson of The Flaming Beacon design group, if having to compete with a multitude of lights from restaurants and cafes and the square’s big screen. Thompson’s long lines of fragmented light hung high overhead (like the gridding in a Richard Foreman stage production) and from these were suspended thin red pods, suggesting an organic quality akin to the community group creations using animal and flower shapes. Light in Winter is a small scale festival, distinctive amidst many generic ones. May it continue to glow.

When the Gods Came Down to Earth, director Srinivas Krishna, producer Sherrie Johnson, cinematographer Rhett Morita, choreographer Janak Khendry, Divani Films, commissioned installation for The Light in Winter, artistic director Robyn Archer, Federation Square, Melbourne,?June 13-July 13; www.godsonearth.com

ON THE COMMENTARY TRACKS FOR SOME OF HIS FILMS ON DVD, TURKISH-GERMAN WRITER-DIRECTOR FATIH AKIN REVEALS HIMSELF TO BE A SPIRITED, PLAYFUL PERSONALITY. IT’S NOT SURPRISING THAT HE WAS PURPORTEDLY INVESTIGATED BY GERMAN POLICE IN 2006 FOR WEARING A T-SHIRT WITH A SWASTIKA REPLACING THE ‘S’ IN GEORGE W BUSH, EQUATING THE PRESIDENT’S GUANTANAMO BAY REGIME WITH THE THIRD REICH. THE FEATURE FILM HEAD ON (2003), WHICH BROUGHT AKIN TO INTERNATIONAL PROMINENCE IS A TENSE, VIOLENT, DRUG-SATURATED AND ROCK-FUELLED TALE OF THWARTED LOVE IF, FORTUNATELY, MUCH MORE THAN THAT. AND AKIN PROVOCATIVELY ACCEPTED HIS AWARD FOR THE EDGE OF HEAVEN AT THE 2007 CANNES FILM FESTIVAL ON BEHALF OF TURKISH CINEMA.

But for German cinema Fatih Akin is also a respected figure, an integral part of the country’s film renaissance and one whose films make sense of the challenges of intercultural life. Not surprisingly his films locate themselves physically in both Germany and Turkey, characters travelling between the two in attempts to find lost family, to recover or seek a sense of identity…or flee, or be banished.

Even when portraying extremes, the voluble Akin is a subtle writer-director who generates unexpected narrative developments that test our expectations, who loops time back on itself to re-direct our perspectives, and who allows his fine performers ample time and space to reveal their characters without ever impeding his nuanced pacing. For all their intensity, Akin’s films are inviting meditations on love, kinship and culture.

Fatih Akin was born in 1973 in Hamburg of Turkish parentage and studied Visual Communications at Hamburg’s College of Fine Arts. He made award-winning short features in 1995 and 1996 and a full length feature, Short Sharp Shock in 1998, winning the Bronze Leopard at Locarno and the Bavarian Film Award for best Young Director. Since then he has made the feature films In July (2000), Solino (2002), Head-On (2003) and The Edge of Heaven (2007) which premiered in Australia at the Goethe Institut’s 2008 Festival of German Film and then enjoyed a long cinema release. It won Best Screenplay at the 2007 Cannes Film Festival.

Akin’s output also includes documentaries: We forgot to go back (2001), about his parents’ migration to Germany, and the feature length Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul (2005), a comprehensive if informal quest to explore Turkish music—on the streets, in bars and clubs, on film and in sacred spaces—filming them as they perform and talk.

Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul features Alexander Hacke of Einstürznede Neubauten as the narrator, onscreen quester and occasional collaborator with local musicians. It’s a characteristic move by Akin to look into Turkish music through the eyes and ears of a German musician who is recording and mixing as he travels the city.

The music is classic Arabic, Romany, Sufi and Kurdish, along with modern derivatives and hip hop, punk and more. There’s much fascinating music to listen to (and more in the added features), often much more idiosyncratic that you’d expect in a rapidly globalising culture, not to mention many an intriguing lyric on unfamiliar topics.

Throughout, there are accompanying, often substantial conversations with the musicians revealing their rich sense of cultural heritage, whatever their idiom, with not infrequent reference to the politics of nationalism and the effects of repression. The street musicians (buskers of a very high order) are some of the most eloquent when speaking of the deprivations of the big city and their romanticising by some popular artists.

Crossing the Bridge is a wonderful cultural document, its subjects ranging from hip hop teens to aged traditionalists (their younger selves glimpsed in archival footage) whose lyrics are vivid. A popular performer, youthful in her 80s, sways, singing “they said the tables were covered in sin/ with the wine of lovers.” Not least, the film is a great introduction to Istanbul, lovingly filmed in a manner as far from touristy or standard documentary as you could imagine, taking time out to gaze at tired buildings, thoughtful inhabitants, langorous pets and beautiful streetscapes behind the city’s iconic facades. This is a film you want to to return to again and again.

Madman Music has provided RealTime with six DVDs of Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul to give to our readers, and six copies of Fatih Akin’s feature film Head-On the soundtrack of which includes traditional Turkish music, and songs from Depeche Mode, Sisters of Mercy and Talk Talk. Head On’s tale of an impossible love relationship borne of coincidental suicide attempts is as moving as it is tough-minded, heading towards a sad resolution as wise as it is despairing. As ever, Fatih Akin’s melding of image and music is fundamental to the power of his filmmaking.

Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul, director, writer Fatih Akin, Madman Music DVD; Head On, writer, director, Fatih Akin, Madman Music DVD. www.madman.com.au

The Madman DVD of Akin’s The Edge of Heaven will be available for rental from October 9.

ARI FOLMAN’S OUTSTANDING ANIMATED DOCUMENTARY BRINGS TOGETHER INTERVIEWS, STORIES AND ACTS OF REMEMBERING WITH ANIMATED SCENES THAT RE-IMAGINE, RECREATE AND RE-ENACT THE PAST. TOGETHER THEY CONJURE A COMPLEX PICTURE OF EVENTS FOR WHICH THERE IS NO ARCHIVAL FOOTAGE. WOVEN TOGETHER, THESE ANIMATED FLASHBACKS, DREAMS AND MENTAL IMAGES CAPTURE THE TRICKY SURREALITY OF WAR AND MEMORY.

Folman draws heavily on his personal experiences with repressed traumatic memories. He is in fact the central character of his own film. Ari, a film director, retraces his time as an Israeli soldier in the 1980s when he supported Christian Phalangist militia in the first Lebanon War. He knows he was witness to two devastating massacres committed in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps but he cannot remember anything about them. Waltz with Bashir follows Ari as he seeks out friends and long lost colleagues in the hope that their stories and memories will restore him to these repressed events.

During the Lebanese Civil War, the Israeli Minister of Defence, Ariel Sharon (who 20 years later became the country’s President) planned for the Israeli Defence Force to occupy Beirut and support Bashir Gemayel, senior commander of the Christian Phalangist militia, as the newly elected President of Lebanon. When Gemayel was assassinated, Phalangist militia took revenge by attacking the Sabra and Shantila refugee camps at night, the Israeli Defense Force lighting their way with flares. An estimated 3,000 people were massacred in these camps including women, children and the elderly, provoking widespread protests from the Israeli people, a government inquiry and, ultimately, the dismissal of Sharon.

The film’s incredible history lesson does not lie in these details, however. Folman describes the depiction of war in Waltz with Bashir like this: “It’s like nothing you’ve seen in American movies. No glam, no glory. Just very young men going nowhere, shooting at no-one they know, getting shot by no-one they know, then going home and trying to forget. Sometimes they can. Most of the time they cannot.”

Presented from the point of view of the common Israeli conscript, Waltz with Bashir speaks to a nation, a whole culture full of individuals haunted by repressed traumatic memories of war. Seven out of the nine interviews in the film are with real friends and colleagues of Folman who gave testimony on their recollection of their involvement in events now more than 20 years old. The other two interviewees are played by actors recounting the real testimony of Folman’s friends.

It is a recurring nightmare Ari’s old friend Boaz tells him that prompts the filmmaker’s own journey into the dark, forgotten depths of his own past. This film itself must have provoked similar journeys for Israeli filmgoers, speaking to the grim history that continues to haunt the bleak reality of contemporary Israel.

The workings of memory constitute both a topic of conversation in Waltz with Bashir and a driving narrative force. Film has often been understood as the ultimate medium for capturing the capriciousness of memory. It has the capacity to connect the past and the present, the real and the imagined, with the same unpredictable logic that drives our everyday experiences of thinking and feeling. Folman makes full use of these capacities.

A veteran documentary director, Folman’s approach to animation is unique. Waltz with Bashir was scripted, shot first on video and cut to 90 minutes. Rather than animate the video using rotoscope, where animators paint over real video, the film was then drawn again from scratch. The video was storyboarded, illustrated and then animated using a combination of Flash, classic animation and 3D. This produces a remarkably poignant aesthetic.

The drawings are exquisite. Their deeply moving attention to detail produces textual effects that would never have been available to the video camera. At the same time, the animation replicates the conventions of documentary, mixing talking head style interviews and at one point even imagining a slideshow of war photographs. In animated form, archive takes on the same status as subjective memories and hallucinations, the animation powerfully masking the distinction between real and imagined scenes. Animation here becomes the ultimate tool for rendering experimental histories.

Having Waltz with Bashir in general release here in Australia is significant since animation has become a major site for innovation in Australian short films in recent years. Australian Sejong Parks’ short animation The Birthday Boy (2005), nominated for an Academy Award, stands out as a companion example for Waltz with Bashir. The Australian cinema, however, is yet to deploy animation so powerfully to conjure traumatic memories of the dark histories that haunt our own contemporary reality. Waltz with Bashir opens up that possibility.

Waltz with Bashir, director Ari Folman, art director, illustrator David Polonskey, director of animation Yoni Goodman, editor Nilli Feller, 2008, waltzwithbashir.com

THE FESTIVAL’S PREVIEW DVDS COMPRISED A FROTHY SELECTION OF JAPANESE FILMS—SOAPY DRAMAS, A MONSTER SAGA IN THE GODZILLA TRADITION, SAMURAI ANGST, BRACING SENTIMENTALITY AND A JOURNEY INTO MADNESS.

The best of the bunch is the two-hanky (idiomatic Japanese for mildly weepy) Always—Sunset on Third Street (director Takashi Yamakazi), a meticulously crafted, nostalgic recreation of the Tokyo of 1958 based on a popular comic strip set in in the old blue-collar residential area of Yuhi and winner of 12 Japanese Academy awards in 2006 including Best Film, Best Actor, Best Screenplay and Best Cinematography. The film’s narrative is framed by the building of the Eiffel Tower-like Tokyo Tower, glimpsed here and there from a distance through the gaps between humble, mostly timber suburban houses and at the end of tram-tracked main streets as it grows to completion and an almost happy end for at least some of the characters. The tower represents an emerging spirit of optimism after the depredations forced by defeat in World War II.

There are small signs of improvement—the refrigerator replaces the icebox and the first television on the block attracts a multitude of ecstatic house guests (until a fault develops and an eager helper disastrously dismantles the set) and there’s very full-on Christmas gift-giving. The film’s sense of community, quite village like, is strong, as is its comedy if frequently undercut by darker narrative strands—the local doctor who chronically mourns his war-dead wife and daughter, and a woman whose father’s debts keep her in sexual bondage (“so feudal”, comments one of the locals).

The film centres on two households, one belonging to the family of a volatile car mechanic prone to verbally mistreating a string of young apprentices who leave him, this time a young girl from the countryside who feels she’s been effectively banished from her family. The other is a run-down general store neglected by a cranky, disinherited writer whose literary ambition cannot be achieved, writing secretly instead for boys’ manga, and stealing stories for them from an intelligent and creative orphan he is begrudgingly obliged to mind. The actors playing the mechanic and the writer give the film much of its strength—they are obtuse, funny, infuriating and at odds, while the other characters, the young boys excepted, are more generic. One of the best and most sustained scenes has the easily insulted mechanic erupting emotionally and physically through doors and walls in pursuit of his apprentice. It’s eventually a positive turning point for him and one that has a rightness about it amidst the calculated coincidences and resolutions elsewhere. The more detailed transformation of the writer into a loving foster parent is developed in the second part of the film, combining studied motivation and sentimentality in equal, but nonetheless convincing proportions. Always is doubtless a feel good fiction with limited historical vision, but the totality of that vision and its finest performances ring tearfully true. Always is showing only in Melbourne, and its sequel, Always 2, is showing only in Sydney.

Love and Honor (Melbourne only) completes the Yoji Yamada trilogy that includes The Hidden Blade and Twilight Samurai. It’s samurai drama of a quiet order—only one fight and a tellingly abject one at that. The young protagonist’s job is to taste his master’s food and in due course he is poisoned, resulting in blindness, a stubborn withdrawal from the world and a loss of moral perspective. The return to honour and perhaps love is carefully wrought in this modest period piece, which won Best Supporting Actor, Best Cinematography and Best Lighting at the 2007 Japanese Academy Awards,

I’ve long enjoyed those small scale films that offer glimpses into specialist aspects of Japanese urban and regional life, as with Shingo Matsubara’s chatty The Taste of Fish centred round the Tsukiji Fish Market, one of the world’s largest, and where the corporate protagonist recovers his sense of self. The Godzilla films might have been inadvertantly satirical but Minoru Kawasaki’s Monster X Strikes Back/Attack the G8 Summit is calculatedly so as the monster from outer space attacks the world reaping large scale political ill will and much damage to balsa wood and other constructions. One for the fans. A different kind of monstrosity is perpetrated in Suzuki Matsuo’s Welcome to the Quiet Room (showing in Sydney only) where a journalist is accidentally admitted to a psychiatric ward where she nonetheless manages to learn something about herself—but what a way to do it. Ultimately this is a ‘feel very bad but then in the end feel quite good’ kind of movie and not without interest.

While not the topflight of current Japanese cinema there’s something in the program for everyone, offering not a few insights into one of our key neighbours. Not least there’s a constant sense of the past bleeding into the present in ways both nourishing and limiting. RT

The 12th Japanese Film Festival, ACMI Cinemas, Nov 27-Dec 1; Greater Union, George Street, Sydney, Dec 2-9;
http://12thjff.jpf-sydney.org

RUSSIAN CINEMA IS CURRENTLY IN THE MIDST OF A RENAISSANCE. OF THIS THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT. WITH THE GREAT FILMMAKING INSTITUTIONS OF THE SOVIET UNION NOW A DISTANT MEMORY, THE RUSSIAN FILM INDUSTRY HAS BUFFETED THE WINTER OF TRANSFORMATION AND RE-EMERGED IN THE 21ST CENTURY TO A DIVERSE AND FERTILE MARKETPLACE. RUSSIA’S DOMESTIC BOX OFFICE RECORDS ARE BEING CONSISTENTLY BROKEN BY LOCALLY-MADE PRODUCTIONS, AND MORE THAN A COUPLE OF EMERGING RUSSIAN FILMMAKERS ARE MAKING SERIOUS INROADS INTO THE INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL CIRCUIT.

Indeed, so healthy is the state of Russian cinema that some critics have begun talking of a “new wave” in Russian filmmaking. I’m not sure the term is apt. Contemporary Russian cinema is too disparate and multifaceted to be swept along in one direction. But as an acknowledgment of industrial progress, if not for any ideological or stylistic consistency, the idea of a Russian “new wave” is certainly justifiable. After almost disappearing in the years immediately following the break-up of the Soviet Union, the film industry (like many industries in today’s “new” Russia) has steadily grown over the past decade to now re-assume a significant measure of international stature. Since 1998, each passing year has witnessed an increase in film productions, with a high proportion of these being made by first time directors. This establishment of a wide platform of emerging talent (of not only directors, but actors and crew), coupled with the willingness of the Russian state and big business to invest in domestic productions, has meant that strong foundations have been laid for a very productive, varied and potentially enduring industry. In a time when West European and Hollywood cinemas seem locked in a state of creative recession, and when even East Asian cinemas seem a little quiet, Russian cinema is on the march. Creative and financial chances are being willfully taken. Gambles are ventured without the guarantee of healthy returns (a concept that Hollywood producers could reacquaint themselves with). And even if not all of these are successful—even if bad films are still made in Russia as in any other country—the boldness and confidence that pervades contemporary Russian filmmaking is refreshing.

Australians will have a chance to taste the vitality of this new Russian cinema when the Russian Resurrection Film Festival returns for its fifth annual season. Established in 2003, the festival has grown substantially over recent years, branching out from its original venues in Melbourne and Sydney to now include screenings in Adelaide, Brisbane, Canberra and Perth. And much like the national industry it showcases, the festival shows all the signs of further growth. Last year former Russian president Vladmir Putin lent political weight when he opened the Sydney wing of the festival (giving Australian politicians a hint of the importance that some governments place on their national cinemas). And with 2007 audiences up 55% on the previous year, organisers of the 2008 festival are hoping for an even bigger turn-out this time around. I was grateful to festival organisers for a brief peep at some of the headline features.

No doubt the festival drawcard for local cinephiles is Andrei Zvyagintev’s The Banishment. A Russian-Belgian co-production, The Banishment arrives on our shores shrouded in both mystery and anticipation. Following the media sensation that surrounded Zvyagintev’s debut feature The Return (which won the Golden Lion at Venice in 2003), details of The Banishment were kept under strict wraps until the film’s release last year. The Siberian born director Zvyagintev even went to Kubrickian lengths, going into hiding to avoid the press. Thankfully the results have proven worth the trouble. The Banishment, I am happy to confide, is a demanding, enigmatic and masterful film confirming Zvyagintev’s status as a rare genius of narrative cinema. This is a major event in world cinema, a genuine example of film art, and should not be missed by any serious filmgoer. The Banishment won the Best Actor award at the 2007 Cannes Film Festival for Konstantin Lavronenko.

In the crime thriller Vice, director and co-writer Valery Todorovsky revisits the Russian underground he so successfully explored a decade ago in Land of the Deaf. Vice follows the descent of young hipster Denis (Maxim Metveyev), a dance club disc jockey whose dreams of a life beyond the mundane lead him into an uncompromising relationship with lonely, sociopathic mobster Verner (Fedor Bondarchuk). Denis soon discovers that it’s easy to make friendships, but hard to break them off. With some fine performances, blistering scenes of violence and a peculiarly bleak Russian denouement, Vice is an effectively paced crime drama, a much darker film than it seems at first.

Aleksei Popogrebsky’s award-winning feature Simple Things is an entertaining and surprisingly evocative example of cinematic understatement. The film gently portrays the less than remarkable, though still thoroughly unmanageable, mid-life crisis of St. Petersburg anesthetist Sergei Maslov. A kindhearted-without-being-prissy film that was lauded with prizes at Eastern European festivals last year, Simple Things stands out in its national context as a unique, semi-precious gem—an antidote to the darkness of Zvyagintev’s harrowing epic.

Other films to be screened at the festival include Karen Shakhnazarov’s latest feature Vanished Empire (which plays alongside the director’s Glasnost-era classics Zero City and We are Jazz Men) and a retrospective of Soviet fantasia’ cinema to be headlined by the enormously popular 1962 oddity Amphibian Man. Come and sing along to the adventures of Ichtyandr, boy with gills. For Sydney audiences there’s also a special treat on November 9 at City Recital Hall, where the SBS Youth Orchestra perform the original Dmitri Shostakovich score to Gregoriy Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg’s 1929 silent film New Babylon.

2008 Russian Resurrection Film Festival: Melbourne: Palace Cinema Como, October 29-Nov 5; Canberra: Greater Union Manuka, Oct 30-Nov 3; Sydney: Chauvel Cinema, Oct 31–Nov 10; Brisbane: Palace Centro Cinema, Nov 6-12; Perth: Cinema Paradiso, Nov 13-19; Adelaide: Palace Nova Eastend, Nov 14-19; www.russianresurrection.com

ERICE-KIAROSTAMI. CORRESPONDENCES IS AN EXHIBITION NOT TO BE MISSED IF YOU VALUE THE POETIC AND EXPRESSIVE POSSIBILITIES OF CINEMA AND ITS SHIFTING CONNECTIONS TO THE VISUAL ARTS. IT IS ONE OF THE MOST ENCHANTING AND ENGAGING EXHIBITIONS ON THIS SIGNIFICANT THEME THAT I HAVE ENCOUNTERED IN THIS COUNTRY, AND INDEED, ELSEWHERE.

It is simply an elegant and imaginatively installed exhibition delineating the uncompromising aesthetic, cultural and formal qualities of these two modern trailblazers of world cinema. These two artists were born—as life would have it—one week apart in countries (Iran and Spain respectively) that have both experienced massive socio-cultural and political turbulence, censorship and ideological contradictions and tensions. In Kiarostami’s case, it was Iran under the regime of the Shah from the 1950s to 70s, and then the theocratic Islamic Revolution, and for Erice, the transition from fascism to democracy with the end of Francoism in Spain in 1977.

Co-curated by the prominent French film critic Alain Bergala and the Spanish curator Jordi Ballo the exhibition constantly asks of the engaged gallery-goer, “What is cinema?”, particularly in a time of vertiginous cross-pollination between cinema, digital cinema, photography, installation, painting, sculpture etc. As you wander through this spacious exhibition of films, photographs, installations, painting and videos you also entertain another question, “Why is our own cinema frequently lacking in an inventiveness of form, dialogue, performance, space and text?” I am not dismissive in toto of Australian cinema, far from it, but the same unsettling question returned.

The exhibition subtly reveals the resonating, parallel trajectories of the filmmakers, each exploring a personal path in cinema that speaks of everyday life, history, landscape, myth and memory. Both Kiarostami and Erice, as Bergala explains in his penetrating catalogue essay, refused careerism, cinematic fashion and public taste, making their diverse “post-medium” (Rosalind Krauss) oeuvres “with the sovereignty befitting an artist” (“Erice-Kiarosatami: The Pathways of Creation”, in Erice-Kiarostami Correspondences, Barcelona, Catalogue, Centre De Cultura Contemporana De Barcelona, 2006). In other words, they see and hear the world as a perennial enigma located and concealed in the visible. Whatever differences there may be in terms of culture, as you surrender yourself to their exhibits, you realise that these filmmakers have a mutual interest in producing a contemplative cinema of attentiveness to the contingencies of life, to silence and tranquillity. At the same time they evoke Proustian reveberations of their childhood memories.

Bergala is right in emphasising how both filmmakers abhor the iron-clad tyranny of drama, sense and narrative and make their speculative, non-linear and philosophically informed films as if they are contemporary visual artists. As we know, they are not alone in this facet of world cinema (Chantal Akerman, Stan Douglas, Jean-Luc Godard, Derek Jarman, Thierry Kuntzel, Sally Potter, Chris Marker, Agnes Varda and many others).

The exhibition’s intelligent structure provides corresponding paths, placing the life of each filmmaker in dialogue with the other, highlighting resemblances and differences. But which ever way you choose to enter the massive space, you find yourself at the ‘crossroads’ of the filmmakers’ oeuvres and whichever way you go, Erice or Kiarostami, is of no real consequence. There is a welcome “Cagean” wisdom to the criss-crossing curatorial and apparent design randomness. The ‘crossroads’ allows you to traverse from one universe of cinematic creation to another.

And at the other end of the exhibition, whose critical theme is, I believe, the indispensable connectedness that exists between the childhood of cinema and the cinema of childhood (Serge Daney, Jean Louis Schefer), we find the correspondence between Kiarostami and Erice conducted in mini-DV letters. This striking exhibit, amongst others scattered throughout the exhibition, particularly attests to their experimental creativity and curiosity to go beyond the usual constraints of celluloid cinema to explore the new possibilities of small digital cameras. This is another instance of how cinema is rapidly expanding beyond the theatre, especially in galleries and museums, where art and film are interacting in many intricate ways. For some 30 years now we have been witnessing the changing cultural geography of the gallery/museum as shaped by interactions between visual art and film.

There are also other works that cut across a number of media confirming for each a singular aesthetic and a sense of existential creative adventure: the black and white, calligraphic poetry of Kirarostami’s ravishing landscape photographs and The Roads of Kiarostami (1978-2003) are among the numerous delights of this exhibition, as is Erice’s Notes. Quince Tree (1990-2003), a work that continues the concerns of his 1992 modern masterpiece on creativity,The Quince Tree Sun.

The exhibition program also contains most of the seminal films of these risk-taking filmmakers. Erice and Kiarostami’s captivating films share a crucial aesthetic and ethical kinship of sorts based on the belief that the universal is indisputably connected to the singular. Both critically reject the crippling legacy of naturalism in the cinema and other art forms; and both also believe that the singular vocation of today’s artist is to speak of everydayness and, as Bergala puts it, “the essential inessentiality of art.”

Erice-Kiarostami. Correspondences highlights something that is sorely missing in these ahistorical times of ours. It unequivocally demonstrates that these two artists, who create with their camera-pens (Alexandre Asrtruc) and write to each other, pay respect to each other’s personal path to creativity and in so doing pay the same to the ancestors of their medium.

Yves Netzhammer, Die Subjektivierung der Wiederholung/The Subjectivisation of Repetition, Project C

NEW MEDIA ART HAS A VERY SHORT HISTORY ON CHINA’S MAINLAND, WHERE MORE TRADITIONAL FORMS SUCH AS PAINTING AND SCULPTURE TEND TO HOLD SWAY. SO, IN THE LEAD UP TO THE OLYMPIC GAMES, IT WAS A SURPRISE TO SEE BEIJING’S NOTORIOUSLY CONSERVATIVE NATIONAL ART MUSEUM OF CHINA (NAMOC) UNVEIL SYNTHETIC TIMES, A MAJOR SURVEY OF GLOBAL MEDIA ART PRACTICE.

The China-born, New York-based curator of Synthetic Times, Zhang Ga, has been involved in nurturing China’s nascent digital media scene for several years. “I was in China in 2003 and I looked around in Chinese universities and talked to a lot of artists”, recalls Zhang. “I realised their understanding of new media art really remained at the level of DVDs, digital photography, a little bit of 2D interaction and Flash. I thought it was important to introduce some of the most cutting edge, current media art production to China.”

During that visit, Zhang was invited by Tsinghua University to help introduce media art practices to Beijing’s creative community, which led to the inaugural Beijing International New Media Art Exhibition and Symposium in 2004. In 2006, the newly appointed NAMOC director, Fan Di’an, approached Zhang to curate a major exhibition of media art as part of the Olympic cultural program, signalling a significant shift in NAMOC’s curatorial philosophy. “[Fan Di’an] inherited a museum which is quite traditional”, says Zhang, “so I think he wanted to do something that is cutting edge and more appropriate for contemporary dialogue.”

Synthetic Times would have been a major event in any country, let alone one in which the concept of media art is barely known, and the sense of excitement and interest among visitors was obvious. Over 40 works filled the museum’s ground floor and spilled onto the building’s forecourt, including everything from kinetic sculptures to interactive installations. There were some familiar Australian contributions, including Transmute Collective’s Intimate Transactions (2005) and Stelarc’s Prosthetic Head (2003-08), smiling down on crowds near the museum entrance. [Australia’s MAAP was one of 17 international media arts organisations that collaborated on Synthetic Times. MAAP’s retinue also included Korea’s Kim Kichul and Singapore’s Paul Lincoln whose Citizen Comfort is described below.]

the recording eye

Some of the works that resonated most with the pre-Olympics Beijing setting were those dealing with digital image-making technologies. On the one hand these technologies, like film and photography before them, offer the tantalising possibility of capturing something of our history for posterity. The elusive nature of this promise felt all the more poignant in a city where physical traces of the past are being erased daily. On the other hand these same technologies are being increasingly utilised to observe, record and classify our movements.

The blendid collective’s Touch Me (Netherlands, 2004) was a simple but affecting interactive installation, in essence a giant scanner fixed to the museum’s wall. Every so often a bright shaft of vertical light passed across the scanner which recorded a ghostly impression of spectators who pressed themselves against the glass. Each new sweep of light saw the previous image erased and new impressions recorded. If no-one pressed against the glass, the screen cycled through old images, creating a layering effect akin to a series of digital Turin shrouds. Initially amusing and a lot of fun, the blurry indistinct images took on a haunting air after a time, like ghosts reaching into the present from a murky past.

Nearby, Mariana Rondon’s You Came with the Breeze-2 (Venezuela, 2007-08) dealt in similarly fleeting imagery. Two robot arms suspended from a large metal frame each ended in a ring roughly the size of a football. The rings were dipped into bowls of soapy fluid, before being swung into the centre of the frame, where fans blew on the liquid to form giant bubbles. Clouds of mist were sprayed into the bubbles and shimmering images projected from the rear briefly appeared on the water droplets before the bubbles burst, the mist dissipated and the entire process began again. Images included a baby, a giant eye and, rather incongruously, a chicken. In the corner of the metal frame, indistinct naked figures were projected onto a solid plastic sphere, creating the effect of human forms swimming in a fish bowl. The work beautifully evoked the transient nature of images, suggesting that for all our archival technologies, time is always at work, eroding our attempts to fix memories.

David Rokeby’s Taken (Canada, 2002) was one of the older works at Synthetic Times, but it certainly struck a chord in a pre-Olympics Beijing as surveillance cameras sprouted like mushrooms across the city. It comprised two screens, the right one a fuzzy yellow surveillance image of the crowd in front of the work, captured by a camera in the corner. The image depicted gallery patrons in real time, but also retained traces of past observers in the form of spectral shadows. Periodically a small rectangle, akin to a gunsight, would single out an individual and relay their close-up to the blue-toned screen on the left. Words and phrases, sometimes amusing, sometimes sinister, flashed above the close-ups, such as “Unconcerned”, “Completely Convinced”, “Implicated”, and “Deeply Suspicious.” Every so often, dozens of the close-ups would appear together, like a mosaic of animated mugshots.

Paul Lincoln’s Citizen Comfort (Singapore, 2008) also reflected upon the way camera technologies assist in ideologically determining space. A small screen sat before a comfortable armchair and hat stand, signifiers of cosy domestic security. The screen showed the space in front of the armchair, but if the viewer picked the screen up and pointed it at the small air-conditioning holes in the museum’s wall, words in red block letters appeared in the televisual space, such as “United”, “Race”, “Democratic”, “Prosperity”, and “Nation.” A large flat screen fixed to the wall behind the armchair relayed the image appearing on the smaller screen, creating a hall-of-mirrors circuit of surveillance. Like David Rokeby’s Taken, Citizen Comfort interrogates how imaging technology both records an impression of the physical world and ideologically informs how we understand ‘reality.’

works of disquiet

A melancholic or sometimes menacing air lurked below the playful surfaces of the installations described above, but two works in Synthetic Times were unambiguously disquieting. The first was Cloud, by Chinese artist Xu Zhongmin (2006). A large cone spun as lights strobed and small child-like figures emerged from the cone’s top, tumbling and diving down the sides before dropping like rain from the base. Occasionally the spinning stopped, the strobing ceased and the children became stationary figures poised mid-action. Then the spinning resumed and they continued their lemming-like tumbles. Wide open to interpretation, Cloud was a disturbing portrayal of futile, repetitive mass action.

Yves Netzhammer’s The Subjectivisation of Repetition (Switzerland, 2007) was one of the exhibition’s more conventional works in terms of form, but also one of the most intriguing. A large installation comprising a main screen and three smaller screens on the opposite wall, viewers had to climb a sizeable mound made from timber in the centre of the room, as if gathering to hear a Biblical parable. The walls were filled with the silhouettes of strange creatures and vegetation, and maps of the world. On the main screen small animated vignettes played out in sequences lasting from a few seconds to a minute or so. A featureless black figure sat behind a white one, rubbed his finger on a blood red map of the world, forced out the white figure’s tongue and wiped it with his reddened finger tip. A dolphin swam beside a man walking on shore, until the creature hit a red pipe and went belly-up while the man walked on oblivious. A map of the world folded in on itself. Many of the aphoristic scenes were replete with acts of sanitised, clinical violence, the animated figures playing out a seemingly endless cycle of attraction, repulsion and struggle for domination with an unnerving air of calm. The rear trio of screens showed similar scenes. The scenarios felt both familiar and strange, like half remembered dreams. The Subjectivisation of Repetition was a beautiful, disturbing interrogation of our era’s contested signifiers, mediated violence, and sense of impending disaster.

wakeup call for local artists

Zhang Ga hopes Synthetic Times will “act as a wakeup call” for Chinese artists, who he believes have become too comfortable in China’s financially flush art scene. “Everybody’s making so such money, without really reflecting on what they actually contribute to the language of art…[This exhibition will] let people realise there are works that are very sincere, very serious, and require a lot of dedication.”

Of the exhibition’s more general impact, Zhang says, “Art is something that changes you over time; the way you look at the world, and eventually the way you perceive reality.” Art’s expansive possibilities are particularly vital in China, where the government severely restricts the exchange of ideas in public discourse. It was ironic, however, that many of the works in this “Olympics Cultural Project” utilised and interrogated the same technologies that were being rolled out across Beijing in the months preceding the Games, as authorities subjected the capital to an unprecedented level of electronic surveillance. Of course, this simply brought the city into line with long-established levels of ‘security’ in the West. It seems technology isn’t the only thing converging in our networked, closely monitored world.

Synthetic Times—Media Art China 2008, curator Zhang Ga, National Art Museum of China, Beijing, June 10-July 3, www.mediartchina.org

KEITH ARMSTRONG AND GUY WEBSTER COLLABORATED WITH CHARLOTTE VINCENT AND THE DANCER TC HOWARD TO PRODUCE SHIFTING INTIMACIES FOR A SHOW AT THE ICA IN LONDON IN 2006. AT THE BRISBANE FESTIVAL IT IS ON FOR A FEW HOURS SPREAD OVER FOUR DAYS. BOOKINGS MUST BE MADE. SINGLE VIEWER AT A TIME. TEN MINUTE SLOTS. THEY FILL UP PRETTY QUICK.

You turn up at the Judith Wright Centre, grab a drink, sit in the foyer and wait your turn. The usher comes out and quietly offers up the now mandatory fear of litigation instructions on responsible behaviour when encountering an installation. Emboldened by caveats I enter the room alert to the terrors that might lie ahead. The space is darkish and semi-industrial—silver aircon ducts, chunky pillars. Shifting Intimacies was originally designed for ‘the ideal black box’ (painting = the white box; installation = the black box. The white box isolates the object, the black box isolates the viewer). Although it does change the piece from its original conception the space works. There’s something shady and transitory about the combination of slick tech aesthetic and low rent industrial—sort of bump in, bump out biotech.

The floor is covered in white dust marked by the footprints of previous visitors. There are two discs at either end of the space, each one a couple of metres across. The closest disc is a sand covered platform raised to about knee height, the further one a disc of white dust laid out on the ground and defined by a rim of deeper dust. Both discs glow with video projections. Onto the raised disc is projected a dancer, life size, colour muted close to grey scale. The dancer spins and contorts within what looks like a very amniotic fluid. The face is obscured, the body de-identified. Motion is slow, there are pauses then rapid jerking shifts. Tissue filaments, like sheets of skin, float about in the fluid, disintegrate and trail the motion of the limbs. If the raised disc is gestation then the second disc is erosion. Again the dancer is anonymous and seen from above. But this time the image is repeatedly broken down into noise generated by the microbial growth patterns of an AI algorithm. Even though the images are large, the effect is of looking through a porthole or microscope onto a private mystery. The viewer presence is acknowledged but the dancer’s face is always turned away, there is nothing personal or dialogic happening.

Throughout all of this is the sound design—low rumbles, spatially driven static, unnerving resonances. Organic, layered, moving about, buzzes and drones. At times I wander away from the image and just enjoy the sound, which seems to be more responsive to my position in the space than the images ever were. It is as if the sound forms an enclosure within which the dancer acts out a private and necessary cycle.

At the end of the timeslot a light goes on in the corner of the space. One walks up a short flight of stairs to a platform overlooking the disc of the eroded body. But now the body is fully revealed, face down, knees clenched, crouching. You reach into a bowl and grab some dust and cast it onto the figure below. More dust blows in. Soon there is enough dust to erase the figure completely.

Gina Czarnecki’s Contagion provides a very different experience. It is designed around ideas of viral transmission—epidemics of disease and fear. The space is cubic and black, large screen at one end. The screen looks like a giant monocular scope, red crosshairs slowly moving across the surface. Billowing smoke tracks each person’s movement through the space—coloured according to their entrance point and beautifully detailed. And, underneath the smoke trails, a movie of a surveillance operation plays out, figures glowing hot in the long wavelengths of night vision.

Contagion presents a traditional theatric and game-like space with the action split between the presentation on the screen and the audience out front. People try and interact with the system by moving about the space to drive movement in the smoke trails. But one cannot move about the space and interact in a completely natural fashion as the head must be facing forward and angled upward to view the screen, which is quite high. It’s like being in the front row at the pictures. And the look of people all facing the front moving about with their faces craned upward at an uncomfortable angle doesn’t gel with the elegance of the imagery. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with a work that sets up some sort of disjunction or discomfort between action and response, but there must be some sort of conceptually coherent payoff for doing so. Unfortunately in Contagion there is no obvious payoff that links audience motion and orientation to the conceptual domain.

In the end, Contagion feels flat, any emotional or aesthetic engagement dominated by the clumsiness of the interaction. By contrast, Shifting Intimacies does not feel particularly interactive at all—the experience is primarily poetic, and more powerful for that.

2008 Brisbane Festival: Shifting Intimacies, artistic directors Keith Armstrong, Charlotte Vincent, sound director Guy Webster, TC Howard, Judith Wright Centre of Contemporary Arts, July 30-Aug 2; Contagion, Gina Czarnecki, The Block, QUT, Brisbane, July 18-Aug 3

When you peer into a kaleidoscope, into the mirrored surfaces on which tiny fragments of coloured glass spark and rattle, and raise the toy against the light, you don’t expect to see yourself. But in Sydney artist Jordana Maisie’s The RealThing, that’s what you get, the real you, captured by video and fragmented by soft and hardware magic into an infinite number of glorious mandalas.

Significantly Maisie’s work is on a human scale. The large screen facing you is contained in a deep circle of thin, bright metal, a camera hanging discreetly just above. Your actions become experimental as soon as you realise that the patterning on the vivid screen is evolving at the same rate as your own movement. You adjust relative to the camera. You discover that you can position hands, face, torso, objects with astonishing results, as surreal, temporary still lives or slow, lyrical dances.

Instead of the way you’d hold a kaleidoscope, in the Real Thing it’s the way you hold yourself, and far more interesting than, say, the fairground’s distorting mirrors. Here, Jordana Maisie the maker turns us into co-maker and subject at once. But it’s no mere narcissistic delight, because there’s no coherent mirroring of the self. Rather, we’re offered the perverse pleasure of dissolving and rearranging ourselves.
To see The Real Thing and to read about Jordana Maisie (she has a Masters Degree of Digital Media from Sydney’s College of Fine Arts and studied photography at the Glasgow School of Art) and forthcoming shows and collaborations, go to Studio.

Jordana Maisie, The Real Thing, sculpture, interactive video installation, Black & Blue Gallery,
Sydney, Aug 29-Sept 14; www.blackandbluegallery.com.au

AFTER NOT INCONSIDERABLE HARD TIMES, NEW MEDIA ARTS APPEAR TO BE ENJOYING NEW FAVOUR AND SOME RE-BRANDING. GROWING VISIBILITY, BIG PRIZE MONEY, SIGNS OF RE-GROWTH IN THE TERTIARY EDUCATION SECTOR AND THE EXPANDING INTERNATIONAL PRESENCE OF INDIVIDUAL AUSTRALIAN ARTISTS ARE SIGNS, HOPEFULLY, OF BETTER TIMES. EXPERIMENTA’S EXTENSIVE FORAYS ASIDE, EXHIBITIONS OF NEW MEDIA ARTS HAVE BEEN RARE, SO IT WAS EXHILARATING TO BE ABLE TO ENJOY MIRROR STATES, CURATED BY LIZZIE MULLER AND KATHY CLELAND, AT THE CAMPBELLTOWN ARTS CENTRE. IT’S A SERIOUSLY ENGAGING SHOW THAT OFFERS A RANGE OF INTERACTIVITY WITH NEGLIGIBLE MOUSING AND NOT A LITTLE PHYSICAL AND MENTAL ACTIVITY.

As for re-branding, the ‘new’ appears to have been clipped off ‘new media arts’ leaving us with the somewhat ambiguous ‘media arts’. Exactly who did the scissoring is not clear, perhaps it’s one of those meme things, but it’s certainly no fait accompli: the Queensland Premier’s National New Media Art Award is hanging onto the label with a $75,000 prize for the best work from a select group of artists. Certainly the argument about the ‘newness’ of new media arts has been long argued for and against, including on these pages. Those for ‘new’ argued that the constant inventiveness in electronic technology and art’s engagement and furthering of it justified the label; those against had seen it all before, all the way back through pre-digital multimedia, Expanded Cinema, Fluxus, Dada, Wagner…And then there were the new media artists who just wanted to be artists.

Although university courses are more likely to be titled in terms of electronic art, digital arts and still occasionally as new media arts, there’s a drift to ‘media arts’ in common parlance, encouraged doubtless by various kinds of platform convergence and the out and out digitalisation of the cinema. Media arts now encapsulates everything from photography to pre-cinema to film to video to gaming to Second Life to mobile phone and GPS art, and the big screens proliferating in public spaces across the world. [The international Urban Screens Conference is being held in Melbourne this month. Read Ross Harley’s report in RealTime 88.]

Meanwhile, film schools are pushing their media arts credentials. The Australian Film TV and Radio School (AFTRS), for example, has announced Graduate Diploma courses specialising in Game Design and Virtual Worlds, building, says Peter Giles, Director of Digital Media, on “AFTRS’ expertise in computer animation and interactive writing…coupled with our experience of rapidly prototyping digital content through our Laboratory of Advanced Media Production (LAMP).” The new federal film agency, Screen Australia (a merging of the Australian Film Commission, Film Australia and the Film Finance Corporation) has put out a statement of intent for public comment forecasting not just funding film but developing a broader notion of screen in a context of media convergence [www.screenaustralia.gov.au/soi].

For the $75,000 biennial acquisitive Premier of Queensland’s National New Media Art Award, nine artists have been short-listed: Peter Alwast (QLD), Julie Dowling (WA), Anita Fontaine (QLD/Netherlands), David Haines and Joyce Hinterding (NSW), Natalie Jeremijenko (QLD/USA), Adam Nash (VIC), Sam Smith (NSW), John Tonkin (NSW) and Mari Velonaki (NSW). It’s an intriguing range of artists, a broad notion of the field bringing together some recent converts to media arts alongside established practioners. The award exhibition will be on show in the Media Gallery, Gallery of Modern Art (GoMA) until February 8 next. The selection of artists was made by invitation and will be judged by Melinda Rackham (ANAT), Liz Hughes (Experimenta) and Tony Ellwood, Director QAG, while the $25,000 travel and study scholarship for an emerging new media artist living and working in Queensland was open to application.

There are other positive signs. ACMI’s Game On, a hands-on exhibition tracing the history of computer gaming, was a monster success, drawing record crowds. The Australia Council’s Inter-Arts Office pulled an unusual degree of media and online attention on the announcement of the successful applicant [the team of Justin Clements, Christopher Dodds and Adam Nash] for a residency in Second Life [see the interview with the Office’s Ricardo Peach on page 36]. Australia’s MAAP continues to work the Asia-Pacific region, participating in China’s Synthetic Times [see Dan Edwards’ report on page 32]. The Australian Network of Art & Technology offers artists key support through travel funding, workshops and its administration of the art-science program Synapse. Experimenta has upped the ante by titling its big touring shows as biennales. NSW’s dLux Media Arts has been particularly active in promoting the potential of locative media.

Meanwhile, Australian media artists roam the world, invited to major media arts events like Ars Electronica and ISEA [see reports on the 2008 festivals in RT88] or appearing in notable exhibitions. Recent travellers include Josephine Starrs and Leon Cmielewski with their new work, land [sound] scape (2008), chosen for the Guangzhou Triennial, China; Lynette Wallworth whose work has featured recently at London’s BFI and now the 2008 Melbourne International Arts Festival; and Transmute Collective, whose Intimate Transactions has taken them recently to the UK, Europe and USA [director Keith Armstrong’s Shifting Intimacies is reviewed on page 33].

If recent years have been frustrating for new media artists—watching ACMI turn predominantly to cinema before Game On, universities shutting down new media arts departments or forcing mergers with sometimes unlikely partners, the absorption of the Australia Council’s New Media Arts Board remit largely into the Visual Arts Board—things seem to be looking up. A more integrative vision is also evident. As Ricardo Peach makes clear, several of the Australia Council artform boards have partnered media arts projects and have individually addressed the potency of new technologies for their constituencies. I was pleased to be invited to launch the University of Technology Sydney’s Centre for Media Arts Innovation (see p42), which aims to work across disciplines and artforms within UTS and generate dialogue and ventures with sectors outside the university and the general public [www.communication.uts.edu.au/centres/cmai].

In Indigenous media art, the winner of the Wandjuk Marika 3D Memorial Award in the 2008 Telstra Aboriginal Art Awards, went to Nyapantapa Yunupingu, a Yolngu artist from Yirrkala, for her installation (natural pigments on bark, moving image) entitled Incident at Mutpi (see page 10). The filming for the work was done at Yirrkala’s new multimedia studio, the Mulka Project.

All these signs of new media arts life (Lyndal Jones’ RMIT Vital Signs conference in 2005 [RT 70, p35] in the wake of the demise of the New Media Arts Board had left not a few us fearing a fatality), not least a major media arts prize with ‘new’ in the title, suggest room for optimism even if the uptake of media art in galleries, proliferating video art aside, is still very slow. It’s good then to know that Campbelltown Arts Centre and GoMA are creating new benchmarks with a determinedly national approach (for a state premier’s prize) in GoMA’s case and a Pacific Rim one in Mirror States.

mirror states

Kathy Cleland and Lizzie Muller have drawn together works familiar and unfamiliar, all deserving of a wider audience. The spacious Campbelltown Arts Centre allows each work plenty of room to work its magic in a thematically rigorous show that seduces the viewer-participant into reflecting on their self perception with humour, trepidation and deep seriousness.

At the gallery’s entrance we are welcomed face to face by a video of the head of a ventriloquist’s dummy (from Bioheads, Anna Davis, Jason Gee, 2005-08). In appearance it’s a simple work displaying the usual mechanics of manipulation but, with restrained digital animation, the eyebrows seem to rise that little bit higher, the smile wider, the jaw deeper as the dummy intones deviantly mainstream self-help mantras: “I sing beautifully and am financially blessed”; “it is abnormal to be sick”; “poverty is a mental disease.” The extra animation touches and the eye to eye positioning of the screen make the doll just that little too real. You feel vaguely implicated, a tad grubby, for even staying to listen to the rubbish he spouts. That’s not me in the mirror, you hope.

Even more alarming, filling the main entrance, floor to ceiling, is a huge, long, pink inflatable finger, Sean Kerr’s Klunk, Clomp, Aaugh!—Friends Reunited (NZ, 2008). It seems to have a life of its own, but you work out fairly quickly that if you turn to two small screens with large black dot-like eyes, in the corner and gesture you can perhaps influence the rise and fall of this phallic toy —shocking inflation, too big!, and worrying deflation, almost flat to the floor. You want to turn to the nearby gallery staff and say I didn’t do it, but then you think, Did I? Is it giving us the finger for imagining we’re on top of the new technologies? Is it mirroring our foolishness, our wishful thinking?

Deeper into the foyer, Hye Rim Lee’s Powder Room (2005, USA/NZ) displays a face, seen from various angles, being digitally made over on four small circular screens. The face is analysed and gridded so we witness the precise topography on which changes will be wrought—the slow re-drafting and fattening of lips or re-working of eyebrows and nose. It’s clinical but leavened by familiar, cute Asian-style graphic art which almost, but not quite, guts the horror of the cosmetic surgery reality behind this ‘mirror’ evocation of a possible future self. This is not me, but it might be the kind of hypothetical modelling offered potential makeover customers. Things get weirder when we’re drawn to an adjoinging large room where, in Lash, a huge version of the face fills a circular screen, engaging us eye to eye, waves of soft colour emanating from behind the coiffure, head rolling, a gentle moaning and then eyelids fluttering with an accompanying, alarming machine gun ratatatat. This is mechanistic animation, but like the ventriloquist’s doll, there’s a disturbing sense of being regarded, played to, in the loop of being estimated, or seduced.

In a spare, white room, two wheelchairs lurk on a floor littered with paper strips—that’s it. No screens. Mari Velonaki’s Fish-Bird: Circle C-Movement B (2005), created with a group of roboticists, is by now an old favourite but still manages to surprise as these empty conveyances with apparent lives of their own seem to uncannily sense your movements as they follow, back off or turn away at the last moment: they seem to mirror your intentions and expectations. Meanwhile they’re pumping out messages to each other on small strips of paper which they dump on the floor or which we bend to gratefully receive as gifts from another intelligence. One printout suggests I’m being addressed directly: “Fish is not talking to me.” The desire to be mirrored by another (the phenomenological loop that builds and sustains our sense of self), even if by a wheelchair, makes for an experience both uncanny and self-critical.

In a nearby room, the wheelchairs have been replaced by doppelgangers, two immaculately crafted timber boxes with crystal screens on four sides (Circle D: Fragile Balances, 2008). You pick one up and, as you gently turn the box around, writing unfolds in a similar style to the wheelchair printouts. At the same time you glimpse responses on the second box as a lateral, poetic conversation unfolds. It’s like coming across an expensive Victorian pre-cinematic toy that’s been digitalised. It’s an odd, and again implicating experience, holding an intelligent box as it writes, “If our eyes should meet, what would we have in common?” Exactly. Mari Velonaki is one of the contenders for the Queensland Premier’s New Media Arts Prize, so this work will be on show at GoMA.

I’ve also seen Alex Davies’ Dislocation (2005) before, but again it’s surprising to find your perceptions nonetheless tossed about as you bend to peer into one of four small peephole screens that reveal the room behind you. Suddenly, on the screen, someone enters—other gallery goers, a guard and a dog, variously indifferent, affable, vulnerable and perhaps dangerous—but, you turn quickly, to find there’s no-one there. The screen is an unreliable mirror. You wonder how you’ve triggered these ghostly intruders.

Canadian David Rokeby’s Giver of Names (1991-2004) is an even stranger experience. Brightly coloured toys litter the floor. You arrange them on a plinth. A camera and computer read your arrangement and interpret and transform it onto a screen above, thickening and varying the colours quite beautifully. Meanwhile the computer is converting its sense of the image into extremely lateral text, readable on another screen: a rubber duckie on the plinth becomes “that is the mountain girl.” This is no mere mirror of our actions rendered interactively, but an evocation of the challenges and limits of translation.

The closest we get to something like a true reflection is John Tonkin’s time and motion study (2006), the latest version of which will also appear in the New Media Art Prize show at GoMA. In a long, narrow, dark room you move towards a screen (and camera above it) on which fragments of a row of overlapping faces are fading and over which your own multiplies moment after moment, in portraiture of now and now and now and before, before, before…and, as you shift before the lens, now again. As in the Rokeby, there’s an absence of literal translation, the imagery is dark, grainy, not distorted but curiously Francis Bacon-like, each duplicated face locked into a kind of rictus in an infinity mirror, trailing light years away.

If George Khut’s previous works (Drawing Breath, 2004-06 and Cardiomorpholgies, 2004-07) have allowed the heart beat and breathing of individual participants to modulate his visual and sonic imagery, this new work, The Heart Library goes much further in transforming states of being into artistic mirrorings and with greater audience-as-co-maker participation. The visitor retires to a gently darkened space, stretches out on a cushioned platform, holds a sensor in each hand and encounters themself, life size, on a screen above. The pace of the heartbeat yields a flow of snow or blossom-like drift over the body and changes in colour and sound—for some participants the variation is subtle, for others relatively dramatic in intensity.

On leaving the space, you enter another hung with full-scale drawings by participants reflecting what they’d just experienced. A number are distinctive artworks and all are revealing about where people see their bodies centred or off-balance, wounded, anxious or enjoyed. Khut and collaborators (Caitlin Newton-Broad, Greg Turner and David Morris-Oliveros), have video-ed some of these drawings and recorded the makers explaining them. These, with headphones, are available on small wall players. The notion of a new kind of library is fully and immersively realised, and goes a step further in its offer of creativity. The artist Khut provides the framework within which others can make art of their bodies and their perceptions. As Anneke Jaspers writes in the Mirror States catalogue, “…the addition of a social dimension reconfigures interactivity within an inter-subjective rather than strictly technolgical framework.” We feel of works of art we like that they mirror something about us, even if we don’t like what we see, but in The Heart Library we are the actual subject of the work. Our heart beat turns us, thanks to Khut’s artistry, into co-maker while being audience to our own experience. Those who draw and speak become interpreters of that making. The hung paintings and screen recordings are left for others to share and compare as the mirroring multiplies.

Mirror States, curators Kathy Cleland, Lizzie Muller, Campbelltown Arts Centre, Sydney, July 18-Aug 24; MIC Toi Rerehiki, Auckland, New Zealand, May 16-June 28

THE OPENING MONTAGE OF DAN MONCEAUX AND EMMA STERLING’S SUPERMARKET IS FULL OF FAST CUTS, STARS, LIGHTS AND CARS, DOUBLING AND REPEATING. A SEQUENCE OF NIGHT-TIME CITYSCAPES TURN AROUND THE SCREEN. THE FOOTAGE SHIFTS FROM FILMIC TO THE OPEN SHUTTER BLUR OF VIDEO. LINES OF COLOUR SLOWLY DRAG ACROSS THE FRAME. LIVE FEED OF MONCEAUX’S HANDS, MIXING THE SOUND, DISSOLVES BRIEFLY IN AND OUT OF THE SCENE. THEN WE’RE TAKEN ACROSS A BRIDGE, MOVE INTO A TUNNEL. THE TITLE, IN THICK BLACK RETRO FONT, CROSSES OVER A LARGE WHITE SPACE. BLACK AND WHITE GEOMETRIC PATTERNS TAKE OVER. THERE’S A CROSS-SECTION OF A BRAIN, LIKE AN X-RAY. BUBBLES FALL. THEN A WARNING THAT THE FILM MIGHT CAUSE INDUCE EPILEPTIC EPISODES CUTS HARD ONTO THE SCREEN.

These eclectic media are driven by the audio beat: electronic music composed, performed and mixed by Monceaux. Meanwhile a male narrator, like documentary’s ‘voice of god’ and in a style reminiscent of cinema advertising and infomercials, informs us that Supermarket “speaks up for consumer interest…supplying several million people with the truth”, “for men and women in all walks of life.”

Supermarket unfolds as a series of chapters, or sections. Early on I’m wondering what will hold them all together. Even though it is described as non-narrative the approach to genres and styles fragments the work. There are a number of Monceaux-Stirling vignettes. One section comprises numerous shots of people wearing uggboots framed to cut off the person at the knees, keeping identities censored, or avoiding, like television news, the need for permission to shoot. At best the uggboot works like a ‘quirky’ homage to American avant-garde ‘catalogue’ films. This chapter is followed by a romantic comedy, shot on Super 8 for Shoot the Fringe. It tells a story about two balloons meeting in The Garden of Unearthly Delights. While a sweet interpretation of falling in love, its classical narrative form stands out amongst the otherwise experimental use of footage.

“Men and women from all walks of life” are presented to the audience through a combination of archival and borrowed footage. However, unlike, say, Tracey Moffatt’s Love (2003), which liberally takes from Hollywood, Supermarket doesn’t appear to have a sense of direction. Early on there is a sequence of images that runs approximately in this order: an Aboriginal man hunting with a spear, kangaroos, the face of a native American, an eagle, a bull running, snow on branches, time-lapse footage of Uluru, and smiling black children who wave at the camera. Are the artists calling into question the ethics of representation or are they unconsciously contributing to a colonialist perception of Aboriginal people? And what about the generalising association the sequence makes, likening the indigenous peoples of Australia with those of America?

Other sections of Supermarket either rely on audience cinematic memory or assume that the audience doesn’t have any. Scenes from Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), 1970s martial arts and other films are re-cut. While the artists are perhaps concerned with deconstructing authorship the sequences seem to bear no relationship to an overall theme, except to say that everything can be accessed and is all available for consumption.

In keeping with the tradition of experimental filmmaking, Monceaux and Sterling do take risks. Supermarket has been created under the radar. It’s low budget, asynchronous and amorphous. It’s openly in development, always in flux, and this allows the artists plenty of room. At times Supermarket offers images that stand alone as remarkable moments. It is worth noting that the filmmakers come from a visual arts background and their documentary, A Shift in Perceptions (2006), about the experiences of three visually impaired women, has done very well in both national and international film festivals [RT75, p50].

It’s ironic that the makers of Supermarket claim to comment on the emptiness of consumerism and yet present their work in some way as a ‘must have’ consumer event. Perhaps that’s the incongruity of making art about society valuing the superficial while needing to market the work to secure an audience. Or if irony is part of the artists’ intentions why am I am still wondering what I’m missing from the Supermarket experience? If, as Monceaux explains, their objective is “not to sell you anything substantial, just the image of an empty shopping trolley”, then it fulfils its sales pitch, paradoxically leaving the audience with the same old consumerist dilemma.

South Australian Living Artists festival: Supermarket, artists Emma Sterling, Dan Monceaux, camera, editor Emma Sterling, music, sound Dan Monceaux, producers Emma Sterling, Dan Monceaux; Mercury Cinema, Adelaide, Aug 9

RICARDO PEACH IS THE PROGRAM MANAGER FOR THE AUSTRALIA COUNCIL’S INTER-ARTS, OFFICE. PEACH IS AN ENGAGING MEDIA ARTS ENTHUSIAST WHO HIMSELF ENJOYS A SECOND LIFE. WE MET TO DISCUSS HOW, IN 2007 THE AUSTRALIA COUNCIL FOR THE ARTS BECAME THE FIRST NATIONAL ARTS FUNDING BODY TO FUND AN ARTIST RESIDENCY IN SECOND LIFE. THE WINNING TEAM, WRITER JUSTIN CLEMENS, VISUAL ARTIST CHRISTOPHER DODDS AND SOUND ARTIST ADAM NASH CREATED BABEL SWARM, A NETWORKED PROJECT LINKING PEOPLE IN REAL LIFE WITH AVATARS CREATING AN IN-WORLD, REALTIME 3D SCULPTURE BUILT FROM THE SPEECH OF PARTICIPANTS. THE MEDIA RESPONSE AND PUBLIC INTEREST WAS WAY BEYOND EXPECTATION.

Although the Australia Council doesn’t have any Second Life property, it has ‘borrowed’ space from the likes of the ABC and the Australian Film Television and Radio School, allowing it to conduct an in-world media campaign, in-world client meetings, in-world artist matchmaking and the first in-world grant assessment meeting. The virtual gets real-er all the time.

We’re keen to support those practices that would otherwise fall through the funding gaps between the artform Boards, and interested in what Adam Nash calls “post-convergent” art. I’m not quite convinced about the term yet but it’s about spaces opening up room for practices to flourish that are not limited to the physics of the natural universe.

Getting past conventional representation must be a challenge for artists making work in Second Life?

Yes, it’s a kind of parallel ‘real’ world for many people, and it’s cheaper: you can buy virtual Gucci shoes for five cents rather than paying a million bucks. But in terms of aesthetics, there’s a huge potential to shift things. So we thought why don’t we support the emerging practices that are already testing Second Life and other spaces. There was already a cluey and energetic art culture happening there and Australians seemed to be engaged in it from the beginning.

That’s what we aim to do, to make potential practices visible and then other artists become more aware of it as well. So it’s about finding ways, with small amounts of funding, to support emergent practice.

Because Second Life is cheaper than real life, does this mean you don’t need to invest quite so much money?

It’s a helluva lot cheaper. But in fact it was the largest grant that artists have received for such a virtual platform. It was $20,000 for up to three Australian artists to develop a project that used the disciplines of literature or writing, sound art or music and a digital visual practitioner. The Music and Literature Boards and the Inter-Arts Office funded the project collaboratively. It was an interesting collaboration within the Australia Council itself.

Were there funding criteria beyond making the work, for example how it might be exhibited or broadcast?

One we built into the grant itself was for the applicants to create some form of mixed reality showing or event where people who weren’t necessarily conversant with these virtual platforms could experience the new spaces for themselves. It was about making people aware of the potential of the platforms and assisting those who might be technologically phobic, or just not into these spaces, to at least have access. The artists collaborated with Lismore Regional Gallery so that a regional centre had the first mixed reality showing of the Second Life initiative. Lismore farmers mixed with the directors of Eye-Beam [new media arts centre] in New York as Babel Swarm evolved in the gallery.

Well, you know, there’s no difference. There were people in the gallery and people online from various places interacting, avatars ‘flying in’ from wherever and the people in the gallery space with access to a few generic avatars. They could access an avatar and then interact with the other avatars from Tokyo or New York. The artists cleverly developed the event in three stages. The first was like a traditional gallery approach with images, photographs and text. The second space, on screen, was machinima: a filmic version of the artwork. The third space was where people were engaged interactively in real time with Babel Swarm and with other avatars.

The people at the opening were creating Babel Swarm in the process of interacting with it. This is something very interesting about the project—it’s user-generated. The words people spoke or typed into the space were the same words that create the work’s sculpture as the letters fall from the sky in the Second Life lansdcape. It’s beautiful metaphorically as well. There are many layers and I’m sure I haven’t touched on all of them yet. After the letters fall, they start searching for each other but avatars can destroy them and once destroyed they have no chance of becoming whole again, becoming one with other letters.

A strange kind of ecosystem. You’ve described Babel Swarm as “sculptural.”

Others would call it musical because there’s a very complex sound aspect to it and the sounds are triggered by the letterforms. So, depending on people’s preference—I’m very much visually oriented—but people who have a sound or literary orientation would perhaps read it in a different way.

What might the literary people get out of it, do you think other than the joy of seeing letters?

There is a growing understanding that literature is more than poems or novels, that literature is a practice that’s living and that people interact in other interesting ways through words. There are probably writers watching their text fall and interacting in a dialogue about the ways words and letters can impact on each other.

The gallery audience loved the experience and so did the in-world audience and participants—there were more than a thousand visitors at the time.

It will depend on the type of artists and their interests. I think there’s probably a lot of room for performance art as well, which doesn’t necessarily require the huge technical skills which artists like Nash and Dodds need to code the letters in Babel Swarm and make sure they connect. A key thing is that this practice engenders a collaborative approach. If artists are not necessarily confident within the virtual space they can collaborate with somebody who knows more about it and maybe thinks about that space in a different way. That can be very productive. One of the processes we developed for this initiative was a matchmaker or collaborator blog where we put artists in contact with each other, not just the technically proficient. So it’s an ideal space for collaboration.

Another one emerged from the Second Life initiative called MMUVE IT!, a Massive Multi-user Virtual Environment Initiative. There was a recognition that the next step would probably be an embodied computer-human interface, a little bit more complex than, say, the mouse or the keyboard. There are a lot of new interfaces being developed in areas like gaming: alpha waves or 3D motion-tracking cameras allow people to move their bodies and therefore their in-world avatars.

The successful artist team for MMUVE IT! is Trish Adams (RT84, p31) and Andrew Burrell who’ll be working with the Queensland Brain Institute to develop a project called Mellifera (http://mellifera.cc), working with sound and with bees to help people manipulate, interact with and develop ecosystems in a virtual space via their avatars and their bodies. It will explore cognitive processes and bodily interaction and their relationship to virtual environments. They’ll use Second Life and the work of an Australian start-up company called Vast Park where you can have your own virtual world and connect to other virtual worlds.

So rather than having your own island, there’ll be a galaxy of virtual worlds. What Inter-Arts wants to encourage in our next round, closing December 1, is work that can engage with mixed reality settings but also more locative media based works—mobile phones, GPS—different ways of interacting in public spaces. It doesn’t always have to be technology based but some of it will be. And we’re also interested in user-generated content, a growing area, that reduces the audience-artist dichotomy with the audience being involved in the creation of the artwork. The Second Life and MMUVE IT! initiatives are designed to generate interest and activity, but our key focus is still on the grant rounds where artists apply with great ideas for works.

It was extraordinary. It took us all by surprise. It was great to be on the crest of the wave. I think it’s to do with the social networking phenomena that has emerged over the last few years. People are now more comfortable with being in these virtual spaces. They’re like 3D chat rooms—3D MySpace or 3D Facebook. There are people who say these spaces are destroying social skills but these are places where you can blossom and you’re not going to be killed or become a social pariah, not for long anyway. You can always come back in another avatar and make new friends.

The media and public response to the Babel Swarm launch was extraordinary. It got the highest hit rate of any initiative that the Australia Council marketing team has developed to date. I think one of the keys to its web success was that there was international interest. It was an interesting to see the potential of social networking sites in terms of art practice. In hindsight I’ve labelled these practices Social Media Arts—a combination of Media Arts and Social Networking. It’s not just the form of the art and the new means of expression but the huge networks they’re connecting to. That’s new, I think.

What have the other artform boards of the Australia Council taken on in this area?

The Literature Board, through Stories of the Future, had some great Second Life and other digital initiatives in its promotion of digital publishing over three years. It included the mixed reality event Mix My Lit at Federation Square where V-Jays and Lit-Jays were mixing their sounds and images and texts that the public were texting them onto the screen and their little stories were being mashed. So there is no distinction between “this is what literature is” and “this is what visual art is.”

The Visual Arts Board funded dLux Media Arts to do a whole range of machinima and Second Life initiatives, including tours in Second Life. The Music Board and the Literature Board were already on board with this. The MMUVE IT! initiative was a collaboration between the VAB and the Inter-Arts Office. I think that’s one of the most successful aspects of these initiatives. You have emerging practices, collaboration across artforms, breaking down barriers and giving artists the opportunity to seek support for work they may not be able to apply for in one particular board.

Post-convergence funding. What about the issue of facilitating participation and development in regional areas?

We’re learning from artists, as we did with the Babel Swarm-Lismore Gallery collaboration, where they saw a need to develop these projects in regional Australia. We’re not developing specific initiatives here yet but we are looking at how we can facilitate it with other boards or initiatives to incorporate regional possibilities in the projects they’re developing.

The Inter-Arts Office part funded a project with urban and regional dimensions called A-lure by Visionary Images completed this year in Melbourne, Shepparton and Richmond where socially disadvantaged young people worked with media artists to develop locative media games within the City of Melbourne.

At the international Urban Screens event that’s happening in Melbourne (Oct 3-5) Council supported a focus on the re-purposing of interactive work, perhaps initially staged in a small space, so that it can be made public in a large urban context. We also assisted MEGA (Mobile Enterprise Growth Alliance) to develop some projects to teach artists how to link with business to get their content out there on the mobile phone platform—a huge market’s emerging and one of the most lucrative markets as well. We also have a major partnership with the ABC to assist in the broadcasting of work made by Australian artists.

As technological developments in media continue to accelerate and arts opportunities multiply, the Inter-Arts Office’s R&D alertness is a valuable resource for artists working on landscapes real and virtual and, not least, un-signposted.

THE RISE OF WEBSITES LIKE YOUTUBE AND FLICKR HAS MADE THE SHARING AND REMIXING OF CONTENT MORE MAINSTREAM AND MORE CONTROVERSIAL THAN EVER. REUSE AND REINTEPRETATION AREN’T JUST FOR ABSTRUSE FRINGE-DWELLING SITUATIONISTS AND GRANT-UNWORTHY CRAFTS LIKE SCRAPBOOKING. CULTURAL APPROPRIATION IS THE CURRENCY OF A NEW, FASHIONABLE GENERATION OF VERY MAINSTREAM INTERNET USERS. IT IS ALSO THE GROUND ZERO OF A PROTRACTED DISPUTE ABOUT THE NATURE AND OWNERSHIP OF INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY THAT ENGAGES MEDIA ORGANISATIONS, ARTISTS, GOVERNMENTS, COLLECTION AGENCIES AND THE GENERAL PUBLIC.

Into this disputed territory steps the ABC’s pool.org.au, a project that invites and fosters reuse of digital art. In the short time since the launch, the site has been populated with a fascinating array of content spanning the full spectrum between kitsch and inspired, unfinished samples and well-produced remixes and reworkings. There are already some familiar names uploading content; at a cursory inspection Alan Lamb and Jim Denley, and from within the ABC, producers Nicole Steinke and Gretchen Miller seem positively active. It’s not the only such experiment launched of late—the textually-oriented, Australia Council-backed Remix My Lit project has been making a splash in the blogosphere. The ABC has also made tentative gestures in this direction before with small creative reuse projects, such as the Night Share and the Orpheus Remix Awards.

But while the style and form of a social media site might be familiar to internet users in 2008, the institution behind this one is not your typical Facebook or Yahoo, nor is it an entrepreneurial startup. Why this sudden adventure into potential anarchy by the ABC? Are we seeing a public broadcaster relying on volunteers to make up a shortfall in content? Or an adept and thoughtful attempt to respond to the social media zeitgeist? Is it so very different to Australia Talks Back, and is it any more interesting?

I interviewed two of the project’s instigators, Sherre Delys and John Jacobs, about the venture and its origins. What follows is excerpted from those two interviews. Starting with the question: where did the idea for the pool come from?

pool evolution

Sherre Delys: The pool has [evolved] from an idea around since before YouTube—the idea of sharing and remixing. It’s only recently that we’ve been able to make the case to the ABC that this kind of thing is worth getting involved with. It’s an experiment with the role of a public broadcaster.

John Jacobs: There’s a lot of different ideas going into the pool. It’s a petri dish, it’s got culture in, it’s growing, and we’re all sticking our finger and licking it occasionally.That culture we’re growing is going to inoculate the ABC against becoming a fossilised media organisation…It’s R&D, to see what public media might be, in a networked, social media future. Public media have historically been cultural gatekeepers, representing people back to themselves…A networked social media thing could be the public media of the future…ABC workers have certain skills—we’re employed to “do” media for the people, if you like. I think there’s a role for the people to be paid by the government to help administer and facilitate a social network space.

why the abc?

Dan Mackinlay: What does the ABC getting involved in social media offer to the users that they would not get from, say, just filesharing on YouTube, or Facebook? And how about the criticism made of YouTube—that this “user generated content” is a cheap way to get media produced by volunteers while providing little in return?

SD: There’s a lot of answers to that. For one, we’re constantly concerned about giving back to our users. We’re organising production advice and resources—some of our projects get ABC studio time for pool users. We get exposure for people’s work, and provide a trusted brand and a non-commercial context, an advertising-free context. We don’t have to behave like a YouTube and work out how to make money out of it.

If it’s what users want we have resources to assist making that transition from ‘am’ to ‘pro.’ We’re curating works on the site. We have radio producers sharing their experience. You’ll see that Street Stories has started a project up—and at least one job at the ABC has come out of it already. We have a strong moderation process, a lot of skilled time goes into it, bringing out high quality results. It’s not at all one way.

One part of the pool that has drawn a lot of attention has been the copyright regime. The pool allows works to be submitted under a variety of Creative Commons Licences, some of which allow legal re-use of the content without royalties to the artist who created it.

DM: As it currently stands: when you submit content to the site, you choose what licence to place it under. This can be either a Creative Commons licence, or not, and there is also a voluntary dual licence to allow the ABC to rebroadcast.

SD: We see it as providing a variety of options. So if you upload a low quality version of the work you might want to licence that with a very open licence to allow it to be distributed, to raise your profile. And you might reserve a high quality version for commercial use. It’s completely up to an artist and what their goals are with a given work.

DM: As far as I can tell, in the latest iteration of the relationship between [musical royalties collection agency] APRA and Creative Commons Licences, APRA argues that their collection contract is technically incompatible with Creative Commons. But they also acknowledged at the Music Industry Forum last year that a huge number of their members are actually using Creative Commons Licences, and they conceded that they would not to sue their own members…It’s definitely a grey area. Is there awareness of that among the users?

JJ: Absolutely, it’s come up. A lot of APRA members have been concerned about that…There’s compromise needed and the players are at the table working it out, but there’s a long way to go.

It’s time to think carefully about your rights, and not just allow other people to make the decisions for you. When you see the pull down boxes and all the different types of licences, it’s time to read the fine print. We’re already seeing artists becoming their own labels, putting their stuff out there, becoming experts in all sorts of areas, production, instruments. We know lots about lots of different fields; it’s time to know about rights management.

DM: One thing pool does is make really clear which licence the uploaded work has, what you can and can’t legally do with it. I’m assuming that’s part of the intent—a safe space for reuse of material? I notice you can also see which other works a piece derives from.

JJ: [Attribution] has got to be easy. If you are a remix advocate, like myself, that’s part of your responsibility. And so, on pool we have a first baby step in that direction—that is the ‘derived from’ field, you have a menu of [works] in the database…That’s a start, but it should be so much easier. And it will be.

everyday pooling

For my part the pool project is a hard one not to like; the effervescent excitement amongst the site users is more response than I’ve seen to an ABC project before, and all this without the usual high budget trappings and drum beating that kicks off, say, a new TV show. The budget didn’t even run to a catered launch. In the absence of an offer of celebratory canapés on the public purse, I consoled myself with a trip to the MCA show in the Biennale of Sydney.

In the dying days of that festival the galleries seemed more crowded than usual, and more full of miscreants. Those most mischievous of Sydney-dwellers, the mobile phone owners, were out in force with their illicit happy snaps of the works, keeping the gallery attendants busy. I had most sympathy for the gent getting himself shooed off Tracey Moffat and Gary Hillberg’s REVOLUTION. The didactic panel explained that this video work was proudly constructed from unlicenced samples of commercial works. That did not help the attendant make her plaintive case that this gentlemen could not in turn take photographs of those stolen frames of video. It’s gallery policy, you see.

DANCE KEEPS VIENNA BUSY FOR FIVE LONG SUMMER WEEKS, EVERY CORNER OF THE CITY DOTTED WITH GLOWING BALLOONS, ENDLESS OPEN-AIR PARTIES AND GRACIOUS BOYS AND GIRLS ON PINK IMPULSTANZ BIKES. EUROPE’S PREMIER DANCE FESTIVAL, IMPULSTANZ IS AN ARTISTS’ BUSINESS, NOT ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE TAXPAYER, ITS INDEPENDENCE VISIBLE NOT ONLY IN THE MERCIFUL ABSENCE OF POLITICIANS’ ADDRESSES, BUT, PRIMARILY, IN THE CENTRAL ROLE THAT EDUCATION, DISCUSSION AND RESEARCH HAVE IN THE PROGRAM.

Established in 1984 by Karl Regenburger and Ismael Ivo as a vehicle for development of contemporary dance in Austria, ImPulsTanz introduced its performance component in 1988, and now boasts over 200 dance workshops, an extensive scholarship program, a young critics’ forum and this year’s first Prix Jardin d’Europe for emerging choreographers.

European dance, however, is not an unequivocal affair. With walls between performance art, theatre and dance long breached, many an overseas visitor is seen stumbling baffled out of a performance: ‘Can this be called dance at all?!’ Much of the focus (despite the enormous individual differences between choreographers) is on disrupting and dismantling the relationship between the performing body and the world at large. Instead of what André Lepecki calls the “anatomical self-experimentation” of modern dance, complicit with modernity’s restless drive towards mobility, its kinetic excess, the Viennese dancer refuses to be a “dazzling dumb-mobile”, rebels through stillness and speech, ugliness and failure. In a time when the body has become the central fixation of Western politics—detained, surveilled, displaced, dutifully exposed or wrapped in shame, focus of ethnic hatred and identity anxieties—contemporary dance in Europe strikes me as unmistakably political.

ultima vez

Even the standing room only tickets have sold out, and the raging mass of disappointed kids looks like they may start a riot: the atmosphere before Ultima Vez’s performance is akin to a rock concert. Choreographer superstar Wim Vandekeybus’s company has toured the world with their trademark vocabulary of acrobatic, extreme, often violent movement, soaked in multimedia and energetic music. Menske (meaning approximately ‘little human’), their latest work, has all the typical flaws and qualities of classic Vandekeybus. On the conservative end of political intervention, Menske is an explosive concoction of brash statements about the state of the world today, a sequence of rapidly revolving scenes of conflicting logic: intimist, blockbuster, desperate, hysterical. The broad impression is not so much of a sociological portrait, but of a very personal anguish being exorcised right in front of us, as if Vandekeybus is constantly switching format in search of eloquence. Visually, it is stunning, filmic: a slum society falling apart through guerrilla warfare, in which girls handily assume the role of living, moving weapons. A woman descends into madness in an oneiric hospital, led by a costumed and masked group sharpening knives in rhythmic unison. A traumatised figure wanders the city ruins dictating a lamenting letter to invisible ‘Pablo.’ Men hoist a woman on a pole her whole body flapping like a flag. “It’s too much!” intrudes a stage hand, “Too much smoke, too much noise, too much everything!” And the scene responsively changes to a quiet soliloquy. At which point, however, does pure mimesis become complicit with the physical and psychological violence it strives to condemn? Unable to find its way out of visual shock, Menske never resolves into anything more than a loud admission of powerlessness.

robyn orlin

South African Robyn Orlin’s work is political in the broadest sense: in dialogue with culture, history and identity in the post-apartheid, attentive to the politics of representation, she regularly brings the untouchable on stage and unleashes it on the audience. Her Dressed to kill…killed to dress… is neither subtle nor immediately likeable. It is, in turns, in-your-face, obnoxious, sentimental, playing for cheap laughs, gaudy; and yet enormously compelling and rather smart. We are invited to judge in a ‘swenking’ competition, a lovingly presented South African quirk: the fashion competitions of migrant workers in Johannesburg, sometimes with prizes in money, watches or even livestock. Personal style is displayed in a softly graceful sequence of movements: wrist to ankle, tie to watch, jackets flung over the shoulder. This mesmerising dance is coupled with video presentation of each swenka’s real-life world: workplace, family, the street, the city. Meanwhile, glimpses of newspaper headlines announce “Hidden Cost of Power Cuts.” Familiarising an exotic strangeness to the point of banality, then making it strange again is no small feat for an hour-long performance. Descending into mayhem of images, Dressed to kill… becomes first a confrontingly trivial dissertation on consumerism (MC Rafael Linares sighing, “Hugo Boss! Prada! Gucci!”), but then warps into a devastating picture of blind narcissism and cultural loss: the suits deconstructed into war costumes in ominous pink, music violently blaring, the ensemble breaking into the audience to hysterically demand a winner. It is neither cute nor quaint anymore.

mathilde monnier & la ribot

The most extraordinary performance, however, is Mathilde Monnier and La Ribot’s Gustavia, a sharp and intelligent exploration of female identity abused through physical violence, prejudice, the imperative of silence, prescribed emotions. “After these tears are shed”, Monnier announces weeping, “all feminine in me will be gone.” On a cocoon-like stage, wrapped in black cloth, intimate and chokingly oppressive, unfolds a bleakly literal, demystified burlesque in which highly sexualised women humourlessly step into pails, fall, receive slapstick blows. Monnier, repeatedly hit in the face with a gigantic plank, collapses and obediently rises again, frail and unsteady in high heels and a skin-tight leotard. In the triumphant final scene, the two performers populate the stage with a menagerie of strange and familiar creatures, employing only a torrent of words and growingly frantic gesticulation: “a woman has ears with trees inside!”; “a woman has thighs cut with a chicken here!”; “a woman has small breasts which fit inside her bra!”; “a woman sews her hymen to get married!”; “a woman in the dark.” Hysterical laughter and horror collide to great effect, and political side-taking never smothers superbly executed formal inquiry. Nothing is superfluous in Gustavia, which proves that it is possible to be topical without falling into cliché.

2008 ImPulsTanz: Menske, direction, choreography, design Wim Vandekeybus, music Daan, creation, performance, script Ultima Vez, artistic assistance, dramaturgy, Greet Van Poeck, Museums Quartier Halle E, July 21, 23; Dressed to kill… killed to dress…, choreography Robyn Orlin, performance City Theater & Dance Group, video Nadine Hutton, Akademietheater, July 11, 13; Gustavia, choreography, performance Mathilde Monnier & La Ribot, lighting design Eric Wurtz, Akademietheater, July 15-18, ImPulsTanz, Vienna, July 10-Aug 10, www.impulstanz.com

THE TOWERING SOUNDSCAPES OF BABEL INVARIABLY HAUNT EVENTS THAT ASPIRE TO A LARGE-SCALE EXCHANGE OF HUMAN IDEAS. AS AN ANTIDOTE TO ANTICIPATED COMMUNICATION MELTDOWN, 21ST CENTURY MANAGEMENT EMPLOYS TACTICS LIKE OBEISANCE TO THE FAIR PLAY OF RHETORIC TO DEFLECT CONTROVERSY AND CHAOS WHICH CAN, UNINTENTIONALLY, GENERATE PASSIVE LISTENING RATHER THAN EXCHANGE. THIS UNINTENTIONAL PARADOX IS OF THE SAME ORDER AS THAT POSED BY CULTURAL COMMENTATOR, RUSTOM BHARUCHA’S PROVOCATION: “DO THE IDEAS OF THE LIBERAL THINKER IN OUR SOCIETIES NEED TO BE QUESTIONED?”

In some respects, Bharucha’s question was a throwaway line, dropped like a pebble in the hushed auditorium of the Cremorne Theatre to prick the indignation of Babel, but it fell that night without so much as a splash. Where was the rabble-raising such a question was crafted to sting? Admittedly, it was a relief that war was staved. But what about the dialogues, conversations between opposing ideas, exchanges in diversity?

Such musings arise not in criticism of the mighty effort from Associate Professor Cheryl Stock and Janelle Christofis (Ausdance Queensland) and the extraordinary team of associates and volunteers who made the event sparkle, but to wonder why the dialogues at the heart of the World Dance Alliance Global Summit and its vision of “Conversations across cultures, artforms and practices” sometimes faltered.

The World Dance Alliance was born from Carl Woltz’s belief in the capacity of dance artists, educators and scholars to transcend difference and present a richly varied and united front to the world. Hatched in the Hong Kong Academy of Performing Arts, Woltz’s idealism spread through the Asia Pacific region, the Americas and Europe, forming a loose coalition of like-minded people who wished to promote the significance of dance in human affairs. Annual meetings, propelled by the key training organisations’ desire to share their physical achievements, gave way to greater visions of what dance on the world stage might mean. Cutting a complex history short, that is where Brisbane stepped in to host the 2008 Global Summit, proposing an institutional ‘coming-of-age’ which privileged the ‘voicing’ of artists, educators, scholars, administrators, producers and critics’ practices.

Dialogues, embodied and verbal, thus guided the event’s unfolding. From an Australian perspective, the targeting of debate was politically proactive, straining against the nation’s habitual avoidance of incisive art form commentaries. Such reticence has been attributed to the fragile state of funding, but there are also strains of the laconic Aussie temperament in the mix which signal acceptance and equality but can be misinterpreted by outsiders as a lack of interest.

At the same time, “she’ll be right mate” nonchalance, if underpinned with tight, organisational control, can strike just the right notes for a thoroughly embracing and bracing hospitality. Such was the relaxed pitch of excitement at the opening night’s party in the QPAC courtyard. Dialogues were unleashed in encounters, inevitably incomplete and side-tracked against the resonant welcome to country from artists of Treading Pathways and their Fijian counterparts. The interplay between dijeridu and drum, together with the volume of the milling crowd, intimated the vibrancy of exchange ahead.

In large conferences, delegates can be assured of finding abundant stimulation for their particular bent, even if all sessions focus on crossing, shifting and interrogating cultures in one way or another. Culture is notoriously or fortuitously indeterminable in contexts such as dance. Be it queer or techno, post-humanist or ethnic, culture incubates interpretations and consequently facilitates diversity, resulting in choice overload. If you latched onto what ‘bele’ might mean for Pan Caribbean identity, you were bound to forego insights into who frames the writing and performing of Odissi in India; the impact of managerial cultural policies of dance in the UK; methodological and theoretical issues of clinical practice research; educational strategies on culture in the classroom and a poetic invitation to “Boundaries … dreams …beyond.” More pertinent to the desired outcome of dialogue, each session seemed time-constrained which, though indicative of the smooth-running of the event, tended to disable exchange at the point of its critical engagement. Is it the nature of conferences that rhetoric outstrips the conditions possible for considered reflection? As one idea is conceived, the next topic whizzes off on alternative conceptual tangents.

Another innovation of the event aimed to raise the level of discussion by embracing eminent practitioners within the Australian environment. The Cremorne venue and celebrated guests of the afternoon Dance Dialogues certainly contributed prestige but presentation styles and the stage/auditorium separation inhibited the flow of spontaneous debate. Professor Susan Street’s Dame Peggy Van Praagh Memorial Address raised questions about the dance community’s possible failure to exploit the educational and political potential of creativity in an age poised to respond to “conceptual and emergent experiences.” Such a far-reaching issue cannot be resolved through an immediate barrage of questions and opinions but, by the same token, participation can underline the significance of these matters by infusing the political with the personal.

Undoubtedly dialogues did continue in multiple fragments through dinner engagements that generated their own momentum, however, shared moments to tackle pressing challenges did not eventuate from the dialogue series in spite of valuable probing and reflection from an impressive array of guest speakers. It seems that the interrogative practices of the dance community need sharpening.

That said, “Dialogue Five: Re-thinking the way we make dance”, the Summit’s closing exchange highlighting the Choreolab that took place in parallel to the week-long talk-fest, did ignite an odd fiery crackle. The Choreolab provided four mid-career choreographers with the opportunity to work on the all-important writing of bodies through time-space with a selected group of dancers under the mentorship of two masters, Lloyd Newson (UK) and Boi Sakti (Indonesia). Here, dialogue was reduced to monologue, initially by the decision not to show any transitory outcome of the week’s explorations which the assembly accepted with good-will, but then by an ill-informed attack on the very core of the organisation’s belief in diversity. Though protesting against intolerable persecution of a certain social group, the latter speaker’s inflexible ‘righteousness’ overstepped the boundaries of tolerance and, ironically, united delegates in multi-directional debate. Injustice, as the ensuing discussions acknowledged, comes in many morally-complex forms.

LIKE MOST PERFORMING ARTS COMPANIES IN AUSTRALIA, DANCENORTH WORKS HARD TO MAINTAIN ITS PLACE IN THE CONTEMPORARY DANCE ARENA, BALANCING A STRONG REGIONAL PRESENCE FROM THEIR BASE IN TOWNSVILLE, NORTH QUEENSLAND ALONG WITH AN INTERNATIONAL PROFILE. IN RECENT YEARS, THE COMPANY HAS TOURED TO GERMANY, YOKOHAMA, SINGAPORE, LONDON AS WELL AS SYDNEY, PERTH AND THROUGHOUT QUEENSLAND. TO INSPIRE DIVERSITY, THE COMPANY ALSO HAS A STRONG COMMITMENT TO COLLABORATION AND CO-PRODUCTION.

Fresh from their most recent international foray, a residency at the prestigious Vienna International Dance Festival, Dancenorth is presenting a national tour throughout October-November with a new work titled Underground, soon after another new work, Remember me, reviewed in RealTime 86 (p33).

Featuring six young performers (Alice Hinde, Charmene Yap, Hsin-Ju Chiu, Joshua Thomson, Kate Harman, Kyle Page), Underground turns a commuter precinct into “a vivid and surreal dream world where routine is transformed into spontaneous action.” Choreography is by Dancenorth’s Artistic Director Gavin Webber who joined the company following a five year stint with Meryl Tankard’s ADT, followed by three years in Brussels with Wim Vandekeybus and Ultima Vez [see page 38]. His previous works for Dancenorth include the wildly inventive Lawn and then Roadkill. Undergound also features a score designed by Luke Smiles, “turning it up with Nick Cave, Nine Inch Nails and Messer Chups.” RT

Dancenorth, Underground, tour dates: Brisbane Oct 8-11, Lismore Oct 14-15, Bathurst Oct 18, Sydney Oct 22-Nov 1, Hobart Nov 5-8, Melbourne Nov 12-15, Perth Nov 19-29

WE ENTER A DEEPLY FOGGED SPACE UPSTAIRS AT THE CHUNKY MOVE STUDIOS. A SPLINTERING THUD REVERBERATES THROUGH THE DARK, THE KIND OF VIBRATION THAT LODGES ITSELF DEEP WITHIN THE CHEST. THERE IS SOMETHING INCREDIBLY UNSETTLING ABOUT A HEAVY AXE SWUNG HARD IN THE BLACKNESS. IT’S NOT SO MUCH FEAR OF PERSONAL INJURY AS INJURY OF THE OTHER. AND THIS IS A FEAR THAT IS HEWN INTO WITH FERVOUR IN CHOREOGRAPHER PHILLIP ADAMS’ LATEST WORK.

Black shadowed sentinels stand in the green gloom of the clearing fog when we finally make out the image of the axeman. Laurence O’Toole, a real World Champion axeman is the Goliath standing at the back of the cavernous studio diligently making woodchips from a barkless hardwood trunk. A deep russet blazes clear across the stage, a reminder of the infernal fury trapped within the heart of the wood. Gumbooted and feathered women beat out a rhythm with planks and offcuts as David Chisholm’s composition works along with the grain, the metronome of the woodchop echoed by piano and violin.

Centrestage is initially dominated by an ultra-cubist arrangement of timber yard offcuts. Decking planks, boards, frame, hardwoods and structural pine form a hard-lined square that the dancers readily demolish and rearrange into a haphazard pile close to the audience. In this juxtaposition of the rigid geometry of machined planks with the trunks of raw timber surrounding the axeman I get a visual parallel of the colonial compulsion to impose order onto the chaos of Australia, to create structure from the scrub. There is a frenetic and fearful energy to the dancers’ destruction of this geometry just as the clearing of huge swathes of the continent shallowly masked a fear of an Australian bush that harboured ‘miasmatic’ disease vapours and covered good agricultural soil.

With the appearance of women dressed in high Victoriana, the work becomes gothic in its heightened tension, the squeak of a rusted baby carriage mirrored in the slivered harmonies of a violin. The melodrama of the gothic is not such a distorted prism with which to view Australia’s history and sense of self-identification. An arid and desolate land, with an unknown interior harbouring the fear of isolation, displacement and death, is decidedly gothic. This is even before we consider the anchoring image of this work—the axe.

An axe is sharp, heavy and dangerous. By contrast Adams’ choreography is lithe, fluid and fragile: an intricate joinery of movement with all the complexity of fine lace. Wood chips fly and two dancers on the ground become sounding blocks for a double axe swing. Shifts in lighting states are punctuated by axe blows, greenish shafts stab through the milky swirl, reminiscent of light shining through the holes of a weathered tin work shed. Dancers appear trapped in their gestures and in vain try to connect with one another through birdsong.

Lurking at the back of the space for the majority of the performance, like a splinter in the concept of terra nullius, Jacob Brown represents the markedly different Indigenous connection to the land and enters the action with a rhythm of the feet. His presence sends a raw and dynamic energy through the group. Dancers begin to beat on the woodpile, making mockery of their ‘civilisation’ as the axeman disrobes to the collective intake of audience breath. This energy does not affect Brown, he works in counterpoint, creating his own rhythm and vocabulary of movement. Rather than linear precision, he works with arcs, stamps and a deep rooting to the earth. Eventually all others are drawn into his meditative geometry, the five dancers with wood transcribing the circle of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.

From horror leading to contemplation, BalletLab’s team succeeds in crafting a delicate lullaby to hush the collective, historical and habitual fears of arrived inhabitants to the spirit of this country. And with reference to this, perhaps the last word should be left to one of the first invokers of the power of the Australian landscape. “And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush—the nurse and tutor of eccentric minds, the home of the weird, and of much that is different from things in other lands” (Henry Lawson, The Bush Undertaker, 1892).

BalletLab, Axeman Lullaby, artistic director, choreographer Phillip Adams, performers Joanne White, Clair Peters, Carlee Mellow, Stuart Shugg, Jacob Brown, Laurence O’Toole, composer David Chisholm, lighting Paul Jackson, Niklas Pajanti, costumes Doyle Barrow; Chunky Move Studios, Melbourne, August 7-17

THE END OF NOVEMBER SEES THE WELCOME RETURN, AND RE-WORKING, OF A MAJOR DANCE THEATRE WORK, FORCE MAJEURE’S THE AGE I’M IN, AFTER ITS SUCCESFUL PREMIERE SEASONS AT THE 2008 SYDNEY AND ADELAIDE FESTIVALS.

The Age I’m In’s subject is age and its variables as revealed in bodies young and old, being themselves and, in acts of play and empathy, transmuting into others of different ages. It’s a transformation that particularly intrigues in this work as, for example, when Byron Perry and Kirstie McCracken turn child behaviour into gestural dance with an artistry that goes beyond mere mimickry. It’s also rivetting on the actual-virtual plane with the performers dextrously handling small, portable videoscreens they can hold over their faces (replacing them with others) or lower down revealing a naked body, perhaps not their own or even their own age. This play with possible selves is very much of the era of avatars and cyborgs, but in The Age I’m In the focus in the end is always on the actual body—how we experience ageing, regard others in terms of differences in years, and how we embody these in social behaviour and physical intimacy. This is amplified by voices from the public who contributed material to the creation of the work. RT

PHILOSOPHER DREW LEDER SAYS THAT THE LIVED EXPERIENCE OF THE BODY IS MOSTLY ONE OF ABSENCE. THE INTERNAL BODY DISAPPEARS FROM BOTH VISIBILITY AND SENSATION UNLESS THERE IS PAIN, IMAGING, DISSECTION OR A RETURN TO THE BODY THROUGH DANCE. SUE HEALEY AND COLLABORATORS HAVE BECOME CURIOUS ABOUT THESE ABSENT LAYERS OF BODY. WITH MEASURED ATTENTION, HEALEY’S LATEST INVESTIGATION, THE CURIOSITIES, EVOCATIVELY PROBES OUR INTERNAL STATES AND STRUCTURES, REVEALS EXTERNAL CONNECTIONS AND IMAGINES THE POSSIBILITY OF BEING ANATOMICALLY OTHER. REPRESENTATIONS OF THE HEART, BRAIN AND SKELETAL SYSTEM ARE MANIPULATED USING PROPS, ISOLATED AND SUSPENDED THROUGH ANIMATED IMAGE, AND REINTEGRATED THROUGH THE MOVING RELATIONSHIP OF DANCERS NALINA WAIT, RACHELLE HICKSON AND LISA GRIFFITHS.

A screen is suspended in front of the upstage wall. To the right, a rectangular screen on its side hangs close the ground. A white cube two metres in dimension is downstage centre, a mobile site for analyses and scene transitions. The opening projection is of a richly coloured throbbing heart, rhythmically pulsing, indicating a living creature, absent.

Nalina Wait interrupts the image, stands in a column of white light, face widened with exaggerated emotional confusion. She eyeballs the audience. Her solos vacillate between explosive reaction and considered retraction of extended limbs thrown from a fluid, breath filled centre. Deeply sourced, Wait’s energy percolates, whipping the space in fitful bursts of acute self-awareness: causation. Her manner sometimes borders on the stylised: construction. Appositely adorned in red heart-shaped fairy lights, during a cutesy ‘kitsch’ moment, she presses a love heart about the space she moves within.

Wait’s facial expressions and hand gestures remit a quality rather than identifiable character. Following a playful chess game and assembling of a model brain and heart by Hickson and Griffiths, a seated Wait pushes a table backwards while wringing clasped hands with throbbing gestures. A wicked smile causally connected to the pleasures of her action disappears into the darkness.

The clarity of Hickson’s grand extensions carries the “rational, scientific perspective” to a point. Her inquiry is direct and calm. She observes by looking at how her body moves and is moved by Griffiths, a character facilitating “possibilities for movement.” There is a softness and creamy tempo in the unfolding of limbs along direct pathways, arrival entailing a pause with hand flourish or finger gesture: dabbing, curling, then little shakes. The lower leg rotates in the knee joint as an afterthought, causing a different part of the body to respond in circular isolation.

Griffiths manipulates Hickson through supportive limb lifting, pushing, stance arrangement and dragging of protruding bone—manifest as fleshy skin sculptures. She instigates many of the moving duets and trio sequences: fully lit for their duration, screens inactive. The lyrical dances are met by the more melodic moments of Darrin Verhagen plumbing the depths of his variegated soundscape.

The image of a bird’s wing in skeletal form is projected onto the rectangular screen as if inserted into the dancer’s shoulder joint, permitting us to see the possibility of interspecies experimentation. The idea is thickened by a final moving trio: heads bowed, scapulas slide awkwardly upward, reconfiguring the distal relationship of limb points where embryonic flight unfurls in the cacophonous shrill of many birds: a large aviary or Hitchcockian anxiety?

The production of animated space in the projected film Reading the Body (animator Adnan Lalani, performer Hickson) mirrors, dissects and makes visible the felt forces and linear geometries expanding beyond the boundary of skin: how do we move? Animated objects are spookily suspended like child mobiles. Graphics resemble the crude, naive surrealism of Mexican folk art figures: bones in their own dance. The dancer interacting—measuring, shaping up, now inside-out—Hickson disassembled in the apprehension of absences.

The pleasure of Healey’s installations is found in the sober balance between dancing and screen work which mediate her explorations. The Curiosities avoids saturation of one media and the jarring consequences of poorly developed dramaturgical interactions between bodies and screen. In one playfully engineered moment, Griffiths and Wait, supine, pump arms and legs in a raucous running style. They are captured in real time and recast as little figures in the slapstick chase of a bouncing love heart. Healey has allowed the work’s structure to breathe: this is felt in the pause of a phrase which permits a new cycle and in the white cube’s revolving display of bodies re-examined, recreated and restless in form.

The Curiosities, director, choreographer Sue Healey, performers Nalina Wait, Lisa Griffiths, Rachelle Hickson, animation Adnan Lalani, film Louise Curham, sound Darrin Verhagen, visuals Adam Synnott, IO Myers Studio, UNSW, Aug 13-16

BERNADETTE WALONG DANCES HER OWN DANCE. IT IS THIS IDIOSYNCRASY THAT MARKS GROUNDUP AS A PERFORMANCE OF DELICACY, SURPRISE AND RESILIENCE. CONTEMPORARY DANCE PERFORMANCES CAN DISPLAY GENERIC VOCABULARY AS SYMBOLS OF MASTERY AND VIRTUOSITY, SPEAKING THE GRAVITAS OF THE ACADEMY. TRAINING IS EVIDENT IN WALONG’S BODY AND CHOREOGRAPHY, BUT IT IS USED AS A CAPABILITY AND A PORTAL, NOT A DESTINATION. DISPLAY IS NEGATED IN GROUND UP. INSTEAD IT MOVES THROUGH VARIOUS STATES OF BEING IN A DIMENSIONAL AND MALLEABLE ENVIRONMENT. CLEAR BUT OPEN-ENDED NARRATIVES TETHER THE DANCING BODIES TO A GROUND FROM WHICH THEY CAN FLY. SOMETIMES THEY SEEM CLOSE TO A RAW IMMEDIACY THAT ALMOST SCREAMS.

As we enter the theatre, Walong, Barbara Adjei, Victoria Chui and Deidra Taueki are chatting in an alien language, already a clan, strangely communicative. They will continue to speak in a language I do not know but understand. In a densely woven and active aural landscape, sounds will range from the scouring of pots and pans to rhythmic washes, to spoken conversation and the banging of tin. The dense soundscape coming from many directions is occasionally unnecessary, too seductive or overly pointed. But ah, the voices of these women, providing potent emotional resonance as they gabble, laugh, cry and moan in stories that rely on shared humanity rather than simply shared language. Relationships, actions and narratives are firmly established in the rhythms, tempos, intensities and cadences of a language at once strange and strangely familiar. The sounds of this performance will stay with me, even entering my dreams, providing visual memory with a life and a tone, with a substance and a voice.

As the women vocalise their stories, they weave through a landscape of erect bamboo poles, like didgeridoos, like trees, dense like a mangrove. We see the dancers as we would in the world: partially hidden, disappearing, reappearing, peripheral, profiled. Rather than as in a theatrical presentation of full disclosure, this one makes me a voyeur to a world that would happen without me. These women exist in a place both real and surreal, of now and never, here and everywhere. They emerge from dark corners and dissolve into obscurity and, as I seek them out in the multi-focussed, semi-darkness, I am engaged and drawn into this place, this world, these sounds, these bodies.

Rocks, sand and vegetation naturalise the deep and broad performing space. It is a detailed environment: asymmetrical, differentiated yet coherent, textured, fertile and dangerous. A corrugated tin humpy hints at a more modern time, and renders this place Australian. The women, with archetypal dilly bags and wearing curiously apt black corsets, gather, carry, store, feed. The smell of fish wafts to nostrils surprised by olfactory depth in the theatre, making this place real.

Behind and beside the women, filmed images vary from a vast, abstracted moon to the close-up detail of the stitched neck of a white T-shirt. Live feeds of the onstage action top and tail the performance, enlarging, extending and revealing the minutiae of what happens before our eyes. Technology slaps me out of a complete immersion.

Movement in groundUP! ranges from perambulatory wanderings to the high art technicalities of pointe work: a Walong trademark. Although she has used it more effectively in the past, the pointe shoe is again used to lengthen the leg to creature-like proportions. Choreographic incongruity again shakes me awake.

In groundUP! , Walong stands out as the master to the apprentices. With a firm centre she descends to the earth only to lift up more easefully again. In relaxed muscular length she has delicate detail, holding understated balances that suspend time and space in a breath. She folds into herself and unwinds smoothly only to jump and twitch. A face relaxed and open lets the witness in to see not just a dancer, but a person. Beautifully simple, not displaying, communicating.

Solos display each dancer’s personality, some more delineated than others. Group choreography ranges from contemporary athleticism to a cheekiness most evident in the little raised hip twist with a gentle Broadway feel: a whisper of the chorus line amidst the mangroves. The group recedes, advances, gathers and dissipates, crossing the environmental membrane to enter audience space, always travelling. Soft knees make quiet and knowing feet move lightly. These mangrove creatures shake and chase and slide, then…they disappear.

groundUP!, choreographer Bernadette Walong, performers, Bernadette Walong, Barbara Adjei, Victoria Chui and Deidra Taueki, Henrietta Baird, set design Jason Pitt, lighting Simon Wise, costume Jacques Tchong, vocal design Jill Brown, musical score Calvin Rore, video design Lisa Duff, assistant video design Willurei Kirkbright; Performance Space, CarriageWorks, Sydney, Aug 14-23

THE UK TAKES DANCE SCREEN VERY SERIOUSLY. SUPPORT FOR DEVELOPMENT, PRODUCTION AND PRESENTATION HAS BEEN STRONG OVER THE PAST 30 YEARS THROUGH PROGRESSIVE PROGRAMMING AT CHANNEL 4 IN THE 80s, LONG-TERM COMMITMENTS TO COMMISSIONING LOCAL WORK AT BBC TV, AND A RESPONSIVENESS TO CHANGES IN THE FIELD WITH THE ARTS COUNCIL OF ENGLAND’S CAPTURE INITIATIVE WHICH OPENED UP FUNDS TO ARTISTS WORKING IN SCREEN CONTEXTS BEYOND THE SHORT FILM FORMAT. TAKE 7, A DVD AND STUDY PACK ON MAKING DANCE SCREEN FOR STUDENTS AND TEACHERS, IS ANOTHER GREAT IDEA AND INNOVATION THAT IS, UNFORTUNATELY FOR OTHER POTENTIAL MARKETS, UK SPECIFIC IN ITS TERMS OF REFERENCE AND SLIGHTLY AWKWARD IN ITS METHODS.

The DVD is a collection of “seven pioneering British dance films” that can operate as a discrete teaching tool. It includes classics such as Boy (directors Rosemary Lee, Peter Anderson, 1995), Birds (David Hinton, 2001) and Dust (Antony Atanasio, 1998). These fine examples will yield much in a pedagogic context. It is excellent that the films are being made widely available, although the image quality is surprisingly poor. The scarcity of dance screen resources is largely responsible for the lumbering pace of critical discourse surrounding the field, something RealTime has tried to correct and this is acknowledged in the resource list accompanying the Study Pack. The DVD offers a few comments from the filmmakers that range from the specific to the general and there’s an easily navigable chapter interface.

Naturally enough, in the booklet there is little reference to the important work done in the US and France in the field prior to the boom in the UK, with the historical background jumping from early cinema to musicals to the UK in the 70s with a nod to Maya Deren and Merce Cunningham. Minimising the close association of dance film with the cinematic avant-garde across the 20th century means that contemporary work is attributed with inventing much more than it actually has. The dissociation of dance screen from cinema theory and culture in general has lead to a lot of reinventions of the wheel. But Take 7 is clearly aimed at UK dance students being introduced to the field and practice of dance screen and in servicing this market, there is an emphasis on dance per se and on recent UK product.

The Study Pack covers the seven films by concentrating on specific aspects of filmmaking eg location, treatments, score/sound. The focus is on the practicalities of filmmaking and always in reference to live dance performance and spectatorship; how and why the processes differ in relation to screen choreography. This enables a fairly comprehensive ‘how-to’ guide much in the tradition of Katrina McPherson’s Making Video Dance (Routledge, London, 2006). The Study Pack is made up primarily of questions—one set written by Liz Aggiss, a dance filmmaker and lecturer, and another set by a dance education expert, Justine Reeves. These appear to be addressing two different readerships, one being A-Level dance students, but the questions repeat, overlap, and cross-reference. Reeves’ ‘tasks’ also refer to other UK dance work which would be unavailable to students outside the UK.

It ultimately seems a shame that there is so little engagement with the ‘ideas’ presented in the films that form the basis of this resource. The large majority of the tasks focus on the ‘how’ with little encouragement to connect this with the ‘why’, and this in itself indicates the problems surrounding the kind of ‘crash courses’ in filmmaking that are required. In dealing with the basic technical requirements, the bigger picture is neglected. I have to admit to being slightly baffled by A-Level and, in Australia, HSC studies in dance screen. The choreographic approach to filmmaking is such a complex field and so aesthetically specific—and it is not as if there is a HSC filmmaking syllabus. That students have to understand and apply choreographic compositional processes not only to dance but also film/video seems an enormous ask. It is worth noting that many of the films included in the UK collection are directed by successful fimmakers who engage with dance screen amongst other genres (David Hinton, Antony Atanasio, Peter Anderson). But it is also worth highlighting David Hinton’s comments that the art form has not yet become too prescribed so that there is still the opportunity for newcomers to jump in the deep end a la the Sex Pistols, armed with their three chords.

It is of course important that students in the performing arts engage with interdisciplinarity and the attraction of the moving image for dancers and choreographers is undeniable. That they can bring something special to filmmaking is certain and is exemplified in the work of choreographer/director Miranda Pennell who is represented in the DVD, and whose Australian peers include award-winning artists such as Sue Healey and Tracie Mitchell.

CONFIDENCE IN NEW MEDIA ARTS IS GIVEN A LITTLE MORE BOUNCE WITH THE OPENING UP OF NEW SPACES FOR THE CREATION AND SHOWING OF WORKS BY STUDENTS AND ARTIST-ACADEMICS. AMONG THE LATEST IS THE BON MARCHE STUDIO, A 10M X 10M X 10M FILM SHOOTING STAGE AND PERFORMANCE AND MEDIA ARTS PRODUCTION SPACE RECENTLY RENOVATED IN THE FACULTY OF ARTS AND SOCIAL SCIENCES, UNIVERSITY OF TECHNOLOGY SYDNEY. THE EXTREMELY WELL EQUIPPED VENUE, A SYDNEY RARITY, IS BOUND TO ATTRACT A LOT OF INTEREST.

James Hurley, Media Centre Manager in the Department of Communication at UTS shows us proudly around the new million dollar venture: “Flexibility was the design brief, so the space has retractable tiered seating for up to 100 people, high definition playback and projection, a 9.1 loudspeaker system that can be configured for stereo, quad, 8-channel surround or film surround formats up to 7.1.” Hurley is particularly fond of “the Coemar de Sisti lighting rig, which allows for safe and easy lighting setups without the need for staff or students to go up to the ceiling. The 10 lighting hoists come down to floor level for setup.”

As well the room has a large green screen cyclorama for compositing work with the luxury of “live keying to Final Cut Pro and three XDCam-Ex 3 High Definition Cameras.” And there’s more, says Hurley: “Audio control is via the latest Roland RSS Virtual mixer and digital snake system allowing for very flexible positioning and control of audio for a variety of media production, playback and performance needs.” To complete the picture, there’s an area for set construction, dressing rooms and loading dock access. Everything an artist could desire. We await the bar.

The new Bon Marche Studio got a good workout at the launch of the UTS’s Centre for Media Arts Innovation, which aims to work across disciplines and artforms within UTS and generate dialogue and ventures with sectors outside the university and the general public [www.communication.uts.edu.au/centres/cmai]. The launch showed off A-V and sound works by UTS staff and affiliates to maximum, immersive advantage. The studio will largely be used in BA (Communication) and Post-Graduate courses as well as the new Sound & Music Design BA commencing in 2010 and, as is hoped, attract a range of conferences, performances and events. RT

THE FOURTH MINIMIDI FESTIVAL, NOISE IS FREE, WAS HELD IN MAY THIS YEAR AT THE 2KOLEGAS BAR AND AN OUTDOOR AREA LOCATED ON THE EDGE OF A DRIVE-IN MOVIE PARK ON LIAGMAQIAO STREET AND EAST 4TH RING ROAD IN BEIJING. THIS SUITABLY INTERESTING LOCATION SEEMED APPROPRIATE FOR THE BEIJING UNDERGROUND NOISE SCENE. YAN-JUN DESCRIBES THIS LOCATION ON HIS “FIELD RECORDINGS” SITE PAGE:

“This is a park located between Lufthansa Shopping Centre and Dongfeng Qiao. Inside it there is the bar 2Kolegas, the coolest place in Beijing. It’s old-school, environmental and loose. Every Tuesday since June 2005, I organise the Waterland Kwanyin series there. I recorded this to remind people and myself that there’s still some place worth enjoying in this huge noisy hyper-city, where we can keep making noise without disturbing others.”

There is an MP3 recording that goes with this page and it wonderfully contradicts the sounds one might expect hear from a “hyper-city” like Beijing. You can imagine that it was recorded early in the morning before daylight breaks (as the page image suggests). But it is surreal to think of it as the centre for experimental sound/noise in Beijing.

As a very active member of the Beijing sound community, Yan-Jun knows probably every significant sound artist in China and has encouraged many of them to perform as part of his Waterland Kwanyin series. In May, with close friends Yang Licai from Sugar Jar records and Xu Ya-zhu—and many volunteers—he organised the MiniMidi festival, the only outdoor experimental music festival in China. This celebration of the alternative sound scene in Beijing is usually scheduled in parallel with the much larger and mainstream Midi festival. In a city growing and evolving at an unprecedented rate, where commercialism is almost a universal and singular mantra, the MiniMidi festival stands in stark contrast. It is a passionate event that serves to draw artists together to commune over what Chinese sound art is and might become. It was for precisely this reason that I was drawn to experience the festival.

MiniMidi debuted in 2005 and has grown from there. It has the aura of a refreshingly naive or perhaps a singularly passionate contemporary sound and performance event that is universally felt. MiniMidi has, however, a deceptively simple image for an annual event of such maturity and which has already received critical reviews from such publications as The Wire.

The first day began by showcasing international labels and festivals. Miguel Santos, the head of Atlantic Waves Music Festival told us about its history and operations. The Staubgold label and the Goethe-Institut German Electronic Music Series were represented in performance by Joseph Suchy, Mapstation (Stefan Schneider), Reuber (Timo Reuber), Klangwart (Markus Detmer and Timo Reuber). In comparison, Chinese sound art was revealed as a scene rich in online discourse on sound events and sound dissemination. The growth here is evident when looking over the recordings available at Sugar Jar, located in the progressive 798 Art District and the most influential record store for new sound labels such as Shanshui, SubJam, Kwanyin and Post-Concrete. These serve to promote the most innovative and diverse range of sound work from the China and Taiwan.

In fact, MiniMidi was bracketed by such discourse, closing with an intriguing look at the “Noise Movement in 90s Taiwan” and a discussion about Chinese contemporary music. In between the formal and informal discussions were diverse performances and events that confirmed influences and current directions.

As interesting as it was to catch up with works by artists from Europe, I was much more curious about the state of electronic, digital and performance sound art in China. While laptops continue to provide the functional glue to many performances, more interesting were performances that extended sound in a range of unorthodox or idiosyncratic directions. Notably, in this respect, the TronOrchestra+SAM2+SomeMoreSams+ brought a theatrical, Björk-like element to the opening day echoed later in the work of Lin Chi Wei and Steve Chan.

Performances by Janek Schaefer, Andy Gulh, Mapstation and others on the Staubgold Label provided an international perspective for the local scene. Schaefer’s performance was sans three-arm turntable but interesting to see him perform with live mixing of sound sources.

Two performances are worth noting. Fujui Wang’s (Taiwan) set reflected a sophisticated and focused engagement with technology and a refined sensibility for contemporary global electronic sound and image. His laptop performance tightly integrated sound and image, expressing a distinctly individual aesthetic. In the second work of his set, the image component comprised a series of shifting vertical lines synchronised with a “glitch” style sonic texture reminiscent of Alva Noto or Jan Jelinek.

Lin Chi Wei, Steve Chan and Singing Liu’s (absent but replaced by a laptop) performance, A Dismissed Organization, conveyed the strongest sense of a uniquely contemporary Chinese sound art. Taking place amidst the audience, two performers and a laptop faced each side of a triangular mirrored structure. Chi Wei wore a mask invoking memories of Chinese Opera and interacted with Steve Chan in a sound world of text and noise. Amid the intense sound, the stillness of the performers infused with the attention of the audience, and the reflections in the mirrored surfaces, reminded me of the contradiction between the dynamism of Beijing city life and the calmness of the people who inhabit it.

In its programming, organisation and post- festival activities, the MiniMidi festival reflects a maturity in the Chinese sound scene commensurate with similar events in Australia. This is, in a sense, remarkable considering that the history of experimental/contemporary music in China is relatively new by Western criteria. Given the obvious differences between the East and West, the MiniMidi Festival clearly articulated the universality of sound and the exciting prospect of a new frontier less evident in Australia these days.

I FIRST HEARD THE MUSIC OF MOROCCAN GROUP FNAIRE IN A TAXI IN FES, A “PETIT TAXI” AS THEY’RE CALLED LOCALLY. WHEN MY FRIEND AND I SHOWED SIGNS OF APPRECIATING THIS ENERGETIC MOROCCAN HIP HOP, THE DRIVER THROTTLED UP THE VOLUME, TURNED ON THE KITSCH DECORATIVE LIGHTS AND WE DROVE AROUND LIKE A MOBILE CHRISTMAS TREE, THUMPING OUT THE UBIQUITOUS HIP HOP BEAT TO WORDS IN A LANGUAGE I WRONGLY PRESUMED WAS ARABIC.

The taxi driver was so proud of the music that he gave us the CD and eventually dropped us off where we wanted to go—the opening concert of the Fes Festival of Sacred Music. Inside the ancient fortress walls of a caravanserai with a full moon above, the audience of local elites was thrown into a tizz by the late arrival of the Queen of Morocco and the renowned American diva Jessye Norman to open the program.

I was in Morocco to attend two music festivals: this glorious, highbrow festival in Fes and the Gnawa Festival in Essaouira which reveals the African face of Morocco. But that first grand concert was nowhere near as exciting as the taxi-ride, which introduced me to Moroccan hip-hop and to a dynamic social movement erupting all over Morocco today. The movement is known as “nayda” which means “it’s moving”—something’s on the move!

Nayda is a newly-coined word in a colloquial, unofficial language called Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, only spoken at home or on the street. It’s the language used in rap and hip-hop to express the heartfelt concerns of a generation who have been educated in French and Classical Arabic, languages inherited through ideology and the circumstances of history rather than the breath of their mother tongue. Nayda is an explosion of creativity from a generation who don’t want to flee to Europe, or risk their lives as illegal immigrants but rather choose to redefine the way they live and push for much needed democratic change.

In a huge public square just outside the ancient sand-coloured walls of the Medina of Fes, I got to see Fnaire live, with other hip hop artists including local heroes Fes City Clan. Thousands of young men edged to the front of the stage, mouthing the words, but more remarkable were the families with kids, old women wearing their hijab, young girls dancing in jeans, others dancing in the djellaba, a long cover all robe worn by men and women alike. Fes City Clan leapt about the stage with a patter about unemployment, corruption, the police and the impossible cost of living. In a country where half the population is illiterate their message was widely amplified.

Toc Toc, get up, your son is being beaten at the police station. Toc Toc, go and see. Some people have nice children, but you have a poor bastard who is stubborn, drugged with the pills he swallows. Thanks to him the dealers have built three storey villas with swimming pool, Turkish bath, chauffer waiting at the door. Toc Toc, get up.

Nothing can prepare you for the ambience of Essaouira, a small fishing port on the Atlantic coast where boats are all painted the same inky blue and weirdly oversized seagulls dominate the sky. There are no petit taxis, only pedestrians and hand-pulled carts fit inside the corridors of the ancient Medina. Now in its 11th year, the Essaouira festival’s proclaimed objective is “to fight for Gnawa culture and for cultural democratization in Morocco.” Directed by a brilliant young woman Neila Tazi, it has established the recipe for the plethora of mega-festivals that are sprouting up all over the country: free entry, high production values, investment in public space. The Timitar festival in Agadir celebrates Amazigh culture. In Casablanca L’Boulevard celebrates hip-hop and rap. Here in Essaouira it is the Gnawa.

The Gnawa are descendents of black African slaves who were traded by the Berbers of the Sahara. Their polyrhythmic music is a ritual of trance and still has a religious function, to heal and exorcise entities that occupy the human body. Voodoo and Brazilian condomble share its roots, as does the American blues. The Gnawa Maalems, or ceremonial masters, come from all over Morocco to participate in this festival, beginning with a procession through the streets of the Medina. They play a three-stringed bass or ghembri and sing a melodic call which is replied to in unison by their entourage who layer the rhythm on metal castanets called qraqebs, evoking the chains of their slave forebears. Each night on the main stages their mesmerising music becomes a crossroad of experimentation and fusion. Great musicians of jazz, pop, rock and contemporary world music are invited to dialogue: Toumani Diabate, the Malian master of the chora, Wayne Shorter and his band from New York, and many more. Men, women, old and young, even small children dance en masse into altered states, as if wanting to be free of themselves.

The Nayda atmosphere continues into the night on the beach of Essaouira on a stage dedicated to the incorrigible hip-hop, rap, rai and fusion. Fes City Clan, Darga, H-Kayne, Ganga fusion…I have never seen so many dreadlocks in my life. The city is ‘occupied’ by young people, some from the tribes of the Sahara wearing turbans and robes, neo-hippies, baba-cools, punks clad in black, hip hoppers in their triple X T-shirts and running shoes. But I baulk at these categories. Identities can shift from one minute to the next, as they are shifting now throughout Moroccan society.

Morocco has recently emerged from the dark ages and the kids don’t want to go back there. Their parents endured “The Years of Lead”, so called because of the weight of exile, emigration, political repression, disappearances and death. While Nayda may look like Western decadence to its detractors, it certainly has roots in the radical popular movements of this era. In the 70s a group of musicians from the Rif mountains called Nass El Ghiwane personified resistance, carrying the voice of the Moroccan people through those dark years.

The current transition to democracy, overseen by King Mohammed VI, walks a fine line between the Islamic conservatives and the prescriptions of the International Monetary Fund and the globalised free trade market. The internet has had a momentous social impact, sometimes compared to the fall of the Berlin Wall. And in a country where 68% of the population is young, and many unemployed, there is an ideological battle to control hearts and minds. The youth and their music are constantly accused of being un-Moroccan. Some music festivals have provoked editorials in the Islamist press accusing them of “polluting the society with alcohol, hallucinogenic pills, men exchanging kisses, shameful, promiscuous women, and hysterical wobbling under the effect of musical trance.” In 2003, 14 rock musicians were put on trial for Satanism. Public sit-ins were held in their support; the charges were dropped.

But, as one of the musicians of rock/fusion group Hoba Hoba Spirit put it, “we love our country, we don’t want to ‘bruler’ (flee to Europe), we’re proud of being Moroccan but we’re not going to speak your sort of nationalism.” What is so intoxicating about the energy of all this music is the clear sensation that the artists are performing to assert their very existence, in a language of their own, revealing the diversity of contemporary Islam.

Fes Festival of World Sacred Music, artistic director Gerard Kurdjian, Fes, June 6-15, www.fesfestival.com; Festival Gnaoua, artistic director Neila Tazi, Essaouira, Morocco, June 26-29, www.festival-gnaoua.net

WHETHER CONSIDERED AS AUDITORY CULTURE OR SOUND STUDIES, THE CULTURAL, SOCIAL, PHILOSOPHICAL, HISTORICAL AND AESTHETIC INVESTIGATION INTO SOUND HAS NOT OFTEN BEEN CONSIDERED TO CONSTITUTE A DISCIPLINE IN AND OF ITSELF. INSTEAD, IT HAS BEEN AN AREA WHERE ACADEMICS AND ARTISTS FROM A DIVERSE RANGE OF BACKGROUNDS HAVE MADE VALUABLE CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE DEVELOPMENT OF AN INTELLECTUAL CLIMATE WHERE SOUND AND LISTENING HAVE BECOME SIGNIFICANT SUBJECTS, TO BE CONSIDERED ALONGSIDE THE IMMEDIATE SONIC CONCERNS OF EITHER MUSIC OR ACOUSTICS.

However, the publication of a number of anthologies in recent years, such as The Auditory Culture Reader (2003) and Hearing Cultures (2004), has created a locus around which many contemporary writers have gravitated, producing not a specific discipline but a more amorphous or generalised field, bringing multifarious approaches into contact to produce an array of dialogues about sound and listening. One of the more recent additions to this steady stream of writings and publications is Hearing Places.

The title itself holds a fairly apparent double meaning—positing both an activity (the auditing of a given environment) and localities where such an activity might occur (places for listening)—that only partially accounts for the multitude of approaches to the experience of sound and place contained within. Compiled and edited by Ros Bandt, Michelle Duffy and Dolly MacKinnon under the auspices of the Australian Centre at the University of Melbourne (which is also home to the Australian Sound Design Project, directed by Bandt), Hearing Places draws together 37 scholars and artists from Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Europe, North America and beyond, bringing a plethora of voices from a variety of cultural backgrounds to explore the concept of place through an attentiveness to its sounds, and the relative significance attributed to those sounds.

In light of these aims, the use of the term ‘hearing’ in the title comes across perhaps as a slight misnomer, referring as it does to the sensory mode that allows us to perceive sound. Instead, hearing in this context has been taken (as frequently occurs in everyday usage) to be synonymous with listening—a conscious act that involves the focusing of attention on to the sense of hearing—and also to operate as a synonym for processes of communication in general. This slippage between literal and metaphorical acts of audition is used by several authors to articulate the complex interweavings of voice, place and power. Jane Belfrage’s essay explores how the notion of “The Great Australian Silence”—initially a metaphor for colonial attitudes to both Indigenous people and the land—signifies the continuing unbalanced power relations between Indigenous and non-indigenous peoples in this country. Similarly, Kelley Johnson’s cataloguing of the everyday sounds and voices of an institution for people with intellectual disabilities highlights the explicit connections between communication and power. Hearing, or in these circumstances, to be given a hearing—the opportunity to air grievances, to express opinions, to participate in cultural life—becomes the first step in fostering an understanding based on dialogue rather than assumption.

Given that this volume investigates the relationship between place and listening, it is not surprising that a number of writers draw from the notion of the soundscape, first advanced by Canadian composer R Murray Schafer and popularised in his book The Tuning of the World (1977) and also the wider, related field of acoustic ecology. However, many of the artists and researchers here extend beyond Schafer’s geographical similes and schema of soundmarks, sound signals and keynote sounds, and perform an auditory reimagining of their locales of choice, one that incorporates memory and narrative, which emphasises the tensions between the natural, cultural and historical components of a given environment. Keiko Torigore brings all these factors to bear in designing a ‘soniferous garden’ to honour the life of Japanese composer Taki Rentaroh—using plants, watercourses and pavement materials to subtly infuse a modern location with the historical sounds relevant to her subject. Kiera Lindsey brings the full force of an imaginative listening to an aural recounting of the Hume and Hovell expedition party of 1824-25, eliciting from the historical documentation an embodied experience of animal encounters, new surroundings and intercultural contact.

Alongside the more typically academic pieces are a number of statements by artists and artist-researchers whose work engages with both sound and place, such as the interactive sonic environments of Garth Paine, the distributed choral performances of Johannes S Sistermanns, and American Aaron Ximm’s audio restoration project. Of particular note is Jay Needham’s radiophonic work Listening at the Border which explores the personal dimension of the wartime monitoring of military airspace. Also intriguing is Dutch artist Ricardo Huisman’s woollen sound pill, conceived of not only as a touchable sound producing object, but also operating as a “woollen time capsule” in that it reproduces (among others) the sounds of the powder-fold machinery once commonly heard in Dutch pharmacies. The push and pull of memory is also detailed in Paul Carter’s perceptive description of both the content and the reception of his sound installation Out of Their Feeling, which had been developed to accompany a memorial to the great Irish famine. The accompanying compact disc contains not only samples of these artists’ works, but a range of field and location recordings that relate to almost all of the chapters, giving the reader (and in this case, the listener) an all-important opportunity to experience some of the sonic aspects of place to which their work relates.

Even though it has an international ambit, what is most significant about Hearing Places is the inclusion of works that address Australian subjects. “Locks of Hair to Untangle” by Melbourne writer and poet Tony Birch outlines his attempts to open channels of communication between the competing social and audiory spheres of Indigenous and non-indigenous Australia. If, as Birch posits, “silence may or may not be golden” since it can attest not just to respectfulness but to ignorance, then any opening up of those channels would produce the kind of cacophony that I dare say many of us would prefer to hear, potentially making any future ‘hearings’ of this particular place much more interesting.

Hearing Places: Sound, Place, Time and Culture, edited by Ros Bandt, Michelle Duffy and Dolly MacKinnon, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, Newcastle, UK, 2007

Ryan Cockburn, vacuum#1, installation, Westspace, Liquid Architecture 9, Melbourne

LIQUID ARCHITECTURE SEASONS TYPICALLY REVEAL NEW DIMENSIONS OF SOUND, AS WELL AS INVESTIGATING THEIR IMPACT ON THE LISTENER. WHAT WAS STRIKING THIS YEAR WAS THE DIVERGENCE IN THE LISTENING ENVIRONMENTS AND THEIR EFFECT ON THE RECEPTION OF THE WORK. WE WERE VARIOUSLY IMMERSED IN THE MELBOURNE PLANETARIUM, THE REVERBERANT CELLS OF THE OLD MELBOURNE GAOL AND A WEST SPACE ART GALLERY INSTALLATION, SPLITTING THE AUDIENCE’S AWARENESS BETWEEN SONIC AND VISUAL CUES. AS WELL, THERE WAS THE TYPICAL ARRANGEMENT OF THE MAIN CONCERT VENUE, THE NORTH MELBOURNE TOWN HALL, TO LOCATE LISTENERS INSIDE A CIRCLE OF LOUDSPEAKERS TO EMPHASISE THE SPATIAL MANIPULATION OF THE SOUND.

Immersion, a concert of high-quality recordings by prominent sound artists, curated by Phillip Samartzis, was located in the Planetarium, an interesting location for sound art. You lie back in a reclining armchair, as you might at home, and enjoy the recordings on the excellent speaker system in a detached and inward way. While listening, you could watch an outer-spacescape, but since this imagery has nothing to do with the music, it is better to close your eyes and focus on the sound. The session included Berlin composer Rhienhold Friedl’s fascinating eight-channel work Neo-Bechstein (undated), which employs an electro-acoustic piano built by Bechstein, Siemens and Telefunken in 1930. The ringing tones of the piano, beautifully mixed and spatialised, are hypnotic in such a setting.

This highly structured experience, a kind of aural cinema, contrasted vividly with the stark and emotionally challenging site of the Old Melbourne Gaol, where Within Earshot offered a showcase of multimedia works in cells through which the audience could wander, followed by a concert of four performances in the gaol’s exercise yard. The theme of the event was the idea of displacement, and the works in the cells made good use of the gaol’s resonance, dynamics and social history. In the concert, Melbourne sound artist Que Nguyen’s complex and engaging vocal and electronic work (untitled), with its hints of creaking doors, ghostly cries and clanking metal, stood out.

Vacuum #1 at West Space Gallery, curated by Eamon Sprod and Camilla Hannan, was a group production that ran for several hours each day over four days, with many local and visiting performers sitting in, and with the public invited to contribute. The sound, generally laptop and synthesiser driven, evolved continuously, and was relayed through numerous sets of speakers: wall-mounted, floor-mounted and some within lengths of tubing suspended at ear-level. Generally lacking the resolution of a compositional beginning, middle and end, this sound art seems intended as an exploration of group improvisation and spatial and acoustic dynamics, as well as challenging the usual performer-audience hierarchy. Audience members meandered around the gallery’s spaces and speakers for minutes or hours at a time, or found a convenient corner to sit—what you get out of such unstructured activity depends on what you put into it.

The transaction between audience and performers is different in the concert hall. For the events in the more conventional environment of the North Melbourne Town Hall, LA9 artistic director Nat Bates brought together major Australian and international performers who typically sat studiously at keyboards and laptops, though it is not always easy to tell how much of what is heard is pre-programmed and how much is improvised or spontaneous. These concerts included a thorough exploration of the genre of electronic music that both manipulates sound in space and provokes and unsettles the mind. Berlin composer Marcus Schmickler’s overwhelming orchestration of electronic sound, emphasising spatial effects, was at a volume that obliged the audience to resort to the earplugs offered on entry. The flavour is dark, alternately bellowing and brooding, with dense, contrasting textures, sweeping shifts in pitch and long tones with no discernible rhythmic structure. The Thursday night North Melbourne audience responded strongly to Schmickler’s lengthy, dramatic and adrenaline-pumping performance, which was nicely complemented by Sydney sound artist Alex White’s wailing, fraught and overdriven sound and Nat Bates’ own powerful and highly crafted composition.

The work of Schmickler, White, Bates and many others produces its effect through a high quality and very robust multi-channel speaker system in a large space, a space that emphasises the cerebral nature of the work, forcing your awareness inward and even engendering feelings of isolation. By contrast, the Sydney-Melbourne instrumental/ electronic ensemble Metalog’s absorbing improvisation was an intimate affair. The audience was seated around the musicians and the sound came both from behind and in front, locating you in a unique aural space. Metalog’s engaging and physical live performance added an essential dimension to its music.

Liquid Architecture 9, artistic director Nat Bates, West Space Gallery, Old Melbourne Gaol and North Melbourne Town Hall, July 16–19

BRINGING TOGETHER A GROUP OF PRACTITIONERS USUALLY ON THE PERIPHERY OF MUSICAL CULTURE, LIQUID ARCHITECTURE PROVIDES AN IMPORTANT FORUM, RAISING THE PROFILE OF SOUND ART AND BRINGING IT TO A LARGER AUDIENCE. IN DOING SO IT HAS ADAPTED SOUND ART MODES OF PRESENTATION RATHER THAN THE TRADITIONAL INSTRUMENTAL CONCERT MODEL. IN NORTH MELBOURNE TOWN HALL SIX CHANNELS OF SOUND SURROUND THE AUDIENCE, SEATED IN A CIRCLE, CREATING AN IMMERSIVE LISTENING ENVIRONMENT. LISTENING BECOMES A MUCH MORE INWARD EXPERIENCE. THE AUDIENCE ENTERS A MEDITATIVE SPACE, DRAWN TO SUBTLETIES IN THE SOUND AND THE KINAESTHETIC SENSATIONS THEY EVOKE.

Making effective use of the multi-speaker setup, Jacques Soddell presented a work that sent field recordings, samples and white noise sliding around the space. Not afraid to use single sound sources with gaps and silence, this work slowly developed out of simplicity, often returning to samples almost as a kind of recurring theme. Rod Price presented a work similar in its use of field recordings and synthesised sound, although combined in a way to create a darker and heavier atmosphere. Sound masses would often build, colliding with other loud gestures, creating a sense of immediate impact and whiplash.

Canadian artist Robert Normandeau, a highlight of this year’s program, presented a three movement work with a subtle control of dynamic, dispersing sound around the space to dizzying affect. These works, characterised by voices murmuring and chattering, stood out in the way they used sound to create a feeling of movement, shifting energy and momentum skilfully between medium, fast and extremely fast. French artist Cedric Peyronnet’s was also a standout performance, masterfully combining field recordings from the French countryside to create surreal atmospheres, building to levels of high intensity and energy. Taking a different tack, Lawrence English’s work began exploring the lower end of the volume spectrum. Distorted shards of low pitched timbres were gradually layered to build a slow moving and ambient texture. Particularly interesting in this work was the beating of sound waves, caused by slight discrepancies in pitch.

German artist Andrew Peckler opted for a lighter and more playful approach, presenting a work largely built upon harpsichord and celeste samples. These semi-melodic fragments, combined with oscillators, ring modulators and a modular synthesiser, gradually evolved into a predominately rhythmic piece. Breaking from the mould, Peckler’s work might just as easily be heard in a club—a real break with the austerity and seriousness usually felt at these town hall performances. To Peckler’s credit, this piece had buoyancy and colour created through pitch organisation and contrasting rhythms, even if at times the drum ‘n’ bass-ish sections did feel a little out of place.

The collaborative ensemble Metalog comprises Jim Denley (alto saxophone), Amanda Stewart (voice, text), Natasha Anderson (contrabass recorder), Dale Gorfinkel (vibraphone, trumpet), Robbie Avenaim (percussion) and Ben Byrne (tape and electronics). Focussed on bridging the gap between laptop and instrumental performance, Metalog presented a work with a diverse sonic spectrum, yet with a feeling of ensemble interaction and collaborative composition.

Denley’s gurgling water through his saxophone, Stewart’s lip chattering and the motor on Gorfinkel’s vibes repeatedly striking various objects provided a charactersitic Metalog layering of sonic planes of various timbral densities. These larger gestures were punctuated throughout by shorter rhythmic shapes, mainly articulated by Denley and Anderson. The success of this work came from the bringing together of six very compatible artists, always listening closely, never cluttered, and maintaining their distinctive voices while sustaining a strong aesthetic direction throughout. As in much of Liquid Architecture 9, the sounds generated by the works fell outside traditional musical syntax, encouraging the listener to become absorbed in the very sound itself.

THE DAVID CHESWORTH ENSEMBLE’S DISTINCTIVE SOUND WAS HEARD RECENTLY IN ONE OF ITS RARE SYDNEY OUTINGS. THE GROUP PLAYED COMPOSITIONS FROM CHESWORTH’S MUSIC TO SEE THROUGH (AVAILABLE ON CD, WWW.MINC.COM.AU) WHICH RECEIVED THREE NOMINATIONS FOR INSTRUMENTAL WORK OF THE YEAR AT THE CLASSICAL MUSIC AWARDS AND OPENED AT THE SYDNEY CONSERVATORIUM WITH ONE OF THE WORK’S MOST ENGAGING PIECES, THE SET THEORY-INSPIRED PANOPTICON.

Panopticon’s gentle pulse of thrust and relax, ascent and float, established the character of the concert—semi-meditative, lyrical and with a sense of time that allows for attention to instrumental texturings and juxtapositions. But there were plenty of exceptions. Such apparently simple music (Chesworth in his introduction spoke of it as “laidback, kind of easy listening”) certainly keeps the musicians busy—a virtue of seeing the work in concert and getting that little extra aural insight into its construction. The breaks in the patterning in such works, a kind of suspension, has quite an impact, with passages from violin or cello or any of the instruments followed by a return deep into the primary pattern (which has stayed gently vibrating in our bodies).

But not everything’s meditative; ensuing pieces variously march or dance out of the frame and suggest movie suspense or grand macabre moments. Floating World, rising out of a supple piano ostinato picked up by the violin is sad in a curiously sunny way (a definition of melancholy?), soaring before returning to the piano. Perpetual Presence opens dramatically with drums and vibraphone, moving on to trombone growls and string glides and then into something almost cartoony, almost jazz and in a mad rush. Blind Forever is jauntily folk-ish, awash with liquid sounds this time. A Chesworth composition from 25 years ago, Shady Elements, recalls French movie scores and is aptly charming, ever flying.

For a complete change of pace a very dynamic, side drum driven Heaps with warbling trombone and tinkling piano, escalates into mad big band sound. Bongo had Chesworth on whistle and ocarina and FX as this movie music-ish piece launched into a trombone led riff against chugging strings and onto another powerful surge into a sound that suggested a far larger ensemble. In a less formal venue we might have danced.

The top line players were all in fine form and the concert’s trajectory from measured emotional intensity to skilfully excecuted, brash playfulness made for a satisfying experience, superficially ‘easy’ but always diverting in the details and often surprising in the many departures from the composer’s fundamental idiom.

New Music Network, David Chesworth Ensemble, electronics David Chesworth, piano John McAll, violin Andrea Keeble, cello Helen Mountfort, percussion Eugene Ughetti, percussion Peter Neville, trombone Simon Myers, bass Jeremy Alsop; Sydney Conservatorium of Music, Sept 14

THE ROMANTIC IN ME WILL ALWAYS FEEL THAT THE IDEAL VENUE FOR EXPLORATORY MUSIC AND SOUND IS THE SMALL DINGEY SPACE WITH THE MAKESHIFT SEATING, THE MILKCRATE TABLES AND THE QUIET TENSION OF A SMALL ATTENTIVE AUDIENCE. HOWEVER THE FESTIVALS THAT GALVANISE THE OFTEN SCATTERED COMMUNITIES OF EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC MAKERS NEED LARGER VENUES THAT CAN ACCOMMDATE BIGGER AUDIENCES, BETTER SOUND SYSTEMS AND OVERGROUND MARKETING CAMPAIGNS.

For the last three years the Sydney leg of Liquid Architecture has partnered with Performance Space, utilising the Cleveland Street premises and the new CarriageWorks complex. While this has provided great exposure to a wider audience, these venues have pushed the presentation mode closer to that of formal concert and for me this often brings with it a sense of claustrophobia.

This year, with new Sydney directors Alex White and Jennifer Teo in charge, the festival moved to The Factory in Marrickville, home to eclectic programming generally on the rock/popular music side but which has hosted the NOW Now festival in the past. This venue allowed for a more relaxed presentation however the serious rigour remained intact.

The festival opened with Kusum Normoyle, a relatively new addition to the Sydney sound landscape. She starts singing quiet, shakey notes that hang naked and vulnerable until one is looped, the tentative vibrato turning into texture. The analogue input of strident sibilants, hissing purrs and throaty growls is gradually folded in with feedbacks and statics to create a complex morass of sound. At one point it coalesces into slippery beats, at another into a distorted vocal cacophony with a gothic feel. Ideas and processes are mostly well structured into clear movements rather than the seemingly endless crescendo so common in improvised laptoppery, though the last section did seem to extend just a little beyond its natural life. That aside Normoyle’s approach to the partnership of vocals and computer processing is bold and intriguing.

Also focusing on voice, Canadian artist Robert Normandeau (in town courtesy of the Australasian Computer Music Conference), presented a stunning set in acousmatic style—precomposed work spatialised live. With alarming clarity he spins moans, cries, laughs and gasps around the multiple speakers, the combinations forming rhythmically punchy pieces. Cascading sheaths of sound seem almost gelatinous, yet within this, each element is precisely placed. The figurative nature of the samples is often preserved—he describes his work as “cinema for the ear”—giving some of the pieces a cartoon slapstick feel while others conjure B-grade sci-fi fantasies. The content may not have been to everyone’s taste, but the masterful execution was undeniable.

Not all the visuals had to be imagined. Jacques Soddell opened with video impressions of a face, shifting in and out of perception accompanied by liquid static. Big, rich sustained tones drive us through beautifully framed tunnels and telegraph lines, followed by an aggressive overload of interference laden, cutup media images and the sound equivalent of dirty pointillism. Besides the ‘meaningful’ conclusion (the image of a church altar), Soddell on the whole walks a fine line between abstraction and narrative which complements his sound explorations.

Toby Grime also used visuals. His sound is like a organism made of grainy drone that incrementally grows—understated yet somehow hinting at the ecstatic with luxurious shifting harmonies. He accompanies this with premade video material which maintains a similar tension. The close-up of a man’s mouth in profile, with water droplets suspended in air, looks like slick advertising. As the footage slowly moves in reverse, we discover that the captured moment is of the man literally spitting a dummy. While the simple narrative becomes clear, the sensuality of the footage combines with the suspension of the sounds to push us beyond literal interpretation.

There were two outstanding performances across the festival. One came from national festival director Nat Bates. Lit from behind, seated at a keyboard, Bates starts with a dramatic stadium rock sting. Using an antique Ensonique ASR10 sampler, he takes the iconic sounds of epic rock—cymbals, drums, grand full band stabs—and explores them as artefacts. By using the sounds minimally and deftly spatialising them, he lets us hear beyond the cliché to the timbral and textural essence of the sounds themselves. A cymbal plays out longer than is physically possible, cycling around the speakers: we identify it as a cymbal yet hear beyond it to the metal, to the computer bits that stretch it, to the room it was recorded in and the one in which it is played. It’s ear and mind expanding—an exploration of both the sound of a sound, and an interrogation of the meanings and associations imposed on it. The combined result of this sustain and suspense is intriguingly cinematic, even noirish. As a dramatic conclusion Bates triggers a final rock stab and a seemingly infinite reverb rings out…it’s still going as he leaves the stage.

The fitting climax to the festival came from Marcus Schmickler. Generally I don’t take up the option of earplugs. You end up missing vital frequencies, and perhaps it might be better just to turn it down. But with Schmickler the volume is the essence so I succumbed. Bass driven, his sound becomes physical—walls, floor, ceilings, internal organs begin to vibrate with his fierce, overlapping, ascending tones carving out another dimension. We are all at the centre of the Earth in the hot larval flow of Schmickler’s creation. With the strange internalisation that earplugs give I begin to feel that the music is emanating from within me, from us as an audience. The effect is powerful, verging on spiritual, with no drugs required.

Over two nights Sydney’s LA9 was smaller in scale than previous festivals, but limiting the acts to five per night was just right for maintaining audience attention. Nor did the program lack variety with approaches ranging from the brash noise hackings of Nick Wishart (Toydeath) and Hirofumi Uchino, to the quiet improvising organism of Metalog, to the sweet beats of Andrew Peckler, with some compact sound installations and a screening loop thrown in as well. Liquid Architecture on a national level has developed such a strong yet flexible curatorial approach over the nine years of its operation that the identity of the festival remains clear while allowing room for new directors to make their mark.

Liquid Architecture 9, Sydney; directors Alex White, Jennifer Teo, national director Nat Bates; Factory Theatre, July 11-12

INSIDE THE SECURITY-CONTROLLED PORT OF MELBOURNE, AUGUST 2, JUST ON 5.30 PM: A BROODING SKY, AN EERIE SOUNDSCAPE, SHIPPING CONTAINERS, SCATTERED WEEDS AND PUDDLES, AND 160 WARMLY DRESSED ‘PARTICIPANTS’ COMBINE IN AN HOUR-LONG ‘MOMENT’—THE CREATION OF THE FIFTH IN SIMON TERRILL’S CROWD THEORY SERIES OF PHOTOGRAPHS. THE RESULTING IMAGE CONVEYS A SENSE OF THE TENUOUS RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A MAJOR URBAN LANDMARK AND THE COMMUNITIES THAT SURROUND IT, AND THE IRONIC NARRATIVE OF A FROZEN ‘CROWD’, WHOSE PRESENCE IN THE PHOTOGRAPH TESTIFIES TO ITS COLLECTIVE AFFINITY WITH THE PORT.

Crowd Theory—Port of Melbourne is, for Simon Terrill, a kind of proposition: both an exploration of the physical space of the Port and a kind of documentary fiction based around the responses of participants to the location. While the scene is carefully constructed—the patch of earth sandwiched between West Swanston Dock and the Coode Island liquid storage facility appears much like a film set—Terrill is not interested in directing participants. Instead, he asks people to consider their relationship to the Port as they form the ‘crowd’ that he captures from atop a 6.5-metre scaffolding tower.

Between the endless beeps and clunks of the dock area and the dark silence of the Coode Island terminal, this crowd is restless, curious. The sun is about to set as people tuck into hot soup, compare gumboots, beanies and scarves, and watch the awesome display of cranes unloading a nearby ship. Four busloads of local residents, interested ‘outsiders’, port workers ranging from office staff to truckies and engineers, a few kids, amateur artists and sundry others have been shuttled across from Footscray Community Arts Centre—producer of the Crowd Theory series and partner with the Port of Melbourne Corporation for this image. As the clouds move in and the light softens, marshalls lead the crowd into the shot and the event begins to take shape.

Simon Terrill has worked with Footscray Community Arts Centre to create Crowd Theory images in four other locations: by the Maribyrnong River at Footscray (2004), at Skinner Reserve in Braybrook (2004), at Footscray Station (2006) and at Southbank (2007). The Footscray photograph won him the $10,000 KPMG Tutorship Award in 2005. Looming clouds have been a feature of all but one of the photos, throwing an enclosing moodiness over scenes of saturated colour and precise composition. The Southbank image stands distinctly separate, its participants both dwarfed by, and part of, a wall of high-rise windows and balconies.

The Port of Melbourne shoot unfolds rhythmically under bright lights: 10 shots are taken throughout the sunset hour, and during each 10 or 15-second exposure the slowly evolving soundscape gives way to a long, solid tone. As the shoot progresses, obvious fascination with the usually hidden landscape gives way to individual preoccupation with the next shot: what we will do, what we will think. Before each exposure, Terrill reminds us over the PA to spend the duration of the exposure focusing on “that one Port thought”—and everyone seems to take it seriously, embracing each extended ‘moment’ with a deliberate, small gesture in the midst of the scattered whole.

Terrill insists on the importance of allowing each person to respond and represent themselves as they choose. “I see the hour of the making of the picture very much as a ritualised hour”, he says, adding that his role at that point is simply to facilitate that ritual. For Terrill the final photograph will encapsulate “all that precision beforehand, and then, in a sense, the anti-precision of the crowd space.”

The process feels strangely unreal, like a cross between friendly gathering, facilitated trespass and private journey. The location itself seems part real, part artifice—another contradiction that Terrill is keen to explore: “that tension between the fictional image, the things that have gone into making that image, and the attributes which come from that place.”

Crowds, says Terrill, are formed both of shared experience and a kind of “unconscious group mind”, and this idea has been central to all five Crowd Theory images to date. The photograph selected for the final 1.8 x 2.4-metre print is the one he sees as capturing the ‘moment’ during the ritual in which a coherence begins to show itself in the pattern of bodies. Having employed the same process for each image in the series, Terrill says he’s learned to recognise that moment, usually somewhere towards the middle or end of the shoot, when participants’ uncertainty and exploration gives way to a kind of group energy.

Citing Elias Canetti, Terrill describes this ‘crowd-moment’ as being “one of the true moments of equality, where differences between people do drop away.” Canetti’s Crowds and Power, he says, begins with the statement that human beings’ primary fear is that of being touched. “The crowd situation removes that fear”, says Terrill, “and all these interesting things start to happen, psychologically. It’s quite beautiful, the idea of genuine equality, for that fleeting moment.”

Further threads feed into the overall project, with Footscray Community Arts Centre, the Port of Melbourne Corporation and the artist, not to mention the participants, all having an investment in the aesthetic outcome. For Footscray Community Arts Centre the project marries critical artistic practice with community engagement and for the Port Corporation it serves an important community relations function. The final shot seems to be horizontally layered: the ‘community’ almost floats in the middle ground, suspended between the chosen location and the massive port infrastructure behind.

There is also a paradoxical stillness—the hour-long ‘ritual’ was an hour of almost-constant movement as participants explored the site, talked to strangers, watched the cranes and the sunset. The image of the frozen ‘moment’ is indeed a fiction—the long camera exposure can’t be discerned directly in the photo, except for some blurring in the Panamax cranes on the wharf. Terrill’s humble crowd finds its feet and stakes its tenuous claim, both co-existing with and deferring to the mystique of the machinery and the process that goes on, 24/7, behind the wire fences.

Crowd Theory—Port of Melbourne, artist Simon Terrill, produced by Footscray Community Arts Centre in partnership with the Port of Melbourne Corporation, Aug 2, Port of Melbourne; Exhibition, Mission to Seafarers, Melbourne, Aug 28-Sept 28,

Urszula Dawkins is a freelance writer, editor and arts worker based in Melbourne.

RUARK LEWIS IS A PASSIONATELY POLITICAL AND COLLABORATIVE ARTIST WORKING ACROSS AND INTEGRATING PAINTING, DRAWING, INSTALLATION, ARTIST BOOKS, PUBLIC ART, PERFORMANCES, AUDIO AND VIDEO WORKS. HIS METHOD, WHICH HE TITLES “TRANSCRIPTION (DRAWING)”, OFTEN TAKES THE WORK OF OTHER ARTISTS—COMPOSERS, POETS, CHOREOGRAPHERS, ANTHROPOLOGISTS AND FELLOW VISUAL ARTISTS—AND TRANSFORMS IT INTO ABSTRACTED TEXT EMBODIED IN IMMACULATE SCULPTURAL INSTALLATIONS IN A RANGE OF MATERIALS INCLUDING CLOTH, TIMBER AND STONE, OR TRANSPOSED ONTO THE FACES OF BUILDINGS, AS IN RECENT PUBLIC ART WORKS. THIS ARTICLE REPRESENTS A SMALL PART OF A FASCINATING CONVERSATION YOU CAN FIND AT WWW.REALTIMEARTS.NET.

Like a good poem, a Ruark Lewis work encourages contemplation and promises delayed revelation; then it’s art that stays with you. The man himself is more immediately accessible, an ubiquitous and energetic arts presence (despite a taxing physical disability) and an eager conversationalist—one for whom conversation, he says, is the source of much of his art, building on the images that first occur to him and take flight through talk and are then realised often in collaboration.

A long conversation with Ruark Lewis is a rich journey into cultural history from the 1980s on, of which his own career is a fascinating part. After studying ceramics, Lewis turned to curating public events for four years for the Art Gallery of New South Wales in the late 1980s. The resulting programs brought together a wide range of artists in performative mode. Doubtless, these telling juxtapositions and potentials for partnerships inspired the conversations which became his own collaborative art in the 1990s and up to the present. He created RAFT, a major work with Paul Carter for the Art Gallery of New South Wales and other commissioned works—for the 2000 Sydney Olympics, 2006 Biennale of Sydney and Performance Space. He collaborated with Jonathan Jones on an installation called An Index of Kindness at Post-Museum in Singapore 2007. His recent outdoor installations and sound works in the City of Sydney focus on the consequences of urban development. In October this year he travels to Canada where he’ll create a commissioned public art installation called Euphemisms for the Intimate Enemy for Toronto’s Nuit Blanche festival.

the public house

I asked Lewis about his City of Sydney project, which has recently taken him to Millers Point with its small remaining population of an older community residing amidst new developments and the palpable wealth of new apartment dwellers in the Rocks and Walsh Bay. He describes it as “a public artwork, which includes agit-prop elements, working with a group of people, studying the area and trying to develop a spoken word archive piece, an archive of community comment about lifestyle in the area at this time to do with ‘the public house.’ I’m looking at the ways that development encroaches upon traditional communities living in the inner city areas.” Lewis sees Sydney as having been through several visionary planning periods and with “a remarkable political history when you look at what the BLF forged with the Green Bans…It’s a history of significant counterpoints between the dissident voice, the resistant voice and the government and the developers.” The words of the community, material for Lewis’ text, are being found at the Darling Harbour branch of the ALP and the National Trust and Tenant’s Union.

Lewis is keen “to make an environmentally integrated artwork. That’s how we worked at Homebush on public art at the Olympic site, making Relay with Paul Carter’s text during 1999-2000 as a Sydney Olympic Games commission. There are no spaces between words and I designed a colour code to cross-reference through the ongoing sequences of five rising stone steps. We had three kilometres of texting going up and down those stone bleachers. The planners were very keen to create a public art that would environmentally integrate with both the site and the sporting events and audience. They didn’t want decorative art baubles. I thought that was a workable approach for an ongoing strategy for placing works in the public zone…I’m still working on that idea and trying to find ways of lightly integrating installed works into the actual building fabric. I’ve done it on couple of locations recently. At an artist-run-initiative called SLOT in Regent Street Redfern I made a seven-metre high façade on the front of the building using the width of the shopfront downstairs and closing off the apartment windows upstairs and taking the text all the way to the parapet. It’s a peoples’ poem called Banalities for the Perfect House.”

We watched and spoke to a lot of people in the street in Redfern to see what their reactions were. A grandmother was drunk in the street and she had tears in her eyes as she stared across the road. “What’s this? What’s this?”, she kept crying. I asked her what the matter was and she replied, “I’ve got to explain this to my grandchildren because when I come up here shopping with them they’re gonna ask about it.” So I said “maybe it’s poetry.” She said, “I know it’s fucking poetry! But what does it mean?” I said, “I’m not quite sure what it means.” She said, “Ah! come on it’s not that complicated.”

municipal signs & other objects

Lewis’ most recent show, at Chalk Horse in Sydney’s Surry Hills, draws on work from his shared show with Jonathan Jones at Singapore’s Post-Museum. The gallery was hung with flags stencilled with words from Nathalie Sarraute’s play SILENCE. Below, on the floor and plinths, everyday found objects had been painted with red, black and white stripes and markings, making the gallery-goer doubly attentive—to where they trod and how they were regarding the art. Lewis surmises that he’s using the gallery to test out some of his outdoor optical and spatial systems: “I’ve been considering the sculptural objects in the show as decoys. They’re like the rocks of Mer in the Torres Strait. Eddie Mabo identified a bunch of rocks around his Island of Mer as being the markers for the language or community zones. I thought that’s a very useful message for all Australians to start to recognise…”

In Singapore, says Lewis, “I was actually looking for garbage. I thought, here’s a place where you can’t have long hair, you can’t chew gum, what can you do? So I started making work about the garbage—on the streets, in the countryside or washed up on the beach…I stencilled messages onto pieces of garbage.” Then he placed the garbage back where he found it and made a photographic record: “This formed an intimate poetic puzzle. I wanted to leave messages for people anonymously. I avoided the fear of arrest by photographing the evidence before and after I removed it. Sometimes I kept elements of the garbage to paint an abstract pattern on it—with red and white or black and white stripes painted in gouache.”

the artist begins

We step back in time to Lewis’ beginnings as an artist. He went to Sydney Boys High School where “One day I went up to the art room and a friend of mine was throwing on the pottery wheel. I became totally mesmerised how that form came up out of his hands and fingers. I loved the slithering plastic action of the clay that formed in his hands. I went straight out and bought a bag of clay that afternoon and made a sculpture, not a pot as such.” With a photographer brother and musician and painter cousins, Lewis describes himself as “sort of coming from a Jewish artistic family—a tribe of mercantiles and artists. According to the painter Cedric Emmanuel our earliest Australian relative was Michael Michaels. He was a forger who was pardoned in 1809 and left Sydney returning to London and he started an orchestra. We’ve always had painters and musicians in the family so making things seems natural to us.”

Lewis studied Ceramics at the Sydney College of the Arts: “It was difficult for me physically but I needed the tangibility of clay.” But a major influence there opposed his interest in ceramics: “the composer David Ahern in the Sound department. David was a total radical. He’d been working with Cornelius Cardew in London and for two years was a personal assistant to Karlheinz Stockhausen. He came back to Sydney in the early 70s and among other things he ran a Sunday new music workshop out of Inhibodress Gallery. That was the group called Teletopia and AZ Music. Tim Johnson and Mike Parr and Peter Kennedy ran the avant-garde concept gallery the rest of the week. But on Sunday the experimental artists ran an open studio where trained and untrained musicians joined together to perform music. Although I wasn’t involved in those early years I’ve been very interested and was highly motivated and inspired by Ahern’s practice. It was wild. It was recklessly terrific. I thought this is really what art’s about. Because it was a language made of sound and music…Ahern was very discouraging of my interest in ceramics and always urged me to paint and draw.”

But, says Lewis, “Ceramics gave me a sort of classical education, which I may not otherwise have received in such a serious avant-garde art school.” An interest in architecture has also been “infinitely useful.” Such contrasting influences were to yield a seriously idiosyncratic artist. The sense of difference was compounded in 1984: “I was expelled from Sydney College of the Arts. That was pretty demeaning—it really wasn’t my fault. I also had been expelled from Sydney Boys High School in 1978. Perhaps both these rejections shore me up as a kind of outsider in art—in that I seemed able to miss out on certain unnecessary things exactly at the right time.”

the artist as curator

Lewis began first as a reader and then as a curator of poetry readings at the Art Gallery of New South Wales and then with Emmanuel Gasparinatos “who programmed a new media event in the theatrette called Sound Alibis with 14 artists including Rik Rue, Warren Burt, Sarah Hopkins and Vineta Lagzdina. There were Super 8 films and sound works and live performances. I developed the program further the next year with the poet and scholar Martin Harrison [who] was interested in the writer/performer as live presence…This began a really successful curatorial collaboration [becoming Writers in Recital]: it made the AGNSW the stage to a wide range of writers and musicians, composers, filmmakers, visual artists, performers dancers, radiophonic composers…I kept working out ideas of how to get the most radical types of experimental art out to the widest audience possible…even radio stations like 2GB would give me a five minute interview each season. I saw it as an act of anti-elitism to promote radical art to a willing public.” The big names, poets like Judith Wright, David Malouf or Les Murray, were programmed to attract large audiences who would witness, for example, “the soprano Elizabeth McGregor singing the Margaret Sutherland settings of early Judith Wright poems alongside the relatively unknown work of Allan Vizents, William Yang, Ania Walwicz or Jonathan Mills.”

escape to melbourne

After four years of curating, “in August 1990 I escaped Sydney. In Canberra I found a copy of TGH Strehlow’s Journey to Horseshoe Bend. It’s a biography/autobiography about the death of his father, the missioner Carl Strehlow in Central Australia in 1922. I started reading what turned out to be a transformative book for me.” It was important in developing Lewis’ art of “transcription” and “texting”, which would later lead to a major work with Paul Carter.

About the origins of his artistic process, Lewis explains, “I wanted to lay in poetic lines from poets I was reading at the time, like Rilke’s Duino Elegies. I wanted to actually enact it as a trace. At the time I was working on musical and sound transcriptions in the form of drawings. That’s how I’d begun texting into works and making abstract cross-overs from one art form to another.” He made diagrammatic drawings of sound works—acoustic music and then the work of the Sydney composer Robert Douglas who was making large-scale works on the Fairlight CMI.

my university

In Melbourne, Lewis spent time with Paul Carter, the director Peter King, Jonathan Mills, Warren Burt, Chris Mann, Vineta Lagzdina and Rainer Linz. The experimental music scene was particularly influential, coming out of the Clifton Hills Community Music Centre and the NMA magazine: “The Rainer Linz and John Jenkins’ 22 Australian Contemporary Composers anthology was the sort of curatorial guide I’d been looking for at AGNSW. There had been little like that sort of thing operating in Sydney…That was also the era of the ABC’s radio’s The Listening Room. Carter had been editing the Age Monthly Review which we’d all contributed to over the years. This was an artistic atmosphere I called ‘my university’.”

In Melbourne Grazia Gunn, director of ACCA offered Lewis a major solo exhibition opportunity which he worked on for two years. “I finished the Robert Douglas transcriptions, which ended up being 48 metres of extended drawing. The 48 panels occupied the Lotte Smorgon Room at the old ACCA in Melbourne’s Domain. There were studies of Douglas’ Homage to Bessemer. I made a room of literary transcriptions based on the French newspaper Le Monde. I’d been in Paris in 1991 and I found a way to look at the demarcations between the generating forces in commercial print media. It was a simple critique of how photography, journalism and advertising worked in concert on the pages and how that formed the capital which is the motivation for a daily publication.” The exhibition was part of Melbourne Festival in 1992: “Melbourne was into high postmodern and neo-expressionist painting then, and along comes an incredibly cool minimalist show with regional underscores. It was shown there for a lengthy 14 weeks.”

But the Melbourne show did not result in Lewis being immediately picked up elsewhere. He comments wryly, “I like the fact that you can work ‘fairly privately’ in Australia. I always understood that experimental art would be ignored by the local art cognoscenti and that the avant-garde was taken up by the academies that could easily canonise it in what I regard as a pseudo international context.”

the experimental realm

Lewis makes strong distinctions between the realms of the avant-garde and the experimental: “It was the expansiveness, I suppose, of the experimental realm, the idea that art and production could take on other forms in constant flux and I could rewrite them…” And there was a correspondence to this work outside of Australia for my artistic friends. John Cage had picked up on Chris Mann’s work and set it for an opera. What I find most interesting in writers like Mann and Walwicz is the certainty of their regional voice. [W]ith the experimental, there’s a sort of fraternity that I like, keen about reading through each other’s work, reading the sound waves that each artist arrives with.”

Lewis enjoyed this feeling when he met Kaye Mortley and René Farabet in Sydney: “Martin Harrison was a friend of Kaye’s. All sorts of interesting people came together at the Harrisons’ house. The dinners often went until dawn. When René and Kaye came to Australia a sort of sound circle developed around them and the Listening Room at the ABC and at UTS. René Farabet was director of the radiophonic atelier program called France Culture, so there were significant cross-overs with people working here. I went off to Paris in 1991 and had the best time of my life.” Lewis worked with Mortley on a rendering of the play Pour en Oui Pour en Non (Just for Nothing) by Nathalie Sarraute: “I immediately had a vision for setting the players’ script marked out on the page in different colours. The colour would navigate the reader through the text like a graphic score.”

the raft journey

Asked about the genesis of RAFT, Lewis explains, “I often have visions of things—I see them in visual daydreams and then follow the image directly along into the work. I saw a large gridded structure that seemed to extend out along the surface, so I set off in that direction. The timber of RAFT weighs 1.5 tons. I started testing possible materials when I was staying in Melbourne in 1993. I later made three large Water Drawings which joined RAFT at the Art Gallery SA showing in 1997. Then our book, Dept of Translation, appeared in 2000 to coincide with the exhibit at the Sprengel Museum, Germany which occurred in 2001. So, only about seven years gestation. The Art Gallery of NSW where it was first exhibited acquired the work earlier this year.”

“We were looking at the Arrernte water myth of Kaporilja as the main poetic cross-reference for RAFT. RAFT symbolises the carriage that Carl Strehlow was transported down from Hermannsburg to Oodnadatta to get a train to Adelaide because of his fatal illness. But he died on the way, just north of Fink at Horseshoe Bend. RAFT has to do with issues of translation in the desert. It allegorically acts as a portrait of the classical intercultural brokering of the language scholar and evangelist missioner Carl Strehlow with his links to the first phase of modern anthropology. What’s so amazing is Hugo Ball and Tristan Tzara performed various Arrernte and Lorritja songs at the Café Voltaire in May 1917…Three songs were performed, maybe with movement, and probably in the presence of James Joyce and maybe Lenin both of whom were resident in the neighbourhood. So, there’s the modernist trace again.”

the artist performs

I ask Lewis about the performative aspect of his work. In the exhibition at Chalk Horse there’s a beautiful recording of Amanda Stewart and Lewis doing something quite dramatic and very funny and largely unintelligible (but oddly familiar as social exchange) with occasional literal utterances. Lewis explains, “I have became increasingly interested in the process of concretising language and making a score I can follow and make performances from. Last year I asked Amanda” [whom he declares an inspiration] “to work on an improvisation that would in a non-representational way convey three emotions: anger, joy and sadness. As we huddled around a microphone in the studio we both began giggling, wondering how ridiculous we were, but a really intimate moment between artists emerged as we worked out a range of responses that we might record. Rik Rue collaged our efforts adding layers and depth and spatial elements which formed a kind of audio space poem at Post-Museum in Singapore in 2007. I called it An Index of Emotions. I think visitors were surprised and confronted by those spatial effects and some of the sobbing sounds and angry tones were quite distressing.”

nuit blanche, toronto

Lewis’ work for Toronto’s Nuite Blanche (an all night, one night exhibition of 155 works across the city) is a sound installation called Euphemisms for The Intimate Enemy, with a duration of 12 hours . As with The Banalities of the Perfect House “the sound is computer generated but will be a live collage when the computer is started around 7pm on the night of the event. I’ve devised an installation of 550 oil drums to be stacked as a curtain wall between two 19th century industrial buildings. Each word of the Euphemisms is stencilled onto coloured (black and yellow) painted drums and will form an illuminated text in the void.”

Like a good poem, a Ruark Lewis work encourages contemplation and promises delayed revelation; then it’s art that stays with you. The man himself is more immediately accessible, an ubiquitous and energetic arts presence (despite a taxing physical disability) and an eager conversationalist—in fact conversation, he says, is the source of much of his art, building on the images that first occur to him and take flight through talk and are then realised often in collaboration.

A long conversation with Ruark Lewis is a rich journey into cultural history, of which his own career is a fascinating part. After studying ceramics (of which he’s still fond and a new work, a book about pots, is on the way), Lewis turned to curating public events each year for the Art Gallery of New South Wales in the 1980s. The resulting programs brought together a wide range of artists in performative mode. Doubtless, these telling juxtapositions and potentials for partnerships inspired the conversations which became his own collaborative art in the 1990s and up to the present.

Lewis has collaborated with writer Paul Carter, Nathalie Sarraute, Angelika Fremd & Ingaborg Bachamann, Rainer Linz, Jutta Hell & Dieter Baumann and Jonathan Jones. He has created work in Berlin and Singapore; Raft, a major work created with Carter, toured to the UK and Germany; and his commissions include works for the 2000 Sydney Olympics, 2006 Biennale of Sydney, Performance Space and the Art Gallery of New South Wales. He collaborated with Jonathan Jones on an installation called An Index of Kindness at Post-Museum in Singapore 2007. His recent outdoor installations and sound works in the City of Sydney focus, his website says, “on the theme of home, the homeless, huts and the public house.” In October he travels to Canada where he’ll create a public art installation called Euphemisms for the Intimate Enemy for Toronto’s Nuit Blanche festival.

sharing the public house

Before turning to Lewis’ career I asked him about his City of Sydney project, which has recently taken him to Millers Point, with its small remaining population of an older community residing amidst new developments and the palpable wealth of new apartment dwellers in the Rocks and Walsh Bay and the new suburb of Barangaroo.

RL I’m making a public artwork, which includes agit-prop elements, working with a group of people, studying the area and trying to develop a spoken word archive piece, an archive of community comment about lifestyle in the area at this time to do with “the public house.” It’s not precisely about public housing but the public house, a shelter for the street person, the homeless person and about the kinds of housing in general in the area. I’m looking at the ways that development encroaches upon traditional communities living in the inner city areas. (Mayor of Sydney) Clover Moore talks about “urban villages”, but I’d like to talk about a kind of city tribalism and urban history.

The City of Sydney has had three visionary planning periods forwarded by Francis Greenway, Sir John Sulman and George Clarke There have been architects like Peter Myers and Lesley Wilkinson who have built significant public housing projects in the city’s inner suburbs. Col James is a legend for his work and ideas around Redfern. Bill Lucas was my first mentor in urban planning and architecture. In the 1960s he was very focussed 0n saving Paddington from slum clearance and demolition. There’s been consistent conflict between the notion of slum clearance, new developments in public housing and developers in the City of Sydney since the early 20th century. It’s an expensive city. There’s a remarkable political history here when you look at what the BLF [Builders & Labourers Federation] forged with the Green Bans. That’s had an international influence responsible even in formative years of the Green Party in Germany. It’s a history of significant counterpoints between the dissident voice, the resistant voice and the government and the developers. So I think the issues to do with the status of the underdog are really important to focus on for urban activists. The massive corporate/state mentality is keen to erase our community history of resistance. It’s a situation where we hasten to forget. Right now we’re all very conscious of the nature of over-inflated value of property.

RL Yes. I want to make an environmentally integrated artwork. That’s how we worked at Homebush on public art at the Olympic site [making Relay with Paul Carter during 1999-2000 as a Sydney Olympic Games commission]. The planners were very keen to create a public art that would environmentally integrate with both the site and the sporting events and audience. They didn’t want decorative art baubles. They wanted art as user-friendly contextual forms not visually rhetorical objects. I thought that was a workable approach for an ongoing strategy for placing works in the public zone. Especially if you wanted to utilise space to make a public poem. I’m still working on that idea and trying to find ways of lightly integrating installed works into the actual building fabric. I’ve done it on a couple of locations recently. At an artist-run-initiative called SLOT in Regent Street Redfern I made a seven-metre high facade on the front of the building using the width of the shopfront downstairs and closing off the apartment windows upstairs and taking the text all the way to the parapet. It’s a peoples’ poem called Banalities for the Perfect House. Here’s a selection from it:

1. Arbitration makes slim pickings 14a. The wicked smashing of the trees 15c. Without the tools of negotiation the workers are condemned 16. The nature of the swing has caused the motion 17. A phenomena is massaged by oil 19. The principle of universities is formed with money 20. The left hand and the dumb 21. He has nous for rooms 22. She had nous for knitting 23. United in the union of the students 24. A crossing of the floor is no longer possible

The materials had previously been part of a theatre work at Performance Space in Cleveland Street in Redfern but generally the people of Redfern wouldn’t have readily accessed it. Moving the text outside the theatre seemed a stimulating extension and use of the original efforts.

RL No. It was just textual. It could have had that. It was fairly cost effective to put up. We installed it in three hours, literally transforming a whole facade and street. That was a real surprise to the cosmopolitan Redfern community—all of a sudden the walls were talking and it wasn’t advertising, it wasn’t municipal signage. We didn’t even seek official permission.

RL Gina Fairly and Tony Twigg arranged an information sheet on the front of the building, but I must say I would have liked to have presented it anonymously like a surrealist’s dreamscape.

working the public

KG You’re politically and socially motivated but your work resides in a modernist tradition that wants to make its audience work and not be given any easy solutions or instant intelligibility. Is that an issue for you?

RL Yes, especially when it’s in a really public art zone like at the Sydney Olympics site. Paul Carter’s Relay text is quite difficult, like Russian constructivist Zuam poetry. There are no spaces between words and I designed a colour code to cross-reference through the ongoing sequences of five rising stone steps. We had three kilometres of texting going up and down those stone bleachers. I find audiences always engage in difficult work—to me engagement is all one really needs. My modernist bent comes from my long interest in architecture, through the systems that Bill Lucas taught me and also the Le Corbusier principle of The Modular (the font I use generically was first adapted by Corbusier). I’ve been able to manage things and control designs, writing, audio, video, paintings, theatre, installation or pages of books—anything and all measure of things in the way that architects project manage their sites. It’s the very structure of a given thing that in turn supports another structure that leads out beyond itself.

KG It must be great to be able to say you’ve created three kilometres of texting.

RL I was told by a visiting Turkish journalist that no-one in the world could easily boast about that sort of structure. The conceptual artists I greatly admire appear generally to be putting out one-liners—effective as that may be! But I think of text as part of literature. We find that people read parts of the whole so we write and code the work with that fragmentation in mind. The work is readable and puzzling at the same time. I’ve always understood that’s what poetry does: meaning being temporarily suspended. You don’t just have a poetic spectacle that spells the whole message to be consumed immediately. I’m against automatic consumption. We watched and spoke to a lot of people in the street in Redfern to see what their reactions were. And sometimes the initial reaction was anger, “Why the fuck is that here?” I was talking to a taxi driver (I didn’t tell him that I had anything to do with those Banalities). He said he was pissed off at first seeing it there. I said, “Do you go past there very much?” He said, “Yeah, at least two or three times a day to the airport.” But in the end he liked it. He said. “I started to read the lines and I went, ‘Fuck, what’s that doing there? It’s poetry.” A grandmother was drunk in the street and she had tears in her eyes as she stared across the road. “What’s this? What’s this?”, she kept crying. I asked her what the matter was and she replied, “I’ve got to explain this to my grandchildren because when I come up here shopping with them they’re gonna ask about it.” So I said “maybe it’s poetry.” She said, “I know it’s fucking poetry! But what does it mean?” I said, “I’m not quite sure what it means.” She said, “Ah! come on it’s not that complicated.”

KG The crafting of the work, its look, I think is also something people appreciate enormously.

RL And not just the “look”, but the materials. Once you get up close to the surface you can see its materials are basic. Everything we work with are the sort of materials anyone could work with in the back shed or garage. It’s just packing crate timber and colour paints. That honesty of materials is something I’ve wanted to employ for a long time. I think it breaks down the barriers of fine art authority to a simpler commonality. I see that as one of the significant aspects of Brutalist architecture—its modest materiality.

RL Recently we placed a work called An Index for the Homeless on a building at 27 Abercrombie Street, between The Resistance Centre and MOP Gallery. MOP have been interested and very supportive of what I’m doing. Both at their artist-run-initiative and also at Hazelhurst Regional Gallery for the Cronulla Riot exhibition that Ron and George Adams curated. I made two installations down at Sutherland which where called Euphemisms for a Riotous Suburb. In June they agreed to housing my street installation in the wall cavity outside the gallery.

There are some arched alcoves in the facade, making them modules across the the entire surface of the building that is three metres square. I’ve designed into it a hut structure that fits within a form of a house made out of stencilled zeros. It’s a simple square structure that has a triangle and rectangle within it. The triangle is at the top, forming an apex as the roof and a rectangle underneath making the walls of the house. So it’s a square, a triangle and a rectangle. There’s the modernist activity in operation again. Form informing form. I thought of it as a concrete poem as well. We stencilled 10cm high characters so they can communicate from a long distance away. This was not an artwork that you go up in front of to experience the brushwork. You have to be at least 20 metres away to get the peripatetic effect. It’s part of a man-made environment, heavy with four lanes of traffic where the optical concerns are experienced spatially.

We installed a sign above the main door of the gallery. It looks like an institutional name for the entire building. It says, “An Index for the Homeless.” It’s as though we’d instantly created a research centre for homeless people. It’s become a bit of a joke actually. I didn’t expect it to work like that—a game of nomenclature, a poetic association generated by chance. Alongside that I painted a board with a quote from Ania Walwicz’s short story called House, which reads, “SALZ FOR SALT SALZ FOR SALT SALZ I AM IN MY HOUSE NOW I STAND.” It’s a fairly mysterious line on a curious site. You can hear people uttering Ania’s words. And they don’t just say it once. they seem to perform it several times. So they’re getting the shape of the poetic sentiment into their oral cavity. It’s been up for 16 weeks and hasn’t been graffitied or complained about. I’m hoping someone does graffiti this pristine artwork at some time. I don’t quite understand why not.

RL When I say “we” I’m referring to the assistance I receive from Bartholomew Rose. He works for me in the studio three days a week. He’s enabled me to undertake a wide range of physically demanding installations over the last five years. He’s a Scrabble expert and a very valuable iterary companion to have.

texting

RL The Index of Kindness takes up from where the Index for the Homeless leaves off. Kindness is the thematic umbrella I am working under at present. The idea is to think about the Millers Point precinct and a number of the public buildings in the area as the next surfaces to publish onto in the name of “the public house”. We’ve been arranging for the Millers Point community to participate with their own “texting.”

RL Not really. The people there say, “We don’t have mobile phones and we don’t have computers.” The issues of information and activism are articulated differently in that community. They say, “you’ve gotta give us proper messages. You can’t just think digitally and expect us to read your emails.”

KG How do you work with these communities to get their “texts”? Do you interview people, make sound recordings?

RL At the moment we’ve been going through the process with the Darling Harbour branch of the ALP and the National Trust and Tenants’ Union. The branch meets monthly in the Garrison Church. For these interviews I’m working with Jo Holder, a well known curator, writer and activist. I guess a local ALP branch can be like a little church itself. It’s a conduit of informed opinions where like-minded people are motivated to come together politically. Most of them are or have been activists too. They’re a group of very articulate and socially motivated people. They’ve recorded a lot of the things that have gone down with state government’s dealing in that region. The Millers Point residents have often been described as a traditional inner-city community. The impact on Hickson Road with the new Barangaroo development at East Darling Harbour is monitored by this fragile community very closely. The history of activism in The Rocks goes back to the Green Ban days when the BLF led by Jack Mundy, Joe Owens and Bob Pringle were there on site saving The Rocks from demolition for more office towers. This community has seen it all and has learnt to deal with all the difficulty of state and council bureaucracy. Now the fight is to protect the community itself including much of the residential properties for low income housing.

municipal signs and other objects

In Lewis’ most recent show at Chalk Horse in Sydney’s Surry Hills, the gallery was hung with flags stencilled with words from Nathalie Sarraute’s play Silence. Below, on the floor and plinths, everyday found objects had been painted with red and white stripes and markings, making the gallery-goer doubly attentive—to where they trod and how they were regarding the art.

KG In your latest gallery show at Chalk Horse there’s your usual play on words, in the form of flags. There are objects as well. Where do these fit in the scheme of things?

RL I guess I’m using the gallery to test out some of my outdoor optical and spatial systems. I’ve been considering the sculptural objects in the show as decoys. Leading up to the Chalk Horse show I was studying maritime signage. The navigating tools that ships use on the harbour. I realised there’s a language for signs out there, a municipality of water and land signals. I’m very interested in the municipal sign and seeing where an artwork can transgress the polite internal boundaries of cities and streets and art galleries. One of the Chalk Horse panels is being prepared for reinstallation at Abraham Mott Hall in Argyle Street, Miller Point. This stencilled timber work called Conrete Poem II will be added to a sequence of other panels called Euphemisms for the Seafaring Nation. I’m making these things as modular constructions so they’re adaptable and relocatable. At Chalk Horse, all the objects on the ground operated as warnings so that visitors won’t trip over. They’re like the rocks of Mer in the Torres Strait. Eddie Mabo identified a bunch of rocks around his Island of Mer as being the markers for the language or community zones. I thought that’s a very useful message for all Australians to start to recognise. We need to identify our environments with objects set out as markers. These are the municipal markers that translate a whole bunch of security/insecurity issues that control the movement of society. I was in Singapore last year. To me Singapore is a remarkable, urbane area but it feels as though it is adapted from the City of London. It’s the municipal aspect of London that modern Singaporean politicians adopted to their equatorial zone in a number of ways.

RL I was actually looking for garbage. I thought, here’s a place where you can’t have long hair, you can’t chew gum, what can you do? Obviously everything is very clean and modern there. So I started making work about the garbage—on the streets, in the countryside or washed up on the beach. I began to examine parts of the island that weren’t stereotypically clean and modern. Jonathan Jones and I picked up pieces of junk as we drove all around the perimeter of the island state. We went out to the rural areas and coastlines. We reached the industrial area Jurong where an army of cheap contracted labour from the Indian sub-continent are imported and housed. We did a week of urban fieldwork in a hire car last September. It was the sense of island containment that we decided to study.

RL I stencilled messages taken from An Index for Redundant Expressions which I’d assembled there. It’s a set of 45 aphoristic tautologies. Found phrases or ready-mades, for example: “9. earlier in time, 16. an honest truth, 32. a pair of twins, 1. an actual experience.” I inscribed these onto pieces of garbage. Then I placed these messages back into the piles the rubbish came from and made a photographic record. This formed an intimate poetic puzzle. I wanted to leave messages for people anonymously. I avoided the fear of arrest by photographing the evidence before and after I removed it. Sometimes I kept elements of the garbage to paint an abstract pattern on it—with red and white or black and white stripes painted in gouache. We arranged sets of these garbage ‘props’ for the large exhibition we assembled at Post-Museum. These displayed redundant expressions accompanied by three distinctive suites of work under the title of An Index of Kindness. There was An Index of Emotions which is an audio construction formed from vocal performances I made with Amanda Stewart. The spatial affects in audio were collaged by Rik Rue. Then the Index of Line was a wall drawing executed by Jonathan Jones.

Jon photographed the Singapore coast and shipping channels. He drew with meticulous precision the contours of most of the landscape of the island and parts of Malaysia in the distance. The drawing encircled the three rooms forming a semi-abstract design on the gallery walls. He just kept layering his drawings so a sense of landscape appeared cloud-like and hovering which was a really interesting anti-territorial take on a visited place.

The Index of Silence involved the stencilled flags you mentioned before, that’s a transcription of Nathalie Sarraute’s play Silence. The red and black flags, suspended low from the ceiling, distorted the volume of the space altogether. We significantly controlled the volume both spatially and directionally by designing the sound. The speakers for the vocal collage were hidden above the hanging textiles. All this was pretty emotionally charged, with the sound of tears and anger. The sound of Amanda and I appeared and disappeared as the sound collages Rik Rue devised panned around the rooms—the audio was kind of spooky there!

Singapore is a place of finite politics so I decided to make a banner. Apparently the making of political banners has to be authorised in Singapore, so I made a concrete poetry banner called QUOTE where I took a line from the Indian writer Ashis Nandy that said, “It was a strange mix of love and hate, affirmations of continuity and difference, nostalgia and a sense of betrayal on both sides.”

The redundant objects were diversions to slow down the audience. I don’t want people to consume exhibitions quickly. At times our signs seemed odd. My favourite object was the coconut. A truly beautiful painted object. A small leaf began to emerge during the exhibition and it just kept enlarging, breaking through the husk. The shell was painted with black and white stripes, then this little green sprig appeared. We found a broken shovel left by the builders of the gallery. We painted it along with a frame, a chair a rock and ball, a stick and a tree branch. A lot of these ‘municipal’ signals were stimulating to look at without being burdened with the values and meaning of a grand allegory. I liked the way the owners called their gallery Post-Museum. A sort of dissident location in itself.

the artist begins

RL I went to Sydney Boys High School. One day I went up to the art room and a friend of mine was throwing on the pottery wheel. I became totally mesmerised how that form came up out of his hands and fingers. I loved the slithering plastic action of the clay that formed in his hands. I went straight out and bought a bag of clay that afternoon and made a sculpture, not a pot as such. That’s where it all began. My brother is a photographer and my cousins are musicians and painters. Nicola Lewis played the violin in An Index of Horses which we made as a performance-for-video at Chalk Horse. I sort of come from a Jewish artistic family, a tribe of mercantiles and artists. According to the painter Cedric Emmanuel our earliest Australian relative was Michael Michaels. He was a forger who was pardoned in 1809 and left Sydney returning to London where he started an orchestra. We’ve always had painters and musicians in the family so making things seems natural to us.

RL I’ve procured these jugs to make an exhibition. I‘ll probably call this The Index of Forms. I’m focussed here on the anthropomorphic conditions that are related in the forms of the jug. These vessels are built with a foot upon which they stand, and a belly, where the bulk of the contents is stored. They have handles, necks and lips. That means they have at least five different physical attributes relating to the human form. I’m thinking of a book which indexes the shadows they cast set alongside the silhouettes and profiles from the bodies of dancers. I’m interested in the double nature of the cast of shadows. I would love to generate a text from a series of conversations with a man who has Alzheimer’s Disease. When we talk he often tells me things in a manner I think of as neo-Dada poetry. To everyone’s surprise we have a terrific time sitting there talking with gusto. If I could record his sayings, write them down in the form of our dialogue it could have an interesting and enabling affect. He’s been a journalist all his life; so the idea and its written form is like a game on his tongue. That’s a nice thing to try and share. Pottery has always been a really interesting through-line for me.

RL I studied Ceramics at the Sydney College of the Arts with Bernard Sahm and Mitsuo Shoji, both very interesting artists. It was difficult for me physically but I needed the tangibility of clay.

At that school I came into contact with the composer David Ahern in the Sound department. David was a total radical. A really heavy drinker but strangely charismatic and he was wonderful to a small band of loyal students. He’d been working with Cornelius Cardew in London and for two years was a personal assistant to Karlheinz Stockhausen. He came back to Sydney in the early 70s and among other things he ran a Sunday new music workshop out of Inhibodress Gallery. That was the group called Teletopia and AZ Music. Tim Johnson and Mike Parr and Peter Kennedy ran the avant-garde concept gallery the rest of the week. But on Sunday the experimental artists ran an open studio where trained and untrained musicians joined together to perform music. Although I wasn’t involved in those early years I’ve been very interested and was highly motivated and inspired by Ahern’s practice. He was just at the end of his teaching life when I came in contact with him. But it was wild. It was recklessly terrific. I thought this is really what art’s about. Because it was a language made of sound and music, and I studied music throughout high school and my cousins were practicing musicians. Someone like Ahern became strongly influential. In a sense David was the first in a string of “tormentors” I got to know outside of the normal structure of the art school pedagogy. Ahern was very discouraging of my interest in ceramics and always urged me to paint and draw. Soon I began making sound drawings on sheets of cardboard using charcoal and white chalk.

KG So this opened up the idea of there being a number of means of functioning of an artist.

RL Yes. Ceramics gave me a sort of classical education, which I may not otherwise have received in such a serious avant-garde art school. I did a paper on drawing in ancient Greek ceramics. It was an interesting medium for discovering the function of mythology and literature of the Greeks. Then I studied Asian architecture and the correspondences with early classical sculpture. I got a better grounding in architecture that way, which has been infinitely useful. For some unknown reason I never did study painting at art school. I think it would have been physically easier for me. In 1984 I was expelled from Sydney College of the Arts. That was pretty demeaning—it really wasn’t my fault. I also had been expelled from Sydney Boys High School in 1978. Perhaps both these rejections shored me up as a kind of outsider in art—in that I seemed able to miss out on certain unnecessary things exactly at the right time.

the artist as curator

RL I left art school and was lucky that Ann Berriman asked me to perform poetry at the Biennale Readings she organised at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. During the 1982 Biennale a group of contemporary Australian poets were scheduled to make readings at the gallery. Anna Couani was invited to read. She realised that the Biennale paid the international artists fees to appear but the organiser for the poets had no arrangements in place to pay the poets fees. Organisers of Sydney poetry readings have been notorious for paying low fees for poetry readings, forcing the poets into what was basically an amateur arrangement. I don’t know why the Literature Board didn’t form a rates schedule. On the gala opening night of the Biennale Couani organised a protest on the steps of the state gallery. It caused such a fuss that a small fund was released immediately from the Literature Board to pay fees for the readings. I thought Anna’s fighting spirit had done a lot of good. She’s a terrific writer. In 1985 I managed to convince the Gallery to start another program of readings, for younger writers and new media artists. Some years later we were able to commission a setting of Couani’s The Harbour Breathes which was brilliantly performed with projections by Peter Lyssiotis and sound designed by Rainer Linz. I thought if you’re going to be a curator, you might as well be a producer and procure the best fees for artists commissioned or programmed to perform in a state gallery.

Initially I worked on the younger poets’ series. We had a six week season of readings. But perhaps even more interesting was when Emmanuel Gasparinatos agreed to join me and he programmed a new media event in the theatrette called Sound Alibis which included 14 artists. People like Rik Rue, Warren Burt Sarah Hopkins and Vineta Lagsdina participated. There were Super8 films and sound works and live performances. Burt assembled his massive tuning fork installation that reverberated through the gallery’s Victorian courts. That was truly spectacular. The program continued to be modelled along those lines of new media and spoken word and poetry for another five years. Those events gave a lot of production confidence to a younger generation of artists presenting to a general public in a state gallery.

I developed the program further the next year with the poet and scholar Martin Harrison. Martin was interested in the writer/performer as live presence, in creating a kind of listening room atmosphere. He was at the ABC at the time doing his Books and Writing program. We’d met at the first Premier’s Literary Awards. This began a really successful curatorial collaboration. Our more substantial programming strategy evolved quickly and it made the AGNSW the stage to a wide range of writers and musicians, composers, filmmakers, visual artists, performers dancers, radiophonic composers. I worked on promoting the programs and quickly built up a large audience. I kept working out ideas of how to get the most radical types of experimental art out to the widest audience possible. I thought if you’re going to compete for funding from the Australia Council the key would be large and consistent audiences. I remember heading off to lots of radio stations with cassette copies of Kurt Schwitters’ Ur-Sonata or Ania Walwicz reading in her remarkable voice—even radio stations like 2GB would give me five minute interview each season.

KG Virginia Baxter and I did a misguided tour for gallery goers, Small Talk in Big Rooms, in 1991 for a Jonathan Mills-Martin Harrison program.

RL These big museums needed us to animate the place. And we need them because audiences like that sort of place to hang out in. People in metropolitan centres want to go to unusual events all the time. They’re not scared of the weird but they don’t go to off-beat venues easily. I was keen to work at the grass roots level. I saw it as an act of anti-elitism to promote the radical art to a willing public.

We’d always program an establishment decoy in our series. The Big names, poets like Judith Wright, David Malouf or Les Murray. They helped to attract the very large crowds for us. We programmed the soprano Elizabeth McGregor singing the Margaret Sutherland settings of early Judith Wright poems alongside the relatively unknown work of Allan Vizents, William Yang, Ania Walwicz or Jonathan Mills. I remember the afternoon when poet Gwen Harwood and composer Larry Litsky presented their recital—a very memorable and stylish event. We maintained the idea of airs and aria as the program through-line. It was very demanding curatorial work. At the end I wanted get back to my own studio practice. I curated for four very intense years and helped produce well over 200 performances. I was pleased that we could raise professional fees and standards and develop funding arrangement that crossed over in a completely new way.

RL Yes. Each year as a one-month season during either the Biennale or the survey exhibition called Perspecta. In 1991 Jonathan and Martin took over and tried to make the program run as regular bi-monthly event.

escape to melbourne

RL In August 1990 I escaped Sydney. I headed off to Melbourne, I travelled overland to Wollongong to watch Jaffa and Richard Moore perform Kurt Schwitter’s Ur Sonata alongside Andrew Ford’s music theatre piece Icarus, with a Barbara Blackman libretto. I travelled to Canberra and stayed for a week. You know, sometimes when you work too hard you become emotionally breathless and can’t get your heartbeat back in the right pattern.

In Canberra I found a copy of TGH Strehlow’s Journey to Horseshoe Bend. It’s biography/autobiography about the death of his father, the missioner Carl Strehlow in Central Australia in 1922. I started reading what turned out to be a transformative book for me. I felt this epic story could somehow be adapted either as a film or an artwork. I headed off with that text in hand to visit a Sufi retreat at Yackandandah. It was the off–season so I slept in and revived myself there for a couple of weeks. It was a good occasion to go walking in the backblocks. I followed the fence lines and picked up pieces of wire and made an installation under the verandah of their building. Those wires looked like Arabic calligraphy set out across the walls.

RL I was “texting”, so to speak, a bit earlier. Looking at the work of Juan Davila, Imants Tillers, Robert McPherson and Peter Tyndall who worked with inscription in their painting, I wasn’t totally convinced by what I saw. From a literary perspective it seemed to lack the poetic content I’d been seeking. That’s the sort of depth I was looking for in my own study of language. Their work was high art and powerful and of considerable museum scale. But I didn’t think there was the depth that a baroque field vision could offer. I wanted to lay in poetic lines from poets I was reading at the time, like Rilke’s Duino Elegies. I wanted to actually enact it as a trace. At the time I was working on musical and sound transcriptions in the form of drawings. That’s how I’d begun texting into works and making abstract cross-overs from one art form to another.

I made diagrammatic drawings of sound works too, starting with acoustic music and then I experienced the work of the Sydney composer Robert Douglas. He was making large-scale works on the Fairlight CMI. I wanted to make drawings tracing his computer music. I was realising that I could make art too, that I didn’t have to curate. It was a bit of a crisis. I could have made an entry into a professional career as a curator and been paid a salary at that time. But I realised that I could also do these other perhaps more creative experimental things, and that’s what I was interested in.

That year I went to Melbourne and stayed with Paul Carter. We met there to look at Joan Brassil’s retrospective at ACCA in September 1990. We’d formed a sort of group Martin Harrison, the director Peter King, Jonathan Mills and Paul. Mills called us the North Caufield Light Opera Company. I wanted to meet and talk to people like Warren Burt, Chris Mann, Vineta Lagzdina and Rainer Linz who was publisher of the magazine NMA. Melbourne had been a radical birth place for new media arts and experimental music at the Clifton Hills Community Music Centre. Rainer Linz and John Jenkins’ book 22 Australian Contemporary Composers anthology was the sort of curatorial guide I’d been looking for at AGNSW. There had been little like that sort of thing operating Sydney. The Melbourne discourse was quite advanced and very anarchic. By the time I arrived, I’d been “corrupted” by the newly acquired Strehlow material. Paul Carter was working with considerable consistency making his early radiophonic creations with people like Andrew McLennan at the ABC. That was the era of the ABC’s radio atelier program Surface Tension (1980s) and later The Listening Room. Carter had been editing the Age Monthly Review which we’d all contributed to over the years. This was an artistic atmosphere I called ‘my university’.

RL I kept going. Visiting friends, sleeping on floors and cooking for them, entertaining people, just being there like an artistic vagrant. I loved Melbourne. I’d go down every few months. Then Grazia Gunn was directing ACCA and she offered me a solo exhibition. I’d only done one or two solo shows (19 musical transcription drawings and a language transcription exhibition in Sydney). That ACCA gig was my big calling to come. I worked on it solely for two years.

RL I formed an exhibition in three parts. I finished the Robert Douglas transcriptions, which ended up being 48 metres of extended drawing. The 48 panels occupied the Lotte Smorgon Room at the old ACCA in Melbourne’s Domain. There were studies of Douglas’ Homage to Bessemer, and the 48 Alpha Solstice drawings. That was the ‘listening room.’ I made a room of literary transcriptions based on the French newspaper Le Monde. I’d been in Paris in 1991 and I found a way to look at the demarcations between the generating forces in commercial print media. It was a simple critique of how photography, journalism and advertising worked in concert on the pages and how that formed the capital which is the motivation for a daily publication.

RL It was a direct response on to actual newsprint. This work mirrored the time Rupert Murdoch of News Limited was closing down his newly acquired Fleet Street press and moving The Times to their robotic Wapping media factory. My drawings were a deconstruction of newspaper, a week of newspapers with drawings highlighting the spaces in between the contents. In this space I made a set of transcription drawings based on a group of bark paintings traced from the AGNSW and the Australian Museum. What interested me most were the painters from Yirrkala. These archival works had been collected by Charles Mountford in 1948. I was interested in those objects for all sorts of problematic ethical reasons. These paintings had been acquired as a form of scientific information during the American-Australian Scientific Expedition to Arnhem Land. I made a kind of funerary drawing from Mountford’s ‘data.’ I was making a ‘drawing’ that covered up the painted iconic blocks on the bark paintings. By drawing a kind of reversal all that remained was the grids between the pictograms. The ‘lines’ were just the raw paper left over in the reduction. The black rectangular areas were simple burnished graphite surfaces. I transcribed a set of 12 bark paintings and called the results The Silhouettes.

RL I took sheets of mylar plastic and placed them over the top of the objects. With a texta I traced the regions. I drew around where the picture block sat in the case of the bark paintings. I’ve also made similar transcriptions from the collages of Kurt Schwitters at the Sprengel Museum in Hannover. The skeletal forms of the original works are recorded from the bark or collages. These lines represent the directional modality defined in the original by the artist before the readable pictogram is put into place to tell their story. I am attracted by the structure of those schematic intentions.

So that’s what the first exhibition was—fairly esoteric too. It was part of Melbourne Festival in 1992. Melbourne was into high postmodern and neo-expressionist painting then, and along comes an incredibly cool minimalist show with regional underscores. It was shown there for a lengthy 14 weeks.

RL They mostly ignored it! It was an incredible experience to be given such silent treatment. Maybe that’s what happens coming from Sydney and being 32 at the time and having the top spot at ACCA during a festival season. But I made a lot of terrific friends through that project. I asked the composer Keith Humble to open the show.

RL No. It was ‘difficult’ work and it was commercially ignored. The next two years was fairly quiet and contemplative. A few dealers made comments. I remember George Mora liking the newspapers drawings very much but he said they were unsaleable. Charles Nodrum has always been very keen. I like the fact that you can work “fairly privately” in Australia. I always understood that experimental art would be ignored by the local art cognoscenti and that the avant-garde was taken up by the academies that could easily canonise it in what I regard as a pseudo international context.

the experimental realm

KG So you’ve seen yourself very much in the experimental realm rather than from an established avant-garde position?

RL Yes. I just thought there was more interesting dialogue between artists and forms in what is experimental.

KG There’s a public conflation between experimental and avant-garde usually. People don’t make the distinction

RL Ahern made the distinction from the outset: Schoenberg and Stravinsky, then Cage and Boulez. I’d been wanting to make the distinction. I tried to make the distinction at the AGNSW and we could model it on the stage with the Margaret Sutherland and Judith Wright work for instance. The music and writing was avant-garde in 1943. On the other hand, placed right beside that were the extreme writings/performances of Ania Walwicz. We could form those kinds of critical juxtapositions in the museum. Walwicz has always been remarkable to watch, or read on the page and then she’d do these haunting performances. Those writings correspond to the paintings she makes also—like dream sketches in oil paint. It’s a modest and manageable practice but a fantastic way of working with things. The Sutherland setting of Wright is probably known by only a small group of musicians and historians today. Programming a local rarity like that, with a big shiny Steinway on the stage was a different way of analysing the structural differences of both these tendencies.

KG So the experimental for you represented various means of working whether through text or image or performance or film or whatever. What is the essence of the experimental as opposed to the avant-garde?

RL Well to me it’s a living force with the musicians or performers. Not exactly being a musician myself but having studied music at school and in association with Ahern and people like that I focussed more and more on structures rather than expression or evocations. I wasn’t really attracted to the technological in new media as a means for hand-crafted works. I’m happy using low tech tape recorders, using video to form a document of a process. I didn’t know how to use a computer for a long time. I was lecturing in the new media lab at SCA but didn’t even know how to turn a computer on. The students were eagerly making CD-ROMs at the time. I was teaching what I thought of as a production management course—almost like a project manager on an architectural site. It was the expansiveness, I suppose, of the experimental realm, the idea that art and production could take on other forms in constant flux and I could rewrite them that I found stimulated my thinking about experimental art.

And there was a correspondence to this work outside of Australia for my artistic friends. John Cage had picked up on Chris Mann’s work and set it for an opera. What I find most interesting in writers like Mann and Walwicz, and others Javant Biarujia, is the certainty of their regional voice. I guess you could say that about Gerald Murnane too. To me this is both political and psychological. In certain ways I understand their writings operate as a kind of artistic resistance. It’s about being in this place in the work but in very interesting and surprising ways. Carter’s writings too had taken the regional condition and re-examined it in books like The Road to Botany Bay or his Italian book called Baroque Memories. I think there’s too often an identity crisis in the Australian avant-garde. The constant need it faces to be academically relevant. To me that leads to conformity. Isn’t that what the underlying anxiety of cultural cringe is about? But with the experimental, there’s a sort of fraternity that I like, keen about reading through each other’s work, reading the sound waves that each artist arrives with. I found it highly attractive that when you went to Paris someone was there that you could plug into right away and you felt very much part of what is going on. I went to Paris and began to work with Kaye Mortley on the Nathalie Sarraute book. That was remarkable shift. To be part of a cohesive living culture that remained in nature to that place as well.

RL 1991. I made the Le Monde drawings for my ACCA show while I was in Paris. I’d met Kaye Mortley and Rene Farabet here in Sydney. Martin Harrison was a friend of Kaye’s. All sorts of interesting people came together at the Harrisons’ house. The dinners often went until dawn. When Rene and Kaye came to Australia a sort of sound circle developed around them and the Listening Room at the ABC and at UTS. It was formed by Virginia Madsen and Tony MacGregor and Martin. Rene Farabet was director of the radiophonic atelier program called France Culture, so there were significant cross-overs with people working here. Kaye had been a pioneer in the new radio at the ABC—the days of Radio Helicon I remember so well.

transcription & translation

I went off to Paris and had the best time of my life. I felt like I could walk all over that city. I wanted to make an artist’s book with Kaye, to try to form a radio score into a book form. I was really interested in how her radio scores appeared to be arranged to form a depth of field in audio terms. That’s a form of literature that doesn’t come outside of the production room very often at all. She’d published a work in a Sound issue (number 31), of the Australian journal Art & Text which looked fascinating on the page and I thought, there could be a whole book possible relating her many and various creations for radio. But Kaye said we should ideally work on the play Pour en Oui Pour en Non (Just for Nothing) by Nathalie Sarraute. She’d translated that work for radio—the ABC did it with Arthur Dignam and Barry Otto. Perhaps I was a little disappointed not to work on her scripts, but when she described the play I immediately had a vision for setting the players’ script marked out on the page in different colours. The colour would navigate the reader through the text like a graphic score. I wanted to run the lists across the page so it was justified left and right and formed as modern prose would work. That’s a better way to read it and easier for the actors because they’ll know how much material is coming up from the blocking of the colours.

RL Thank you. Andrew McLennan launched it (I think he produced it at the ABC for Radio Helicon) and he did a wonderful rendering of the idea of the play that afternoon. We got a small but knowing audience for that exhibition. And we had Nathalie’s voice present in the installation! We went beyond the play. Nathalie lived to 99. When she died I wanted to bring her voice into the installation. Kaye had made a supplementary audio work where Nathalie was speaking about herself being photographed, and as a child, and there was a statement about self perception—the paradox of growing old and not growing young.

When we were making the book, I asked Kaye Mortley if she would construct a sound piece as an idea for an installation of the book pages bringing the presence of the author into place. One of the tricky parts about working in Australia with Kaye was that people didn’t seem to understand the significance that the translator represents alongside that of the author. Her relationship with Sarraute was so intimate. And Nathalie loved the English language, so it was in every way an ‘authentic’ translation, a collaboration between the two of them. That art work started in 1991 and it turned into a 10-year project. A lot of my projects have been constructed over a long period of time. Perhaps it will return.

the raft journey

RL No not that long—from that moment I owned a copy of TGH Strehlow’s Songs of Central Australia. I had a form for that installation but it took some considerable modelling. I often have visions of things—I see them in visual daydreams and then follow the image directly along into the work. I saw a large gridded structure that seemed to extend out along the surface, so I set off in that direction. The timber of RAFT weighs 1.5 tons. I started testing possible materials when I was staying in Melbourne in 1993. I later made three large Water Drawings which joined RAFT at the Art Gallery SA showing in 1997. Then our book Dept of Translation appeared in 2000 to coincide with the exhibit at the Sprengel Museum, Germany which occurred in 2001. So, only about seven years gestation! The Art Gallery of NSW where it was first exhibited acquired the work earlier this year.

I’d been wanting to make a work with Paul Carter since about 1989—I was connecting the bark painting grids called The Silhouettes to his radio play Mirror States in an attempt to design a setting for that audio construction but it was never realised.

I was keenly aware of the Jindyworobaks [a literary movement promoting Aboriginal culture and aware of Strehlow’s rendering of Arrernte songs] who had made early performance poetry in the 1930s with people like the poet Roland Robinson. I’d watched a late performance by Robinson at The Edge Theatre in Newtown in the late 80s. He was able to move and recite the texts in the space with the dancers surrounding him. I began thinking that RAFT would maintain a post-Jindyworobak voice in some way.

There’s an audio work that accompanies RAFT called “Peripetia at Horseshoe Bend.” A haunting sound sequence running for 43 minutes, with Paul walking through the Fink river bed reciting from his poem collage “Every Possible Place.” We were looking at the Arrernte water myth of Kaporilja as the main poetic cross-reference for RAFT. RAFT symbolises the carriage that Carl Strehlow was transported down from Hermannsburg to Oodnadatta to get a train to Adelaide because of his fatal illness. But he died on the way, just north of Fink at Horseshoe Bend. RAFT has to do with issues of translation in the desert. It allegorically acts as a portrait of the classical intercultural brokering of the language scholar and evangelist missioner Carl Strehlow with his links to the first phase of modern anthropology.

RL Absolutely, and most remarkable. I learned later on that Carl Strehlow’s material found its way to Zurich Dada. What’s so amazing is Hugo Ball and Tristan Tzara performed various Arrernte and Lorritja songs at the Café Voltaire in May 1917. It’s set out in their program notes. They spell the words Aranda and Lorritja as in Carl Strehlow’s Die Aranda und Lorritja Stamme in Zentral Australia as published in five volumes in Frankfurt from 1907. Originally published as a parallel text, Tzara later translated three songs from the German into French which appeared in the first Paris Dada journal. Three songs were performed, maybe with movement, and probably in the presence of James Joyce and maybe Lenin both of whom were resident in the neighbourhood. So, there the modernist trace again.

I don’t know how to talk about RAFT any more. It was a massive project. Our book was a sort of manifesto to regional modernism.

RL In Australia it was shown in Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide. In Alice Springs it appeared at Arraluen Art Centre at the same time as the Albert Namatjira retrospective. That was lucky because people from Aboriginal communities of Central Australia experienced the Water Drawings and heard the audio work. Then RAFT toured to three museums in England. It was included in the language-art exhibition BABEL at the IKON Gallery in Birmingham. Perhaps the most important ‘transgression’ was at the Sprengel Museum in Hannover just 40kms south of Hermannsburg which the mission station in Central Australia is named after.

The 1870s missioners who began the Lutheran pastoral care program at Hermannsburg in Central Australia were consecrated at the St Peter and Paul Kirche. There is still the tiny missioner school operating in the town there. I visited that place twice to explain what we were trying to achieve in our work. Our installation in Hannover repatriated some of that German-Australian history too without undue exoticisation. We brought their narrative back to them full circle via those curious religious links. I think the Germans appreciated the retelling of that particular story.

the artist performs

KG Can we talk finally about the performative aspect of your work. You’ve performed in constructed performances—Alan Schacher’s work-in-progress, The Babel Project, and especially in Banalities for the Perfect House—but you also improvise. In the exhibition that’s recently concluded at Chalk Horse there’s a beautiful recording of you and Amanda Stewart doing something quite dramatic and very funny and largely unintelligible (but oddly recognisable as social exchange) with occasional literal utterances. You mentioned that at the opening you performed solo, apparently out of the blue. And that was related to the exhibition, a Nathalie Sarraute piece.

RL Around 2000 I broke with conventional narrative writing and autobiographical poetry. The typographical book False Narratives was my second attempt to generate a text solely for vocal performance. Amanda Stewart has always been out there moving away from narrative poetic forms into a more musical form which she excells at. We both appeared in the Berlin Poetry Festival in 2003 and I realised how far she pushed her work off the printed page. Watching her move through an extraordinary extended vocal range and seeing her technically adept performance has always been inspirational for me.

I have become increasingly interested in the process of concretising language and to make a score I could follow and make performances from. That’s the sort of thing I admired in Marinetti’s typographical novel Zang Tumb Tumb or Schwitter’s UR Sonata. Last year I asked Amanda to work on an improvisation that would in a non-representational way convey three emotions: anger, joy and sadness. As we huddled around a microphone in the studio we both began giggling, wondering how ridiculous we were. A really intimate moment between artists emerged as we worked out a range of responses that we might record. Rik Rue collaged our efforts adding layers and depth and spatial elements which formed a kind of audio space poem at Post-Museum in Singapore in 2007 then at Chalk Horse this year. I called it An Index of Emotions. I think visitors were surprised and confronted by those spatial effects and some of the sobbing sounds and angry tones were quite distressing.

I performed in Banalities for the Perfect House in 2005, a work made of numerous facets. Installation, poetry, computer music and recital. Performance Space commissioned the work as part of a gallery series called Who’s Afraid of the Avant-Garde. Banalities has been the name I’ve applied to numerous post-poetry writing projects. The structure of the writing comes from stacking and sequencing a kind of chance generated writing. The lines are generated by a structured procedure. I want the sentiments uttered to be formed by generalisations: “7. Angular sightings deliver films. 11. A pedant nut is formed by fourths. 17. A phenomena is massaged by oil.”

Rainer Linz worked from the outset of this project as collaborator. He’s a very intuitive person to work with. The musical and performative intelligence he brings into the working process of the theatre lifted the activity to a kind of alpha level. In creating it we met in Sydney and went out to visit Castlecrag one afternoon. I was keen to show Rainer Bill Lucas’s experimental houses at the Bulwark and in particularly his seminal work called the Glass House built in 1957.

We discussed the ideals of that satellite Sydney suburb. Castlecrag started as the utopian urban development that Walter Burly Griffin and Marion Mahony created for the Greater Sydney Development Association in 1921. Rainer viewed the Haven amphitheatre with its steep bank of sandstone seats and the stage area (with its excellent acoustic) all of which is surrounded by the thick green silence of the bushland. Later in the afternoon we called in to see two radical modernist houses designed by émigré German architect Hugh Buhrich down on Sugerloaf Point.

From our conversations that day we focussed on the social politics of the then state government planning minister Frank Sartor’s ill-fated Redfern-Waterloo Project, close to where we would perform and install our allegorical Banalities. Rainer enabled us to undertake the process of transcription from the writings and recordings of the spoken word and abstract vocals. He made a computer sound construction in 12 parts based on recordings of my voice. This 60 minute installation-for-performance changed the dimension of everything I’d experienced before. We expanded the texts using data projectors and painted the language components onto the various timber components assembled architecturally throughout the performance space. We penetrated every crevice of that building. The writing and soundings tracked around 12 stations to construct a work of theatrical proportions. Rainer’s directorial control of events was very cool. I was pretty tired having made the many complex timber components we used in the ‘installation.’ At the same time as fabricating I was writing the words to be recited as lists of aphorisms, Banalities for the Perfect House, the Newspapers, the Times, the Kitchen, the Solid Mandala, for Napoleon and the Perfect Place. It was an amazing and exhausting way of working toward a final piece. Rainer was in Melbourne processing and sampling and constructing the program that would generate the sound.

The work we are currently aiming at for the Toronto gig on October 4 is similar but different. That sound installation is called Euphemisms for The Intimate Enemy. The duration of 12 hours is much longer. The sound is computer generated once again but will be a live collage when the computer is started around 7pm on the night of the event. This work was commissioned by the City of Toronto. For it I’ve devised an installation of 550 oil drums to be stacked as a curtain wall between two 19th century industrial buildings. Each word of the Euphemisms is stencilled onto coloured (black and yellow) painted drums and will form an illuminated text in the void. Since last year I’ve become increasingly interested in the writing of the Indian Post-Colonial theorist Ashis Nandy. Some of my interest is microscopic by examination of Nandy’s phraseology. The transcription I undertake searches for the global facets in his sentiment, collated alongside recent world events which I hope forms a type of public poem: “4. The shifting locust that eats the tree. 5. Composed and arranged of liberated women. 6. It was the ancient texts of Krsna that offered any kind of hope.”

smashing poetry

RL I’m also trying to work out how to break narratives into the concrete sound forms. One day I decided to write more simply and in a sort of rude and abject manner. To do this I went into a series of internet cafes and wrote emails to friends that responded to a previous correspondence. That’s how I wrote 13 texts they were a sort of bad writing directed as a false poetic narrative. It was a kind of bent approach to the niceties that form in poetry and personal poetic sentiments. I made these writings tonal in that the phrasing was shaped for an easy speech flow. I used a numerical index and stacked the lines up one against the other. That way they become concretised. That was a breakthrough moment in the way I was thinking and making writing. That’s the way I really started examining the structure of computers and the internet. If I got a reasonable reply from my correspondent or we subsequently had a conversation I could integrate those parts tangibly into each story. I also had decided what the page length of the entire text measured before I started writing. I even had the thickness and shape of this book in mind and how the pages could be moved. I set the pages so they contained an unusually large font size and sans-serif characters. There are only six letters per line and nine lines per page. With such a structure the false narratives deteriorated physically and formed into pseudo phonetic clusters.

RL They were to be abject stories, little short stories that were bad, set out to either say bad things or to be badly grammatically structured. And I just wanted to break off from poetry completely. I wanted to smash it and get rid of it. I had to do it within myself. That way I thought writing would be more useful to me again. So there I was at the keyboard chattering away, writing these often absurd narratives to friends. They often went out as an email but in a strange form of language. This typo-physical intervention would radicalise and disorientate the words, breaking their sense and interrupting their continuity. It was a literary architecture of the page that was generating and shaping textuality. In this process the page was automatically formed as a kind of score for abstract vocal performance. I first performed this sort of pure glossolalia at an exhibition in the basement of the Scots Church Studios. I just started to perform making sounds. I thought I’ll make noise and bounce around some of phoneme stuff of the broken letters. The performance went on for about 10 minutes. To my amazement the others in the room seemed engaged. They had big smiles and were not distracted. It was a fun way to animate the moment.

RL We reinstalled the transcription of Sarraute’s text SILENCE. It was suspended from the ceiling. Through the extraction of 144 key words and topic phrases we were able to stencil the results onto thin textile flags. In this way the texting bleeds through and distorts the readability of each side slightly. In this impromptu performance I caught sight of words and phrases as I walked through the installation. My voice changed in pitch and volume dramatically. At times I increased speed and then I slowed down or repeated a word more and more aggressively each time. The art crowd appeared suspended in shock by my uncalled for dramatic articulations. It was a sort of cathartic theatre for 10 minutes. And the theatre had come to them. Surprisingly the sense of Sarraute’s original drama seemed to stay intact even though my transcription and reformations of the page and the stage made it physically unrecognisable. In the mad way I did it, and that sense of character of the outsider looking in, moved those present that night and that surprised me. It just simply began.

THE NAKED GUY IN VERMILLION BODY PAINT GESTICULATING AMONGST THE CLOWNS, THE GOLD GIMP AND THE SERIOUS LAPTOP MUSICIANS IN WADE MARYNOWSKY’S ARTSPACE INSTALLATION AUTONOMOUS IMPROV IS JON WAH. THAT FLEETING GLIMPSE OF BRILLIANCE WAS, FOR AUDIENCES NOT FAMILIAR WITH THE LOCAL SYDNEY SOUND AND PERFORMANCE FRINGE, SYNECDOCHE FOR AN EMERGENT PERFORMANCE AND VIDEO PRACTICE FIRMLY PLANTED IN THE TRADITION THAT EXTENDS FROM CHRIS BURDEN AND PAUL MCCARTHY TO GINA PANE, VALIE EXPORT AND MARINA ABRAMOVIC.

I’m not sure where that footage was sourced, but it revisits Wah’s early student collaboration in which he (again naked) had painted himself red, donned a leash and gone on all fours for the first year student he had dressed as a leather-clad dominatrix. Near naked Redman has since resurfaced in a nappy and Roccoco wig in Tillianakis’ Back in Black, but for me the original naked Redman will be Jon Wah, a rude baboon-bottom red, wearing his sexuality as playful insolence, not in his genitalia, but on his skin.

Then there was yellow man, Jon Wah lead singer, body painted puce for the band The Bloodied Cunts, spewing on stage in puke rock homage to the punk days of affectionate gobbing (Electrofringe, 2005, with Abe Powell and Flynn Donovon). He could go to the dark places, the extreme places (videoing friends in the intimacy of excretion for his study of the formal aesthetics of poop) but among the most memorable were the delicate Zen-yogic balancing works: Wah in a yoga position, feet extended along his side of a half-empty seesaw, the other side stretching to the disproportionate length of a massive symbolic blank. This was Wah in philosophical mode, balancing life against Lacanian psychoanalyis’ structuring void, the lack at the heart of the subject (Position of Balance 1).

In Position of Balance 2, Wah filled out the void of desire by matching his weight with a crate of beer—on the one hand a blokey joke towards his own fondness for drink (and a dig at the modesty of TS Eliot’s Prufrock, measuring life out in teaspoons of coffee). But that crate of beer also represented a critique of capitalism and consumerism (how we fill that metaphysical void by stuffing ourselves).

Jon Wah, Position of Balance I,
‘ …to balance my body against the weight of the board…’ 2006

Position of Balance 6 (First Draft, 2007) had Wah with arms and feet stretched out towards a precariously balanced video camera projecting his image on the wall. In this subtle endurance work he swayed up and down in micro-movements on the tipping and rebalancing beam. Metaphysically speaking, Wah’s decentred subject was now alienated, ex-sistent, in the image’s mediating representations. Of course, Wah’s performances played out without any psychoanalytical framing: they were immediately, intuitively grasped. The strength of his work was that his insights were instantly recognisable, even if hard to put into words (try explaining a complex joke).

Dressed (Serial Space, 2008) was his last performance work. Naked, he summoned the crowd to follow him down a flight of stairs where he ritually wrapped himself in barbed wire, pulled on clothes and then re-ascended (in wincing pain) to retreat behind closed doors. In the following symposium Wah’s analysis amounted to frank confession: the performance was an allegory for a life lived increasingly out of control. When his wire cutters didn’t work he had to call friends into the back room. Finally the audience saw the ambulance men arrive to disentangle him.

Repenting his extreme behaviours, Wah apologised for demands beyond those with which friends could cope. The clown-prankster doing the thing that he does best, going in too deep and needing help to get out, acknowledges the debt and what he has put the other through.

When viewed through the history of performance, and more recently, relational aesthetics, it’s a complex work. The ‘for whom’ of Wah’s barbed wire piece goes beyond the ruse of “I f’d up on the wire cutters.” Wah was revisiting those 1960s works of risking the body in the contemporary context of the politics of friendship: art as an examination of the demands on the other.

Wah leaves behind an original and important body of work yet to receive the critical commentary it deserves. This includes Balaclava, on the politics of terrorism, and the movie-length sitcom King of the Loungeroom, with its anti-corporate ads. In video and performance Jon Wah opened a territory that was his own. Jon Wah died on June 29.

“Art is easy, it’s life that’s hard.” Jon Wah interviewed by author, March, 2008.

On Friday December 4 a retrospective of Jon Wah’s work opens at Serial Space 33 Wellington Street Chippendale, serial@live.com.au

TO CELEBRATE ITS 25 YEARS, ARTSPACE IS TURNING ON QUITE A PARTY FEATURING ONE HOUR TURNS OVER TWO DAYS BY 24 ARTISTS WHO HAVE ALL AT SOME TIME EXHIBITED WITH THE GALLERY IN WHAT PROMISES TO BE A SIGNIFICANT HOMECOMING.

These mini-exhibitions will include installation, performance, moving image, sculpture, photography, new media and painting, all in the spirit of the gallery’s long tradition “as an active working space, a place in which to think, intuit, experiment and make.”

Artspace 24/25 also implicity celebrates the work of generations of artists from the 80s (the gallery opened in Surry Hills in 1983 and moved to Wolloomooloo in 1992) to the present whom the gallery has supported in exhibitions and through the sustained provision of an invaluable critical context through publications and vigorous debate.

The artists showing are Jim Allen, Brook Andrew, Denis Beaubois, Mark Brown, Katthy Cavaliere, Julian Dashper, Elizabeth Day, Richard Dunn, Mikala Dwyer, Domenico de Clario, Deej Fabyc, Matthys Gerber, Joan Grounds, The Kingpins, Derek Kreckler, Wade Marynowsky, Mike Parr, Eugenia Raskopoulos, r e a, Nuha Saad, Jill Scott, George Tillianakis, Mark Titmarsh and Julie Rrap.

Curator Kylie Johnson tells me that the approach has been open-ended, artists providing existing or new works, but each working strictly with the 60 minute limit, which includes setting-up time.

In the first space, on entering the gallery, you’ll find ephemeral materials hung on the walls and in bound scrap books, one for each of the 25 years. The display includes invitations, catalogues and press clippings. You can have a coffee while you browse and your memory of Artspace history, “will be jogged by the amazing number of significant names who have been involved with the gallery”, says Johnson.

The large gallery space will feature performances and object-based works while the smaller will house projected works. Set to run to a tight timetable, says Johnson, Artspace 24/25 should yield many pleasures and, not least, a serious celebration for a uniquely creative Sydney insitution’s 25 years and the many to come.

INITIALLY UNAWARE OF THE IRONY, I QUICKLY SORT THROUGH MY CLOTHES BEFORE I LEAVE HOME, PLACING DELICATE ITEMS IN PROTECTIVE NET BAGS. CAP FULL OF LIQUID. CLIP THE CIRCULAR DOOR SHUT. A MULTITUDE OF BEEPS TO FIND THE RIGHT CYCLE. PRESS “GO”. LEAVE. MY DESTINATION IS WHITE WASH, WHERE ALL OF THE STEPS IN MY TWO MINUTE PROCESS AND THE ENSUING WASH, ARE RECLAIMED BY ARTIST PHILIPPA STEELE IN AN ACT OF SLOW DEDICATION.

A soft sloshing greets me as I enter. The diminutive artist is perched on a small white stool, her white gloved hands working away steadily at a white towel immersed in one of a number of similarly monochrome buckets. Surrounding the artist are a series of ‘stations’ that offer the tools required to sort, tag, rinse, wash, wring, dry, iron and set aside for collection. Each station is stripped to the bare minimum. Apart from the electric iron and the small white laptop for entering data, there are no smooth whitegoods or unwarranted beeps. The smell of clean clothes surrounds us. Everything is white.

Every week we wash. This has gone on ever since we began our long obsession with cleanliness and desired for more than the clothes on our backs. For most, the experience matches my opening sentences—a quickly executed series of steps with coffee, toast or child in the other hand, followed by a reluctant hanging out, sometime later.

This year Steele completed a six month stint living and working in India. As with many before her, the experience has had a profound effect on the way that she views her daily existence and consequently her art practice. Prior to this journey, her work focused on the object or what she likes to call ‘thingness’ and a process of identifying and removing associations that defines any one thing, with the difficult ambition of achieving ‘nothingness.’ Through observation of the devotional attention to everyday processes in India, Steele has made a lateral shift, focusing her intimate, intense attention on the action.

The set up is sublimely simple. The artist is offering to handwash people’s clothes. Steele’s advertisements in the local paper and flyers placed with nearby businesses invite members of the public to bring in white items for washing, with the provocative tag line “I WANT YOUR DIRTY WHITE LOAD.” All items are entered into a database, sorted according to necessary treatment (soak, starch, iron etc), tagged and then laundered by the artist within the gallery space throughout the three week exhibition. Just as in any other service industry, Steele states that she aims to be “friendly, approachable and professional.” There is no charge.

While simple in set up and aesthetically austere, the translation of this daily process into a gallery show creates a layered, powerful work, which unfolds as you spend time in the space. There are obvious links to the lowly paid labour of those within the service industry, particularly in the developing world. Steele’s refusal of payment amplifies this transaction and she notes that some ‘customers’ express discomfort with the arrangement. The work clearly highlights the disconnection that Westerners now have from the details of daily life, but for Steele I think the most resonant aspect of the work is the potential for meditation through the action. She has found herself perfectly absorbed in the simple steps of washing and feels that she has achieved active meditative states. The tiny, tiny details like the fine fibres impossible to remove entirely and the vast variation in ‘whites’ have found their way to her attention. Her intent, I believe, is for everyday moments of spirituality reached through quiet observation.

The artist acknowledges and embraces the inherent contradictions in the work. In attempting to remove associations through stripping away and ‘whitening’, Steele succeeds in bringing every single object into focus, with items like the electric iron and plastic coated hangers reading like iconic artefacts. Placing the work within a sterile gallery context brings with it an ironic sense of disconnection with her Indian experience as this cool white room is surely no match for the humming, sensory environment in which she first recognised the potential in these acts. And I wonder about the actuality of meditative states for those whose life offers no choice but to wash in this manner.

I leave the gallery to the soft slap of towels against the washing plinth and look back to the shadow of the action against the white walls. Some minutes after I arrive home, sing song beeps signal that my wash is complete. As I shake out each item and hang it on the drying rack, I take stock. I notice the soft snap as I shake the clothes, I watch my hands as I place each item to maximise drying and I reflect that a little of Steele’s attention has quietly travelled out of the gallery along the road and into my home, my hands, my work.

THESE DAYS THE POSSIBILITIES FOR OUTRAGE SEEM SO MUCH MORE PREVALENT WHILE ITS MANIFESTATIONS VERGE ON THE PRIVATE, EVERYDAY ERADICATION OF RIGHTS SLIPPING BY UNACKNOWLEDGED. ARE WE SLOWLY COMING TO OUR SENSES, I WONDER, WAKING TO WHAT’S HAPPENED WHILE WE’VE BEEN WATCHING OUR BACKS? ARE WE READY NOW FOR ART THAT MAKES US RAGE?

Enter Artrage, now in its 25th year and talking up its silver anniversary, which has a quaint ring for what has been by all accounts a gathering of creative tearaways, a festival of the emergent appearing unannounced in all manner of unlikely spaces. This year’s brochure looks disturbingly sweet until you read between its pages the old signs of subversion.

The necessary Climate Change action appears impressively hands-on as we should expect from the avant-garde. Following the supportive paras from sponsor Western Power who’ve planted enough trees to compensate for production of the festival, is the invitation to Artrage audiences to participate in “WA’s first mobile, networked, pedal-powered generator system.” You’re asked to “bring in your bike or use one of ours and contribute your pedal power to producing electricity to run parts of the People Power program.” This includes 1,000 LED lights attached to kites flying above the cultural centre on the Saturday night of the Northbridge Festival. Let’s hope Prof Garnault is taking notes.

Performances/events will be staged at The Bakery Complex as well as a range of other venues and galleries in Perth and Fremantle. A show that caught my eye, as one who likes to dance to the beat of a different drum: a Silent Disco where you “enter, put on headphones, choose your channel then shake it with your dance floor pals.”

In the performance arena, Home Alone showcases new WA contemporary dance as Company Upstairs, featuring Bianca Martin and design artist Jamie Macchiusi, “take a peek through the windows into an abstracted image of everyday life and contemporary Australian domestic normalcy, weekend DIY projects and debt consolidation.” And as if that weren’t enough, they’ll also be delivering “a tale of gratification via material goods, a housing squeeze and life in the lucky country!” Red Shoes is an equally ambitious “radical reworking of the fairytale by Mathew Lutton transgressing gender, eras and theatrical boundaries.” The triple bill Dyuetto includes dancers from The Dance Box in Osaka; Dancehouse in Melbourne and STRUT Dance in Perth.

What would happen, I sometimes wonder, if artists were held to account for the questions they pose at the outset of a creative process and their findings published in worthy journals like The Lancet? I look forward to results on the premise for Preparing to be Beautiful with 6 young dancers, choreographed by Alice Lee Holland, score by Julian Day: “What draws us to symmetry, structure and order” and further, what is behind “modern-day voyeuristic tendencies that reveal an interest in chaos and spontaneity?”

In 24HR Comics, an Artrage-FTI (Film & Television Institute) project, “[s]imultaneously across the globe thousands of eager artists will be doing their best to create a new comic book over 24 consecutive hours.” The book will be posted on the artrage website after October 20.

PVI’s loyal citizens’ underground will be doing their rounds during the festival watching out for transgressions in the municipal order. The festival offers another chance to see REFORM, the company’s witty, interactive performance that cleverly confounds its audience. This is the team that apparently had Singaporeans eating their potato crisps with chopsticks. PVI are also presenting This is the Time, a one-night only event featuring short and edgy performance works from across the country including Unreasonable Adults (SA), Spat & Loogie (NSW), Martyn Coutts, (VIC), Version 1.0 (NSW), panther (NSW), sic (WA), Cat Jones (QLD), Hydra Poesis (WA) and Michelle Outram (WA).

The History of Glass looks intriguing. “One day a whole lot of people wake to find themselves imprisoned in a huge cube of yellow glass.” I know the feeling. Told in a series of 80 short prose poems by local performer Mar Bucknell with live soundscapes by Allan Boyd and projected live drawings by Stuart Reid. In Limbspeak, WAAPA’s Michael Whaites and guest choreographers present new works in which physical and verbal mingle.

And this one on the complexities of internet criticism: Apocalypse Perth. “In January 2008 a cruel and anonymous review of an amateur production was posted online. What followed was an online exchange of observations, criticisms, insults and invective.” Based on the online forum and interviews with those who took part, Apocalypse Perth is a verbatim theatre piece brought to the stage by seasoned performers Kate and Jeremy Rice joined by a large cast. In another apparent oddity, Martin Heine Performance entails simultaneous projection of a series of collaborative performances generated by Dr Martin Heine and Dr David Bromfield, “creating an omnipresent, all powerful performance environment…Gaze as Heine cuts out the silhouette of Perth’s most hated art critic with his chainsaw. ” Better still, be there at KURB Gallery “when he does it live with an Elephant.” Possibly outrageous.

There are lots of mobile works to accost the unsuspecting with art from all angles: Street art adventures (The Trickster’s Bible); a portable confessional (Jen Jamieson’s The Booth); a Laser tagging gig with local artist Jeremm Lynch who worked with ANAT’s USA guest artists Graffiti Research Laboratory earlier this year, and CONTROLLED RIOT in which electro-punk Tomás Ford “is joined by an army of minions to conduct experiments in crowd control, and a frantic DIY on the night of the closing party.”

Silent Barrage is the culmination of six years of research by Phil Gamblen and Guy Ben-Ary (SymbioticA) contemplating the artistic and philosophical implications of an entity made of a “living brain” controlling a robot body. Silent Barrage presents “60 sculptural robotic objects, each responding to electric activity occurring in a living network of rat neurons, grown in a petri dish inside the Georgia Institute of Technology, USA.” For one night only Silent Barrage will be presented as an active public lab. Wear white.

The year’s festival poster features a small section of Rose Skinner’s Forbidden Garden installation commissioned by Artrage. Its “hyper-coloured psycho-popic landscape and zany assemblage of characters” induces visual hyperglycemia and aptly captures the promised mood of the festival, 25 years on and still raging. RT

ADAM BROINOWSKI’S NEXT WAVE JOURNEY TAKES HIM FROM MULTIMEDIA DANCE TO A TELEPHONE EXPERIENCE FOR AN AUDIENCE OF ONE TO A CLUSTER OF IMMERSIVE INTALLATIONS AND A ‘MISGUIDED’ TOUR OF AN ART GALLERY.

alisdair macindoe: pay no attention to the man behind the curtain

Framed by the Wizard of Oz, Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain is an interesting combination of sound/video tech savvy and lithe dance. Alisdair Macindoe, in olive green and khaki, stands in a demarcated square. He relaxes himself, and us, with some direct eye contact, then shakes his head at increasing speed. What is he renouncing? A blurred still of his face is projected on an adjacent screen as he wades through the red light which slices a stage swamped with smoke. The plucking sound of an unfamiliar instrument, a projection from his p.o.v. shows his arms reaching out towards us. Circuitry from outdated machines together with his whirling circles and mechanical movements suggest nostalgia. We are shown black and white video footage of a body being kicked and taunted by a circle of soldiers. The screen goes red. “There’s no place like home”, Macindoe says through distortion. Does he come home in a box?

Macindoe dances in the square a second time, more fluid, urgent, immediate. He faces the audience again, then falls back as if pulled by an ineluctable force, or shot by machinegun rounds, jumping time, crossing the river Lethe, through a rising roller door, into a cell of strobe. Arms outstretched, an open mouthed silence, along with dripping notes, sine tones and clanking repetition, he is a prisoner once more.

As strategic revisionism remixes the past via ‘truth’ technologies, the screen is lifted to reveal a musician tinkering with assorted instruments. This study of echoes determines a body besieged by the light of multi-barrelled cameras, above and below.

sam routledge & collaborators: please hold

I am trying to remember a word as I enter Please Hold at the Meat Market. Alone and comfortable, I’m in a motel after a long drive perhaps. A lamp warms the room, and a white dial phone is perched on an all-in-one 50s seat and table. I sit on the carpet, and reluctantly pick up the phone.

“Did you get the image?”, she asks, familiar and very close. “No.” “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take a photo of the television.”

And so the conversation goes; she misses me, wants to see me, recalls the breezy curtains under which we happily lay together in bed. She flirts and lulls and oils me, drawing me in, and I find myself dancing, asking if we could be real once more. But she holds the script. Memories are like glass and she quickly goes through them: pained—denying getting fat, blocking out the vomiting and shitting in front of me; empathetic—the shock of the light must have been great; romantic—driving together towards the horizon; longing—in her arms, fists going like a boxer, hands trying to grasp something; remorse—you can’t hurt the thing that looks at you, all I had to do was to put my nipple in her mouth; acceptance—she’ll never know who we are. “Anyway”, she says, “It’s you.” She hangs up. The lights fade up.

Film footnotes from road movies are woven through this intimate installation by Sam Routledge, Halcyon Macleod, Declan Kelly and Alison McNicol. In a duplicitous game, the artist implicates the listener in heightened dramas which they are inclined to unpick. Bitter sweet, transcending road movie clichés, its precision strikes a deeper chord.

curator ben byrne: tracts

To experience Tracts, I enter a room at the end of a long, tiled corridor up high in an old city building. Tremors, by the show’s curator Ben Byrne, sets the tone by asking us to throw a rock from a bowl into a pool of water. Byrne combines Leonardo da Vinci’s view of the ensuing circles as infinite images of themselves with Giorgio Agamben’s notion of potentiality as knowledge of an ability. The potential of sound waves which travel and intersect with others while maintaining their discreet form is ominous.

Adam Costenoble’s Obstruction is a cubic concrete box with a concrete lid, concealing a relationship of heavy impacts and deep rumbles which will not be seen but may be heard and felt. He quotes Boyd ‘Red’ Redding on incarceration dependency. Matt Chaumont, in An Example, tilts two oil drums like timpani with embedded speakers creating a deep, almost inaudible dissonant rumble. He reflects in the exhibition notes that what he has done is in fact done by something larger than himself, but is this irony, complicity or passivity?

Thembi Soddell’s black box, into which you climb and sit comforted in the dark and where you are filled with ominous throbs, rushing roars and a washing away below audible thresholds, is an internalized escape. Or does it represent hidden memory? Quoting Sylvia Plath’s “safety comes from being in a room without windows”, it seems it is the former.

freakley & mcgechie: dear art, please touch me

Cleverly, the artists of Dear Art (Danielle Freakley and Elizabeth McGechie) have grafted themselves onto artists of another genre in what they call “reanimating iconic works.” As in any art gallery commentary, as you look at the NGV permanent Australian collection you listen to designed audio commentaries—only in this case of popular democracy they are responses generated from anonymous, random members of the public.

You trip through the kaleidoscopic vision of two children in front of Presentation Cradle by George Armfield (1890). For those same two children, the black and white emu eggs of Casket (1869, artist unknown) represent the rules of the cosmos in which black gods must protect white gods. When white Adam and Eve treat black Adam and Eve badly, the black ones grow fierce and hunt the white ones instead. GF Folingsby’s Bunyan in Prison (1864) is treated to a comic re-enactment—an obnoxiously drunk man ridiculed by the women seated around him. According to a young man, Exterior of Brickhouse (1860s), by the same artist, is occupied by an old Eastern European woman peeling potatoes.

A middle-aged woman regards WWI gassing survivor Penleigh Boyd’s The Breath of Spring (1919) as a coveted, decorative asset untainted by current affairs. Seeing a woman helping a child on a beach in Rupert Bunny’s Shrimp Fishers at St Georges (1910), a woman in her 20s speaks of her exclusion from the dominant heterosexual paradise because she cannot have babies.

Hugh Ramsay’s portrait of himself (smoking in front of a piano, 1901-2) suggests to a Caribbean male musician that, like himself, Ramsay plays music to make people happy and therefore is a good artist. Clarice Beckett’s Street Scene (1925) triggers a younger woman’s memory of her desire to escape from a childhood of discipline. A young man argues that self-worth is not found in national patriotism upon seeing the house beneath the Sydney Harbour Bridge in Grace Cossington Smith’s The bridge-in curve (1925). For a catarrhic man, the figures in Albert Tucker’s Sunbathers (1945) in repose under dark skies are Baconesque flesh, waiting for overpaid GIs to land. For an older, rounder woman, Danila Vassilieff’s Petit Bourgeois (1950) is a goddess symbol of the perfection of motherhood, while the Footballer of Sidney Nolan (1946) is lampooned by a “fat kid who grew up hating the thuggery of organised sport and read a lot at school.” Of John Brack’s Collins St 5pm (1955), the two children describe the sad, boring, restless faces of those marching off to work to pay the rent.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, performer Alisdair Macindoe, media artist Cobie Orger, sound artist Simon Charles, instrument builder Rod Cooper, writer Kynan Hughes, Malthouse, May 22-24; Please Hold, original concept, direction Sam Routledge, writer-performer Halcyon Macleod, design Alison McNicol, sound design & systems Declan Kelly; Arts House Meat Market, May 22-31; Tracts, curator Ben Byrne, Blindside Gallery, Nicholas Buildings, May 22-June 7; Dear Art, Please touch me, Danielle Freakley, Elizabeth McGechie, Ian Potter Centre, National Gallery of Victoria Australia Gallery, May 24-June1; Next Wave Festival, Melbourne, May 15-31, www.nextwave.org.au

THE 2008 NEXTWAVE FESTIVAL’S PROGRAMMING CONCEPT OF “CLOSER TOGETHER” INITIATED BY JEFF KHAN AND THE NEXT WAVE TEAM FOUND RESONANCE IN ALL OF THE WORKS I WITNESSED OVER THE FESTIVAL, WORKS WHICH INVITED AUDIENCES INTO INCREASINGLY INTIMATE SPACES, BOTH PHYSICAL AND TEMPORAL.

alec lewis: text form

From the most ephemeral of spaces, the cybersphere (our virtual addition to the troposphere), where presumed dislocation creates a digital anonymity, Alec Lewis’ Text Form exposes solo intimacies of information gathering. The work actually has its genesis in a corporate “screw up” (“This was a screw up and we’re angry and upset about it”, media statement Andrew Weinstein, AOL Vice President of Corporate Communications: www.lot49.com/2006/08/aols_mea_culpa.shtml).

Back in August 2006, AOL released the data of 20 million searches by 658,000 of its users. Digital privacy advocates were soon shouting down the cables and the data was promptly removed—but the digital democracy of the net being fluid, nothing is truly lost forever and you can still find the files on numerous mirrors around the world.

Lewis uses this leaked information both as instigator and raw material for his compact installation. The search data is displayed on three scrolling LED screens which note the random user number, the time of search, the search term and the website subsequently visited. Below these are three small LCD screens that run through video works made in response to various searches. Lewis has largely gone for those with the most impact—searches for deviant fetishes and oddball imaginings. For instance, User #3318459 has a string of searches based around the theme of filet à la femme: “barbequed girl meat”, “girls fattened for butchering” and “cannibals feasting on the buttocks of young girls.” The video work intersplices images of a butcher flaying a large slab of meat with a girl undressing in a bedroom, oblivious to the presence of a hooded figure nearby. This hooded voyeur makes several appearances over the course of the videos, acting as a simultaneous metaphor for the unseen searcher and for us as viewers. A serious drawback of the installation was the lack of information regarding its inception—I only became an enlightened observer after attending the artist’s talk. The program notes promised to make people think twice about how they used the internet and I for one will not be asking Google “is it healthy to store up semen or cum in a glass and drink it for a week” like user #7897282 did.

matthew prest & collaborators: the tent

The warm beef stew we’re presented with is a hearty reminder of the chill wind outside and simple camp chairs creak under-bum as the audience settles back to hear a tale. We are inside a large canvas tent, and thankfully so, our small party having been led off the concrete carpark behind Federation Square down behind Birrurung Marr to a huge gravelled lot beside a lattice of railway tracks. For the moment we are simply glad to have escaped the piercing Melbourne cold, the kind that creeps through any crack in scarved and hooded armour however small.

Our guide and host is Michael, a clean and wholesome 20-something corporate worker, and while his current relationship to Brett, the owner of the tent, is not fully clear—we have just witnessed him run flailing after Brett’s white Commodore which sped off at our approach—he assures us that Brett will be only too happy that we’re here. Michael casts off his black suit for comfy flannel jim-jams and the story of his meeting with Brett unfolds. Brett is a bushie, a modern jolly swagman who lives off the land and a doctor of philosophy dropout made larger than life by his conspicuous absence.

The performance team of Matthew Prest, Danny Egger, Clare Britton and Eddie Sharp use a deft array of theatrical constructions from revelations of spaces within spaces, puppetry and snippets of Brett’s recorded Chautauqua or travelling tale to illuminate the meeting of these two souls. Prest as Michael is subtly nuanced and engaging, constantly keeping his audience at the fore, more than readily dropping segments of the tale he feels are unnecessary. But it is with Brett’s sudden return that things become doubly interesting. With Michael bidding a hasty farewell after few pleasantries, we are left alone with Brett, unsure now as to what our contract as audience has become. Have we been invited into the tent or have we infiltrated it? Have we been abandoned to explain our situation as viewers/voyeurs/audience to a man whose space we have breached? The discomfort of intruding, of being brought too close together is languidly teased out. Seated inside the tent, simultaneously shelter, storytelling soapbox, nomadic structure and concrete example of a slightly ascetic philosophy, we are given the space to ponder not only the elements which keep us bound together, but also those which push some of us further apart.

post: swimming home in heels

For Swimming Home in Heels by Sydney trio Post, we were brought about as close as we can get. A single audience member at a time is led into a miniscule dorm room above a trash bag inner city pub overflowing with feminine detritus—half eaten packets of chips and chocolate lie strewn amongst g-strings and party clothes, the heady fug of Impulse, Passiona and cheap white wine. As soon as the door opens, the hurricane pace of stories and anecdotes begins. Plastic cup of cheap goon in hand I sit in the only available space at the foot of the single bed and hear how Mish got fingered by a random bloke on the bus and then of her exploits last night with this toothless geriatric. A debate erupts as to whether she pashed him before or after she spewed.

Post excels in the construction of biting Australian satire. The confidence that we are positioned in as active participants implicates us in a schoolies world of booze, sex, music and raucous party binge, where everything is just so fun and meaningful and special y’know. OmyGod and did I tell you how we all lay back on the bed and listened to Destiny’s Child, spesh! Or how Mish painted my nails or when Nat and Zoe did their, like, fully amazing dance that they’d been working on for, like, ages? The performance is hilarious in its folly and a scarily evocative facsimile of a weekend at 16.

Post’s previous works in Melbourne—Gifted and Talented [RT80 p46, RT85 p12] which equated stage mothers with the guards of Abu Ghraib, and Idle Hands Wake up With Fleas which taught the audience a choreographic score composed of military restraint tactics—contained a dark and overt politic which helped to reposition the work in a somewhat violent way. And while for some, the proximity to the performers will be confrontation enough, the lack of political engagement in this new work yielded only lightness and frivolity—a shame, for harsh realities were what made the satire of their previous works so disarming.

rogue: the counting & ocular proof

Rogue formed as a close-knit graduating company from VCA Dance 05 and look set to become an important addition to Melbourne’s contemporary dance and performance world. The collective works as both ‘guns for hire’ with external choreographers (and powerful guns they are) as well as creators of their own movement and visual scores. In this double bill they display their strengths in both capacities.

The Counting is an intricate succession of non-repeating isolations striking in its syncopation. Choreographer Antony Hamilton extends the defined flurries of movement from his recent debut, Blazeblue Oneline [RT85 p35] to create complex structural rhythms for his dancers. The impetus for this mechanised movement is from circadian rhythms—inherent cellular and physiological cycles that occur within the body over a 24 hour period. The bodies on stage, dressed in the co-valent colours of enzymes, engage in a series of duo and group architectures that draw us close into this microscopic realm. Working at odds with the resonating undertone of the musical score, the bodies, captivating in their hermetic constraints, inhabit their own rhythmic spaces.

Ocular Proof reconstitutes Rogue as makers. As we file into the cavernous space of the MeatMarket’s adjacent main auditorium, a dancer greets each audience member in turn with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered welcome. The work originally set out to explore our perception of truth, but from the outset it is clear it is now about something else—the intimate spaces of love. We watch a shadow play pas de deux of hearts and lovers intertwined, a baroque puppetmaster seated at a luminous limb-thrashing feast, and a clever evocation of a couple exhausted by passion as the music threads from minimalist to electro to grinding industrial. In the latter part of the piece, Olaf Meyer’s multimedia projections create a truly remarkable visual hallucination. Meyers builds on his visual experiments in Ivan Thorley’s Dreamland [www.realtimearts.net/article/issue76/8471] using camera and projector to map and track the shifting body, creating a synchronicity between visuals and the body that I haven’t witnessed since the early work of Japanese company Dumb Type. This, combined with Rogue’s energetic virtuosity, made for one compelling night in the theatre. Definitely a company to watch.

Text Form, artist Alec Lewis, Kings ARI, Melbourne, May 9-31; The Tent, director Matthew Prest, performers Matthew Prest, Eddie Sharp, tent designer, technical director & stew maker Danny Egger, puppeteer, puppet & set design Clare Britton, sound design Jack Prest, The Paddock, Federation Square, Melbourne May 21-25; Post, Swimming Home in Heels: A performance about lies, performer-devisors Zoe Coombs Marr, Natalie Rose, Mish Grigor, The Exford Hotel, Melbourne, May 15-30; Rogue, The Counting, choreography Antony Hamilton, performers (Rogue) Derrick Amanatidis, Danielle Canavan, Holly Durant, Merryn Heath, Laura Levitus, Kathryn Newnham, Harriet Ritchie, Marisa Wilson, Suhaili Micheline Ahmad Kamil, lighting Alexandre Malta, costume Doyle Barrow, music Panasonic; Ocular Proof, choreographer-performers Rogue, multimedia design Olaf Meyer, lighting Alexandre Malta, costume Doyle Barrow, music Lachlan Carrick, Meat Market, Melbourne, May 28-31; 2008 Next Wave, May 15-31, www.nextwave.org.au

I’M SITTING IN THE BAR OF MELBOURNE’S CARLTON HOTEL, PONDERING A THREE METRE HIGH STUFFED OSTRICH AND THE DECAPITATED HEAD OF A BABY GIRAFFE HOVERING ABOVE PATRONS HUDDLED IN BOOTHS, SOME SIPPING COCKTAILS, OTHERS SMOKING CIGARS. MELBOURNE HAS ACQUIRED A NEW EXOTICISM: NO-ONE HERE REALLY GIVES A STUFF ABOUT GLOBAL HOMOGENEITY, OR THE DISSOLUTION OF GEOGRAPHICAL BORDERS IN A MEDIA MAD WORLD AND A RESULTING LOSS OF CULTURAL IDENTITY. BUT EVERYONE IS PRETENDING THEY DO…

brown council: six minute soul mate

Thank Christ the woman dressed in a bear suit who leads me upstairs to Six Minute Soul Mate has a nod and a wink for her inductees. By getting closer together, we are moving further apart. This paradox is the central preoccupation of the Next Wave Festival. Consequently, Melbourne has become a city captivated by the strange and the bizarre. That bear bustles us into a small room, its rear wall adorned with a tropical sunset framed by a painted love heart. A young woman enters wearing a bad wig and blue sequined top, sits on a stool, and gushes over what it is she wants most from a relationship. Just as she’s getting to the part about her previous boyfriend abandoning her on the Ghost Train at Luna Park, that bear interrupts. Carrying a portable CD player bleating out the ballad Take my Breath Away, the bear explains that our time is up. We are then corralled along a hallway toward a second room that is reminiscent of a trip through a massage parlour…This same performance framework is then repeated by four women playing three characters on nine occasions in three separate rooms, during a procession through different stages of each character’s tragic life.

Six Minute Soul Mate is a sardonic dissection of the human need for companionship, and a backhander for any aspiring actors in the audience. Progressing from hopeful dreams to increasing desperation, each character enters a state of lonely psychosis—exemplified by the same young woman, now grown old, indulging in an autoerotic fantasy by submerging her head in a bucket of water and holding her breath until it hurts. Isolated and alone, the last vestige of the lonely is a sadomasochistic pleasure that devastates this small audience before that bear interrupts once again, and leads us back into the foyer to celebrate with unsettling flutes of cheap champagne.

x:machine: serial blogger

After a dangerous bicycle ride through Thursday night traffic, I arrive at the Meat Market. A palpable menace malingers above the heads of punters as we wait to gain access to Serial Blogger. One consequence of Melbourne’s new exoticism, accentuated by the art world’s adoption of values usually found on Wall St, this same menace infuses X:Machine’s gothic interpretation of one person’s face to face meeting with a serial killer. Straddling a line between performance and installation, there is much in the way of knife blades on sharpening steels, a video interface, men in white coats, and a tortured, spectral female guarding the entrance to this techno cave. But i’m outta that subterranean dungeon once a woman has her tongue cut out. Yet it does occur to me that the visceral extraction of an organ used for articulating speech is also a potent metaphor for cyberspace and its capacity for transforming sounds produced in the larynx into cold collections of algorithmic data. ash keating: 2020?

A day passes, and I find myself at a suburban football match watching a friend’s son kick a ball emblazoned with a McDonald’s logo around a drought stricken park. I then return to the Meat Market for the purpose of assessing 2020?, a multidisciplinary installation comprising discarded building material prior to its being deposited as landfill. Having glanced at the fully mounted work two nights earlier, its epic scale assemblage of plasterboard, milk crates, wooden slats, masonite and other monumental bits and pieces, all sculpted into a hulk of aesthetic junk moodily lit and punctuated by mysterious sounds emanating from within the installation’s ribcage, I am surprised to discover that 2020? has since been dismantled. Up steps Ash Keating, coordinator of the event, and he’s nervous about having to explain the reason behind 2020?’s non-appearance. But Keating need not worry, for I’m into the idea of an installation disappearing, then reappearing over time, and which has genuine collaboration as its impetus. Artists coming together without tearing each other apart; working through the difficulties proposed by the interdisciplinary, and the interpersonal. Without a McDonald’s logo in sight 2020? is reminiscent of Francis Bacon’s South Kensington artistic refuge, and the studio as work of art.

peoples & kent: the telepathy project

Back on my bicycle I’m the recipient of a vicious high tackle when running head-on into a torrent of traffic oozing up and down Flinders St. A consequence of one AFL match ending at Telstra Dome and another beginning at the MCG, football, like art, has fast become a global juggernaut. Declarations of grassroots participation seem parched and downtrodden, replaced by the distant dementia of a global economy so grandiloquent it defies description. But this fact does not prevent artists from communicating across vast distances, even if this does mean illuminating the difficulties inherent in finding intimacy between two people separated by one wall and a couple of metres. The Telepathy Project is a humble work with much to say because the artists, Sean Peoples and Veronica Kent, perhaps free of funding constraints, have tripped into the abyss and returned with a genuine desire to express this experience. They sit in separate, yet similarly furnished rooms, poised in positions that emit great determination if not religious zeal. It’s a foyer window belonging to the Forum cinema and we, consumptive patrons on the outside, are presented with messages on yellow stickies that have been attached there by the artists.

Nothing exceptional happens, apart from the pondering of passers by wondering what it all means…What soon becomes apparent is that Kent and Peoples are simply trying to communicate. Separated by the devastating distance of two metres, each has resorted to telepathy in an attempt to find genuine intimacy. And whether coordinated or not, Kent and Peoples rose at identical moments and began writing to one another messages of longing and love, that were then pasted on the foyer window for everyone to see. But by this time, most of the audience were bemused by the experience. Now heading toward the MCG and another hollow AFL spectacle, each had opted for the new exoticism that now characterises Melbourne, and the intimate distance proposed by its current global predicament.

Brown Council, Six Minute Soul Mate, artists Frances Barrett, Kate Blackmore, Kelly Doley, Diana Smith, The Carlton Hotel, May 16-23; X:Machine, Serial Blogger, director Olivia Crang, new media director Alex Gibson, performers Mark Tregonning, Fanny Hanusin, Lily Paskas, performer & visual artist Michael Meneghetti, video artist Jarrod Factor, multimedia artist Pierre Proske, sound artist Rob Stewart, lighting Bronwyn Pringle, set design Harriet Oxley, Arts House, Meat Market, May 27-31; 2020?: Ash Keating & collaborators, Arts House, Meat Market, May 21-31; The Telepathy Project: Sean Peoples & Veronica Kent, Forum Theatre, May 20-24; Next Wave Festival, Melbourne, May 15-31, www.nextwave.org.au

EMERGING ARTISTS CRITIQUE THE PROMISES OF TECHNOLOGY AND CONSUMER DECADENCE IN NEXT WAVE FESTIVAL’S 2008 COLLECTION. FROM THE RAW TO THE SLICK, THREE OF FOUR EVENTS I SAW ARTICULATED DISTRUST OF AN ARTIFICIALLY ENHANCED FUTURE. BUT FIRST, A SLIGHT FORAY INTO GRITTY SOCIAL COMMENT BY YOUNG ADELAIDE DANCERS, SARAH CARTWRIGHT AND GALA MOODY: JUST FILLING IN

sarah cartwright & gala moody: just filling in

Amongst the refuse of civilisation we witness the contrasting responses of a
woman and her double. Sound: a tap drips. Vision: a destructible tower of consumer waste. From a rat-hole beneath the debris emerges…a fanny, clad (in black pantyhose—this is a family show, not!), spread-eagled, looming relentlessly towards us. Its owner, drunk with self-loathing, spares us the indignity of landing in our laps; staggers instead to her feet to act out some trashy porn; stabs her stilettos relentlessly, percussively, into the cardboard surface lining the floor of this subway alcove beneath the streets of Melbourne.

It is not clear who she is—some washed up stripper? Junkie? She gyrates lugubriously as I strain for clues that identify her with a corporate main-stream, as the program notes would have it. A square of cardboard speared on her heel suggests an ear-tagged cow, writhing legs aloft on a slaughterhouse floor. Part two—a mirror image: the good clown, innocence intact, responds soulfully to the garbage bequeathed her. Wombling into view undercover of a dead doona, bounding off artist Laura Wills’ cardboard ‘box’ set, good clown solicits reciprocity from her favourite plaything, a plastic shopping bag. When a range of strategies—fun, power, sex (more wanton gyrations)—fail, she strips off her clothes to swathe herself affectingly in an haute couture of bubble wrap. The work’s structural symmetry posited contrasting responses to the decadence of society without examining complexities. The most telling metaphor—the action reflected on an exposed light-fitting—implied this underworld doubled a surreal existence on some upper floor. The characters did not interact, reading rather as two solos in a common setting. When ‘Slut’ runs dramatically out of the set, we turn to follow her off stage, expecting a second locus of play, perhaps the meaning of the action explained. But back on stage, Clown is slowly swallowing her erstwhile toy, perhaps annihilating hope, murdering innocence? Fade to black.

teching too fast?

Technological capability has evolved faster than our ability to redefine assumptions or ethics. Augmentation pushes the human phenotype beyond its boundaries. Digital worlds “outstrip our ability to give them meaning” (Abenroth, Gui & Scholz, Virtual World Building: Tools, Methods and Philosophy, unpublished thesis, 1999). But, says Douglas Allchin, “technological artefact is not philosophically idle” (“Thinking about ‘Thinking about'”, Techné 5:1 Fall 1999, University of Minnesota) and the artists reviewed below, showing a maturity nurtured in common (perhaps through Next Wave’s Kickstart development program), return courageously to a question even Aristotle spurned when faced with the “cosmological and moral confusion it engendered” (Mitcham, Carl, Thinking Thru Technology The Path Between Engineering and Philosophy, University of Chicago press, 1994).

kenzie mckenzie & james brown: inside outside inside on

Kenzie McKenzie and James Brown’s Inside Outside Inside On pre-empts a world where ‘virtual nature’ is de rigueur. I am in a cubby house, a diminutive garden gazebo. The knee-high entrance has somewhat compelled me to commit, so I lieon the plasticy turf beside a synthetic potted bulb under a digital sky. This multimedia installation talks of “the illusory possibilities of technology to recreate our experience of the natural world.” I immerse in clouds drifting over a horizontal screen barely a metre above me, paralleled by a soundscape that lends a filmic pretence of dimensionality. Every so often, the balmy azure firmament is inundated by animated intrusions of pop art, line drawings or a kaleidoscope grid of flashing lights. These morph and intersect with increasing fragmentation, matched by frenetic sound squiggles, before dropping me back to the gliding, soaring vaults of heaven. Sudden shifts, cut aways to test patterns and colour bars, jolt awake my reflexive consciousness, just in case I thought this was the real thing. Tension builds until the clouds seem gripped by a regressive force grinding them back on themselves, warping sound and image to eerie effect. Cut again. And the tape loop clicks over. In a way, it is not the projection but the edges of its artifice that speaks most potently of the distance between simulacra and simulated.

keith lim: out of body exp

In his solo work, Out Of Body Exp, Keith Lim’s character begins sharing his well intentioned plans for self improvement in the interests of “the greater good.” Then, donning elongated mechanical arms, he raises himself up like a newborn calf to explore the scope of this enhanced corporeality. His movements reflect an eastern martial art as functions of destruction and warfare find expression through the prosthetics. Describing a house he would build out of iPods, breakdancing with his video double or invoking the magnetic fingertips of a human current detector—surgical super-enhancements of the organism tripping us into ethical resistances—Lim questions where we draw the line between the illusory dream of perfection and transgression into inhumanity. His delivery is laconic, a storytelling, poetic and quotable. But his movement seems powered from the periphery, not quite fluid, not quite potent, the machinery too unwieldy.

Perhaps this unintended by-product comments tellingly on the medium. As for McKenzie and Brown, the observable limitations of their media only increase the alienation effect, furthering the critique of technology as an adequate substitute. In the end, the perfection Lim reaches transcends the biological human machine as, in the blackness, the once encumbered body now discreetly and perfectly facilitates a dance that is not about itself. Dancing handheld points of light, glowing LEDs manifest like metaphysical fireflies of a soul finally alive with fluidity, integrity and natural momentum.

spat+loogie: holiday

Spat+Loogie’s self-assured Holiday turns a similar critique into a slick and entertaining romp that had me grinning broadly throughout. The conceit, in this case seamlessly achieved, cast us as passengers in the foyer an airline departure lounge where, boarding pass in hand, I check though emotional baggage, surrender sharps and explosives (aka tongues and heart). After baring lower legs and clearing nasal passages (the collusion of audience in these ‘security measures’ was elegantly solicited), we were strapped into aircraft seats for an hilarious prologue of safety instructions danced deadpan to Captain Ahab’s Snakes On The Plane soundtrack. Bespectacled in 3D video goggles by our attentive stewards, we embark on a taste-, touch- and smellarama of favourite tourist destinations.

Safe within the specular range of our personal viewing screens we’re lurched from sand-and-sea spray through tropical rainforest to Arctic ice floes. Whether swimming with the denizens of the deep (was that a sea-cow brushing past my legs?), sweltering in the Central Desert or sampling hotel bistro satay poolside in paradise, all sensations were brought to us in low tech vivid sensurround—aromas for our olfactory, textures for our skin and the odd oral morsel. The travel brochure vision was interrupted by apparent breaks in transmission returning us to cabin interior where, from the eye of CCTV, we observe our own passive captivity by absurd and surreal flight staff. From the first taste of our inflight meal to the final inebriated kiss, Holiday made wry art of the mediated illusion of closeness.

Just Filling In, performer-devisors Sarah Cartwright, Gala Moody, dramaturg Netta Raschin, sound designer Alisdair MacIndoe, set design Laura Wills, Platform, May 28-30; Inside Outside Inside On, multimedia installation by Kenzie McKenzie, James Brown, Seventh Gallery, May 20-31; Out Of Body Exp, performer-devisor Keith Lim, sound composition Jon Creenaune, costume Kate Shanahan, set design Joe Au, Black Box, May 16-21; Holiday, performer-creators spat+loogie (Kat Barron, Lara Thoms), performers Naomi Derrick, Teik Kim Pok, sound design Fred Rodrigues, Black Box, May 26-31; Next Wave, Festival Melbourne, May 15-31, www.nextwave.org.au

We know there’s a skills shortage everywhere else, but in the arts? Statistics on the subject are highly variable (p4, p44), so are the guesstimates of arts educators. Regardless of the facts, what is the tertiary education sector doing about preparing students for the transition into their careers, as well as making sure there are careers to be had? Everything and nothing. Some institutions are developing graduate performance companies, job agencies and extensive alumni networks. All are focused on producing multi-skilled, entrepreneurial graduates. But a few acknowledge a new breed of student, in media arts for example, already networked, part-time employed in their field or running a small business, and ahead of the game. The seven essays we’ve commissioned for this edition make for a fascinating survey of the elephant in the room of arts education—how many jobs are there in the arts and how do you get them? Enterprising young Sydney artist Matt Huynh’s illustration seemed entirely appropriate.

Image by Matt Huynh from Midnight Morning by Will Leong, Matt Huynh & Haline Ly, 2008, www.popperbox.com.

In a limited edition, Midnight Morning is a handsomely crafted book of illustrations which, the three artists say, “celebrates shared experiences of love and devastation.”

OVER THE LAST DECADE THERE HAVE BEEN A RANGE OF POLICY INITIATIVES TO SUPPORT YOUNG AND EMERGING ARTISTS TO DEVELOP INNOVATIVE PRACTICE, FOR EXAMPLE THE DEDICATED FUNDING CATEGORIES AT THE AUSTRALIA COUNCIL AND MENTORING SCHEMES SUCH AS YOUTH ARTS QUEENSLAND’S SPARK PROGRAM. WHAT APPEARS UNEXAMINED IN THIS FOCUS ON ARTIST EMERGENCE IS THE UNIVERSITY SECTOR, FROM WHICH MANY OF THESE YOUNG ARTISTS BEGIN THEIR CAREERS. SUPPORT PROGRAMS FROM FUNDING BODIES OFFER PATHWAYS INTO PROFESSIONAL PRACTICE, BUT HOW DO YOUNG ARTISTS FIND THEIR WAY TOWARDS THESE PATHWAYS IN THE FIRST PLACE? WHAT ROUTES DO PERFORMANCE GRADUATES TAKE FROM UNIVERSITY STUDY TO PROFESSIONAL PRACTICE, AND WHAT STRATEGIES HAVE UNIVERSITIES ADOPTED TO ASSIST THEIR GRADUATES TO PREPARE FOR AND MANAGE THIS TRANSITION?

the university of wollongong

Professor Sarah Miller, Head of the School of Music and Drama at the University of Wollongong, is understandably cautious about employment prospects in the arts: “The way we think about it is that it is a flexible job market.” Despite this, in her view Wollongong graduates have had a very good retention rate in the arts, though not only as performing artists. Miller concedes that her school needs to better monitor graduate career pathways, but she is also attempting to involve graduates more thoroughly in the ongoing life of the school, using their career trajectories to inspire students about future possibilities. Miller stresses the importance of fostering artist self-reliance among Wollongong students: “Survival as an artist requires tenacity and commitment as well as onstage flair. We hope we’re not training actors to wait for the phone to ring.”

One of the strategies to achieve this is to include within coursework the submission of mock applications to the Theatre Board’s Young and Emerging category and to the Next Wave Festival. Malcolm Whittaker of Team Mess, a performance group of recent Wollongong graduates who recently completed a residency at Performance Space, described this as an invaluable process, involving as it did “writing something that you might very well use the next year.” For Whittaker, this early grounding in the reality of professional life “widened the possibilities of arts practice, and also showed how this might be realised in the professional world.” As the school’s staff includes several former peer assessors from funding bodies, feedback from these trial applications is of immediate value as professional development. Strong linkages with Illawarra Performing Arts Centre, and the professional profiles and connections of teaching staff (including Tim Maddock, Margaret Hamilton, Janys Hayes and Chris Ryan) combine to give students a strong grounding in a wide range of contemporary performance practice. As Miller points out, “We want to make the pathways that are already out there able to be accessed.”

james cook university

At James Cook University Cairns, Russell Milledge is highly conscious of the need to prepare students for the challenges of professional practice. A new degree in Media and Performance, offered for the first time in 2009, promises to be “practice-integrated” and to “harness the strong history of artistic innovation in far north Queensland.” For Milledge, this program intends to produce graduates who “have already been inducted into the contemporary arts arena” through formal partnerships between the university and professional performance companies such as JUTE Theatre, KickArts, End Credits and Bonemap. Additionally, Cairns’ annual hybrid arts festival, On Edge, will link into the degree program, providing both a vehicle for coursework and a pathway for graduate practice.

queensland university of technology

For Zane Trow, Associate Professor of Performance Studies at QUT’s Creative Industries Faculty, “contemporary performance in Australia is a misunderstood and much-attacked beast.” Preparing students to pursue a career in this field clearly has many challenges. “We want to empower them to know their way around at least the initial stages of the maze, to demonstrate to them that it is possible to make this work in the world.” This process involves training students to clearly articulate their own practice and the core concerns animating it, and also to articulate how this practice might fit within the field and policy frameworks. Not simply seeing the artist as a small business, this approach examines how artists have been able to survive and continue producing radical work. Involving case studies and performance projects, the approach Trow describes is as much philosophical as practical, aiming to produce graduates with that rare combination of “project management skills and critical thinking.” In recent years these have included live artist Rebecca Cunningham, Brisbane Festival’s Under the Radar associate producer Fiona MacDonald, and Indigenous installation and performance artist Alicia Jones.

Trow regards as one of the program’s greatest strengths its practice-led postgraduate research, in which “serious mid-career artists” return to the university to produce “both excellent performances and exciting research.” For Trow, the presence of strong practice-led research within QUT further enriches the exposure of undergraduates to possible career pathways.

flinders drama centre

For Anne Thompson, Head of Flinders Drama Centre (and co-director of Melbourne’s Eleventh Hour Theatre), producing artists who can be self-starters is essential. As well as teaching students artistic skills, Flinders aims to prepare students for professional practice by “encouraging all students to work as conceptual as well as interpretive artists and develop skills in creating, producing, and marketing their own work.” As Thompson states, coursework introduces students to “contemporary arts practice and thinking”, making them “well versed in film, video, TV and live performance so they can cross effectively between these.”

Professional connections are brokered with local industry representatives through audition workshops, and also through meeting graduates who have set up their own companies, the most recent guests being Sam Haren and The Border Project (appearing soon in the Sydney Theatre Company’s Wharf2Loud series). Keeping abreast of current opportunities is critical as “the job market morphs in relation to previous graduates’ successes, new people in positions, new funding opportunities and the interests and energies of graduates.”

Thompson stresses the importance of developing dialogue with funding bodies, with students not only introduced to grant writing but also meeting with Arts SA staff and local arts companies. Thompson also notes that Flinders “offers space and facilities to graduates” and “whenever possible we offer space to companies and individual artists to work on site”, creating the possibility for student secondments with artists in residence.

victorian college of the arts

Head of VCA’s School of Drama, University of Melbourne, Richard Murphet makes it clear to his students that “the future for theatre is kind of a lean one” and that they “can’t just sit around waiting for the agent. Gotta get up, gotta get moving and that’s the best way to get visible.” Much of VCA’s coursework focuses on equipping students with professional skills (including occupational health and safety, arts law and basic business skills) that will enable them to make their own work. VCA’s combination of directors, animateurs, actors, writers and technical production means that students can collaborate and “get a feel for people that they can work with.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, many of Melbourne’s exciting small companies are effectively teams of VCA graduates, including The Hayloft Project, Stuck Pigs Squealing, and Ranters. Students are also introduced to professional networks, including unions, producers, agents and casting directors, making the available pathways “very real for them”, and preparing them for the challenges ahead. Past graduates remain in close contact and are “constantly working in the studio spaces and coming in for advice.” Murphet feels that this ongoing connection is an essential part of VCA’s culture, believing that “it’s very important that we don’t just leave them at the end of three years.”

Despite limited resources for both arts practice and arts education, there is clearly an exciting blend of energy and pragmatism within university performance programs. The pathways that graduates take from university to professional arts practice are diverse, but it is heartening that university programs regard these issues of artist emergence as pivotal and are actively preparing their students to manage this transition. Heartening also is the recognition of the need to maintain contact with graduates, both to offer mentoring possibilities and to inspire current students with an expanded sense of available opportunities. The flourishing of young, innovative performance groups across Australia over recent years is a sure indication of the success of these initiatives.

AN AMAZING 40% DECLINE IN THE NUMBER OF PEOPLE CALLING THEMSELVES ‘ACTORS’ BETWEEN THE AUSTRALIAN BUREAU OF STATISTICS’ 2001 AND 2006 CENSUSES RAISES A FEW QUESTIONS. GIVEN THAT ACTING WOULD HAVE HAD TO BE THEIR ‘MAIN JOB’ IN THE WEEK BEFORE CENSUS NIGHT, IS THIS JUST A CASE OF THE 90% WHO WERE ACTUALLY WAITING ON TABLES OR DRIVING A TAXI THAT WEEK NOT HAVING THE CHUTZPAH TO INSIST THEY WERE STILL ‘ACTORS’? OR HAS THE DRASTIC DECLINE IN FILM AND TV WORK OF THE LAST FEW YEARS ACTUALLY DRIVEN THEM RIGHT OUT OF THE PROFESSION? OR COULD IT EVEN BE THAT THE RELENTLESS ATTACKS BY GOVERNMENTS OF ALL ILKS ON THE ‘ELITISM’ OF ARTISTS HAS FORCED ALL BUT THE COURAGEOUS 1,213 WHO CALLED THEMSELVES ACTORS TO RE-IDENTIFY ELSEWHERE AS ‘CULTURAL INDUSTRY WORKERS’ OR ‘VISUAL MERCHANDISERS’—WHATEVER THEY ARE? (BOTH OF THE LATTER CATEGORIES INCREASED, BY THE WAY.)

Another figure has to be considered, though. People still want to be artists. The recent Anticipating Change report for the Australia Council’s Major Performing Arts (MPA) companies counted no fewer than 61,178 students studying to be artists of all sorts in 2005. Clearly many of them don’t make it if the census figure the following year of only around 200,000 people in the whole country identifying as artists or their ‘support workers’ is accurate.

And with actors the most depressed group of all, one has to ask whether those optimistic students are being adequately prepared for a life that’s not actually all about acting. A recent interview in The Australian with the new CEO of NIDA, Lynne Williams, saw her admitting that the almost 50-year-old institution needed to track down partners in creative industries to make their courses broader in the future. Williams also acknowledged changing ‘performance contexts’ within theatre itself.

Now NIDA has always marketed itself as ‘the star factory’—the place that produced Mel and Judy and Our Cate. If they broaden their studies, will they become more like the 21-year-old Actors Centre (ACA) in Sydney which specialises in preparing its students for proactivity in the broadest sense, and less like the 16 year old Actors College of Theatre and Television (ACTT) which boldly says, “We take on people who want to be actors, and don’t offer courses in management and marketing”?

So, where does that place Melbourne’s eight-year-old National Institute of Circus Arts (NICA)? For one might argue that it has even more skills to impart than an acting school, yet still has a Business Studies teacher, still offers studies in corporate and community work, and allows its students to gain teaching experience on the job.

Could this be one reason why NICA was by far the most optimistic of the institutions about the employment of its graduates? Or is it just, as the institute’s director Pamela Creed touted, “The spectacle just won’t go away—we’re looking at world-wide growth. Right at the moment it’s in Macao’s casinos, but it’ll go from there into China”—a pretty confident statement about the nation with the greatest physical theatre on Earth!

NICA has the advantage of a recent survey of its five years of graduates, done at the behest of Swinburne University, of which NICA is a subsidiary. Forty-eight of 100 responded—a statistically significant figure, though it may just reflect the happiest of surveyees, for 95.3% of them have worked in their chosen profession since graduating and 86% were working at the time of the survey. This is partly proof of Creed’s ‘spectacle’ factor—with demand from the Commonwealth Games and FINA in Melbourne, the Asian Games in Doha (employing 40 graduates) and Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas etc. But it’s also, says Creed, a reflection of the absolute need of a circus artist to maintain their physical skills, “They have to work.”

Graduates also have to leave NICA with an ABN, insurance, a business plan and a company structure all worked out. And they’ll already have had experience teaching up to 300 external students who come in for evening classes, and met up with participants in the Training of Trainers course for community circus teachers working across the country. Last year graduands presented Divino in the Melbourne International Arts Festival involving commedia, dance and a capella singing; this year they’re turrning their hands to a digitally based work about the narcissism of circus artists on MySpace as a final production.

Graduating students at Sydney’s ACTT may well also go out buoyed by the professional optimism that founding director Lesley Watson believes is associated with now having their own theatre to perform in. She’s taken over Performance Space (now called the Cleveland Street Theatre) to both up the profile of her organisation and to give even more opportunities for “skill sharing between fresh young artists and experienced ones” invited in to mentor, develop projects and direct plays. NIDA directing students also come in to work with ACTT student actors, developing useful links for the future. And, in that future, Watson is hoping to start an ACTT graduate company to present plays professionally at Cleveland Street.

“Acting is less a job than a life commitment”, Watson believes. “But students do need a career aesthetic—knowing where they want to work so that they can take charge and not be at the whims of the job market , whether it’s writing, producing pub theatre, offering role-playing services or corporate training.”

Both Watson and Dean Carey, founding Artistic Director of the Actors Centre, see positive signs of a recovery in both TV drama and the local film industry. “The death of Big Brother gives Channel 10 $30m a year to spend on drama”, estimated a joyous Carey. “And that was reflected in the fact that agents didn’t just come politely to our recent graduating class shows—they were actually taking people on!”

Just in case this doesn’t all happen, ACA graduates have met up with casting directors, Equity reps, voice-over specialists, worked on their audition skills and at the Australian Film, Television & Radio School (AFTRS), taken away a CV on disk, a showreel and a folio of 8×10 shots, and are “ready to open their own business”, says Carey. He’s planning to add a weekend program on self-management for graduates and build up his new alumni page on ACA’s website.

But of course, it’s to NIDA that a company like the STC turns when they need eager young bodies for its production of Nigel Jamieson’s Gallipoli. All 23 third years are involved and design and technical students regularly get attached to professional companies during their courses. “But there are so many different sorts of theatre”, says Head of Acting, Tony Knight. “We can’t aim everyone at the STC, especially as it’s shrunk compared to film and TV. Aboriginal work in the Pilbara may be the dream—certainly no one wants to be ‘The new Cate Blanchett’!—community service is drummed into them at school these days.”

NIDA graduates might also utilise the institution’s good links with other schools in the US, Europe and India. “We can introduce them to Bollywood”, says Knight; “and Singapore’s just invested $500m in its film industry. It’s gone way beyond the David Williamson world today.”

Which is not only true, but worrying those Major Performing Arts companies reliant on access to the cream of the Aussie crop. In fact, the 2006 Securing the Future report quite specifically noted that the MPA companies’ financial stringency had squeezed out their role in skills development for artists. The 2007 increase in their base grants was the government’s response. So the Anticipating Change report’s discovery of “a mismatch between the growing number of cultural workers and the skill sets required by MPA organisations” suggests that the gap between sound tertiary training—especially in theatre—and the professional life should be filled by them.

Music already does it, says Tony Grybowski, the Australia Council for the Arts’ MPA companies Executive Officer—with the Australian Youth Orchestra (which he used to run), Australian National Academy of Music (ANAM), the Sydney Symphonia, Australian Chamber Orchestra etc. “In theatre, somebody needs to be thinking about that gap, which is one reason why we commissioned the Anticipating Change report, to help MPA boards look 10-15 years ahead. It’s unreasonable to expect the highest refined skills immediately out of training. And that’s particularly true in the case of support areas like directing, design and tech-ing—there’s such a shortage of them, graduates are snapped up straight away. But actors really do need more than self-funded theatre to develop.”

THE FUTURE OF THE BOOK HAS BEEN IN DOUBT FOR A COUPLE OF DECADES, BUT EVEN ITS CHALLENGERS, THE WORDY WORLD WIDE WEB AND THE EMERGENT E-BOOK ARE ‘BOOK-ISH’, DEPENDING ON YOUR COMFORT OR NOT WITH SCREEN-BASED MEDIA. MELBOURNE’S WELL, ESTABLISHED IN 1999, CELEBRATED THE BOOK BY CREATING A GIANT TOME THAT CAN BE OPENED, ENTERED AND READ IN VARIOUS WAYS, WRITTEN AND DRAWN IN AND PERFORMED ON. GREAT WALL OF BOOKS IS A PORTABLE PUBLIC SCULPTURE, RESPONSIVE TO ANY LOCATION AND CARRYING WITH IT, MATERIALLY AND VIRTUALLY, THE TRACES OF ITS INTERACTION WITH ITS MANY VISITORS, FROM MACAU TO MELBOURNE TO BANGKOK AND BEYOND.

The new wave of outdoor art around the world has been influenced by installation art and new media practices, incorporating electronic media as well as performance. It’s also highly adaptive, ready to move on to new sites, or it’s altogether temporary, as in Ephemeral Art at the Invisible Lodge in Tasmania’s Freycinet Peninsula in 2007 (RT84, p46). For Well, their book “carries with it its previous incarnation and location [becoming] a book of that time and place…[The audience] trace goes with us, bound into a book.” Well’s director, Dario Vacirca, enjoys playing with metaphor, lending the 10-year project an almost metaphysical dimension with its cross-artform, cross-media, cross-cultural evangelism.

For all of its innovations, Great Wall of Books is in the fine tradition of Australian outdoor performance (Five Angry Men, Strange Fruit, Snuff Puppets, Bambuco, Erth, PVI etc). Vacirca spent some formative years with Five Angry Men who, as part of their performances, built the very sculptures they would perform on and about. Great Wall is already constructed, “literally a gigantic book, five metres tall and opening out to over 11 metres wide”, ready for delivery by container, ship, truck and crane, but its book-lined insides are transformed depending on wherever it finds itself and the people whose ideas, dreams and stories it records.

Well describes the work as “a vessel that both generates and stores written, aural and visual stories.?People are invited to create and record their own stories across a range of interactive spaces within the structure. These creations are bound and catalogued, becoming a part of the ever-evolving library that is the central body of the book.”

the birth of the book

Touring with Melbourne’s Five Angry Men for three years, Vacirca recalls seeing “amazing works, profound installations—mostly outdoors.” But what intrigued him was “the possibility of making these works, with their visual arts momentum, performative and participatory.” He describes the vision that came to him as “a heavy and heady metaphor for the universe”, one which merged the physical and the virtual in the notion of a book.

Where precisely did this vision come from? “A dream in 2001, a moment of reality”, says Vacirca. In the dream he saw “books on the way to becoming landfill fly out of their skip and onto a wall.” Another trigger was a Borges story about a warrior king who builds a great wall and for every brick orders a book burnt—his aim being to erase history and start again, with his own. Vacirca thought he’d invert this process by making a great wall of books. Jason Cross [RT84, p14] commissioned the work for the 2005 Big West Festival in Footscray. To get The Great Wall up, says Vacirca, took a lot of lobbying and the vision for the work was “not believed in by funding bodies.” This, however, changed once the first version of the wall had been created.

The outside wall of the work originally comprised covers taken from thousands of abandoned books collected from 2002 on. Weather conditions later required a new “clean exterior surface with a pattern [suggestive of] many thousands of years ago. We went through many stages of designing this, experimenting with arabesque, various brickwork designs, outsider art—layered and recessed, built up surfaces—and settled on a vibration of colour that calls to mind the works of Klee and Rothko. The design needed to work from a great distance as well as in detail. It was finished off with litres of marine grade polyresin so it can withstand most weather.”

The inside of the book was seen as being like a library which would decay if not constantly fed with ideas. The re-worked design entailed sliding doors and three screens (two monitors and a projector). The book now unfolds into a two-tiered theatre and big projection space. The cover is constant but the interior is subject to constant change.

Great Wall’s audience is invited to participate by writing, drawing or verbally recording their stories, dreams or responses to the work itself, or to questions posed by it, like “What is the true story of your death?” The audience work is created on the ground and inside the book and, once indexed (using the chronological Bliss classification system which suits the evolutionary nature of the work), hoisted by abseiling Caretakers of the Book to take its place on a giant page. Vacirca says that audiences “willingly give their contributions away, but they have to specify if they want them archived, transformed or destroyed.” The transformations are into “sound compositions, visual projections, and/or inspirations for performance.”

Stage two of the book was realised in 2007 after a year’s gap in presentations and in which contact was established with the government of China’s Macau at the Asian Arts Market in Singapore. In Macau, says Vacirca, there was “a quite beautiful collaboration with local artists—mostly restricted by the authorities to traditional artform groups.” It involved a tea ceremony, music and calligraphy. The work was political in some respects, says Vacirca: the typewriters provided for audience use symbolised bureaucracy, as did “red tape on all the nearby glass windows”, while the performers’ shark costumes reflected “the ecological impact on shark populations in the harvesting of fins for the beloved soup.”

The company brought Rita Portugal Lima, one of the Macau contemporary visual artists, back to Melbourne for a 2008 Federation Square season: “She built a mixed media exhibition with film, video and sculpture. Addressing the Chinese meaning of Macau—gateway or door—Rita created works that were doors within the ‘doorways’ or boxes of the gallery, looking at “a country as an opening” that can at the same time be “a nation as a closing.”

Great Wall of Books travels next to Thailand, spending six weeks in Bangkok and Chiang Mai, supported by the education foundation of a telecommunications company. Planning is under way for visiting other Asian countries: “After that, Europe 2010, the Americas 2011-12 and, in 2012, possibly burn the book or find a permanent space for it.”

For Vacirca and his collaborators, Great Wall of Books is more than a labour of love. The director even describes dealing with crane operators, truck drivers and shipping merchants as “hilarious…like being kids.” For Well’s audiences and guest artists Great Wall of Books is at once a theatre (the company’s own visual theatre performances and guest works), a cinema, a gallery (featuring various exhibits and a collaborative mural in Macau), “a quiet space to escape the cacophony of the outside world” and reflect on life and art or to “be part of sharing community”, however ephemerally or enduringly. As Well puts it:

Works created for and within the book are transformed, explored and reinterpreted in future presentations. Consequently all those involved remain a part of the biggest story ever told—this is a metaphor for the universe after all.

The Great Wall of Books was in residence in Macau, China from June-September 2007 and during January 2008 at Federation Square, Melbourne. Well are Dario Vacirca, Alex Ben-Mayor, Matthew Gingold, Rebecca Rutter, El Pablo, Renato Vacirca, Bill Buckley and Bo Svronos. http://welltheatre.com

I WAS RECENTLY WONDERING ABOUT THE COMPATIBILITY OF BUSINESS MODELS AND ARTISTIC GROUPS AND GOT TO PONDERING THOSE IRRITATING SLOGANS CORPORATE LEADERS USE TO SPACKLE OVER THE GAPS IN THEIR RHETORIC. YOU KNOW THE ONES. THEY BEAR THE SAME RELATIONSHIP WITH INSIGHTFUL DISCOURSE THAT SURVIVOR HAS WITH ANTHROPOLOGY AND ARE ABOUT AS NUMBING. “THERE’S NO I IN TEAM.” “A CHAIN IS ONLY AS STRONG AS ITS WEAKEST LINK.” IN THESE CASES, I GOT TO THINKING, THERE’S NOT MUCH FIT WITH THE ARTS AT ALL. I’VE SEEN PLENTY OF RUBBISHY WORKS SAVED BY A SINGLE PERFORMER. LOTS OF COMPANIES THRIVE DESPITE THE PRESENCE OF SOME OBVIOUSLY UNDERQUALIFIED MEMBERS. ALL OF THIS MENTAL MEANDERING EVENTUALLY GOT ME DEBATING THE PROS AND CONS OF GOING IT ALONE VERSUS THOSE OF ASSEMBLING A TEAM OF LIKE-MINDED PERFORMANCE-MAKERS.

phoebe robinson

I realise I’d had Phoebe Robinson’s quiet, effective Only Leone in mind in the days preceding these thoughts. Robinson’s been developing solo work for a few years now, and the short Only Leone is the culmination of her three-month residency at Dancehouse. It’s a rumination on solitude at several levels, most not immediately obvious. There’s the Roy Orbison allusion in the title, as well as the understated influence of the sparse, laconic wanderers of Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns. But beyond these, I’m more used to seeing Robinson dance in partnership with her sister Julia, or alongside other dancers with (the now departed) Dance Works. For me, much of Only Leone’s loneliness came in the form of the ghosts not visible around the dancing form. We often discuss live performance—especially dance—in terms of presence, the positive materiality of the body. But when choreography can equally signify absence, the effect is uncanny.

It’s not immediately obvious whether Robinson is consciously playing with the problematics of dancing alone. Her choreography seems to imply it, though. She doesn’t try to fill the expansive white space in which she moves—far from it. Her movements are unnervingly precise but understated and for the most part occur within tightly conscribed areas, rather than traversing the stage. The sole exception occurs when she unexpectedly darts towards her audience to stop a breath away, now sharing the darkened space of her onlookers. It’s an ironic attempt at connection, though, and it seems clear that any kind of fourth-wall busting would be an artificial substitute for the more authentic connections which develop during creative relationships.

john-paul hussey

In the absence of co-conspirators, of course, a performer often turns to their relationship with an audience to fill the void. John-Paul Hussey’s Monkey Trilogy comes to a close with his latest, Love Monkey, which makes explicit a theme of connectedness and fragmentation which has underscored his previous solo outings. As usual, it’s a fascinating and often infuriatingly dense skein of ideas, drawing lines between Hussey’s own autobiography, classic myths and Jungian archetypes, works of great and popular fiction (from Moby Dick to James Cameron’s Titanic, for instance) and much else besides. It’s largely about love, charting various relationships across the performer’s history, but it’s equally about his relationships with his artistic forebears, his world and his craft itself. And though it would be easy to conclude such a narrative with an attempt to bridge the divide between performer and viewer, Hussey bravely maintains a constant distance from the onlooker by imbuing his story with so much strangeness that we can’t help but be frequently confounded. Even as he makes a thematic plea for human connection, he waves his eccentricities and idiosyncracies in our faces, as if to remind us that the price of true individuality is isolation.

three to a room

Here’s a curious counter-example: Three to a Room’s upcoming Edinburgh tour of Adam JA Cass’ I Love You, Bro. It’s a genuinely stunning monologue in itself, earning acclaim for playwright Cass and performer Ash Flanders when staged in last year’s Melbourne Fringe Festival. It traces the true story of a 14-year-old English boy whose obsessive search for human interaction through online chatrooms led to his stabbing in a dank alley, a police investigation unveiling a vast web of lies and intricate role-play, and a court conviction for inciting his own murder. There is an “I” in alienation, apparently.

A thrilling story aside, what makes this tour so interesting is in the way that Three to a Room—a company of three young theatremakers—have taken this small production, along with Sisters Grimm’s equally fringe cult schlock-fest Mommie and the Minister, and pushed them all the way to the Edinburgh Fringe. It’s not that they’re adapting these works. They’re doing something oddly rare in the independent theatre scene—producing. Having already toured their own productions to Edinburgh—the lauded An Air Balloon Across Antarctica—the company this time round has found a pair of pre-existing pieces which deserve further life, and has taken on the job of making the connections between these satellite performances and the solid terrain of Scotland. The business of the independent producer—the forging ties between free-floating creatives and established institutions—has been one of the more exciting areas of development and discussion in recent years, and the work of small companies such as Three to a Room add an extra layer of activity to the trend.

rogue

After all this talk of the loneliness and isolation of the creative, it’s only fair to turn to its opposite. Anyone with any experience in the performing world will know the feeling of intense intimacy engendered by a close collaboration with a group of fellow artists—the wrap-party “we’ll always remember each other!” expressed as everyone swaps numbers, even as a part of you hopes X never calls and Y quickly fills that spare role in production Z. It’s amplified exponentially in the case of major performing arts courses. After three years of excoriating emotional nakedness in which intra-class relationships are formed, broken, reformed and so on, the power dynamics and status levels come to seem a cemented microcosm of the world itself. And then comes that world. And everything becomes open to question as the class star struggles for roles and the quiet kid at the back is fending off job offers.

The ranks of Rogue are filled out with ex-VCA dance students (and other graduates from around Australia), and if the company’s Next Wave double bill was anything to go by, they’re an impressively cohesive bunch. The Counting saw this literalised—Antony Hamilton’s choreography presented an hypnotic mass of overlapping motion which blurred the lines between the organic and the mechanical. Individuality disintegrated quickly, the work favouring instead a sense of complementary movement—technically sophisticated and visually complex, patterns echoing across different bodies and discrete spaces. That these young dancers managed to flawlessly execute such an intricate, almost sublime work is testament to the company’s status as an important new force in Melbourne’s dance scene.

Ocular Proof was created by company members themselves and, while not as subtle as Hamilton’s work, is equally encouraging. Its sequence of a dozen-odd vignettes ranging from the comical—18th century courtiers flirting and backstabbing across a glowing dining table—to the unsettling—bodies acting as screens for the projected image of two rapidly aging and decaying figures. The design technology provided by Olaf Meyer and members of Bluebottle3 is nothing short of dazzling here, and at times comes to overshadow the dancers’ performances. But this is no complaint. One of Rogue’s strengths seems precisely this willingness to sacrifice egos and grandstanding in order to take advantage of the experience and ability of others—choreographers, designers or each other.

John-Paul Hussey’s Chocolate Monkey shows at Sydney’s Seymour Centre, Oct 14-25; I Love You, Bro at Pleasance Dome, Edinburgh, Scotland, August 2-25

Only Leone, choreographer, performer Phoebe Robinson, sound design Sheldon King, Felicity Mangan, lighting Adam Hardy, Ben Cobham; Dancehouse, July 2-6; Love Monkey, writer, performer John-Paul Hussey, director Lucien Savron, composer Kelly Ryall, set, video Matthew Gingold, lighting Shane Grant; Northcote Town Hall, May 28-June 15; Three to a Room, I Love You, Bro, writer Adam JA Cass, director Yvonne Virsik, performer Ash Flanders; Monash University Student Theatre, June 30-July 3; Rogue, The Counting, choreography Antony Hamilton, performers Derrick Amanatidis, Danielle Canavan, Holly Durant, Merryn Heath, Laura Levitus, Kathryn Newnham, Harriet Ritchie, Marisa Wilson, Suhaili Micheline, Ahmad Kamil, lighting Alexandre Malta, costume Doyle Barrow, music Panasonic; Ocular Proof, choreographer-performers Rogue, multimedia design Olaf Meyer, lighting Alexandre Malta, costume Doyle Barrow, music Lachlan Carrick, Meat Market, Melbourne, May 28-31; 2008 Next Wave, May 15-31

A SMALL SLICE OF VIETNAM HAS MIRACULOUSLY APPEARED IN THE MIDDLE OF PARRAMATTA OR MORE ACCURATELY AT PARRAMATTA RIVERSIDE. WE ARE STANDING OUTSIDE, WAITING FOR OUR TICKETS TO MOTHER FISH, WHILE WATCHING A FISHERMAN CAST HIS NET, A BOAT BOB IN THE WATER, CLOTHES HUNG ON WOODEN POLES, AND A CYCLIST RINSING HIS BICYCLE. WHEN WE COLLECT OUR TICKETS AND PROGRAMS WE ARE ALSO ISSUED WITH A SHEET OF RED PAPER AND SOME INSTRUCTIONS FOR FOLDING IT INTO A BOAT, WHICH PROVES SURPRISINGLY COMPLICATED. ONCE YOU HAVE COMPLETED YOUR BOAT, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO PLACE IT ON THE RIVER BUT MOST PEOPLE HANG BACK, PREFERRING TO LOOK AT THE PANORAMA BELOW. THE SPELL IS FINALLY BROKEN WHEN THE BOAT IN THE RIVER PADDLES OFF AND THE CYCLIST COMES RACING UP THE FOOTPATH, SHOUTING, “COME ON GUYS, WE HAVE TO GET INSIDE!” SINCE IT’S A FULL HOUSE THIS TAKES A WHILE, BUT THE MOVEMENT FROM THE WIDE OUTDOORS TO THE CRAMPED INDOOR SPACE OF THE THEATRE IS SUGGESTIVE OF THE JOURNEY TO COME.

On stage there is a rusty replica of a fishing boat, the wooden boards serving as both deck and hull, depending on which way the actors emerge from the trapdoor in the floor. It is here that the four characters—two sisters, Hanh and Kim, their uncle, and a young fisherman Chau—will spend the duration of the show. Younger sister Hanh is less than impressed at having to travel with her irascible uncle, who, for his part, is none too pleased about having two teenaged girls in tow. In anticipation of the move to America (no one is aiming for Australia), Uncle has converted to Christianity but he is ecumenical enough to instruct the girls, “You pray to Buddha, I pray to Jesus, that way everyone will look out for us.” In another exchange, Chau confides that he used to have a girlfriend, causing Kim to exclaim, “Don’t tell me something happened to her?!” “Yeah, it did”, he deadpans, “She got engaged.” It is moments such as these that make the opening scenes surprisingly funny and the humour works to establish an easy rapport not only between the characters but also between characters and spectators.

Inevitably though the humour fades and as the story goes on, it starts to wear. We long for some progress or failing that, some diversion, relief or catharsis. But perhaps this is precisely the point: boat journeys are long, arduous, relentless and boring. Indeed, the narrative structure is typical of what theatre theorist Freddie Rokem has called “narratives of terror” [“Narratives of Armed Conflict and Terrorism in the Theatre,” Theatre Journal, Vol 54, No 54, 2002]. He argues that while conventional narratives obey an ‘if…then’ principle (if this happens, then that will follow), narratives of terror obey the principle of “then…then.” In other words, when narrating terror there can be no easy exposition, complication and resolution; only an endless series of ‘thens.’ Thus the fragile Mother Fish and her crew are subjected to a succession of unspeakable ‘thens.’ First pirates attack them, stealing from one sister and raping another. Then the boat reaches the coast of Thailand, where they are refused entry and returned to sea. Then Chau grows increasingly desperate and confused, diving off in pursuit of another passing boat. Then Hanh gets increasingly ill, eventually dying. Then, then, then: each event is unbearable in itself but in combination the events are almost too much.

There have been many plays by and about refugees in recent years but Mother Fish stands out for several reasons, not least because it deals with earlier instances of forced migration. It is also rare because it has two young girls at the centre of the story, one of whom does not survive (another rare feature in a genre that for obvious reasons tends to emphasise endurance). Finally, the play is also unusual because it focuses solely on the journey rather than making the journey a mere turning point; there isn’t a great deal of detail about life beforehand in Vietnam and there is absolutely no detail about life afterwards in Australia. In fact, the play finishes with the two surviving characters stepping onto the shore.

Landing on the shores of Parramatta Riverside, Mother Fish comes at an interesting point in Australian politics and Australian theatre. With the election of the Rudd government, some of the harshest migration laws have been repealed (TPVs have been abolished, the ‘Pacific Solution’ abandoned and the Ministerial right to review is itself under review). Similarly, the wave of theatre that developed in response to this punitive refugee policy, much of which has been reviewed in RealTime, is also receding. What Mother Fish does is to remind us that while the excesses of the Howard years may have passed (remembering always that it was a Labor government that introduced mandatory detention), the dangers of forced migration do not go away. Refugees take enormous risks when they set sail in vessels that aren’t much sturdier than paper boats and when they arrive they often have little more than their stories. For this reason, stories sometimes become the only currency refugees have, especially when dealing with immigration officials but also when dealing with well-meaning but ignorant locals. These tales, then, are precious cargo, for they have purchased freedom. Mother Fish delivers them with great humour, courage and care.

Powerhouse Youth Theatre, Mother Fish, writer, director Khoa Do, assistant director Jason McGoldrick, performers Kathy Nguyen, Sheena Pham, Hieu Phan, Vico Thai, design Kate Shanahan, composer Alan John, dramaturg Claudia Chidiac, lighting Chris Clough; Riverside Parramatta, May 24-25, www.motherfish.com.au

THE BLUE ROOM HAS BEEN A CENTRE FOR INTERESTING NEW WORK THIS YEAR. RECENT GRADUATES FROM EDITH COWAN UNIVERSITY’S PERFORMANCE COURSE PUT ON AN AMUSING, HIGHLY THEATRICALISED MEDITATION ON THE ORESTEIA, WHILE MURDOCH GRADUATE ALEXA TAYLOR REMOUNTED HER HIGHLY POETIC HONOURS YEAR INSTALLATION IN THE SHADOW OF THE WILD. BUT IT WAS THE BRITISH PLAYWRIGHT SIMON STEPHENS’ MOTORTOWN, DIRECTED BY MARISA GARREFFA, THAT REALLY SET OFF THE SEASON.

The five women who created this production of The Oresteia depict those incarnations of unreasoning vengeance, the Furies, as three performers trapped in a motel room strewn with newspaper and accoutrements such as a telephone, couch and venetian blinds—each of which featured repeatedly in the dramaturgy. Brutally simple puppets scrunched together from paper were a particular treat. The cross-dressing narrative was a retelling of the events which led to the Furies’ imprisonment, namely the matricidal affairs and murders which led prince Orestes to kill his faithless mother and her new lover so as to avenge his own father, before the Furies in turn pursued him to vengefully tear him apart. Apollo eventually intervenes and it is decided, as one of the founding acts of the Athenian republic, that such bloodlust is inconsistent with Apollonian civilisation, leading to the Furies’ banishment.

Great fun though this tongue-in-cheek retelling is, there is no reason why the Furies should be in a motel room (as opposed to a bathroom, swimming pool, cave or theatre). Nevertheless, one cannot resist any piece performed by actors given to chanting mellifluously “blood, blood” and bursting into song as readily as into game-play, and who can produce the rubber-lipped sound of a phone ringing with such aplomb.

Alex Taylor’s In the Shadow of the Wild is a performatively gentler, serious work, relying on an affective yet simple relationship between text (some of which is reproduced on the white drapes which line the shared space of performer and audience), design (a pool bounded by piled sand and framed by arched poles behind which Taylor eventually crouches) and presence. Taylor’s text is affectively coherent more than conceptually framed, and while exploring issues of wildness—including notions of terrorist, child and ‘wild’ indigene—Taylor’s associative logic owes more to stream-of-consciousness than cultural critique. She acknowledges that seeing Aborigines as ‘wild’ says more any non-Aboriginal culture than about indigenous reality, but she does not pursue this. She is more concerned with generating a relationship with her audience that, like her soft white set, evokes a sense of dreamlike intimacy over and above imparting specific content. One carries away from this piece the sense of a cotton-woollish embrace, and while one might quibble that Taylor’s political references demand a more forceful interrogation, such a strategy would make impossible the quiet, measured speech and address to the audience which underpins her aesthetic.

Writer Simon Stephens and director Marisa Garreffa by contrast stimulate reflection through a hyper-intense, yet nevertheless acoustically poetic, dramaturgical flagellation of the audience. Motortown follows the actions of returning UK Iraq War veteran Danny (Richie Flanagan)—a loser before he left and now even more damaged. Danny stays with his socially inept, near autistic brother Lee—a tremendously hunched, frightened, loving and apologetic Glenn Hall, who later morphs into the cynical, suave and dangerous pimp who regales Danny with tales of social decadence.

After abortively attempting to reunite with a woman who Danny believed was his girlfriend, but who now denies this and recognises that Danny has become deeply scary, Danny kills the pimp, abducts the latter’s underage lover/prostitute Jade (a suitably naïve, flirtatious and unspeakably terrified Amanda Woodhams) to lecture her in a wasteland before despatching her too. The piece ends with a pair of codas in which Danny meets a sophisticated, swinging bisexual couple who attempt to pick him up before he mouths off at Britain’s professional class and their sexual peccadillos, later to retreat back to Lee’s flat where Lee declares that while once people were concerned about what he might do to them or their children, it is really Danny whom they should fear. Throughout, Garreffa and her cast keep the dialogue crisp even where the characters are stuttering in terror or abjection, and the volume within the small space seems sharp, loud and reverberant.

The production functions as a series of shocks or blows delivered at quite what one is not certain, except that society in general is implicated. Stephens locates the war, its chain of command and post-traumatic stress firmly within the causation of the malaise he depicts, while also insisting that there are other factors which cannot be ignored. Having endured the godawful National Theatre of Scotland production of Black Watch in which one of the characters, without any sense of condemnation, either in terms of direction or audience response, blithely exclaimed, “What the fuck have the Iraqis got to do with it?”, Motortown comes as a necessary corrective, dragging not only the scarred soldiers but the whole of modern western civilisation back into the mire of the conflict. For Stephens and Garreffa, the whole horrible mess is inextricably interlinked and tragic—not in terms of classical heroic resistance, but in the way in which patterns of self-loathing and non-redemptive violence repeat themselves today; a wakeup call for this post-Howard, post-Blair political climate.

Duck House Theatre, The Oresteia, director, producer Gita Bezard, director, production manager, Kathryn Osborne, performer-devisers Alissa Claessens, Sarah McKellar, Fran Middleton. April 22-May 10; Renegade Productions, In The Shadow Of The Wild, deviser-performer Alexa Taylor, music, lighting Joe Lui, May 28 – June 14; Motortown, writer Simon Stephens, director Marisa Garreffa, assistant director, producer Renato Fabretti, performers Richie Flanagan, Glenn Paul, Amanda Woodhams, Melanie Munt, Ben Russell, Anita Erceg, James Helm, lighting Karen Cook, music Steve Hearne, costumes Skye Hegarty, June 17–July 5; Blue Room, Perth

LIKE ANY ADAPTATION, THE ANDREW SCHULTZ-GLEN PERRY OPERA FOR MELBOURNE’S CHAMBERMADE OF THE CHILDREN’S BACH IS AND IS NOT THE HELEN GARNER NOVEL OF 1984 ON WHICH IT IS BASED. THE REAL TIME OF EXPERIENCING A NOVEL IS THE READER’S OWN, AS SLOW OR FAST AS THEY WISH. THE REAL TIME OF THE STAGE IS RELATIVELY FIXED AND BRIEF, AS IT IS FOR EVEN THIS SLENDER NOVEL. BUT WHAT A NOVEL AND, AT FIRST GLANCE, WHAT AN UNLIKELY CANDIDATE TO BE ‘OPERATED’ ON. AND WHAT AN ENGAGING NEW OPERA, SUCCESSFUL IN PART BUT, LIKE MUCH CONTEMPORARY OPERA, NOT WITHOUT THE STYLISTIC PROBLEMS OF A FORM IN TRANSITION.

If you’ve read a novel which has inspired an opera, you’ll be be sensitive to the inevitable sacrificing of elements of plot and character. You’ll wonder if the characters on stage will match those you conjured in your reading. And then there’s anxiety about the larger mutation of interpretation, as librettist, composer, director, performers and designers make the original their own. Its language is likely to be particularly vulnerable: edited, of necessity, re-shaped, re-written, often deprived of the voice of its implicit narrator (whose role in opera is likely to become the orchestra’s) and transposed from the inner reader to the singer. If you love the book, you live in fear that the experience of it will be tainted, as happens with many a film adaptation. Sometimes the match between original and adaptation is such that the opera casts the book in a new light; more often, opera and book are like parallel universes, closely related, but very different experiences which we refuse to confuse.

Helen Garner’s idiosyncratic novel is hardly what you’d call plot-driven—it’s a quiet reverie of multiple minds observing the world and themselves in the everyday. The third person narrational point of view shifts briskly if gently from mind to mind within single frames (a meeting, a dinner, a trip). Although these glimpses can sometimes be quite brief, the novel has a great sense of residing in the moment and resisting the pull of plot: Garner gets the moment/momentum dynamic just right, evoking the interiority of a small suburban network of family and friends, some small dramas and a larger one when 40 year old Athena briefly leaves her family (partner Dexter and their two children, Arthur and the autistic Billy) for her friend Elizabeth’s musician lover Philip (single parent of Poppy, in her early teens).

Librettist Perry retains one son, Billy, and places him, first and last, centrestage, staring out into the audience. Within the opera Billy punctuates the action with his moments of intense preoccupation, frustration and anger, including tinkering with or hammering an old upright piano. He’s a victim of Athena’s apparently callous indifference when she frees the rabbit to which we know he has some kind of attachment. In the novel he is beyond such a connection. But in the opera we are being well prepared for Athena’s abandonment of her family. In the novel, Garner pays pretty much equal attention to Athena and Elizabeth, but because Elizabeth’s life can’t be resolved into story, in the opera she increasingly becomes an observer. The balance tips towards Athena and the opera towards the conventionally theatrical. However, composer, librettist and director attempt, in their own terms, to balance the push and pull of moment and momentum and retain a strong sense of the novel’s reflectiveness.

If Billy provides a simple frame for the opera (a child’s very innocent and largely detached view of things) and provides moments that are not plot-connected, likewise young Poppy, sitting up in bed, literally gives us a children’s Bach as, from time to time, she reads aloud passages (projected with the surtitles) that explain the musical structure of the fugue and the nature of counterpoint. She doesn’t do this in the novel, but in the opera Perry deftly uses it to provide her with focus, a desire to learn, a preoccupation, as she drifts away from the amiable intimacy with her father; and offers the audience an unfussy theoretical counterpoint to the unfolding story.

In its use of aria, of duet, trio, quartet and, of course, repetition, opera is a form capable of achieving a powerfully immersive sense of moment, although much of 20th century opera resisted this inheritance, turning sometimes to a kind of conversational naturalism—not always musically memorable on first hearing (while the orchestral score often can be). Schultz’s solos and duets share some of this awkwardness, of the trained opera voice delivering everyday dialogue, the inevitable aristocracy of tone at odds with the vocabulary and syntax of the lower middle class characters of the novel. The effect can be to make the dialogue sound silly, or redundant—why all that projection and modulation to say, “Shall we go inside?” (Dudley Moore once brutally parodied Benjamin Britten, actually a lesser offender, for producing this heightened banality.) Of course, if you’re an opera afficionado, familiar with the conventions, you’ll be forgiving of such disjunctions. However, in The Children’s Bach, we very occasionally hear the spoken voice, and the gap is prised further open.

Schultz’s songs however often catch the ear, almost at times like a musical (Sondheim having to some degree bridged the opera-musical gap), as when Philip sings to Poppy about his beloved Paradise Bar, or Dexter about ‘lerv.’ While the score is not accessible in the manner of Glass or Adams or, more conventionally, Golijov, nor is it the jagged modernism of an earlier Schultz opera, Black River (1989, film 1993). The composer’s score is lyrical and pervasively melancholic, save a joyous, dancing, unsung passage and the opera’s baroqu-ish duet coda. Not surprisingly it’s the Bach-ian texturing and pulsing of the score that gives the work warmth and drive. Each of Poppy’s readings from her ‘Children’s Bach’ seem to trigger the requisite realisation of the theory from the orchestra, driving the opera on but also adding to the sense of moment, a certain thoughtfulness, a musical reflectiveness. Schultz’s score sings, muses and dances and is superbly realised by the onstage conductor (Nicholas Carter alternating with music director Brett Kelly) and fine instrumentalists on piano, cello, clarinet, double bass, marimba, vibraphone and violin.

Chris Kohn’s direction, Dale Ferguson’s design and Richard Vabre’s lighting do much to conjure the spirit of Garner’s novel. The set occupies the whole of the open Merlyn stage: at first glance a mass of furniture without walls which is soon delineated by lighting and character movement. It’s a simple but effective, fluid space suggestive of Garner’s multiple points of view and allowing for easy transitions and edits and evoking a shared world of overlapping lives. Amidst all of this, just upstage only slightly to one side are the conductor and musicians—part of this world.

As well, Kohn has elicted from each of the performers an affecting natural presence (in contrast to the thrilling hyper theatricality of his own company, Stuck Pigs Squealing) and an ease of movement within and to and from the various domestic spaces. Composer, librettist and director have also integrated the upright piano further into the scenario, Athena struggling with her Bach, Billy toying with the instrument and Philip picking out a tune—the orchestra sometimes seamlessy picking up on these.

Schultz and Perry have deftly ‘plotted’ their version of The Children’s Bach, but maintained some of the requisite sense of moment, musically and, with additions of their own, structurally, and this has been adroitly furthered by director and designers. Musically, the orchestral score has an engaging contemporary lyricism—without resorting to minimalism or pastiche—but vocally the opera feels like it belongs well back in the 20th century. Nonetheless, despite the various mismatches there’s much to enjoy and a certain poignancy felt at the ending as a reconciled Elizabeth and sister Vicki duet the novel’s closing narration (an odd shift in the framing, but endearingly composed and sung) and Billy looks out at us in silence…as if, in an odd way, we’ve shared this suburban world with him.

ChamberMade, The Children’s Bach, adapted from the novel by Helen Garner, composer Andrew Schultz, librettist Glenn Perry, director Chris Kohn, performers Kathryn Gray, Dimity Sepherd, Andrea Carcassi, James Eggleston, Tess Duddy, Hannah Kostros/Alexa Madden (Poppy), James Christensen/Jackson Cairnduff (Billy), music director Brett Kelly, conductor Brett Kelly/Nicholas Carter, musicians James Cowell, Mitch Berick, Susannah Ng, Mark Kruger, Nicholas Synott, Eugene Ughetti, designer Dale Ferguson, lighting Richard Vabre, sound design Russell Goldsmith; The Merlyn, Malthouse, Melbourne, June 20-July 5

COMPOSER, SOUND DESIGNER AND DIRECTOR MAX LYANDVERT AND POET AND LYRICIST DAN SPIELMAN HAVE COMBINED TO PRODUCE MANNA FOR THE SYDNEY THEATRE COMPANY'S ADVENTUROUS WHARF2LOUD PROGRAM. THEY DESCRIBE THE WORK AS “A SONG CYCLE AND EARPLAY.” APTLY THERE IS SOMETHING OF THE PADDED CELL AND THE SOUND CHAMBER IN MANNA, THE STAGE WALLS LINED WITH UPRIGHT MATTRESS-LIKE PADDING AS FIVE PERFORMERS ADDRESS US DIRECTLY IN RECITATIONS AND SONGS OF SEPARATION AND LOSS.

This is a dream-like world of floating signifiers gesturing at a barely tangible signified—the expression of grief bordering on despair. Appropriately the performers play out a collective state of being rather than characters. At one moment they appear like a family, stiffly gathered for a group portrait around a kamanche (Persian bowed lute) player, at others individuals intone laments distantly evocative of the horrors of World War II, the Holocaust, Bosnia and Kossovo, but, save for a passing mention of Chechnya, none is specified. Love and family have been forever lost by unnamed people to unnamed wars in unnamed places.

This attempt at universality, or even a metaphysical dimension (inherent in the work's title), is a brave but risky one requiring an extra alert listening from the audience and not a little guess work as Spielman's poetic text offers images (“a night of great fires”, “she tried to burn the body before they came”) that are often suggestive of but never quite add up to straightforward tellings. That's not a bad thing in itself, but the overall lack of specificity makes it difficult to anchor the world of Manna as it moves on image to image. It's as if the work is unearthed, a constellation of potent charges waiting for the moment of promise, a lightning strike that will never come.

Certainly Manna's weighty themes are performed with emotional intensity, Boris Brkic and Gertrud Ingeborg bringing to them a particularly affecting, quiet gravity. The visual imagery has its moments of strength, and weakness—including a large mirror wheeled briskly across the stage without attention to effect or meaning. Some images resonate effectively with each other, a mock operation and a later pieta play on our sense of the sheer vulnerability of the body and our growing separation from the dead. Others, like a man stripped to the waist with some device attached to his chest, appear potent—in the manner of the creations of Romeo Castellucci—but remain obscure.

Not surprisingly in a work described as an “earplay”, sonic imagery plays a key role. From the middle of the front row, facing his performers, Max Lyandvert mixes and modulates a score that ranges from engaging, supple ambiences that heighten the sense of dream and underlying anxiety to huge waves of nightmarish sound (evocative of war and other catastrophes, but again not literally) that regularly punctuate the action and drive all else to stillness. But sound is also part of the physical performance, realised on violin, piano, a piano string frame and classical Persian lute, hammered dulcimer and drum by the performers. The music in Manna is cross-cultural, the voices bear different accents. Then there are assorted uses of the gravel tray once commonly found in radio studios, here, for example, used by one performer to create the trudging of another, quite still, lamenting. The mock operation is like a children's game—vegetables and fruit squished, crunched and grated before us. Again, the real evaporates into shadow forms, into art and play—our means of facing, and evading, the real.

Early in Manna, Spielman's poems bewail the loss of loved ones but equally recognise our deep entwining as couples (“your voice inside my voice”), and thus how the lost ones stay with us. But later, in lines about touch, he expresses the very tentativeness of connection (“perhaps I touch you with my voice”), existential anxiety seeming to grow as the performance moves on to its final image of 'putting someone to rest.'

For Max Lyandvert, in his program note, the biblical manna is a metaphor for the hardships the Israelites endured coming out of Egypt (“they HAD to have their journey”), its nourishment symbolising their spiritual readiness for receiving God's ten commandments. Likewise, if without a conventional theatrical trajectory, the figures in Manna collectively go on their journey, struggling with suffering. Lyandvert posits that “through grieving and the existential consciousness of loss…Man arrives at the act of burial, to honour the dead.” And so does Manna.

Manna is an odd concoction, part contemporary performance, if too actorly and visually uneven, part recitation (some of the poems might have fared better on the page), and part sound event—a sometimes fascinating interplay of voices, acoustic and miked, musical instruments (most potently, Jamal Rekabi vocally and on the Iranian kamanche, santore and daef), live sound effects and digital soundscapes that constantly mutate our shared aural environment. Moments when these discrete elements bounce off each other like charged atoms or merge into striking images suggest the potential for Manna to be at once ethereal and earthed. But there's work to do to bring it down to us from the heavens.

Wharf 2Loud, Manna, lyrics, text Dan Spielman, director, composer, sound designer Max Lyandvert, performers Boris Brkic, Gertraud Ingeborg, Dana Miltins, Jamal Rekabi, Jayne Tuttle, visual artists Kate Davis, Marisa Purvell, lighting Emma Valente, Wharf 2, Sydney Theatre Company, Sydney, from July 1

THE AUSTRALIAN FILM INDUSTRY HAS ENTERED A NEW PHASE, WITH A NEW CENTRAL FUNDING AGENCY AND A NEW FINANCIAL SUPPORT MECHANISM OFFERING A SIGNIFICANTLY INCREASED LEVEL OF FUNDING. SCREEN AUSTRALIA, THE SINGLE ENTITY FORMED BY THE MERGER OF THE FILM FINANCE CORPORATION, THE AUSTRALIAN FILM COMMISSION AND FILM AUSTRALIA, FORMALLY CAME INTO BEING ON 1 JULY (ALTHOUGH EXISTING PROGRAMS OF THE COMPONENT AGENCIES WILL CONTINUE UNTIL THE END OF THE YEAR); IT HAS A NEW BOARD BUT THE INDUSTRY IS WAITING FOR THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE PERMANENT CEO. EMPLOYMENT PROSPECTS ARE LOOKING POSITIVE, ESPECIALLY WITH NEW TECHNOLOGIES OPENING UP JOB OPPORTUNITIES IN INTERESTING SCREEN-RELATED AREAS. SO IT’S NOT SURPRISING THAT THERE IS A SENSE OF CAUTIOUS OPTIMISM ABOUT THE JOB PROSPECTS FOR GRADUATES.

multi-platforming & multi-skilling

Associate Professor Gillian Leahy from the University of Technology Sydney (UTS) considers that film and related production areas are expanding, and that even the depressed television drama production area “certainly looks as if it might climb back.” This offers opportunities for UTS graduates, especially as they have learnt management skills in the process of seeing a project through to completion, giving them the practical expertise needed by prospective employers. The Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology’s (RMIT) Programs Director (Journalism and Media) Leo Berkeley sees employment increasingly opening up in related growth areas, such as the games industry and 3D compositing. “Our graduates are finding work in all sorts of unusual occupations, especially those where their multi-skilling is useful. They can communicate and operate well online”, he says.

John Buckmaster from the Sydney Film School (SFS) agrees that convergence of new media has led to an increase in the types of employment available. “Our graduates work either full-time, contract or casual. Full-time work is generally with production houses, television and post-production, while contract and casual is for TVCs, film productions and corporates”, he explains.

In WA, the Film and TV Institute in Fremantle (FTI) provides high quality industry based training with intensive, hands-on courses delivered by professionals, featuring guest speakers to provide practical and up-to-date knowledge. “All of our programs have a strong emphasis on the essential skills required for a successful career in the rapidly changing media sector, including team work”, explains Training Registrar Fern Nicholson, “and the job market has been looking good for the last seven to eight months. In fact, there seems to be an influx of new productions.”

transforming courses

Many educational institutions are restructuring both their undergraduate and postgraduate courses, including new and specialised subjects in response to industry demand. While RMIT has probably led the way in modernising its degrees, both the Australian Film Television & Radio School (AFTRS) and UTS are also making quite dramatic changes to both the way courses are structured and to the components of those courses. At RMIT, the changes have been quite extensive: “We’re essentially integrating theory and practice in a distinctive way”, explains Leo Berkeley, “getting students to explore the way boundaries have blurred, to investigate what it means to be a professional in this new environment. It’s not multimedia; we teach film, television and radio, but challenge students to think about those areas in a networked environment. And we’ve changed our way of teaching to student-centred learning, teaching them how to learn. We don’t focus on content, which changes, but on identifying their own strengths and weaknesses.”

simultaneity: education & experience

AFTRS recently moved to its new, specially designed and built premises within the Fox Studios complex, and will be offering a number of different ways in which students can enter the school. As Graham Thorburn, AFTRS Director, Screen Content, explains, “We now see education existing in parallel with experience, that is, work experience or self-made experience. We no longer think that our students need to acquire what had become a long list of skills, and we’d rather give them a choice of what to acquire; information on what is possible and the way to achieve it. We’re moving the responsibility from school to student to define what they need to know to become what they want to be, and we’ll offer a range of options for them to use to get there.” These changes have come in part from external pressure from the industry; pressure, as Graham Thorburn says, “that goes to the question: how do you make more inventive, low budget films that connect with the audience?”

promoting the student

Most institutions hold screenings of student films, which work both as marketing exercises and celebrations, shared with many from the industry. Sydney Film School has a staff member dedicated to distributing films through film festivals, student work has been sold to television stations and airlines, and one student documentary is being distributed nationally on DVD. At RMIT staff work hard to get students’ work online, and AFTRS has a unique claim: they’ve had three finalists in five years in the Best Short Film categories at the Oscars.

monitoring careers

The monitoring of the career trajectories of graduates is something that only AFTRS has done in a systematic and ongoing way; every three years it conducts an extraordinarily detailed survey of where its graduates are in their professional life. Most institutions keep in touch with graduates in an informal way, getting feedback on their success, or the lack of it. At RMIT, Leo Berkeley says, “the new structure has given us a very networked student group—they develop strong relationships both with each other and with staff. And they stay in touch after they graduate. There’s no formal mechanism, but it has given us a much better sense of where graduates are.”

The Sydney Film School monitors graduates through meetings and regular email contact; as International Relations Manager John Buckmaster explains, SFS is a small school, with a focus on its sense of community, mentoring and working together. International students number between 30 and 40% of each year’s student intake. Buckmaster keeps in contact with graduates internationally by visiting them in their countries, visits that coincide with the educational fairs and recruitment that bring in such students. He’s recently seen graduates in London and Istanbul, and in Shanghai he visited the two graduates who now run a post-production house with a staff of 20, up from the one-room operation they started two years ago.

Both Gill Leahy and Leo Berkeley believe thorough career surveys right across the sector would be really useful, and are something that the Australian Screen Production Education and Research Association, the peak discipline body for screen production institutions, could carry out. ASPERA, which represents the vast majority of universities that teach and research in the field of film, television and video production, is ideally placed to collect and analyse information about graduates and their careers.

ASPERA held its annual meeting of delegates from member institutions during July. With a key theme the relationship between the tertiary sector and the screen industry, the conference addressed issues such as industry expectations of prospective employees (proficiency in a range of technical skills, ability to work well as part of a team, without close supervision, and to respond to the demands of audiences); whether too many people are graduating from media courses expecting to gain employment in the screen industries; the contribution universities can make in providing critical thinking on the local industry; and the importance of gathering occupational data and identifying gaps in training for positions such as games designers, location managers and production accountants.

developing self-sufficiency

How do institutions help emerging filmmakers develop self-sufficiency, learn how to survive in the new screen environment? The new producing strand at AFTRS will consist of a series of weekend workshops and online assignments, covering models of production, financing, production development, creative teams, and understanding scripts. As Graham Thorburn explains, “We believe a better path is for producers to already be working somewhere in the industry and doing the course part-time; that way, it’s meeting the needs of a better quality of applicants.”

FTI runs short courses in production management, distribution, marketing, and even pitching ideas. “This allows past and current students to continually learn about this ever-changing and ever-growing industry”, comments Fern Nicholson. RMIT third-year students do research projects, where they interview people in the industry with a particular emphasis on how they have survived. And while Gillian Leahy believes UTS has probably not addressed filmmaker self-sufficiency as well as it could until now (although it has included a subject called producing which covers how the industry works, how to set up in business, and how to operate in the current environment), this will be emphasised more in the new degree. “We do encourage graduates to keep in touch, to tell their success stories, give warnings about difficulties they’ve encountered. It’s important to offer a range of experience.”

work experience

SFS offers an occupational training visa for international students; one student from India has worked in production on two Bollywood feature films made in Australia. In WA, FTI finds that production companies in Perth, and even interstate, are in constant contact regarding attachments and crew work on various projects. “These companies want to give students the opportunity to work on large on-set projects, where both paid and unpaid work is always required. There are quite a few large features coming up at the end of this year and we will no doubt be pushing for our students to get involved. It’s not just a great learning tool, it’s important for them to get out there and work in the industry”, Fern Nicholson argues. At RMIT, students are encouraged to find and organise work attachments for themselves, as important survival skills, while their course includes a range of projects with external elements. A number of students work with Melbourne’s community TV, Channel 31. “It has a very good community ethos”, explains Leo Berkeley, “and they get to make and broadcast their own material. It’s a fantastic educational experience that we have encouraged and hope to increase.”

industry contacts

Continuing industry contact is considered important. FTI is always in touch with film organisations, including documentary companies with projects in the pipeline, RMIT has Film Victoria represented on its film advisory committee, and has close relationships with industry organisations such as the Australian Directors Guild (ADG) and the Australian Writers Guild (AWG), while at Sydney Film School teachers, either part-time or as guest lecturers, are working practitioners. SFS graduates recently worked on Matthew Newton’s debut feature Three Blind Mice (selected for the Toronto Film Festival and in the Sydney Film Festival’s International Competition, p19); one graduate, Caitlin Stanton, was co-producer.

timing & readiness

Leo Berkeley comments that RMIT students are increasingly continuing with postgraduate work. “It’s often the more reflective ones”, he says. “It’s becoming a pathway for some students.” Meanwhile, at AFTRS, Graham Thorburn says that “our advice to students is not to immediately try and get their dream project made, but to enhance and develop their skills, in TV if need be, to build up a body of work, and to work on their own project until they feel it’s ready to deliver.”

Career opportunities in the film industry, particularly in the newer screen-related areas, are growing, as is confidence in the rejuvenated Australian film scene. However, much depends on the success of the new structure and financial support mechanisms, whether this can provide not only for the production of more and better Australian work, but for that work to connect with Australian audiences. To this end, education and training in the area should not only keep up with technological change, but also equip students with the mental and technical skills to contribute to the production of such work. As Gillian Leahy says: “What we do best is give students time and a chance to think, to look, to listen and to experiment in ways which challenge the norms of movie-making, of technologies, of ways of working.”

IN LATE JUNE THE CLASS OF RAW NERVE 2008 CAREFULLY TRIMMED AWAY THE LAST SHREDS OF SUPERFLUOUS CELLULOID AND HANDED THEIR DELICATE CREATIONS OVER FOR PUBLIC EXHIBITION. IT WAS A BIG NIGHT TO SAY THE LEAST, AND THE IMPATIENT, FRAUGHT, ASHEN FACES OF THOSE INVOLVED SHOWED IT. ONLY A FEW MONTHS EARLIER THEY’D RECEIVED THE APPROVAL OF THE MEDIA RESOURCE CENTRE’S RAW NERVE FUNDING PANEL AND VENTURED HEADLONG INTO THE WORLD OF PROFESSIONAL FILMMAKING, ARMED WITH MONEY, INDUSTRY TRAINING AND ACCESS TO PROFESSIONAL EQUIPMENT. BUT NOW IT WAS TIME FOR THE WORLD TO SEE THEIR DREAMS IN RELIEF.

The blue-ribbon award went to Bowen Ellames’ Daniel (15mins). This lyrical, melancholic film freely ventures into emotional terrain rarely entered by Australian short filmmakers. A story of childhood and parental neglect, Daniel centres its episodic and painfully sad suburban narrative around the quiet disappearance of a fragile and tormented little boy. Daniel (Tom Russell) watches and listens from afar as his parents tear their family apart with mistrust and misdirected anger. At school he experiences the very same kind of violence when it erupts from the abused hearts of the playground bullies. Looking to the devotion of his mother (Ellen Steele) for respite from his suffering, Daniel finds only the confusion of a young woman. And with no longer any real concept of home and safety, he drifts away into the world and disappears.

Ellames communicates Daniel’s tragedy with a gentle, poetic cinematic style. The soundtrack remains quiet for the most part, punctuated by the odd birdcall or soft whistling breeze, while the camera holds patiently on the action, discreetly exploring the scenography of kitchens, clotheslines and schoolyards. The atmospheric intimacy generated by these stylistic strategies allows for subtle fluctuations of light and character expression to build as the film develops, conveying an arresting emotional resonance. It’s rare to see such fluidity, restraint and sense of personally experienced emotion in the work of young filmmakers, especially from two as new to the game as Ellames and co-writer and director of photography Simone Mazengarb. They, along with the entire production team of Daniel, are to be congratulated for their accomplishment. I can only hope that the success of this debut will encourage them to embark on even deeper poetic excursions.

Killjoy (9mins), a veritable gumbo of a black comedy written and directed by Michael Zeitz, belongs to an entirely alternate universe. Its minimal plot, if that’s what it can be called, centres around a road trip undertaken by a hellish blonde (Anna Chaney) and her desperately victimised husband (David Rock) and their run-in with a lunatic highway patrolman (Nathan O’Keefe). But this serves merely as a backdrop for a cavalcade of frank visual gags involving female breasts, urine, cows and, somewhat curiously, male psychosis. It’s a genuinely funny ride at times, well performed and visually impressive too. But Killjoy suffers for its overzealous stuffing. There are too many jokes bouncing around in this film, too many different kinds of gag, creating an imbalance, an inconsistency of comedic tone.

Then there was Matt Hawkins’ more polite cupcake comedy, Casual Living (11mins). Steeped in the sugar-coated aesthetic of the 1950s, Casual Living follows the adventures of a Doris Day/Fairy Godmother hybrid as she totters her way around a 21st century display home, wooing potential buyers with baked sweets. Like Killjoy, this film looks fabulous thanks to its camera work and colourful visual design and is carried well by its principal actors, Emily Branford and John Welles. But what’s the point of it all? As far as I could ascertain Hawkins’ concern is that the standardisation of aesthetic values in contemporary suburban life has left us cold to the unique creative pleasures offered by pink icing. Is that all?

Wedged between these two flippant yet thoroughly dissimilar comedies was Nick Bollard’s more serious debut short, Family Matters (14mins). A film about risk, it centres around two brothers, one a successful if currently broke pop star, the other an obedient son placed in charge of the family business. When desperation strikes, the rebellious spirit teaches the younger sibling an important lesson of living: sink or swim, but for God’s sake don’t just hide in the boat. Another technically accomplished film, I suspect there’s a personal resonance in Family Matters for the writer-director Bollard.

Filmmaking, like any art, is risky, a potentially absurd enterprise that exposes the creative soul to failure and ridicule. But it is also a chance to grow and overcome fears that might enslave us. All of the filmmakers involved in this year’s Raw Nerve Awards are to be congratulated for their commitment to the gamble.

MRC Raw Nerve Awards 2008: Daniel, director Bowen Ellames, producer Sylvia Warmer, writers Bowen Ellames, Simone Mazengarb, camera Simone Mazengarb, sound Carly Turner, editor Carly Turner; Killjoy, director, writer Michael Zeitz, producer Jane Baird, camera B Halstead, sound Colin Zammit, editor Mathew Debitt; Casual Living, director, writer Matt Hawkins, producer Bettina Hamilton, camera Judd Overton, sound Colin Zammit, editor Shaun Lahiff; Family Business, director, writer Nick Bollard, producers Travis Kalendra, Felice Burns, camera Craig Jackson, sound Tracks Audio, editor Manuel Marquez; Media Resource Centre, Raw Nerve, Mercury Cinema, Adelaide, June 22, mrc.org.au

THIS YEAR, SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL DIRECTOR CLARE STEWART SEEMS TO HAVE FINALLY GOT THE BALANCE RIGHT BETWEEN POPULAR HITS, OBSCURE GEMS AND FILMS THAT CROSS THE DIVIDE. THE NEW OFFICIAL COMPETITION, PLUS Q&AS WITH VISITING DIRECTORS AND PRODUCERS, GAVE ADDED ENERGY, AND FILMS IN THIS CATEGORY WERE GENERALLY WONDERFUL WITH STAND-OUTS BEING THE EVENTUAL SYDNEY PRIZE-WINNER, UK DIRECTOR STEVE MCQUEEN’S HUNGER, NEW ZEALANDER VINCENT WARD’S SAD AND LYRICAL RELIVING OF AN EARLIER DOCUMENTARY, RAIN OF THE CHILDREN, AND MY PICK, WHAT CANADIAN DIRECTOR GUY MADDIN CALLS HIS DOCO-FANTASIA, MY WINNIPEG, ABOUT THE SLUMBERING SNOWY TOWN WHERE HE GREW UP AND CONTINUES TO MAKE FILMS DESPITE IT BEING A “CITY OF SLEEPWALKERS.”

The two Australian films in competition were both world premieres and debut features for young filmmakers with long and chequered histories in the industry, Nash and Joel Edgerton with The Square, and Matthew Newton with Three Blind Mice. While both films were edgy and showed exciting potential, I’d question their inclusion in a competition with its stated focus on “courageous and audacious filmmaking” exploring “new directions in film”, since stylistically and content-wise both continued the recent Australian feature film focus on the gritty realist drama of men in isolation/crises in urban landscapes—also explored in Anthony Hayes’ Ten Empty—and lacked the experiment with form and technique that set other competition films apart.

The festival had its usual crossfire and debate. During the roll of credits after Michael Haneke’s revisited feature Funny Games (transplanted to the US with Naomi Watts and Tim Roth but, otherwise, shot-for-shot identical), I enjoyed a cross-cultural screaming match: “No-one should have to watch that. That was a SICK film. How could they show that.” “You didn’t even see it, you left half-way through.” “I came back in at the end.” “It’s not as if you weren’t warned. It was exactly the same as the last one he did.” I wonder later whether the aggrieved might have been the same person who complained about Bill Henson’s artwork. But the fracas highlights the power of cinema to still make people angry.

Having found Haneke’s film excruciatingly tense first time around, seeing it rehashed 10 years on left me completely cold. As an exercise it becomes sketchy with no dramatic tension (a friend suggests that it might have been scarier in German) but it does have an amoral bully protagonist, Paul (Michael Pitt), who implicates the viewer, often turning to camera to goad us or to lift us out of our complacency when we condone some violent bits (but not others) and cheer the heroine on. At one point the audience erupts into applause when Watts hoists a gun and shoots Peter (Brady Corbet) and Peter’s response, anticipating ours, is to grab the remote control and rewind, robbing us of any feelgood narrative. This film works in nice counterpoint to Three Blind Mice and The Square that also explore men’s violence and bullying tactics, suppressed and overt, in isolated cultures where any honest communication appears a sign of weakness: a navy boat far out to sea; a construction site in the bush.

three blind mice

Matthew Newton was racing against time to screen Three Blind Mice at the festival. As he revealed at the Q&A, he had to “abandon the film” rather than “finish it” and described the experience of watching it with an audience for the first time at the State Theatre as more nerve wracking than any acting he’s had to do. He is also onscreen as Harry, one of three central characters—sailors on leave before their ship takes off next morning—a manic smart-arse who riffs off the other two, coaxing, controlling, wheedling his way in; he has the power but we’re not quite sure why. Newton is good and the dynamic is nicely developed between his counterparts, loyal and solid Dean (Toby Schmitz) and Sam (Ewen Leslie), more vulnerable to attack. Newton fought to keep his key actors (rather than big names) and he steers clear of typecasting navy men as yobs. His research revealed navy guys as “men in computer clubs, drawn to discipline and maths…You don’t need muscles to bully someone” and this tenderness of and towards the characters outlines the underlying fears that bubble under the performances. As Newton observes, the scariest place to imagine and experience bullying is on a ship in the middle of the ocean; there is no escape.

But the outstandingly memorable performance is from Gracie Otto (she was also editor) as Emma. She manages to combine a kind of Katharine Hepburn fast-talking sassiness with contemporary flair and is a joy to watch. Newton’s script is unusual in that it foregoes the usual ‘hero’s journey’ to explore multiple points of view. Newton describes it as looking like “spaghetti on paper” and it’s a testament to his direction that it feels so energetic it could be improvised. Emma’s dialogue (and that of all the smaller characters) is unusually rich and tapered. This, combined with some of the best actors covering the gamut of generations, mainly from the stage and who can “follow the writer’s intention” (Jackie Weaver, Bud Tingwell, Alex Dimitriades, Barry Otto, Brendan Cowell, Heather Mitchell), and finely tuned editing that moves at complex cross purposes, means the characters twist and turn between comedy and thriller pretty successfully and by the end we are all standing on shaky ground.

the square

Nash and Joel Edgerton have been making short films on the Sydney scene for over 10 years and rose to prominence when Deadline won at Tropfest in 1997. Nash has had a career as a stuntman and editor and The Square’s success comes from a great sense of pace, timing, bleak humour and that kind of violence that knocks you out of your chair at times (and this time there’s no bully with his finger on the rewind button). Joel Edgerton’s script (he co-wrote with Matthew Dabner), again, is strong for a first-timer and focuses on Raymond (an intense performance from David Roberts, who Nash also had to fight to keep against the pressure to have bigger ‘name’ actors), an everyman whose end-justifies-the-means ideology wears increasingly thin when the bodies start to pile up (but there’s always concrete to cover them). Like Ten Empty (co-written by Anthony Hayes and Brendan Cowell) The Square is about men completely isolated from each other, unable to communicate except through filthy jokes, physical withdrawal or pure rage. In both films the consequences are severe for the women and families that support them: mental illness, suicide, violence and mayhem. Three Blind Mice is more nuanced in its exploration of degradation but it’s still bleak days for the Aussie male. I wonder about these characters on the edge as I look around my own world. I don’t seem to know these men—except through the current news reports of men killing their children—but, then again, the problem seems to be that they aren’t talking. Not about the things that will save them, anyway. With filmmakers like Hayes, Newton and the Edgertons, at least for now their stories are in good hands and I hope, with their low-budget and DIY approaches, they manage to keep making films fast and on the fly and as good as these first efforts.

Three Blind Mice received a special commendation at the announcement of the Sydney Film Prize by Gillian Armstrong and has been selected for the Toronto Film Festival.

Three Blind Mice, director, writer Matthew Newton, producer Ben Davis, executive producer Michael Favelle, original music John Foreman, cinematographer Hugh Miller, editor Gracie Otto, Sydney Film Festival, June 8, 10, release date TBA; The Square, director, editor, executive producer Nash Edgerton, co-writer, executive producer Joel Edgerton, co-writer Matthew Dabner, producer Louise Smith, cinematographer Brad Shield, editor Luke Doolan, Sydney Film Festival, June 15, 16, released nationally July 31

ANTHONY HAYES’ NEW FILM TEN EMPTY VENTURES INTO SOME FAMILIAR TERRITORY. MADNESS AND THE CLAUSTROPHOBIC DRAMA OF DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILIES HAVE LONG BEEN GRIST FOR THE MILL FOR AUSTRALIAN FILMMAKERS. IT MIGHT BE AN OPPORTUNE MOMENT TO REFLECT ON THE MEANING OF ALL THIS FOR OUR SENSE OF A NATIONAL CINEMA.

Local films often define their niches in terms of the mainstream, and if Hollywood has cornered the market in feel-good movies, Australians can try to differentiate themselves by promising a wrist-slashing good time. It works for Michael Haneke and the Europeans after all. Few seem in a hurry to make comedies in fear of being residually labelled with the Q word (quirky).

Ten Empty’s basic plot device of a prosperous, though unfulfilled brother returning to the sleepy badlands of Adelaide to reunite with his family recalls Ray Argall’s Return Home (1990). Once there, the protagonist is on the terrain of The Castle (1997), although the Kerrigans have now gone decidedly toxic. Like a suburban Wake in Fright (1971), the narrative represents a season in hell, where male dysfunction finds expression through alcohol and aggressive mateyness.

Elliot (played by Daniel Frederiksen), having had the good sense to move to Sydney, comes back for the christening of his step-brother. He finds the kind of family situation you associate with Appalachia rather than the Festival City of the South. Mum has suicided after discovering that Dad is rooting her younger sister Diane; Dad is alcoholic and unemployed, though now married to Diane; younger brother Brett is huddled in his room in the grip of paralysing depression (is it perhaps significant that co-writer Brendan Cowell is currently touring with the Bell Shakespeare Company’s production of Hamlet?).

The film begins impressively enough. A plane approaches the camera low and to the right of the frame. There is an eye for composition here, and an ear too, as the languidly morose music suggests. The moment the characters open their mouths, however, the jig is up. The mark of script development lies heavy on every utterance. Every hesitation is planned for effect; every awkward and evasive piece of dialogue signifies Awkwardness and Evasion. The cumulative effect is one of unremitting heavy-handedness. What can you make of a scene that begins with the line: “Don’t lay your Catholic guilt on me, Diane”?

This starts to become a more interesting film if we see it as foregrounding some fundamental issues for contemporary Australian cinema. It has frequently been remarked that the Australian cinema has an affinity for stories of madness. Angel Baby (1995), Sweetie (1989), Cosi (1996), Bad Boy Bubby (1993), and Romulus My Father (2007) come immediately to mind. Mental illness gives actors something twitchy to get their teeth into—Geoffrey Rush’s breakthrough performance in Shine (1996) provides a career-defining example.

Ten Empty opens up the possibility that we might see mental pathology as a metaphor for the Australian cinema at the current moment rather than merely a preferred subject matter. It is a rather banal interpretive move to read stories as allegories of their own production, but let’s press on and see where this ends up.

Like young Brett in Ten Empty, Aussie movies were once the golden boy, full of youthful promise and familial pride, but these days with Australian share of domestic box office for 2008 hovering around 0.9%, they don’t get out of their bedroom much any more. The hope of the family is that those who left and prospered (Baz, Hugh, Nicole and Russell) will come back to pull us out of the poo.

The strong case for putting madness at the heart of Australian cinema is in the way that schizophrenia involves an inability to make connections between the component parts of the self, and between the self and the social world. This lack of imaginative connection is one of the most interesting aspects of Ten Empty.

Everyone is hunkered down into their performances in a way that distances them from each other and, more importantly, from the audience. This is an Actors’ film—literally—directed and written by actors, after the fashion of Richard Roxburgh’s success last year with his family drama, Romulus My Father. I get the sense that its makers are more at home in the theatre as the place they have learned their craft. It is an oft-repeated observation that few Australian filmmakers watch many movies. Certainly we have rarely embraced the examples of Godard, Truffaut, Fassbinder or even Tarantino in having a tradition of cinephiles becoming filmmakers in this country. Mark Hartley’s recent Not Quite Hollywood has to import an American, Tarantino, as the most articulate defender of Australian film history.

The writing similarly exists in a vacuum where there seems to be little conception of what an audience can bring to a film. Watch a Hollywood movie like Iron Man or a skilful Australian one like Lucky Miles (2007), and the film has a sense of where to put a joke, of when to push the audience out and when to pull them back in, of what it does and doesn’t need to say. Look at the last scene of The Unfinished Sky (2008), where the crucial revelation that the heroine has been interned in a detention camp is a small triumph of understatement, confident that the audience will supply the affect.

Like a schizophrenic who has no sense of how her words will be received, Australian films too often need to prove their professional expertise by doing everything themselves, putting everything on the page in script development, with the result that they become badly overdrawn. Where The Castle managed to get away with its satire of the outer suburban lower middle class, the impression you get from Ten Empty is that the filmmakers look down on the suburban types they can only signify through theatrical caricature. Why else would you put a line like “It’s such a nice marinade on the aubergine” in a character’s mouth?

It is also significant that most Australian films about madness situate it in the dysfunctional family. You can quickly list a line of movies which emerge out of the claustrophobia of the family: Soft Fruit (1999), Swimming Upstream (2003), The Boys (1998), Home Song Stories (2007). As Screen Australia represents a very recent marriage in the family of our film institutions, it might be worth asking whether the dysfunctional family might be another symbol of the Australian film industry.

What immediately occasions this observation is that the South Australian Film Corporation put money into Ten Empty on the basis that it was shot in Adelaide and employed many members of the local production industry. Now, not too long ago we Croweaters were horribly offended by that nasty, brutish Victorian Premier’s description of Adelaide as a backwater, but that is positively sympathetic compared to the view of the city we get here. This is aptly summed up by the protagonist when he screams: “You stay here, you rot.”

I reckon I’ve eaten my weight in hors d’oeuvres at government-sponsored sessions where we ponder how to keep our best and brightest from abandoning the state and moving to the Sodom and Gomorrahs of Sydney and Melbourne. Yet in this film Adelaide is the place you leave, the place where time has stood still, the dark and depressed place of infantile regression.

I can only applaud the filmmakers’ desire to bite the hand that feeds them, but you have to wonder what state government agencies make of the result—or if they care. The importance of Australian films in policy terms has too often ended with their production. If they are lucky, they strut and fret their hour upon the art cinema screens (Ten Empty was released on nine prints, which was better than five other Australian films so far this year) and then are gone/tales of sound and fury…

Ultimately the pathological disconnections here are with the distribution sector and the audience—and the audience knows it too. Feature films in Australia are too often made for the sake of being made, rather than being made to be distributed and watched. Australian films have been short term answers to the political problems engendered by the persistent demand for a production industry. The problem becoming increasingly clear is that these motives too rarely extend to consumption and to any sense of connection with an audience. It was encouraging that Federal Arts Minister Peter Garrett, in his speech at the 37 South market event at Melbourne’s International Film Festival, stressed that with the introduction of the producer offset scheme, direct government funding would henceforth be directed more to marketing and distribution subsidy.

So maybe I’ve come around to a sympathetic response to Ten Empty. It’s an important film as a gauntlet flung into the face of our cinema. We have to start to conceive of films as things designed in the spirit of connection: connection with an audience, connections with revenue streams, connections with some sense of film history and contemporary screen culture. If we stay here, we rot.

Ten Empty, director, writer Anthony Hayes, writer Brendan Cowell, producer Naomi Wenck, cinematographer Tristan Milani, editor Luke Doolan, Sydney Film Festival, 9 June, currently screening.

FESTIVAL FILM VIEWING IS A VERY PARTICULAR EXPERIENCE. WATCHING THIS YEAR’S SELECTION OF 15 SHORT AND MEDIUM LENGTH DOCUMENTARIES, FICTIONS AND ANIMATIONS COMPETING IN THE DENDY AWARDS AND SERVED UP IN QUICK SUCCESSION OVER ONE DAY OF THE SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL, I SENSED THE PHYSICAL EFFECTS OF FILMIC TIME.

The day opens with Stefan Moore’s 52-minute brisk and informative The Cars That Ate China. Interspersed with a range of music, the slick style holds attention as the accumulating seriousness of the subject matter creeps up on you. Alarming statistics fly by in text on the screen (forget 1 million bicycles, by 2020 there will be 140 million cars in Beijing!). Moore and his team manage to convey the complexity of the crisis with a mix of humour and pathos amidst the madness. He also ranges wide for his subjects. A social activist conjures an ugly metaphor of Beijing as “a raped city—and the girl is still taking bookings” to express his powerless disgust at the destruction of the hutangs (older parts of the city) for roads.

The Chinese are “intoxicated by aspiration,” reports a knowing American adman. “Not all will own cars but all aspire to and that is enough.” To get rich is now glorious. And why not, you ask yourself as you watch the cheery members of the VW Golf Car website organise their first wedding; people running trucking and carwash businesses in the city returning to visit relatives in villages where cars are still mysterious machines. We enter a gated community where residents (almost entirely celebrities) glide around in Bentleys. “You wouldn’t be seen dead in a Japanese car,” says the Chinese entrepreneur while bored women drape themselves on car bonnets in that enduring and meaningless conjunction. Meanwhile savvy car hoons scramble through traffic. The film ends as one young man pauses to consider for a minute what might be happening to China and then moves swiftly on.

Director Rhys Graham fills the 27 minutes of his film Skin with intriguing detail, recounting the tale of Geoff Ostling who on retirement from his teaching job, decided to embark on a full body tattoo. What makes the time seem short is the filmmaker’s comprehensive approach to his subject matter and a couple of details: the tattoo is composed almost entirely of Australian flowers and the tattooist is the artist eX de Medici. As well as the subject and his partner, we hear from an assortment of experts including doctor, botanist, a taxidermist and the curator of a Japanese tattoo museum to which Geoff Ostling would like to donate his skin when he finally runs out of time.

At 26 minutes, Rare Chicken Rescue, directed by Randall Wood also flies by on the strength of its idiosyncratic subject matter. Mark Tully is a complex character—a poultry fancier and breeder who lives with his parents and occasionally takes to the road to attend gatherings of mostly male fanciers or to visit other breeders on the lookout for that elusive azeel or Sumatran. Tully speaks to the off-camera filmmaker and along the way introduces us to a range of rare breeds both animal and human, the former artfully displayed against coloured backgrounds in extreme close-up (my favourite, the Transylvanian Naked Neck) all of this set to wild klezmer music. As the endearingly depressive Tully confesses his true regard for the ducks and chickens that saved him from himself, you can feel this film pleasing the audience (the timing of sighs and laughter is near communal). As one whose childhood chores including feeding one scary bunch of hens, I kept my distance but the film won Best Documentary.

An odd collection of three films vied in the category of Most Innovative. The animation Ephemeral (director-producer Tony Radevski, Jongshu Oh) was a worthy winner. Set in the closed world of a train carriage, it focused on the collective imaginings of a motley collection of passengers held captive to the movements of a rolling drink can on the carriage floor. Rendered entirely in tones of black, grey and white (with the can the only red), the physiognomy of the John Brack-like characters had me musing on just how far animators can extemporise on the body and still have us recognise it as human. Though the claustrophobic atmosphere and muted palette took some concentrating at 15 minutes, the endlessly inventive play with perspective kept this film rattling right along.

In Spirit Stones, director Allan Collins follows a group of Noongar elders from Australia’s south-west corner as they recount their mysterious tale of stones falling from the sky which each had experienced in the oppressive times of the 1940s and 50s. These stones (sometimes hot) moved through tents, walls and tables without leaving a mark. Here time slows, reflected in two distinctive formats (HDTV and Super 8) alternating colour and grainy black and white to echo shifts between past and present in the still vivid memories of the elders as they move through the haunting landscape.

Like the distracted children at its centre, I lost myself altogether in the 8-minute abstraction of Keri Light’s Wanderlust/Wonderlost.

Ali and the Ball, (director Alex Holmes, 15 mins) was a neatly constructed short featuring an impressive performance by Ali Soummaka in the role of an optimistic boy living with his little sister and distraught mother in the dead zone of a detention centre. The Sound of Cry, directed by Michael Mier (9 mins), cast unfamiliar light on a community of Maori Queenslanders through the story of a white boy who shows up uninvited at a traditional Maori funeral to bid farewell to his friend.

I would willingly have spent more than the 12 minutes with the third film, Summer Breaks. Writer-director Sean Kruck shows promise aplenty in this easygoing observation of indolent youths skating close to trouble in the sweltering suburbs. This film was selected from the Dendy finalists to receive the Rouben Mamoulian Award.

The CRC Award is presented each year by the NSW Government’s Community Relations Commission to a film whose content reflects the multicultural experience in Australia. Rachel Landers’ powerful A Northern Town reveals a complex picture of race relations in Kempsey, the town that famously returned the largest no vote in the 1967 Referendum to recognise the rights of Aboriginal people. Anchored in an indigenous owned and operated aged care facility housing both black and white this film takes its time to uncover a shared and troubled history.

In style, Ten Pound Poms (director Lisa Matthews) is pretty familiar fare, making the most of some interesting archival material along with first person reflections from nine Britons who migrated to Australia in the post-war years and variously stayed put or not.

The prize went to recent VCA graduate John Evagora for his short and sweet fiction 296 Smith Street. Competing with two 52-minute documentaries, Evagora’s film is a stylish short fiction, shot in black and white and focusing on the daily grind of Ahmed (Tony Niholakopoulos) a suburban pawnbroker dealing with sellers, the occasional buyer along with neighbourhood eccentrics and violent blow-ins. Dialogue is sparse and idiosyncratic, characters deftly drawn. It’s spare but hits the mark with its careful timing and consistent mood. We read between the lines to build a picture of this community as Ahmed calmly takes care of business and everything in between.

Even though late in the day seemed somehow untimely for the Animation selection I was intrigued by Dennis Tupicoff’s sophisticated mixed means animation Chainsaw (25 minutes), and less so by the charmingly cute Lucille (director Tali Gal-on, 6 mins) and Glen Hunwick’s endearing if predicable Mutt (8 mins) which picked up the Yoram Gross Animation Award.

But it’s late in the day and I’ve experienced nine films, nine locales, and inhabited nine different time zones. I arrived in the bright morning and shuffle out into chill night.

IN SEPTEMBER ONE OF THE WORLD’S FOREMOST EXPERIMENTAL FILM PROPONENTS, PETER KUBELKA, FROM AUSTRIA, WILL BE IN RESIDENCE AT THE NATIONAL FILM AND SOUND ARCHIVE IN CANBERRA. THE VISIT PRESENTS A UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY TO SEE THE MAN PRESENT HIS FILMS AND ACCLAIMED LECTURES—INCLUDING A COOKING DEMONSTRATION!

Since the 1950s Kubelka has championed both experimental cinema and a history of film art radically different from that of Hollywood or ‘auteured’ European art cinema. In 1964 he co-founded the Austrian Filmmuseum in Vienna and has been its curator ever since. He was also a co-founder of New York’s Anthology Film Archive and has been a professor in film at the Art Academy in Frankfurt since 1978.

Kubelka is also famous for inspiring curatorial projects, including his cycle of film screenings, What is Film, and his plan for The Invisible Cinema: an ideal screening venue first conceived in 1958. Invisible Cinemas (their seats each separated by partitions) can now be found at Anthology Film Archives and the Austrian Film Museum in Vienna

Kubelka has made just over an hour of work in half a century, all of it unavailable on video and difficult to access. Yet its influence has been profound, with Jonas Mekas describing his films as “like a piece of crystal, or some other object of nature: it does not look like it was produced by man”, and Stan Brakhage calling Kubelka “the world’s greatest film-maker.”

But since the 1970s, Kubelka has also been dedicated to cultural de-specialisation and interaction, working to find cinema’s common history with architecture, archaeology, music and the culinary arts (focusing on what he calls “non-industrial cuisine”).

A guest research fellow of the National Film and Sound Archive in August and September, Peter Kubelka will present his famous lecture series—apparently works of art in their own right—only in Canberra. The three-day seminar will be held at the NFSA’s Arc Cinema.

The first two lectures use Kubelka’s own work to probe the idea of evolution as manifested in the development of cinema. This will be the first Australian opportunity to see legendary titles such as Kubelka’s flicker film Adebar (1956/57), his beer ‘commercial’ Schwechater (1958), the 1966 experiment in ethnographic film Unsere Afrikareise and 2003’s Poetry and Truth—Kubelka’s first film in over 25 years. The final lecture, “The Editable Metaphor” gives new meaning to the idea of “expanded cinema”, with what is promised to be a celebration of cooking, food, taste and smell as artistic expressions.

As a bonus, Kubelka will also introduce his restoration of Soviet director Dziga Vertov’s extraordinary 1930 experiment in image and sound montage, Enthusiasm. Writer Danni Zuvela will visit the National Film & Sound Archive to report on the Peter Kubelka experience for RealTime.

Peter Kubelka, National Film and Sound Archive, September; www.nfsa.gov.au for program and dates

WHERE YOU SEE A FILM, HOW IT’S PROJECTED, THE CONTEXT IN WHICH YOU SEE IT, AND WHO YOU SEE IT WITH CAN OFFER NEW INSIGHTS NOT ONLY TO THE FILM ITSELF BUT TO CINEMA AS A WHOLE. WATCHING THE DOZEN FILMS IN THIS FESTIVAL JUST AFTER AN AUSTRALIAN GOVERNMENT HAD FINALLY SAID ‘SORRY’ TO THE STOLEN GENERATIONS REINFORCED THE SENSE THAT RECONCILIATION, IF NOT TOTAL LIBERATION FROM THE PREVIOUS GOVERNMENT’S HUMAN-RIGHTS DENYING INTERVENTIONIST POLICIES, WAS NOW WELL AND TRULY ON THE FILMIC AGENDA.

The feeling of liberation from the past was heightened by the mix of red carpet partying and self-congratulation along with self-criticism and some extraordinary films and very heated discussions. Then there were the Chooky dancers who threatened to upstage everything in sight. The cultural vectors of these young Elcho Islanders simultaneously performing homage and send-up of Theodorakis’s Zorba as they spilled over from screen (Frank Djirrimbilpilwy Garawirritja’s Yolngu Djamamirr/Aboriginal Fishermen) to live on stage and onto the Opera House forecourt, offered a vision of cultural transformation endorsed by many of the films.

As in previous years, curators Darren Dale and Rachel Perkins offered the chance to see films that might not otherwise be seen at all and in circumstances that made it possible to observe patterns and samenesses as well as disruptions and differences that might otherwise go ignored or unobserved. They included films by indigenous filmmakers from overseas, allowing us to explore the connections that do or don’t exist between Aboriginal cinema and other indigenous cinemas.

In fact, the overseas films forged links to other cinemas entirely. Kevin Burton’s experimental Nikamowin/Song (2007), for example, deconstructs and reconstructs the Cree language with such inventiveness that it seemed the productive outcome of a head-on clash with Derrida and the German-Australian experimentalist, Paul Winkler (see Alec Gerbaz, “Innovations in Australian Cinema: An Historical Outline of Australian Experimental Film”, NFSA Journal, Vol 3, No 1, 2008).

Sikumi/On the Ice (Andrew Okpeaha MacLean) initially seems to be indebted to Atanarjuat/The Fast Runner (Zacharias Kunuk, 2001)—both are in a dialect of the Eskimo-Aleut languages group, both have a mise-en-scène dominated by wide, flat icy vistas, seal-skin encased bodies and whiskers with dangling icicles, and both tell a murder tale. At second sight Sikumi appears to be the offspring of an unruly union between indigenous, art and mainstream cinemas.

The boundaries between cinematic and other cultural categories proved even more porous with the Aboriginal films. A persistent theme was that of shifting ideas, images, sounds and other cultural material passing to and from Indigenous and mainstream cultures. As films such as Ten Canoes and Rabbit Proof Fence demonstrate, this is a two-way ticket.

In Darlene’s Johnson’s River of No Return, the captivating Frances Djulibing dreams of being Marilyn Monroe: sexy and a great comic actress with diamonds for a best friend. Frances’ long trudge along the dirt road between her home and Raminginging in north eastern Arnhem land becomes the symbol of the seemingly impermeable borders between Aboriginal and balanda (white) cultures that Frances must learn to cross.

The high walls white society has erected around its black members seen through Kelrick Martin’s unflinching lens in Mad Morro are too rigid for any productive interactions to take place. When released from jail after 13 years inside, there is no after care program available for 30-year old Morro to learn how to be an adult outside the prison walls; a lethal mixture of alcohol and his acquired helplessness lands him back where he started. But the film shows us what once might have been either dismissed—or hated—as a negative image of Aboriginal people. This documentary bravely crosses yet another border in search of a common humanity that knows no apartheid and shows us images that we’ve seldom seen on the screen.

Perhaps the most startling film of all is Debbie Carmody’s Courting with Justice which reconstructs an Indigenous Customary Law Court to ‘try’ the white pub manager cleared of charges of the manslaughter of Kevin Rule, a member of the Ngadju Nation. Fact and fiction, past and present, white and black truths all merge and inform each other in this outstandingly bold, intelligent film. The fear on the face of white actor Roy Billing playing the accused when confronted by the dead man’s family is as real as the grief of the family members. Like the classic Two Laws (Carolyn Strachan, Alessandro Cavadini, 1981) about the Borroloola people’s struggle for the recognition of Aboriginal law, Courting with Justice simultaneously builds and demolishes the boundaries between black and white film cultures and between black and white laws.

There is no film in this well-curated festival that does not explore the productive outcomes of cultural clashes. Even the most conventional, When Colin Met Joyce (Rima Tamou), is ‘about’ the mixed race marriage of Colin and Joyce Clague and explores the hybridised race-and-politics cultural family environment that together they created. On the far side of convention is Cornel Ozies’s Bollywood Dreaming with its snapshot of 16-year-old African-American-Aboriginal Jedda Rae Hill who skates, boxes and adores to dance to Bollywood movies (RT85, p18).

Storytime (Jub Clerc) mixes fiction with autobiographical experience. Who Paintin’ Dis Wandjina? (Taryne Laffar) explores reactions to the white graffiti artist who paints the symbol of the creator of fertility and rain for the Mowanjum Aboriginal peoples in the Kimberley in the wrong place and without permission (RT85, p18). Even the films most specifically Aboriginal in terms of content, Alan Collins’ beautifully mesmeric Spirit Stones and Angie Abdilla’s artfully creative Wanja: Warrior Dog don’t hesitate to explore the flows between tradtional and modern, fact and fiction, mainstream and non-mainstream.

When cinematic genres and categories get as confused as this we need to consider what we mean by indigenous cinema. It’s a cinema relatively so new that it doesn’t yet have a commonly accepted name. Nor is there an established critical framework in which to theorise it. Is it a single cinema that straddles local, national and regional borders? Is it a number of individual cinemas that can be treated as a sort of national cinema? Or is it simply a number of films that can’t yet be considered to be a cinema at all?

The term ‘indigenous’ is not appropriate because it can refer to something that is ‘native’ to a particular area—Dr Who, for example, is indigenous to the UK. While ‘Aboriginal’ makes sense in the context of Australia, it can cause confusion among those in other nations unaware of the significance of the capital A. Scholars, meanwhile oscillate between Third World, Third Cinema, marginal, anti-racist, multicultural, hybrid, mestizo, postcolonial, transnational, imperfect cinema, cinema of hunger, minority, minor, accented, intercultural and transcultural. First Nation may overcome many of the problems because it explicitly recognises the original inhabitants of colonised territories, though it shows few signs of catching on.

This is more than an arcane debate because, despite considerable ethnic, racial, language and other cultural differences, the various names all tend to present a single homogenous cinema engaged in political and aesthetic opposition to mainstream cinema.

It tends to be treated as a minority cinema alongside other non-mainstream cinemas with which it’s widely thought to share a common experience of being dominated and excluded by mainstream commercial cinema. Or, within postcolonial discourse, it’s treated as a sub-genre of a national cinema. Either way, indigenous films carry a set of cultural baggage supposedly differentiating them from mainstream, commercial Anglo-American, white cinema. It is commonly regarded as mainstream’s indigenous other.

Every year, the Message Sticks films show the cinematic terrain to be more varied than widely imagined. The relationship between First Nation and dominant cinema is by no means one of perpetual opposition and assimilation: minor cinemas are not necessarily cultural losers and mainstream cinema does not necessarily and continuously absorb and destroy its First Nation others. But it should be acknowledged that First Nation films usually form a part of a national cinema, and because Hollywood is the dominant cinema in most of these nations, First Nation filmmakers can find themselves as Sally Riley, Director of the Australian Film Commission’s Indigenous Branch, once said, “on the fringe of the fringe of the mainstream” (Philippa Hawker, ‘Black Magic: Aboriginal films take off’, The Age, June 19, 2002).

First Nation cinema’s relationship to the mainstream is certainly not one of equality. But this does not mean that the indigenous cinema is inevitably and necessarily crushed, contained or cannibalised by an undeniably powerful dominant cinema. The productive outcomes of tensions in the globalising processes show that locating Hollywood and First Nation cinema within each other is not necessarily an indication of cultural cannibalisation and that much greater diversity exists in Hollywood’s First Nation ‘others’ than is commonly imagined.

Sydney Opera House in association with Screen Australia and Blackfella Films, Message Sticks Indigenous Film Festival, Sydney Opera House, July 4-6; Tandanya, Adelaide, Aug 7-10; Deckchair Cinema, Darwin, Aug 21, Sir Robert Helpmann Theatrem Mt Gambier Aug 28-30

THIS YEAR’S MIAF WAS FLUSH WITH RICHES. SELECTED FROM OVER 2000 ENTRIES, THERE WERE 150 FILMS IN COMPETITION AND 150 OUTSIDE OF IT. THERE WAS AN EIGHT-PROGRAM INTERNATIONAL SELECTION, MUSIC VIDEOS, DIGITAL ANIMATION, STUDIO AND PRODUCER SHOWCASES, A SERIES OF SAN FRANCISCO HISTORICAL ANIMATIONS, ANIMATED DOCUMENTARIES AND THEMED PACKAGES WITH TITLES LIKE LATE NIGHT BIZARRE AND STRANGE IDEAS AND BAD CRAZINESS. THERE WERE GRADUATE, TEEN AND KIDS PROGRAMS, ANIMATION 101 SESSIONS AND THE CAREERS IN ANIMATION FORUM, ALL ADDING TO THE CRUCIAL WORK MIAF DOES IN BUILDING A VIBRANT ANIMATION CULTURE FROM THE GROUND UP.

The technique focus this year was on puppet animation. I’ve been bored with CGI’s dominance so I welcomed it. MIAF curator Malcolm Turner, introducing the Icons of Puppet Animation screening, highlighted how puppetry can uniquely express the soul of an animated character. Jiri Trnka’s allegorical masterpiece The Hand (Czechoslovakia 1966, 17mins) was the exemplar. According to Turner, this was one of the first puppet animations to feature static faces, telling the story of a down-at-heel sculptor making art in his small apartment. An enormous, live-action hand breaks the frame, filling the apartment with its bulk and forcing the artist to make sculptures in its likeness, attaching strings to the artist and manipulating his actions, or destroying whatever non-hand art the artist produces. The allusion to totalitarianism is clear, but the state’s capacity to endlessly erase and reinscribe its own identity in order to control and dominate is also apparent. This is reinforced by the contrast between the puppet-artist’s mournful, unblinking face, which becomes a screen for the audience’s imagination, and the hand’s everchanging bulk, trying every trick it can—even dressing its fingers in lacy lingerie—to lure the artist.

Another Icon standout was Balance (directors Christoph & Wolfgang Lauenstein, Germany 1989, 8mins). Five identical, skinny, bald characters with sunken eyes and prison-camp greatcoats stand on a platform suspended in space with no visible means of support. If one moves, the platform tips and they all go sliding close to the edge and oblivion; therefore they must work with each other to maintain balance. It’s finally a devious and deadly game as curiosity, then jealousy, brings them undone. The bleak monochromes of the set and costume design give this an existential charge that is hard to shake off. Kataku (The House in Flames, director Kihachiro Kawamoto, Japan, 1979, 17mins), a fable about attraction and choice, is like a Japanese doll set come to life, all slow movement, glossy faces and hair, watercolour backgrounds and scenery, almost imperceptible stillness melting into exquisite motion poetry, mixing noh and bunraku styles. Pygmalion (Arnold Burovs, Latvia 1967, 9’45mins) is a brilliant union of clockwork figures and metronomic sound design as a sad, bearded inventor creates a mechanical woman only to become lost in her gaze and ultimately the op art scenery surrounding her. The Philips Broadcast of 1938 (Holland 1938, 9’30mins) featured George Pal’s amazing and beloved Puppetoons, incredibly flexible puppet characters that contort and shape shift with sheer glee, so skilfully realised and synchronised via Pal’s replacement animation technique [using multiple puppets or parts for each character move. Eds] that they look hand-drawn.

Of the contemporary puppet animations, the standout was Madame Tulti-Pulti (Chris Lavis & Maciek Szczerbowski, Canada 2007, 17’25mins), an intricate stop motion that took me somewhere I’ve never been before. The titular Madame boards a strange, steampunk train powered by an enormous turbine. Dressed like a 30s Parisienne, she settles into her compartment and tries to read a book. On the overhead bag rack, two men are hunched over a chess set. Whenever the train hits a bump, the chess pieces fly into the air and rearrange themselves in different combinations on the board. A freaky kid stares at the woman. Then a beefy pervert makes the fucking signal with the time-honoured ‘O’ sign of one hand penetrated by the index finger of the other. Poor Madame. She nods off and wakes up to find everyone gone and an alien green mist polluting the compartment. Shadowy figures glide past and, when she investigates, it appears that everyone but her has been the victim of, I think, an organ-stealing black market operation. Perhaps. I won’t pretend to know what it’s all about, suffice to say that Madame Tulti-Pulti has quite clearly taken a train ride to hell. The other remarkable aspect of this film, besides the scenery, the stage sets and the character of Madame herself, wafer thin and etched with grain, is the filmmakers’ technique of compositing live-action human eyes onto the puppets. A kind of hellish variant on the 60s animated TV series Clutch Cargo, it has a supremely bizarre, preternatural touch that plunges the viewer deep into an uncanny valley.

Live Life (Jonathan Pasternak, Israel, 2006, 5’30mins) is a self-consciously odd Day of the Dead puppet musical featuring decomposing versions of Albert Einstein, Joey Ramone and other celebs all gathered in The Ossiary, the famous Czech church adorned with 40,000 human bones. This lunatic troupe is led by Johnny Cash in a rousing rendition of the William Shatner song, “Live life like you’re gonna die, coz you’re gonna.” Even the Ossiary’s skulls join in on the chorus. I loved The Bridge (Vincent Bierrewaerts, Belgium, 2007, 13mins), about a boy who lives with his father on a mountain top. When he accidentally kills his dad, the boy grows up alone, thinking he’s trapped up on high, watching the bombing of the city far down below in some unnamed war. The only access to the outside world used to be a bridge that fell down long ago, but eventually the boy finds a tunnel down through the mountain and wanders the shell-shocked city alone. The puppet boy is masterfully rendered: pure expressive innocence memorably etched onto his bulbous eyes and round head.

The Australian Panorama was maybe the best Australian animation program of the last few years. L’Animateur (Nick Hilligoss, 2006, 3’45mins) takes a corny premise, the Garden of Eden, and infuses it with a meta-narrative on the joy of animation itself. A medieval jester lands on an planet uninhabited save for a few frogs. He unpacks a little portable stage set and places two lifeless wooden puppets on it. They are attached to strings but then he zaps them with some kind of beam and they move about autonomously. They see a tree with apples and, naturally, eat them. Flesh subsequently grows on their bodies, there is music cranked out by the jester and the frog audience dances in thrall. When the humans are fully realised, the jester pulls the floor out from under them and they fall to the ground. The jester packs up and flies to another planet, leaving behind the first human life on Earth and a performance those frogs will always remember.

Other Australian standouts included the hilarious, affecting Monkeynaut (Snooze Animation, 2007, 7’15mins) about what really went on in those early chimp-only space missions (hint: it involves lots of long, yellow fruit). Professor Pebbles (Pierce Davison, 2006, 12’45mins) is inventively realised with its tale of a minion of Satan who has a mid-life crisis on his 500th birthday and decides to go above ground for a change of pace, yet can’t quite shed his wicked ways. The lurid colour scheme and claymation weirdness make an imprint on the retina. The Goat that Ate Time (Lucinda Schreiber, 2007, 7mins) is really beautiful, both in terms of its textured technique and its sentiment, about a voracious goat who eats everything under the sun including clocks and watches, with the timepieces and their chronological ‘nutrition’ slipstreaming her into an endless, timeless present.

And, now, just as I ran out of time to see everything at the festival, so too I’m out of space, with just enough words to big up the portmanteau film Fear(s) of the Dark (Canada 2007, 85mins). Based on the work of 10 graphic artists and comic-book creators, and almost entirely monochrome, it weaves nightmares from the most basic of materials, black and white, for all nightmares emerge from the shadows. My favourite scary story was Richard McGuire’s about a man who is lost in a snowstorm and takes refuge in an abandoned house. Inside, he has to find his way around in compete darkness, the brief flickering of light from his candle exposing what looks to be floral patterned wallpaper, but may or may not be a woman’s dress. And ‘she’ may or not be holding a meat cleaver. The floral shapes melt back into the dark as the candle goes out and the games of illusion begin again. In the morning the whiteness of the outside world proves as treacherous as the black of night, with a glimmer of help for the man frustratingly melting back into the snow-covered landscape as clearly as it emerged.

Finally, congratulations to MIAF for its bold, imaginative programming. The only sour note is that all events weren’t sold out. Readers, do you know what you have in your own backyard?

“THIS IS REALLY FUCKING RUDE, YOU KNOW? GIVEN WHAT HAPPENED—WHAT YOU DID. [PAUSE] SO YOU’VE DITCHED CELIBACY THEN?” THE OPENING LINE OF DIALOGUE IN STUART CROFT’S HIT (2003), ONE OF THE KEY WORKS FEATURED IN ARTISTS VS HOLLYWOOD, SETS UP A NARRATIVE EXPECTATION THAT THE FILM NEVER INTENDS TO FULFILL. INSTEAD—IN A CLEVER MOVE THAT SIMULTANEOUSLY DECONSTRUCTS THE ART AND CRAFT OF STORYTELLING WHILE CONFORMING NICELY TO THE LOOP IMPERATIVE OF THE CONTEMPORARY GALLERY—HIT PROCEEDS TO REPEAT THE SCENARIO (LOOSELY, A MAN AND WOMAN AT A BAR DISCUSSING A BETTING RING) WITH A SEAMLESS SERIES OF PERMUTATIONS ON THE STORYLINE.

Each time, though the dialogue remains the same, key changes are made to the characters’ gender and nationality. The repetitions become involutions, turning over the cinematic building blocks of character, performance and mise-en-scène, holding them up for us to inspect and reflect on how these different aesthetic choices construct our experience of a film.

Hit is emblematic of what Anne Demy-Geroe described as “the intimacy of the relationship between ‘cinema’ and ‘art’.” In her elegant opening address to the audience at the opening of Artists vs Hollywood, the director of the Brisbane International Film Festival noted that a Brisbanite in mid-winter is a rather spoilt spectator: there’s the opportunity to experience the latest video art, as showcased by Artists vs Hollywood, and then follow it with the special Film as Art program and a host of other offerings at the Festival. From all this activity, according to Demy-Geroe, whether it’s called artists’ film and video, or film by artists, or avant-garde cinema, it is evident that this kind of creative work has a home in both the gallery and the theatrical setting.

Nonetheless, Demy-Geroe couldn’t help being struck by the “sense of oppositionality” in the exhibition’s “delightfully combative” title. She located the show’s ‘versus’ in the staging of the battle between concurrent but antagonistic forces: a tension between engaging with the cinema as a critical subject and revelling in its guilty pleasures; between the very different processes of appropriation and approximation; between the endeavours of fine art and the ubiquitous presence of screens in our lives. The very naturalisation of the ever-present moving image, it seems, is what has attracted so many moving image artists to critique it. Croft does this—in Hit and in another work in the show, The Death Waltz (2008)—by making what are properly ‘meta-movies’—scripted, directed, acted, filmed and edited like other films, but with commentary on and exposure of the process, rather than the seduction of the spectator, the main game. Croft commits to the classically avant-garde gestures of detournment—using the film industry’s formal language turned back on itself—to expose the artifice and manipulation inherent in this most pervasive of products.

With its racy storyline and quick-and-dirty dialogue, though, Hit is dangerously seductive—at least before the story repeats in a new permutation. In a 2004 review of this work, Martin Herbert declared this makes the film like “a confidence trick”; you “cover for yourself by saying, ‘Ha-ha, I was just kidding.’ You’ve already handed over some capital, but if you’re smart you’ll leave before losing any more.” I thought emotional capital was fully restored by The Death Waltz, an entertaining filmic version of a murder mystery parlour game, where a group of dinner guests in a grand baronial mansion present another circular storyline (this time about a pair of soldier ghosts who dance a demonic waltz). One by one, they recount the gothic story, inflecting each version with a unique point of view. The innovative multi-view technique—entirely shot by the actors using a super-8mm film camera passed around the table in a circle—means that this very contemporary critique of narrative point-of-view touches base with analytic cubism, while reflecting the ongoing resonance of early cinema’s ghouls and devilry in artists’ films.

The other major methodology employed by the artists against the Hollywood machine is not imitation, but appropriation. Found footage film is nothing new—artist Joseph Cornell famously ‘reassembled’ film fragments in the mid-1930s in a technique analogous to Surrealist ‘automatic writing’—and the genre has remained highly visible in avant-garde film since. German experimental film pioneer Matthias Muller is among the most famous proponents of this approach, and while many of his films do evoke the Surrealists’ privileging of the free-associative, unconscious mind, the works in Artists vs Hollywood have a much more conscious, directed task, which is the use of select film fragments to examine the ‘dream factory’ itself. Muller’s work Play (2003), created with Christoph Girardet, consists of shots of different audiences responding to some theatrical moment; we never see what they are watching, and instead have to work it out from their variously rapturous, unimpressed and critical expressions.

A similar use of repetition for effect structures Candice Breitz’ Soliloquy Trilogy (2000), another important work by a major artist which isolates and ‘stalks’ (in the artist’s own words) three of the most iconic stars of recent Hollywood. In Jack (Nicholson), Sharon (Stone) and Clint (Eastwood), we see the star and only the star; Breitz has removed all other characters and shots which show anything but the celebrity, editing in black screens whenever the star is not foregrounded. Decontextualising the stars from their settings, Breitz defamiliarises our experience of the movies in order to force attention on the extent to which the cinema’s representative language is dependent on community for meaning.

What is perhaps most significant about this exhibition is the use of the space at The Block, a challenging venue for group showings of moving image. Housed in a series of sensitively constructed darkened spaces whose fanned shapes funnelled attention to the screen, these mini-theatres enabled each work to be considered in excellent conditions for light and sound.

As moving image curator Chrissie Illes has argued, there are critical differences between the staging and reception of moving image work in the cinema and in the gallery; in “the closed space of cinema there is no circulation, no movement, and no exchange…in the darkness, spectators sink into their seats as though slipping into bed.” This model, Illes notes, “is broken apart by the folding of the dark space of cinema into the white cube of the gallery.” To a significant extent, the success of Artists vs Hollywood lay in its rejoining of those pieces, its recasting of the black-box-within-the-white-cube in a coherent and sensitive way. Some might see the artworks in this show as typical of video’s ‘mise en ruine’ effect on the cinema—fragmenting film into meme-sized pieces in order to recombine them in new, separate artworks. These works of “tertiary cinema” which, according to author and curator Chris Dercon, “consume the whole of cinema”, would all translate into a more traditional white-wall gallery setting, but their nuanced dialogue with Hollywood, as both their matrix and their adversary, was greatly enhanced by the atmospheric setting here. Australian-born curator Joanna Callaghan’s highly developed, thoughtful selections and brilliant presentation generated a potent art—and cinema—experience.

Just after the show drew to a close, the world lost a significant artist: Bruce Conner, whose seminal film A Movie (1952) catapaulted the found footage film to a new level of criticality and rhythmic possibility, and which finds numerous echoes in Artists vs Hollywood. As the experimental film world mourns the passing of one of its brightest stars, recurrent amongst the fond remembrances has been the issue of the model staging of that remarkable film artist’s only solo show (at MOCA—Museum of Contemporary Arts, Los Angeles—and other venues) in 2000. As the conversation shifts to matters of detail about how best to showcase the ongoing evolutions of artistic moving image, Artists vs Hollywood was a timely example of what we can—and should—expect.

Artists vs Hollywood, curators: Joanna Callaghan (UK), Lubi Thomas (Australia), Courtney Coombs (Assistant Curator, Australia), QUT The Block, QUT Precinct, Brisbane, June 12-28

GIVEN THE HIGHLY COMPETITIVE CULTURE OF TERTIARY STUDIES, TRAINING INSTITUTIONS ARE HAVING TO LIFT THEIR GAME, EQUIPPING STUDENTS WITH SKILLS IN PROFESSIONAL PRACTICE AND TRACKING THE CAREER TRAJECTORIES OF GRADUATES. IN MEDIA ARTS, HOWEVER, MANY STUDENTS ARE ALREADY TECHNICALLY PROFICIENT, SOME ARE LIKELY TO HAVE BEEN OR ARE CURRENTLY EMPLOYED, IF PART-TIME, IN THE INDUSTRIES OF THEIR CHOOSING AND OTHERS ARE ALREADY INNOVATORS AND MIGHT EVEN HAVE THEIR OWN BUSINESSES. ABOVE ALL, THEY ARE NETWORKED. THEREFORE, INSTITUTIONS NEED TO RE-ASSESS THE ROLE OF PROFESSIONAL PRACTICE COURSES AND WORK EXPERIENCE, JUXTAPOSING THESE WITH STRATEGIES RELEVANT TO THE SKILLS, NETWORKS AND PROSPECTS OF THEIR STUDENTS.

rmit

Ian Haig, Lecturer in Media Arts at RMIT, believes that professional practice schemes have lost their formality, and that students now instigate their own projects and networks whilst at university. He comments, “Media art is constantly in a state of flux and is quite malleable, students must be entrepreneurial, and it’s difficult for institutions to teach this. Students tend to carve out a living on freelance projects that have developed through networks within the industry.”

Seen as a highly successful program in its day, an RMIT professional practice program simply titled ‘Internships’ was once offered to undergraduate media art students. Each class was conducted by an industry professional across disciplines such as animation, gaming and sound. Now internships are negotiated in an informal way but are often salaried and invaluable in forming long-term networks with media arts organizations and companies.

murdoch university

Mark Cypher, Senior Lecturer and Program Chair for Interactive Digital Design and Game Art and Design at Murdoch University believes it is far more useful to teach first year students strategies for self-learning. From first year, students are encouraged to learn the software themselves. Cypher argues that “there is no point in teaching students how to use Flash, for example, when by the time they graduate the scripting language is redundant. It is seen as a far more useful technique to teach students strategies for self-learning…Being aware and intrinsically motivated to learn about innovation is just a fact of life. What other option is there?”

Internet spaces such as Facebook, YouTube and MySpace offer students an easy and accessible way to negotiate marketing and management opportunities. Cypher believes that “once an artist gets enough people interested in their work and it’s posted on enough blogs, the work becomes viral. Curators will then see it and the artists will be invited to exhibit or pitch for a job.” In terms of university training, ‘real world’ units involving client projects (basically project management), are core units for the Media Art courses at Murdoch. Cypher then takes this one step further by “offering lectures on how to get the best ‘sponsorship licence’ for your Flash web and mobile games. The market for new forms of media is changing quickly and for those students who are technically, aesthetically (and to use an old term) street savvy enough, there is a brave new media world to be leveraged to their advantage.”

Cypher also believes there is a decreased need to offer meaningful in-the-field experience during media arts training within academic institutions. “Once upon a time students would jump at the chance to do volunteer or professional placement work to boost their CVs. But at the moment students are not interested in doing anything for free, nor are they interested in doing paid work.” Interested employers often ring with work opportunities for students. Attempting to turn these opportunities into professional placement units Cypher often finds that students aren’t interested. He suspects there are several complex reasons why this is happening: “Students may be burdened with uni work and feel that to take on anything extra would unbalance the situation. Some students are already in the field whilst going to uni. Some have expectations that work is easy to find and thus they can shop around for the right job! Most of my colleagues in the industry who are looking for applicants would agree that they are the ones being interviewed.” There is also a rise in interest from students taking up double degrees, for example art and computer science. Nowadays it seems students are much more interested in jobs and double majors that increase specific skill sets and thus employability.

swinburne university

According to Darren Tofts, Chair of Media and Communications at Swinburne University, a high percentage of his students enter employment in media arts jobs such as radio production, animation and communications research. He says although not studio based, and focused much more on academic learning, Swinburne is committed to professional learning strategies, but similarly to RMIT and Murdoch University, Swinburne puts an emphasis on student-initiated professional practice. For example, graduate placement opportunities used to be negotiated by the faculty and only a selection of students could take up the opportunity. Now all students take up placement opportunities but must negotiate for themselves. This is done as part of the Industry Based Learning program (IBL) and Media Communications and Games and Interactivity postgraduate programs.

Swinburne also holds an annual presentation evening of students’ work for graduates in the areas of sound, video, radio and communications. To add value to this event, Tofts is also committed to the introduction of an annual prize promoting to industry the quality of student work.

uts

At the University of Technology (UTS) in Sydney, students undertake production projects each semester. They can elect to participate in professional placements and are encouraged to develop their portfolio and publicly display their works throughout their study through events such as the biennial UTS Golden Eye Awards and other events and competitions. Gillian Leahy, Associate Professor and Program Director of Media Arts and Production at UTS, highlights the importance of collaboration: “All our students learn to work collaboratively and to take an idea through all stages into a completed media project which can be publicly exhibited in some way. Apart from the critical thinking and media skills they also learn, it is this ability to organise a project through all stages which makes them highly employable.”

disciplinary mergers

New media arts courses and departments set up in the 1990s have not all enjoyed consistent support from their universities, and some have been shut down or merged with other departments. Martyn Jolly of the ANU School of Arts reports that the Australian National University’s Centre for New Media Arts “was disestablished (in 2007), its teaching and research have been folded into the School of Art and a new department formed along with Photomedia, which I headed, so I now head the new Photography and Media Arts Department.” The University of Sydney used to offer a Bachelor of Arts (Digital Technology and Culture). Now, says Chris Chesher, director of the Digital Cultures Program, “We offer an undergraduate major in the Arts degree from the Digital Cultures program in the School of Letters, Art and Media in the Faculty of Arts.” But both Jolly and Chesher see advantages for their students in their multi-disciplinary departments, Chesher, like Mark Cypher, noting the attractiveness of the double degree.

anu school of art

Martyn Jolly reports that the Photography and Media Arts Department has developed a new Digital Media major which incorporates sound, networking, programming and physical computing along with video and animation in a single major. “We’ve just started with our first cohort of students, and we think the course is fairly unique in the Australian educational context. We have also just begun a Master of Visual Effects degree which focusses on the CG industry.”

Students are encouraged to participate in exhibitions and performances, and the recording, publishing and performance of new media and time-based arts. The school offers hands-on work experience, in Canberra or interstate, for students in their final year. There’s also a Professional Practice unit, which involves learning the basics of marketing, copyright and tax. Students are expected to go through the process of applying for a grant, including preparing a proposal, budgets, support letters from peers or host institutions and the preparation of support material. Martyn Jolly assesses the proposals as he would in his capacity as Chair of Arts ACT. The school’s graduates go on to be filmmakers, animators, sound and new media artists and teachers or to set up their own businesses or go on to higher degrees, like the Master of New Media Arts. The school’s staff includes composer and media artist Alistair Riddell.

university of sydney

Chris Chesher describes the Digital Cultures program as “something like a small department” within in the School of Letters, Art and Media in the Faculty of Arts. “We are an interdisciplinary, critical humanities program focused on relationships between information technologies and cultural change.” As well as the Bachelor of Arts, the faculty offers the Master of Digital Communication and Culture degree as a one year full-time postgraduate coursework program, which is also available as Graduate Diploma and Graduate Certificate. Chesher reports that “Digital Cultures undergraduates tell us they have been surprised at the level of interest from employers…look[ing] for graduates who demonstrate an understanding of new technologies and their creative and strategic values, but also have the contextual knowledge of a broadly-based arts degree. In many places, this combination competes well against narrow specialism.”

To this end, Chesher says that the program’s teaching “focuses consistently on the social contexts of information technology, and therefore intersects with a wide range of traditions: in fine arts, media and popular culture, sociology, cultural studies, philosophy, history, and so on.” Students can also select electives from Education, IT, Design Computing and also the Sydney College of the Arts.

Indicative of the push towards cross-disciplinary learning and practice, in 2009 the university is introducing a new program Bachelor of IT/Bachelor of Arts (BIT/BA). Chesher expects the degree to be very competitive, producing graduates with an even higher level of technical proficiency along with the breadth provided by the arts: “our strengths really lie in these areas of multi-skilling and the appreciation of innovation. Our newest postgraduate unit of study, Remixable Media, will be taught by Michela Ledwidge, a world leader in the field.” (Ledwidge mixes extant film material, re-playing it like video games. In her VJ performances with films, she treats each like a musical instrument. See RT 87).

Clearly there has been a substantial shift in attitude towards work experience and professional practice course as necessary approaches to preparing students for their careers. While the older model still holds, extending to trial grant applications and increased public performance and exhibition, there are expectations that students will be (if not already) autonomous—self-learning, entrepreneurial and seriously multi-skilled. It is just as clear that university media arts departments are, equally, adapting to a new generation of students.

WITH AN ARRAY OF WORKS AND PERFORMANCES THAT CELEBRATE NEW MEDIA AS OVERWHELMING SPECTACLE, MONTREAL’S ELEKTRA FESTIVAL IS A GLADIATOR PIT FOR THE NEW ROME WHERE MOST OF THE TIME NOONE HAS TO DIE, ALTHOUGH SOME MIGHT SUFFER.

The Elektra Festival is held annually, and its ninth outing in May 2008 consisted of gallery exhibitions, audio visual performances and a conference for new media festival producers from around the world. Elektra focuses on large scale concerts and electronic art installations shown at the excellent Usine C venue and gallery space, with satellite exhibitions and screenings around central Montreal.

Each of the four nights featured live audio-visual performances from high profile artists such as Frank Bretschneider, alva Noto aka Carsten Nicolai, founder of the seminal German label Raster-Noton, and TeZ of Optofonica. The presentation of these performances is intimidating with an enormous surround sound system and triple projection screen across almost an entire length of the space. The terrifying potential of this apparatus turned on a consensual audience was fully realised each night. TVestroy, a duo from Montreal found this still somewhat lacking and added a further 5 CRT screens and multiple strobe lights. The noise and light subsequently emitted was overwhelming leaving the audience and this reviewer unable to do anything more than either hope we wouldn’t die or get another drink.

The performances continued in this vein with Netherlands duo Synchronator exploring signal based video instigation using an array of custom built analogue equipment. I had been very keen to see Synchronator for a while and they did not disappoint with a 40-minute set exploring a territory that was less concerned with overwhelming spectacle than with focusing on what seemed to be genuine live experimentation. Synchronator utilise modulated electrical signals to directly produce violently colourful audio and video.

A momentary lull in the consistent light bombing came from Swiss-based Untitled Sound Objects who are usually configured for installation based gallery works. Their live performance utilised small platforms supporting a variety of substances such as sand and beads. These were modulated by small offset motors controlled by the artists. The amplified movement of the objects on each platform created the sound for the work and a macro camera focused on the vibrating objects produced the video. Their work was relatively quiet and subtle producing delicate, shimmering timbres.

The highlight of the concerts was Telco Systems, from the Netherlands, whose throbbing, howling music was perfectly accompanied with live video that maintained a discernible and intrinsic relationship while also managing to be very beautiful and engaging in its own right. The video produced was a series of organic, two dimensional monochrome patterns constructed in realtime and relationally linked with the audio. It’s rare when the phrase “like Pansonic but good” can be uttered aloud without fear of serious reprisals from peers but that’s how good they are.

The theme of Elektra seemed to be about dual and intrinsically related sensory stimulation. So the unannounced but glaringly obvious intention behind much of the programming seemed to be a series of attempts to produce synthaesthesia in the audience. The inclusion of Kurt Hentschläger’s Feed epitomises this concern. The work originally premiered at the Venice Theatre Biennale in 2005 and has been shown by Elektra three times over the past two years. Shown each night of Elektra after the concerts, the audience was limited to 100 and every night it sold out.

To enter Feed the audience must first sign a waiver. Any audience members who have a personal or family history of photosensitive seizures, a heart condition, high or low blood pressure, anxiety, claustrophobia, migraines or headaches or simply don’t feel well that night are precluded from the experience. The reason behind this water tight waiver is that Feed has triggered seizures in people with no known history of epilepsy and panic attacks in the audience are almost guaranteed. Ten clearly marked safety officers surround the audience who are seated in the middle of the room. The screening process and the work’s reputation made me anxious before I even sat down.

Feed operates in two sections. The first consists of a live 3D animation video that has direct correlations with the sound. A lone, naked, thin androgynous figure floats in a black space, occasionally thrashing and convulsing as though electrically shocked. This figure is then cloned again and again until the entire screen is filled with floating, convulsing dead bodies. The audience is then suddenly enveloped in thick theatrical smoke from more than 10 heavy duty smoke machines. This becomes so thick you cannot see you own hand more than an inch in front of your eyes. 30,000 watts of strobe lights are then triggered from above in sync with the music, performing complex sequences.

The combination of smoke and strobing causes a complete loss of depth of field and spatial orientation. The white and red light flashes occur on the edge of the viewer’s eyeball, actually silhouetting it against the optic nerve. Patterns then form and it becomes possible to see the blood vessels in the eye and the shape of the retina. Other effects are generated by the brain’s repeated attempts to make sense of the experience. At the peak of the work my vision rippled like water when my eyeball was vibrated by the 5,000 watts of sub-woofer the work requires. Feed is both terrifying and beautiful, opening up a field of penetrative art that conducts itself beneath the surface of the skin.

For the past two years Elektra has invited and flown producers and directors from some of the biggest electronic arts festivals and organisations in the world to meet together at the festival. Ars Electronica, Transmediale, Radar and more than 20 others were represented. Electrofringe festival, part of This Is Not Art from Newcastle, Australia was invited as the sole representative from the southern hemisphere. The marketplace included opportunities to represent our festival, meet Canadian artists and plot together into the wee hours. While Electrofringe feels very small in the company of such giants it was an amazing opportunity to develop an understanding of the global electronic arts scene and realise the unique and beautiful aspects of our own little community.

Elektra Festival, Usine C, Montreal, Canada May 7-10, www.elektrafestival.ca; International Digital Art Marketplace May 8-9
www.usine-c.com

Barbara Campbell and technician Richard Manner preparing for night 1001 webcast of 1001 nights cast at Performance Space at Carriageworks, March 17, 2008

“MY OTHER IMAGE OF THE PROJECT IS THAT OF A HOME; AS SUCH IT COULD ACTUALLY PRECEDE ME. IT COULD ALWAYS EXIST AS A HOME-SPACE, AND ONE THAT I COULD INHABIT QUITE COMFORTABLY RATHER THAN DRAG AROUND LIKE A BURDEN.”
BARBARA CAMPBELL

During the two-and-three-quarter years or so between June 21, 2005 and March 17, 2008 I lived at four different addresses in Melbourne, which is to say that I moved house three times. It is my impression today that these moves involved numberless hours of hushed sorting, packing and unpacking of furniture and belongings. And numberless mornings of improvising what I needed from those various boxes, bags or teetering stacks of things that were to hand. Home now in Melbourne, where I am writing this reflection, is a rundown weatherboard house; there is a gas fire crackling and, on the mantlepiece above, a vase of early hyacinths—their scent pervades the room.

During the same two-and-three-quarter years or so I was one of 243 contributors to Barbara Campbell’s online performance project 1001 nights cast, which culminated in a webcast from Sydney’s Performance Space at CarriageWorks on March 17. Throughout the preceding interval of 1000 evenings, Campbell lived or stayed at 33 different addresses in seven countries across the globe. And wherever she was residing, or perhaps simply pausing in her travels, at sunset she performed for live webcast a story composed just hours earlier; a story delivered to her online, by a writer with whom she had been in contact through the day, at first with a ‘prompt’ for inspiration—a word, or a cluster of words sourced from an online news report about the Middle East.

From its inception 1001 nights cast was confidently reliant on the transnational reach of internet communication: on its ability to condense and elude geographical borders into an experience of spatial ambiguity. Yet a conceptual key to the structure of the project lies in the definition of Campbell’s storytelling as ‘performance’: as an event webcast over 1001 nights, this would take place in real time determined to the minute by the geophysical fact of sunset in the artist’s location. The video broadcast telescoped the action of this event into an image of the artist’s mouth—the moist, pliant movement of her shaping and voicing each word of the day’s story with lips, teeth, tongue, and breath. [For each broadcast Campbell placed a numbered stud, corresponding to the number of the story, into her tongue piercing. Eds] The story itself might be clearly understood as an elaborate invention, a fictive tale. But for the several minutes of its telling, some partial, fleshly proof of the storyteller’s living presence could be witnessed. In an interview of July 2006, Campbell affirmed, “My audience will just have to wait to be assured that I’m still there the next day. I hope that some sort of transference happens then: if I’m alive during this performance, then you too must be alive, watching and listening” (RT73, p30).

ft – Barbara Campbell, tongue studs for 1001 nights cast (detail), sterling silver, each 0.4 x 0.8 x 2 cm, 2007

Though appearing on a flat screen, the fleshly proof of Campbell’s survival was provocatively that of a threshold opening onto her body’s interior. The audience for the final performance at CarriageWorks viewed the video magnified to spectacular proportions, as though to dramatise the playful excess of fears and desires, words and images that the project had garnered up to that occasion.

The foregrounding of the mouth as a visual focus emphasised that, from its inception, the logic of 1001 nights cast was existential—a matter of turning and returning attention to subjective, interior experience. This logic is invoked by the website’s explicit reference to the legendary figure of Scheherazade, the Arabic woman who gains a reprieve from death by nightly weaving spells of stories that demonstrate the variety and complexity of the human condition. A similar logic—though, in Campbell’s case, of reprieve from mourning—can be inferred from the website introduction: “In a faraway land a gentle man dies. His bride is bereft. She travels across continents looking for a reason to keep living. Every night at sunset she is greeted by a stranger who gives her a story to heal her heart and continue with her journey” (http://1001.net.au/).

Hence for its 1001 nights Campbell’s project was essentially premised on the space of the body-mind, and on a question about being and time, a question that might now be risked outright, rather than enacted and displaced into allusion: ‘how does the time of the everyday lifeworld relate to the time of emotional pain?’ Yet even as it reinterprets Scheherazade’s wise and clever recourse to ‘a talking cure’, the 1001 nights cast was never detatched from circumstances of the contemporary lifeworld—or at least from meanings given to these circumstances by published journalism on the Middle East situation. Through the prompts and their sources the project’s motivating question has always carried collective, societal implications; it has always considered, therefore, the time of everyday lifeworlds that are beset by violence, conflict, political rupture and uncertainty.

Ritual, and collaborative preparation for ritual were Campbell’s modes of interrogation. Paradoxically these were also the project’s means of domesticating its existential bias, which was each day ‘brought home’, and into untold homes, via the screens of personal computers. The webcast’s atmosphere of precarious intimacy; the imaginative and affective stimulus afforded by the prompts and stories, all proved profoundly resilient—as indeed did Barbara Campbell. Impressively so. Without doubt, I have been gratefully reassured by the sustained ritual of her performances.

Campbell felt highly accountable to her audiences, and particularly to those who wrote for her project. As the first and last of the 243 writers, she thoroughly empathised with the emotions produced by the fixed deadline each day, emotions which might easily range from euphoria—creative freefall—to severe anxiety. By her own account, this empathy was heightened on the date of her final performance: she later described the episode in a group email to the project writers: “After six hours of narrative struggle I had nine documents open with half-formed ideas and bits of nothingness. At 4pm (before a sunset time of 7.10pm) I threw it all away and channelled you all into a structure that was robust enough to handle everything I wanted to say…I had just enough time to shower, change and taxi to the theatre to make it to the 6.30pm tech run.”

An audience of 100 writers and supporters had gathered at CarriageWorks, and Campbell appeared in a smart green dress, a dress the colour of an unmown lawn after steady rain. This green seemed chosen to represent a state of vibrancy, flourishing renewal.

Campbell’s unrehearsed solution to the challenge of the ‘1001st night’ was to reiterate the prompt and closing lines of stories already archived on the project website. Using a compact, antiphonal form, she paid tribute to the collaborative momentum of the 1001 nights cast, and tested—if such a test were needed—the generative potential of that which would formally outlast the two-and-three-quarter years or so of her performance practice.

Barbara Campbell has confirmed that the 1001 nights cast website “will remain up for the forseeable future.” One-thousand-and-one prompts can be found neatly stacked under the heading “Search the Archive.” They are rendered in jewel-like shades of watercolour. Arrayed with them are links to the stories that Campbell first performed, and the stories’ opening lines. This is a veritable treasure-house of images.

Unlike the contents of my own boxes and bags through the past two-and-three-quarter years or so, this stuff of manifold histories will always be buoyant—stored weightlessly, for sorting as a swift and weightless act. A hushed unpacking will surely yield appreciation of the critical relationship between improvisation and survival.

Barbara Campbell, night 1001 live webcast; Performance Space, CarriageWorks, Sydney, March 17, http://1001.net.au/

THE HISTORY OF SCIENCE HAS BEEN IN LARGE PART THE REVEALING OF THE UNSEEN, WHETHER IN PERCEIVING, IN THE VISIBLE WORLD, STRUCTURES ELUCIDATED BY CATEGORISATION AND ANALYSIS, OR BY USING PROSTHESES (THE MICROSCOPE AND ITS ELECTRONIC DESCENDENTS) TO SEE WHAT WE HAD ONLY EVER GUESSED AT (ATOMS, ELECTRONS, NEUTRONS, PROTONS, MAYBE QUARKS). IN THE ERA OF BIOMIMCRY WE LOOK AT HOW NATURE WORKS IN ORDER TO SEE HOW WE MIGHT BENEFIT. FOR EXAMPLE, TERMITE MOUND AIR-CONDITIONING HAS LESSONS FOR REDUCED CARBON PRODUCTION IN BUILDING DESIGN. HOWEVER, CANBERRA ARTIST ERICA SECCOMBE, MIMICKING SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION, OFFERS US A DEEP LOOK NOT INTO NATURE BUT, REVEALINGLY, INTO MAN MADE TRIVIA.

The three large digital projections in Nanoplastica evoke a visual voyage into the innards of the tiny, semi-transparent invertebrates that populate the great oceans and the human gut, as we’ve seen on countless television documentaries. But Seccombe’s creatures are something else—plastic toy animals, poor mimickings of nature found in chocolate packs for children.

In a residency at the ANU Research School of Physical Sciences and Engineering, Dr Tim Senden X-rayed the toys for the artist on the Microcomputed Tomograph (XTC). As CCAS director David Broker reports in his catalogue essay: “In conjunction with the XTC facility, Dr Ajay Limaye, from the ANU Super Computer Facility and Vizlab…custom designed a high resolution 3D volume rendering program called Drishti that enables researchers to interpret their micro X-ray data visually. Under his instruction Seccombe has learned to use this technology independently. Nanoplastica…enables the viewer to see inside the replica’s tiny interior structures, manipulate its density and rotate volume 360 degrees in a virtual space. It’s actually hard to believe one’s eyes as the edited visual record of the process presents this most miserable of subjects in the dazzling lights of astonishing beauty.”

For Broker, “Seccombe’s deliberate use of novelty consumer items in conjunction with state-of-the art technology generates an interesting collision of popular culture with elite artistic and scientific pursuits. Though the starting point may be considered frivolous, this is work that reaches beyond Pop, crossing into the science/art paradigm, ultimately including new media experimentation.” For the viewer, the immediate surprise comes from the artist’s deployment of hi-tech equipment to reveal just how natural synthetic creation can appear under the microscope—but, after all, human beings and their animal kin simply rearrange molecules and atoms to make all kinds of things. Nothing is, perhaps, too far from nature, certainly not in Erica Seccombe’s Nanoplastica. RT

EXPERIENCING SYDNEY THROUGH THE FILTER OF THE 2008 BIENNALE, IT SEEMS AS THOUGH THE CORPORATE CHARACTER OF THE CITY IS CHANGING: EMBRACING AND CELEBRATING THE CHARACTERFUL GRUNGE OF HISTORIC INDUSTRIAL SITES RATHER THAN BULLDOZING AND SWEEPING ALL REMNANTS AWAY FOR MORE DESIGNER APARTMENTS. ALONG WITH THE STANDARD GALLERY VENUES OF THE MCA, ART GALLERY OF NSW AND ARTSPACE, THE 2008 BIENNALE OF SYDNEY HAS ONCE AGAIN SECURED PIER 2/3 (UNDER SIEGE FROM EXPENSIVE RESTAURANTS BUT STILL A GLORIOUS DRAFTY SHELL OF A WAREHOUSE) AND ALSO ADDED THE WONDERFUL CRUMBLING INDUSTRIAL PLAYGROUND OF COCKATOO ISLAND.

The Biennale seems even more abundant than usual with over 150 artists contributing, but at Wharf 2/3 we are offered a succinct selection of 3 works, allowing for focused, unpressured contemplation. The first piece consists of reproductions of some of Futurist Luigi Russolo’s Intonarumori (Italy), but they are frustratingly silent—like pictures in books. What do these things sound like, and how do they work? While the intention to illustrate the origins of sound art and exploratory music is clear, the inclusion of these inert replicas feels like a hollow educational gesture.

Any discontent quickly dissolves viewing the mesmerising untitled painting by Doreen Reid Nakamarra (Australia). Placed horizontally just off the ground, to be viewed from above, the rivers of intricate dots make the work pulsate and strobe before your eyes. Adjusting you begin to see the illusion of three-dimensional sculpted peaks and troughs of hills and valleys, based on the landscape around the Pollock Hills area in Western Australia, home of the Marrapinti people. Though two dimensional, it is far from inert and absolutely dazzling.

The rest of the cavernous space is given over to The Murder of Crows (2008, Canada) a massive sound installation by Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller. Although the intention is to foreground sound over sight, it is certainly visually impressive. Ninety-nine speakers are distributed around the space—on the floor, in the ceiling and placed on some of the chairs arranged in a circle. These are centred around one large old-style gramophone horn, from which Cardiff’s own voice emanates, quietly recalling disturbing scenes from her dreams. Cardiff’s narrative is interspersed with soundscapes and orchestral and choral compositions in which each instrument or voice is delivered by an individual speaker. Initially I am sceptical—100 speakers is rather excessive (even the idea of the artists’ 40 Part Motet seemed decadent)—and the assignment of one speaker per sonic element is quite literal, a kind of long-hand methodology considering the complex developments in spatialisation such as wave field synthesis. But as I hear the string section of an orchestra start up instrument by instrument enveloping me in a sphere of soaring song, or hear the individual voices of a Russian marching chorus approaching, or the wingbeat of a swooping crow pound the air above me, I cannot help but give over to the sonic wonder—it’s a spectacularly immersive experience.

The 30-minute work, is described as a soundplay, and is reminiscent of a particular style of radiophonic feature. The dreamscape offered in the narrative is engaging and dark, yet the compositions retain a gentler melancholy tone traversing a range of musical styles from contemporary classical, post-rock to pop-folk. While the music is neatly sutured together with evocative soundscapes to form a shifting dreamland, the use of so many styles occasionally felt like the 100 speaker system was a demonstration model being put through its paces. That aside, it was undeniably a listening feast.

A very pleasant free ferry ride whisks you across to Cockatoo Island, which offers too many works to absorb in just one outing. In some incredible victory of common sense over the stultifying strictures of public liability, works are installed in dusty warehouses with creaky staircases and uneven floor surfaces, amongst bits and pieces of defunct machinery. And the works thrive in this environment. Australian Mike Parr’s retrospective Mirror/Arse feels truly fetid and dangerously infectious installed in room upon room of the old Sailors’ Home. Videos are secreted in claustrophobic spaces, with speakers further spread, making the whole building quake with moans, shouts and cries from the various tortures Parr has inflicted on himself over the years.

On a far point of the island in an old fuel storage tank is Nalini Malani’s ‘The tables have turned,’ A Shadow Play (2008, Pakistan/India). Animals, objects and scenes are painted on cylinders of acetate, which are placed on revolving turntables with a collection of coloured lights scattered around the floor. The colliding shadows are reminiscent of rock paintings and shaman magic, and the curved wall of the tank offers a perverse replication of a cave. But the work is sadly diminished by the sonic element of a radio drama voice telling tales of Helen of Troy which bounces around the reverberant walls. Sean Gladwell’s Ghost Rider (Australia, 2008), is another work which looks better than it sounds. Accompanying the poetic video of cyclists travelling down empty streets late at night and releasing their trusted bicycles to their own trajectories (‘ghosties’), were two rows of bikes mounted at shoulder height, emitting tiny sounds (run by large amplifiers), creating an indifferent haze of buzzing, burring and humming. There was something overly fussy about the sound installation which failed to really resonate the bike frames and the work as a whole.

In the centre of the Turbine Hall is the ultimate soundscape of the Biennale. Standing amidst Jannis Kounellis’ architectural, overlapping sails strung from floor to ceiling like a web, the caw and squawk of Cockatoo Island’s seagull population accompanies the strains of the Internationale emanating from Susan Philipsz’ single speaker tucked in amongst ancient machinery (UK/Germany, 1999). While perhaps an obvious gesture given the theme of revolution, the melancholy irony of Philipsz choice is undeniably effective. Then there is the roar of truck engines and the harmonically surprising roundelay of horns floating out of the small machinery room which houses Chen Xiaoyun’s video work : A Mythical Wild Animal–Symbol of Durance (China, 2008). The artist stands in the centre of circling trucks and with frenzied fervour, whip in hand, tries to corral them—is it mastery of man over machine or tragic futility? Set in a muddy wasteland at night, this is a curiously beautiful work, the shooting angles and choreography of bright blue trucks suggesting a kind of contemporary baroque reminiscent of Matthew Barney.

The rich soundscape of the Turbine Hall exemplified what I found most satisfying about these components of 2008 Biennale of Sydney. There is a cohesive sense in Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev’s curation of the desire to explore the relationship between things—how works rub up against each other, infect each other with new meaning. This is evidenced in the inclusion of historic works (with varying degrees of success), but is most strongly manifest in the way works resonate with their sites—how they are part of their surroundings—in the real world.

2008 Biennale of Sydney, Artistic Director Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev,
June 18-Sept 7

LINK Dance Company Production, Oscillate, Mountains Never Meet, choreographed by Martin del Amo

DANCE GRADUATES FROM AUSTRALIA’S TERTIARY COURSES ARE POSSIBLY MORE PREPARED THAN THEY HAVE EVER BEEN FOR THE REALITIES OF THE WORKING WORLD. TERTIARY COURSE LEADERS, DRIVEN BY EVER TIGHTER BUREAUCRATIC RESTRICTIONS, ARE FOCUSED UPON DELIVERING STRONG EMPLOYMENT STATISTICS AND INDUSTRY STAKEHOLDERS, SUCH AS FUNDERS, COMPANIES AND CHOREOGRAPHIC CENTRES, ARE KEEN TO CHANNEL YOUNG TALENT INTO A DIVERSITY OF CAREERS.

waapa

All the major institutions share a focus on improving the interface with the professional world. At Edith Cowan University’s Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts (WAAPA) Nanette Hassall, coordinator and senior lecturer, says, “We have tried to develop a number of different ‘pathways’ for students beyond graduation. We spend considerable time in the last year of both Diploma and BA courses to facilitate transition. In the BA there are opportunities for performance overseas and third years take secondments and industry placements here and overseas. Related classes examine the industry in Australia and specific opportunities for graduates. Students choreograph a public season and work with media students to produce a high quality online bio. There are units in both courses that cover dance teaching methods. Units enable students, with some additional training, to engage in allied health areas, particularly yoga and Pilates. BA students can move directly or at a later stage into the one year Graduate Diploma of Education at Edith Cowan University.”

qut

This focus upon a diversity of career outcomes is common, with strong results for non-performance careers. At Queensland University of Technology (QUT), discipline leader Shaaron Boughen says, “We have a very good rate of success in placing our dance education graduates: 95-100%. Performance focused students can take at least 12 months to transition into full time work. The percentage fluctuates from 60-75% going into performance jobs, 15-20% into postgraduate study and the remainder into private studio teaching and other areas of the industry. Our 2008 intake into the Dance Education strand of the Bachelor of Fine Arts is the first year to experience training for three years in a vocationally focused dance degree. We have increased performance opportunities for our Education students and offer a broader range of dance genre and style training to better prepare them for dance teaching in high schools. Their curriculum studies are offered intensively in a fourth year as a Graduate Diploma. We are always updating and adjusting our course offerings in response to industry and student needs.”

Reinforcing this emphasis on diversity, Julie Dyson, National Director of Ausdance, noticed upon a recent visit to Queensland, “QUT dance graduates working as social workers and in police departments.”

vca

At Melbourne’s Victorian College of the Arts (VCA), head of school Jenny Kinder says, “VCA students are supported in a variety of ways to face the inevitable uncertainties of a dance career. Recent curriculum changes have focused on career sustainability. Subjects such as Performance Management include improved training strategies which embrace dance science as well as performance psychology, injury prevention and management. A huge advantage for VCA students is the vibrant Melbourne dance scene and the involvement of practicing dance artists such Rebecca Hilton, Phillip Adams, Carlee Mellow, Gerard Van Dyck, Linda Sastradipradja as teachers and/or choreographers in the program. Bedrocks, a VCA-wide transition program, assists graduating students to kick start their careers as independent artists. Graduating dance students are also supported through ongoing training in their first year out.”

adelaide centre for the arts

The incorporation of practicing professionals into the teaching cadre is a strength of institutions where the focus is upon performance. Sally Collard-Gentle at Adelaide’s Centre for the Arts, says, “The Bachelor of Dance Performance trains dancers for a wide range of settings, including theatre, independent production, film and television industries. The thrust is professional training with dance industry elite choreographers. Teaching staff are sourced from national and international dance companies and have a minimum of seven years professional experience. Industry plays an active part in the evaluation of technique, training and production performance.”

link dance company

The last word in preparation for a performance career in Australia is WAAPA’s LINK dance company, which simulates the professional performance career within the university setting and includes dancers from most of the national undergraduate courses. Michael Whaites, Artistic Director of LINK says, “All 2007 dancers from LINK are currently working in the industry. I am constantly seeking new ways to give the dancers real experiences in the industry and the confidence to steer their careers proactively. Two initiatives for 2008 extend our scope. The dancer in residence program employs an experienced professional dancer to join the company for a season. Students observe real world studio practice, extend their networks and discuss the realities of being a freelance artist. The Room To Move project offers local choreographers space and time with the company to research and develop ideas without production pressure. In 2008 we are working with nine choreographers. We are about to do a workshop in Amsterdam, a residency at Rosas in Brussels, perform at Laban in London, and possibly in Berlin.”

ql2

Outside the universities, institutions such as QL2, the former Choreographic Centre in Canberra, have a range of projects for graduates and graduating students. Soft Landing is an annual program preparing graduates for professional practice. In 2007 Solon Ulbrich worked with 11 graduates to produce a showing in the theatre and a forum with audiences. Soft Landing 2 in 2009 will culminate in a site specific season with choreographer Brian Lucas at the National Gallery of Australia.

QL2 also offers the On Course program for current tertiary students, primarily ex-Quantum Leap youth group members, to develop their choreographic ideas in a supportive environment and present work to Canberra audiences. In their Visiting Dancer program, tertiary students and interstate dancers work in a QL2 project and secondments enable students to join Quantum Leap projects in supporting roles.

dancehouse

At Melbourne’s Dancehouse there are a range of opportunities for graduates, including the annual open presentation season, Coming Out! and Learning Curve, the mentoring residency that gives graduates the opportunity to work with an established choreographer. In 2008 15 graduates worked with Russell Dumas and Dancehouse is currently considering opening the program up to include a mix of graduates with established and mid-career artists. Dancehouse also offers Summer, Winter and Spring Training Intensives, two weeks of classes for professional and advanced dancers, which include recent graduates.

ausdance

Ausdance offices around Australia engage with graduating dancers in space initiatives, presentation platforms and projects such as Dance Week. Ausdance works with the Tertiary Dance Council of Australia to present the biennial Options festival of career options for graduates and last year facilitated a joint meeting between the Tertiary Dance Council of Australia (TDCA) and artistic directors to encourage dialogue and joint projects.

company support

Regularly funded contemporary dance companies offer a range of secondments to graduating students. Lucy Guerin Inc and Force Majeure accommodate around 30 per annum, Chunky Move between 50 and 60. Generally companies report positive experiences. Larger institutions such as WA Ballet with its Young Dancer program encourage young talent but emphasise the dwindling number of full-time dancer positions and the growth of the independent sector. While many course leaders cite prestigious alumni lists in companies across Australia and internationally, there is another trend in the opposite direction, which finds mid-career and mature artists returning to university to acquire new skills to supplement their performance and choreographic careers.

a creative australia

On a positive note, A Creative Australia, the Rudd Government’s new $6.6 million fund for young and emerging artists, supports companies to offset the income that would otherwise be earned from presenting better known or more commercial works; projects that support young and emerging artists in developing professional skills, expertise and networking; and projects that engage young artists and audiences.

TEN YEARS OLD, MELBOURNE’S BALLETLAB OPERATES ON A PORTFOLIO OF STATE AND FEDERAL PROJECT FUNDING ARRANGEMENTS, USING UP AND WEARING OUT PRODUCING STAFF THROUGH A RELENTLESSLY AMBITIOUS SCHEDULE OF CREATION AND PRESENTATION. ARTISTIC DIRECTOR PHILLIP ADAMS SEES 2009 AS A POSSIBLE NEW ERA OF STABILITY FOR THE COMPANY. CHARACTERISTICALLY POSITIVE, HE RATTLES OFF A LIST OF INDICATIONS OF THE COMPANY’S GOOD ARTISTIC AND ORGANISATIONAL HEALTH. EXECUTIVE PRODUCER MATT MORSE HIT THE GROUND RUNNING AT THE PRESENTATION STAGE OF ADAMS’ PREVIOUS WORK, BRINDABELLA, EIGHT MONTHS PREVIOUSLY. WITH A NEW WORK, AXEMAN LULLABY, ABOUT TO OPEN, A EUROPEAN TOUR FOR BRINDABELLA IN 2009 AND AN INTERNATIONAL RESIDENCY TO CREATE ANOTHER WORK IN NOVEMBER THIS YEAR, ADAMS HAS GROUNDS FOR GOOD CHEER.

BalletLab is positioning Axeman Lullaby in a ‘suite’ of productions which will target a range of markets and continue to tour while the company prepares a major commission in 2010 to mark the opening of The Museum of Old and New Art in Tasmania. The company’s sponsorship relationship with Moorilla (its winery and museum), has led to this extraordinary opportunity to create a promenade performance of scale. Details are not forthcoming, as Adams is sworn to a secrecy he finds hard to contain.

Following a subdued response to Origami in 2006, Adams created Brindabella in 2007. He is delighted with its resonance with audiences at the sell-out Melbourne season and with European presenters. The collaboration with American choreographer, Miguel Guiterrez, created a bacchanalia of thrilling moments, veering dangerously close to chaos but contained with the coherence of composer David Chisholm’s delightful score. Adams says, “Working with Miguel opened me up to so many things.” He is excited about how this experience inspires Miracle, the piece to follow Axeman, which presents a trio of new works from Adams, Rebecca Hilton and John Jasperse.

“Miracle is entrenched within the US market through John”, Adams explains. “Brindabella is opening up Europe for us finally, and Axeman will do the same for the regions here.” Never one to underestimate his audiences, Adams has complete faith that Axeman’s themes will resonate in the regions. He goes on to link Axeman to Brindabella as “an exploration of masculinity and Australian suburban gothic. The compelling image of the axeman’s blows is overtly sexual, violent and unsettling. Located in the Australian bush but closely linked to suburban life, the axeman represents the horror lurking just beyond the back fence.”

Adams showed me Axeman’s strikingly cinematic marketing materials. He cites months of research into the Australian cinema of the 70s and 80s, such as The Last Wave, Walkabout and Razorback. “These films offered me an eerie portrayal of our past and an unsettled vision of our future. I am fascinated by the melodramatic figure of the axeman in regional Australian life.” Adams says, “All Australians have a relationship with him, whether through actually knowing someone who still takes part in these competitions, or through television, the Easter show…In this production, there are three women and one male dancer circling the overtly masculine axeman who will be played by real life woodcutter Lawrence O’Toole. I was inspired by Thomas Kenneally’s novel, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith, which made a huge impression upon me in my youth. The image of the blackfella slicing up the women in the shed towards the close of the Fred Schepisis film has stayed with me forever.”

For Axeman Lullaby, Adams’ list of collaborators is shorter than in previous productions (in Origami BalletLab explored a collaboration with architectural firm BURO to create an extraordinary folding set). Adams puts that down to, “my growing confidence in my choreography in relation to the visual arts.” While not formally trained in visual arts, Adams has consistently contributed to the scenography and costuming of his productions and has nurtured a distinctive personal aesthetic from an early age. His interest in the creation of a strong visual context for his productions is an area to which he dedicates extensive research. For Axeman, Adams visited a wood-chopping competition in Bairnsdale, regional Victoria. He documented the stories of the wood-cutters and their families on film and brought hundreds of off-cuts of wood back to his studio. “I have created a Rosalie Gascoigne floor”, Adams says, elaborating how he will assemble the timber into a projection surface.

In all three works of his suite, Adams will collaborate with David Chisholm, the Melbourne based composer with whom he shares a taste for experimentation. Adams is thrilled with the “high modernism” of Chisholm’s composition for Duo Sol in Axeman. Playing live, the violinist and pianist will “literally tear their instruments apart.”

While Adams admits that Chisholm’s music is core to the drama of his work, he recognises that touring with live musicians is not always possible. In Miracle, Chisholm’s score will be created and recorded in the US with the leading International Contemporary Ensemble (ICE), but it will not tour.

In Miracle, it’s the technology which will pose the challenge. Media artist Cazerine Barry will travel with the company to the Experimental Media and Performing Arts Centre (EMPAC) in Rensselaer, New York. The work BalletLab presents alongside Hilton and Jasperse’s creations there is already pushing Adams into hyperbole.

When I suggest that such challenging propositions cannot make life easy, Adams is quick to respond: “I feel increasingly comfortable with the role we play nationally. I do not want to play it safe. It’s about questioning, storytelling and open-mindedness.” He states with arresting clarity, “It’s not about getting more sophisticated or more mature; that has happened over time in what I am creating. I am just getting more responsible for what it is that I narrate to the world through my art.”

WITH THE STAGE SET AS A CLEANSWEPT COUNTRY HALL, A LIVE ‘BAND’ WARMING UP, DANCERS MILLING WITH THE FOLKS IN THE FRONT ROWS OF THE AUDIENCE AND A PLEASANT, EXPECTANT BUZZ, I WAS MOMENTARILY TRANSPORTED BACK TO MY CHILDHOOD, ATTEMPTING THE PRIDE OF ERIN WITH MY DAD AT THE TARADALE HALL AND EAGERLY AWAITING HOMEMADE BUTTERFLY CAKES AT SUPPER. BUT DANCENORTH WAS JUST SOFTENING ITS AUDIENCE UP, GENIALLY INVITING US IN AND ENTRUSTING US WITH THE INTIMATE MINUTIAE OF THEIR OWN EARLY LIVES TO THE 3/4 TIME OF AN AIRY WALTZ BEFORE EXPLODING ANY EXPECTATIONS OF A SIMPLE SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.

The Townsville based contemporary dance company’s latest offering, Remember Me, presented in collaboration with the Australian Festival of Chamber Music, further cements Dancenorth’s growing reputation for edgy and physical choreography, compelling narratives and willingness to incorporate a wide range of media into their performances. Composer Iain Grandage created the score for Remember Me after having worked with artistic director Gavin Webber on the dancenorth/Splintergroup production Lawn a couple of years ago, and was Webber’s first choice as composer for this project.

The concept for Remember Me was born from a chance encounter the company had when touring their earlier work, Underground, last year. Rehearsing at the historic World Theatre in Charters Towers, they followed the strains of music to find a group of sprightly 70-somethings enjoying an afternoon dance. Further enquiry revealed that this was a weekly ritual, a communal sharing of activity, afternoon tea and husbands: as Shirley explains during Remember Me, wives loan their men to the widowed ladies, “…at the dances, that is!”

Choreography and score for Remember Me were developed during several improvisational blocks involving the whole company. The trust between Webber and Grandage is evident in the final product: it is impossible to distinguish if the dancers are responding to the quartet of musicians or vice versa, and in some passages, the complicity is astonishing. Miki Tsunoda’s plaintive violin and percussonist Ian Brunskill’s flatlining wineglass accompany dancer Hsin-Ju Chiu’s memories of her brother. She apparently explains their games in Chinese as she puts a helmeted and somnambulent Matthew Cornell through a series of extraordinary manipulations which fall somewhere between a balancing act from a Chinese circus and pure sibling torture. Cornell’s core strength makes the complex moves appear completely involuntary, truly at Hsin-Ju’s mercy.

Josh Thompson and Kate Harman initiate another poetic sequence which begins with lagging mimicry of small gestures, becoming larger and larger, the lead and the mimic constantly swapping roles, to a soundscape of dreamy strings. They are gradually joined by Kyle Page and Alice Hinde, then Hsin-Ju and Cornell, and finally Sarah-Jayne Howard. Patterns formed by curtains, window frames and weatherboards fill the ‘walls’ (huge video screens) while the dancers move like falling dominoes in response to one another’s gestures, right down to the exhalation of breath, one after the other. Thompson and Hinde take it even further with a duo of dancer and shadow, one upright, one on the floor, seamlessly changing places and mirroring expressions, every gesture melding precisely to the music.

The screens periodically fill with footage of the Charters Towers’ social dancers telling us their lives. They appear chirpy, optimistic and grateful, though Webber’s intuitive editing poignantly hints at lost loves and lives (the long shot of an empty couch, for instance).

The audience gets to meet the social dancers in the flesh after the interval, as Gary the MC announces a jive and sets off another round of introductions, adding incidental details. The genteel dancehall ambience, the mingling of young and old dancers, lasts just long enough to warm and lull us before the social dancers retire, and the dance dissipates into a frantic sequence of panic and burnout culminating with an increasingly violent Harman kicking the inert Thompson across the floor, screaming at him to “get the fuck up.”

Breathing hard, Harman takes to the mike to deliver a soliloquy about love, loss and memory, asking us only to remember her if we can deal with what we see. The dancers line up each holding a framed picture of themselves as children as the screens fill with faded pictures of the social dancers in their prime.

In semi darkness Hsin-Ju helps Thompson dress, like an elderly couple assisting one another. They lie down on the floor in an embrace and Page, the youngest, arrives to cover them with dust. Kirsty McCahon’s double bass and Grandage’s cello reverberate ominously as we witness this burial, this scattering of ashes. The dancers rise, breathing out puffs of dust, and their imprints
remain like an accident outline. The others return to daub one another, shaking off layers and
laying down more dust until they are all ghosts, floating and crumbling, falling and flailing, creating fog and patterns of increasing complexity on the floor.

The dancers spin on the floor, digging their own graves, as an old face and hand appear on the screen. Page and Harman repeat a haunting pattern of approach and retreat, macabre memories of love and desire, until Page is alone and all we hear is his failing breath and a bell tolling.

Dancenorth, Remember Me, director Gavin Webber, musical direction, original composition Iain Grandage, choreography Gavin Webber and dancers Sarah-Jayne Howard , Grayson Millwood, performers: Hsin-Ju Chiu, Matthew Cornell, Kate Harman, Alice Hinde, Sarah-Jayne Howard, Kyle Page, Joshua Thompson, lighting design Ben Cisterne, Bluebottle, sound design Luke Smiles, costume design Sarah Jobling; Dancenorth Theatre, Townsville July 8-13 www.dancenorth.com.au

THE TITLE, GIRLS ON BOYS, EVOKES THAT NOTION THAT CHOREOGRAPHERS MAKE WORK ‘ON’ DANCERS. IT’S A RELIC OF THE BALLETIC IDEA THAT (MALE) CHOREOGRAPHERS MAKE WORK ON (FEMALE) DANCERS. THE CHOREOGRAPHER-DANCER DUO PARALLELS OTHER BINARIES, MIND-MATTER, NATURE-NURTURE, MALE-FEMALE. THE GENDERED REVERSAL—GIRLS ON BOYS— NEVERTHELESS RETAINS THE IDEA THAT CHOREOGRAPHY IS SOMETHING THAT IS APPLIED TO THE DANCER, HERE, THE MALE PERFORMER.

The concept of Girls on Boys was developed by Gülsen Özer, who selected five female choreographers who in turn produced five short dance pieces, each made with a male dancer. The first piece, I think it’s my birthday, was made by Yumi Umiumare ‘on’ Gerard Veltre. Butoh-influenced, the performance consisted of a slightly comic, ordinary set of moves. A clown of the everyday, Veltre exhibited a muscularity evocative of the gym. Sometimes staccato, distorted or drawing on mime, he used clothes to mark different sections of the work. The last construction was a kind of crop circle formed out of disbanded items. Placing himself in the middle, he concluded the piece by singing Happy Birthday to himself in a head-stand. There was a sense here of Umiumare’s taking the performer where she found him, enlarging the amplitude of his everyday performance qualities and ‘turning up the volume’ as a means to bring the piece into the theatre.

Dani-Ela Kayler’s piece for Lee Serle, titled Lady Purple, did not depart from the mundane, if comprising some rather odd movement qualities. The program notes clarified the character of movement here, referring to a puppet master and his marionette. If Serle was the marionette, then Kayler was the puppet master, again evoking an instrumental sense of producing work on bodies. Serle’s movements, however, were not evacuated of life as the notion of the puppet might suggest. Rather, they were discombobulated—his head moving independently of the rest of his body; a broken-necked lizard. Legs were posed against torso; a pelvis rotated at odd angles; a limp wrist dangled. The face scanned the crowd, with an odd expression. Was this a person or a weird resemblance come to life?

Boy, from Jo Lloyd for Adam Wheeler, was a more rhythmic piece, formed out of a sustained simplicity. For most of the piece, Adam bounced on the floor, his body straight as a ramrod. The legs softened and pushed, softened and pushed. Deviations slowly emerged, a twist, a gesture, all couched within the rhythmic tenor of the piece. Dianne Heywood-Smith and David Backler created El Abrazo (The Embrace), situated within the world of ballroom dancing, turned solo. Although the work referred to tango, this singular dancer could only gesture towards an absent other, unable to share weight in the merging of bodies. There was a whimsical edge as the dancer revealed his yearning for a partner, while assuming the facade of masculine self-sufficiency. Finally, Dianne Reid and Luke Hickmott gave us Magnificent Sadness, physically more complex than the other pieces. Led by different body parts moving into and out of the floor, Hickmott covered the floor in a way in which the other pieces did not, engaging in a range of movement qualities. The pace of his execution, the density of muscular tone, the sense of tension, and breadth of focus varied, as well as the way in which space was covered added a depth to this short piece.

All the pieces acknowledged the placement of audience, each in their own way, in a square around the action Umiumare more or less made a spiral, ending in the middle, Kaylor worked the sides of the square, Lloyd zigzagged the space, while Heywood-Smith forged a long slash across the middle. Finally, Reid navigated the space in all three-dimensions.

It was interesting to reflect upon a series of pieces involving men as performers, with no women onstage, also to speculate on the transfer of movement from a woman to a man. The brevity of each piece, including their development process, kept the work as a series of vignettes, enacting the concept of choreography on a body, inflected by an unusual a-gender.

Jo Lloyd’s new work, Apparently that’s what happened, at Art House’s Meat Market, was also performed in the round. The space of the performance was interspersed by a series of wooden cutouts, silhouettes resembling the three performers, caught in the headlights in stark poses. As the piece progressed, each of the three performers extracted a silhouette and lay it down in a same-shaped space on the floor, completing the jigsaw. Given the theme of the piece, the smoothing over of the floor, by filling its gaps, may have represented an accumulation of sense. The piece itself aimed to address the perspectival nature of experience, its incompletion from the point of view of subjectivity.

An event has occurred; but who has a god’s eye view? Each of the performers, partly obscured by the standing silhouettes, articulated a certain perspective to music which seemed to break with the reality of everyday time. Solos, duets and, finally, repeated group movements suggested an achievement of accord not present in the earlier sections. In the finale, falling snow was projected onto a cavernous darkness, while performers in puffy snowsuits moved mesmerically, their repetitions slowly sweeping the room like a rotating radius.

The story moved from disjointed objects and solos to a series of interrelations amongst performers, towards some kind of sameness or group harmony. In seeking to open out the work’s focus on the limitations of individual perspective, the stage design amplified this state, obscuring the audience’s visual sweep with its cutout figures. As the work progressed, individual viewpoints were brought into relation with other perspectives, to a final sense of belonging. I wonder whether the group identity at the end was something beyond the human or was meant to stay in the realm of the mundane? Is it ever possible to encapsulate the whole story? Not from this perspective.

Girls on Boys, curator Gülsen Özer, choreographers/performers Yumi Umiumare/Gerard Veltre; Dani-Ela Kaylor/Lee Serle; Jo Lloyd/ Adam Wheeler; Dianne Heywood-Smith/David Backler, Dianne Reid/Luke Hickmott, music Wendy Morrison, Dancehouse, Melbourne, May 28-June 1; Apparently that’s what happened, choreographer Jo Lloyd, performers Jo Lloyd, Luke George, Tim Harvey, design Jenny Hector, music Duane Morrison, David Franzke, Arts House, Meat Market, Melbourne, June 25-29

LIKE DAVID PLEDGER OF MELBOURNE’S NOT YET IT’S DIFFICULT, PERTH’S AIMEE SMITH HAS BEEN DEVELOPING AN ABIDING INTEREST IN MEDIATED AND POLITICISED BODIES; IN BODIES TORN AND TWISTED BY WAR TALK, OR BOXED IN AND ENERGISED BY TELEVISUAL EXCESS. AS PART OF STRUT DANCE’S PRIME CUT, SMITH PRESENTED BREAKING, ARGUABLY HER MOST FORMALLY RIGOROUS AND STRIPPED BACK VERSION OF THIS AESTHETIC.

Though ostensibly much lighter, Jonathan Buckels’ gorgeously ridiculous piece, Solo, had a subliminal sting in its tale too. Two men waited silently at a bar playing abstruse and highly repetitive games with beer coasters—just long enough to lead one to think that Solo might be a durational performance art work (a development I would have welcomed). After the audience passed from boredom to curiosity to meditation, a smart young woman (Rhiannon Spratling) entered, accompanied by vibrant music, walked past, completely indifferent to the pair’s antics or even their presence. After a series of competitive and pointless interactions between the two (including one where the hapless Rob Griffin attempted to sleep as Buckels dripped beer on him), the pair devised ways to arrest Spratling’s interest, finally engaging in wonderfully stupid popular dance sequences with her. Here too, masculine insufficiency was writ large, neither man really able to offer the woman much by way of genuine interaction.

Finally, Griffin dragged on a trunk from which emerged a thin, vivaciously over-the-top, rollerskater (Stephen Rogers), whose grinning, camp choreography eclipsed the pair as we moved to masculinity as a kind of day-glow performance. As artists such as rapper P.Diddy or Japanese conceptual artist Ujino Muneteru have put it, this is masculinity as “fabulousness” or “gorgeousness.” This performance unsurprisingly forces our protagonists to return to their impotent attempts at amusing themselves, alone, discarded again by the female object of their affections whom they had hoped would verify the very masculinity which their minimal tedium is supposed to embody. Although superficially little more than a bunch of silly games, Solo had embedded within it a subtly devastating critique of masculinity.

The opening of Smith’s Breaking also suggested a performance art aesthetic. At the far right corner of the stage was clustered a pile of intermittently ‘out-of-tune’ television sets, switching between images of war, commerce and chaos in a delicate pulsing of multiples akin to Nam June Paik’s work. Smith stood at the extreme left foreground, tightly lit from above and behind in a manner that made her already muscular form even more sculptural and carved by grey-gold glows and shadows—a sharp embodiment further enhanced by the monochromatic form-fitting costume. To the shuddering textures of radiophonic hiss and wide plateaus of crinkling sound by Ryoji Ikeda, Smith moved within a limited but sharp articulation of shape and bony mechanics. Movement of the feet or change of stance was rare and stochastically performed when it did emerge. Smith largely remained intensely locked to her position as something akin to a sculptural unit within the space, rather than as a plastic, affective unit or more subjectively humanised dancer. One extended sequence in particular seemed almost to be performed stork-like, rigidly supported through the musculature of one leg.

This combination—the sparse yet complex sonic detailing of the Ikeda score, the minimalism of the movement combined with the strong physical demands to execute it, the tendency of the light to catch Smith in an almost Grecian profile of visible concentration on her own performance, and her interactive position within the mise en scène—converged to create an ambivalent sense of what political agency or condition this intersection of body, sound, screen, media and movement might suggest. Too archly beautiful (at least according to its own austere values) to represent oppression, yet too complex in terms of where the motivating power of authorship or control might be emanating from (artist? choreographer? body? media? capitalism? empire? military?) to generate a site of resistance or overt critique as such, Smith’s performance itself masterfully affected a form of mediation. In this sense, her pairing of body and television images encapsulated both the form and the content of the piece. Our broadcasting devices do not, in themselves, generate either positive or negative effects. They are vessels into and out of which material flows. Precisely whether Smith’s subjectivity is liberated or oppressed by this process is beside the point. Her performance realised this dynamic of exchange in forms fleshy, audiovisual, technologised and lyrical, all at once.

Strut Dance, Prime Cut, Breaking, choreographer, performer Aimee Smith; Solo, choreographer, performer Jonathan Buckels, performers Rob Griffin, Rhiannon Spratling, Steven Rogers; Preparing To Be Beautiful (Chapter Two), choreographer Alice Lee Holland; Confessional, choreographer Deborah Robertson; PICA, Perth, June 5-8

THE SCREENING PROGRAMS PRESENTED AS PART OF THIS YEAR’S REELDANCE FESTIVAL WERE GENERALLY STRONG AND, YET, ONE OF THEM CLEARLY STOOD OUT FOR ME: CONTEMPORARY DANCE ON SCREEN. A VERITABLE TREASURE TROVE FOR ANYONE INTERESTED IN CONTEMPORARY DANCE, IT BROUGHT TOGETHER THREE OF THE ART FORM’S BIGGEST NAMES: WILLIAM FORSYTHE, PINA BAUSCH AND LES BALLETS C DE LA B.

The program opened with One Flat Thing, Reproduced (Belgium/Germany, 26mins), a screen adaptation of William Forsythe’s work of the same title, originally created with dancers of the Frankfurt Ballet in 2000. Set in a vast industrial hall with natural light streaming in through large windows, it features 20 metal tables, amid which 17 dancers execute Forsythe’s extremely intricate and complex choreography, ranging from sharp-edged angularity to off-centre languidness.The piece is widely regarded as one of Forsythe’s masterpieces and acclaimed filmmaker Thierry de Mey has done an excellent job in translating it to the screen. His approach to filming is unashamedly subjective, his camera knows no boundaries and seems to be ubiquitous. It hovers above the tables at one moment and crawls beneath them in the next. It smoothly moves vertically but also frequently circles the action. With a camera of such flexibility, de Mey supports and reinforces the obsessively multi-directional choreography. At the same time, he offers the film’s viewers perspectives on the work that audience members at the live performance would never have.

In Pina Bausch (Germany, 45mins), a documentary on the grande dame of dance theatre, German filmmaker Anne Linsel has achieved something of a small miracle, managing to get the notoriously camera-shy Bausch talking candidly about her life and work with Tanztheater Wuppertal, the groundbreaking company she has directed for more than 30 years. Meticulously researched and masterfully edited, this film provides a comprehensive overview of Bausch’s achievements. Excitingly, it brims with excerpts from her shows, including the iconic scene from Nelken in which performer Lutz Foerster, clad in a tuxedo and standing on a stage covered with carnations, interprets the song The Man I Love in sign language. There is also an excerpt from Bandoneon (1982) with Australia’s Meryl Tankard at the height of her performative powers, repeatedly pushing the head of fellow dancer Nazareth Panadero into a bucket of water, all the while screaming, “Smile, Nazareth, smile!!!”

In addition to Bausch herself, the film also includes interviews with some of her longtime collaborators as well as many of her dancers, several of whom have been with the company for more than 25 years.

There is a lot of talk about trust between Bausch and her dancers. She admits to leaving them in the dark as to what exactly she is looking for during a rehearsal process and which bits of the generated material might make it into the show. One of her dancers sums up the relationship as resembling more a love affair than a work relationship. She then adds: “That causes a lot of pain.”

This film is a thoroughly fascinating document. It confirms Pina Bausch as a passionate artist of great creative and personal integrity and reveals the depth of the relationship between Bausch and her dancers, which has produced some truly stunning contemporary dance works in the last 30 years. At only 45 minutes, the film is a model of economy and restraint and left this viewer utterly satisfied.

The closing film, Les Ballets de Ci de La (Belgium, 55mins), celebrates the history of Belgium’s famous dance and theatre company Les Ballets C de la B on the occasion of their 20th anniversary. It was made by the collective’s founding member and key figure, Alain Platel. Integrating excerpts from shows with filmic portraits of some of the choreographers and dancers affiliated with the company, this insightful documentary sheds light on the socio-political context in which its work is created. In the most interesting sections of the film, Platel accompanies two of the company’s dancers as they return to their respective hometowns, small villages in Burkina Faso and Vietnam. In both cases, video footage of the dancers performing in Wolf (2003), a show directed by Platel, is shown to the dancers’ parents. It’s moving to see how they grapple with their sons having made a career for themselves in Europe, outside of the culture in which they brought them up. Pride is mixed with apprehension, a feeling shared by the sons, as Platel, in turn, shows the men coming to terms with their parents’ comments. Les Ballets de Ci de La powerfully confirms that it is the performers’ personal commitment, their thoughts, opinions and lives, that feed Les Ballets’ work that is internationally acclaimed for being deeply anchored in the everyday world with all its coarseness, imperfection and fragility.

Contemporary Dance on Screen, May 16, ReelDance International Dance on Screen Festival 2008, Performance Space, CarriageWorks, Sydney, May 11-18

COMPETING FOR THIS YEAR’S REELDANCE AWARD ARE 10 AUSTRALIAN AND NEW ZEALAND DANCE FILMS. FROM THE SYMBOLICALLY ABSTRACT TO THE PSYCHOLOGICALLY NARRATIVE, THESE WORKS REVEAL A PLEASING EVEN SURPRISING PULSE OF LOCAL CREATIVITY. ONE AFTER ANOTHER THEY ROLL OUT IN AN ALMOST GRUELLING MARATHON WHERE ATTENTION, PERCEPTION AND DISPASSION BECOME ACTS OF DISCIPLINE.

Deserving of (but not winning) the award for best film was Suzon Fuks’ Fragmentation, managing to be both technically bold and humanly warm. James Cunningham and Rob Tannion read the morning newspaper: but they do it upside down and on top of each other, on the floor and up a wall, sometimes collaborative, sometimes combative, but always attuned, always nuanced. With gentle athleticism they morph into a body with two heads as the camera dives in and backs away, stroking flesh in close-up and cutting up images of habit. Even the screen dances as it changes shape, splitting into multiple images or moving slender longitudes of vision sequentially across a dark horizon. Gloriously, the soundtrack is composed of the sounds of newspapers crumpling and feet on a floor, thickening this six minute film with dimension, depth and place. Rendered without a manipulative musical score, Fragmentation is authentically idiosyncratic and situation specific as body and media meld.

My award for ‘most lushly cinematic’ goes to Cordelia Beresford’s The Shape of Water. Actually winning the 2008 ReelDance Festival award, it features the choreography of Narelle Benjamin and dancers from the Sydney Dance Company cast as liminal human/sea creatures moved, apparently, by oceanic momentum. But it descends into a hair flicking water dance with lots of exposed flesh, displaying the unbearably stylised motifs of neo-classicism and Ashtanga yoga. Not creatures at all, these are but dancers with pointed feet shifting into a variety of impressive asanas. True flow and ebb is achieved cinematically, in the rocking house, perched on the edge of the cliff, reminiscent of Bondi, making ground unstable, providing tension. Will it fall?

Narelle Benjamin again teams with the Sydney Dance Company in Sam James’ Pod. Credits squirm and ripple, introducing a film where dancers emerge from and fold into a grey toned background, thick and dense like ancient humus. Mediated moments of emergence and disappearance make human and mossy worlds barely distinct. Bodies open and twist, almost primordial, almost amoeboid—if it wasn’t for those pesky pointed feet, again casting these bodies as those of anonymous dancerly dancers. Just once, inverted and relaxed feet sit atop swaying legs, made truly reed-like, conjuring the wind and dancer, relinquishing dancerliness, merging with nature. A soundtrack of strings and harp, supported by an electronic pulse, is a tad saccharin in a film yearning for sounds more globular and fleshy.

Sam James’ second submission, Quietly Collapsed, wins my ‘we’ve all been there’ award and confirms James’ eclectic talents. The camera pans, zooms and lingers over the backs of seated office workers: black and white characters only slightly tinged with colour. A blue computer screen pops up, as a particle of colour in a dull world, seemingly serene but masking the madness of deadlines. Rosie Dennis stands up to dance out this lurking madness amidst a soundscape that twitches, drills and speeds in eloquent and brain piercing constancy.

Award for ‘most cheerful’ goes to Morning Herd, directed by New Zealander Rick Harvie. Choreographer/dancer Ross McCormack is the farmer with an imaginary herd of cows, as he uses fences, gates, railings, grass and muddy earth as supports for choreography that is both stylised and quotidian. Cinematic space is intersected with posts and beams and fences that corral architectural vision in length and verticality. But it is the warmth of its colours: the greenness of green, and the brownness of brown I will remember.

‘Most poignant’ award goes to Shadow Play, featuring fine performances by Kirk Page and Alexandra Harrison. But it is the presence of Rininya Page (the late Russell Page’s daughter) that deepens the emotional intensity. The narrative of a troubled family borders on triteness but is saved by intense spurts of argumentative athleticism, a palette of golden light and the trace of a lost dancer.

Sue Healy’s Will Time Tell is taut and lovely (see our online Dance Write feature). Soma Songs by Daniel Belton shrinks dancers into disembodiment in architectural symbolism and Reset by the same director was eight minutes too long. Sean O’Brien’s Dis-Oriental is quirkily funny, manically scored and edited, yet remains strangely symmetrical in its framing of dancer Yumi Umiumare, who is revealed and hidden in plays of light and darkness.

ReelDance Awards, ReelDance International Dance on Screen Festival, May 18, Performance Space, CarriageWorks, Sydney, May 11-18

THE REASSURING, NON-JUDGMENTAL FEMALE LOVER IN BOB DYLAN’S “LOVE MINUS ZERO/NO LIMIT” (1965) “SPEAKS LIKE SILENCE/ WITHOUT IDEALS OR VIOLENCE” AND “KNOWS THERE’S NO SUCCESS LIKE FAILURE/ AND THAT FAILURE’S NO SUCCESS AT ALL.” I’M SURE THE FONDUE SET IS NOT TAKING ITS CUE FROM DYLAN’S IDEALISED LADY IN TITLING THEIR NEW SHOW NO SUCCESS LIKE FAILURE, BUT FROM THE SONGWRITER’S KNACK AT CHURNING OUT THE MEMORABLE AMBIGUITIES OF A BEAT POET-CUM-ZEN MASTER.

There’s a peculiar pleasure to be had it seems from obsessively watching failure, hence the current passion for ‘survivor’ reality TV shows of all kinds in which the success of one person is predicated on the failure of many. For these shows there is certainly no success like failure. Similarly, British television comedy has relished the failures of incompetents of all kinds and pushed the attendant embarassment further and further. Likewise, the UK performance company Forced Entertainment’s First Night (2001) wonderfully embodies every stage performer’s worst nightmares, and repeats the agony until it hurts.

While The Fondue Set don’t work the embarassment theme to the same degree, they do generate an enormous sense of uncertainty and unease, as if they’ve not quite worked out everything (they are their own stagehands, props have to be placed, costumes wriggled into, routines set up) or they’re improvising, and sometimes can’t get out of it.

For example, at the opening the Fondues come forward, sit down and chat to us about “the moment before something happens” when you come to the theatre. Soon they’ve whipped up an infinite regression and we’re somehow or other implicated in it: “You’ve also done some preparation to be here…You use your breath before sitting.” Before long we’re considering our family trees, and even when one of the trio drags us back to the present moment, the previous one is almost immediately invoked. A collective awkwardness hangs in the air…and then the show must go on.

At other moments, everything is immaculate as the Fondues expertly parody images of success, the feelgood preen of the ballerina or the taut urgency of strutting beauty contestants or a motivational spruiker for whom saying “Yessss!!” is all that is needed to succeed. But one of the trio is just as likely to have to don a rabbit costume with the hugest of feet and manage to move brilliantly in it—though she knows not why—or drag herself around the stage like some vamp who’s lost the use of her legs. They can list all the things you’d like to say no to (Bono, Martha Graham…), or learn “to say Yes to No!”, as things once again spin out. There’s mad tap dancing, unison sobbing, syncopated breathing and, finally, a return to infinite regression in a virtuosic failure even to find the theoretical niche for their work in these post-post-postmodern or whatever times.

Failure never looked so good, so silly, so successful…and so intelligent as The Fondue Set, with a helping push from collaborating director Wendy Houstoun, achieve a new level of wit in a bizarrely coherent show that is as carefully paced as it is manic and, uniquely, gives each of these talented performers their turn in the spotlight. And no silence. And, yes, violence, of a kind.

No Success Like Failure can be seen at ArtsHouse, North Melbourne Town Hall, Aug 13-16; http://www.artshouse.com.au

The Fondue Set, No Success Like Failure, creator-performers Emma Saunders, Elizabeth Ryan, Jane McKernan, collaborating director Wendy Houstoun, outside eye Julie-Anne Long, designer Agatha Gothe-Snape, lighting design Neil Simpson; The Studio, Sydney Opera House, June 4-8,

VCA Music Theatre Evening (Foundation) Course students performing in Eddie Perfect’s Up

THE CAREER OPTIONS FOR THE MUSIC GRADUATE ARE MANY: INSTRUMENTALIST, ENSEMBLE OR ORCHESTRAL MEMBER, COMPOSER, PRODUCER, MANAGER, TECHNICIAN, TEACHER OR, TYPICAL OF THE TIMES, A COMBINATION OF SEVERAL OF THESE. WHILE THE OPINIONS OF EDUCATORS VARY AS TO THE STRENGTH OF THE JOB MARKET (IT’S AGREED THAT MUSIC TECHNOLOGY IS A GROWTH AREA), THERE’S PLENTY OF EVIDENCE THAT TEACHING IS INCREASINGLY GEARED TO PRODUCING HIGHLY ADAPTABLE GRADUATES IMBUED WITH SOME BUSINESS SENSE AND A CAPACITY FOR SELF PROMOTION.

qut creative industries

Professor Andy Arthurs of QUT Creative Industries emphasises that creative industries education is not simply marketplace oriented, but is about the creative artist understanding the economic value of their skill and work. The overall approach, he says, is outward looking, endgendering in students a spirit that looks for and creates audiences, rather than simply expressing oneself.

To prepare undergraduate students to connect with the music industry there are course units dedicated to workplace experience including, in 2007 and 2008, attending the QMusic Big Sound annual music industry conference. The final examination for the Bachelor of Music degree involves staging a self-produced and promoted work for the public in venues chosen by the student. These have ranged from cafes to churches to the Tivoli and the Brisbane Powerhouse. A couple of years ago Arthurs suspected that the project was becoming a bit too demanding but students responded that they loved it and the sense of completion that came with it. Also project centred is the Master of Creative Industry degree which allows students to work within or across disciplines and in which a major project is the centrepiece over the 18 month period of the degree.

Arthurs is impressed with some of the idiosyncratic and entrepreneurial results emerging from QUT graduates, citing cellist Tara Simmons who has formed a group with three other cellists, with electronics, and “is generating her own material, new music, in her own voice.” Other students graduate into the world of production: a course specifically in sound design attracts students who might be otherwise deterred by the Bachelor of Music label, says Arthurs. By 2010, substantially improved facilities will make this course even more attractive.

A new QUT initiative that will focus on filling the hole between academic work and research or teaching, and professional experience is the creation of a Centre for Independent Music, aimed at merging practice with research and bringing non-academic musicians into touch with graduates. As Arthurs points out, “many practising musicians have never done a university course but have lots to offer.” The centre will include an A&R (artists & repertoire) Lab, “a kind of Brill Building for the digital age”, quips Arthurs. It will be available as well to third year undergraduates.

QUT comes up well on course experience evaluation—95% of recent graduates are happily employed, and many who have studied music are now teachers or working in sound production. But Arthurs points out that happiness is relative—not all musicians want to be fully employed, “they want to do 50% of this and 50% of that, or start small, or work from a portfolio of skills.”

waapa: music theatre

David King, who’s been with the Edith Cowan University’s West Australian Academy of Performing Arts for eight years, is rightly proud of the school’s 20 years of producing many of the best of Australia’s musical theatre performers. Currently, he says, half the cast in the Rocky Horror show are ex-WAAPA, as are the leads in Wicked and the casts in a number of forthcoming musicals.

King says he’s encouraged by WAAPA’s constant success, although he admits there’s never enough work in a competitive field, as reflected in course demand: 350 applications for a mere 18 positions for the three year Bachelor of Arts (Music Theatre) degree. The teaching, says King, is labour intensive: the course is taught by a discrete unit of five permanent staff and 25 sessional teachers, yielding unusually high contact time of 30-32 hours per week with students. And there are one on one singing lessons each week.

When we discuss career-readiness, King points out that students perform from the word go—to each other and teachers in their first year, and in eight productions a year in their second and third years.The productions range from small scale works, to amphitheatre shows to full scale musicals. Every afternoon of the 9am-6pm working day students are in rehearsal. King jokes that once they commence their career and a show’s on, former students might be surprised to find themselves with some spare time.

Courses also include learning to play piano (“it saves on hiring a pianist”) and aural training (recognising chords, understanding harmony and handling ensemble and part-writing—as in the challenges presented by Sweeney Todd, currently in rehearsal at WAAPA). There’s also a one year course in the history of the musical, and two years in the history of theatre. As for tracking graduate careers, King says that’s become easy with the internet. Former students keep in touch and their successes are conveyed to a new generation of students.

elder conservatorium of music, adelaide university

Stephen Whittington, assistant director of the Elder Conservatorium of Music and Head of Studies in Music Technology the University of Adelaide sees the job market for graduates as being “relatively strong in certain areas —such as those involved with technology; but weak in education as a result of continuing decline of investment in music at secondary school level.” As for jobs with professional ensembles such as orchestras, Whittington sees the number of positions as stable but without growth.

To assist students in career preparation at the Elder Conservatorium, Whittington writes that “undergraduate degrees all contain one course component in marketing and business skills including such things as writing grant applications, CVs and creating websites.” For graduates there is some scholarship money available from both the school and from the Helpmann Academy.

Given the emergence of new art form practices and the need to have some experience of cross artform work, Whittington describes how Adelaide has addressed this particular challenge in an inter-collegiate manner: “Some [Elder Conservatorium] courses do have an interdisciplinary or hybrid arts focus, and projects of this kind are encouraged through the Helpmann Academy—a body set up to facilitate cooperation between different schools. There is no one school in Adelaide that teaches music, dance, theatre, visual art, multimedia, so most such projects require the cooperation of two or more institutions.”

vca: music theatre—triple threat

While WAAPA mentions the term ‘triple threat’ in its course description, the new degree in music theatre at the Victorian College of the Arts headlines it as VCA Bachelor of Music Theatre—The Triple Threat. The degree co-directors are Martin Croft and Margot Fenley. Croft explains that ‘triple threat’ is an American musical theatre term that describes the high competitive advantage of an artist who can act, move and sing equally well.

I ask, given the great success of WAAPA’s training a generation and more of Australian music theatre artists in Perth, is it worth setting up a degree in musical theatre in Melbourne? Croft is of the opinion that “a music theatre school on the east coast in a major city has some significant advantages: Melbourne has a vibrant arts community and creates a lot of ground-breaking work, especially in small companies. And there’ll have been five major musicals in Melbourne by the end of the year. There are also smaller pro-am and professional shows, and the Pratt Foundation presents three shows a year.”

The new degree has evolved from a two-year foundation degree, now in its sixth year with an intake by audition for first year of some 18-26 students per annum, and by invitation only to the second year for 10 to 14 students. Croft says that each year agents and producers eagerly come to watch the students at work: “The employment success rate has been great and with a high percentage of graduates securing that rare possiblity—an agent.” Graduate careers are easy to track, says Croft, because former students keep in touch. Graduates from the foundation course are working in Wicked and have appeared in Shane Warne the Musical, The Lion King, Cats, Miss Saigon and others, not just in Australia but in Japan, Germany and North America.

The school has two full-time staff and six sessional teachers. Courses include units in acting, movement and dance (classical, jazz and pop) and musicianship, where the student acquires basic notation knowledge and basic keyboard skills. In their third year the students will perform major musicals while in their second they’ll be involved in the workshopping of new Australian musicals with their creators. Croft’s ambition, he declares with passion, is “not just to create triple threats, but good actors in all three departments—acting, singing and moving.”

northern rivers conservatorium arts centre

Regional universities and schools face substantial challenges, but can attract students by providing intimacy and focus in environments with few distractions. The Northern Rivers Conservatorium Arts Centre (NRCAC) in Lismore in northern New South Wales offers full-time Certificate and Diploma courses in contemporary music, drama, dance and screen. There are courses in contemporary music (blues, jazz, rock, pop, world, ethnic music, contemporary Western art music), technical production and music business.

Imogen Wolf, the Centre’s assistant director and vocal tutor, says that NRCAC aims to turn out students who are self-directed, multi-skilled and able to promote themselves. They leave as sole traders and with a promotional kit they’ve produced themselves, including a CD and related artwork. Wolf says the NRCAC’s Screen Studies students are an asset, helping the musicians create valuable video clips. There’s a business course which includes website building skills, entails marketing and self and event management. Wolf recalls “a woman enrolling so that she could learn how to manage her son’s band.” Students gain performance experience in concerts and in hotels in Lismore and Byron Bay. Most of the centre’s students come from this region but, says Wolf, there are always applicants from interstate. Some current students are from Israel. Our market is global.”

Appreciative former NRCAC students include singer-songwriter Jimmi Carr, Sal Yates (of Ghost Mountain), and Natalie Pa’apa’a, who majored in guitar, and Carlo Santone from Blue King Brown, who studied bass. Blue King Brown were the support act on the recent Carlos Santana tour and Pa’apa’a dueted with the great guitarist. Wolf points out that these kinds of artists are often accomplished musicians when they arrive at NRCAC, but are looking to hone their skills and improve their knowledge.

queensland conservatorium,
griffith university

Vanessa Tomlinson, Head of Percussion and Senior Lecturer in Music at the Queensland Conservatorium, Griffith University (QCGU), writes, “As there is no single career pathway for graduate students in music, curriculum content has been slowly changing from training toward a specific outcome (eg orchestral position, solo pianist etc) to an experiential education. For a percussionist this means a change away from a four-year curriculum focusing on solo performance and orchestral studies, to intensive units in jazz vibes, tabla, drum-set, latin percussion etc. These intensive courses are taught in group lessons alongside reduced hours in private tuition.”

An ensemble program entails “improvisation, collective composition, site-specific work, commissioning of new work, and re-contextualisation of more established works.” While opening up job opportunities, this approach also develops a skill base including administration, logistics, arranging and developing group dynamics, and, says Tomlinson,”with awareness and confidence about the musical world.” Work Integrated Learning has become an important part of the curriculum at QCGU and includes a Traineeship Program with The Queensland Orchestra, which the university is looking forward to formalising, and numerous possibilities in the music technology area.

Tomlinson uses performance examinations to showcase student abilities, the external examiners including composers, directors of new music ensembles and orchestral musicians. She says that by the end of their studies students may be involved in hybrid art forms, improvisation and conceptual art, and examiners are chosen in the area of developing expertise. Percussion is naturally a more flexible art form, having the joy of being whatever we define it as being!”

In 2008 QCGU will begin showcasing the graduating class to the public and invited guests from industry. As well, for more than 10 years, QCGU has hosted a registered agency, called Queensland Conservatorium Performers Agency, which contracts out current or past students of QCGU. Like QUT and other schools, QCGU is in the process of building a database for tracking the career trajectories of alumni.

It’s clear that as much as independence is being encouraged in students as an integral part of their music degrees and diplomas around the country, there are a growing number of strategies being put in place to make the most of the adaptability and entrepreneurial spirit being thus engendered.

AS OF JULY 1 THIS YEAR THE NATIONAL FILM AND SOUND ARCHIVE (NFSA) RE-ACHIEVED INDIVIDUAL STATUS AFTER ITS SHORT-LIVED MERGER WITH THE AUSTRALIAN FILM COMMISSION (NOW DISSOLVED, WITH FILM AUSTRALIA AND THE FILM FINANCE CORPORATION, INTO SCREEN AUSTRALIA). NFSA IS NOW RUNNING A HIGH PROFILE. I MET WITH VINCENT PLUSH WHO IS ?MANAGER, RECORDED SOUND? AT THE ARCHIVE, TO DISCUSS THE SOUNDS OF AUSTRALIA PROJECT (THE 2007 SELECTION NOW AVAILABLE ON CD), THE RECENT CELEBRATORY SOUND DAY AND OTHER NFSA SOUND VENTURES.

Plush explained, “Sounds of Australia, The National Registry of Recorded Sound, was inaugurated in February 2007 as a way of drawing attention to the fact that the NFSA has a Recorded Sound Branch and quite a number of significant recordings of sounds and recorded music from over the past 110 years or so. It’s modelled on something the American Library of Congress do every year. They admit 50 American sounds into their national registry, all chosen by experts. Ours is a little different in that we start more modestly and admit 10 sounds per instalment. And we invite the general public to submit their ideas about how we should build a national registry of recorded sound.”

These sounds must be either recordings made in Australia, by Australians or of Australians, must actually exist on recordings that can be identified and be at least 20 years old. The public submit their proposals by the due date and, says Plush “they’re sifted down by one of our staff members who then sends out a list of 40 or so to a panel of industry experts who write their opinions. That brings it down to 20. While this is going on, we pursue things like who owns the rights to these things and, if we can’t secure the rights in some way, there’s no point in proceeding with the nomination.” After more whittling “we then take them to our director who ensures that there’s a widespread contemporality—that we have something from every decade; widespread media, meaning that we have not only recorded music but recorded voices, natural sounds…Then there’s genre—from popular music, through art music to Indigenous music to whatever.”

Plush describes the spread as “pretty broad, ranging from birdsongs of Australia to Professor Elkins’ original Aboriginal recordings to recreations of the Gallipoli landings by the BBC to Don Bradman and the 1931 Ashes and Gough Whitlam’s ‘Kerr’s cur’ speech. And now we’ve got Percy Grainger’s “Country Garden” played on the original piano roll.” And the late Billy Thorpe is included in the 2008 batch. “In the first round, we included the earliest known surviving sound recording. This was a parlour song called ‘The Hen Convention’ recorded in 1896 by Thomas Rome, an amateur sound recordist in Warnambool. He recorded a neighbour of his singing this song, the choruses of which are imitations of chooks and roosters. That really captured the wider ABC audience imagination and made the newspapers: ‘The earliest surviving sound of Australia is not Thomas Edison reading Mary Had a Little Lamb but sounds of a guy imitating chooks…’.”

On the NFSA’s Sound Day, June 18, the federal Arts Minister, Peter Garrett, announced the next 10 selections for the Sounds of Australia Project and launched the CD, a joint collaboration between NFSA and the ABC. The NFSA sees the project, says Plush, as raising awareness that “there is a recorded sound history of Australia and secondly that there is a government agency that collects it…The project’s a growing thing. It’s like a time capsule in sound. We hope that the CD will get into every school, every public library, embassy kits and so on.”

Sound artists also fall within the NFSA’s brief: “We’re particularly interested in collecting the archives of those Australian sound artists who’ve moved boundaries or who’ve done interesting things with the sounds of the natural environment.” Composer, sound artist, sound sculptor and instrument maker Ros Bandt “fits the profile beautifully—someone we believe is incredibly important, wonderful and treasurable.” Sound Day was the occasion for the launch of Bandt’s book, Hearing Places (co-edited with Michelle Duffy and Dolly MacKinnon for Cambridge Scholars Press, see RT 87). Bandt reciprocated by playing her tarhu, “a gorgeous zither-type instrument, which sounds like a cross between a viola da gamba and an erhu—designed by Peter Biffin. This was the perfect illustration of everything Ros Bandt’s on about, the meetings of cultures, the actual performance of music and improvisation around sounds.”

The first of the Thomas Rome Lectures (named after the recordist mentioned earlier) was also delivered at Sound Day. Michael Smellie, a former executive with SONY BMG, gave the first lecture. And a strong statement it is (downloadable from the NFSA website). Smellie reminds us just how successful the industry was from the 1960s to the 1980s, but in terms of “opportunities presented by the new digital era, we have, to date, missed the boat. In 2007…8% of Australia’s recorded music revenue came from digital applications, compared to a worldwide average of 15%; and 24% in the USA and 11% in Canada for example. This reflects our poor performance in digital applications employed, be it from the perspective of a consumer, producer, performer or distributor.” He eliminates the usual excuses, like the effects of American Idol, and blames limited education in music, but above all a lack of leadership, specifically of a united front to embrace the digital challenge: “I contend that there is no music industry as such in Australia. It is really a collection of small and medium sized enterprises who constantly seek to differentiate themselves. They have no real desire to co-operate, to be organised or to be integrated into a formal structure. Maybe we are closer to a craft group rather than a real industry. As long as this prevails, we have structural impediments to developing leaders.”

Although, given his background, he’s averse to suggesting it, Smellie declares that “he would like to see the Minister [Garrett] clearly articulate his vision for the industry and to define a leadership role in music for his department.” And he argues not for, as have some have suggested, “the cultural equivalent of the Australian Institute of Sport…[and its] focus on elite sports people [but an] equivalent of the Australian Sports Commission.” This he hopes would facilitate the “the creation of a network of digital innovators in the music space to enable them to leverage their work” and funding initiatives “perhaps with private equity investors and existing industry investors.” Finally, perhaps inspired by NFSA’s Sound Day, he proposes the inauguration of an annual Australian Music Day.

It’s clear that NFSA’s scope is comprehensive—Sounds of Australia, Sound Day and the organisation’s extensive archiving represent the work of composers, academics, sound artists, cultural groups, broadcasters and the popular music industry. Sounds of Australia’s annual patrons include the composers Paul Grabowsky and Peter Sculthorpe and, this year, singer Renée Geyer was added. Sound Day itself echoes the breadth of approach by including a concert, Sono-Perception, by Melbourne’s JOLT (p41), of contemporary sonic art and also the innovative Percy Grainger’s exquisite Free Music machines played by Catherine Schieve and Warren Burt. Earlier that day Grainger had been inducted into the National Registry of Recorded Sound with the Country Gardens piano roll from the playing of the composer in 1919, now sitting alongside other 2008 inductees, the Aeroplane Jelly Song, the Theme from Blue Hills, Slim Dusty’s “Pub With No Beer”, Peter Sculthorpe’s Irkanda IV, No Fixed Address’ “We Have Survived” and Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs’ “Most People I Know Think That I’m Crazy.”

But there’s more to NFSA’s sound archiving. The archive is building, for example, a collection of the work of composer Martin Wesley-Smith, in partnership with the National Library which is collecting the artist’s work on paper: “We collect the audio-visual archive”, says Vincent Plush. “The first instalments have arrived in 12 large plastic bins—old reel-to-reel tapes, slide carousels, the Apple Mac 3 , the Fairlight pieces, the documentation that goes with all this. We began the project publicly at the end of February with an evening called The Tears of Timor during which we assembled four of Wesley-Smith’s Timor-related pieces and presented them to an extraordinary overflow audience including Timorese activists and five ambassadors. It was a very emotional evening. The surviving members of the Wesley-Smith family came along: Sheila, the 91-year-old mum, the twins Peter and Martin, and Rob, the elder brother, who came from Darwin. We brought them all on stage and there was a standing ovation.” More performances of the composer’s work will be programmed across the next two or three years, including the music theatre work Quito. The Wesley-Smith archive, says Plush, will take at least three years to assemble.

Plush rattles off a list of possible candidates whose work warrants archiving: the late Tristram Cary and “that extraordinary florescence of Melbourne artists Warren Burt, Ros Bandt, Rainer Linz, Les Gilbert, Chris Mann…”

I ask Plush how he himself fits into the NFSA. Neatly it seems. He’s a composer, founder of Sydney’s Seymour Group, has taught composition and musicology in universities as well as writing reviews for The Australian. But he also spent 19 years in North America where he “ended up working for Vivian Perlis in the American Oral History Project and did 202 interviews. I did the first major interview with John Adams, the last interview with Frank Zappa. From A to Z and in between, many people who’ve since died—Cage, Lou Harrison, Carl Ruggles…” The interviews became the Main Street USA series in the mid-1980s for ABC radio, the first extensive introduction for many of us to American composition.

The NFSA’s inaugural Sounds Alive programme for 2007-08, devised by Plush, included a mobile-phone symphony created by visiting American composer William Duckworth, a program of new music for silent films created by young composers attending National Music Camp and an evening of Indigenous-inspired music performed by Topology and Iain Grandage. Among next season’s highlights will be a celebration of Voss on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the first publication of Patrick White’s novel and the 25th anniversary of the first appearance of music from the opera by Richard Meale. For a country which pays so little attention to the history of its art, the NFSA’s ambitions are timely and admirable.

NFSA Sound Day, National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra, June 18; NFSA, Sounds of Australia, ABC Classics CD, ABC 476 6812; www.nfsa.gov.au

IN HIS REVIEW OF THE OPENING SYNERGY CONCERT THIS YEAR AT CARRIAGEWORKS (RT85, P48), REALTIME EDITOR KEITH GALLASCH CONCLUDED, “THE NEW SYNERGY LOOKS SET TO ENJOY A GREAT FUTURE.” BUT WHAT IS THIS ‘NEW’ SYNERGY? THE 35-YEAR-OLD PERCUSSION GROUP STILL HAS ONE OF ITS FOUNDERS MICHAEL ASKILL AT THE ARTISTIC HELM, AND IT’S ALWAYS HAD A VARIABLE MEMBERSHIP. AFTER ALL, THE PERCUSSION ENSEMBLE ONLY HAS A HISTORY OF 50 YEARS MAXIMUM—IT’S NOT A FIXTURE LIKE THE STRING QUARTET. AND AS ASKILL POINTS OUT, SYNERGY HAS ALWAYS “DONE DIFFERENT STUFF—PLAYING WITH THE SYDNEY DANCE COMPANY, TRYING JAZZ, AND DEVELOPING MIDDLE EASTERN AND AFRICAN COLLABORATIONS.” WHEN I BEGAN ASKING SYNERGY’S CORE MEMBERS WHAT THEY UNDERSTAND BY ‘NEW’, THE RANGE OF ANSWERS WAS INTRIGUING.

For the group’s chair, Meredith Brooks, it is very much related to the synergy with the group’s partners in drumming, TaikOZ, headed by ex-Synergy man, Ian Cleworth, and run under the same board and management. “New music groups these days can’t just take the intellectual path”, she told me, “they need to round out the experience by engaging an audience…talking to them, and capturing the visual aspects of a performance through lighting and choreography. TaikOZ has broken through doing that, and Synergy has learnt from them”.

Incidentally, Ms Brooks is herself a key part of Synergy’s newness. What was once a group run by the musicians themselves developed a board separate from the players 18 months ago: a necessary thing to do as the Australia Council’s best-funded key organisation. Brooks insists though that “it’s still their company; we just facilitate with our skills in offering a financial assessment of what they want to do.”

Newness for artistic director Michael Askill relates primarily to overcoming what he admits was “a fatigue factor” in recent years. “Two key players withdrew, Alison (Pratt) had a baby and Ian (Cleworth) went to TaikOZ. We had to make room for TaikOZ to establish their ensemble, their school and their audience. That’s now done. And halfway through last year we aimed to establish a regular presence for Synergy in Sydney, a roster of new works—ours or commissioned ones—and to re-establish the fact that we were well-positioned to play important world repertoire—like the Xenakis and Reich works in our first concert this year. I think we proved ourselves there.”

Significantly, that concert program was a project of Timothy Constable’s—Synergy’s Assistant AD, a position created by the new board. As Askill freely agrees, “Timothy can tackle huge solos I wouldn’t dream of undertaking.” Constable, meanwhile, admits that this program “was a nightmare practically! Very difficult music with doubts as to whether we could fit enough rehearsals in as well as making our debut at an American festival [Tucson Winter Chamber Music Festival, Arizona, May]. There’s just so much problem solving before the first note is played with our music—each new project is really new.”

But new projects like that are what Constable clearly identifies as ‘the new Synergy’—along with “pushing boundaries in the way percussion instruments are played, and exploring new instruments like ancient Tibetan singing bowls and gongs.” There has also been the arrival of Bree van Reyk at Synergy, from what Constable describes as “a scholarly background.” [Her MySpace entry however declares: “she was, for many years, in The Rebel Astronauts. Now she plays with Holly Throsby & Darren Hanlon, plays along with the Australian Opera & Ballet Orchestra, does concerts with Ensemble Offspring, and is a sometimes member of Rand & Holland, Charge Group, Coda and The Initials. Eds]

The point I made earlier about the recent invention of the percussion ensemble is reflected in the fact that many of the world’s great groups who pioneered the artform are rapidly approaching the end of their natural lives—Kroumata, Amsterdam and Nexus to name but three. So, how has Synergy survived? And is its future survival equally deserved?

Michael Askill’s answer is that Synergy was less about one or more dominant personalities—and one thinks immediately of other artistic groups like the Sydney Dance Company and the Australian Brandenburg Orchestra with inspiring founder/leaders—“and more about moving forward with new membership. There have always been great young players who wanted to be part of Synergy; I’d have surely drifted off too without their vitality. In return, I can pass on a few things I’ve learnt so that we can all share some sort of future vision.”

Timothy Constable is equally positive: “Synergy is defined by Michael, but I’ve been working with him long enough (since 2001) to absorb the spirit of the way he works. Of course there’s been creative friction between the generations. But Michael’s…very egalitarian and open to the ideas of others. I think that creates a rich tapestry that justifies our survival.”

Of course, there’s also the little matter of ‘succession planning’, which both Askill and Constable mention quite comfortably. “Timothy would obviously take over if I left”, says the former. “But succession planning isn’t an option these days for groups reliant on government funding. Like not going into the red (which Synergy hasn’t in the last 10 years) it’s demanded in return for the grant.”

Money is the board’s primary responsibility—paying for the reasonable ambitions of the artists. But what’s challenging it in an age of governments paying an ever smaller proportion of the bills, is that a group that clearly appeals to a powerful demographic of “emerging professional people” has not yet proved attractive to sponsors. One would have thought they were a whole lot more appealing than ‘classic’ companies with audiences in their 60s who’ve already bought everything they need in life.

Meredith Brooks admits that the 34 years or so of Synergy’s existence run by the performers may have been lost time in this regard. “Musos just aren’t into cold-calling potential sponsors”, she believes. “But they would appreciate the freedoms that more money would give them. To a certain extent we can choose to take profit from TaikOZ to promote Synergy. But we’ve had to turn down so many invitations to tour the [Meryl Tankard-TaikOZ] dance piece Kaidan for lack of a sponsor. We should have toured Synergy on in America after the Arizona festival this year—but it would have been impossible to move six marimbas without a transport sponsor; and we need a new home that can handle storage of all those instruments, allow 200 students to experience percussion and not drive the neighbours mad with the 130 decibels that TaikOZ generates! An island?” How about Cockatoo?

Or would that damage the fascinating point of difference that Timothy Constable identifies at Synergy? “European and US audiences—even our percussion colleagues like Fritz Hauser who played with us in June—go nuts over our sound and approach. It’s not any technical slickness; it’s the spirit of not being limited by the idea that percussion is simply a rhythmic entity. We’re into space.”

AUSTRALIA’S CONTEMPORARY MUSIC LANDSCAPE REFLECTS THE PHYSICAL ONE: SMALL, DIVERSE YET CONCENTRATED ACTIVITIES SCATTERED AROUND THE EDGES, WITH A SEEMINGLY VAST VOID IN THE CENTRE. TO FILL THIS GAP, BOTH PHYSICALLY AND INFRASTRUCTURALLY, THE MUSIC BOARD OF THE AUSTRALIA COUNCIL FOR THE ARTS HAS INSTIGATED SOUND TRAVELLERS, WHICH THROUGH THE PROVISION OF MODEST GRANTS TOWARDS TRAVEL COSTS ASSISTS THE NATIONAL TOURING OF CONTEMPORARY MUSIC—JAZZ, IMPROVISATION, SOUND, EXPERIMENTAL ELECTRONIC MUSIC AND CONTEMPORARY CLASSICAL.

The initiative is headed up by Joanne Kee of Ceres Solutions who has considerable experience in arts management, including managing the Song Company and consulting for the Jazzgroove collective. Curiously, Sound Travellers is run in partnership with Performing Lines, which has a strong record of touring theatre and performance—quite a different circuit to that of the contemporary music scene. Perhaps this is a cunning strategy to transfer knowledge across the arts sector and expand the audience for contemporary music.

Following an intensive period of consultancy the first tours are underway, combining an eclectic mix of styles and production scales. As well as augmenting the touring programs of established national events such as Liquid Architecture and Lawrence English’s Open Frame festival, the first program also includes the Mace Francis Big Band, improvisation ensemble Metalog (Jim Denley, Amanda Stewart, Ben Byrne, Natasha Anderson, Robbie Avenaim, Dale Gorfinkel), sound artist Tom Hall, the experimental electro pop duo ii (Jon Tjhia and Alex Nosek), the jazz ensembles Misinterprotato and Way Out West, multi-instrumentalist Colin Offord and, from the contemporary classical realm, Ensemble Offspring and IHOS Opera. Kee suggests that in the selection process they were looking to “support artists who have shown a commitment to touring. Added to that, with our eye on strategically developing networks and touring circuits, we are aiming for a mix of cities, states, genres and dates.”

The list of touring venues is particularly intriguing, located in every capital city and some key regional centres and ranging from small artist run spaces to major concert halls. Kee says, “It has been interesting working with the different genres, they all have unique qualities, but there is a blurring of boundaries both in musical genres and in scale and size. This provides all sorts of opportunities and definitely one of these is to connect smaller and larger scales of music making. I think it’s a real plus having a broader outlook. As for the actual circuits, there are existing paths around the country for sound art and jazz and we want to strengthen and enlarge them…[C]ontemporary classical music is a bit different in that there isn’t much of a pre-existing circuit, but I believe there is definitely enough interest to create one.”

Sound Travellers has been funded as a two year initiative, a relatively short time to set up a program from scratch and then learn from its development. I ask Kee about her hopes for the future: “I believe that we could make a significant change to the Australian musical landscape if we are given the opportunity to lay down a strong foundation and then given a chance to build on this…I believe that we can shift ways of working in these genres, in order to create opportunities for artists to spend more time creating, producing and performing. Plus dare I say, also to increase engagement with audiences…”

In the meantime, the second round of applications is coming up in September for tours during 2009. Hopefully Sound Travellers will continue to fill in the blank spaces on the map of contemporary music in Australia.

THE WAY SOUND AND IMAGE COALESCE IS AN ABIDING SUBJECT OF ARTISTIC INVESTIGATION. WE TAKE FOR GRANTED THE COHERENCE OF AURAL AND VISUAL CUES IN REAL LIFE, BUT IN ART HEARING AND SEEING CAN BE DISAGGREGATED. THE USE OF LIVE MUSIC WITH FILM IS AS OLD AS CINEMA ITSELF, EVEN OLDER THAN THE USE OF THE MOVIE SOUNDTRACK THAT WE TAKE FOR GRANTED. THE FOUR APHIDS REEL MUSIC FESTIVAL CONCERTS EXPLORED THE EVER-EVOLVING POSSIBILITIES OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN SOUND AND IMAGE.

The Saturday evening concert opened with David Young’s Creation (2008) for violin and percussion. This short but intense work drew its inspiration from a topographical map of railway lines in Victoria, shown on a cinema screen. The map reveals the country in cross-section, and as it scrolls horizontally across the screen it resembles the treble stave of a music manuscript, the map becoming a graphic score, and prompting the viewer to contemplate ideas of mapping, landscape and journey. In responding to the score, the performers interpret particular visual cues such as gradients or lines, making subtle music that augments and balances with the imagery. Typical of Young’s composition, the work is minutely crafted and delightful, rewarding close concentration by the audience.

The main work of the evening was a performance by Japan’s d.v.d. ensemble—two drummers and a video artist who combine rock percussion and video into an energetic, pulsing audio-visual mix. The drum beats control the imagery and action on screen as the two drummers, who sit facing each other across the stage, engage in a kind of duel, like competitors in a video-game parlour. Some of the imagery is in the style of pinball games and video games such as Pong, while other images suggest screensavers—bouncing geometric shapes, coloured bubbles and abstract dribbles, mainly in pastel and day-glo colours. One memorable image is of two cubes, each facet showing a video of a drummer. The cubes move about and mutate, morphing the video image as they change shape, before eventually shattering themselves and the image into fragments. Accompanied by the drumming and a synthesised video game-style soundtrack, d.v.d’s work is light and fun with a trace of comic irony, and while it’s perhaps best suited to the dance club, it addresses the representation of synaesthesia and explores the possibilities for the cueing of visual imagery and sound through movement.

The Sunday afternoon concert comprised six short works for guitar (Geoffrey Morris) and recorder (Genevieve Lacey) accompanying films and the remainder constituting a chamber recital. The opening film was Hans Richter’s wryly pointed surrealist Vormittagspuk (Ghosts Before Breakfast, 1928), with flying hats, a necktie with a mind of its own, an array of moving pistols, crockery that smashes and reassembles itself and men disappearing, addressing time, space and motion and making full use of the cinematic special effects of the day. Italian composer Maurizio Pisati has added a new soundtrack of synthesised elements and instructions for live performers. The overall sound is eerie, fragmented and chromatic in character with the film. Lacey and Morris respond to the imagery with brief, gestural figures that extend the tension and tease the audience’s awareness.

Pisati’s two translations for guitar of works by Salvatore Sciarrino and Domenico Scarlatti followed. His transcription of Sciarrino’s l’Addio a Trachis II (1980/93) makes extensive use of damping of the notes and the left-hand sliding along the fretboard, shifting well away from the typical sound of the guitar, in stark contrast to the Scarlatti work that was originally for harpsichord. Morris later gave us Giacinto Scelsi’s Ko-Tha (1) (1967), in which the guitar is laid flat on the performer’s lap and used as a percussion instrument. Morris handles these works delightfully, and the shifts from one to the other provide rare insights into the instrument’s possibilities. Genevieve Lacey’s rendition of Fausto Romitelli’s Seascape for solo contrabass recorder (1994) was equally engaging, revealing the instrument’s sensuous, sonorous, breathy and haunting sounds.

Morris and Lacey also accompanied Pisati’s films OER (Over Endless Resonances, 2007), in which a montage of fragments of manuscript gives visual effect to the live music, and Spiegelensemble (2008), which blends animations of paintings of Spiderman with slo-mo footage of street scenes and in which the live performance again responds to the imagery and soundtrack.

These Aphids concerts alternately explored and inverted the cinematic tradition of using music to augment action, sometimes using imagery to enhance live performance and enabling interactivity between media to examine the coherence between aural and visual cues.

Aphids Reel Music Festival June 2008, Creation, composer David Young, performers Yasutaka Hemmi, Eugene Ughetti; d.v.d. ensemble; Vormittagspuk, works by Maurizio Pisati, Giacinto Scelsi, Fausto Romitelli, performers Genevieve Lacey, Geoffrey Morris; ACMI Cinemas, June 26-29

SONO PERCEPTION, PRESENTED AT SYDNEY’S CARRIAGEWORKS BY MELBOURNE-BASED JOLT, WAS SUCCINCT. AFTER BEING USHERED IN AT 7:30, I FOUND MYSELF BACK OUT ON THE STREET BY NINE. MAYBE THIS WAS JUST AS WELL, AS IT LEFT PLENTY OF OPPORTUNITY TO DIGEST WHAT HAD BEEN A FAIRLY ANODYNE EXPERIENCE AT BEST, DISAPPOINTING AT WORST. BILLED VARIOUSLY AS “A SONIC ARTS CONCERT” AND “PIONEERING PSYCHOACOUSTIC SONIC ART” (AND I AM FAIRLY CERTAIN MY TICKET HAD “EXTREME SONIC ART” PRINTED ON IT, ALTHOUGH I DEARLY HOPE I AM MISTAKEN), SONO PERCEPTION SEEMED INTENT ON BUILDING EXPECTATIONS OF A PROGRAM THAT CHALLENGED CONCERT HALL CONVENTIONS.

Instead, although some of the concepts and approaches appear to hold a great deal of possibility, it was difficult to find anything in either the staging of this event, or in much of its sonic content, that advanced notions of the aesthetic deployment of sound beyond the realm of music, or explored “sonic perception as the subject matter of the work” as outlined in the program notes.

Beginning life as an installation, Bruce Mowson’s Melting Moments seems to have suffered in its transplantation from gallery space to concert hall. Where Mowson’s work usually explores his themes of absorption, immersion and repetition with confidence, the sliding sine tones accompanied by a video projection of concentric rectangles and circles slowly shifting through a palette of ice cream colours failed to engage in such a large space. Several technical issues, such as pixilation of the image and the audibility of the air conditioning during the quieter sections, also served to inhibit the drift into the specific sensory registers of the piece that Mowson’s work is capable of inducing in a more favourable setting.

Following an apology for the absence of the previously advertised performance of Cat Hope (delivered as a species of chant, and about which the less said the better), the duo of Catherine Schieve and Warren Burt performed on the Electric Eye Tone Tool—one of Percy Grainger’s famous Free Music machines—which uses a bank of photocells to transduce light into electrical voltage. However, where Grainger’s machine used scores prepared on rolls of plastic, which were then pulled across the photocells mechanically (much in the manner of a player piano), Schieve and Burt pursued a more performative, and at times literally ‘hands on’ approach, with the resulting sound now produced by digital oscillators and samples instead of the analogue electronics of the original. Their three short works saw Schieve and Burt elicit a stream of electronic yibbles and blurts with their hands, delicately manipulating the timbre of a choral structure with strips of shaped cardboard, and together wielding a four-metre long graphic score painted on clear plastic sheeting to induce an alternately serene and garrulous babble, all of which explored the potential of Grainger’s design.

With its spidery metallic framework housing four mechanically operated violins, James Hullick’s Gotholin machines also seemed to contain plenty of both musical and performative potential. Yet despite Hullick’s claims for his machine as being a form of automata or robot, on this occasion it seemed to serve simply as a computer-controlled prosthesis rather than displaying any kind of autonomy. Apart from brief moments of four-mechanical armed action, the performance consisted largely of a limited range of bow scrapings drawn from just one or two violins, with the mechanical arms appearing to mimic the gestures of the performer at his laptop. The intrusion of Hullick’s own violin bow into the scheme of things part way through the performance served only to destroy any remaining expectations that the machine might be given a chance to ‘do its own thing’ (whatever that might be). Perhaps technical issues intervened to make this a rather lacklustre performance, but the meagre sonic offerings of scratches, tinks and occasional tones, however they were produced, were unremarkable.

Closing the night was Speak Percussion member Jeremy Barnett’s performance of American experimental composer James Tenney’s Having Never Written a Note for Percussion (1971). Barnett’s performance of this deceptively simple piece—an extended crescendo and decrescendo played on a gong—was exemplary. However, the staging of the work in darkness, except for a red spotlight on the gong that ‘mickey moused’ the rise and fall in volume by fading from dim to bright and back again, seemed to circumvent Tenney’s intention for the work, trading perception for didacticism. Given how simple and deliberately obvious the form of the work is, this visual analogue to the change in volume was not just superfluous but detrimental. Perhaps worse still was that Barnett was left to labour away in darkness, which not only obscured his involvement but also left a number of people I spoke with confused as to how such a straightforward work was actually produced, undoubtedly placing a further impediment to the perception of the sounds at hand.

Unfortunately, as a whole the night seemed to suffer from a kind of curatorial or promotional overstatement, ultimately working against its theme of perception. Only the first and last items could be said to have had an attentiveness to sensory perception as a specific concern, in so far as they could—or in fact needed to—live up to those claims. Perhaps it was only that these attempts at framing the evening came across as so much ‘preaching to the choir’ (on several occasions a vocally critical one at that), but even this could not turn these disparate components—all interesting in themselves—into a cohesive program.

JOLT, Sono Perception: a sonic arts concert, Bruce Mowson, Catherine Schieve, Warren Burt, James Hullick, Speak Percussion, presented by JOLT & CarriageWorks, CarriageWorks, Sydney, June 20

LET’S FOCUS FIRST, NOT ON THE SCALE OF THE CANBERRA INTERNATIONAL CHAMBER MUSIC FESTIVAL AND ITS SOUNDS ALIVE PROGRAM—LARGE ENSEMBLES, CHAMBER GROUPS, SEXY VOCALISTS, TECHNICAL PROWESS—BUT ON THE POWER OF A SINGLE FIGURE, AT ONE INSTRUMENT, A CROWD RISING IN A TERRACED WAVE FROM HIS HUMBLE PLACE ON A WOODEN PLATFORM. AS ROB SCHWIMMER PLAYS—SWEET, RIPPLING, STRIDENT, LAUGHING; WHETHER TICKLING IVORIES, OR PLAYING THE AIR OVER THE WACKY THEREMIN TO CREATE SOUNDS REDOLENT OF HAWAII, CRÈME DE MENTHE AND RY COODER PULLING A THROATY RIFF—DISTANCE BECOMES SMALL.

I worry when, in interview, a classical violinist, James Cuddeford of the Grainger Quartet, states that people lose intimacy in the back row (of a 200-seat theatre), presuming contemporary audiences can no longer hear acoustically even through moderate distance. To me this is a furphy. This is not how sound exists. Schwimmer at the piano on stage also plays my throat, my membranes. Vibration becomes a wave becomes vibration, traveling from air through to fluids via folds of skin. Music is this intimacy, a kiss. Perhaps the deepest of contacts we can achieve.

So, whether we listen to Schwimmer playing solo, or in madcap mayhem with co-performers Mark Stewart and Melissa Fathman in Polygraph Lounge, we are not held to arrest by distance. The lounge show yokes Led Zeppelin with Aaron Copland and Moby Dick; plays everything from keyboards to guitar, conch shells and jellyfish with an extraordinary intelligence and musicianship; its success relying on an audience’s knowledge of musical timbres, techniques and histories. The physically painful over-amplification of their sensitive performance abuses our subtle organs and misunderstands the nature of both sound and ‘fun.’

When the Dean-Emerson-Dean trio performed in a dashingly proclaimed “only fully-acoustic concert on the program!”, I travelled easily with them from rasping vast bored spaces to the feather fall of a pin. Paul Dean performs as if his body lives and grows within the bore of his clarinet. His brother Brett’s Night Window—an intimate exploration of palpitations, canyons, crevices and small hearts crying in the night—displays an epic depth of craftsmanship: stringy, silken, profound. It is a consummate danse macabre with moments of Shostakovich-like paranoia thrown in.

The Brisbane group Topology created some curious distances. Robert Davidson built his Taken (2002) out of stories from the Stolen Generation. Perhaps Ruth’s Story reveals too strong an influence of the docu-dramas of John Adams and Steve Reich. Mimicking the rhythms of Aunty Ruth’s spoken voice, Davidson creates a curious distance with his use of cut edits and repetition of ‘key’ emotional phrases in video footage. The effect, for me, is a truncation of her individuality and in the end the potency of her story. Her magnified face almost becomes a vaudeville mask. Davidson admitted in an interview with Vincent Plush on ABC Radio National’s The Music Show (May 16) that he would now utilize those spoken rhythms less prescriptively.

Iain Grandage’s Mirramirratjara (2006) for small mixed orchestra is more delicate. While respecting what is and is not his to reveal or imitate (“these are not my songs”), his work yet seems caught between an orchestrated ostinato of white grief/guilt and the very different qualities—pride, joy, a comfortable humility?—evident in the Aboriginal elders’ singing and dancing in the projected footage. Perhaps the effect would differ if the elders were indeed present “around a campfire” as initially intended. Still, I perceive, in the footage of clapsticks hitting into sand, an intimacy strikingly at odds with that of the orchestral performers with their instruments.

Donnaccha Dennehy, the director of Dublin’s Crash Ensemble, took as his ground base the “moments of ecstasy (both luscious and dark)” of several impassioned traditional Irish Sean Nós songs of love and death. Structurally, the work oscillates between equal tempered and a quasi ‘just’ tuning, and between free form and measured time. Traditional singer Iarla O Lionaird had his bars counted for him throughout the piece, which provided an intriguing visual cue to the piece’s complexities. Relentless as waves breaking over craggy rocks, this piece premiered at an Irish regional arts festival to an audience strongly familiar with the tradition it explores. Epic, driven, exciting and grossly over-amplified, it was an exercise in powerful emotion, textures and motions. I’ve never heard a trumpet asked to ramp its way through tonal landscapes like this.

In comparison, an evening with New York-based, Czech émigré Iva Bittova (with Sounds Alive director Lisa Moore at the piano) was a night in the arms of a familiar—particularly, perhaps, for the large Czech contingent in her Canberra audience. Bittova’s forte, most evident in her own compositions or those of Janacek and Bartok, is her sharp, nasal voice, pulling sounds in a spectrum from human to animal, redolent of the soils of her native country. It is a sound which instils in me, too, a thirst for belonging.

Yet this is not a superlative performance. Some of the concert’s repertoire, which ranged from Don Byron to Rufus Wainwright to Ravel, clearly does not suit her voice. It is nothing like the radical vocal expressiveness/expressionism present in the performance of Bingen by Jouissance in the ‘mainstream’ part of the festival. There, Deborah Kayser’s voice carved an achingly layered geology of quarter and semitones, scrolling through melisma with consummate musicianship and passionate grace. Perhaps Bittova is not interested in thus extending her voice or the song form. Her voice does, however, relate very intimately with her violin.

Michael Gordon’s Van Gogh Opera is, by contrast, a piece shaking to the bones, in which the singers are in almost constant over-extension. Based on Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo, the artist’s alienation, social awkwardness and endless struggle are captured in a music that is relentless and obsessive, maintaining a hard edge that suddenly breaks us to tears. I found myself begging Gordon to give the soprano some release—but that would be a different composition.

New York’s So Percussion performed the whole of Steve Reich’s Drumming with an extraordinary mix of attentiveness and release. Fine, disciplined, controlled, graciously aware of each other, their collaborators and the architecture of the work, the performers moved within the piece’s comings and goings, its rhythmic and visceral patterns over 75 minutes. This superlative performance allowed full course for Drumming’s buildings and breakings of tension across this span of time. This was playing the line between assertion and allowing—one of the great mysteries of intimacy—played at its most generous and satisfying.

Sounds Alive ‘08 was a discrete program of 12 concerts within the Canberra International Chamber Music Festival. Robert Davidson’s Taken and Iain Grandage’s Mirramirratjara were also part of the National Film & Sound Archives own, similarly titled Sounds Alive annual program.

Canberra International Chamber Music Festival, artistic director Nicole Canham; Sounds Alive ’08, artistic director Lisa Moore; Street Theatre, Canberra, May 7-8

CREDIT SHOULD GO TO THE TIRELESS BRISBANE DIRECTOR OF LIQUID ARCHITECTURE 9, LAWRENCE ENGLISH, FOR BREAKING WITH FORMALITY AND DELIBERATELY GENERATING A MORE CONVIVIAL ATMOSPHERE FOR THE RECENT GIGS HE’S STAGED AT BRISBANE POWERHOUSE’S ROOFTOP THEATRE. TONIGHT WE ENTER A DIMLY LIT SPACE SURROUNDED BY SIX EXCELLENT SPEAKERS AND COVERED HAPHAZARDLY IN COMFY FLOOR CUSHIONS. THE RECLINING AUDIENCE WATCH PERFORMANCES WHICH EACH OCCUPY A DIFFERENT REGION OF THE ROOM. THE RELAXED VIBE IS HELPFUL AND POSSIBLY NECESSARY, A STRATEGIC WAY OF SOFTENING THE RELATIVE AUSTERITY AND SERIOUSNESS THAT LIQUID ARCHITECTURE, AN INCREASINGLY DIGNIFIED ELDER-STATESMAN OF THE AUSTRALIAN SONIC ART SCENE, TRADES IN.

Lying on one’s back with eyes closed is a pretty decent way to enjoy the evening’s first act, Nat, aka Nat Bates, who is also LA’s co-founder and national director. It’s easy to connect the dots betweens Nat’s own artistic practice and LA’s broader curatorial focus and predilection. The emphasis is on ‘close listening’, sound treated as abstract matter to be cut into shapes and forms and arrangements of varying detail, flow, texture. This kind of sonic treatment broadly expresses two things: the basic mutability and transformative potential of sound material, and the sensual pleasure derived from tracking these movements with the ears. Nat’s sloping and sliding blocks of dark noise, snatches of visualised sound (doors slamming, wind gushing), and spinning spatialisations inevitably recall the strategies of concrete music maestros like Michel Chion; this is clearly the tradition he operates out of. The trick with the performance of concrete music is to coax a feeling of ‘liveness’ of dynamic or heightened ‘realtime’ presence from essentially prerecorded material. Not an easy thing to do.

Next is the renowned Portuguese electronic artist Rafael Toral, who a few years ago ditched his generally well appreciated habit of massaging lush drones and loops from electric guitars in favour of the Space Program, his new direction focusing on improvised performance and manipulation of homemade electronic gear. Toral has proper improvising chops (he is a member of electro-acoustic super-group MIMEO and a regular on the European free jazz scene) and this gives his work an expressive, embodied edge missing from so much electronic music. His set is simultaneously funny and sonically high-minded, incorporating squeaky, sawdust-thin mini-amp generated feedback, light-respondent bursts of noise and jerky, spasmodic dance moves.

From the back of the room Toral comes over like an over-enthusiastic young Dick Smith grappling joyously with some malfunctioning, misfiring new electro-gadget. Giving the ‘dork-electronics’ angle even more credence Toral peaks his 30-odd minute show by carefully prodding a giant amplified slinky. Like those other historic spring instrument luminaries Ernie Althoff and Hugh Davies, Toral illuminates the continuum between scientist, sound artist and endearing weirdo.

Ian Wadley’s musical journey has ranged from 80s/90s indie-pop ubiquity (Small World Experience, Holy Ghosts, Minimum Chips) through singular brushes with genius (drumming for Jandek at SXSW), to his more recent transition into a solo, improvising, electric guitar mangler. A hyperbolic critic once described his music as “Derek Bailey channeling Jimi Hendrix” which despite being one of the more ridiculous formulations ever dreamt, does actually makes strange sense. Wadley merges a loosely Bailey-esque contempt for structure, continuity and closure with a Hendrix-ish feedback-threatened heavy tone. But where these two giants brought pinprick focus and intensity to each successive moment, Wadley’s constructions conjure the kind of blasted freeform drift that recalls confusion, queasiness, amnesia, and slowness to the point of collapse. His guitar sings like a drunk and the music goes nowhere, but ultimately that’s true of all things and not at all unpleasant.

Seeing out the evening, the revered German electronic manipulator Markus Schmickler proceeds to do basically the only thing left for laptop musicians at this juncture, which is to immediately and absolutely overpower the audience through extreme shifts in intensity and dynamically ridiculous levels of complexity/chaos and sounds that attack and redirect the imagination away from the banal reality of a bloke in a room with a computer. The set is a huge dose of excitement and stimulation, sounds eliciting disgust, horror, wonder and visions of catastrophic meltdown, with the brutality/beauty balance pitched just right. Schmickler might be standing motionless and unexpressive behind his computer, but his sound ‘performs’ bloody vigorously, like it just popped a truckload of steroids in preparation for the Olympics. Schmickler’s long career suggests he is a very astute and thoughtful artist, something of a scene-setter, so I hope to hear a few more interventions of such heady physicality disrupt the sometimes listless, cerebral flow of contemporary computer music.

Liquid Architecture 9, Nat Bates, Rafael Toral, Ian Wadley, Markus Schmickler, director Lawrence English; Brisbane Powerhouse, Brisbane, July 4

Reviews of Sydney and Melbourne Liquid Architecture concerts will appear in
RealTime 87.

THE CHALLENGE IN DESCRIBING THE WORK OF THE NECKS IS THAT IT FALLS OUTSIDE ANY CONVENIENT STYLISTIC CATEGORY. THERE IS NO DISCRIMINATING THE MYRIAD INFLUENCES. MOST OBVIOUS MIGHT BE THE JAZZ TRIO TRADITION, BUT THE NECKS’ DRIVING RHYTHMIC PULSE ENCOMPASSES MINIMALISM, WHILE THE BREAKDOWN OF RHYTHM SUGGESTS FREE JAZZ AND THE SUBTLE EXPLORATIONS OF TIMBRE ARE TYPICAL OF THE AVANT-GARDE. THESE, HOWEVER, ONLY TOUCH THE SURFACE OF WHAT MIGHT BE CALLED AN ORGANIC MUSICAL WORLD.

The Necks mesmerise their audience with large scale improvisations, insistently repeating musical fragments, placing them under a kind of auditory microscope, drawing attention to the listener’s habitual modes of musical recognition. Once associations start to emerge, there’s a liberal treatment by the musicians of stylistic elements that happen to fall into the stream of musical consciousness, showing no preference or prejudice. This level of observation also draws the ear closely into the quality of timbre, to a pure sonic appreciation, even before any stylistic associations start to take hold.

Never allowing one voice to dominate, the music undergoes an organic growth that gains momentum and direction through the collective, democractic input of the three musicians. Individual contributions reveal subconscious worlds of musical influences, however the growth of cells within the larger musical framework cannot be referenced easily. What emerges is a composition with flavours from a gamut of musical influence, although treated and constructed in a way that then reveals an original musical identity.

So what informs a complete, improvised performance? The musical fragments, interrogated to the point of being beyond recognition, are shaped by the visceral energy created on stage, a musical development that leads to prolonged moments of intensity and ecstasy. The remarkable individual restraint and sympathy amongst the musicians leads to the cultivation of a musical organism that becomes its own creature.

You could feel this democratic principal in action throughout the May 28 concert at the Sydney Opera House’s Studio. Even when Tony Buck began the second improvisation, rubbing a cymbal against the floor tom to create a soft drone, the other two players, although silent, were still ominously present. Original video works by Buck were screened alongside the two improvisations. Projected on three large screens behind and above the trio, these were constructed in a similar way to the music—from an extremely limited set of motifs explored throughout the duration of the work.

The first improvisation established a sense of pulse early on which then diverged into three trajectories. This breaking down of rhythm, with continuing musical momentum and drive might be described by John Coltrane’s term, “multi-directional rhythm”—different tempi occurring simultaneously. What impressed me was that, despite the breaking down of pulse the work still managed to maintain a sense of structural integrity, clearly moving into new sections and phases. The accompanying video, showing a naked woman slowly and repeatedly ascending a wooden staircase at varying speeds, created a mesmeric sense of timelessness.

The similarly spare second video commenced with images of light on water that gradually revealed a woman swimming beneath. The music also began on a different tack, Buck’s cymbal swirling on the floor tom, drawing the ear into subtle nuances of timbre, followed by Lloyd Swanton’s single pitched, high register, arhythmic pizzicato line, sounding more like bubbles rising than a double bass. Buck then began to stir bells with his foot and swirl a shaker, sustaining this fluid, pulse-less sound world while Abrahams explored a motif in the upper register of the piano, right where the break occurs between those notes dampened by the pedal and those that always resonate freely, once again drawing the listener into The Necks’ subtle treatment of sound.

This free time, sonically rich musical world then organically established a sense of pulse, finding its way into a 6/8 groove, gradually shifting emphasis to morph into 4/4 and then back to 6/8, slightly reminiscent of the music of Steve Reich. Throughout the concert, as with multi-directional rhythm, there were fluctuations in tempo resulting in divergence again much like the phasing technique of Reich.

Leaving The Studio, I feel immense satisfaction at having experienced a concert of improvised music that, through intensive exploration of materials, engendered a strong sense of musical identity. It’s a refreshing experience. The Necks concert demonstrates a music making practice that shows no signs of tiring.

The Necks, musicians Chris Abrahams, Tony Buck, Lloyd Swanton, video Tony Buck, The Studio, Sydney Opera House, May 28

IN THE EVENING OR IN THE EXTREME EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING, AUDIENCES ARE INVITED TO LUPA ART, A SMALL, EMPTY WAREHOUSE SPACE, TO ENGAGE WITH A SURREAL WORK TITLED SPOOL, THE CREATION OF MELBOURNE ARTIST LIZ RÁCZ AND FRENCH EXPERIMENTAL COMPOSER JÉRÔME NOETINGER.

Entering the space, gallery visitors are given torches and offered a shot of liqueur. Navigating Lupa Art at 3am is much like inhabiting that half-lucid state between waking and sleeping, and this unusual sensation is augmented further by the peculiar sonic and visual instances that viewers/listeners are soon to encounter.

In the centre of a completely blackened room our torches reveal an aged piano, perched on an old worn rug, its top opened, a tape loop feeding into a player concealed inside. The sounds emanating from within—unfamiliar and non-naturalistic sonic swells and events—create an air of uncertainty, the audience unable to anchor them to a source. The palette of almost tactile hisses creates an atmosphere that is at once thin and wispy, yet all the while filling the air with an inescapable misty density. This blanket of sound is then layered with intermittent rising waveforms that build gradually only to be cut dramatically, the result resembling the hissing of a reversed recording of the striking of cymbals. The visibility of the tape assures gallery visitors of the recorded nature of the sound, yet the ambiguity of its content provokes questions, What is this a recording of? And what is the meaning of this recording's unnerving surroundings?

After circling the piano, the audience soon notices, with their torches, a dilapidated sink at the rear of the space. Beside it sits another tape deck playing the same tape loop material. Navigating the room further, they discover small, finger-sized markings that have been produced by erasing the graphite covering the walls. Frenetic sketches of horses and other figures cover the ceiling. The gradual discovery of these markings in the dark, with the invevitable pre-dawn drowsiness and the dense sonic atmosphere, induces in viewers a beautiful sense of revelation.

Spool is an enigmatic and poetic installation, both brooding and surreal. Liz Rácz and Jérôme Noetinger have managed to create an immersive environment that is at once engulfing and ripe with a multitude of subtleties, transporting its audience into an uninhabited space of sonic and visual peculiarities and ambiguity.

Spool, visuals Liz Rácz, sound loops Jérôme Noetinger, Lupa Art, Melbourne, June 22-29, www.lupaart.blogspot.com

Phoxai Pholsavatdy (South Australian School of Art student), Untitled, constructed print [2006]

“AUSTRALIA’S VISUAL ARTISTS DOUBLE IN NUMBERS.” THIS WAS THE BLUNT HEADLINE OF AN AUSTRALIAN BUREAU OF STATISTICS MEDIA RELEASE ANNOUNCING THE FINDINGS OF THEIR APRIL 2007 STUDY WORK IN SELECTED CULTURE AND LEISURE ACTIVITIES. THE 2006 CENSUS, ON THE OTHER HAND, INDICATED A DECLINE IN THE NUMBER OF INDIVIDUALS WHO IDENTIFY THEIR MAIN OCCUPATION AS VISUAL ARTIST. LOOKING AT THE VARIETY OF STATISTICS THAT ARE REGULARLY ROLLED OUT IN DISCUSSIONS OF THE CULTURAL SECTOR, IT QUICKLY BECOMES CLEAR THAT THERE IS A LOT OF INCONSISTENCY AND UNCERTAINTY SURROUNDING THE DATA—DIFFERENT QUESTIONS GENERATE DIFFERENT RESULTS.

The confusion increases even further when we begin to consider the nature of the job market in the visual arts. For while it is clear that the number and range of jobs in the sector has increased over the last few decades—as a result of significant development in the visual arts infrastructure—the impact of this on the nature of employment as a visual art practitioner is less clear. Just what does it mean to talk about ‘the job market’ in the visual arts? As my brief survey of some half a dozen art schools demonstrated, it all depends on how you understand the job of being an artist.

“If it is to be considered as an employee/employer relationship”, says Victorian College of the Arts (VCA) Head of School, Su Baker, “I think the ‘job’ concept is not helpful.” Artists, she suggests, are more “like entrepreneurs setting up new companies or projects…more like primary producers than industrial workers.” In this context, they function as sole traders or small businesses. “Most fine artists would be termed micro businesses”, says Queensland College of Art’s (QCA) director Paul Cleveland.

Some institutions—like QCA and the University of Tasmania’s School of Art (UTAS)—identified a distinct difference in the employment prospects for fine art students when compared with those graduating in fields such as design or photography, or even the broader field of ‘visual communication.’ While opportunities for employment in these latter fields are identified as being generally strong, as Noel Frankham of UTAS put it, there are “few jobs as artist.” Amanda Lawson, Dean of Arts at University of Wollongong, takes a similar position, noting “very few of our graduates will go into full-time art practice.” However, opportunities are seen to improve for those who undertake further studies in areas such as teaching or arts administration.

“I don’t think the job market in Australia has ever been strong for artists”, says Edith Cowan University’s Clive Barstow, who also notes that “industries that employ people for their creativity are relatively limited in comparison to the USA and Europe.”

But the view that the employment market for art school graduates remains weak is countered by others. Jan Davis of Southern Cross University takes the view “that it is stronger than it has ever been for our graduates.” RMIT’s Elizabeth Grierson places art school graduates firmly within the booming creative economy: “The job market for creative innovative knowledge workers—which includes art graduates—is extremely strong. The old idea of the artist only working to produce paintings or sculpture et al and exhibit in galleries is now superceded by a wider spread of possibilities for art graduates. The marketplace is not a ‘means-end’ site of art labour. This 19th and early 20th century idea has passed and with it we witness the reinvention of the marketplace and new possibilities for art graduates to be productive leaders in the cultural knowledge field.”

Such a position involves a rethink of what might be involved in an artist’s career, and perhaps also how artists might define their occupation. Certainly, it suggests that artists may now be far less likely to describe themselves by way of a single medium or mode of practice.

As Su Baker points out, in the period immediately after graduation artists may “work at a number of jobs to get their careers started”, but this mix of jobs might well continue, with artists developing a “portfolio approach to their earning capacity.” Thus, artists may well find that their career involves undertaking work within a number of different occupational categories at the same time. This notion of the ‘portfolio career’—a term coined by Charles Handy in the early 1990s—is now seen as an increasingly important trend in employment generally. As Jan Davis notes, “I think that other fields of employment are becoming more like the arts (in terms of short term project employment etc).”

One further possibility is that the ‘portfolio career’ of many artists might not only be structured around earning capacity. Instead, it involves a mix of professional activities not all of which are focussed on income generation. In this respect, it may well be that much primary art making activity—particularly for emerging artists, but also for many more established artists—is actually cross-subsidised by other income earning activity, which may, or may not be arts based.

Significantly, many professional development activities undertaken by students and emerging artists are voluntary or not-for-profit in nature. So while Kay Lawrence from the University of South Australia (UNISA) notes that the “job market is weak for visual arts graduates in South Australia”, she also points out that “on the whole our graduates are pretty adept at making opportunities for themselves, setting up artist-run-spaces and galleries [and] art zines.” What is less clear is how these activities translate into paid work. For example, it needs to be noted that many exhibition opportunities—in artist-run spaces, as well as contemporary art spaces and regional galleries—do not always generate an economically profitable outcome for artists. However, as Su Baker notes, “when you ask an artist how their work is going, or if they are working, they will take this as meaning their art work, even if it isn’t making them any money.”

Helen Mok (Sydney College of the Arts student), A place to belong (blue sky), [2008]

Support for professional development activity is common across the arts schools, as is marketing and promotional support for graduate exhibitions and other activities and, increasingly, the development of programs that involve in-the-field experience. Some art schools, such as those in SCU, RMIT and UNISA, have developed specific internship programs. All the art schools who responded to our queries also offer courses in ‘professional practice.’ While these vary in their approach, most make use of material developed outside the university sector by service organisations such as the Arts Law Centre or the National Association for the Visual Arts (NAVA).

NAVA’s range of information sheets on key issues in the visual arts have been used extensively in the teaching of professional practice within art schools for well over a decade. About five years ago NAVA, working with the Australian Council of University Art and Design Schools (ACUADS), developed a model curriculum for professional practice units, which has been taken up to varying degrees by art colleges around the country. “Most art colleges draw from it, cherry picking what they need”, says NAVA director Tamara Winikoff, “sometimes as part of studio practice, rather than as a separate unit.”

However, this does not seem to have eliminated the demand for professional and business related information and training from either emerging or established artists. Part of the problem appears to be that the importance of business and professional skills and knowledge is not always apparent to students at the undergraduate level. “When artists are a few years older, they realise they do need it”, says Winikoff. NAVA’s most recent development in this area is a web portal focussing on professional arts information and exchange. The site—www.artistcareer.com.au—has been developed in partnership with the Australian Business Arts Foundation (AbaF).

In 2006 AbaF were allocated federal funding to deliver specialist business training to visual artists, with the objective of assisting them to “increase income from their art practice.” Over the last 18 months some 1100 artists have participated in the program. According to AbaF CEO Jane Haley, the response to the program from artists has been very positive. However, she notes that discussions with representatives of some artist-run initiatives and contemporary art galleries have not always been so positive. “They took a fairly dismissive position regarding artists acquiring business information”, says Haley, “They expressed the view that artists didn’t want and didn’t need the skills to be business people.”

Such a position is in sharp contrast to the position that is increasingly being articulated from within Australia’s art schools, although as Jane Haley notes, there have been limitations to the delivery of professional practice modules within university based visual arts programs. “We’re meeting with artists five years out, and they just don’t have the knowledge”, she says.

But as these indicative comments from SCU’s Jan Davis suggest, art schools do appear to be addressing the issue: “Our most recent review of the Bachelor of Visual Arts was centred around addressing issues of employability—in terms of embedding particular skills in the curriculum such as taxation and marketing knowledge, of increasing knowledge about the arts industry, but also of encouraging an increased level of professionalisation and awareness of the nature of employment in the arts.”

A RECENT RETROSPECTIVE AT URBAN DINGO GALLERY IN FREMANTLE DOCUMENTS THIRTY YEARS OF THE WORK OF AUSTRALIAN ARTIST TIM BURNS. SUCH A MOVE SIGNALS A DESIRE FOR A DEMARCATED BODY OF WORK, FOR THE UNITY OF WHAT WE MIGHT CALL AN OEUVRE. BUT HOW TO DOCUMENT WORK THAT HAS BEEN LARGELY CONCEPTUAL AND OFTEN PERFORMATIVE?

There is the authored body of work, and then there is the person. No ‘Tim Burns’ without Tim Burns, and both Burns are elusive and novelistic. I am reminded of the Maltese Falcon, and then of DeLillo’s 1978 novel Running Dog, in which a female journalist pursues rumours of a missing reel of film purporting to show Eva Braun engaged in unspeakable acts with Hitler in the bunker. In DeLillo’s 1997 opus Underworld, seemingly unrelated orders of being are meaningfully connected in a grand paranoiac arc of megalomaniacal intentionality, which begins with a 1951 baseball game between the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Giants. The American critic James Wood coined the term “hysterical realism” to capture this literary trend which, he argues, is characterised by a fear of silence, and creates instead “a perpetual motion machine that appears to have been embarrassed into velocity.”

Tim Burns might or might not be a hysterical realist, but there is little doubt that Don DeLillo would know what to do with both of the Burns, and how to situate their codependent artistry. He would begin in 1981, with a single canister (or two? three?) of 16mm film, on which is written Against the Grain. He would use a formal prose, as if assembling a catalogue, and take 500 pages or more to cleverly link every one of the artist’s subsequent concerns back to this 78-minute independent film. He would flesh out the artist’s refusal to respect the hierarchies of place. He would recreate a scene in the film which is set in Burns’ mother’s kitchen and then skip a decade or so to an apartment on the Lower East Side to hint at the everyday hustle of life in New York (the struggle to keep the kitty litter clean etc) before returning to Perth, to the slaughter of sheep on a wheat belt farm. Gunpowder, bombs, and bicycles would proliferate. There would be the odd disaster, large and small.

DeLillo would abut terror and humour to demonstrate the way that hierarchies of things are flattened and disrespected, in good and bad ways. He would talk about women, about men, about karaoke clips, about a kind of manic investment and rifle-quick abandonment. He might even mention Buckminster Fuller, but only because he had just read an article about him in a magazine, but he would connect it in some way. He would draw upon the files that I took away with me from the exhibition, extracting a list of names, part of the history of art and film and theatre and friendship and infamy: Bette Gordon, Lindzee Smith, Robert Cooney, Jim Jarmusch, Ian de Gruchy, Sandy Edwards, the Cantrills, Daniel Keene, Heather Woodbury, and Charlotte Rampling in Alice Springs…The names would go on and on, both familiar and unknown, but all meaning something to someone somewhere.

But I am barking up the wrong tree. This exhibition stands as a reminder that when writing of the work of artists—and the lives of mortals—the metaphor of the book is to be mobilised cautiously. Do we search for connection, or do we not? Should we look for our ends in our beginnings? Indeed, should we even have beginnings, middles, and ends? How the hell does an artist develop, anyway?

Linearity did not seem to be an issue with the Urban Dingo exhibition. The show was bound by the space of the small gallery and by the kind of energetic improvisational logic familiar to those who have known or worked with Tim Burns. The exhibition seemed to operate by a strategy of quotation and accumulation: ‘Let’s not forget that I also did this, and this. And this.’ And Tim Burns has done so many things over the last 35 years. Like many artists who have stepped out from under (or in) what the arts bureaucrats call ‘silos’ (note the conjuncture of Cold War militarism and art) his work is impossible to characterise: relentlessly time-based, contextual, collaborative, ephemeral, driven.

In the documentation I saw disjunctions and adjacencies rather than connections. No interest in the flowering or fruiting of a career here; nothing autumnal. Such organic metaphors (other than those associated with the worthy realms of trash, rubbish and refuse) are outside the purview of Tim Burns. Instead we are well across whole planets of colliding practices. Histories of technologies compact and implode; super 8, video, 16 mm, projections. We glimpse theatrical performance, should-have-happened-but-didn’t-quite happenings. We are with installation, broadcast media, painting; we are collecting things from the street. We are in Melbourne, in New York, in Alice Springs, in Hamilton Hill.
Collaborating, or working alone.

Many of the images on the walls seemed to be stills from film, theatre and installations, digitally rendered onto canvas and sold as multiples. Like yesterday’s loose buttons, the images had worked their way toward an unhinging. I struggled to stitch them back into place. It is so like Tim Burns, I thought, to surrender the integrity of the past (can we still use that word?) to the work at hand, which is, for all of us, going on and getting by.

Tim Burns’ work has always been shaped by tight or invisible budgets, and by the unsentimental technologies of paranoia (be it terrorism, the CIA, broadcast media or arts funding bodies). A stubborn avant-gardism, take it or leave it, underlies his work. It has a guerrilla quality, which marks him as of the street, and at the crest of the historical moment. The moment does not pass. It just becomes another moment. And another, until all the moments run out. And that is a moment I cannot imagine.

Fotofreo 2008, On Record, Tim (3rd degree) Burns Retrospective, Urban Dingo Gallery, Fremantle, April 10-May 5

THE DISCOMFORTING POTENTIAL OF NEXT WAVE’S 2008 FESTIVAL THEME “CLOSER TOGETHER” WAS REALISED IN JULIE TRAITSIS’ RELENTLESS VIDEO-LOOP OF A COUPLE DANCING THE TANGO AND MICHAEL MENEGHETTI’S LIVE PERFORMANCE ON A STRIP CLUB STAGE. THE WORKS EXPOSED “IDEAS OF CLOSENESS AND ITS CONFLICTED NATURE” BY ENTANGLING THE AUDIENCE IN THE AWKWARDNESS OF PROXIMITY.

With his feet encased in strap-on stilts and his arms in crutch-like supports, Michael Meneghetti clambers on all fours up the stairs on to the stage at the Men’s Gallery. Crouched like a praying mantis on these simple splints of untreated pine, he stalks the length of the stage. His face is obscured by a homespun version of a gimp mask as he purveys the packed-in crowd who holler enthusiastically as he begins to gyrate.

Meneghetti’s kinky shed fashion is rawer in construction than clear acrylic stripper heels, but it similarly exacerbates the tension in his movements as he laps his crotch about the club’s silver poles. The splints force him into a slow elevated crawl that’s animalistic and oddly slinky, his pace matching the strippers in the downstairs bar who slither about like stoned snakes.

In this work titled Vixen, Meneghetti seems strangely vulnerable, the blockish wooden saddle complete with stirrups strapped to his back mocking his tenuous position perched on stilts. Yet he also displays much physical strength and stamina as he hoists himself about. The contrast creates a tension that had been similarly apparent in Meneghetti’s Goanna Pull Contest (VCA Student Gallery, Victoria Park Gallery, 2006). That performance enacted an unusual country game between two men who lie on the ground facing each other. They are joined together by a leather belt strapped around the backs of their heads, then with their backs arched and their arms braced against the floor they proceed to try to drag one another forward tug-of-war style. Brute aggressive force was coupled with the clear pain of the exercise; the pure competitive, albeit stupid, machismo made for strangely gripping viewing.

Vixen was equally compelling, feeding off the hyped up, lurid surrounds of the strip club. This time the elevation of Meneghetti’s bent body was accentuated by the height of the stage, and the no-touch etiquette clearly applied to his threateningly precarious prowling. The carpentry body extensions were consequently both constricting and protective. As was the mask made of slotted wood that hid his face from voyeurs (much like the peculiar expression of satisfied boredom worn by strippers) whilst also appearing stiflingly claustrophobic.

The artist’s restricted movements pointed both to the (typically male) striptease audience hobbled by rules that restrict their responses and to the strippers who writhe about in the spotlights that were now highlighting Meneghetti’s tight-fitting, acid washed jeans. The physical limitations Meneghetti imposed on himself referenced the whole convoluted power dynamic of the striptease, stripped of clothes, stripped of money, either way you are exposed and you are performing.

Julie Traitsis’ video installation Open Embrace occupied the quieter, confined darkness of the AV gallery at Kings ARI. Invasive camera footage awkwardly enfolded the viewer into a tango embrace, Traitsis having strapped video cameras to the heads of a dancing couple. Two screens opposite each other showed the dancers’ looming faces as they self-consciously concentrated on their steps. The footage also offered peripheral glimpses of a suburban tango school with other couples in denim and tracksuits hesitantly practising the ‘dance of desire.’

The couple took turns wearing the camera-helmet as they rehearsed. The resulting neatly synched videos suggest simultaneous filming yet the recording contraption is never visible. This furthers the sense of intrusion, the viewer feeling pressed between the couple like an invisible chaperone; the unrelenting closeness of the head-held camerawork and the embedded flow of its movements turning the intimacy of the Open Embrace tango into a claustrophobic vise. As well, the privilege of being able to stare was made discomfortingly complex by the couple’s trust in Traitsis’ intervention. Their stilted expressions as they try hard to disregard the camera’s presence are awkwardly endearing, depicting the gentle discomfort of trust. With the humour of the situation quietened by this unexpected response to their predicament, Open Embrace becomes a genuine and disconcerting study in the complicated dynamics of proximity.

Engaging with Open Embrace is undoubtedly an awkward experience. Despite the closeness of the couple their tango is one of technical restraint, the effect disquietingly void of desire. The installation exacerbated this quality, with the flat screens mounted on clunky stands like hybrids of gym equipment and art easels. These heavy supports stood apart, allowing room for the audience to enter the dancers’ bisected embrace.

Lured like an insect into this space lit up by screens, the viewer attending to one video has the ever-present sense of the other behind them. This created an urge to oscillate attention between the screens, a pressure of captivation akin to the dancers avidly locked on their timing. Wedged in the intimate space of Traitsis’ arrangement, the spectator becomes embedded in and tries to keep up with this skewed adaptation of desire.

Michael Meneghetti, Vixen, part of Nightclub 1, Pure Pleasure, curator Ulanda Blair, Next Wave, The Men’s Gallery, May 21; Julie Traitsis, Open Embrace, part of Next Wave’s Remote program, Kings ARI, May 9-31

“A GOOD OUTCOME”, TRUMPETS THE AUSTRALIAN’S EDITORIAL ON JUNE 7 AFTER CRIMINAL CHARGES WERE DROPPED IN THE HENSON AFFAIR. THE OZ DECLARES IT A “MORAL PANIC”, HYPOCRITICALLY REAFFIRMING ITS FENCE-SITTING POSTURE THROUGHOUT. IT THEN PROCEEDS TO DISTRIBUTE “LESSONS TO BE LEARNED” IN THE INTERESTS OF FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION FOR ALL CONCERNED—CHILD PROTECTION ACTIVIST HETTY JOHNSTON, THE POLICE, THE ARTS COMMUNITY AND ESPECIALLY THE REGIONAL GALLERIES WHO REMOVED HENSON’S WORK. EVERYONE EXCEPT PRIME MINISTER KEVIN RUDD AND THE MEDIA, OF COURSE.

Paul Sheehan, always quick to jump on a controversial bandwagon, wrote off Henson and his supporters in a Sydney Morning Herald piece, “Artists Crying Out for Martyrdom”:

If you confront people long enough, don’t whine when you yourself are confronted. If you mine the terrain of adolescent sensual awakening for commercial gain, if you spend years living on the artistic edge, while gaining public attention and financial reward, don’t complain when your actions begin to carry the taint of exploitative voyeurism. (SMH, May 26).

Note the pseudo-biblical cadences of these phrases and the innuendo masquerading as moral outrage, conveyed by the word “taint.” It’s Sheehan who’s imposing the “taint”, not Henson. Miranda Devine’s one foray into art criticism argues that “comparisons to Caravaggio and Michelangelo miss the point that Henson’s art is photography, which has none of the ambiguity of painting” (SMH, May 25).

Really? So photography cannot be as three dimensional as painting? There’s a long history of photographers out there since the invention of the daguerrotype demonstrating otherwise. You may not find their photos in Dolly magazine but you will find them in the most reputable art galleries around the world.

The most comprehensive account of the Henson exhibition to be published in the press comes from Roger Benjamin, a research professor in the history of art at Sydney University, whose review of the exhibition, which he was one of the few to see before it was raided by NSW police, states that:

Henson’s figures are neither pornographic nor commercial…In so far as they deal with sexuality at all, they tend to confuse, not to excite. This is because they project mixed signals…Understanding is stretched, things do not add up, and the viewer’s senses are troubled. (The Australian, May 31).

In other words, Henson’s work confronts and disturbs the spectator, which is surely the task of all serious art.

Henson’s comments in a 2002 ABC documentary, re-screened by the ABC after the controversy began, that his work is often appreciated by young people, suggest that the general population, including the parents of the adolescent girls Henson has photographed, may not all be outraged by his work. Indeed, up until now, apart from the 65,000 who saw his 30 year retrospective in Sydney in 2005, which passed without any adverse comment, most people appear to have been unaware that Henson’s work even existed. The woman who commented on the letters page in the Sydney Morning Herald that she’d rather her 13 year old daughter go to an “(uncensored) Bill Henson exhibition than read a Dolly magazine” (SMH, May 26) may be part of a rising groundswell.

On the rather risky assumption that at least some of the letters published in the Sydney Morning Herald might represent the ‘general population’, I’d like to single out the comments of Zuzu Burford from Heathcote, who wrote: “There is a certain irony that World Youth Day is being held by an organisation that successfully covered up paedophilia for several decades in a city where art is confiscated as pornography” (SMH, May 26).

I teach and write about music, film and cultural studies, and I have cited Henson’s work when talking about photography, the gaze, voyeurism, fetishism and the spectator, but also as an example of photography that is provocative, edgy and disturbing in its use of adolescent bodies in contexts that sometimes might appear sexualised and are sometimes placed in abject, even degrading contexts. But I strongly believe in the seriousness and sincerity of Henson’s purpose and the strength and power of his artistic statements. I’ve never tried to influence my students’ thinking about his work, but I have confronted them with it and encouraged them to engage with it in the same way I have with other contemporary artists such as Tracey Moffatt and Cindy Sherman.

An education kit available online for 9-10 (Middle Years) and 11-12 (HSC and VCE) students (www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/resources/ed_kits/bill_henson), contains at least two images of adolescents that could be considered provocative and disturbing, but which are clearly not pornographic. In it, Henson says in an interview with Sebastian Smee:

I’m interested in that tender proximity, that ineffable, fragile, breathing closeness or presence which photography can animate while, at the same time, allowing no possibility for any familiar connection with the individuals in the picture. (Art Monthly, July 2006).

When interviewed on the cable television channel Ovation by Leo Schofield, Henson talked about the need for “distance” in his work, “without compromising the subject.” I interpret this as respect for the privacy of his models and a desire to photograph them with a sense of authenticity and honesty which is the exact reverse of any sense of exploitation. Robert McFarlane sums up well the dilemma of many spectators in responding to Henson’s work:

Henson is a master at remanufacturing the ineffable ennui of the young and freezing their emotions within the borders of large, well-crafted, mostly colour photographs…His images of vulnerable young faces sometimes hover dangerously close to fashion photography clichés, with subjects suggesting a maudlin scent of self-indulgence. Closer inspection, however, reveals a different, deeper reality. (SMH, July 11, 2006).

It’s that “closer inspection” that is all-important. I believe that many people who dislike Henson’s work don’t, or refuse to, engage in the inspection it demands. Henson’s subjects are not flirtatious, and his works are suffused with an edgy ambiguity which sometimes, but by no means always, gives them their power to disturb as well as be admired. Some who do engage with the work will be justifiably disturbed by it. But as John McDonald puts it:

…even Henson’s detractors must admit that his photographs are ineffably beautiful. They portray the human figure as fragile and mysterious—in the same way that he transforms the twilight world of the suburbs. His subjects are no longer children, but not yet adults. They are caught between night and day, between freedom and responsibility. (SMH, May 24).

I find the image of the adolescent girl at the centre of the controversy extraordinarily beautiful. The lighting and the use of shadow is masterful and, yes, very Caravaggio-like, and there’s a glow to it which is almost numinous. It reminds me of seeing Renaissance paintings in galleries in Italy projecting a three-dimensional radiance and an ‘aura’, to use Walter Benjamin’s term, which is usually obliterated in reproductions. There is a warmth and a vulnerability in many of Henson’s subjects that evokes feelings of tenderness. I am in no way titillated, or sexually aroused by this image at all, as I might be by pornography, and I am not ashamed to admit I do look at pornography occasionally, although you won’t find any on my computer.

I am very moved by the young woman’s modesty and sense of innocence in Henson’s photograph, and the way she delicately places her hands over her groin. She is in an in-between, girl-woman zone which radiates beauty and delicacy and the only desire she invokes in me is a feeling of protectiveness. There’s a peacefulness and a serenity in Henson’s image which places it far beyond the ‘taint’ of pornography—it’s simply too beautiful to be pornographic or exploitative. As Roger Benjamin suggests:

This strange photograph is disturbing. We are compelled to look, and look again…The power of the image comes from the striking beauty of [the girl’s] facial features, superb in definition, held against the abjection of her body.(The Australian, May 31).

It engages, challenges, confronts and moves us, even if the ‘us’ in this article is predominantly male. And there is no doubt that there are differently gendered and highly subjective responses to Henson’s work; I have had arguments about it with a number of women. It’s also notable that most who have come to Henson’s defence are men. But I believe the image desexualises its subject. Her barely formed breasts and obscured pubic area project a sense of modesty and even chastity. When I sent the image to a colleague, feminist writer Debra Adelaide, who has a teenage daughter, she agreed it was “beautiful” and commented, “it’s almost as if he’s honouring her.” She also pointed out that she found it confronting, “like most good art should be”, in the sense of challenging the spectator to revise rigidly imposed ways of thinking about the representation of young adolescents and the ‘taint’ of sexualisation.

One of the more alarming aspects of the Henson case is that a number of pre-teen children I’m acquainted with, directly or indirectly, were fed knee-jerk responses to Henson’s images as ‘pornographic’ by their teachers. On the other hand, when I finally got to see the Roslyn Oxley9 exhibition the day before it closed—an extremely powerful, moving experience which demonstrated how tightly integrated into a photographic narrative all the images, human, landscape and still life were—there was a group of secondary school girls on a field trip to the gallery giving the photographs serious and thoughtful attention.

One could argue that other images by Henson are more voyeuristic, although I would suggest that they challenge the spectator’s sense of voyeurism, and draw attention to the fact that everyone to some extent is a voyeur. Martin Sharp’s comments that the model in the photo singled out for media attention, and mutilated in the process, “gave her trust to Henson…and this trust has been violated by the police and Kevin Rudd’s comments” sums up the degree of ‘taint’ to which Henson’s work has been subjected by a media beat-up.

Of course Miranda Devine had to have the last word on the subject after the media beat-up died in the water, suggesting that “If art…is a mirror to a society and its values… community tolerance for underage exploitation has found its limits” (SMH, June 14-1). For her argument Devine marshals an army of moral majority supporters led by Chris Goddard, Director of the National Research Centre for the Prevention of Child Abuse, at Monash University, along with “40 psychologists, social workers and child-protection advocates”, including priests, counsellors and artists Michael Leunig and Allan Zavod. I have no doubt that David Marr’s forthcoming book on the Henson case will tease out all the complexities surrounding the issue as well as its broader social and moral ramifications in terms of the confusion of serious art works with child pornography.

This article is an edited version of a seminar paper, titled “Bill Henson: An Appreciation”, given by Tony Mitchell at UTS, Sydney, June 5

IN THE LEXICON OF INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS, SOFT POWER IS THE ABILITY OF A POLITICAL BODY TO INFLUENCE OTHERS, TO MAKE THEM “WANT WHAT YOU WANT.” IN SOFT POWER, AN EXHIBITION OF CHINESE VIDEO ART AT ADELAIDE'S CACSA, THE TERM OPERATES MORE LOOSELY AS AN ARRAY OF ADAPTIVE AND RESISTANT FORCES ROOTED IN THE SYSTEMS AND ARTEFACTS OF CULTURAL IDENTITY IN CONTEMPORARY ASIA. IN HIS CATALOGUE ESSAY, CURATOR SHEN QIBIN CHARACTERISES SOFT POWER AS “FORCES THAT ARE NOT ONLY INVISIBLE, MINUTE AND CRYPTIC BUT ALSO FLUID AND TRANSFORMATIVE.”

This is a slippery idea, one that video as the choice of medium in many ways works against. The sleekness of the video image, the assumption that it shows only a ‘truthful’ reality and the flat observational style of many of these works means that they seem at first viewing to present only a single view, an impermeable surface reflection of reality incapable of expressing multiplicity and complexity. For small and fugitive forces to emerge from the hard frame of video requires a type of open attentiveness in which acts and events—that seem to be only everyday—emerge as the markers and points of minute cultural negotiation.

Gulnara Kasmalieva and Muratabek Djumaliev’s (Kyrgyzstan) large scale video, A New Silk Road: Algorithm of Survival, is suffused with a fluid energy. Filling a room, it depicts the contemporary activity of the Silk Road, men collecting scrap metal, container trucks moving through the starkly beautiful landscape to a marketplace where clothing is produced and wrapped in plastic for transport elsewhere. The strong horizontality of the screens and landscape—with the Silk Road extending out of frame—creates a sense of travelling through, of trajectories reaching out, and the invisible flows of trade that have shaped these spaces for centuries.

The journey takes on the form of a pilgrimage as the drivers stop at various waypoints, a village with soccer playing kids where they sing and play accordion, a field culvert where they wash their trucks, the boy and horse who seem to have emerged from the landscape. These events and the Silk Road itself as a constant unwinding presence are markers of the adaptiveness and persistence of identity. As an algorithm is a series of steps for problem solving, the journey is a series of transformative leaps, energy moving from state to state, from that embodied in metal, to that of production and released in song to the momentum of travelling trucks.

This sense of transformative power is shared by Lida Abdul’s White House (Afghanistan) where small events (boys selling scavenged bricks; a woman continuously whitewashing the ruins of a house; the man who comes to stand in it) become powerful acts of reclamation. The transformation of energy through the smallest act suggests an exercise of power.

Erasure is at the core of Qui Zhijie’s Grind the Tombstones (China) and Chen Cheih-jen’s The Route (Taiwan). Zhijie ground two headstones (one western 19th century, one a 1500 year old Chinese grave marker) together eventually eliding the inscriptions altogether.The prints taken from the stones at various stages of erosion are readable from either direction as emerging from or reducing to blankness, a to and fro motion creating a precarious equilibrium between existence and erasure.

Where Grind the Tombstones elides the marks of history without changing it, in The Route Korean dock workers’ tactical restaging of a picket line links them to a history from which they were originally omitted. Filmed in black and white with archival footage and resonant with slogans used in the 1997 British dock strike—“Change the outcome”, “Reclaim the future”—The Route intervenes in the past to do exactly this.

The tiny accommodations of cultural change are as awkward as the children in Leung Mee Ping's Don’t Blame the Moon (Hong Kong). Dressed in their best, placed in front of various deities (Buddha, Christ, Krishna) and stating their ambitions to camera (“I’m Irshad, I want to be a teacher”) the children are as trapped by these bland statements as they are within the frame. Mahmoud Yekta’s (Australia/Iran) uncomfortable installation Slogun (the screen placed in the ceiling above a hospital bed in the gallery), unsettles with its images of floating fire, ice and oil on water and a boy’s nightmarish story, and in its disconnection from anything: the total elision of the power to know and locate oneself.

Soft Power is held together by the idea of multiple forces invisibly at work, of minute change wrought at the level where it is sensed rather than seen and the most successful works are those that convey this sense of energy loosed and transformed.

Soft Power: Asian Attitude was originally exhibited at Shanghai Zendai Museum of Modern Art in November 2007, and curated by the museum’s director Shen Qibin, with Binghui Hangfu & Biljana Ciric. Selection for CACSA by executive director Alan Cruickshank.

Soft Power: Asian Attitudes, curator Shen Qibin, Contemporary Art Centre of South Australia, June 6-July 13

MELBOURNE INTERNATIONAL ARTS FESTIVAL ARTISTIC DIRECTOR KRISTY EDMUNDS FREQUENTLY MAKES THE POINT THAT HER FESTIVALS ARE NOT THEME-DRIVEN, AND CERTAINLY THE DIVERSITY OF CONTENT GRAVITATES AGAINST ANY EASY ASSUMPTIONS OF CONNECTEDNESS. BUT CONNECTIONS DO EMERGE SUBSEQUENT TO PROGRAMMING, SHE SAYS AT A PRESS BRIEFING IN SYDNEY, DESCRIBING MANY OF THE SELECTED WORKS THIS YEAR AS “ECSTATIC AND CELEBRATORY, OPTIMISTIC EVEN.” ONCE AGAIN EDMUNDS HAS CURATED A FESTIVAL FOCUSED AND DIVERSE, CHARACTERISTICALLY IDIOSYNCRATIC AND RICH IN AUSTRALIAN PREMIERES (FROM MELBOURNE ARTISTS), ALONGSIDE INTRIGUING VISITING WORKS INCLUDING AN ABIDING AND INSTRUCTIVE NORTH AMERICAN PRESENCE.

patti smith

The placing of iconic American choreographer Merce Cunningham ‘in-residence’ at the centre of Edmunds’ 2007 festival allowed for a constellation of related artists and works to give weight to the celebration of a figure who anticipated and still realises the riches of artistic hybridity. In 2008 Edmunds has given welcome prominence to another American artist, a generation on from Cunningham, but with a similar network of connections across artform practices: the avant-garde poet, rocker and photographer, Patti Smith.

Smith’s residency includes two exhibitions: Patti Smith: Photography & Installation, focusing on the artist’s photography from 1967 to 2007, and Objects of Life, a companion piece to a biographical documentary by Steven Sebring titled Patti Smith: Dream of Life. The film, shot over 11 years, has its Australian premiere in the festival. Objects of Life comprises 14 large photographs by Sebring of Smith’s personal artefacts (“a childhood dress, an ancient urn containing the remnants of Robert Mapplethorpe…”) and a video of Smith in the act of painting.

Smith will give two concerts with her band and a third, more intimate one with Philip Glass in a celebration of the great American poet Allen Ginsberg in words and music. Both artists had performed with Ginsberg. Glass will also be celebrating the poetry of Leonard Cohen in Book of Longing (which had its Australian premiere at the 2008 Adelaide Festival). Two of Glass’ musicians, Andrew Sterman and Mick Rosso will present their own concert of originals and improvisation. Completing the American contingent, which also includes choreographer Deborah Hay (see below) will be the Grammy Award-winning sextet eighth blackbird in The Only Moving Thing, featuring new works by Steve Reich and Bang on a Can’s David Lang, Michael Gordon and Julia Wolfe.

the other music

Other music in the festival program comes from a very different tradition as exemplified in the program of Reinbert de Leeuw’s always adventurous Netherlands’ Schönberg Ensemble, performing works in concert by Louis Andriessen, Mauricio Kagel and Schönberg, but also John Adams. A second concert will feature works by the late Gyorgy Ligeti and Australia’s Michael Smetanin. Barrie Kosky will direct Australian composer Liza Lim’s opera The Navigator which premiered at the recent Brisbane Festival (the co-commissioner of this work with the Melbourne Festival).

Australian Indigenous music is represented on a large scale in The Black Arm Band and Melbourne Symphony Orchestra collaboration on a new compilation titled Hidden Republic, again drawing on the many forms of Aboriginal song from the perspective of Australian history and politics.

theatre

As is usual, local artistry is prominently on show in Edmunds’ festival. On the theatre front, the wonderful Back to Back Theatre will perform at Malthouse with the experimental music trio The Necks in Food Court, a part-concert, part-theatre work about humiliation experienced in public places. The long-awaited new Jenny Kemp work, Kitten, described in its press release as travelling “from the depths of despair to immense hope” should be a festival highlight, created in collaboration with Malthouse resident designer Anna Tregloan (promising a set-cum-installation that will transform the Beckett), composer Darrin Verhagin and choreographer Helen Herbertson. The Eleventh Hour, in their continuing exploration of classic texts and the meanings and other cultural items that constellate around them will stage their “nauticalised” Samuel Beckett: Endgame with Bach’s Chaccone.

Other local productions will greet audiences on the streets or take them to a suburban house or a workspace. Director-writer David Pledger’s performative installation, The Meaning of Moorabbin is Open for Inspection, will engage audiences with the auctioning of a red brick home. The Suitcase Royale will collaborate with the UK’s Lone Twin (Melbourne Festival, 2005, RT70, p5) on Newsboys, an evocation of an era when you could hear the news headlines spieled on the streets—which is just what Suitcase will do with words provided by Lone Twin. Melbourne live art performers Panther (Sarah Rodigari, Madelaine Hodge) will present Exercises In Happiness at a car tyre outlet, testing their audience’s expectations of life with questions and exercises. Polyglot Puppet Theatre will stage The Big Game—a huge board game for children in which the kids make the rules.

From Lithuania comes OKT/Vilnius City Theatre with their three and a half hour version of Romeo and Juliet, the family factions this time rival pizzeria owners. Belgium’s Victoria presents UK writer Tim Etchells’ (of Forced Entertainment) That Night Follows Day featuring 16 performers aged nine to 15 years of age re-enacting the mysterious ordering imposed on them by adults. Canada’s STO Union presents George Acheson’s 7 Important Things, a real-life barber’s reflection on the meaning of the 60s and the profound challenges of democracy, performed by the writer with the show’s director, Nadia Ross.

performing with screen

Other live performances use film: “In 2007 DJ Spooky, America’s Paul D. Miller, went to Antarctica to record a film about the sound of ice…Terra Nova Sinfonia Antarctica is the result. This large-scale multimedia performance work transforms Miller’s first-person encounter with the harsh, dynamic landscape into multimedia portraits with music.” Mexico’s Teatro De Ciertos Habitantes performs to the 1919 silent classic El Automovil Gris (The Grey Automobile, about a gang exploiting the chaos of the Mexican Revolution; director Enrique Rosas), a small cast voicing some 50 characters in the traditional Japanese Benshi narrational style. Another classic is given new life with American composer and instrumentalist Philip Johnston performing with a singer and ensemble of musicians to FW Murnau’s powerful 1926 expressionist Faust (reviewed RT81, p26).

dance

Local dance is also strongly represented with new works from established artists. Working with an interior architect, Donald Holt, and a Japanese composer, Haco, Lucy Guerin builds her audience into the set of Corridor which explores the anxieties engendered by certain spaces and contemporary media technologies. Guerin is also co-creator with Gideon Obarzanek of Chunky Move’s Two Faced Bastard, this time inviting the audience to take the performers’ point of view, from a kind of backstage from which they glimpse the actual performance—or two performances in this dance play with the real and actual. Helen Herbertson and Ben Cobham premiere their new work, Sunstruck. KAGE’s Appetite brings together vocalist New Buffalo, playwright Ross Mueller, Kennedy Nolan Architects and performers to address a female mid-life crisis—”Can she reverse the side effects of contemporary life? Undo the damage done and find a new appetite for life?” You have to be there.

The festival’s international dance guests are Israel’s Batsheva Dance Company, and the influential choreographer and teacher Deborah Hay. Kristy Edmunds promises “a rejuvenated choreography” from Batsheva’s Ohad Naharin, which is to be hoped for after the vigorous but empty formalism of the company’s appearances at Adelaide and Sydney Festivals. The Deborah Hay Dance Company will perform If I Sing To You, originally commissioned by the Forsythe Company for an April premiere in Germany this year. Idiosyncratic UK movement and theatre artist Wendy Houstoun (one time DV8 collaborator and mentor for the Fondue Set’s new show, p36) presents Desert Island Dances and a re-staging of her seminal work, Happy Hour, seen in Kings Cross many years ago in a tiny bar: in Melbourne it’ll be seen at the festival’s Beck’s Bar.

sound

Sound culture makes a rare substantial Australian festival presence this year with two large scale hearings: echolocation, an electro-acoustic installation from US sound artist Alex Stahl, and 21:100:100, an exhibition, developed by Gertrude Street Contemporary Art Spaces, of 100 21st century sound works in concert and installation curated by Oren Ambarchi and Marco Fusinato. Echolocation refocuses our hearing so that dusk and dawn bird calls (miked beneath Princes Bridge and played across the city) are given due prominence alongside human noise. Mobile phone users will be able to ‘conduct’ the work and add their own voices to it.

On the interactive media art front, Australian artist Lynette Wallworth (RT79, p2) will premiere Evolution of Fearlessness in which audience touch triggers unspoken responses from women who have migrated to Australia after suffering horrifying experiences in countries such as Afghanistan, Sudan, Iraq and El Salvador. If the festival’s implicit if unplanned theme is about the passage from despair to celebration, ecstasy even, then Wallworth, along with Jenny Kemp, KAGE, The Black Arm Band and others, might tell us how to bravely travel Lucy Guerin’s narrow corridor to fearlessness or, at least, sense the pain and courage of others who have made the journey, actually or imaginatively.

THE KUNSTENFESTIVALDESARTS’ CENTRAL MEETING POINT IS BUZZING WITH PEOPLE, PEN IN ONE HAND, BEERGLASS IN THE OTHER AS THEY GATHER AROUND LONG TABLES COVERED IN PAPER. THE SCRIBBLINGS, DOODLES AND WINE STAINS INVITED BY COSTUME DESIGNER VALENTINE KEMPYNCK REVEAL AN ABUNDANCE OF LANGUAGES AND STORIES. PRESENTING 31 PROJECTS FROM 16 COUNTRIES, INCLUDING WORK FROM THE LOCAL FLEMISH AND WALLOON COMMUNITIES, THE 13TH EDITION OF THE PERFORMING AND VISUAL ARTS FESTIVAL PROMISED A MULTITUDE OF VIEWPOINTS AND VOICES, AND FOCUSED ON KEY CONVERGING THEMES: COMMUNITY, FESTIVAL OF LANGUAGES, END VERSUS BEGINNING. THE PROGRAMME ASKS, “WHAT, TAKEN TOGETHER, DO [THESE VOICES] HAVE TO SAY?”

Heiner Goebbels’ Stifters Dinge opens the festival with a majestically breathtaking theatre installation that pays homage to nature through musical, visual, sculptural, elemental composition. Two technical assistants manoeuvre tubes and powder before leaving us alone with this pulsing, breathing creation: an automaton that at moments seems to move into its own quasi-organic rhythm. It faces us, three enormous shallow rectangular pools filled with water from luminous tanks. Bordered by rows of speakers, it emits both strange and familiar languages, as pipes clunk and lights cross-fade from murky greens through dusky sepia to crisp blues, and occasionally flash blinding white. The heart of this machine lies beyond the pools, sometimes obscured by screens that rise and fall reflecting ripples, picturing a forest. As its shapes are revealed, we can make out sheets of metal, bare branches and five grand pianos heavily rooted at unexpected angles and levels. Gutted, modified, hybridised, encased in scaffold skeletons, the exposed innards of these instruments are electronic circuits forming new nuclei to control its tendon strings.

Each element of this musical box is visible: sheet-metal flexed for bass and piano keys depressed to sound melancholy chords. This industrial landscape reconstructs rain, mist, a sunset inside its metal confines. A lone piano plays Bach as showers fall into the pools through icy blue light. Later, the whole sculpture creeps towards us as another piano hurls jagged notes that become increasingly frantic, chromatic scales running out of control to a filmic climax until it halts, towering threateningly above us just metres away. But this is not the danger of raw nature. Goebbels and his team exercise precise control over this shifting landscape, ironically underlining human inadequacy in any attempt to ‘save nature’ by making it our ‘project’: a tendency the festival program points up as symptomatic of our heightened sense of ecological responsibility.

Brussels-based Kris Verdonck’s End presents a similarly bleak outlook: a visually stunning apocalyptic landscape, a world that has suffered nuclear holocaust. Black clouds travel at an unnatural speed across the backdrop screen accompanied by crackling static and rumbling, ominous thunder. Black snow falls, covering the ground as nine figures repeatedly cross this desolate territory from one side to the other, always in the same direction, always on the same track. Their journeys are uncomfortable, restricted, burdened and, as time passes, they become dishevelled, their smart office wear loosened, sweaty, discarded, blackened. One man strains to inch forwards pulling a heavy load far behind him on the end of a taut rope, out of sight. Another man crosses inside a glass case, live birds fluttering around him as he describes horrific images of this decaying world: bombing, mutations, soldiers forced to continuously stare because their eyelids have dropped off in the cold, the corpses of schoolgirls bent over water tanks. A platinum blonde woman dressed head to toe in white makes her journey in contorted slow motion movements, echoing the distortions the speaker describes.

A terrifying growling, glaring beast lurches across; a car engine suspended in the air. Loudspeakers on wheels pass by, amplifying shrill, chilling operatic voices. A solitary flame traces a line along the ground. These figures, trapped in some sort of cyclical post-Beckett dystopia, will not be offered any respite as they traverse this world, “relics of a past that was still intact a few days ago. ” The images bore into us like a stuck record, stylus forever locked in the same groove, and feed our nightmares long after the show has finished.

The audience for Regarding, a collaboration between Brussels-based performer Isabelle Dumont, filmmaker Annik Leroy and writer Virginie Thirion, are initially left to find their own way around Meinhof, Leroy’s three audiovisual installations based on the infamous leader of the Rote Armee Fraktion (a German left-wing post-1968 terrorist group) who was found dead in her prison cell. The cavernous space presents excerpts from her correspondence and slow, static films depicting images of isolation and incarceration.

Having circuited the screens, we gather on bare benches in another dark corner to watch Regarding. This three tiered performance slowly unfolds, interrogating our relationship with war photographs and deconstructing the way we view violent images. In further claustrophobic films from Leroy the camera looks down narrow corridors and hovers slowly over a war photograph. We can hear a female voice speaking Thirion’s text, which intricately describes a photograph of an execution, recapturing the viewer’s every thought as she envisages the moments leading up to the deaths depicted. In a rectangle at our feet Dumont lines up pots and tools, then gradually begins to apply pastes, liquids, chalk, earth to her body with surgical precision, transforming herself into a battered corpse lying before us.

Inspired by Susan Sontag’s Regarding the Pain of Others (2003) this multilayered experience attempts to act as a remedy to a media-exacerbated, trivialised, disposable attitude to images of suffering. Like Goebbels’ Stifters Dinge and Verdonck’s End, this is a performance of duration and repetition, but rather than the engaged interactivity of the previous shows, this work demands a distanced contemplation of the processes we undertake while experiencing reality and representation.

Tokyo-based Zan Yamashita’s It is Written There is a more formal exercise in sophisticated communication and its processes. On the way into the theatre each audience member is given a large square book of one hundred numbered pages, some of which display one word in both Japanese and English, some showing sequences of words, some with diagrams or stick figures. The program informs us that these have been compiled from Yamashita’s choreographic notes and Japanese pop lyrics, amongst other sources. Our task is to turn each page when its number is called. As we reveal a new page, four female dancers perform what we read. The translation from written to performed communication is complex and unpredictable: an arrow on the page triggers a sudden quick dash across the stage and we laugh in surprise, while “run” prompts a precisely executed slow motion sprint through a focused passageway of light, to the silence of the enthralled audience.

On page 21 there are raised white letters. Blackout, and the word is glowing: “STAR” appears on my lap, repeated tens of times throughout the dark auditorium. The relationships between word and image, static and time-based are examined with a playful energy, as charming, inventive ideas are presented to us page by page. Our books form a semantic barrier between us and the performers, interrupting our engagement with them, but also guiding us through a web of multiple interpretations: simplicity of physical composition and moments of stillness and silence leave room for an exercise in imagination. Despite the individual isolation of reading, the books bring the audience together as a community as we simultaneously turn pages and discover meanings. Could this distanced intellectual aesthetic provide some hope in the face of the destruction explored by the earlier performances? Perhaps contemplation and disengagement might allow an escape from a disturbing, cyclical future.

2008 Kunstenfestivaldesarts, Brussels: Stifters Dinge, concept, music, direction Heiner Goebbels, scenography, light & video design Klaus Grünberg, music collaboration Hubert Machnik, sound design Willi Bopp; Théâtre National, May 9-13; End, concept, direction Kris Verdonck, dramaturgy Marianne Van Kerkhoven, video Anouk De Clercq, music Stefaan Quix, light design Luc Schaltin, Kaaitheater, May 9-13; Meinhof, concept, realisation, camera Annik Leroy, editing Julie Morel, sound Marie Vermeiren; Regarding, concept, realisation Isabelle Dumont, Annik Leroy, Virginie Thirion, La Raffinerie, May 23-31; It is written there, direction Zan Yamashita, light design Asako Miura, sound design Mitsunori Miyata, book design Emi Naya, Beursschouwburg, May 9-13

THE ACTOR ENTERS THE DARKENED ROOM, KICKS OFF ONE SHOE, AND LIES AWKWARDLY ON THE FLOOR. SHE LAYS OUT HER SUPPLIES: DISHES OF VARIOUS POWDERS, SYRINGES FILLED WITH RED AND BROWN CREAMS, AN ASSORTMENT OF LATEX APPENDAGES WRAPPED UP IN CLINGFILM. SLOWLY, METHODICALLY, SHE APPLIES THESE MATERIALS TO HER PROSTRATE BODY. A LONG, UGLY GASH ON HER LEG. A WOUND TO HER STOMACH, WITH BLOOD POOLING BELOW HER. CLOTHES CUT WITH SCISSORS TO GIVE THE IMPRESSION OF BEING TORN. A BULLET WOUND TO THE HEAD. AND SPRINKLED OVER THE WHOLE IMAGE, A LIGHT DUSTING OF ASH AND SOIL.

This is Regarding, a performance by Isabelle Dumont, accompanied during its hour duration by Virginie Thirion’s detailed and dispassionate spoken description of a snapshot of violence along with Annik Leroy’s projected film of photographs of war atrocities being casually handled and examined. Taking inspiration from Susan Sontag’s book Regarding the Pain of Others (2003), the piece is not just about the appalling nature of war but a live experiment into our reaction, as spectators, to viewing these images. Watching Dumont’s painstaking, but painless, reconstruction, I am always aware of the conceit—the piece does exactly what the brochure tells me it will, and there are no surprises. Except one. In the midst of my inner monologue, which ranges from questions of believability (is she using too much fake blood?) to those of situation (what would it mean to do this in a public space, rather than a darkened room for a paying audience?), I am interrupted by the unexpected turning of my stomach. Maybe it’s the pus from her abdominal wound, even though I just saw it come from a jar, or the efficient cruelty of the bullet to the temple, even though this is only the representation of cruelty. The image may be fake, but my reaction is suddenly real.

Brussel’s Kunstenfestivaldesarts has a long tradition of supporting new and experimental performance—for example, this year they presented Australian artist Rebekah Rousi’s tour de force, The Longest Lecture Marathon, first seen at the 2007 ANTI festival (RT 83, p30). This festival’s many co-productions included a Singapore collaboration, The King Lear Project, directed by Ho Tzu-Nyen and filmmaker Fran Borgia. The project had its first two parts shown on successive evenings at the Kunstenfestival and the trilogy was completed at the Singapore Arts Festival in June. The first part, Lear Enters, mixes reality television with traditional Shakespeare and postmodernist metatheatrics. Structured as a live audition before film cameras that continue to prowl the theatre, three actors successively choose from a menu of Lear archetypes they will attempt: Lear as god, Lear as madman, Lear as everyman. The set design, lighting, and soundtrack change according to their choice, and they give secret instructions to the ostensibly unprepared supporting cast.

Although this live audition is clearly a contrivance, it is often convincingly spontaneous, as the Lear-wannabes improvise their audition banter and the rehearsed cast of supporting actors adapt to the shifting personalities. Additional complexity comes from interventions by an omniscient figure planted in the audience, who debates with the director during blackouts between each audition, drawing his arguments from significant works of Shakespeare criticism.

The experience is uneven, at times revelatory and at times simply heavyhanded—particularly during the second evening, which is presented as an open rehearsal within which three ‘problem’ scenes are tried in various permutations, with lengthy philosophising in between. But it saves its most wonderful moment for the very last: as we applaud what we think is the end of the production, the curtain rises on an empty stage, with all backdrops removed so that the rear wall of the building is visible. The huge stage doors open, revealing not only the cast and ‘film crew’ in the public park behind the theatre, but also small congregations from the local neighbourhood who have been enjoying a relaxing summer evening. As we continue to applaud, peering out into another world, a few of the outsiders notice us as well, and peer right back at our alien planet. It’s a stunning moment, when all the conventions and seriousness of the theatre world explode and dissolve upon exposure to the real world, and I feel caught in the act, unable to do anything more than just keep putting my hands together.

Another Kunstenfestival co-production is Rimini Protokoll’s Call Cutta in a Box, based around a one-to-one conversation with a call centre worker based in Calcutta. As with Regarding, much of the experience is what I expect it to be: I’m on the phone for most of the hour, and the conversation is directed along lines that evoke both the telemarketing profession’s appropriation of personal contact and the global economic factors of which outsourced Indian call centres are symptomatic. ‘What is the weather like where you are?’ ‘I hope you are healthy. Are you healthy?’ ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’ I am wary of answering these questions, knowing that I am acceding to a proposition which is not yet fully known; that the friendliness with which they are asked is not genuine but designed to set up a situation in which I may find myself doing something I do not want to do.

But what’s curious about this experience is that it’s as much a comment on the conditions of theatricality as it is about economics or geopolitics. This is not so much a work about call centres, with an actor playing a call centre worker, as one in which the call centre worker plays herself. And what she is doing is always signed as play, as theatrical. This is indicated by the make-believe décor of the room I’m in, made up in exacting detail to resemble the offices of the Indian company for which she works. Or by minor illusions, charming but unambitious, such as when she claims to turn on the electric kettle remotely to make me a cup of tea. Or, most directly, when she asks me to lift up a desk plant, revealing a small box with tiny red curtains. Pulling the theatrical curtains apart reveals a web camera, via which she is then able to see me just as I am, at this point, looking at her.

Because of the doubling, in which she is herself and is playing herself, I have two overlapping frameworks within which to situate my reactions. I feel uneasy about my complicity in an arrangement where this woman is paid presumably low wages for my entertainment; but would I feel uneasy if her profession was that of actor, and if not, why not? I feel voyeuristic when she sends photographs of herself in social situations to the printer next to me, because it reminds me that she has a life outside of her job. But when an actor is working, why do I need to assume that this is what she most wants to be doing? Isn’t the idea that acting is its own reward, that the actor is enjoying revealing her true self, simply part of the ‘sale’ that the actor is trying to make with me? Finally, when this call centre worker makes her sale—which consists, she tells me afterwards, of my agreeing to sing aloud to her—she holds her phone out and asks, “Do you hear that? That is what we do when one of us makes a sale.” The sound I hear, piped over the internet from several continents away, is applause.

2008 Kunstenfestivaldesarts, Brussels: Regarding, concept, realisation Isabelle Dumont, Annik Leroy, Virginie Thirion, La Raffinerie, Brussels, May 23-31; The King Lear Project: Part 1, Lear Enters, Part 2, Dover Cliff and the Conditions of Representation, text and concept Ho Tzu-Nyen, direction: Ho Tzu-Yen, Fran Borgia, KVS, May 24-25; Call Cutta in a Box, concept Rimini Protokoll (Haug/Kaegi/Wetzel), Monnaie House, May, 9-31

GORDANA VNUK, THE ARTISTIC DIRECTOR OF EUROKAZ, RULES THE FESTIVAL WITH AN IRON FIST. SINCE ITS INCEPTION IN 1987, THE AIM OF EUROKAZ HAS BEEN NOT TO FOLLOW TRENDS IN NEW THEATRE, BUT TO ANTICIPATE THEM. CALLED, INTERCHANGEABLY, AN INSULT TO COMMON DECENCY OR A WASTE OF MONEY, AND ALMOST SHUT DOWN IN THE RELIGIOUS/NATIONALIST KITSCH IN THE POST-WAR CROATIA OF THE 1990S (WHEN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH RAGED AGAINST THE FESTIVAL’S PROPAGATION OF ANTI-FAMILY VALUES) IT IS THE KIND OF FESTIVAL AUSTRALIA WOULDN’T HURT FROM HAVING: AN ENERGETIC, VISIONARY PROCLAMATION OF DELIGHT, LESS ABOUT WHAT THEATRE IS, THAN WHAT IT COULD BE.

This year, a crosscut of the American avant-garde is coupled with a showcase of a very young generation of theatre-makers, pulled straight out of the Zagreb Academy of Dramatic Arts. Two worlds with colliding interests, you might think, but the first shared motif was confused multimedia. The brilliant Wooster Group questions that supposedly undeniable quality assigned to theatre: the immediate/unmediated reality of what we see on stage, the absolute truthfulness of the moment. The second and related motif resounds through the programs and discussions: performance is only detritus, a dead shell of the living, breathing creation that happens during rehearsal. To see something real, one needs to watch the rehearsal.

The stage is cluttered with TV and video screens, multiplying, flattening, displacing and subverting the images created there. The first part of Poor Theater: A Simulacrum is a reconstruction of The Wooster Group’s encounter with Grotowski: we see films of them watching a film of his Akropolis. Their visit to his studio in Opole, Poland, is both played on stage, with actor Sheena See performing Wooster director Elizabeth LeCompte, and on screen, as confusing footage from a hidden camera. The set turns out to be a re-creation of their New York studio, in which a detailed replica of Grotowski’s studio was made (including fake parquetry); here they perform their viewing of Akropolis with a simultaneous translation from Polish, and the last 20 minutes of a rehearsal based on completely re-creating Akropolis as it comes across from the film, in Polish. The second, shorter part is an homage to William Forsythe, his lecture re-created from tape with similar methods, culminating in a riotous madness that blends with the end of Akropolis.

Poor Theater, apart from being an ingenious essay in methods of transposition, continues The Wooster Group’s preoccupation with transmission of knowledge in the age of mass media: all older modes, from oral narration to guided learning, being increasingly replaced by the false didacticism of the screen. Everything on stage is a detailed simulacrum of a lost source: from the projection of ersatz New York parquetry, fragmented gesticulation of bodies cut up by film editing, conversations reported with stutter and repetition. The result is disturbing, often hilarious, and affectionate. For what the performance is about, ultimately, is The Wooster Group themselves, and their relationship with their theatre forebears.

Starting with traditional oral narrative as a model, Nature Theater of Oklahoma’s No Dice is an epic, four-hour replication of hours of telephone conversations between group members (ranging from artistic laments to complaints about work, drinking and eating disorders, to ‘dinner theater’ experiences). It employs tropes of oral epic (repetition, variation) which clash with the tropes of Shakespearian theatre (acts, climaxes), which in turn clash with the overturned tropes of good acting (misplaced foreign accents, hyper-articulation, exaggerated costumes). Modes of communication split apart, nothing quite matching: even the gesticulation employed is their own confusing invention (including, but not limited to, the sign of the cross, thumbs up, mimed wall and some nameless but recognisable gestures, such as intravenous drug use). It is a legible, but closed system of references, until it suddenly opens towards the end: the actors take their wigs and sunglasses off and address the audience: “The question is, what do we require in order to enjoy ourselves?” Communication itself, they conclude. Poignant, semiotically imaginative, intellectually provocative but emotionally rich, Nature Theater of Oklahoma’s performance—with its roundabout, illogical, confusing conversations—is a manifesto of faith in our ability to engage with each other through speech.

Cynthia Hopkins’ Must Don’t Whip Um is a high-energy concert/performance, or, as Hopkins introduces it, “a detritus geomancy dhikr”: a sufi ritual of remembrance and an attempt at divination from the remains of a life. The middle part of her Accidental Nostalgia trilogy, preoccupied with the ways one’s life and art are shaped by memory, narrates the disappearance of a fictional 70s pop artist turned sufi student, Cameron Seymour, through the obsessed eyes of her daughter Mary. Layers of representation peel off as the farewell concert we are witnessing is revealed to be Mary, performing in the staged reconstruction she devised from contradictory stories of people she met while filming a documentary on Sufism and Seymour. Mary’s failure to complete the documentary is admitted in filmed fragments (often simultaneously created on stage) in between Cameron’s raging songs, saluting a bellicose, consumerist America. This hybrid monster of multimedia, shifting personae, past and present, blending stage and backstage, is saved from collapsing into incoherence by its technical accomplishment and Hopkins’ charisma. The result lacks the profundity of some other works, perhaps, but was a welcome break from more serious, less danceable experimentation.

Some of the most interesting performances were student works. Generally less sentimental than their American colleagues, Croatian kids attacked form and convention with brio. Lutkina kuca—Zmija mladoženja (Doll’s House/Viper Groom), directed by Anja Maksic, takes Ibsen’s classic and literally empties it of content, replacing the realistic dialogue of the 19th-century bourgeoisie with a lesser-known fairy tale. The principal characters establish themselves in the opening minutes on an enormous bare stage which then collapses into a dreamlike, gauzy space, and the characters reappear as faces in the bedtime story Nora is telling her children, complete with the costumes, music and singing straight out of children’s theatre. Trapped within the cyclic, repetitive world of a popular fable, characters loopily recite Ibsen’s lines, allowing insight into the formal and fabulist clichés behind the text.

Neka cijeli ovaj svijet ili o…/Pokušaji 7, 8, 10 (Attempts 7, 8, 10) formally explores powerlessness. By setting up an enormous range of openings in the theatrical structure, Marina Petkovic teases out extraordinary results from performers and the audience in a way that belies her youth. Her actors drift off half-way into frustrated attempts to tell a story; the audience gleans information from silent video, unheard conversations, Petkovic herself interrupts to impose extra demands, ask questions, interrogate a well-known actor on his power within the spectacle machine. Given another performer’s tape recorder (“She mentions the urge to scream…can you respond?”), a dancer launches into a series of frustrated contortions, culminating in shrill cries, wails, howls; she never manages to scream, yet there is a riveting truthfulness in her search. The entire play, fresh and engaging in its unpredictable immediacy, can be identified as an attempt to forget the craft, sideline the rules.

There is, therefore, a third motif in the Eurokaz program: imperfection. This is often realised as dance—the seemingly absurd routine in between two acts of No Dice, its complex references only explained in the climactic ending; The Wooster Group’s loose carbon-copy of Forsythe’s choreography; and the circular, ritualistic repetition of A Doll’s House. Vnuk’s program draws connections between disparate theatre cultures, pointing out their shared, uncompromising desire to break out of mechanical form, to disregard the already-known. As Petkovic had announced, this is an attempt to create, not repeat.

The Wooster Group, Poor Theater: A Simulacrum, director Elizabeth LeCompte, Zagreb Youth Theatre, June 22-23; Nature Theater of Oklahoma, No Dice, concept, direction Pavol Liska, Kelly Cooper, Lado, June 23-26; Cynthia Hopkins & Gloria Deluxe, Must Don’t Whip Um, music, text Cynthia Hopkins, set, video, production design Jim Findlay, Zagreb Youth Theatre, June 28-29; Lutkina ku´ca—Zmija mladoženja, co-production Theatre &TD/ADU/Eurokaz, based on Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, direction Anja Maksi´c, Theatre &TD, June 22-23; Neka cijeli ovaj svijet ili O…/Pokušaji 7, 8, 10, concept, direction Marina Petkovi´c, Theatre &TD Café, June 28; Eurokaz International Festival of New Theatre, Zagreb, June 21– July3, www.eurokaz.hr.

THIS INVITING GROUP SHOW OF THE WORK OF EIGHT ARTISTS—SEVEN OF THEM FEMALE AND IN A WIDE RANGE OF MEDIA—HAS BEEN THE LOGICAL FRUITION OF THE PHD RESEARCH OF CURATOR MARY PRIDMORE. HER OWN WORK, IN PAINTING, HAS RESPONDED TO THE PRE-EMINENCE OF THE MASCULINE IN MODERNISM. DREAM HOME SEEKS TO COLLECT AND CONTEXTUALISE CONTEMPORARY ART WHICH EXPLORES ‘THE DOMESTIC.'

The core of this show is a body of work by Israeli artist Dvora Morag, whom Pridmore met at the Cite Internationale des Arts, in Paris, in 2005. Her contribution to this show is from the series Line by Line, an acrylic on canvas which, in horizontal scroll format, documents the minutiae of domestic life, the fine details of interior spaces. Using strong colours and contrasts, Morag re-presents the home mimetically, her repetitive mark-making—vertical lines flickering over a figurative background—symbolise the repetitive aspects of daily chores.

This is a striking work; as an installation it was ‘meant to be.' Morag did not precisely measure the piece nor trim it to fit the gallery space, but as it was rolled out and displayed, it fit precisely the ‘Tall Gallery’ at the Plimsoll. With its subject matter the furnishings and features of any domestic interior, the work ‘reads’ as abstract from a distance and only falls into focus at close range. The over-painted lines have the flickering effect of early film stock. For subject matter, the artist very deliberately takes the unheroic and the ‘un-sexy’ and gives them significance and gravitas.

Morag takes the everyday and the ordinary and elevates and celebrates them. This response to the humble urban interior—the loungeroom or the boudoir, the realm of the female, the domestic, the day-to-day—informs Mary Pridmore’s research and, simultaneously and not a little contradictorily, reveals in the art world the often hidden significance of the female point of view. Pridmore believes that the domestic is now ‘out of the closet’ and a source of inspiration for contemporary artists.

All of the work in Dream Home, to a greater or lesser extent, takes elements of the domestic as its starting point, a potent symbol art making.

Carolyn Eskdale With Morag’s work setting the scene, the viewer discovers other artists exploring similar themes. Carolyn Eskdale’s on-going project of installations called, generically, “room”, deals with the processes and reconstruction of actual, remembered and imagined living spaces. This version is an installation of a reconstructed caravan annnexe and its adjacent room. It is eerily realistic, many viewers reporting a sense of recognition tweaked by the humble vertical blinds of the installation (apparently they are declasse these days).

Pat Brassington’s sculptural installation, Book of Jonah, 1932, consists of floorboards leaning against the gallery wall. Underneath are some discarded items of her father’s, salvaged from his cellar. These small, trivial objects are instantly recognisable, expressing a sort of universality. A light source sends sharp, striped shadows onto the wall ‘echoing’ the lines in Morag’s work.

Elvis Richardson’s Slide Show Land Dorothy is created from a library of 30,000 slides of family portraits, holiday snaps and more, collected in part from op shops. Richardson attributes her ceasesless collecting to having been adopted. These particular slides recount a married couple’s daily round: there are dinnertable still-lifes along with images of the male as the ‘Marlboro man’ cowboy, the female portrayed as cowgirl and domestic goddess. These are esthetically pleasing, very recognisable, rather kitsch, often amusing and—like much of the work in Dream Home—tinged with pathos.

Dream Home, The domestic in current art practice, curator Mary Pridmore, artists Pat Brassington, Carolyn Eskdale, Ruth Frost, Stephanie Jones, Dvora Morag, Matt Warren & Deborah Pollard, Elvis Richardson, Plimsoll Gallery, Hobart, May 2-23

MICHELLE HEAVEN’S DISAGREEABLE OBJECT, A 2002 WORK RECENTLY REVIVED FOR ARTS HOUSE, IS AN INVITATION INTO A GOTHIC WORLD OF MANIACAL CRAVINGS, COMIC EXCHANGES AND FIENDISH OBSESSINGS…OVER A PEA.

Underground, in Melbourne’s Meat Market, the small audience is tucked in tight, an intimate gathering at one end of a basement. A tall, but small table is set aside, turned legs, painted black. A tiny chair sits under an archway. A pile of pods, a wire framed staircase, a taped up cardboard light…a black out. The sound of an electric fan turns through the space. Out of the darkness appears a black-clad maid. Her lips cover the length of a pea pod. She’s focused on biting into the flesh, teeth bared. Crunch. She eats, face twitching, chewing fast. Then flick, the pod is discarded. She stops and pulls a white cloth from the folds of her black apron-skirt and dabs her face, suddenly civilized. She stands. She places her goblet of peas on the chair and covers it with the cloth. Sliding away from the light, she dissolves into the blackness of the background. A tall man enters the scene, a looming figure. He lifts the cloth, takes from the goblet and stuffs his face. He stops fast, caught in the moment. Blackout. The audience laughs.

When the light comes up it is as if we have moved into another, distant time, a flashback that slowly reveals the body of the maid, now white capped, wearing a white dress coat. She turns against the wall. Is she mad…in mourning? The scratching sound of a record player catches. In the distorted static we can almost hear the sea. She detaches herself from the wall. Perfectly timed, out of time, she unwraps, now back in black. The record player plays faster than the dancer. Her movements dislocate and swoon; she falls in and out of a languid trance before transforming into a fastidious, sharply articulated figure, washing her hands under the black silhouette of a tap.

A growing sense of obsession drives this 30-minute show. Blackouts are used like jump cuts, shifting bodies, moving time. The need for the pea is revealed and hidden in stops and starts, distorted and disrupted movement, followed by invitations and dismissals. The competitive urges of the two characters, performed by Michelle Heaven and Brian Lucas, are often humorous and change quickly to something more macabre. Heaven stuffs the white cloth into her mouth. She spits out pods. Lucas hides behind archway pillars. Heaven hides behind Lucas. He bends forward and her face is revealed, conspiratorial. He sits up and it is the whiteness of her hand that we see tugging at his ear lobe. She offers him a large grotesque copy of the pea. He is reluctant. She forces it in and he swallows, gags and shudders, until she calms him down. The pea is the object of their exchange, a circulating relationship of cravings, as if in someway they are eating each other. The small woman and the tall man move together, a slow creeping, bending shape. Sudden movements are followed by space, a series of glances, and hidden intentions. It is all as funny as it is disconcerting.

Disagreeable Object is strongly cinematic. From the beginning it feels as if you’ve slipped into the celluloid of 1920s German Expressionism. Darkness is central to the premise and it is expressed thematically and through the production design. Light is literally limited and Ben Cobham’s design references the elongated and often bizarre shadows of films like The Cabinet of Dr Caligari or Nosferatu. The basement is set in scenic spaces: the stairs become noir-like shafts, a spotlight over the tall-small table creates a coffin, or an altar, and the circular light from a surgical theatre offers an eerie green to the alchemy of Heaven’s pea creations.

Louise McCarthy’s costume design works in a similar way; Heaven’s black bustled skirt, distorted by the back lit shape-changing of her body, echoes the quiet malevolence of Mrs Danvers in Hitchcock’s Rebecca. Likewise Lucas’s ill-fitting suit reminds one of Count Orlock or Riff Raff. His just too short trousers exacerbate his height, particularly in contrast to Heaven whose skirt laps the floor. Scale shifts through a combination of choreography, lighting and costume. Bill McDonald’s soundscape expands the timeless atmosphere of the characters’ world. Heaven is miked, her vocal effects evocative of squeaking trolleys and tight turning taps, of eating and stuffing and breathing, are heightened. McDonald contrasts this with electronic interference, radio waves and music from record players that work to create openings—reminders of the outside world.

The detail of the production of Disagreeable Object is intricate; the timing of movements, of bodies and of mood are precise. And yet there is a feeling of nostalgia and longing that transgresses a sense of time. Meanwhile, the disagreeable works in opposition to the urge, underpinning an insatiable desire for satisfaction from the object…then blackout.

Disagreeable Object, choreographer, performer Michelle Heaven, collaborator, performer Brian Lucas, lighting, set design Ben Cobham, sound Bill McDonald, costume Louise McCarthy, Arts House, Meat Market, Melbourne, June 25-29

WAITING TO TURN INTO PUZZLES IS THE TITLE OF A COLLABORATION BETWEEN EXPERIMENTERS: THE FILMMAKER LOUISE CURHAM, THE MUSICIANS OF ENSEMBLE OFFSPRING AND COMPOSER DAVID YOUNG. THERE IS, IN FACT, NO WAITING; THIS WORK FEELS LIKE A PUZZLE OUTRIGHT, SOMETIMES EXHILARATING, SOMETIMES FRUSTRATING, AND THERE IS NO EASY SOLUTION. WE WORK EAGERLY TO PUT IT TO TOGETHER. BUT WHAT KIND OF PUZZLE IS IT?

Curham's film is given the full-screen treatment at the Chauvel Cinema, its quickfire, imagery creating an urgent pulse while the musicians, tucked tightly to one side, conjure largely quiet, subtle soundscapes with rarely a collective beat. Sound and image here conjure different universes, yet we know they connect—we've been told pre-show that the musicians are responding to the film's images which are printed out as 'notated' score on their music stands, and each musician has a code which allows them to choose to follow a pre-determined stimulus. But how do music and image connect for the audience?

Certainly both seem to be focused on their materiality. Curham typically scratches and marks the film's surface and hand processes the stock, so that strange and wonderful things flower chemically. Young avoids conventional musicality, so that we are attentive to the very sound of each instrument and its curious melding with others, a condition intensified by the musicians exploring their tools and their responses to the film in a structured improvisation.

There's a likeness then, but the film demands to be watched, to be kept up with. The music never literally or even laterally accompanies the film, so there's no easy kinship. The sheer scale of the projected image and its insistence make the film visually loud, sometimes all consuming. Now and then it's quieter as it repeatedly stumbles up a nightime Tokyo lane, or lavishes flowers and trees with camera brushstrokes, or stares vacantly into a dull community centre. It's then that I'm more conscious of the music's calm chatter and extended sonorities. But when Curham's film reverts to its hundreds, maybe thousands of Pollocky creations flashing by, each brilliant and beautiful, and then she splits the screen, doubling the demands on our attention, it's then that you think (1) perhaps a joint before the show might've been a good idea, or at least an extra glass of the house red, and (2) I wonder what the music's doing now? It's then you listen and discover that it's creating its own beauty.

Curham and Young are not offering us a unified world. They're creating two very different experiences, with very different perceptual requirements, juxtaposing them and waiting for us to see and hear what happens. Unlike a jigsaw, where you know only too well what it is you're trying to piece together, here we don't know what we're making. Yes, it's a puzzle waiting to happen. When sound and image do come together, it's as if something has been solved, but then the film rushes on and the music takes another path…until they maybe meet later on. (Made susceptible by glimpses of Tokyo in the film, I think I hear, in one of the heightened musical passages, the ensemble of clarinet, two violins, cello and orchestra transform magically into a shimmering, gaguku orchestra.)

As these universes of music and image slip in and out of sync, the experience of Waiting to turn into puzzles (a phrase borrowed, not surprisingly, from Perec's Life, A User's Manual) can only be described as being oscillated between contemplation, delirium and their occasional, puzzling syntheses.

Ensemble Offspring, Waiting to turn into puzzles, filmmaker Louise Curham, composer David Young, musicians Diana Springford, James Cuddeford, Veronique serret, Geoffrey Gartner, Claire Edwardes; Chauvel Cinema, Sydney, June 7

The stage is set theatrically with clusters of percussive objects prophesying scenes to come in Synergy’s Space and Time program. Desks in each corner are cloaked in black sateen sheets heightening the sense of mystery about the shapes they conceal.

Percussionists Michael Askill, Timothy Constable, Bree van Reyk and Swiss guest artist Fritz Hauser take the stage quietly and directly, sitting straight-backed at their desks beneath harsh straw light. Their measured dispassion suggests the professional legitimacy of the artisan and forecasts a performance of unobtrusive depth.

Beginning as whispers, their clicks, taps, twangs and chinks build as the players strike their hidden instruments. Hauser channels seemingly African ostinati while Askill explores timbres of timber. Van Reyk shuffles beads until Constable signals them all into a frenzied unison and stop.

With silence comes darkness on all but Hauser who continues to forage for fresher combinations of sound. His every move is free and flowing yet completely controlled, yielding the precise result of the intent written in his brow. A subtle sense of the outsider is established between Hauser and Synergy that prevails for much of the evening.

While the visitor captivates the audience, Synergy’s players move to a nest of four inward facing drum-kits. Later, Hauser joins them, sharing their offering, then making it his own as the trio move forward to a set of Himalayan bells shaped like bronze bowls.

The bells rest on right hands while left hands circle the rims with wooden pestles. The continuous actions yield a sustained ringing and, for the first time in the improvised program, harmonic relationships surface. Consonance and dissonance merge in and out, pulsing like the pain I imagine in the kneeling percussionists’ feet. Again Hauser joins them only to diverge musically, taking the audience’s attention in tow.

When lights dim to end the concert’s first half, Synergy’s signature backdrop of Asian gongs waits patiently behind a stocky wooden table covered in metal artefacts promising different dramas to come.

When we return for the second half, the black cloths have been stripped from the desks. In a domestic tease Askill scrapes a cymbal as though scouring a dirty pot; Van Reyk slows the tap of rubber mallets on wood, enacting a bouncing ball’s eventual submission to gravity. Constable adds the twitter of a mobile phone, a doorbell and the twirl of a tiny ballerina in a music box on miniature piano. Incidental, everyday noises become the focus of Synergy’s improvisation, an idea completed back at their desks by Constable evoking an electronic key-finder on several pitched wood blocks. In an esoteric program these signposts are easy to latch onto; while risking the kitsch-factor they involve listeners where the monotones of ever-evolving sonic scaffolds can sometimes alienate.

Integrating the two halves, snippets of vocal material from the first are revoiced in the second by sound designer Bob Scott. Seated at the centre of the front row, he is the fifth musician, applying effects and sculpting the others’ efforts. Also marrying halves, the notion of the outsider is take up again when members of Synergy take turns as the autonomous outcast. While three players let one musical exploration wane, Van Reyk treads timely to the lurking gongs and asserts her presence by singing into them.

Sounds produced by Fritz Hauser’s mallets and sticks independently of drums and cymbals eclipse momentarily the whole gamut of sound being fashioned by Synergy. At times his brushes whoosh through the air—electrifying the space between sounds. Hauser’s cymbal scratching challenges the very basics of percussive perception.

The definitive quality of percussion instruments as opposed to melodic ones is that the sounds are made with noticeable attack and rapid decay. If sustained sound is required, the percussionist must repeatedly hit the instrument or object to give the impression of continuous sound. Most commonly, this involves lifting the stick, hand or other appendage and dropping or throwing it down onto the instrument. Hauser contradicts this vertical approach by utilizing a horizontal spectrum of movements. He shakes our expectations of duration by developing an idea such as scuffing to a point where the listener must find interest in infinitesimally small fluctuations in momentum and direction.

Hauser’s inventiveness and acute responsiveness to Synergy Percussion’s stimuli make him one of them and, equally, set him apart. Together, the wholly accomplished and charismatic Synergy has produced another captivating and, in this case, theatrical performance with a distinctly Australian essence.

Synergy Percussion with Fritz Hauser, Space and Time, performers Michael Askill, Fritz Hauser, Timothy Constable and Bree van Reyk, live electronics, sound design Bob Scott, lighting Neil Simpson; CarriageWorks, Sydney June 27-28

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