June 7, 2013 § Leave a comment




Waking up here in Australia is different in just about every way. The sea here is also.


January 14, 2013 § 1 Comment

Everything feels cloudy. Feeling out of place. The cold, the relative intensity of the season. Facing a lot of mirrors, maybe learning more about my failings than strengths. The turn in the weather is making my bad ankle swell, ache. It is quiet here in the suburbs. Sleeping in a single bed, reminders of holidays spent in mildura and with my nana and papa. The rooms void of a person, so things like a lamp or wallpaper loom large. The closed in porch. The nightmares about robots in the walls. The side of the house with forgotten plant trestles and empty pots. The large water tower. Here it is a cul de sac. Everyone has lights. I feel very lonely.

Magnanimous light

January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

Photograph my childhood house, build a large frame, print the images large and construct a 3D model of the house, big enough to get inside. Have the joins throb with light, fill inside with corn husks and corn silk, build a swing that hangs from roof, sit inside the house on the swing, toes brush cornstalks. Wish again I was child hiding alongside railway tracks, furiously pushing corn silk into the cracks in the trees, spying the house between the leaves.

In my hand a tiny house

January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

A house with stilts that are my fingers. A plate of dirt and grass is perched and the house on top. It is white with gothic windows, the roof is sloped the typical V. It used to be an old church once. Now it has a chimney. My wrist is bent in in a casual recline, like a signal.

The house is a model. There is no pathway and it is small. In my hands a tiny parcel I know someone dreams about.

Memories of an installation I once knew

January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

Imagine now a house, run down, on its way to ruin. There are holes in the roof, and some walls have been torn open. Doorways are without doors, and many of the floorboards have rotted well away. The windows are frames only, glass shards, worn down now with rain and wind.

What is recognisable then is the frame of the house, tha basic shape, like a child’s drawing of house – three of four rooms, a hallway, living space out the back. The walls are fibro, not brick, there is some graffiti, the house is known to some. A base, a refuge.

The floors, where the boards are rot through, are alive. There is greenery, encouraged by water and light coming through the patchy roof, called in from out through holes and trails. Windows have vines growing through, daisy plants and thick stemmed weeds grows strong and tall in the middle of rooms and grasses, some short and soft – some tall and browning sweep the floor and crest the walls.

The garden is inside now, the house which once had all the potential of a home is beautiful again, years after the people have left. The green frames each room in possibility, cascades, living breathing, turing the air clean.

Imagine now, having found this house, wild at the edges, framed and tall – a suburban ghost – that someone has built a walkway through. Salvaged wood and nails, kept close for movement, the walkway cuts a path from room to room, over all the rot and holes you walk, through windows and doorways, viewing and pondering, a modern walk, in a space made beautiful in relentless time and courage of the terrain.

Along this built path, bridges into this rustic chamber, there have been placed candles. They light your way. Shadows are thrown, clusters of light filter through the grass, fade dark edges of rooms in a glow which is warm, in a glow that fills you fit to burst with love.

Now imagine you stand again on the outside, a person beside you. Take their hand and lead them through. This is what you must do.

Memory of an installation made by a university friend from Sydney College of the Arts, Ned Sevil, who sadly passed.

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