It’s been less than a fortnight since I left Bundanon, but already it’s feeling like a fairly pivotal turning point in my creative life.
Having moved fairly smoothly from school to university to the workplace, finding myself in jobs (journalism/newspaper editor) that offer plenty of challenges and require a substantial amount of attention from my mind, I’ve never really had the opportunity to spend any great stretch of time on creative projects.
Those that I have pursued have been, invariably, either spontaneous or reactive. My two novel length works-in progress both began life as short stories that simply got out of hand, taking on a life of their own. On the photography front, I’ve been very much of the verité school, shooting what I see, the world ‘as it is’ without my interference. I acknowledge, of course, the choices I make in subject selection, framing, composition and the like, but have rarely been active in setting up or directing a scene or an image. I’d figured this was a stylistic choice, a philosophical consideration of photography as documentation and momentary, but am now wondering whether it was simply a lack of time.
On the writing side, the hope entering the fortnight had been to finish a few projects, in any spare time that may have emerged around our main major ‘life between buildings’ project. Yet after two weeks these never even made it out of the suitcase – this was a place and a time for thinking afresh, for inventing/crafting not polishing; opening doors not closing them.
So instead of wrapping up existing projects, I seem to have started more than I can keep track of. Central is the life between buildings song cycle, to which I intend to co-contribute text along with Rhiannon and Danielle, and work on more visual ideas that will hopefully augment its final presentation.
‘The Last Supper’ is to be a 12-song song-cycle, co-created by the life between buildings team of Serena Armstrong, Danielle Carey, Rhiannon Cook, Julian Day, and, in there as well, me.
The cycle will build upon written texts exploring the last meals of condemned death row prisoners, combining the irresistible motifs of Food and Death.
The idea is to create a work that can stand alone in a traditional performative sense, incorporating visual elements , but there is also strong interest in looking at the ‘event’ possibilities the idea holds, to explore its potential in installation or even ‘happening’ terms, such as incorporating the work into an actual meal with audience interaction, a blurring of the active performer/ passive audience lines.
This idea developed throughout Bundanon and grew richer each day, particularly in the second week. We would share our thoughts and ideas for it, discussing its difficulties and problematic aspects as well as what intrigued us.
Once the idea had developed to a point where we could all see where it might be heading, we were each able to work on bringing our various strengths to it, working on potential texts and some basic musical possibilities.
Amidst all this, as I was being drawn further and further into the surrounds, I also found some windows to experiment with some visual ideas. With a fortnight to spend free of daily concerns (cooking and grooming matters notwithstanding), my early ideas for some photographic series developed, expanded and then shifted quite substantially. For reasons I expect I’ll explore at greater length down the line, I’ve developed a fascination bordering on obsession with red. Red in all its forms, but particularly red as a thread – in this case wool.
‘Threads’ are a theme I’ve begun to quietly follow, but the red is quite recent and appeared quite suddenly, almost violently. Apart from its symbolic elements, which I’ll discuss down the track, I’m quite taken by the difficulties cameras appear to have in processing reds of this intensity.
My early red interventions at Bundanon were quite rushed and quickly executed. I wasn’t sure if the idea even had any lasting worth, and hadn’t fully understood what it was I was trying to say. Spending more and more time wrapping objects, winding the wool around the man-made or natural items that drew me, that seemed to be asking for a red challenge, or echo, I found the time and space to think more about what it was I was trying to do, and say.
I had gone into Bundanon thinking I would look at spending more time on photo manipulation – working with layers to get my photos to look at the relationship between the ‘observed world’, text and music. But instead of post-production and scanning, layering disparate images for a common cause, I found I was more and more drawn towards creating these layers in real-time and real-space.
The poetics of the bush and its musicality was utterly enthralling. I couldn’t face sitting at my computer trying to recreate when here was a chance to create directly, to interact with the natural surroundings and enter into a type of direct dialogue.
Hence the paperbark/paperback project, the Byron rock, the Haydn gum, and variations on the ‘poe-tree’ project. Many more ideas have also been sifting through since my return, with the urge to create kicked along again after seeing Jeanette Winterson, a favourite author, speak at the Sydney Opera House to open the Sydney Writers’ Festival on Tuesday (more about that for another post).
While perhaps seemingly like a fairly haphazard hotchpotch of concepts and threads, each, in their way, has been spawned by the Bundanon and life between buildings collaboration. In the past I’ve tended to work fairly individually, drawing upon my own ideas and bouncing them up against, well, myself.
I think what I’ve taken from this experience is not just the amazing time I had working closely with such creative, inspiring artists (and good friends!), but I have learned how ideas bounced around can grow and develop and take on a life of their own, thanks to the enthusiasm and input of others.
So while we have a common cause in our central project, we all each have other strands to follow, other threads to explore, that each developed, to some extent out, of the collaborative process. The actual ‘practice’ part, the writing or the photography is, for me, still a fairly personal path. I tend to process ideas over a longer period than some, then quietly chip away at them, channelling through my work things I can’t always explain in discussion. I think my strength in working with others is more likely to be a piece of text or a photo that tells a story, rather than ‘discussed’ input as such – that may change, but my work seems to come from a part of me I don’t necessarily have access to in conversation form.
To spend two weeks immersed in this, in such a deeply inspiring place as Bundanon, has been an experience that will ripple through my life for some time.
This was an inspiring group of artists to spend time with, and I like to think we’ll be able to keep working together, even if loosely, under the life between buildings umbrella.
- Benjamin
Showing posts with label benjamin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label benjamin. Show all posts
Saturday, May 24
Tuesday, May 6
not so grey
Today marked the seventh day of our Bundanon stay, so why does it feel like we just got here?
I realised upon waking that while I had walked back and forth across the property many a time, had traversed its open fields, dipped a toe in its river, skirted its grand homestead and returned many times to the swallowing bush, I still felt strangely disconnected from the environs.
The visual sweep down from our cottage to the homestead and the river beyond, back up the treed ridge on the far side of the river, allows us to see much of the 300 cleared acres of the working farm. While perched on the very edge of the bush – which makes up the bulk of the 1100 hectare property – the cottage has its back turned to the trees. It’s their presence I feel strongest, but until today it had been a looming feeling rather than a deep awareness. I could hear the birds and had seen plenty of the kangaroos, wombats and even snakes that came and went, but all my time in there had been active; imposing art ideas and projects without spending enough time doing another of the things which I had come here to do – listen, learning, find what inspiration it could impart.
I realised in doing so, I was repeating a lot of the mistakes artists made early in Australian colonial history – their cultural and artistic baggage so heavily laden with British sensibilities that they – quite literally – couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Paintings from that era, pastoral projections onto an untameable bush, build from a palette entirely unsuitable for the subject matter; pastel tones and wan light borrowed straight from a British sky that simply does not exist here. I was reminded of a discussion with a Brazilian photographer who is often criticised because the skies in his photographs are deemed ‘ too blue’ – it seems we cannot conceive what exists outside our own engagement, comprehension and direct experience.
I wasn’t bringing this particular sensibility, but I certainly hadn’t taken the time or set up the mind space for meaningful exchange. I had come with ideas for how to interact and ploughed on with them with barely a moment to see what suggestions it might make.
Feeling it was time to try and move beyond the same mistakes, I took a new route up the ridge to an area of the bush I’d not yet visited. Clearing my mind of potential projects, of photographic or textual possibilities, I was there simply to be. To see, hear, touch and smell, though stopping short of taste. I wanted to hear what the bush had to say, before trying to speak for it.
Selecting a place in a small clearing, beneath a towering silver gum, I lay, considering what I saw and how it compared to D.H Lawrence’s description in Kangaroo:
But the bush, the grey charred bush... It was so phantom-like, so ghostly, with its tall pale trees and many dead trees, like corpses, partly charred by bushfires... And then it was so deathly still. Even the few birds seemed to be swamped in silence. Waiting, waiting – the bush seemed to be hoarily waiting... it was biding its time with a terrible ageless watchfulness, waiting for a far-off end, watching the myriad intruding white men.
Was this accurate? Did it capture something essential about the harsh, unforgiving, unlovable Australian bush? Not from what I could see.
The green of fern of leaf of palm of moss of mottled bark; the countless browns of stripping bark of fallen leaves, their neighbours orange and red. Purple toadstool red berry golden sun silver gum cobalt sky. The white of flowering gums, the black of soil below – the one colour I couldn’t find was grey.
There were ghosts and phantoms aplenty, but these corpses spoke not of death but of life – every corpse-like tree and charred stump was swamped by viridian ferns and proud gums, played host to teaming life.
In place of stillness or silence was a ceaseless treetop chatter, gum tree crowns rustling their rasping dry leaves, while from beneath the soil a sub-aural hum, worms and ants and termites and beetles (not to mention the ubiquitous Bundanon wombats) rumbling about their business.
A passing fly with buzz in trail showed the first sign of life between soil and sky, but was soon joined by the melodious melange that made up even this tiny segment of bush. In the space of a few minutes, my ear slowly attuning to their song, there were chirps, twitters, flute-pitched whistles, twitches, wit-woos, zupzups, vupps, tzetzetzes, zharps and a dozen more songs that leave our alphabet adrift in their sonorous wake – the further from our language and ability to replicate they were, the more indelible their mark.
At first I couldn’t see from where any of these sounds were coming, but a few minutes of lying still and they soon started to emerge, swooping, fluttering and flapping their way across the clearing, from tree to tree and branch to branch, adorned in feathers blue, brown, red, orange, gold and green.
Amidst all of this, thinking once more of this ‘grey’ nothingness, fell a peerless light, a gold and silver gilt; dappled streaks of honeyed tones that seemed a rich and precious gift.
Seven days in, I had finally arrived at Bundanon.
- Benjamin
I realised upon waking that while I had walked back and forth across the property many a time, had traversed its open fields, dipped a toe in its river, skirted its grand homestead and returned many times to the swallowing bush, I still felt strangely disconnected from the environs.
The visual sweep down from our cottage to the homestead and the river beyond, back up the treed ridge on the far side of the river, allows us to see much of the 300 cleared acres of the working farm. While perched on the very edge of the bush – which makes up the bulk of the 1100 hectare property – the cottage has its back turned to the trees. It’s their presence I feel strongest, but until today it had been a looming feeling rather than a deep awareness. I could hear the birds and had seen plenty of the kangaroos, wombats and even snakes that came and went, but all my time in there had been active; imposing art ideas and projects without spending enough time doing another of the things which I had come here to do – listen, learning, find what inspiration it could impart.
I realised in doing so, I was repeating a lot of the mistakes artists made early in Australian colonial history – their cultural and artistic baggage so heavily laden with British sensibilities that they – quite literally – couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Paintings from that era, pastoral projections onto an untameable bush, build from a palette entirely unsuitable for the subject matter; pastel tones and wan light borrowed straight from a British sky that simply does not exist here. I was reminded of a discussion with a Brazilian photographer who is often criticised because the skies in his photographs are deemed ‘ too blue’ – it seems we cannot conceive what exists outside our own engagement, comprehension and direct experience.
I wasn’t bringing this particular sensibility, but I certainly hadn’t taken the time or set up the mind space for meaningful exchange. I had come with ideas for how to interact and ploughed on with them with barely a moment to see what suggestions it might make.
Feeling it was time to try and move beyond the same mistakes, I took a new route up the ridge to an area of the bush I’d not yet visited. Clearing my mind of potential projects, of photographic or textual possibilities, I was there simply to be. To see, hear, touch and smell, though stopping short of taste. I wanted to hear what the bush had to say, before trying to speak for it.
Selecting a place in a small clearing, beneath a towering silver gum, I lay, considering what I saw and how it compared to D.H Lawrence’s description in Kangaroo:
But the bush, the grey charred bush... It was so phantom-like, so ghostly, with its tall pale trees and many dead trees, like corpses, partly charred by bushfires... And then it was so deathly still. Even the few birds seemed to be swamped in silence. Waiting, waiting – the bush seemed to be hoarily waiting... it was biding its time with a terrible ageless watchfulness, waiting for a far-off end, watching the myriad intruding white men.
Was this accurate? Did it capture something essential about the harsh, unforgiving, unlovable Australian bush? Not from what I could see.
The green of fern of leaf of palm of moss of mottled bark; the countless browns of stripping bark of fallen leaves, their neighbours orange and red. Purple toadstool red berry golden sun silver gum cobalt sky. The white of flowering gums, the black of soil below – the one colour I couldn’t find was grey.
There were ghosts and phantoms aplenty, but these corpses spoke not of death but of life – every corpse-like tree and charred stump was swamped by viridian ferns and proud gums, played host to teaming life.
In place of stillness or silence was a ceaseless treetop chatter, gum tree crowns rustling their rasping dry leaves, while from beneath the soil a sub-aural hum, worms and ants and termites and beetles (not to mention the ubiquitous Bundanon wombats) rumbling about their business.
A passing fly with buzz in trail showed the first sign of life between soil and sky, but was soon joined by the melodious melange that made up even this tiny segment of bush. In the space of a few minutes, my ear slowly attuning to their song, there were chirps, twitters, flute-pitched whistles, twitches, wit-woos, zupzups, vupps, tzetzetzes, zharps and a dozen more songs that leave our alphabet adrift in their sonorous wake – the further from our language and ability to replicate they were, the more indelible their mark.
At first I couldn’t see from where any of these sounds were coming, but a few minutes of lying still and they soon started to emerge, swooping, fluttering and flapping their way across the clearing, from tree to tree and branch to branch, adorned in feathers blue, brown, red, orange, gold and green.
Amidst all of this, thinking once more of this ‘grey’ nothingness, fell a peerless light, a gold and silver gilt; dappled streaks of honeyed tones that seemed a rich and precious gift.
Seven days in, I had finally arrived at Bundanon.
- Benjamin
Tuesday, April 29
Bundanon - Day One
Guided safely to our destination by two giant wombats, it was a relief soon after 1am to finally reach the end of the long winding dirt road that passes as the link between Bundanon and the world left behind. With the bottom of the car scraping along the last 20-odd metres, Serena and Julian elected to jump out to see if the lighter load would ease the passage.
Danielle had arrived in the middle of Monday, her 30km bicycle ride from Bomaderry to Bundanon occurring with hardly a hitch (although with three enormous dogs in various pursuit), while Rhiannon had survived the epic journey from Canberra through Kangaroo Valley and down past Cambewarra Lookout a few hours earlier.
Waking up this morning it was exciting to realise that there was essentially nothing we had to do but what we wanted. After cups of tea, some breakfast and coffees, we elected to begin our stay by exploring the vast Bundanon property. Setting out from our 1870s cottage, we passed the cluster of studios presently housing photographers, writers and visual artists, visiting from England and Germany. Some have been here for weeks, with Margaret clearly sad to be heading off in a few days.
A little confusion over which side of the fence we should be on – and a pulse-quickening crash course in the difference between a cow and a bull – and we were soon on the sandy banks of the Shoalhaven River. Peering through the gentle water we saw small schools of fish going about their lessons, with balled up snow-white clouds tumbling overhead. A gentle breeze or jumping fish would occasionally ruffle the water, but it was mostly a clear sheen reflecting back grey-green gums and sandy boulders.
Across the river and perched loftily over an upstream bend loomed the unmistakable figure of Pulpit Rock. Pulpit Rock features in countless Arthur Boyd works and it’s easy to see what drew him to it time after time, what spurred that silent, see-sawing tussle to capture its ever-shifting pinkish orange form. A meander back through the Homestead gardens, fingers teasing smells from well-kept beds of herbs, was followed by a peek through Arthur Boyd’s studio windows before it was time for lunch.
After lunch came the serious business of mapping out our next two weeks. We’ve come to Bundanon for the opportunity it affords for a creative escape from the daily routine. A few familariar chores follow us along of course – the need to eat, tidy and occasionally sleep – but the emphasis is on freeing your mind and creative spirit in an inspirational environment; Arthur’s idea of a living arts centre.
Interaction with the environment is impossible to avoid – like nesting birds we each accumulated various leaves, barks and flowers that caught our eye, along with an all-but spent balloon that must have blown in over the trees and fields, a refugee from the distant clutches of a child’s grasping hand.
We’re all here to collaborate on our artworks, and the question of collaboration and what it involves seems to bring as many definitions as there are contributors to this collective. There is a spectrum of views as to what constitutes a collaborative model of art and the best way to get the most out of our time here. Also interesting is the range of views as to goals and hoped for outcomes – while some prefer to see this as an opportunity to learn more about ‘process’ and the act of creatively working together is an ends in itself, others are drawn more to an ‘outcomes’ based model whereby the success of the project will depend upon the measurable output of creative work and its ongoing appeal.
There’s still much to be worked out along these lines, but the immediate plan is to roll up our sleeves and simply jump into it; to soak up the beautiful environs of Bundanon, to take advantage of the rare opportunity to think and feel without a thousand other things – work, family, friends, Big Brother – vying for our attention.
-Benjamin
Thursday, April 3
Honing in
I found Rhi's post makes some quite useful points, and in putting together a response realised this might make more sense as a spin-off post than a comment.
I'm definitely finding 'too many ideas' more of an issue than too few. I guess that's a luxury that beats the alternative! I have a fairly strong impression of Bundanon in my mind, based on previous visits, so find a lot of my ideas are slotting into place in regards to specific things that may or may not work in different areas there.
When considering photographic/film opportunities, my thinking is more along spatial and reflective/responsive lines than historical, yet when I think of text it's the converse - it's more about exploring the time layer and being drawn to a 'yet-known' past, yet very much set in a particular space.
I've been reading a bit about Arthur and the Boyds, but not yet much about their time at Bundanon. I've been doing some 'practice' writing I suppose you might call it, but it's based more on Arthur's paintings than his life or Bundanon and surrounds.
'Based on' isn't very accurate mind you - it's more of a 'response' that touches on some of the themes and images (Greek mythology etc), but then takes on a life of its own. So while I could trace it back to what might have prompted a certain part or idea, it's probably not very obvious that they have any necessary co-relation. Some are closer than others, and some or so tangental as to bear little resemblance whatsoever - even to me by the time they're done.
I know we talked about a preference for a collaborative piece rather than a bundle, but the more I think about how it will work (the project, and the two weeks), the more I imagine it will be a mix. I've been spending the last few weeks and weekends devoting more time to creative work, and realising that creative fatigue can set in pretty quickly if I don't move from one form to another (eg after writing for a while, going and taking some photos to rest the writing mind).
I suspect similar things will happen over the two weeks, and that we will move between a central project and some parallel pieces to break things up. These pieces would still, potentially, fit into the 'umbrella' but also take some of the pressure off the joint work. Is this sort of approach what people are seeing working?
Rhi's concept of 'Distortion' is perfect. It fits really well with a lot of what we have talked about, and ties together that crucial third category of 'perspectives' in a way 'interventions' and 'fabrications' didn't quite.
Perspectives are very important to what we're all interested in, but until now seemed to have stood a little to one side. Distortion brings it in beautifully, and opens up a few more doors for my thinking about certain potential inclusions in the project - especially the visual aspects, but also in terms of writing.
The point about the difficulty of working with histories is definitely worth discussing. We're all under certain constraints (time, work, geographic) that mean a too-thorough understanding of the histories of Bundanon and its surrounds would come at the expense of actually creating any of our own.
What interests me more, anyway, is the imagined histories. Despite being fairly well maintained and set up, and a wealth of primary materials being theoretically available, most visitors to Bundanon only get a gloss of its history. They each carry around their own mix of snippets, the rest they fill in; imagining what life there was like, looking around to see whether they can sense the inspiration in the air.
Personally I think that's what we should also be working with - such snippets and snatches, given we can never hope to get across a 'complete' story anyway. And that's far from our purpose as I understand it. I see Bundanon and her history as a Pulpit Rock style leaping point, not a marsh for getting bogged down in. There is something in the air down there, and I want to spend time with that, not just tracing what somebody else did with it.
In terms of deciding 'which aspects of these ideas we'd most like to explore', I suspect they will all cross over at various points. We're still kind of dancing around our project it seems, rather than getting our teeth truly into it, but I wonder how much of that will chance in the next three weeks? I'm happy to nut down further if people are up for it and this blog is perhaps the best place for that.
Rhi feels we need to decide on what we are aiming to produce with a contingency plan if it doesn't work as planned. She mentioned agreeing on an expected outcome before we go away, else risk disaster. These seem good ideas, though I sense a little trepidation on people's behalf in this approach.
I'd like to hear what everyone thinks, but will go first. I'm still very much interested in exploring the potential for a site-specific work, but also remain aware that's one of the most logistically difficult. I think we could produce quite a strong project based on our two weeks there and subsequent work, but there will always be the matter of the location's remoteness. We've discussed tying it in with another event (eg FlameTree if it returns in 2008) but it does suggest we should consider opportunities beyond the location. I'd also like to talk more about the potential 'bundle' of works we could bring together if the site-specific aspect proves unworkable, so we can go into the fortnight with a pretty strong idea of what we are working on ourselves, but also what everyone else hopes to achieve.
- Benjamin
I'm definitely finding 'too many ideas' more of an issue than too few. I guess that's a luxury that beats the alternative! I have a fairly strong impression of Bundanon in my mind, based on previous visits, so find a lot of my ideas are slotting into place in regards to specific things that may or may not work in different areas there.
When considering photographic/film opportunities, my thinking is more along spatial and reflective/responsive lines than historical, yet when I think of text it's the converse - it's more about exploring the time layer and being drawn to a 'yet-known' past, yet very much set in a particular space.
I've been reading a bit about Arthur and the Boyds, but not yet much about their time at Bundanon. I've been doing some 'practice' writing I suppose you might call it, but it's based more on Arthur's paintings than his life or Bundanon and surrounds.
'Based on' isn't very accurate mind you - it's more of a 'response' that touches on some of the themes and images (Greek mythology etc), but then takes on a life of its own. So while I could trace it back to what might have prompted a certain part or idea, it's probably not very obvious that they have any necessary co-relation. Some are closer than others, and some or so tangental as to bear little resemblance whatsoever - even to me by the time they're done.
I know we talked about a preference for a collaborative piece rather than a bundle, but the more I think about how it will work (the project, and the two weeks), the more I imagine it will be a mix. I've been spending the last few weeks and weekends devoting more time to creative work, and realising that creative fatigue can set in pretty quickly if I don't move from one form to another (eg after writing for a while, going and taking some photos to rest the writing mind).
I suspect similar things will happen over the two weeks, and that we will move between a central project and some parallel pieces to break things up. These pieces would still, potentially, fit into the 'umbrella' but also take some of the pressure off the joint work. Is this sort of approach what people are seeing working?
Rhi's concept of 'Distortion' is perfect. It fits really well with a lot of what we have talked about, and ties together that crucial third category of 'perspectives' in a way 'interventions' and 'fabrications' didn't quite.
Perspectives are very important to what we're all interested in, but until now seemed to have stood a little to one side. Distortion brings it in beautifully, and opens up a few more doors for my thinking about certain potential inclusions in the project - especially the visual aspects, but also in terms of writing.
The point about the difficulty of working with histories is definitely worth discussing. We're all under certain constraints (time, work, geographic) that mean a too-thorough understanding of the histories of Bundanon and its surrounds would come at the expense of actually creating any of our own.
What interests me more, anyway, is the imagined histories. Despite being fairly well maintained and set up, and a wealth of primary materials being theoretically available, most visitors to Bundanon only get a gloss of its history. They each carry around their own mix of snippets, the rest they fill in; imagining what life there was like, looking around to see whether they can sense the inspiration in the air.
Personally I think that's what we should also be working with - such snippets and snatches, given we can never hope to get across a 'complete' story anyway. And that's far from our purpose as I understand it. I see Bundanon and her history as a Pulpit Rock style leaping point, not a marsh for getting bogged down in. There is something in the air down there, and I want to spend time with that, not just tracing what somebody else did with it.
In terms of deciding 'which aspects of these ideas we'd most like to explore', I suspect they will all cross over at various points. We're still kind of dancing around our project it seems, rather than getting our teeth truly into it, but I wonder how much of that will chance in the next three weeks? I'm happy to nut down further if people are up for it and this blog is perhaps the best place for that.
Rhi feels we need to decide on what we are aiming to produce with a contingency plan if it doesn't work as planned. She mentioned agreeing on an expected outcome before we go away, else risk disaster. These seem good ideas, though I sense a little trepidation on people's behalf in this approach.
I'd like to hear what everyone thinks, but will go first. I'm still very much interested in exploring the potential for a site-specific work, but also remain aware that's one of the most logistically difficult. I think we could produce quite a strong project based on our two weeks there and subsequent work, but there will always be the matter of the location's remoteness. We've discussed tying it in with another event (eg FlameTree if it returns in 2008) but it does suggest we should consider opportunities beyond the location. I'd also like to talk more about the potential 'bundle' of works we could bring together if the site-specific aspect proves unworkable, so we can go into the fortnight with a pretty strong idea of what we are working on ourselves, but also what everyone else hopes to achieve.
- Benjamin
Wednesday, February 27
Tuesday, February 26
(Fabric)ations
In April and May this year, life between buildings will be setting up temporary home as artists in residence at ‘living arts centre’ Bundanon, perched over the Shoalhaven River on the NSW South Coast. Our time will be dedicated to unearthing the rich creative potential of the site, bequeathed to the Australian people by one of our most treasured artists, the late Arthur Boyd. Perhaps 'unearthing' isn't the clearest way of putting it, for the conversations we've had about our project have suggested that while it will be driven in many ways by our creative response to the environment and its past, our work will not necessarily 'reflect' the Bundanon that people may think they know.
Although it will be very much immersed in the natural and built environment of Bundanon, one of the main facets of this site-specific project we've talked about is the site's history. Now there’s a safe place to work - it’s happened, it’s there to be dug up; it’s straightforward documented fact. A cursory read of this and that and we’re set to roll. Except...
I’m much more comfortable with the notion of ‘histories’, and from preliminary conversations over the weekend retreat just held in Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, there’s a sense in the life between buildings camp that there’s a shared interest in exploring the endless potential opened up by this notion. Rhiannon's idea of 'interventions' snowballed into all sorts of ideas being thrown about - some achievable, some likely to fall by the wayside - of how the different histories could be brought to life.
In our art as in our life, it seems we are all endeavouring to open up new possibilities, to rethink ways of seeing and creating. The challenges we set ourselves involve contesting received logics, narratives, histories; spoon-fed stories of easily digestible and non-contradictory factlets. That’s not to say we don’t all love our snippets and stories, the process of learning and understanding, it’s more to do with the grain of salt we each tend to carry in our pockets everywhere we go.
Our first major project together, a site-specific creative response based on Bundanon and its multi-layered recent past (working homestead, Boyd family residence, bequeathed arts retreat), is an opportunity to see where this approach can take us. Initial instincts may be to take the spoonfeeding, to respond in a way that seamlessly incorporates the ‘known’ Bundanon, but far more exciting is the potential for intervening on behalf of the overlooked, the unremembered, the never allowed.
A shorthand term for our approach to exploring such mythologies might be ‘fabrications'. The notion of place and history is so loaded, where is one to begin? The fabric of history will become, in our project, a fabricated history. By blurring the boundaries of the known and the unknown, the likely and unlikely - the possible and impossible – it’s likely to pose as many questions as it does answers. But therein lies the appeal, for we’re each interested in opening up rather than closing off, inviting rather than imposing - asking rather than telling.
Along the way, the very notion of creativity is likely to be brought into question. Does one create something if simply trading upon a pre-packaged past? Or does there need to more, an intervention into that past, an insertion of a new ‘something’ that might owe its taste or texture or sense to a past, but be equally indebted to the now, to a spontaneous eruption of a creative spirit that can’t be contained within the parameters of the pre-existing, ‘known’ past to which it might refer.
By fabricating, our intention is not to somehow elevate the reimagining over any existing, dominant narrative. Its purpose is to highlight the tenuous relation a story has in the first place to a transient ‘truth’. It’s a way to get inside the mythology built around a location such as Bundanon, peer beneath the mysterious aura of a site that played such an important role in the later life of one of our most venerated artists.
Our discussions about what was drawing us to the project, what possible means we may have of providing a meaningful site specific study of Bundaon, kept slipping into questions of time’s inexorable passage; the steady march of the future advancing on the present and outflanking the past, such that the mutability of time rendered impossible the notion of capturing forever an essence or truth claim that could somehow exist as an artefact outside of time/space/place.
Faced with such a slippery substance, the options were to pretend it wasn’t an issue, taking the usual path and pushing such concerns to one side, or to tackle them head on and try to beat them at their own game.
This very concept of contested histories, clashing perspectives and the erosion of a truth when seen through the prism of time, were in ample evidence over our weekend brainstorming session. By Sunday, the interpretations of what had taken place and been agreed upon the day prior were as colourfully varied as they were hotly debated. There were five recollections each struggling to be heard, but coming up against disparate and contradictory ‘histories’ of the day. It was exhausting and not exactly easy, but at the very least such friction illustrated everything we had been discussing.
In the same way, the parallel stories and histories we intend to develop through our Bundanon project are likely to slip in and out of safe ground, to allow some footholds while asking for the occasional leap of faith. Suspension of disbelief is, perhaps, the first step towards learning. Our aim is to lead participants on just such a learning experience into the unknown, albeit one in which we firmly recommend the odd grain of salt be brought for the ride.
-Benjamin
Although it will be very much immersed in the natural and built environment of Bundanon, one of the main facets of this site-specific project we've talked about is the site's history. Now there’s a safe place to work - it’s happened, it’s there to be dug up; it’s straightforward documented fact. A cursory read of this and that and we’re set to roll. Except...
I’m much more comfortable with the notion of ‘histories’, and from preliminary conversations over the weekend retreat just held in Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, there’s a sense in the life between buildings camp that there’s a shared interest in exploring the endless potential opened up by this notion. Rhiannon's idea of 'interventions' snowballed into all sorts of ideas being thrown about - some achievable, some likely to fall by the wayside - of how the different histories could be brought to life.
In our art as in our life, it seems we are all endeavouring to open up new possibilities, to rethink ways of seeing and creating. The challenges we set ourselves involve contesting received logics, narratives, histories; spoon-fed stories of easily digestible and non-contradictory factlets. That’s not to say we don’t all love our snippets and stories, the process of learning and understanding, it’s more to do with the grain of salt we each tend to carry in our pockets everywhere we go.
Our first major project together, a site-specific creative response based on Bundanon and its multi-layered recent past (working homestead, Boyd family residence, bequeathed arts retreat), is an opportunity to see where this approach can take us. Initial instincts may be to take the spoonfeeding, to respond in a way that seamlessly incorporates the ‘known’ Bundanon, but far more exciting is the potential for intervening on behalf of the overlooked, the unremembered, the never allowed.
A shorthand term for our approach to exploring such mythologies might be ‘fabrications'. The notion of place and history is so loaded, where is one to begin? The fabric of history will become, in our project, a fabricated history. By blurring the boundaries of the known and the unknown, the likely and unlikely - the possible and impossible – it’s likely to pose as many questions as it does answers. But therein lies the appeal, for we’re each interested in opening up rather than closing off, inviting rather than imposing - asking rather than telling.
Along the way, the very notion of creativity is likely to be brought into question. Does one create something if simply trading upon a pre-packaged past? Or does there need to more, an intervention into that past, an insertion of a new ‘something’ that might owe its taste or texture or sense to a past, but be equally indebted to the now, to a spontaneous eruption of a creative spirit that can’t be contained within the parameters of the pre-existing, ‘known’ past to which it might refer.
By fabricating, our intention is not to somehow elevate the reimagining over any existing, dominant narrative. Its purpose is to highlight the tenuous relation a story has in the first place to a transient ‘truth’. It’s a way to get inside the mythology built around a location such as Bundanon, peer beneath the mysterious aura of a site that played such an important role in the later life of one of our most venerated artists.
Our discussions about what was drawing us to the project, what possible means we may have of providing a meaningful site specific study of Bundaon, kept slipping into questions of time’s inexorable passage; the steady march of the future advancing on the present and outflanking the past, such that the mutability of time rendered impossible the notion of capturing forever an essence or truth claim that could somehow exist as an artefact outside of time/space/place.
Faced with such a slippery substance, the options were to pretend it wasn’t an issue, taking the usual path and pushing such concerns to one side, or to tackle them head on and try to beat them at their own game.
This very concept of contested histories, clashing perspectives and the erosion of a truth when seen through the prism of time, were in ample evidence over our weekend brainstorming session. By Sunday, the interpretations of what had taken place and been agreed upon the day prior were as colourfully varied as they were hotly debated. There were five recollections each struggling to be heard, but coming up against disparate and contradictory ‘histories’ of the day. It was exhausting and not exactly easy, but at the very least such friction illustrated everything we had been discussing.
In the same way, the parallel stories and histories we intend to develop through our Bundanon project are likely to slip in and out of safe ground, to allow some footholds while asking for the occasional leap of faith. Suspension of disbelief is, perhaps, the first step towards learning. Our aim is to lead participants on just such a learning experience into the unknown, albeit one in which we firmly recommend the odd grain of salt be brought for the ride.
-Benjamin
Monday, February 11
A life of its own
Where does it come from? Or, as my inner sub-editor would insist I put it (would insist it be put?): from where does it come?
With photography, it seems at times to be a simple matter of ‘capturing a moment’, a scene, a pre-existing slice of life that is there to be witnessed, with the click of a shutter button all that’s required to transfer this graspable, definable, readily perceivable moment to film – or, increasingly, pixels. But of course in that instant a multitude of decisions are being made. For every shutter speed selected countless more are discarded. The edges of the selected scene are determined in part by the parameters of the lens, in part by the judgment as to where the ‘interest’ and 'story' begins and ceases to exist.
How many details are allowed to be brought in? Where will the focus be? What level of implied movement will be allowed, how much will the illusion of time passing be sutured to what is a medium that is necessarily timeless, frozen, terrifyingly still? Because a photograph is implication, a visual fragment redolent of so much more, a form of suggestion that awakens the absent senses to their possibilities, the sound and smell and taste that all existed in that moment.
Working with sound is almost the converse. From the very beginning we are blind. Or, more accurately, we must render ourselves blind to what we have the luxury of being able to see. Again, decisions must be made, certain aspects must be elevated over others. Working with voices, we need to understand that once these voices are recorded, removed from the circumstances and environment of their instantiation, all that is left is disembodied sound that will bear to varying degrees a resemblance to their uttering, but carrying no trace of the visual cues of social interaction.
With ‘found sound’, the exhilaration of the city or exhalation of the earth, there is always a question as to how much of that environment we are trying to evoke, or how much we are content for it to be divorced from its moment of production. On one hand it will depend upon our purposes, our intentions, yet on the other there is always this – regardless of what we may have in our own mind, the message or story we are trying to project, once we use it, release it back into the wild amidst all the other sounds, it will once again take on a life all of its very own.
With the act of writing, it appears even more is left to chance, whim or personal idiosyncrasy. From a seething multitude of words we pluck a random selection and string them into what is hopefully a coherent whole. Like side-show contortionists they twist and turn, toss and tumble, reflecting not a moment or reality, but the inner workings of an imagination run amok.
Yet on closer inspection, one wonders if that is indeed the case. These words are all being drawn from somewhere; they are being placed one after another not as random artefacts, but as known objects being used in a familiar fashion. To make any sense, we rely on certain patterns and concepts, a shared agreement on what is and is not acceptable, understandable. Of course all these rules can be broken, but one wonders if the same is not true of photography, sound, painting, drawing, sculpting, music.
I think it is and it isn’t; there are perhaps common points, cross-over moments, shared traits. But – rather more excitingly - each has its own strengths and weaknesses, each holds a power and a mystery that the others can but struggle to emulate, necessarily failing, falling, yet standing up, dusting themselves off again and jumping out once more into that unknown, where they will either briefly touch that which they seek, or fall into a beautiful mess while striving.
It is this mystery and the opportunity to create work that will take on an unpredictable life of its own that has drawn me to the life between buildings project, as well, of course, as the opportunity to work closely and creatively with Danielle, Rhiannon, Julian and Serena - special people whose own work and ideas and passions I have long admired. I can’t wait to see what happens as we bring all these aspects together, discovering what new spaces are created when all these voices and fragments and ideas collide, coalesce and combine.
- Benjamin
With photography, it seems at times to be a simple matter of ‘capturing a moment’, a scene, a pre-existing slice of life that is there to be witnessed, with the click of a shutter button all that’s required to transfer this graspable, definable, readily perceivable moment to film – or, increasingly, pixels. But of course in that instant a multitude of decisions are being made. For every shutter speed selected countless more are discarded. The edges of the selected scene are determined in part by the parameters of the lens, in part by the judgment as to where the ‘interest’ and 'story' begins and ceases to exist.
How many details are allowed to be brought in? Where will the focus be? What level of implied movement will be allowed, how much will the illusion of time passing be sutured to what is a medium that is necessarily timeless, frozen, terrifyingly still? Because a photograph is implication, a visual fragment redolent of so much more, a form of suggestion that awakens the absent senses to their possibilities, the sound and smell and taste that all existed in that moment.
Working with sound is almost the converse. From the very beginning we are blind. Or, more accurately, we must render ourselves blind to what we have the luxury of being able to see. Again, decisions must be made, certain aspects must be elevated over others. Working with voices, we need to understand that once these voices are recorded, removed from the circumstances and environment of their instantiation, all that is left is disembodied sound that will bear to varying degrees a resemblance to their uttering, but carrying no trace of the visual cues of social interaction.
With ‘found sound’, the exhilaration of the city or exhalation of the earth, there is always a question as to how much of that environment we are trying to evoke, or how much we are content for it to be divorced from its moment of production. On one hand it will depend upon our purposes, our intentions, yet on the other there is always this – regardless of what we may have in our own mind, the message or story we are trying to project, once we use it, release it back into the wild amidst all the other sounds, it will once again take on a life all of its very own.
With the act of writing, it appears even more is left to chance, whim or personal idiosyncrasy. From a seething multitude of words we pluck a random selection and string them into what is hopefully a coherent whole. Like side-show contortionists they twist and turn, toss and tumble, reflecting not a moment or reality, but the inner workings of an imagination run amok.
Yet on closer inspection, one wonders if that is indeed the case. These words are all being drawn from somewhere; they are being placed one after another not as random artefacts, but as known objects being used in a familiar fashion. To make any sense, we rely on certain patterns and concepts, a shared agreement on what is and is not acceptable, understandable. Of course all these rules can be broken, but one wonders if the same is not true of photography, sound, painting, drawing, sculpting, music.
I think it is and it isn’t; there are perhaps common points, cross-over moments, shared traits. But – rather more excitingly - each has its own strengths and weaknesses, each holds a power and a mystery that the others can but struggle to emulate, necessarily failing, falling, yet standing up, dusting themselves off again and jumping out once more into that unknown, where they will either briefly touch that which they seek, or fall into a beautiful mess while striving.
It is this mystery and the opportunity to create work that will take on an unpredictable life of its own that has drawn me to the life between buildings project, as well, of course, as the opportunity to work closely and creatively with Danielle, Rhiannon, Julian and Serena - special people whose own work and ideas and passions I have long admired. I can’t wait to see what happens as we bring all these aspects together, discovering what new spaces are created when all these voices and fragments and ideas collide, coalesce and combine.
- Benjamin
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