I’ve got the horn for the work of Dr Lakra…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seriously. How beautiful is that?

And why can’t I find a title for this image that I found at We Make Money Not Art?

The Holy Trinity’s 1200CC Mary: Worshipping the Teenaged Wasteland

Don’t cry
Don’t raise your eye
It’s only teenage wasteland

Pete Townshend, Baba O’Riley

Photo by Kevin Leong

I remember massive, red dirt mounds, the byproduct of ‘new-ness’ that seemed to signify something as potent as an egg about to hatch.  Incomplete but habitable houses, in fresh subdivisions, in brand new suburbs, marked out by the rust coloured piles shoveled to the perimeter.

These mounds were a site for throning oneself, for staring out into a choice of undeveloped bushland in one direction or back to the established town in the other.  They were places to gain independence and some privacy before school or around teatime, at the darker, bookends of the day.  Maybe you would share a sneaky cig and swap heady and naive, adolescent divination; the sort of thing that might predict a future destiny (rock star, leader of an alien investigation task squad, world’s best hairdresser) or lover (rock star, pop star, porn star, that guy/girl whose dad owns the shop where you buy your chips).  These mounds became sites of aspiration and of fantasy.

In the name of the suburb, and of the dirt and of the feral cat,

Amen.

Here the mounds are transposed indoors and the adolescents are the imaginary male alter egos of three female artists.  Instead of imagining themselves as famous musicians or movie stars, these egos instead imagine themselves into the cornerstone of catholic doctrine: Capital G, God, his half-human son, Jesus and that mysterious bird, the Holy Ghost.  And why not?

In a spirit of pure fun, the trappings of the faith are translated with a camp and juvenile ad-hoc flair. The focus of the site is the grotto of the Virgin Mary, the previously unsullied mother of Christ, who opens her blue marshmallow robe to display six breasts like a beast in a strange marriage of Coney Island freak-booth and an Amsterdam shop window.  She bears the scars of having been toasted and served up to the faithful in gooey lumps scooped onto popsicle sticks.  Served up by masked pussycat alterboys (better behaved than feral),  I can tell you now she was sickly sweet but not entirely unsatisfying.

At the opposite end of the room in place of a confessional stands a hut made of cardboard boxes, where inside one can ‘relieve oneself’ (in private and by candlelight) of sinful thoughts with the aid of a ‘girls with guns’ magazine and a blurred, obscure video of a female figure disrobing.  Oh look it’s Jesus!  Wank for Jesus!  He’s got tits too and he’s all flesh.

In his physical form he roams the space in a black gimp suit, his intestines outlined in a flesh coloured felt (he always was a little desperate to prove, wasn’t he?).

I’m human too guys, see guys, just like you.
But wait.. aren’t you either the son of God or a cyst that grew legs…?

Another video depicts the Holy Ghost floating and gesturing its owl-headed way through the universe, its many-phallused collar there to penetrate you, to open you up to Gods word.  It floats around like an old Stevie Nicks video.  Stevie Nicks – with dicks.

God on the other hand is all about God.  All beard and cloudy arms he’s a show-off dazzling us with rainbows and lightning, endlessly impressed with his own skill.  As he inhabits the space, his desire to pop a wheelie is almost palpable.

In the name of the Bearded, and of the Gimp and of the Bird-Headed Hippie,

Amen.

The Trinity come together on occasion to patrol the space on pink dirt-bikes and communicate through electronic voice boxes mounted inside the heads of feral cats on frighteningly wired wristbands.  High tinny voices scream at you to ‘get off the dirt’ and remind you that you are just a visitor here.  But you may stay to admire their work; the rainbow made of fence palings and tree branches and the glowing rain cloud made of plastic milk-bar straws that releases a static rain of glue-string.  There is even a satellite dish made of cardboard and fairy lights to draw prayer from the ether.

Wow.

Here is a universe and a theology created on site. But remember, this is not really the Godhead.  It is three young boys pretending to be the Godhead as evidenced by the ornamental aesthetic of skulls and guns that litter the dirt.  But this is not really three young boys.  It is three women pretending to be three boys pretending to be the Godhead and the presence of these three women is still felt in the retro 80’s aesthetic (the era of their own adolescence for the most part).  The fairy-floss pinkness of the bikes, the marshmallow and the cats and the rainbow itself, which immediately evokes sickly (but highly desirable at the right age) Lisa Frank stationary and scented erasers – all these speak strongly of ‘girl’.

It’s an identity matroyshka.  We begin rooted in reality with the Arthead (three female artists) nested cosily within the fantasy identity of the Dickhead (three adolescent boys) who are in turn enclosed by the colourful outer shell of the Godhead (the three pronged cosmic deity driving the universe).

Sally, take my hand…

OK, I’m up for it.

In the name of the Artists and of the Boys and of the Cosmic Engine,

Amen.

Sally Rees, October 2009

This text was commissioned by CAST for the 1200CC Mary catalogue.
1200CC Mary continues at CAST Gallery until November 8, 2009.

btw…

… Light the Night 2009 was really rather moving and lovely.  I carried a gold balloon in memory of my friend Stuart.  Blue balloons were for people who wanted to show support for the cause, white balloons for survivors and gold balloons for those who had lost someone to  leukemia or related blood cancers.

Turned into visual statistics in this way, the number of white and gold bubbles in the sea of  balloons was genuinely affecting.  That affect only slightly dented by the curious pipe band deafening us in City Hall and the choice to allow Celine Dion to whine that her heart would go on as we marched into the street.

The people of Hobart raised around $60,000 of Australia’s total of $1.3 mill. for The Leukemia Foundation to put towards research into blood cancers and to help support to affected families.

Thanks everyone who donated.  It was a real nice thing you did.

The biggest news of the year…

…is of course this.

I varnished my toenails at the first sign of consistent sunshine because soon I won’t be able to see them anymore.

In case you missed it via Twitter, Facebook or even in an in-person report – Matt and I are having a baby, ETA April 2010.

This is my current view when I look down.

We are over the moon, excited, occasionally terrified but mostly very, very happy.

For two days I felt a little fishie swimming around in there and it wriggled when I hopped into a too-warm bath.

It’s gone quiet now but I’m led to believe that is often the ways things go and we’ll feel more significant movement begin in a couple more weeks.

I am in absolutely rude health and feel great.  So far nature has given me a really easy time of things (thanks a bunch, Nature.)

In answer to the other most commonly asked question: we have no idea who it is.

So there you go.  All nice and pregnant. On the road to parenthood. Hooray!

Prodigal Blogger

What a long time between drinks.

I have a new job you see. A great job in a great place with great people and I only work two days a week leaving me free for my own projects the rest of the time.

I am working for a clinic of osteopaths in a building that was once the Hobart Mosque – hence the photo here from the end of the hallway.

In order to land this job though I had to commit to a period of full-time work there.  How did that go, you ask?  Well…  it was a little ambitious and I found it entirely consuming and totally exhausting but I made it through the gauntlet and am rather happy about where I have ended up. Even if there was no blogging for a while.  Sorry.

It’s actually nice to have a foot outside crazy, old art-land and to remember what the rest of the world is up to.

But I missed you.  Art and news updates to follow.

light the night

On a completely different note:  I’m taking part in Light the Night 2009 which exists to remember, celebrate and give hope to patients and families living with blood cancers, such as leukaemia, lymphoma and myeloma.

My team, The Dreamtime Escape Plan (along with many others) will be doing a walk from St Davids park down through Salamanca Place carrying balloons with tiny lights inside on September 23 to raise funds to help the Leukaemia Foundation invest in critical research into better treatments and hopefully cures, as well as supporting patients during their long and tough treatment.

I’m looking for sponsors to help me reach my currently puny fund-raising target. I don’t have a lot of confidence in myself as a fundraiser but if I hit my target before the due date I will raise it!

If you would like to sponsor me (even $10 or $20 dolars helps – secure online donations can be made using your credit card) or even join our team and raise some sponsors yourself, follow the instructions below:

TO DONATE CLICK this link:
http://my.imisfriendraising.com.au/personalPage.aspx?SID=75449

If your computer blocks this link:
- Go to www.lightthenight.org.au
- Click DONATE

- SEARCH for me: Sally Rees or my team: Dreamtime Escape Plan.

The loveliness will start with a balloon lighting ceremony in St. Davids Park at 6:30 on September 23. I think it will be rather pretty to watch.

By constrast, cancers of the blood are entirely hideous and I would like to kick their arse.

Thanks.

Essay by Monique Germon

‘The Western World, it is argued, is largely nihilistic today in the sense that it no longer believes in grand truth narratives. When that happens, people will believe, at least temporarily, any story you spin at them. In the absence of grand truth narratives, society as it was once understood ceases to exist. Instead of the universal Church or the march of History, instead of society, we have a fun-fair array of booths hawking crystals and tales of intergalactic visitors; we have celebrity astrologers, wonder drugs, tantric Buddhism, predictions or mysterious epidemics, football frenzy and a vague fear of what Wheen calls ‘secretive, impersonal forces’ ruling our lives. We have been atomised. Suspended alone in a state of unrelieved apprehension bordering on panic, we cast about frenetically for some story line to write ourselves into. Instead of citizens, we have been turned into individual consumers; instead of tradition, we have had fashion foisted on us; instead of history, we are force fed docudramas about the mystery of the Sphinx. Desperate for company and direction, we’ll form a herd behind anyone – Princess Di, JK Rowling, the Pope, Barack Obama, Lacan, anyone. Just tell us a story. It may be humbug, it may be bullshit; it doesn’t matter: we don’t know the difference anymore. Just tell us a story. Any story. Please.’

Robert Dessaix ‘On Humbug’ (MUP 2009)
pp. 87-88

Six months ago I was in a caravan in North West Tasmania enjoying a rather hilarious discussion on both art and sexuality, when my host suddenly made the following announcement: ‘Artists are cunts. I don’t understand the bastards. I’ve seen men out here dying in those seas so you pricks can have your fucking crays and your flash openings in Hobart with all the yuppie snobs. It’s not right and you know why? It’s bullshit! They’re all up themselves – fucking artist cunts.’

A week later I entered the local pub with a photograph of Sally Rees wearing a t-shirt which stated in written text across her chest,‘I’M A CUNT’ and pinned it on the carefully guarded noticeboard. I watched as the picture was received and sat in an interesting moment where this work, recently commissioned for an exhibition in Sydney, found its way to a rather unsuspecting audience. Rees in all her glory looked over the pubs regulars evoking laughter and conversation whilst they in turn applauded her sense of humour, not so far away from the North West town of Burnie where she  was raised.

Autoportrait (Update) 2009

Sally Rees’ work speaks to us of our human selves. Her practice has the unique capacity to involve self-examination, whilst avoiding any stigma of narcissism. Rees dives head first into emotions and experience that are confrontational and often unpleasant. Her work therefore reaches into what it means to be a human being as she boldly explores realms within the human psyche that most of us spend time avoiding as best we can.

Rees’ personal approach to art making invites her audience to engage in a manner that does not, in turn, punish with vacuous performance or over-intellectualised enquiry. She deliberates and expresses, providing an experience of awareness that carefully side-steps the unfortunate trend of alienating audiences through elitist delivery.  Her work for this latest exhibition offers us a personal insight into the contradictions and dualities that contribute to the inner-conflicts which human beings can often experience. Her offerings are subtle, considered, elegant and measured and possess a timbre of gentle innocence that is consequentially, anything but naïve.

We’re at a place in human history where we clearly need to understand why and who we are. As a result of this need to genuinely understand and to break through the artificial walls that can indeed overwhelm us, some of the more poignant expressions we are seeing are those which delve into matters regarding the human condition – specifically through a deliberately personal enquiry. At a time where people are searching so desperately for personal meaning (so much so that we’re witnessing the abandonment of individual narratives and the borrowing of others in the hope of greater notoriety and recognition), the most rewarding experiences are those that have an underlying essence of honesty and therefore, authenticity. It is through artists such as Rees that we gain access to such truths, for we are able to experience the sheer purity of her contribution, which comes to us through this process of sharing, and of sharing very deeply.

Rees is one of the few artists I have known who has the ability and conviction to self-reflect in a direct and unadulterated manner. Her work has an element of generosity, which furthermore, births a particular kind of integrity, seldom seen in contemporary art practice today. She is blatant and brazen in that she is willing to vent, to purge and to absolve through catharsis and exposure, through a courageous practice of personally expressing her individual truths, and this she does by simply – telling her own story.

Monique Germon – July 2009

Disquiet Year

Disquiet Year closed on July 25th and due to a combo of unpacking the new house, starting full time work (!!!) and having a birthday, I have neglected to post.  But- there is a FB album of images here.

It consisted of two video works, this image, some large inkjet self-portraits doused in wine (called Blush 1-3) and a series of texts (Letters to M) made of cheap alphabet stickers dotted around the gallery and out into surroundings like the toilets, adjoining café and the carpark.  These texts are drawn from an ongoing correspondence I’ve mentioned here before, and drew some positive comments, which pleased me greatly but were also quite a suprise to receive.

Actually, the show generally drew positive comments from those few people I have talked to about it but, like most artists,  I am really interested in how it effected people either positively or negatively and their responses to this. There were many, many people at the opening for a start, many of whom I simply don’t really know.  If you were one and have stumbled across this posting, I would love you to share your thoughts on it in the comments below.

The two video works seemed to be rather polarising in that one or the other tended to be peoples favourite work in the show.  Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch played on a large monitor placed sideways on the floor with a long yellow tail of an extension cord trailing back to the socket at the wall.  The monitor shows an image of a glowing radiator laid over my face as I make the sound repeatedly, spitting and hyperventilating a little as I go.  The sideways monitor is a schtick of mine I have used a few times and gets trotted out as a device to indicate that all is not well and that things are somewhat askew.  The face with chattering teeth embedded inside a radiator has a whiff of that too.  I realised after making it that what the work actually does alongside these suggestions, is to replicate the stutter I developed when I broke down last year.  Throw in the fact that I had been listening to a lot of David Bowie (Ch-ch-changes…) and a curious identification I have with the mump-faced lady in the radiator from David Lynch’s Eraserhead and once I was done, the work made perfect sense (to me at least).

Funnily enough, I was told that ‘the lady in the radiator’ is precisely what the other video, VS reminded someone of.  I was actually trying to channel the figures of German expressionist cinema for that one.  Hang on, was I?  Or did I just observe the resemblance once it was shot…  Travel back in time through the blog to find out…

Projected onto a plastic screen through a wave-form of halloweeny blood that drips into a fringe of skulls, it’s the oldest work in the show but shown for the first time.  It features two Sallys that hate each other and hover, disembodied in an electrical hum and periodically snarl, spit big gobs at each other, or flip each other off, each insult augmented by an ‘action’ sound poached from a vintage video game.  It has the effect of a giant game of pong where no-one is in control. It is also the only work in the show not to turn out just as I had imagined, and that threw me for a bit.  But I think we’ve made our peace now, that work and I.

Overall I was pleased with it.  While there are lessons to be learned about testing EVERYTHING before installation (especially if you are as inflexible as I can be) I was glad I was restrained and cut back on the content to really give everything some space.  I’m glad the short run-up time meant that I had to show works that are a little more difficult for me to put out there.  If given more time I may have given myself an unearned slap, decided that no-one wants to see my ‘dirty laundry’  and whipped up something cheerier, sillier and a little more smart-arsed.  Mostly – in this instance if not in the case of Encore – I was also pleased people still managed to find some humour in there.

Maybe my darkness is not as dark as it feels when I’m there.  And that could be a good thing to know.

Thanks so much to the Inflight Board for asking me to do it and supporting me with such care through the process.

p.s.  My correspondence partner, Monique Germon wrote a wonderful essay for the little catalogue (which may have been more popular than the show come to think of it…).  I might ask her permission to post it here soon.

Rod Stewart Fan Club

51 E. Claremont St. Edinburgh, Scotland

EDIT: PARDON, BUT THEIR SITE SEEMS TO HAVE FALLEN AWAY LIKE A WET CAKE.
ALONG WITH THIS PIC.  BUGGER.  STILL, GO EXPLORE THE DETAIL YOURSELF. FUN.
PIC BACK NOW .  HURRAH!

“A street view image can give us a sense of what it feels like to have everything recorded, but no particular significance accorded to anything.“

Fascinating post by Jon Rafman on the accidental ‘art’ of Google Street View.
From Art Fag City, a blog that seems to warrant a lot more exploring, by me at the very least

Found via B3TA.com.

P.S. Sorry for absence.  Got a job.  Temporarily full-time.  Yes, it’s going well, thanks for asking.  Catch up posts soon.

new house, new life, new town