Sunday, June 6, 2004
The end of a dream
A painting at the AGNSW “The end of a dream” (1908, by G. Pennasilico) leads me to wonder what hopes and dreams occupied the minds of travellers in the past. It shows an obviously upper-class woman looking a bit dishevelled, in a beautiful dress, in a beautiful room, with a serving maid behind her. It’s coppery tones and feathery paint strokes imply a romantic, romance fiction fire-lit aura. How did he envision the future when he painted that? Not just his personal fate, but the destiny of civilisation.
What would people from the past think of us if they were deposited into the 21st century?
In order to explore these speculations I intend to tell a story. Inhabiting the Sleeper with hot glue objects, radio music, scent and lighting, to project a traveller’s dream into the atmospheric antique interior of the Sleeper coach enabling the viewers to partake of their for bearers reverie.
This work was produced as part of 24:7 at the Canberra Railway Museum
Detail hot glue words: Mr.Speaker
Install detail, paint on cloth, light, paper, bowl
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Saturday, January 3, 2004
Friday, January 2, 2004
Printed numbers in water
I collected Metro Ten tickets because I liked that they printed out the exact time of the transaction. I used the services of Column 8 in the Sydney Morning Herald to acquire more tickets. I found there were other people who had been collecting for years. I wanted to map out every minute of every hour of the day that the buses run. I cut out the time and pasted it on to sticks, shown here. I never completed every minute of the day, but I got close. I think they matched the ghastly laminex counters in the gallery.
Thursday, January 1, 2004
Sunrise 2004 Install detail
Josie Cavallaro, Lisa Kelly and I shared a studio at 16 Pidcock Camperdown for about five years. Marrickville Council runs Chrissie Cotter Gallery just down the road, with a Bowling club, and a tennis centre. We decided to do a show together. My work, The doctor is in, was playing with all sorts of ideas.
This portion contains a collection of pink materials, offset by a flouro flag (kindly donated by Josie) draped off a plinth. On the plinth were small offerings, sweet honeysuckle, some food and a candle. The bright blue table was found and I painted it. It had been used for years as a palette and was hugely bumpy. It is a painting. These found Australian coins had rusted in a jar, and formed a centerpiece. I keep coming back to money over the years. The inference of transactions. Symbolising exchange, wealth and my desire for money. That one and two cent pieces were discontinued (I still find this radical), and nowadays people will step over a 5c coin on the street (some people).
Money on the table: gambling? voodoo? bribes? illegal activity? I have a well cultivated reaction to money. From the thousands of images I have seen of greenback-filled suitcases to my personal desire for enough money to live on, money is a huge part of our society. I dream of cash, literally. Wads of it. When I was little I would take money and steal. I'd throw the money on the ground and pretend to find it. Who doesn't love finding money?
Capitalism. What a loaded gun, the temptation for money. What we'd do for money. As a kid, I used to hang out after school asking for bus fare money from strangers. I am not proud of this, but it was something I did to get money for sweets. One man turned out his pockets and he had only 35cents and a little charm. He held it out to me in his palm, offering it all to me, and I was shocked, he had so little and he was willing to give it to me. I turned it down and felt so ashamed.
I was in Paris in 2000, waiting in a queue outside a gallery. It was freezing cold, and the wait was long. A homeless fellow was gleaning money from the crowd, and when he got to us, we gave him some cash and he flipped out and threw the cash onto the street and yelled incomprehensibly and stormed off. We gathered the money and left it on the ledge for him, it was like 100 Franks. His action was so unexpected. He humiliated us.
The doctor is in refers to the psychiatrist's office. I was sent to analysts/psych since I was about eight years old. I have always loved them. A formal exchange where you have someone to talk to who doesn't judge you, and who can illuminate your ways of thinking about things and coping with emotion.