tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34906776801313367662024-03-06T14:29:50.823+11:00mystique of the proletariat<b>
an ymaginaire blog<br>
(Hobarts Colden Eupraxia)<br>
<br>
nel tempo de li dei falsi e bugiardi
<br><br>
If someone were to say that ignorance is a lack of understanding, he is mistaken. Ignorance is the condition of being wretched and beguiled.
<br><br>
Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;
</b>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.comBlogger272125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-85613151440993440652014-10-06T15:27:00.000+11:002014-10-06T15:28:41.450+11:00Dole / Dolour: An Allegory for the Fifth Corner of the World<br>
<b>σκότος ἐγένετο ἐπὶ πᾶσαν τὴν γῆν</b>
<p>
In the evening <br>
after work, <br>
shadows fall <br>
across the world. <br>
And the city quiets <br>
And calms itself. <br>
And now the city is ours <br>
The weak and broken ones <br>
Come out to play <br>
Take over the city. <br>
<br>
<hr width="30%">
<br>
Went to the Top Gallery in the Salamanca Arts Centre, a small room torn brick, convict sandstone, rough wood. A room that echoes the cries of those worked to death in the old days. Drunk and trapped. The scrap heap. Dolour -- endless unhappiness. This seemed an more than suitable place for these particular art works.
<p>
I went, as an invite to see an exhibit of photographs by Liam James passed across my facebook feed. The exhibit was called<b> “Dole / Dolour: An Allegory for the Fifth Corner of the World.”</b> I was instantly intrigued by the title, and normally I do not like photography as art. This is simply my hang-up and I apologise to photographers the world over. For me too often it is simple point and click, a mechanical reproduction of an object, allowing no understanding of the maker, of the ideas behind the work.
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy34QZRJFManYP9p8qNVGp3s6jbwl-28BwRRfVnumirg5gRe_1HyMS_JgbTWoXtQitXhQUXPTT-naUJz5sRhiF4avYsoqSJl1QHsJhxBRpo8PlUg2wuwo4JvniK2zc1zf66TcrYVlmyhWI/s1600/dole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy34QZRJFManYP9p8qNVGp3s6jbwl-28BwRRfVnumirg5gRe_1HyMS_JgbTWoXtQitXhQUXPTT-naUJz5sRhiF4avYsoqSJl1QHsJhxBRpo8PlUg2wuwo4JvniK2zc1zf66TcrYVlmyhWI/s320/dole.jpg" /></a></div>
With this exhibit more was involved. Not simple happy snapping, not facile photoshopping. The photographs were all well thought out and the artist seemed to have something to say, and to know what that was.
<p>
These are the photographers of a maker, rather than a reporter, or a decorator.
<br>
<hr width="30%">
<br>
Don’t be told what you want don’t be told what you need <br>
There’s no future no future no future for you <br>
<br>
<hr width="30%">
<br>
Dole / Dolour, sorrow, emptiness, no future for you. There is a time, about the age of twenty five, when many us, (those of us that think and do not just follow) come to the conclusion that all the word worlds of teachers and parents -- that one can be what you want, that is just takes perseverance and commitment -- were no more than big fat lies.
<p>
Work will not save us, love will not save us, our future dream is a shopping scheme.
<p>
A future rolling forward of endless cycles of waking up, coffee, work, lunch, work, Friday nights drinks down the local, all leading to the goal of self imposed debt bondage. Marriage, house, children. And finally pointless, stupid, inexorable death.
<p>
Liam faces this future squarely, without flinching. His wonderful, well staged, well coloured, crafted photos bring these feelings of relentless boredom, of pointlessness to our gaze. His works shows how all this drabness is wrapped up with a system of objectification. And how it is that many of us desire, more than anything, our own slavery, fighting as passionately for slavery as for liberation.
<p>
The subjects of his photos aret mostly young men and women, and they avert their eyes from the gaze of the (assuredly elder, assuredly judgmental) viewers, looking up, down or off in the distance. Looking one thousand yards past the viewers into a doleful future.
<p>
When the subjects do look at the viewer, it is with irritation, with anger.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcLl5G7U0MNIRmJFlmxAqLbFQGAlZeY7YlNLgyYLVqYTE9DlrQdZU3u8gOTw07PYQlUchzJj3LwqhMu8qSHxoJbFf07OTfgcRjFYh_xy8wmCTehz4GkC8jPU0yO6MPRBQED55JrpHIbcf/s1600/bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcLl5G7U0MNIRmJFlmxAqLbFQGAlZeY7YlNLgyYLVqYTE9DlrQdZU3u8gOTw07PYQlUchzJj3LwqhMu8qSHxoJbFf07OTfgcRjFYh_xy8wmCTehz4GkC8jPU0yO6MPRBQED55JrpHIbcf/s320/bed.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>
The artist, in his statement, wants to search for a new national identity, this is an important goal, as all around a reinvigorated national identity of spite and fear rises. This triumphalism gives birth to, and counters the art works, sets the scene, frames the works, and holds us in it's embrace as we step outside the gallery, back into a world of objects, processes, statistics, and prices.
<p>
This is an interesting and provocative exhibit. An exhibit which on first glance appears simple, but over the days and nights will slowly chew into your brain and make you question the world of objects.
<p>
Dole / Dolour: An Allegory for the Fifth Corner of the World is on display until the end of the month, until 30 October. You can visit a web site that <a href="http://liamjamesartist.tumblr.com/">Liam James</a> maintains.
Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-19386560782766274652014-09-22T10:41:00.001+10:002014-09-22T10:41:25.254+10:00RACT Insurance Tasmanian Portraiture PrizeI went to the RACT Insurance Tasmanian Portraiture Prize award
night. This competition is the result of a highly successful
partnership between RACT Insurance, Clemenger Tasmania and
<a href="http://www.tasregionalarts.org.au/typppage/">Tasmanian Regional Arts</a>. Looking at the variety of works on
display, one can safely say that the future of portraiture is
safe in Tasmania. This exhibit is more vibrant and daring than
similar prizes.
<p>
This award takes a different path than most portraiture award. A
few things stand out to make this award unique. Quoting the
<a href="http://www.taspp.com.au/">Conditions of Entry</a>, “The submitted work must be a titled
portrait of a living Tasmanian.” This has the effect of making
the prize a local prize. This can be both good and bad. Good in
that it supports local artists, who due to the nature of the
world tend to get swamped by the sheer size of the north island.
Bad in that it feeds on an isolating tendency. What you wish to
give weight to is, of course, up to you; but for me I would
support the idea of a prize that seeks to support and nurture
local artists. As we live in a world based on the idea that big
eats little, sometimes little needs a helping hand. How else can
little mature and start devouring.
<p>
Due to the nature of portraiture it often behaves as a sort of
aorist medium; an exploration of the past, the contemplation and
mulling over of a life, of past achievements. To overcome this
tendency the RACT Insurance Tasmanian Portraiture Prize
conditions stipulate that the artist must be under thirty. As
youth are inherently forward looking, this stipulation is
fabulous, in that it provokes a disruptive alchemy. A work like
this year's winner would not be allowed in the Archibald Prize,
due to the condition that the painting, “Must be a portrait
painted from life, with the subject known to the artist, aware of
the artist’s intention and having at least one live sitting with
the artist.”
<p>
A third aspect that to me makes the prize unique is the emphasis
on submitting a short (300 word) artist statement, describing the
reasons the portrait subject was chosen. This statement is an
important part of the process, as it helps determine the
intention of the artist, and if the finished work has
accomplished that intention. It allows us to understand the
inspirations that flow around and artist, and their works.
<p>
There is no point in trying to describe all the paintings in an
exhibit of over thirty works. I will only mention the works that
won awards on the night.
<p>
Jesse Hunniford won the inaugural Packer's Prize for the work “Am
I a Man or a Puppet?” This work, described in the statement as “a
visual and physical journey into childhood and paternity through
textiles and the act of making”, is an example of how the artist
statement and the work -- a photograph of a hand puppet --
combine to create a new form of portrait. It is also important to
note that a work such as this may have not been allowed in many
other Portraiture Prize competitions.
<p> <hr> <br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqX-Hk-4zYQ_lg3RxZiPIPlo98WET42pBCj55RpUsZ5-29u7KpEFGZmnZese2n3yg52GObzRb8cAC0yS4i4adwqAf1-UoLQXY7jJaR-p6KrHJaC1GzPPcHwCCLsLSLjY9y25g5JpVgmfya/s1600/RACTTilly_Clough_-_Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqX-Hk-4zYQ_lg3RxZiPIPlo98WET42pBCj55RpUsZ5-29u7KpEFGZmnZese2n3yg52GObzRb8cAC0yS4i4adwqAf1-UoLQXY7jJaR-p6KrHJaC1GzPPcHwCCLsLSLjY9y25g5JpVgmfya/s320/RACTTilly_Clough_-_Dad.jpg" /></a></div>
<p> <hr> <br>
The Sponsors Choice award went to Tilly Cough of West Launceston
for the work “Dad.” A beautifully rendered pastel drawing of the
artist's father. A work that seeks, -- here I am paraphrasing
from her statement -- and succeeds in finding the flaws and
roughness of her subjects, the imperfections that make them
perfect.
<p> <hr> <br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahtsscrgwFib1pNdJD7GHx6KpvLuedlLjfCjKtLmWqZIi4KDHOPbFWzwGHGzvCMLeIUW7x3ydd-Jko2-1DC2L37Dim6ar_tIuf18GlvVSLjHHouU3kZbFZXzAlnteNyhPuqxVC62a9Cq5/s1600/RACTShannon_Terry_A_small_idol_of_mine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahtsscrgwFib1pNdJD7GHx6KpvLuedlLjfCjKtLmWqZIi4KDHOPbFWzwGHGzvCMLeIUW7x3ydd-Jko2-1DC2L37Dim6ar_tIuf18GlvVSLjHHouU3kZbFZXzAlnteNyhPuqxVC62a9Cq5/s320/RACTShannon_Terry_A_small_idol_of_mine.jpg" /></a></div>
<p> <hr> <br>
The 2014 runner-up prize was awarded to Shannon Terry from South
Hobart, for her work “A small idol of mine.” A pencil drawing of
her cousin Sarah. Shannon said, “The lens in which she views the
world is one of which I admire immensely. She holds strong views
in politics. Symbolically, the grey I create serves to remind us
that there is neither a black nor white perspective in life”
<p>
<p> <hr> <br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dNUIzivivPce19kh_CTeKhI_d07mKo7gS4h1i88sBA5R_SwoobtxgLogaYAEh17y9Y4SsM-LhDsz1hHICVQGfZHd7bI-Duai4LghFlnL2klQ4cNxzpbeQje9RDJF0c8p-fMYDfrw5UyC/s1600/RACTCameron_McRae_-_David_Foster_enters_the_Burnie_Betta_Milk_Wearable_Paper_Art_Prize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dNUIzivivPce19kh_CTeKhI_d07mKo7gS4h1i88sBA5R_SwoobtxgLogaYAEh17y9Y4SsM-LhDsz1hHICVQGfZHd7bI-Duai4LghFlnL2klQ4cNxzpbeQje9RDJF0c8p-fMYDfrw5UyC/s320/RACTCameron_McRae_-_David_Foster_enters_the_Burnie_Betta_Milk_Wearable_Paper_Art_Prize.jpg" /></a></div>
<p> <hr> <br>
The winning work this year was by Cameron McRae, of Hobart, with
a work he called “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Foster_(woodchopper)">David Foster</a> enters the Burnie Betta Milk
Wearable Paper Art Prize.” This was a cheeky, satirical, amusing
look at recent events in Tasmanian political history through the
medium of portraiture. Again, this sort of work would not be
allowed in some other competitions. Which makes one wonder if a
trip to next year's Archibald Awards is actually a good thing or
not.
<p>
The paintings will be on display in Hobart at the Long Gallery
until the 5th of October. It will then travel to the Sawtooth
Gallery in Launceston, from Friday 31 October until Saturday 22
November. Finsihing the tour at the Burnie Regional Art Gallery,
in Burnie from Friday 12 December until Saturday 31 January. This
exhibit of young Tasmanian talent is definitely worth a look!
<p>
One could argue that the last 20 years of history have been an
attempt to destroy our spirit of co-operation, our spirit of
optimism. The youthful, daring, amusing, satirical, experimental
nature of the works on display prize can act as an antidote, a
pharmakon, a charm, to protect what can be protected from this
world-historical fear.
<p>
I will leave the last word to the winner, “I said that if I win I
would be able to insure my car, so this a win all around.”
<p>
I want to thank my pal <a href="http://milkwood.net/2011/08/01/yeomans-and-the-art-affair/">Ian Milliss</a> for helping me to clarify
my thoughts (like turning butter into ghee)
<p>
To see some other media related to this exhibit: <a href="http://tasmaniantimes.com/index.php?/weblog/arts/2014-ract-insurance-portraiture-prize-winner-announced-/">Tasmanian Times</a>, The <a href="http://www.themercury.com.au/news/tasmania/ract-portraiture-prize-reveals-states-artistic-talent-pool/story-fnj4f7k1-1227064622218">Hobart Mercury</a> non-story, and an amusing example of victorian prudeity from <a href="http://www.theadvocate.com.au/story/2572958/top-gong-for-nude-portrait-of-david/?cs=4169">The Advocate. </a>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-974214063971970592014-09-13T13:42:00.001+10:002014-09-13T15:48:46.219+10:00Tell TalesSo on a beautiful full moon night, one of those nights when the stars hide away and the moon swollen and full makes the world glow silver; I drove into town to see Tell Tails, a new performance piece by Bridget Nicklason-King.
<p>
The sort of night that is the pow<a href="http://www.theoi.com/Khthonios/Hekate.html">er of wo</a>men.
<p>
Tell Tails was a show inspired by Bridget’s granny. One can imagine the performer as a child listening intently as her grandmother told wild stories of adventure, danger and love. All completely true…and then some.
<p>
Old, old, ancient the stage is, older than writing. And the sparse, black stage is a new universe, a unique self contained world. This evening we were expected to believe that we were on the beach, on the edge of a wild salt sea. A churning sea made of broken glass. Tossed and smashed by fierce waves the empty wine bottles shatter and shatter again, until they are ground into dust, into sand of the beach. And the sand can be melted, reformed into glass, endlessly rocking.
<p>
And like the poet who uses the flowing, alternating vowel to create emotions, or as the <a href="http://mentalfloss.com/article/53295/10-fascinating-facts-about-ravens">cunning rav</a>en who picks up objects to alert and inform the others, so too the performer uses flowing alternating gesture, motion, to grasp ideas, to create meaning.
<p>
Not quite mime, rather something more like to dance, to an art of motion. Not quite a narrative. Rather Tell Tales was like a strange utopian burlesque. Music and dance. Comedy, clowning, cabaret, chaos. Wine, sand, and popcorn.
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh66KahVVgBUaDjKllJr2sfD0E1tf6KLkgQo1qaZZucBHbbczbcqFl360hzzebGUrYJBfeeyPuTMWoPLuYaicOg0MQaAqbbPRRt6mKdu0gB7auTTmXdE6xlJohIgmtBPkiGqaK4RZ72qGx8/s1600/1403856545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh66KahVVgBUaDjKllJr2sfD0E1tf6KLkgQo1qaZZucBHbbczbcqFl360hzzebGUrYJBfeeyPuTMWoPLuYaicOg0MQaAqbbPRRt6mKdu0gB7auTTmXdE6xlJohIgmtBPkiGqaK4RZ72qGx8/s320/1403856545.jpg" /></a></div>
House lights off, a spot light, and Bridget Nicklason-King starts off the show hiding under a red sheet. Strange, protean, shapes under the sheet. A cluttering noise and we see her, bound, trying to come out of, trying to free herself from, this tattered worn and well used gladstone bag. Like a child being born? Does she wobble around like a baby foal unsure on its feet? Or is this a ecstatic, drunken, dance? One review, not seeing the bag as a uterus, saw it as Pandora's box “<a href="http://tasmaniantimes.com/index.php?/arts-article/reviewed/">releasing its torrent of horrors before collapsing into the last rays of hope</a>.”
<p>
Both views I am sure are right in their own way, and at the same time wrong. Wrong in the sense of not being concrete, not being complete.
<p>
But here is the point where the work may cause a divide. If you want your art, if you want the theater experience, to be all wrapped up and tidy, if you want all the various strands to come together in a neat bowpackage -- this work is not for you. If, however, you do not mind having to add structure, to fill in the spaces, if you understand that art, like life, is not neat and tidy, but rather fraught with errors that extend and liberate us; if you think that the genius and the fulfillment of art is to play, than this is a work for you.
<p>
The supporting staff around Bridget did a very good job, the set design, lighting, and sound blended together to support the performance, and were always discrete.
<p>
The only negative I can find is more a problem with the space. Bridget ended the show swimming in the broken glass sea. However due to the line of sight, I was unable to see this very well. I could, however, hear -- which in many ways is not a negative at all, but further to the idea of having to add elements to the show.
<p>
To find out more about this performance piece and Bridget Nicklason-King you should click on this <a href="http://bridgetbridge.com/">link</a>.
<p>
Speaking of magical islands.
<br><hr><br>
<iframe width="854" height="510" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/jXoNHs3WOgM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-3109534059704413002014-09-04T06:55:00.000+10:002014-09-04T06:55:29.051+10:00hands up don't shootThis being my response to Ferguson, and the over the top police response. the video at the end was filmed by
Peter Charles Macpherson
<br><hr><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiiOYQ6RC9ZAAVevr_Ze8NWbF6XBnWGEaMrvHVQMSXMAGyJLr4X-91u5uz0WkBeE2DIxPGHqeZ8WMyhemGZyXBMGbtNhe3JsXHcAk4sRfxq74V_6vKXpFr1OeQXhF-agBq5kAQ9w954-pK/s1600/5676896-3x2-940x627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiiOYQ6RC9ZAAVevr_Ze8NWbF6XBnWGEaMrvHVQMSXMAGyJLr4X-91u5uz0WkBeE2DIxPGHqeZ8WMyhemGZyXBMGbtNhe3JsXHcAk4sRfxq74V_6vKXpFr1OeQXhF-agBq5kAQ9w954-pK/s320/5676896-3x2-940x627.jpg" /></a></div>
<br><hr><br>
My lumps my lumps my lovely baton lumps
<p>
After Los Angeles riots<br>
After Rodney King<br>
A commission investigating <br>
The beating found that <br>
Police were perceived <br>
An occupying army.<br>
Not community members.<br>
<p>
I had no alternative <br>
But to elevate the level <br>
Of our response.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Recent high school graduate <br>
Starting technical college,<br>
Visiting his grandmother,<br>
Shot at least six times, <br>
Including twice in the head.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Walking home, unarmed, no record <br>
Three minutes later <br>
A hail of pistols shots<br>
<p>
UPDATE 7 P M <br>
Few details have been released <br>
It has been confirmed -- <br>
A police officer<br>
Shot and killed <br>
A male subject.<br>
<p>
Lifeless on the street<br>
Hours after the shooting -- uncovered. <br>
A photographer captured <br>
The street scene -- a dead boy <br>
On his stomach, his right cheek <br>
Hard against the asphalt. <br>
A long trail of blood<br>
Flowing his head.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
The situation was tense. <br>
A large group gathered and <br>
Confronted police <br>
Obscenities and chants <br>
Crips and Bloods arm in arm<br>
United righteous anger.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
On the grizzled brick walls<br>
On the concrete flyover pillars<br>
Spray painted dissent<br>
The only good cop<br>
Is a dead cop.<br>
No justice, No Peace!<br>
Hey hey, Ho ho<br>
Killer cops have to go!<br>
And in reply Officer Boar<br>
Grunts out “Bring it, <br>
You fucking animals! Bring it!”<br>
Several times-gunshots could be heard.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Unarmed no criminal record <br>
How many times this same song?<br>
It was at least six shots<br>
As many as eleven<br>
It was more than just a couple <br>
More than just a couple<br>
I don't think it was many more.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Yet there were two in his head. <br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Schools were closed down <br>
As the tear gas cannisters<br>
Banned as chemical weapons<br>
In war time banned flew.<br>
Activists from Gaza tweeted<br>
Tactics against the gas. <br>
Notorious hackers Anonymous <br>
Shut down the city's website <br>
For much of Monday.<br>
A random shot in the air. <br>
And the airport was closed<br>
To provide a safe haven <br>
For law enforcement activities.<br>
Armoured trucks patrolled.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Fat white men middle aged <br>
Born and bred in fear.<br>
Gun shop owners gleefully<br>
Reported a surge in sales -- <br>
And they are buying <br>
Home defense shotguns <br>
Personal defense handguns <br>
For conceal carry<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Recent high school graduate <br>
About to start college<br>
Why y’all got my son out in the street?<br>
His mother cried. Frightened <br>
Cops, poorly trained,<br>
Pawns in the game,<br>
Out of their depth,<br>
Restrained her. Officer Brute<br>
Said -- You can’t see your son. <br>
You need to calm yourself down.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKkmRywq5mb6F3r2gYTb6oSMD7KV3M_GHE8vu-CTep8W0ozc3eElCxe_hDQ1TAQU2C4QtwfoSvI5EV6qrA0dJ8kW_SQt30a_q4NE4wp-WCuqUQHW1qEsSuJMNIlZt-yUYJTNkyHfDhKTc4/s1600/BvBlH1uCYAEiD_v.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKkmRywq5mb6F3r2gYTb6oSMD7KV3M_GHE8vu-CTep8W0ozc3eElCxe_hDQ1TAQU2C4QtwfoSvI5EV6qrA0dJ8kW_SQt30a_q4NE4wp-WCuqUQHW1qEsSuJMNIlZt-yUYJTNkyHfDhKTc4/s320/BvBlH1uCYAEiD_v.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>
Bottles and rocks.<br>
Sound cannons <br>
And clouds of tear gas,<br>
To disperse the crowd.<br>
No medical support on call.<br>
Frightened poorly trained<br>
Old time cop riot<br>
Inflames -- Again & Again<br>
Flames as the shop burns.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Reporters chased away, <br>
Mocked, abused, roughed up, <br>
Arrested. Get the fuck out of here <br>
And get that light off, <br>
Or you're getting shot with this.<br>
Amnesty gassed,<br>
Forced to kneel. <br>
Your press pass<br>
Officer Porker grunts<br>
Don't mean shit.<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<p>
Burning chemical smoke<br>
Rises and billows Golden <br>
Arches glowing. Casting weird <br>
Shadows the rain slick streets <br>
Glowing and smearing the lights <br>
Crowds roll and surge <br>
High tech cold red dot <br>
Power demon eye points <br>
Sniper rifle on his chest<br>
<p>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
Hands up -- Don't shoot<br>
<br>
<br><hr><br>
<iframe width="854" height="510" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/KNzNo3t4zAs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-61841778923171379652014-08-09T12:46:00.000+10:002014-08-09T12:48:27.960+10:00Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys<iframe width="854" height="510" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/sHUJ3cxwm4k" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br><hr><br>
So being that sort of person, I first read about the new memoir
by Viv Albertine, Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music.
Boys, Boys, Boys, in a Guardian review, shortly after it was
published by Faber & Faber in May of this year. After reading a
few reviews I decided to see if my local library had a copy. I
was pleased and annoyed that I would have to wait several weeks
for my turn to read the book.
<p>
But why would I want to read such a memoir? When I was a young
thing making the scene I loved The Slits, I found them to be a very interesting and
brave band. So there was some nostalgia in my desire to read
this. Also it is interesting to watch the turn of history. Much
has changed since 1976, I thought it would be interesting to see
this turn of history from the eyes of another.
<p>
The memoir is broken up, like an old fashioned record, into side
1 and side 2. Side 1 being her childhood, and youth including her
time with The Slits. In this part she brings to life the grim
recession of the late 70's to life. I did not live in England at
the time, but rather in New England, which was going through
similar economic and political crises. Albertine captures the
excitement of punk, the turbulent feeling that we can make a
difference, that we can change the world. More importantly she
does not shy away from discussing the many contradictions, and
cul-de-sacs of punk.
<p>
The book contains many amusing and interesting sketches of people
I have seen, have heard, have heard of, but have never met. In
these sketches we are able to see the true Romantic character of
the punk ethos. Punk was the sting of the Romantic tail,
struggling to bring to life the idea that enthusiasm can be more
powerful than technical prowess. The final scattering of punk
taught us a most important lesson, that in the end both talent
and enthusiasm can be defeated by money.
<p>
Side 2 narrates Viv Albertine's life after The Slits broke up.
This is a longer and more powerful section. With the breakup of
the band, the author was plunged into poverty and despair. An
example of how the music industry uses young people and then
throws them onto the scrap heap. From here she tries to rebuild
herself. As if to mock her youthful success, life generated a
series of challenges. The sort of challenges we all face at one
time or another. The second section of this book becomes a tale
of miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies, IVF, cancer, broken
marriages. A series of waiting rooms and examinations, where
dignity and control are stripped away.
<p>
There is a terrible beauty in a much of this. For example, the
description of the death of her father was moving and made me
well up thinking of the pathetic hopelessness of life. The
terrible waste.
<p>
Viv Albertine maintained the punk DIY attitude over the decades,
rejecting the idea of a ghost writer. This creates a fascinating,
almost voyeuristic, look into another persons broken mirror. Many
of the reviews I have read describe this memoir as honest, “utter
honesty” from the SMH, while the Guardian prefers “searing
honesty.” Raising questions of honesty opens up a myriad of
philosophical questions as to the nature of truth, questions I do
not feel I am capable of answering. I will say that her account
feels very sincere and honest, but as I was not there I have no
way of verifying her account.
<p>
Unlike some of the subject matter, her writing style is not very
taxing. The book is written in a very smooth, simple style.
Laurence Sterne, author of that strange work of genius, described
writing as, “but a different name for conversation.” In this
autobiography Viv Albertine seems to take this idea to heart.
This book feels almost like chatting with an old friend over a
bottle of red.
<p>
What did I learn from this book? Behind every great woman is a
man trying to hold her back. This modern proverb was amply
exposed in this book. Sexual violence, barely hidden contempt,
emotional blackmail, domestic violence. Here we can see her
honesty, this book did not shy away from showing the truth of
women's lives. This constant struggle that women face has
changed, but not lessoned since (let us say) 1976; more subtle,
maybe, but still all-encompassing.
<p>
In the end this book seems to me to be about losing one's self,
standing naked before the mirror, and then finding one's self
again. Definitely worth a read. This dot point history of
contemporary life, this tale of a journey through life is
deceptively easy to read; yet on this simple stage Albertine
allows a variety of thoughts and arguments to bubble up to the
the surface.
<p>
<br><hr><br>
<iframe width="854" height="510" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/RdBeYG4Ct7E" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-70156204566489018392014-07-29T12:33:00.000+10:002014-07-29T12:33:21.895+10:00Fleeing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1gFGjBxPvGvChdI5LDAKsRkuw6Ekl4IufouhlfSvonOjz1kUlLpDTVKdHHhhVXXqdgl_9wSpdwHrOYztkebJY5URYms5H1-rV2H9s31q6G9cUrviWk8cKUlx6IHnXwHkPxN3vRhUUWx2/s1600/Polyphemus_Eleusis_2630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1gFGjBxPvGvChdI5LDAKsRkuw6Ekl4IufouhlfSvonOjz1kUlLpDTVKdHHhhVXXqdgl_9wSpdwHrOYztkebJY5URYms5H1-rV2H9s31q6G9cUrviWk8cKUlx6IHnXwHkPxN3vRhUUWx2/s320/Polyphemus_Eleusis_2630.jpg" /></a></div>
<br><hr><br>
A friend of mine showed me a poem she wrote. She used the image of the oars in the water, churning the water to foam. Which reminded me of the end of book nine of the Odyssey. Our hero is fleeing after having blinded Polyphemus. The phrase Homer uses is <b>πολιὴν ἅλα</b> polien hala. Literally the grizzled salt, but obviously Homer is talking about the churning sea water. Odyssey 9.556ff
<br><br><hr><br>
So then all the day, until the sun sank <br>
We feasted, sharing ample flesh, sweet wine. <br>
When the sun set and the shadows came, <br>
Lulled by the breakers, we slept on the beach. <br>
<p>
With the early rosy fingered light of dawn, <br>
I roused my drowsy comrades, ordered them <br>
To board the ship, to let slip the anchor. <br>
<p>
And they at once boarded and on their benches sat <br>
Crouching rows, the grizzled salt sea they struck with oars. <br>
<p>
So we sailed away, grieving in our hearts, <br>
Glad to have escaped death, our dear friends dead. <br> Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-19112878291550461452014-07-25T01:16:00.000+10:002014-07-25T01:16:38.531+10:00The Dying Socrates.The Socrates of <a href="http://www.iep.utm.edu/xenophon/">Xenophon</a> was more bourgeois than Plato's gadfly,
more practical than the pale, barefoot, long-haired comic foil of
Aristophanes. In many ways the Socrates of Xenophon is the most
human. The Socrates of Xenophon does not see the taking of
hemlock as a glorious attack on a corrupt, and fickle democracy,
rather the taking of hemlock is the fitting end to a well lived
life. This would also go a long way to explaining the willful
mockery of the court that Socrates produced in place of a
defense.
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwx2yUvh6idH49pDDVavsbRgjJwk4oJKEXEi5gWyxodOkkoT8-wDZ_8etKMTbDYddCbCC3Xr-XD_fZL5nJ7jLlqjYDgjwgC3A8TZLWmQ-fZ_imNQwKJtEaem0lyk4OEPTyHdHGwULEgdj6/s1600/Rider_Euphronios_Louvre_G105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwx2yUvh6idH49pDDVavsbRgjJwk4oJKEXEi5gWyxodOkkoT8-wDZ_8etKMTbDYddCbCC3Xr-XD_fZL5nJ7jLlqjYDgjwgC3A8TZLWmQ-fZ_imNQwKJtEaem0lyk4OEPTyHdHGwULEgdj6/s400/Rider_Euphronios_Louvre_G105.jpg" /></a></div>
This is from The <a href="http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/x/xenophon/x5me/">Memorabilia of Socrates</a> 4.8.8. Maybe his death
should be seen, similar to the trial and death of Jesus, as a
sort of state sponsored euthanasia. For in the end can one be
free if one is not able to say, as Roberto Durán said, no mas?
<p>
It is hard to make Xenophon sing, as he was a better soldier than
he was an author, but he does have a simple, clear style which
makes it easier for an intermediate amateur like myself to
follow.
<p>
I have tried to capture the feel, and some of the imagery of
Xenophon. I had fun, and hopefully you will too. If it does
disappoint at least it is a short song.
<br><hr><br>
And if I was to live on? <br>
Another season or two... <br>
Would not my life be like prison? <br>
Unable to pay the debt of old age. <br>
My sight and hearing lessened.<br>
My thoughts reduced. <br>
It would become, <br>
Harder to learn <br>
Easier to forget. <br>
From the best <br>
To the worst <br>
I would fall.<br>
<p>
And truly, even if I did not grasp <br>
These changes, my life would be <br>
Insufferable. But if I did notice, <br>
Would not my life be constrained? <br>
Would life itself not become <br>
Distasteful, like poison? <br>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-73716092890007619462014-07-23T14:33:00.000+10:002014-08-11T11:16:04.157+10:00The MoonSo a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNxwTFd6VoM">pal o' mine</a> posted on facebook a quiz from The Guardian <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/books/quiz/2014/jul/21/moon-45-years-armstrong-buzz-aldrin-literature-quiz">The moon in literature.</a> One question in the quiz was a Sappho poem. Or rather a translation by Edwin Arnold, "Greek Poets in English Verse." Ed. William Hyde Appleton. Cambridge: The Riverside Press, 1893.
<p>
The stars about the lovely moon<br>
fade back and vanish very soon,<br>
When, round and full, her silver face<br>
Swims into sight, and lights all space <br>
<p>
So I searched out the "original"
<p>
Ἄστερες μὲν ἀμφὶ κάλαν σελάνναν <br>
ἂψ ἀπυκρύπτοισι φάεννον εἶδος, <br>
ὄπποτα πλήθοισα μάλιστα λάμπῃ <br>
γᾶν [ἐπὶ πᾶσαν] <br>
... ἀργυρία ... <br>
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDf1-bYkzwmzX0C-bS7NnJGU9ta5JA-GlgUQsjNHiIQhYFeRGTNzl_MnS0zyzysRLwSZLkX4Glhpd0gQXg4zxh5cRPRskLX6fMQzX0rj0SxJJRpwB84fTyNMVM_ASIAoC6-Z4wWbXB6DS/s1600/moon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDf1-bYkzwmzX0C-bS7NnJGU9ta5JA-GlgUQsjNHiIQhYFeRGTNzl_MnS0zyzysRLwSZLkX4Glhpd0gQXg4zxh5cRPRskLX6fMQzX0rj0SxJJRpwB84fTyNMVM_ASIAoC6-Z4wWbXB6DS/s320/moon.JPG" /></a></div>
and made my own translation.
<p>
Stars around the beautiful moon <br>
At once hide their shining forms <br>
When her full light swells, <br>
Making all glow silver.<br>
Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-76671757387399095462014-07-20T03:20:00.000+10:002014-07-20T03:21:24.780+10:00MAN-MADE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZT9cnc7zVuLgFCbccYv5z1MkAB97TYxr_gq9HQ20kF7zrSnznQSW_iIadd0G-t_1hOUonwKRtC-s9bSVWkJzWh7dw3W_4J43L808hFxaVED3GtqigVvqyBdjECKQIC_JJ358_YcGcEVfF/s1600/994135_10152169188026302_8445425600106488053_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZT9cnc7zVuLgFCbccYv5z1MkAB97TYxr_gq9HQ20kF7zrSnznQSW_iIadd0G-t_1hOUonwKRtC-s9bSVWkJzWh7dw3W_4J43L808hFxaVED3GtqigVvqyBdjECKQIC_JJ358_YcGcEVfF/s320/994135_10152169188026302_8445425600106488053_n.jpg" /></a></div>
We are, The Philosopher said, animals whose nature it is to be artificial.
<p>
Sitting and and at the same time hurtling 100 kilometers per hour down the highway, through showers of heavy rain, listening to Radio National, I made my way to the Schoolhouse Gallery, Rosny Farm to see the exhibit Man-Made. An exhibit of recent paintings by two local artists <a href="http://www.petertankey.com/">Peter Tankey</a> & Aaron Wasil. Even the the Schoolhouse Gallery itself comments on the dichotomy of the natural and the artificial. The building was built as a bicentennial project and is modeled on a schoolhouse that was built at Osterly about 1890.
<p>
The works exhibited were described by Aaron as “a silent but evident struggle between natural and manufactured”; or to use a more classical structuralist metaphor, “the raw and the cooked”.
<p>
I enjoyed both painters works. The artists had very different styles, but both seemed to be pointing in similar directions. Aaron Wasil used a slick, cool style. With a simple color palette his style emphasized angles and varied points of view. The works of Peter Tankey, on the other hand, created a kaleidescopic rush of color and form. The detritus of everyday life gathered in staged, and at the same time almost random locations.
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZgRKBF1gjblDE5xr2N5rqy8gzZpehDpQQVj7bVwW-NsJ0PiR_rqa2tSQ_b4jXnsoJWPjgUoLkqZUD9rSANod6N4_G1mD5PCho4WACLFl3pqa_YMpD9Gc9x_KM4ZrsUK0b28f3ermYzIA/s1600/10398677_10152169189036302_5012484816243707966_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZgRKBF1gjblDE5xr2N5rqy8gzZpehDpQQVj7bVwW-NsJ0PiR_rqa2tSQ_b4jXnsoJWPjgUoLkqZUD9rSANod6N4_G1mD5PCho4WACLFl3pqa_YMpD9Gc9x_KM4ZrsUK0b28f3ermYzIA/s320/10398677_10152169189036302_5012484816243707966_n.jpg" /></a></div>
The exhibit brought together two different styles. One, almost photo-realist in style, the other more mannered. This difference reflects and reinforces the overall theme of the exhibit and allows us to see different responses to similar material conditions. differences that arise out of twenty years of friendship and shared artistic journey. Differences that arise from late night, wine fueled discussions of artistic practice. Differences that are more about style than they are about philosophy.
<p>
This worth seeing exhibition continues until the 10th August. Tues – Fri 11am – 4pm Sat – Sun 12pm - 4pm. More information can be found at the exhibit's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/671901182878657/?fref=ts">facebook page</a>
<p>
We live in a world that is full of change. We live in a world which does not know how to change, a world that is unsure and seemingly afraid to change. A world afraid to reflect, a world that seems to me to be similar to Europe before the First World War. So I will leave the final word to Rainer Maria Rilke. In the first of his Duino Elegies Rilke wrote:
<p>
...and the nosing beasts soon scent <br>
how insecurely we're housed in this signposted World. <br>
And yet a tree might grow for us <br>
upon some hill for us to see and see again each day. <br>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-85747737637053417752014-06-24T14:13:00.002+10:002014-06-24T14:15:58.099+10:00ArticulatedSo because of a combination of illness, poverty, and family stuff, I was unable to spend much time visiting Dark MOFO this year. This is not to be taken as a criticism of ticket prices, as they seemed quite reasonable considering what was on offer. No this is much more a comment on my own inability to look after myself. Surely a topic for later essay.
<p>
I did get to see the Memoriam by Amelia Rowe, which I wrote about <a href="http://bogong-moth.blogspot.com.au/2014/06/memoriam.html">here</a>.
<p>
If you lived anywhere in the area you were able to see the light installation Articulated Intersect. An artwork by the Mexican-Canadian artist <a href="http://www.lozano-hemmer.com/articulated_intersect.php">Rafael Lozano-Hemmer</a>. Living in Dodges Ferry we could see the dancing beams of light from our back yard.
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3lDiY9lfcdjcsvRoGNPaHP_2UQtkRwGQpJJTb12XztiDLEztaQ7AO2ozI7pO5cFF-DzcTKC5RyODLlxJGc56_R3WMxNgvYIV07DlkAggZA_utpdoVCFpwNcxslAk1CcQVLKRX2-Rd_xb/s1600/DSCF1369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3lDiY9lfcdjcsvRoGNPaHP_2UQtkRwGQpJJTb12XztiDLEztaQ7AO2ozI7pO5cFF-DzcTKC5RyODLlxJGc56_R3WMxNgvYIV07DlkAggZA_utpdoVCFpwNcxslAk1CcQVLKRX2-Rd_xb/s400/DSCF1369.JPG" /></a></div>
The family went to Okines Community House to take part in the Okines Community Gardens Winter Feast. This too could be seen as a festival of light. Hundreds of glass jars were turned into lanterns and decorated by the local children. The kids paraded down to the the aptly, if unsurprisingly, named Okines Beach. Local husband and wife duo Serena and Andy How killed it with a cover of “Ramble On”, while later Bigger Than Bill played. In the distance, searchlights danced and intersected in the waning crone moon solstice darkness. Fairy lights hung, like a failed spider web, from gum trees. Fires burnt in 44 gallon drums which had holes punched to create intersected patterns of rusting metal and flame. Light was all around; candles and flashlights, mobile phones, the flames in the hand built, bread roll baking, oven. And the light that was brought to life was overwhelmed, while teasing and dancing with the endless, bottomless, darkness of the sky, of the ocean.
<p>
In an interview with the <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/culture/australia-culture-blog/2014/jun/20/rafael-lozano-hemmer-dark-mofo
">Guardian</a> the light installation artist noted that search lights were used as propaganda by Nazi's as part their infamous Nuremberg Rallies. As I was wandered, with the children, about Sullivans Cove, we chatted about the use of search lights in other situations. I noted that search lights were used by the Red Army in the climactic, apocalyptic battles which ended the rule of Nazi Germany. Red Army Commander Zhukov described the use of searchlights in the famous night attack by the First Byelorussian Front. “We concentrated a huge striking force on the bank of the Oder: the supply of shells alone enough for a million artillery rounds on the first day of the storming. To stun the German defenses immediately, it was decided to begin storming at night with the use of powerful searchlights. Finally the famous night of April 16 began. No one could sleep. Three minutes before zero hour we left our dugout and took up places at our observation posts. To my dying day I will remember the land along the Oder, blanketed in Aprii fog. At 500 A.M. [0300 Berlin time] sharp it all began. The Matyushas struck, over 20,000 guns opened fire, hundreds of bomber planes roared overhead. . . and after 30 minutes of fierce bombing and shelling, 140 anti-aircraft searchlights employed every 650 feet in a line, were turned on. A sea of light swept over the enemy, blinding them, and pointing out in the darkness the objects of attack for our tanks and infantry.”
<p>
We meandered along the waterfront, and stumbled upon the work by Chinese contemporary artist <a href="http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/booksandartsdaily/dark-mofo3a-washing-river/5542606">Yin Xiuzhen</a>, [URL] Washing River 2014. Blocks of ice were made from the polluted water of the Derwent River. Passersby were invited to, using a variety of cleaning implements, clean the water, as the ice melted and the water returned to the river, to the barren ocean. This artwork highlights the need to clean the river.
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<p>
So, after my Okine and my MONA experiences, I thought a lot about light, and noted the many relationships with light and dark and colour. As I walked around the city I noted the reflections of the traffic lights in the windows of the ships and offices, and how this light was distorted by the imperfections in the glass. I noted how the light smeared and spread in the puddles on the ground, in the darkness of river stretching out, how the lights of the houses on the mountain spread up the ridge, and then fell away into the deep frightful darkness of the unsettled forest. I noted the dust and small insects flying in and out and around and about the bright searchlight beams. And the light warming my hands in front of the burning fire in the oil drums.
<p>
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Omnia quae sunt, lumina sunt. Eriugena. All things that are, are light. And I thought of light and how much we depend upon and are light. From the burning of the sun, to energy converting s<a href="http://www.fromquarkstoquasars.com/quantum-biology-can-life-control-quantum-forces/">ingle celled algae.</a>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-51502748794448327112014-06-12T23:59:00.000+10:002014-06-12T23:59:46.803+10:00Memoriam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6tWeGmjo7cv4ed_pvILpzv8E1f5GB_2tgo6y2X0XttUmCfaOX_ZCpk4EW0ELkySBtaS5CfOTXQ-cC_Srr13B_-1qPPoWqykwkGNgbhZs-ZlzyV8PDlnM3FXw-kJRkMTNRrcWyFaL72UG/s1600/John-Tenniel-Pig-and-Pepper-Ugly-Duchess.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6tWeGmjo7cv4ed_pvILpzv8E1f5GB_2tgo6y2X0XttUmCfaOX_ZCpk4EW0ELkySBtaS5CfOTXQ-cC_Srr13B_-1qPPoWqykwkGNgbhZs-ZlzyV8PDlnM3FXw-kJRkMTNRrcWyFaL72UG/s320/John-Tenniel-Pig-and-Pepper-Ugly-Duchess.png" /></a></div>
So my partner got some disturbing news -- the old fashioned way, by letter -- and was suitably distressed. So I thought I would take the children out to give her some space to think and arrange herself.
<p>
So I gathered up the three kids and we all went to Rosny Barn to view the exhibit Memoriam, by Launceston artist Amelia Rowe. This was described on the Facebook Event page as “bringing together of taxidermy and personal narrative. Transforming Rosny Barn into a walk-in memento mori, into a place to contemplate the relationship between humans and animals.” In this, Amelia Rowe succeeded admirably.
<p>
The first thing to ask my children then was, what is taxidermy? From the Greek taxis (arranging the battle order) and derma (skin) - taxidermy is the arrangement of skins. We discussed the various uses of taxidermy, for example in a museum, if a beloved pet has died. Like in an episode of New Tricks, where the greyhound trainer had the bodies of her champions displayed in her office.
<p>
It occurred to me that with all the death littering the sides of our roads my children have seen, for example, more dead wombats -- two on a recent trip to Nugent -- than wild wombats.
<p>
What is meant by memento mori? We warmed our hands over the wood fire brazier. Misquoting Tertullian in his Apologeticus (33.4) we get "Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento! Memento mori!" This is the chant a slave would whisper into the ear of the triumphal general. “Look behind you! Remember you are mortal, remember you must die.” - More or less.
<p>
And we wandered about -- Would you like this or that piece in the house? -- and talked about Victorian traditions, postmortem portraits, black ribbons, mutes, and more. All these crystalline jet Victorian mournings were most likely the source of my association of the work Tinkerbell with the Lewis Carroll <a href="https://www.cs.cmu.edu/~rgs/alice-VI.html">Duchess and Pig</a> poem.
<p>
<i>
Speak roughly to your little boy <br>
and beat him when he sneezes <br>
he only does it to annoy <br>
because he knows it teases. <br>
</i>
<p>
I greatly enjoyed a piece called Stolen Memories. This image of the ancient, wise, cunning, majestic Crow rising skyward, carrying a trail of stolen nests, an egg in her mouth, allowed the viewer room to add layers of meaning. Trickster crow, or the crow as an omen of death?
<p>
And many of the works whispered covert to me, requesting my touch. I abstained.
<p>
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When I stood in front of “A rose to remember”, I thought of <a href="http://www.elfinspell.com/ClassicalTexts/Lucian/Wonderland/Bk2Chap3.html">Lucian</a>'s description of the place of punishment on the Isle of the Damned: “for on this ground daggers, razors, spikes, stakes, thorns everywhere bloomed like flowers.” Two rainbow lorikeets arranged on a dead, trimmed, painted rose bush.
<p>
So we talked about the art works, the youngest girl ran outside and made friends with some other girls and they played their follow the leader games. We read through the catalog and we were surprised at times by the distance between the ideas that came into our heads looking at the art, and the descriptions by the artist.
<p>
This thinking about things can be a way of looking deeper into the art work, it is a type of taxidermy, in the sense that the viewer is forced to order, to arrange, their skin in response to the art, the raw and the cooked. For art can make one a seer, a type of divinator “When you cut into the present the future leaks out.”
<p>
But we agreed that in the same way that art can be more than the traditional practice of oil on canvas, or pencil on paper, so to the viewer is not constrained by one single manner of seeing.
<p>
And then we got ice cream and drove home and my pal was, after a hot shower and a glass of wine, feeling better.
<p>
More information and contact details and etc can be found on<a href="http://ameliarowe.wordpress.com/"> Amelia Rowe's blog</a>. Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-73581556056769969292014-05-13T22:54:00.001+10:002014-05-13T22:57:58.725+10:00Violet-haired, pure, honey-smiling Sappho<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL1MnN0crJJugHnz_jl2_Qrtn3CpFgDTYRSCl5jXVlWmYrPOkU5OtCWg4D67rEKbDSFkwGn5HknahtG-CF5z3sh2uDdqIWhn-a0TlLX3rd99nTzCh-BzLsVnTis1aNJ9p_Ynu0v7OwD_37/s1600/sappho_cm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL1MnN0crJJugHnz_jl2_Qrtn3CpFgDTYRSCl5jXVlWmYrPOkU5OtCWg4D67rEKbDSFkwGn5HknahtG-CF5z3sh2uDdqIWhn-a0TlLX3rd99nTzCh-BzLsVnTis1aNJ9p_Ynu0v7OwD_37/s320/sappho_cm.JPG" /></a></div>
Violet-haired, pure, honey-smiling Sappho may or may not have written this newly found poem. Apparently the scholars think she did. Of course, this is nothing more than educated guess work. I think it could have easily been someone who wanted to write in her style. I guess we will never know. Kharaxos being her older brother, Larichos her younger. The title is a description of Psappho written by Alkaios, an alleged lover of hers. This unsatisfying translation is mine.
<br><hr><br>
While women chatter, Kharaxos is comeing, <br>
His boat is full! Of these outcomes only Zeus <br>
And the other gods know. You do not have <br>
To think such things. <br>
<p>
Escort me, persuade me to offer <br>
Many pleadings for radiant Queen Hera <br>
For the return home of Kharaxos. <br>
She guides his ship.<br>
<p>
You will find us well. But for the rest? <br>
Let us leave all that to the gods; <br>
For fair weather after a fierce storm <br>
Quickly appears.<br>
<p>
If the king of Olympus decrees, <br>
A helper will, in times of distress, <br>
Turn the course. To these people blessings <br>
And wealth will flow. <br>
<p>
And us? Well if he would raise his head, <br>
Larichos, and become at last a man, <br>
The many heavy chains on my heart would <br>
Once fall away. <br>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-33310243627803418612014-04-18T01:38:00.001+10:002014-04-18T01:38:24.417+10:00Iliad haikumade up this little haiku sort of thing based on the two lines from The Iliad 2.342-3
<br><br><br>
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<br><br>
For we quarrel over words, <br>
Unable to discover a remedy. <br>
<p>
Been here a long time.
<br><hr><br>
pic from <a href="http://comp.uark.edu/~cmuntz/_Media/chigi-vase---detail_med_hr.jpeg">here</a>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-68663414843497065632014-03-16T01:24:00.000+11:002014-03-16T01:24:51.987+11:00They take death as their bride<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCe2wD0O2rt_8XjnQS5nczoxVoyRXTzA7BpXvnl9gbUsp2DEOHT6hcfdW8YMMY9144OhoXhhdpm0kkHrQpkNTg_NaDo-0JsgWP9LjIqcldra_hnQlJDnoU7C7PhwCeomyPKe2W7z_WGn2/s1600/1024px-WW2_Admiralty_Islands_ops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCe2wD0O2rt_8XjnQS5nczoxVoyRXTzA7BpXvnl9gbUsp2DEOHT6hcfdW8YMMY9144OhoXhhdpm0kkHrQpkNTg_NaDo-0JsgWP9LjIqcldra_hnQlJDnoU7C7PhwCeomyPKe2W7z_WGn2/s320/1024px-WW2_Admiralty_Islands_ops.jpg" /></a></div>
Wrench-snatched from the rapacious hands of slow to start <br>
Imperial Germany, Imperial England Victorious gave <br>
To ever obedient Australia this tasty morsel of colonial<br>
Land. The Trust Territory of New Guinea.<br>
And Nauru Pleasant Phosphate Island, a second morsel to be savoured<br>
And shared joint exploitation ANZAC & England. Captured, bypassed <br>
Wither on the vine. And abused by the great torn up emptied.<br>
And in 1989 Australia was sued for damages done to the island;<br>
<p>
Islands placed in our trust as a token <br>
North East quadrant of sun swaying dreams. <br>
Bird of paradise dancing warriors, emerald snails,<br>
Fruit bats and friar birds. Crystalline <br>
Wave against wave, shore against shore<br>
Ruinous trust curse, for us and our children and <br>
Our children's children.<br>
Bismark blood and Ironbottom sound sea<br>
Not enough, never enough to compensate <br>
Slaughters of Flanders and the Troad.<br>
For the damage done to our desires.<br>
<p>
And Little Billy told Wilson and Goerge<br>
and all the rest “<br>
Strategically the northern islands <br>
(such as New Guinea) <br>
Encompass Australia <br>
Like fortresses. <br>
They are as necessary<br>
To Australia <br>
As water to a city. “<br>
<p>
And the ruling bourgeoisie more and more seeks salvation in fascism.<br>
And in 1942 when the inevitable war with Imperial Japan came, <br>
A handful of diggers and a radio tower on Manus. <br>
Air raids and bombings and then a landing, and the diggers<br>
Dove into the bush, destroying all the could not carry<br>
Private Coker commented <br>
"A hand-grenade, <br>
and run like hell, <br>
did the trick!" <br>
<p>
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And fighting the jungle and malaria.<br>
Lieutenant Palmer<br>
(cited for the Military Medal)<br>
“He was unable to walk for several weeks <br>
For severe septic infection on his arms and legs”<br>
“Weakness due to several attacks of malaria.”<br>
SO <br>
They carried him out. <br>
And Lance-Corporal McLean<br>
Took command the four man patrol &<br>
Found the Lutheran Mission firmly<br>
In Japanese hands. So they beat it out of there<br>
Fortuitous, heavy, jungle obscuring rain<br>
And the relentless beating sound <br>
Of rain rain rain pounding covered the retreat.<br>
Through swamp and jungle and cutting grass<br>
And illness and starvation, and then on boats<br>
The sailed the IJN cruised sea <br>
And overland and over mountains <br>
And final hope home Cairns in May. <br>
<p>
The ruling bourgeoisie are trying to solve The problem of markets <br>
By enslaving the weak nations, <br>
By intensifying colonial oppression & <br>
Repartitioning the world anew by means of war.<br>
<p>
Finally February leap year day 29 1944<br>
Diggers and Doughboys crawling up the Solomons Islands<br>
And the Trust Territories landed Manus Island.<br>
Guadalcanal, Milne Bay, Buna, The Bismark Sea, Lae,<br>
Rabaul, Scarlet Beach, Kokoda. Diggers and Doughboys.<br>
ANZAC sad sack dog faced privates fought with <br>
Bayonet and machine gun and flame thrower and demo charge<br>
And grenade and shovel and cannon and aircraft and bare hand. <br>
And the things they saw and did died<br>
Broke them 1000 yard shell shock stare. <br>
<p>
Crawling mud, roaring insect, snake bite green hell jungle. <br>
Pushing back venal bestial racist fascist<br>
Anti-comintern ideology. Rolling back the fascist <br>
Offensive. Manus Island attacked, and shortly recaptured.<br>
<p>
Well, now time passed and now it seems. <br>
Everybody's having them dreams.<br>
Everybody sees themselves. <br>
Walking around with no one else.<br>
<p>
Dreams of a land without the others, dreams of an end to history<br>
And end to the stresses and uncertainties of capitalism.<br>
Dreams of an obsolete discredited ideology.<br>
Old man old school old timey dreams of controlling the external.<br>
Dreams that somehow it will end differently, that we can close<br>
Our eyes and everything will somehow be all right. <br>
Fearful thoughtless dreams, relaxed and comfortable.<br>
RATHER -
<p>
Fascism is a most ferocious attack by capital on the mass of the working people; <br>
Fascism is unbridled chauvinism and predatory war; <br>
Fascism is rabid reaction and counter-revolution; <br>
Fascism is the most vicious enemy of the working class and of all working people.<br>
<p>
And now we can imagine on this very same spot -- wild eyed<br>
Dare-death opium and hunger fuelled banzai attack <br>
Shooting from the hip and shouting loud the Japanese Marines<br>
Fall upon the position. Hacking and attacking and striking out <br>
In all directions. Indiscriminate. And after the smoke and noise<br>
Littered broken bodies of empty dreams the result of lies, a cynical<br>
Grab-lust for power. Unbridled chauvinism. Rabid reaction.<br>
Predatory war.<br>
<p>
And then, as if a final spitting in our face<br>
Historic irony, it was here, when we almost half-believed <br>
In a new world, in a better world,<br>
In a world that does not resort to war<br>
And endless horror. <br>
It was here on Manus<br>
In 1950 Australia held the last trials <br>
Japanese war criminals. <br>
<p>
And did those geebungs and dubbos, did those inner city hooligans <br>
Signing up for adventure, signing up for their first pair of shoes,<br>
In fear and bravado, did they, shivering in their watery slit trenches; <br>
Did they do all this, so much waste and horror, did they liberate<br>
The camps so that now we too can have camps?<br>
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Ada Lovelace is honoured with a doodle.
<br><hr><br>
I went to see the 2014 MONA FOMA. A action-packed, fun-filled week of music, art and shenanigans. Like all public events, and many privates ones, foma brought forth some of our modern contradictions. And the source of this article being an apparent (let us be polite and say an inadvertent) sexism.
<p>
The recent festival included a performance of the Ada Project. The Ada of this project is <a href=" http://findingada.com/">Ada Lovelace</a>, a Victorian era mathematician who worked with <a href="http://www.cbi.umn.edu/about/babbage.html">Charles Babbage</a> to design a mechanical general-purpose computer, called the <a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20080821191451/http://cse.stanford.edu/classes/sophomore-college/projects-98/babbage/ana-mech.htm">Analytical Engine</a>. As Ada Lovelace died in 1852 this was an amazing intellectual achievement, even if was never realised.
<p>
Sadly there is a preoccupation with her famous father, Lord Byron. A father who was disappointed to sire a daughter, and who left Ada and her mother only one month after the child was born. Rushing off to fight for Greek independence, he like so many others soldiers over the generations, died of fever in camp. He never saw the enemy, let alone fire in anger. It is all rather pathetic, and more than a trifle appropriate.
<p>
But let us see some examples of this phenomenon: <br>
It’s the first time I’ve seen an industrial robot dance to an opera about Lord Byron’s daughter, who was diagnosed with hysteria as she died of ovarian cancer (The <a href="http://www.au.timeout.com/melbourne/travel/features/3162/mofo-2014#picture0">ADA</a> Project)
<p>
An industrial robot, inspired by the life and work of <a href="http://www.myceansage.com/mofo-2014-review">Ada Lovelace</a>, gifted mathematician and daughter of Lord Byron. Lovelace predicted computer-generated music 100 years before it eventuated.
<p>
The Guardian, if only parenthetically <br>
They are inspired by two things; first the movements of the machine, and secondly the life of<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/australia-culture-blog/2014/jan/18/conrad-shawcross-the-ada-project-review"> Ada Lovelace</a>, a Victorian mathematician (and daughter of Lord Byron) who Shawcross tells us developed a prototype computer called the Difference Engine.
<p>
Prepare to be mesmerised by The ADA Project: four musical commissions inspired by the life and work of Ada Lovelace (1815-1852), the gifted (yet troubled) mathematician and daughter of <a href="http://www.mofo.net.au/events/conrad-shawcross-the-ada-project/">Lord Byron</a>
<p>
There is no arguing that Ada Lovelace was in fact the child of Lord Byron. And I understand the use of this sort of short hand, allowing the reader to quickly orient themselves. There is no doubt that Lord Byron is a famous name, full of bad boy intrigue and eroticism. All this does work to quickly frame Ada Lovelace, but it does it seem to me, if not wrong, at least not right. As Byron abandoned the mother and child, he could not be called her father; as being a father is more than spreading one's seed. Indeed Byron was no more than a negative, a hole in the life of Ada Lovelace. Her mother, embittered by the rut and forget policy of the famous poet, gave Ada a rigorous education in mathematics and science. This was a vain attempt to keep her away from poetry, and all romantic ideas. Ada's mother felt poetry to be a source of insanity. Ada developed ideas of poetical science, ideas which allowed her to ask the right questions about the role of the Analytical Engine, and the relationship between the machine, the individual, and society.
<p>
Although some historians doubt her contributions and abilities Ad<a href="http://findingada.com/about/faq/">a Love</a>lace is remembered as a great mathematician, one of the best of her generation. She devised, and again some reject these claims, the first computer program, an algorithm for calculating B<a href="http://oeis.org/A027641">ernoull</a>i numbers. - - More importantly she was able to contemplate the idea of the general purpose computer. The idea of a <a href="http://c2.com/cgi/wiki?TuringComplete">Turing complete mac</a>hine that can solve any equation. This seems like little when it is written down, but this idea is what allows us a computer to generate music, film and all teh other content that goes with it. Lady Lovelace, with Charles Babbage, also conceived of the idea of the stored program. A calculator is a computer, but one that can only do one thing, to get it to read email would require much effort, and modification. The modern computer allows me to write this with my typesetting software, while changing windows to view my email, or to further research Ada Lovelace.
<p>
If we were to compare Lord Byron to Lady Lovelace in their relative importance to our modern world, there is no comparison. One wrote a few good, and some very good poems that allow us to see the mindset of England after the Napoleonic Wars, one of them worked to develop ideas that are only now coming to fruition.
<p>
As an aside, and with perhaps some irony, the US Defense Department created a language called <a href="http://www.sigada.org/">Ada</a> This language was defined as ANSI/MIL-STD 1815A, but note the numbering -- 1815, the year Ada Lovelace was born.
<p>
To get some idea of the achievement of Ada Lovelace and Charles Babbage, we can look at the contradiction that surrounds her unpleasant death. Aged 37 she died from ovarian cancer, her doctors had resorted to blood letting, and came up with theories that too much science her made her hysterical, causing this debilitating disease. Being an aristocrat, Lady Lovelace would have had access to the height of modern medical thought. These are some of the contradictions of a world, still in the infancy of industrialisation, where Ada Lovelace is imaging machines that can create music, while contemporary medical science is still resorting to sympathetic magic, and superstition for cures.
<p>
The final word I leave to Ada Lovelace, to allow the reader to get a feel for her visionary imagery and work: "The Analytical Engine weaves algebraic patterns just as the Jacquard loom weaves flowers and leaves."
Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-64550672552898715702014-01-22T12:37:00.000+11:002014-01-22T14:55:58.009+11:00to mix art with activism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMPBnR6QZdksqqJ8iRiFBXQC6dKT-SC7cqUCd2e8Ze4cuMqJ5RrlgS00B1EsvwuSwf-hQKjQjNvC7s3gFBJeRoMeNtOhwWVqiQ4g18WrJnb7NDGryr_sHWU3FZ-9FdJkrqxnKl1XUZNOA/s1600/far_off_the_city.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMPBnR6QZdksqqJ8iRiFBXQC6dKT-SC7cqUCd2e8Ze4cuMqJ5RrlgS00B1EsvwuSwf-hQKjQjNvC7s3gFBJeRoMeNtOhwWVqiQ4g18WrJnb7NDGryr_sHWU3FZ-9FdJkrqxnKl1XUZNOA/s320/far_off_the_city.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br> <b>In the distance is the city, hidden from view. </b> <br> <br>
K9 moved back into the combat area – Standing now in the Chinese
youth sent the resistance message jolting clicking tilting
through the pinball machine – Enemy plans exploded in a burst of
rapid calculations – Clicking in punch cards of redirected orders
– Crackling shortwave static – Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeep – Sound of
thinking metal – “Calling partisans of all nations – Word falling
– Photo falling – Break through in Grey Room – Pinball led
streets – Free doorways – Shift coordinate points –”
<p>
Nova Express. Burroughs
<p>
As a result, therefore, man (the worker) only feels himself
freely active in his animal functions – eating, drinking,
procreating, or at most in his dwelling and in dressing-up, etc.;
and in his human functions he no longer feels himself to be
anything but an animal. What is animal becomes human and what is
human becomes animal.
<p>
Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844, Estranged Labour.
Marx.
<br><hr><br>
My four days of mona foma.
<p>
I was fortunate enough to get a festival pass to the 2014 mona
foma. And so my thoughts.
<p>
Fishing boats high hot summer evening - wave upon wave fractal
innumerable myriad. Ole timey working working places. The
mystique of the proletariat. Sail boats sailing along the the
setting sun wind.
<p>
So what did I like about the festival? The bands, the music.
While I did not love everything I saw, and while I was not able
to see every event, I have to say there was nothing I saw that
was terrible; nothing I saw did not deserve to be there.
<p>
But the absolute highlights for me had to be Sun Ra Arkestra, The
Julie Ruin, and the Ada Project. There were several acts
that I was <a href="http://bogong-moth.blogspot.com.au/2014/01/bloody-mainlanders.html">unfamiliar</a> with and I was
very glad to have had the <a href="http://bogong-moth.blogspot.com.au/2014/01/heavy-discipline.html">exposure</a>. I also greatly enjoyed The
Ada Project. So much so that I saw it four times!
<p>
There was, as I said, very little I did not like. And the things
I did not like, were more my perception as opposed to the music
being made. For example I am not a great fan of the techno dance
sort of sound. So I tried to understand the acts in what they
were trying to do, more than what I would have liked them to do.
<p>
It is to the credit of the hundreds of staff that organise these
events that very little went wrong. There was a slight hiccup on
the first night, when the scanner had difficulties reading my
ticket. But on subsequent days there was no issue. I am sure
there where a few back stage dramas, but as a viewer I knew
nothing of that, and things seemed to flow quite easily from one
act to the next. Food and drinks were plentiful if a tad pricey,
but not so much that one would think it was out of the ordinary.
If one did not care about alcohol, and wanted to get a juice,
there was no line and it was easy to purchase. I did notice some
very long lines, but as it was not me waiting...
<p>
So at best only minor things went wrong, at least from an
outsiders point of view, so any complaints are more in the
category of quibbles and not complaints. Hats off the the many
staff who worked on the stalls, and collected tickets and etc, as
much as the musicians, this regiment of staff should be seen as
integral to the smooth functioning of the festival. Or as Brecht
said in his poem A Worker Reads History, “Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?”
<p>
What would I change? I found the MAC Backstage room to be a
stuffy, anxiety creating venue. This could have been just me, as
the room was often filled with people, digging the music, bopping
and having fun. Some people have complained about the ticketing
and entry for the Faux Mo nightclub. I admit I did not attend
this so I can not comment, but will note it as something I heard.
<p>
The smithies, working in the forecourt to create looped beats and
a metal sculpture, were a great hit. As much as the work they
were doing was interesting in itself, they also provided a focus
for the gathering crowd. I was a bit surprised as to how little
the forecourt was used by the event. To my mind there seems no
reason why it could not be filled with local performers, buskers,
fire eaters, spoke word artists and the like. This would provide
an outlet for local artists, as well as giving them a bit of
encouragement, and would also give spectators more fuel to allow
them to speculate, and recharge.
<p>
And of course the main change I would make, would be to somehow
make the event more woman friendly. I would like to see, in
future festivals, something like one day of the four day festival
be given over to only female artists. I know that some will say “
Do we have to have <b>this</b> discussion again?” While others can say
the exact same thing, but with a slight change in emphasis and so
“Do we <b>have</b> to have this discussion again?” But one only has to
look at the program and see the overwhelming preponderance of
male artists. Well over half were male, or male dominated
performances. With only a few breaking this penile mold. The fact
that The Julie Ruin was one of the few shows bent towards women
proves in a rather ironic way this truth.
<p>
I know that such a suggestion would be controversial. But to me
any back lash to the idea of creating a more gender balanced
event would again prove the truth.
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJeNw6kux3W4mV-kJhhksfdBooig0gK2EkW76JNxeWdXufblEZgp0QO8s9BXhEiQMF-DVSFHwfWXBO5xiJ8Rn0v5eq5w5MmKGMf_6uTGHxvLtvoVUFLr7R1ec0pFADtRt2uyLkW5vtRWK/s1600/bee.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJeNw6kux3W4mV-kJhhksfdBooig0gK2EkW76JNxeWdXufblEZgp0QO8s9BXhEiQMF-DVSFHwfWXBO5xiJ8Rn0v5eq5w5MmKGMf_6uTGHxvLtvoVUFLr7R1ec0pFADtRt2uyLkW5vtRWK/s400/bee.jpeg" /></a></div>
<p>
What did the festival make me think about? One thing that jumbled
around my brainpan was the idea of the distinction between (for
lack of better words) music driven and word driven music. Music
driven seems to flow more organically and more <a href="http://bogong-moth.blogspot.com.au/2014/01/sun-ra.html">freely</a>, more like
the proverbial river. With lyrics there seems to be more of an
architectural feel, the music is built up around a scaffolding of
words. Maybe a thing to do would be to investigate incorporating
improvisational lyrics into songs.
<p>
I was to a certain extent disappointed with some of the
electronic boyz and the sounds they were making. It seems to me,
and I am happy to be proven wrong, that with all the computing
power at hand, with the vast of array of electronics willing to
due the maestro's bidding that something better than a constant
pumping 1,2,3,4 beat could be found. It seems to me that we have
the ability to make electric music that sounds like angels
signing. There is no need for a beat, as the computer will never
miss. I want something to dance to that is different. Of course
the crowd went wild, so who the hell do I know. I did, for
example, like the poly-rhythmic sounds of <a href="http://bogong-moth.blogspot.com.au/2014/01/hive.html">HIVE</a>, their use of old
and new ways to produce music.
<p>
In a similar vein the festival made me think and cower in wonder
at the process. A puff of air, the vibration of a string or skin,
the rush of electrons. More a way things happen, than a thing.
Nothing but vibrations. Resonance. And I can not even find the
words to describe the flow of images and thoughts that crowded my
mind, like the crowded venue floor, surging and swaying. From
almost nothing comes music, in the way that a monsoon is little
more than warm moist air rising from the ocean, so to the music
is simply the vibrations moving through the air. And both the
storm and music emerge from the chaos become so much more.
<p>
Over the four days of the festival the temperature rose and fell
here in Hobart. Dangerous climate conditions caused distress on
the mainland. Bushfires burnt up the east coast of the big
island.
<p>
Daily the news spoke of increasing confrontation in the northern
seas. Shots were fired across the bow of ships filled with
children.
<p>
Compassion is becoming a dirty word. The assault, the counter
revolution, is gathering pace. Education and disability care, and
education are all in the firing line. Same sex marriage is being
brushed aside, howled down in a mocking chorus of convenient
morality. The “be excellent to one another” idea of Jesus is
being ignored, and in America anyway there is talk to rewriting
the bible more in line with tea party politics.
<p>
We are trading our freedoms for the idea of an illusionary
choice. Are we to <a href="http://bogong-moth.blogspot.com.au/2014/01/the-enchantress-of-numbers.html">control the machines</a>, or are we to be
controlled? Are we to simply be an adjunct to the machine, or the
machines to liberate us. Computer technology in many ways starkly
shows the Marxist idea of alienation, of working people building
a productive capacity is which is then used against them. A vast
network of control that can constantly monitor citizens. The
greatest, never tiring, surveillance network every made. Is this
to be our future? Should we not make the machines work for us?
Maybe lower the hours of work to only 20 hours a week, allowing
more time for creation of life, family, of art.
<p>
The PM is off skiing in France, while the media slumbers
contently after a long and tiring campaign of social control.
<p>
We live in an age of urgencies. We are hurtling headlong into a
crisis, into the abyss. I felt that foma missed the opportunity
to highlight these urgencies. I did not see all the bands, so I
may have missed some important things. Most of the acts I saw at
best only hinted at, or spoke indirectly about what is to be
done. From what I saw only The Julie Ruin seemed willing to
discuss directly the problems we face, and to offer some sort of
a solution.
<p>
The solution being to <a href="http://bogong-moth.blogspot.com.au/2014/01/men-make-art-men-make-music.html">mix art with activism</a>, to build community. Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-27499530161733796742014-01-21T09:37:00.000+11:002014-01-21T09:37:24.804+11:00Bloody Mainlanders<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPxBe6qIHgPL0GKnHWq2XR7QJhJyVBiWnhTAHFeT9HWwS0u1G_F8fusH5wMbBupUJzlmpujIHl10J3YiXKWhVunH9cuZRrG9uouxORnfCPkKtS34v8Gjt2ry1p8Co8lxydfnCghUhKBPn/s1600/brass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPxBe6qIHgPL0GKnHWq2XR7QJhJyVBiWnhTAHFeT9HWwS0u1G_F8fusH5wMbBupUJzlmpujIHl10J3YiXKWhVunH9cuZRrG9uouxORnfCPkKtS34v8Gjt2ry1p8Co8lxydfnCghUhKBPn/s320/brass.jpg" /></a></div>
A physical system can have as many resonant frequencies as it has
degrees of freedom; (according to wikipedia)
<p>
Kharon: Have you watched the bubbles in the water, gathering and
dispersing? And the bubbles gather into foam. Some last for only
a short time, some burst as soon as they are born, others a long
time. In no other way could it be. So it is with men.
<p>
Hermes: You comparison is not inferior to Homer, when he compared
men to leaves.
<p>
Kharon 19.1 ~ Lucian of Samosata.
<br><hr><br>
Hobart had recovered from the heat and had returned to that raw
river front feel that we all know and love and admire. I check
the news in the morning to make sure we had not gone to war while
I slept.
<p>
I had not planned on writing about the Colin Stetson
show on the last drab gray Sunday afternoon of 2014 mona foma.
But then I read in the Guardian that “his thing seems to be to
play, at deafening volume, a few notes over and over, drench them
in reverb and the repeat relentlessly for what seemed like hours.”
<p>
A little harsh I thought. While Colin plays a few notes (more
than a few!) over and over, and while they were drenched in
reverb, and while it did repeat relentlessly, to make this
criticism is like saying than Jimi Hendrix just played a bunch of
notes real fast, or that Bob Dylan writes a bunch of rhymes.
True, but missing the depth. And of course I understand that not
everyone can like everything.
<p>
So if Colin Stetson plays a few notes, adds filter (directly to
sax and man), and repeats what can we say about his music. The
first thing we most note, is that he meant to bring two
saxophones to play, but the bass sax was misplaced coming out of
Sydney Airport. Bloody Mainlanders, always trying to sabotage
Tasmania! If he had the instruments there would have been more
variety.
<p>
To me this show captured the mystery and power of music. A puff
of air, a vibration, carried by electrickery, waves shaking the
thin eardrum film of skin, nerve impulses surge and spread that
mass of hot blood loving brain fat. And this puff of air has the
power to transport, to transform. This puff of air can recall
memories, can inspire dreams and tears, can move one to abandon,
can drop one into despair.
<p>
For myself I was carried away with this strange, bubble popping sound,
this flowing Dantesque
soundscape of wailing cries in the distance. I was standing off
to one side, and could look behind the performer and see out the
industrial windows to the harbour outside. The wild wailing of
the sax, the occasional sweeping roaring rush of agony or ecstasy
(for at a distance, with no context, they can be confused)
released from some sort of unknown depths surrounded me as I
watched the birds circle and hover. The birds were reflected back
and forth, up and down, darting, sweeping, moving through the
air. Like the waves of sound formed from a puff of air, rumbling
down the shiny metal tube, glowing yellow red in the false light
of radiating waves, the birds split the air and swam in a
atmospheric sea of freedom we can only dream about, only for a
moment touch.
<p>
And he played one tune called “Dream of Water,” and all my dreams
of stepping into rivers and the bubbles forming foam fell and
tumbled. A sound track to dreams. A column of air. As many
resonant frequencies as degrees of freedom. The birds circle and
then -- that is all.
<p>
http://www.theguardian.com/culture/australia-culture-blog/2014/jan/20/mofo-festival-concludes-with-john-grant-mylo-and-death-metal
http://ancarinc.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/brass.jpgTomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-8400809336754904782014-01-21T07:32:00.001+11:002014-01-21T07:33:25.684+11:00Heavy Discipline <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5hKQBy5S50aQiw2Vhok3yYXHzCXkcfMcRyFmg3fsMSaHIYAYtsq9Y2UuWZVudS-CB6T_Ml1fy7x0sW4rrgW27WGI0mtcpJSihJVCLpfWoJubNQGbW15l0qlURbJHwu0BAuuwl2jtLDLI/s1600/barbed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5hKQBy5S50aQiw2Vhok3yYXHzCXkcfMcRyFmg3fsMSaHIYAYtsq9Y2UuWZVudS-CB6T_Ml1fy7x0sW4rrgW27WGI0mtcpJSihJVCLpfWoJubNQGbW15l0qlURbJHwu0BAuuwl2jtLDLI/s320/barbed.JPG" /></a></div>
<br>
With their diseases and orgasm drugs and their sexless parasite
life forms—Heavy Metal People of Uranus wrapped in cool blue mist
of vaporized bank notes—And The Insect People of Minraud with
metal music. Nova Express 112 ~ WSB
<br><hr><br>
Until day four of mona foma I was ignorant as to the existence of
Psycroptic. It has been a long time since I have seen a metal
band play live. Needless to say I no longer make the scene
metal-wise.
<p>
But the great thing about festivals, about these sorts of
anthology of acts is that one gets to hear things they did not
know that wanted to hear. Even though I no longer make the scene,
I still enjoy listening to good metal. To me it is one of those
types of music that forces you to move. Metal is still the best
fuck off to parents and squares everywhere music, to all
authority!
<p>
The band had just started their set as I walked up the street
towards Macquarie Wharf. Louder and louder the music rumbled and
echoed, calling to me. I was a bit wary when I walked into old
MAC2 warehouse cavern with a tech-death metal playing. But I
chose to keep an open mind. I wanted to judge the band on what
they are trying to do, not what I would have liked them to do. I
am glad I did.
<p>
Before the end of the song I had moved my way to the front of the
crowd and was, if not head banging, at least grooving in my own
way. For after all were not the Sex Pistols a type of metal band?
<p>
Psycroptic is a Hobart band, they have released five albums to
much acclaim in the metal community and have won an international
fan base playing tech-death metal. I know this because after the
show I was waiting in line for a coffee and spoke with a fan.
<p>
Technical metal refers to the technical ability of the musicians.
<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/culture/australia-culture-blog/2014/jan/20/mofo-festival-concludes-with-john-grant-mylo-and-death-metal">The Guardian</a> described this type of metal “death metal with
complicated bits in the vein of prog rock.” This is not the sort
of band where one can recruit a friend because they look the
part, one has to be able to play their instruments. If technical
ability is the key, then Psycroptic deserve their position as
leaders in this type of metal.
<p>
Drummer Dave Haley first captured my attention with his
relentless, powerful, driving drum work. Brother Joe Haley played
guitar, and like his brother he played with a savage power and
speed. A replacement bass guitarist was needed for this gig. He
was introduced as Sam. Like the rest of the band he was a demon
on his instrument. Thumping bass lines and jumping about with the
best of them. Lead singer Jason Peppiatt rounded out the band. He
strode about the stage exhorting his troops to battle, inspiring
frenzy in band and crowd alike. The younger ones in the front
rocked hard. Long Lacedaemon hair giving them strength. The
singer reminded me a bit of Brad Pitt in the movie Troy. And to
my drug addled rock and roll fantasy mind his death metal screams
and wails echoed down the ages the screams of the Danaans before
the walls of Troy. The angry refusal to follow those who are your
inferior. Screaming out the pain, horror and sorrow of ten years
of futile war.
<p>
Screaming and hollering the rage and energy of working people.
<p>
I still have problems with this type of music -- but to have been
there, to have been in that moment, I would not have missed it.
Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-29009854636395038682014-01-19T12:24:00.000+11:002014-01-19T12:25:22.385+11:00The Julie Ruin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh22-8YZA1UgDjmEr1USJDd99_6jP-_1R1BB_GRtT4rGuME7nqFaglexgbx87gOlyYjZsZiUtjODJuWWZD7go44znXz8prTw6Zc7Yw7To0PPXEP4ExWbiU5AN2nGv_T3cPgN7B4an5IX0x/s1600/keep-calm-and-smash-patriarchy-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh22-8YZA1UgDjmEr1USJDd99_6jP-_1R1BB_GRtT4rGuME7nqFaglexgbx87gOlyYjZsZiUtjODJuWWZD7go44znXz8prTw6Zc7Yw7To0PPXEP4ExWbiU5AN2nGv_T3cPgN7B4an5IX0x/s320/keep-calm-and-smash-patriarchy-1.png" /></a></div>
<a href="http://www.truth-out.org/opinion/item/8971">Men make art</a>, <a href="http://www.thepunch.com.au/articles/no-women-no-cry-hottest-misognyist-poll-of-all-time/">Men make music</a>. For women to make art and music is
in itself (sadly still true) a political statement. For women to
make killer rock and roll with a Smash The State, Smash The
Patriarchy power that The Julie Ruin brings to the stage is a
revelation, a revaluation, and a revolution.
<p>
On the third day of visiting the 2014 MONA FOMA I was lamenting
to myself the lack of political engagement of the artists. Sure
there were many cool things to see, and hear, and taste, and
there were many cool folk to mingle with and to chat. But in
terms of anything that faced the urgencies of our time, there was
very little.
<p>
And I wandered about the auditoriums and court yards and thought
of Nietzsche:
<p>
This future speaks even now in a hundred signs, this destiny
announces itself everywhere; for this music of the future all
ears are cocked even now. For some time now, our whole European
culture has been moving as toward a catastrophe, with a tortured
tension that is growing from decade to decade: restlessly,
violently, headlong, like a river that wants to reach the end,
that no longer reflects, that is afraid to reflect.
<p>
Where was this music? Where was this reflection?
<p>
Art is enough singer Kathleen Hanna told the crowd, mix art with
activism, with community building she further suggested to the
audience. She discussed the need for unity, the need to get over
that that false leftie sort of idea that we should be pure, and
we should constantly cut down those who; for example, still drink
milk in their fair trade tea, as opposed to the purity of soy
milk. This is all crap and what is needed at this time is unity.
<p>
The band spoke warmly and honestly to the audience, and they were
able to engage the usually passive Hobart crowd. Anyone that
missed this show, missed a lesson in music and a lesson in
politics and most vitally the missed a lesson in how music and
politics can be fused as we dance round the grave about Kapital.
<p>
On a side note I thought it was of interest that the keyboard
player was a bloke, was this a happy coincidence or a statement
on the fact that many times there are bands in which the keyboard
player is the only woman.
<p>
During the final song of the set the crowd was able to witness
all the actual nature of class and gender relations in our “
freedom.” Two young women, rock and rollers and full of passion
and energy, and desirous of change hurdled the barrier, into that
special space between audience and performer, that space reserved
for the elite few photographers and their bully boy escorts. Of
course the big burly he-men bouncers pounced and man handled the
women back into the seething mass, where they obviously belong.
<p>
One could see exactly what The Julie Ruin were saying. Any
divergence, any deviation of the rules can not be allowed, can
not be tolerated. There can be no dancing, save in the nominated
places. Much like the horrid fre<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_speech_zone">e speec</a>h areas which are popping
up all over the Western World, which do no more than silence
dissent. Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-23593828940362043582014-01-18T13:08:00.000+11:002014-01-18T13:08:28.771+11:00HIVE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Gzm981Qkhdn3qqv7sHXv6SfUfzI9TRCQLFEyMfU9DansHdnmKagGW_SytntSa2AL-rAx47SjBiI1Oqvt23RpMva-ken0nU6igfJbz8rJbYUz_zWy4WiTISZRncyKiZU95u564u0kmeFw/s1600/cicada.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Gzm981Qkhdn3qqv7sHXv6SfUfzI9TRCQLFEyMfU9DansHdnmKagGW_SytntSa2AL-rAx47SjBiI1Oqvt23RpMva-ken0nU6igfJbz8rJbYUz_zWy4WiTISZRncyKiZU95u564u0kmeFw/s320/cicada.png" /></a></div>
Hermes: Can you see the crowd dear Kharon? <br>
Kharon: I see a rolling tumult, a life full of confusion, and
their cities like hives - each one has a stinger to sting their
neighbour. <br>
Kharon 15.1ff ~ Lucian of Samosata <br>
<p>
New York based experimental composer Tyondai Braxton played two
performances at MONA FOMA on Friday night; I only say the first
show. He led a party of five called HIVE in a brave new world of
composition and looping experimentation.
<p>
Five space age, futuristic tables lined up in a row. Each with a
matrix of holes cut into them. Slow clouds of aerosol rose,
twisting and helixing, up to ceiling. The murmuring forest sounds
of the expectant crowd rises and falls, punctuated by staccato
beats of laughter and coughs, and tinny mobile phone tunes.
Outside the sun fell and entered the river stream, while lights
came on one by one in the houses, on the hill, across the river.
And darkness spread over the ways of the world.
<p>
The performers climbed onto their tables and settled in, like
cosmonauts in the capsule of a Soyuz rocket. And there was a
pause and a hush as the band members organised themselves,
arranging scores, making themselves comfortable, fiddling with
electronic bits and bobs. Apple laptops glowed waking from sleep
mode.
<p>
And then a beat and a rhythm, which quickly rushed into focus and
tore around the room like a cloud of locusts devouring the
villagers grain supply.
<p>
An assortment of noises ply upon ply. Clicks and clacks and beats
and bumps. Sitting and basking in the extreme-summer heat, the
cicada rests on the spear point of Athena and sings loudly, while
we gather in parks and bars and cafes and clubs and schools and
law courts and sing endlessly. Kalahari computer tenderhearted
Khoisan sounds vie with simple stick on wood sound in the noisy
emporium.
<p>
Indeed I am mesmerised by the flashing drum stick cutting the
dense smoking air. And the bass drum sound surged like a crashing
wave on the sea side shore, and the bass vibrations made the
hairs on my dance, and made my insides move and squish.
<p>
No lyrics, no singing, bar some half heard sounds which may or
may not have been speech. Wide varying smoke and light constant
changing and intersecting, a sixth member of the group. No
interaction with the audience. Just the five perched like the
singing cicadas on the spear point never smiling, always grim
focused. Only the layered texture of sounds. And I turned over in
my mind, thinking to myself about the various ways and roads of
freedom. Some can find freedom in precision, other in
improvisation. And as abrupt as that the show was over.
<p>
Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-22058860038773401892014-01-17T14:25:00.001+11:002014-01-20T00:58:40.204+11:00The Enchantress of Numbers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ2syYVgVzSr-URflaVZ-0IehwZsyV6A3Zi9bxnJvzw0ssH07vVX91ItisRcylpcaQnHhZub5oLP5GIkKQHBkb-1WA3Q44hKsoh7kx9txYk0V5sk-tuZdAKA6LZvT13u-R40hUwuO4OB8S/s1600/ada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ2syYVgVzSr-URflaVZ-0IehwZsyV6A3Zi9bxnJvzw0ssH07vVX91ItisRcylpcaQnHhZub5oLP5GIkKQHBkb-1WA3Q44hKsoh7kx9txYk0V5sk-tuZdAKA6LZvT13u-R40hUwuO4OB8S/s320/ada.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>The Enchantress of Numbers <br>
Princess of Parallelograms <br></b>
<pre>
with Ada.Text_IO; use Ada.Text_IO;
procedure Hello is
begin
Put_Line ("Hello WORLD!");
end Hello;
</pre> <br>
The ancient Greek smithy god Hephaestus built tripods that would aid him in this work. With the Ada Project Conrad Shawcross takes this one step further, in that he has made a tripod which aids in generating inspiration. Conrad Shawcross and Ken Farmer designed and built a five metre high robot arm that when programmed will trace intricate mathematical designs and three dimensional shapes. The large metal arm can stretch out, and never tiring, never forgetting repeating the dance shape over and over ad infinitum.
<p>
The name of this project comes from the Ada Lovelace the Victorian pioneer of the general purpose computer. Extending the idea of the Jacquard card Ada and her colleague Charles Babbage designed an 'analytical engine' that could solve equations. An early type of computer. Ada Lovelace went on to write the first computer program. This program calculated Bernoulli numbers. She was able however to see that with the ability to write and store programs on cards the engine could perform a great many tasks, saying “The Analytical Engine weaves algebraic patterns, just as the Jacquard loom weaves flowers and leaves.”
<p>
The Ada Project has given us a machine which weaves inspiration. A hypnotic machine that moves and sways through three dimensional space producing a specific pattern. A bright light is attached to the robot arm. This allows the movements to be captured on film, showing the completed shape. This moving light casts strange ebbing and flowing shadows as the robot dances.
<p>
Composers were invited to live with and immerse themselves in the choreography of the robot arm. Composing a piece of music for a binary dance. The result was the world premier of four short scores to compliment and interpret the jerky grace of the robot.
<p>
From a slow sinuous glacial arc to the soaring purity of the soprano voice, each piece was an attempt to interpret the splines made. Each response as unique as the robot actions are controlled.
<p>
Beatrice Dillion & Rupert Clervaux built up a percussive tachycardia crescendo combining recursive (F(n) = F(n − 1) + F(n − 2)) recordings of the re-imagined welding robot working with drum with piano with harpsichord.
<p>
Holly Herndan found a different, more alien sounding palette, making a science fiction sound which tumbled a jumble of falling down sort of rhythm beat and half heard phrases carried by the wind.
<p>
Tamara & Mylo combined voice and machine to explore the incurable cancer laudanum hallucinations of the last years of Ada Lovelace's short, unhappy, exhilarating, visionary life. Hallucinating the ecstasy of number.
<p>
Mira Calix explored the tension arising from the machine being able to do only what it is told and no more, and our dreamy desire to make a machine that can surprise, or enjoy strawberries & cream. This poem was sung by soprano Teresa Duddy.
<p>
The machine whirs and comes to life the arm swings up, the great noontide, and the arms swings down singing an end of the day song. The machines moves casting steel shadows on the walls. The clouds chase the sun across the beach.
<p>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-40030363482952637542014-01-17T14:10:00.001+11:002014-01-17T14:12:50.648+11:00Sun Ra<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2G6enR-Kftm7S1Y8FqiusPIkPGnaDWB_xnnhXSFWTGh4TiYyBNOngt40phykMil1_-vu_Rghd9wyOoIlFHcY4DNsiiIRyQZkQWZB0BNX9kbeMMPcY847Xoi6em4Y4vlKAZ5aUOIcbXGQd/s1600/1554509_10151825659636957_402599601_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2G6enR-Kftm7S1Y8FqiusPIkPGnaDWB_xnnhXSFWTGh4TiYyBNOngt40phykMil1_-vu_Rghd9wyOoIlFHcY4DNsiiIRyQZkQWZB0BNX9kbeMMPcY847Xoi6em4Y4vlKAZ5aUOIcbXGQd/s320/1554509_10151825659636957_402599601_n.jpg" /></a></div>
A large chunk of the country sweltered in a merciless heat wave, fruit bats and possums falling dead from trees. The RAN fired across the bow of a boat carrying desperate refugees. In was in this background that I went to see the Sun Ra Arkestra on the first night of the 2014 MONA FOMA festival.
<p>
Beautiful warm high summer evening I went down to an old wharf reclaimed warehouse on reclaimed from the sea Hunter Street. Having seen Sun Ra once many years ago -- sometime last century -- and knowing what to expect, I was still blown away by the joy, by the sonic oscillation, by the wild fire jazz bebop rave burning free across interplanetary space. The juxtaposed rhythms, chaos of vibrating space.
<p>
And as I was driving home, I was struck by the beauty of the moon reflecting off the waves. The Sun endlessly explodes and flames, radiating heat and light and all manner of energy. After seven minutes or so these expanding wave vibrations bounce off and make the moon glow. And the light then falls the surging endless wave upon wave of the lagoon. The light strikes sensitive cells in my eyes and is then relayed, in a effort to make sense, to my brain.
<p>
And so with Sun Ra Arkestra. This cold, empty, outer space depth of an idea struck me as a way to make sense of the band. Sun Ra used to speak of being transported to the planet Saturn. This transportation is the unifying idea for the band. Sum Ra created, and the Arkestra continues this science fiction mythos as a theme for their performances. This is seen in the Eygptian flavored space age customs, in lyrics which sing of other worlds and dimensions, of interplanetary harmony. And when they play the music rolls and swirls and bounces around and at times is reinforced to make bigger and stronger waves, while at other times the sound is undercutting and making stationary waves. Sound rises from the vibrations and mingles to bring forth new sounds that have never been played. These future echoes come to life and fall away.
<p>
Horns sounded, drums and piano and guitar and bass and an assortment of voices filled the hall. The audience swayed and danced and clapped along. The band encouraged the audience to become part of the band, part of sound, part of the cosmic harmony. The band played the Hobart Blues and I closed my eyes and swayed and dreamt down, dirty, ballsy Chicago brothel blues. Strippers glistening in the light half covered by feather boas, pasties blinking reflected diamonte crystals. In my reverie it was appropriate for the Arkestra to play “When You Wish Upon a Star,” as music, like dreams, builds our desires from the void, melting them away in an instant. And I thought that if Finnegans Wake is the book of the night, the book of dreams, then Sun Ra Arkestra is the song of the night, a vast endless soundtrack to dreaming.
<p>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-35617832936081297552014-01-12T18:42:00.000+11:002014-01-12T18:42:34.335+11:00Mimesis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZirI_0r2jWPtgb5uHYDFAJ1PDXQT3Y0mm1ILlO7yezGo4mviEGJto1nBPISsviPvzF9V4-3pIn7BgyLMP_rG-AMX92cW1ngJpv5XEQc5XdNPj0-u77KE4xAtiYgilTChgcfBeHjpSbRO/s1600/heat-wave1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZirI_0r2jWPtgb5uHYDFAJ1PDXQT3Y0mm1ILlO7yezGo4mviEGJto1nBPISsviPvzF9V4-3pIn7BgyLMP_rG-AMX92cW1ngJpv5XEQc5XdNPj0-u77KE4xAtiYgilTChgcfBeHjpSbRO/s400/heat-wave1.JPG" /></a></div>
<br><hr><br>
Driving the heat wave afternoon <br>
Shimmering highway false lake <br>
The pitiless sun fades the paddocks <br>
Cows stand in the Iron Creek, <br>
Like grandparents at the beach. <br>
<p>
Distorting angles and images <br>
Upside down <br>
And it is up to <br>
The viewer <br>
Observer <br>
Car driver <br>
To make sense... <br>
Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-77636906131422310352014-01-05T17:32:00.003+11:002014-01-05T17:32:59.528+11:00Paraklausithyron<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICB2QJo7BgTE9TVxIyYVjDm2xf6hsyOUcTRy96tXok3PJ1x24EShjDuIurCm3hvjnOel21tyf3sMi8icbmV6MZdaHcbNJqSwyCGttkjT44r2JOkWJ5wX1dDrDitR12nXWM0kJs3k_P2wV/s1600/callimachus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICB2QJo7BgTE9TVxIyYVjDm2xf6hsyOUcTRy96tXok3PJ1x24EShjDuIurCm3hvjnOel21tyf3sMi8icbmV6MZdaHcbNJqSwyCGttkjT44r2JOkWJ5wX1dDrDitR12nXWM0kJs3k_P2wV/s320/callimachus.jpg" /></a></div>
<br><hr><br>
<a href="http://tolweb.org/Walvisteuthis">Callimachus</a>: Epigram 64 <br>
A lament at the door ( <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paraklausithyron">paraklausithyron</a> ). <br>
<br><hr><br>
So may you sleep, Konopion. <br>
You force me to <br>
Keep watch all night <br>
On this chilly porch <br>
Outside your door. <br>
<p>
So may you sleep, most stubborn one, <br>
And your lover you put to rest. <br>
You do not come close to pity, <br>
Not even in a dream. <br>
<p>
The neighbours take pity on me. <br>
But you, not even in a dream. <br>
<p>
Soon your hair will grow grey <br>
And you will recall <br>
All of this. <br>
<p>
Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490677680131336766.post-78873215262272631092013-12-22T22:49:00.000+11:002013-12-22T22:49:21.364+11:00Sou’easter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXC2vXkgFmTKO8qsp5wQKPWimPF3oRlumkKAvAm8P8OaXSktDomC4_eO4C_r1fBCzxoIZwcATJjG9ewaQInj-a0gj-Q4GGhM3K0d2CHxtrmLJoEMh1o9gVtRBp9zWbUMEXeWQf9FmAtreb/s1600/FEET.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXC2vXkgFmTKO8qsp5wQKPWimPF3oRlumkKAvAm8P8OaXSktDomC4_eO4C_r1fBCzxoIZwcATJjG9ewaQInj-a0gj-Q4GGhM3K0d2CHxtrmLJoEMh1o9gVtRBp9zWbUMEXeWQf9FmAtreb/s320/FEET.JPG" /></a></div>
<br><hr><br>
<p>
Three days windy rain. <br>
Three days rainy wind. <br>
Leaf twig stripping. <br>
Wave crest spindrift. <br>
Foam gathers dirty the strand <br>
Battered of wind and rain days. <br>
Crashing sea spray and salt <br>
Thin covers cars and houses. <br>
<p>
Rain and wind <br>
Rattling windows <br>
Tin night roof drumming <br>
Dreaming. I am disturbed. <br>
Roused sleep, broken branches, <br>
Troubling dreams. <br>
My child <br>
My ten year old son dead. <br>
On the street. His face bruised, <br>
So much so I can not tell <br>
Him, save by his feet. <br>
<p>
It seems. So real. <br>
My heart races. <br>
My gut heaves <br>
I feel ill. <br>
Retching reaching <br>
Stumbling stairs. <br>
I can not sleep. <br>
I listen his <br>
Ten year old <br>
Reassuring rhythmic <br>
Sleep breathing. <br>
<p>
Chamomile tea <br>
To sleep settle. <br>
I close my eyes <br>
That image <br>
Again and again. <br>
I see. <br>
Again the image. <br>
<p>
A book. Maybe. <br>
Read to nod. <br>
Dozing off. Sleep. <br>
Diverting mind <br>
Void restless <br>
Away false powers. <br>
The dark cloudy night <br>
Howls moonless. <br>
Swaying dancing <br>
Trees lash the roof. <br>
Cracking creaking <br>
Sounds of stress. <br>
Leaves and branches <br>
Scatter the garden. <br>
Gather the garden. <br>
<p>Tomás Ó Conghalaigh 17/09/1960-13/10/2014http://www.blogger.com/profile/12055136206499617221noreply@blogger.com0