There's a love poem by Pablo Neruda called, Your Feet. It is simplistic in nature; observing and paying homage to the beauty found in the everyday, romantic but not to cliched.
Most people think the foot is an atrocious-looking thing - sometimes they look bent, or squished. Some people have remnants of nail polish from last summer; some more susceptible to rock-hard heels that create Mt. Deadskin during visits to the pedicurist. Some feet have a whole head of hair.
Neruda wrote:
"...But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me."
As summer approaches with its artillery of heat and stank, the feet, if not bound by the airy straps of flip flops, will begin to sweat. It's true.
More often than not, when you attend a public screening of something - a show, movie, or performance - there's always that one person who's out there to give you the good ol' heebeegeebees. I've encountered a few of these in my time.
There's the man with the coughing fit sitting next to you with the inability to close his mouth. You can see his spit, flying out of his mouth. Even worst still if the cough is coming from behind you because then you know, the spit's landing on your head.
April 07, 2013
November 24, 2010
What does a porn star, beard exhibition and hair removal have in common?
Quite to not so recently, I interviewed Angela White (porn star and candidate for the Australian Sex Party), curator of the Town Hall Gallery's Beardo Exhibition, and musical director of Hair Removal the Musical. So, they have nothing in common at all... except in my mind.
I interview people a lot - and I love it. With everyone I speak to, I always learn something new. At times frivolous, at others, mind-blowing, but every single time - fascinating, mostly attributed to my being fascinated very easily.
I interview people a lot - and I love it. With everyone I speak to, I always learn something new. At times frivolous, at others, mind-blowing, but every single time - fascinating, mostly attributed to my being fascinated very easily.
Bill Viola: The Raft + Humanity
Late, late post:
After a good handful of Melbourne Art Festival shows, it is visual artist Bill Viola's The Raft that gets my vote for best show of the festival. In fact, the visual artwork could well be one of the most memorable artworks I've seen this year.
The Raft is Viola's interpretation of French painter, Théodore Géricault's The Raft of the Medusa which documented the shipwreck of the French naval brigade, Méduse.
Recorded using high-speed film but played in slow motion, a group of everyday men and women of all ethnic backgrounds slowly walk into a minimalist space. As they enter, each are absorbed in their own world, standing amongst other strangers listening to music, staring out into space - not interacting with one another. They squeeze past and through each other for a place in the space, before standing still - some barely shifting to make room for newcomers.
It's a snapshot of a scene you can find on any mode of public transport.
Suddenly - and without warning - a powerful jet of water from an unknown source crashes into the group of strangers from either side of the screen. The potency of the water is enough to send some crashing to the ground, displacing them from their initial standing position. Chaos consumes the once static atmosphere as each copes with the disaster.
The havoc created is significantly heart-wrenching. The artwork targets the audience's compassion. It has recreated the feelings we get from watching disasters from around the world - whether on the news or in real life - it is witnessing the suffering of others and the feelings of helplessness.
In the end sequence of The Raft, we see the aftermath of the destruction felt by the characters in the video. Once strangers, they begin to interact with one another; helping the fallen get up, holding each other, lending a hand to the injured. The fact that the video installation is mostly silent with the exception of weak cries of distress makes the visuals that much more effective. In this section of The Raft, we witness humanity - the notion that not only should we care for one another, but that we often do.
Despite the confronting images of The Raft, it is mostly a hopeful piece. But underlying it all is a certain sad and distressing train of thought. The juxtaposition of detachment between the strangers at the start, and later, their interaction only reiterates the fact that we are all connected. Sadly, the connection in this artwork is disaster. Why is it that only in catastrophe we come together?
After a good handful of Melbourne Art Festival shows, it is visual artist Bill Viola's The Raft that gets my vote for best show of the festival. In fact, the visual artwork could well be one of the most memorable artworks I've seen this year.
The Raft is Viola's interpretation of French painter, Théodore Géricault's The Raft of the Medusa which documented the shipwreck of the French naval brigade, Méduse.
Recorded using high-speed film but played in slow motion, a group of everyday men and women of all ethnic backgrounds slowly walk into a minimalist space. As they enter, each are absorbed in their own world, standing amongst other strangers listening to music, staring out into space - not interacting with one another. They squeeze past and through each other for a place in the space, before standing still - some barely shifting to make room for newcomers.
It's a snapshot of a scene you can find on any mode of public transport.
Suddenly - and without warning - a powerful jet of water from an unknown source crashes into the group of strangers from either side of the screen. The potency of the water is enough to send some crashing to the ground, displacing them from their initial standing position. Chaos consumes the once static atmosphere as each copes with the disaster.
The havoc created is significantly heart-wrenching. The artwork targets the audience's compassion. It has recreated the feelings we get from watching disasters from around the world - whether on the news or in real life - it is witnessing the suffering of others and the feelings of helplessness.
In the end sequence of The Raft, we see the aftermath of the destruction felt by the characters in the video. Once strangers, they begin to interact with one another; helping the fallen get up, holding each other, lending a hand to the injured. The fact that the video installation is mostly silent with the exception of weak cries of distress makes the visuals that much more effective. In this section of The Raft, we witness humanity - the notion that not only should we care for one another, but that we often do.
Despite the confronting images of The Raft, it is mostly a hopeful piece. But underlying it all is a certain sad and distressing train of thought. The juxtaposition of detachment between the strangers at the start, and later, their interaction only reiterates the fact that we are all connected. Sadly, the connection in this artwork is disaster. Why is it that only in catastrophe we come together?
The Raft is currently being exhibited at Melbourne's ACMI till the 10th of February 2011
October 17, 2010
Review: Adapting For Distortion & Haptic
Adapting For Distortion & Haptic, Hiroaki Umeda
Hiroaki Umeda's Adapting For Distortion and Haptic is anti-narrative. The contemporary dance and lighting performance, it is said, expresses no (intellectual) storyline or message - it is quite simply just a visual spectacular.
The show is composed of two distinct solo works - Distortion and Haptic, both lasting just under 30-minutes long. Where Distortion is more invasive; Haptic is beautiful - a staggering contrast and juxtaposition creating a stunning and vastly unique piece of performance art.
Toyko-based Umeda is a sound artist, dancer, choreographer, and founded the company, S20. Showing as part of the Melbourne Arts Festival 2010, Adapting For Distortion and Haptic is an experience in all sense of the word.
Umeda' choreography is hip-hop influenced - he is a master of isolation; popping, locking, waving to a soundtrack akin to white noise in the first half of his performance, Distortion. The lighting work, conceived by S20, is as much a lively performer as Umeda is, and creates a hi-tech, space-like feel, and illusions of perspectives.
Whilst it is a solo work, Distortion is more aptly described as a tango, or a pair's dance piece with Umeda partnering up with the lighting. His timing is impeccable; at times ceasing all movement just as the dancing lights reach a static position. At other times, the lighting seems to control the dancer, bending and shaping him alongside the stop-and-start, non-melodious music. Just as the lighting sometimes controls him, Umeda's dancing ability possesses the remarkable skill to create the illusion of also controlling the lights.
Hip hop is the perfect dance to pair up with such a performance. Here, Umeda is a shape-shifter; he moves from fluidity to hyper-controllled motions, to stillness - one memorable part of the show saw the dancer perform a kind of abstract krumping movement, launching his body in a controlled yet mind-baffling, awe-inspiring great speed, as the sound heightened in volume and distortion.
Haptic, on the other hand, is more subtle. The artist re-enters the stage dressed in black (previously in white). The stage is bathed with soothing, much softer light - changing from blue, to red, to green. Haptic (the word) denotes the relationship of touch. In this interview with Umeda, he says: "It was my desire to transmit dance to the audience as an object touching eyes."(Beat Magazine).
Here, the lighting is less invasive and frames the focus towards the dancer and his movements. The soundtrack remains the same - the by-product of what sounds like radio interference meets experimental electronica.
Haptic showcases what the body can do. The choreography evokes more of a caressing feel - many times during this solo performance Umeda remains still in a pose. The movements are articulate, conveying balance and control, and the eyes are left to wonder the form of his dance, with little distraction from the lighting.
Adapting For Distortion and Haptic presents lighting as a tool to enhance the movements of the body. It highlights, climaxes, amplifies and compliments the choreography in which the dancer abides by. If you ever get the chance, catch the show, though be warned, there is loud music and strobe lighting.
(Season closed)
What comes first, the vision or the concept?
Does art always have to convey an intellectual concept? Should it have a hidden message, reflect life or bring awareness to a particular social/political/whatever issue?
I remember asking an artist friend about what comes first - the visual or the conceptual? Is an artwork more credible if first, a concept drives its execution? I recall my art student friends, weeks before an assignment was due, rushing to complete their conceptual diaries/scrapbooks, even though the artworks themselves were already fully formed and complete. It was very much the case of, "Now, what pictures can I cut out that'll fit the artwork I'm about to present to show that I have thought about its process?".
My artist friend sheepishly admitted that his latest public performance piece was first derived as a visual idea. Quite simply, he thought it would look pretty. The nature of that artwork was indeed, beautiful, but it also benefited from having just enough mysteriousness and quirkiness. I would even go as far as saying the performance was cryptic. However, in saying so, aren't I just trying to find meaning in a piece of work where really (and admittedly) it was inspired sans intellectual concept? In other words, there was no meaning behind it per se (as conceived by the artist), therefore does this necessarily mean no meaning can be derived from the artwork?
The next question is: Is a piece of art less credible because it lacks a depth beyond its visual aesthetic? As an audience member, do we try too hard to find meaning in art?
Which brings me to Hiroaki Umeda's Adapting for Distortion & Haptic
Speed Reviewing: Life Without Me
Life Without Me, Daniel Keene
This was my first Daniel Keene experience - a renowned, multi-awarding winning playwright responsible for such works as, To Whom This May Concern and The Nightwatchman (coming soon to Melbourne) - and boy was it superb!
The play, which made its world premier at the Melbourne Arts Festival 2010, follows seven endearing lost souls who meet at a shabby, rundown hotel lobby. The set, designed by Dale Ferguson is realistic in style - in fact, it's pretty much an exact replica of what you'd imagine a sterile looking lobby to look like. It comes with a 'working' lift, rotating doors and real rain, and is the meeting place for the characters.
My review is here; this is more of an after thought.
The characters in the play are stuck - metaphorically and literally speaking. Though they are plagued by their own unique issues, they all share the common symptom of feeling as if their lives have gone on without them. Life Without Me is rich in allegory - from the witty dialogue, to the 'in-between' nature of hotel lobbies ("la salle des pas perdus"), to the characters believing that they are literally unable to leave the hotel, as if it were some sort of whirlpool that sucks them in.
The first thing that came to mind was The Wizard of Oz when Glinda tells Doherty that she could've always gone home. This notion is also something that is discussed in the movie, Girl, Interrupted. In Life Without Me, the question, "Will they ever leave the hotel?" is a recurrent theme. So is the question, "Can they make it back home?" just as we asked whether Doherty could find her way out of Oz, or whether Susanna Kaysen of Girl, Interrupted could ever leave the psyche-ward.
Beyond the surface, the concept explores our ability to resolve our own issues, as only then are we able to really move on. The Tin Man grows a heart, the Cowardly Lion, bravery, and the Scarecrow, a brain. Before then, we are stuck, lost between somewhere and nowhere. Indeed it is true that we can always return home, but certain measures have to be performed if we are broken. For if we are fractured and unable to move forward, how can we even begin our journey home?
Venue: Melbourne Theatre Company, Southbank Boulevard
Dates: Till October 23rd
Tickets: Here
October 14, 2010
Ranters Theatre's Intimacy & Train Girl
Not long before going to watch Ranters Theatre's Intimacy, I was telling my dear baba (who loves stories) a story.
Breaking the fourth wall, Lum enters the stage and sets the scene: during a particularly lonely period of time, Lum felt the need to talk to someone. Instead of contacting friends or family, he decided to take to the streets and spark up conversations with total strangers. The show, rich in dialogue, then proceeds in re-enactment mode, showcasing the conversations Lum had with a string of quirky characters he encountered during this period of time.
I'm not going to go into too much detail about what I thought of the show - if you want to know, go here. But what the production did was provoke reflection, as it, itself, reflected a very special and unique aspect of life.
Intimacy reminded me of the story I told baba about a girl named Wyndham.
I met Wyndham at a university I attended. I had just been stung by a bee and was sitting in the waiting room of the university's surgery. Wyndham was there also. I don't remember how we got to talking, but do recall not saying much at all. Wyndham had that American sensibility - bubbly, chatty and fun to listen to.
Wyndham loved trains. Almost immediately after our respective brief, courteous introductions, her eyes lit up and she talked about trains. She spoke about trains for almost an hour and I listened.
Now, I like trains, i.e. I like riding on them and I believe most people find this quite enjoyable also. But Wyndham loved trains.
Wyndham loves:
Almost every time I'm on a train, I think about Wyndham. I never saw her again after our chat. I also never thought of keeping in touch with her. I think sometimes we know who will stay in our lives, and who won't.
I do wonder sometimes if Wyndham is somewhere, cooped up in a control panel of a train station, shifting a lever, maybe somewhere in New York where they say, people go to make their dreams come true. Above all, wherever she is, whatever she may be, I do hope that Wyndham still loves trains.
Intimacy, showing as part of the Melbourne Arts Festival, is a show based on the intimate moments one can share with total strangers, and the premise that only strangers can reveal who we really are. (Written by Raimondo Cortese, directed by Adriano Cortese, and devised by and starring Paul Lum, Beth Buchanan, and Patrick Moffatt.)
Breaking the fourth wall, Lum enters the stage and sets the scene: during a particularly lonely period of time, Lum felt the need to talk to someone. Instead of contacting friends or family, he decided to take to the streets and spark up conversations with total strangers. The show, rich in dialogue, then proceeds in re-enactment mode, showcasing the conversations Lum had with a string of quirky characters he encountered during this period of time.
I'm not going to go into too much detail about what I thought of the show - if you want to know, go here. But what the production did was provoke reflection, as it, itself, reflected a very special and unique aspect of life.
Intimacy reminded me of the story I told baba about a girl named Wyndham.
I met Wyndham at a university I attended. I had just been stung by a bee and was sitting in the waiting room of the university's surgery. Wyndham was there also. I don't remember how we got to talking, but do recall not saying much at all. Wyndham had that American sensibility - bubbly, chatty and fun to listen to.
Wyndham loved trains. Almost immediately after our respective brief, courteous introductions, her eyes lit up and she talked about trains. She spoke about trains for almost an hour and I listened.
Now, I like trains, i.e. I like riding on them and I believe most people find this quite enjoyable also. But Wyndham loved trains.
Wyndham loves:
- Sitting on trains. During one trip to New York, she rode round and round on the subway, without a destination.
- The sound of trains. The apartment she was living in at the time we spoke overlooked a train track. She had chosen this property because she enjoyed lying in bed and listening to trains go by.
- The seats on a train.
- Trains.
- The control panel of a train station. She once saw a man shift a lever that changed the direction of a train track. She said that one day she would like to have a job like that, or anything to do with trains.
- Riding on trains. Her favourite birthday/birthday present was a long train ride with her friends and family.
- Trains.
- New York. Because of the subway.
Almost every time I'm on a train, I think about Wyndham. I never saw her again after our chat. I also never thought of keeping in touch with her. I think sometimes we know who will stay in our lives, and who won't.
I do wonder sometimes if Wyndham is somewhere, cooped up in a control panel of a train station, shifting a lever, maybe somewhere in New York where they say, people go to make their dreams come true. Above all, wherever she is, whatever she may be, I do hope that Wyndham still loves trains.
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