earthstar decay

The rain has brought the fungi. The diversity of those living in our small patch of garden and nearby is extraordinary! Most recently discovered is an Earthstar (Geastrum pectinatum) right outside the front door. A round shell of tissue splits open along lines of longitude forming a multi-pointed star with a spherical centre that (apparently) contains the spores. I am waiting for rain drops to cause this to explode in a puff.

Dozens and dozens of shaggy ink caps are forming miniature castles before distintegrating into the telltale black goo that sticks to your shoes if you inadvertantly brush past one. A huge mushroom (well, it was perhaps 10 inches in diameter) sprang from the mulch, no doubt growing on the remaining roots of a recently removed tree. It was tempting to BBQ it but I am no expert at identifying these things and don't wish to end my days writhing in pain from a toxin-laden winter's supper! In a nearby garden perhaps a dozen Fly Amanita, the infamous red toadstools with white spots, form a garden fit for a faery rave. Winter is a terrific time to be looking at your feet. True, the wildflowers are in hiding, but their "opposites" are well worth investigating. As always, decay and beauty go hand in hand. Nature's amazing organisms provide the ultimate display of ingenuity and diversity.

ricky swallow

I had no preconceptions about what I would see at Ricky Swallow and was thrilled by what was there. The only downside to the exhibition was that there wasn't enough of it!

Despite appearances, the work at left, Peugeot Taipian, Commemorative Model (Discontinued Line), PVC Pipe, Plastic Sheeting, epoxy, 1999 scale 1:1 (photo by Kenneth Pleban) only just came to my attention a moment ago and wasn't what drew me to the exhibition. In fact, this work wasn't in the exhibition at the NGV Ian Potter Centre. Instead, The Bricoleur exhibition contained a fascinating collection of non-cycling related wood carvings, bronze sculptures and some works on paper. The carvings in particular were spectacular investments of time and energy and evidence that the craft of art-making is held in high esteem by some. A 1:1 scale dining table still-life, littered with seafood and other astonishing adornments was the largest and most striking evidence of this fact, but not my favourite...

The signature image of the exhibition was Tusk (2007), two disembodied, skeletal arms, their hands clasped as they hang naturally from the wall as if on a shared stroll. I didn't mourn for the long-since decomposed couple, whoever they were. They seemed content to wander throughout eternity in this bizarre form. The work improves upon the arrangements of bones I have seen around the European tourist sites (such as the Sedlec ossuary in the Czech Republic). It takes the human fascination with mortality and twists it out of range of those who would terrify followers with threats of hell. So often in Italy for instance are the churches scattered with momento mori of similarly bony form, yet what seems to be an opposite message.

Fig 1. (2008) was a naturally finished wood carving of a skull wrapped in something that might have been brown paper. It reminded me at once of my lunch and a museum artefact wrapped for storage in a musty drawer. Without the wall-plaque it was not obvious what was hidden within the paper wrapping... a mystery object that, perhaps would have been more interesting left unspecified. The wood lost its solidity. I expected it would make un-crumpling sounds if I touched it.

The bronze Caravan (2008) was a great idea... barnacles growing on balloons. But the choice of material didn't work for me. It said nothing about balloons' vulnerability or their short lifespans. In fact they hardly felt like balloons at all.

Unbroken Ways (for Derek Bailey) (2006) was a free-floating arm, hanging limply down the wall. While the bronze balloons didn't work at all, from a distance, the texture of the wood in this piece was so gently carved and texturally reminiscent of flesh that I had to look twice to be sure of what I was seeing. Although a slightly different pose, the limb hangs in a way strongly reminiscent of that belonging to the freshly murdered Marat in the famous work by Jacques Louis David (1793). Swallow's work was really beautiful in this case. The arm appeared to possess a pulse. Had it reached out towards me as I left the gallery I would not have been surprised.

on old age and evel knievel

A couple of days ago, Richard Hammond Meets Evel Knievel screened on local TV. Like Hammond, I had played with the Evel Knievel fly-wheel driven motorcycle as a kid. Perhaps I still have some bits of it lying around. I knew little of the man himself, having invested most of my childhood days jumping pedal-powered bikes off dangerous concrete landings and dirt piles, rather than watching motorcycles hop cars and buses. Still, I switched on to have a look...

Evel was frail and very ill. He sucked on his oxygen mask unhealthily as he was driven around his small-town American home and asked to reminisce about footage of him crashing and injuring himself. Strangely enough, Evel reminded me of Frank Booth, the bizarre and frightening character from Blue Velvet. The hovering body guards, the unpredictable turns in Evel's demeanour, these radiated unease. It was as if the whole situation would turn violent at any moment. It didn't seem like Evel ever really got along with Hammond and the most pertinent questions often went unanswered. All the same, his character (well, at least two characters) came through. Perhaps Evel was too concerned with his own health at the time to take to the British interviewer. This is hardly surprising given that Evel had suffered a stroke just a couple of days before.

I found much else unusual about this documentary also. The way Evel hovered between being "the legend" and the reality of his current existence was unsettling. Certain triggers caused him to roll out the old bravado, whilst others seated him firmly in his past and present woes.

Why is it that former celebrities seem convinced that they mustn't "let their fans down"? This is a common remark made by today's elite cyclists as they are suspended for doping infringements and led tearfully to waiting cars. Hammond's wander around Evel's town during a festival of bike stunts revealed to me the extent to which some of the locals idolised their fallen and broken-boned angel. Or was this only the kids who never grew up? Did the true youngsters really care about this man? Could they reconcile his appearance with the daredevil their parents insisted he had been? Without him their town would be just one of thousands. Evel was the icon that put them on the international map... long, long ago, before many of these childrens' parents had themselves been born.

"Jump for Jesus"!? A modern Knight Templar and former bodyguard of Evel, dressed in white with giant red crosses emblazoned on his bike and leathers jumped through a flaming board. The announcer on the P.A. claimed it was something to do with Jesus and Satan. He was so earnest. The Knight's followers were so serious and were moved to tears by his words. For them, this was a religious experience. As a viewer from far away, this was a chance to see the U.S. of A. in all its technicolour glory.

"Live for your dreams", proclaimed Evel near the conclusion of the show. Quite likely his own poor health prevented him from dreaming too far in advance. Nevertheless, he had prepared his own tombstone. This of course is the limit point for the dreams of those who don't cherish anything that carries on without them. His last dream was to be buried in the middle of town, the centre of attention at least in this tiny location, so far from the centre of anywhere.

the death of j.g. ballard

Crash. Until I'd read Ballard's book, I had no idea twisted metal, burning plastic and shattered bones could be considered by anybody to be erotic. I remember diving into the text on a flight home from Canada 15 years ago. The air hostess thought I was reading about aeroplane crashes... "Ahhh. Ummm. No. Actually the book is about sex in car accidents." I think that stunned her. She didn't pose any more questions apart from those she was paid to ask. "Tea or coffee?"

"J.G. Ballard died of cancer on the 19th August, aged 78", I read over my morning toast. The first thing that sprang to mind was Crash. Then by chance my eyes fell upon the water level indicator on the front page of the paper and a vague memory of The Drought returned... people travelling miles across barren salt plains created by desalination plants to capture sea-water with paddles and sweep it homewards... it has been a long time since I read this book. Concrete Island is fresher in my mind... an architect becomes trapped in a concrete space between freeway lanes. Unable to escape, he spends days, then weeks in the company of a couple of other outcasts who call the tiny island in urban hell their home. Shades here of one of my favourite books, Kobo Abe's The Woman in the Dunes. Ballard was that kind of writer.

I only know a half dozen of Ballard's books, but of those, I'd call Crash and Concrete Island "great" works of disturbing fiction. His comments on human psychology, the bizarre but believable views he takes towards humankind's future and that of our planet, all ensure I am saddened by his passing.

fungus spore acceleration

The acceleration record for an airborne natural system is not held by a cheetah, nor a flea. According to this video from New Scientist it is held by a fungus spore. Some fungi live in cow manure and need to be ingested by a herbivore to propagate. The spores therefore eject themselves from the dung at 25 m/s (90 km/hr). In a second from launch they travel 1,000,000 times their own body length! With acceleration like that, a Melbournian getting out of bed in the morning could expect to find himself in Brisbane before he had completely put on his slippers. Its quite amazing the stuff that comes out of dung if you take the time to look.

colour and pain II

As I flicked through some travel photos from a few years ago, I note that I inadvertently photographed Bartholomew, a Christian saint who was flayed alive, as illustrated in vibrant colour by Michelangelo on the wall of the Sistine Chapel. Bartholomew is pictured holding his own skin as he ascends to heaven. He doesn't look as horrific as one might expect for a person just flayed. In fact he has regrown his original skin and carries his old one like a winter coat. One weird thing about the image is that Michelangelo apparently painted his self-portrait into the flayed skin as some kind of protest about the way he and his art were being treated by the priesthood... no nude saints on the walls of the Sistine Chapel thanks! What did the priests think of all of the ancient Roman statues I wonder?

This ghastly event (flaying I mean, not nudity or painting) links neatly with a Ted.com talk by Steven Pinker on violence and another by Daniel Goleman on compassion. Firstly, Pinker gives a reasonable argument that even taking into account the current conflicts and violence, overall the world is now a much less violent place than it has been in the past. For instance, flaying might still occur in some countries, but this is no longer the norm. Seldom are people executed or de-limbed for small misdemeanors as they might have been in the past. In some countries you can still suffer torture and internment for speaking out against the government. But we in the developed world are made aware of this often by the media. It sticks in our minds. We notice and sometimes complain.

Goleman explains his belief that empathy and compassion are intrinsic parts of being human. We are hard-wired this way. Sometimes though we are so concerned with our own circumstances, even if it is just that we are running late for an appointment, that we forget to switch on empathy for those who might be right in front of us. He feels that if we allow ourselves to be this self-centered we are not being as human as we might.

So, it sounds like I am preaching a sermon here. But all of this investigation led me via a strange route to discover a website with photographs of an execution by quartering. The site shows a long series of black and white photographs that were shot in Beijing, 1905 and distributed as picture postcards! Can you believe it? The first time I discovered the site I could not bring myself to look in detail at the images or captions. I have just done so. The fact that the images are black and white makes the whole scene more macabre and less like the anatomy texts I have been perusing lately. It takes on an unreal quality about it until one flicks the "empathy" switch. With this engaged I feel sick to the stomach. I won't link to the site from here. I can only guess that the hoards of onlookers at the execution must have had their empathy firmly planted at the back of their brains. These images are no "Bartholomew on his way to heaven". Their stark reality would really have been something for the priesthood to get upset about. Perhaps a few less religious wars, inquisitions and torture sessions might have benefited the world.

The surgeon cuts and repairs. The torturer cuts and destroys.

middle-class ruins

My favourite suburban architecture is the "middle-class ruin". There are a few gems around although they are becoming scarce as developers take hold. Once lovely weather-board homes have been left to fade in middle-class leafy streets. Their elderly occupants do likewise as the lawn threatens to swallow them and their decrepit, unpainted coffins whole.

Not far from my house one of these is piled under tons of scrap metal, old fence posts and palings, rusty car doors and broken garden furniture. If the house wasn't positioned prominently on a slope overlooking the street, the entire block would look like a junk yard. Instead the house, its balcony crammed to the rafters with detritus, displays its face to the middle-class street. It defies the trim lawns and designer landscape gardens, the ecologically sound architecture with four-wheel drive tanks parked in the driveways to lodge a complaint.

In the wilderness between my home and work a derelict building site for a dream home lies frozen at the moment the money ran out. Neatly stacked timber and bricks are succumbing to dandelions, uncut grass and ivy. Kids have smashed the windowpanes and scrawled tags on the rendered walls. Bright fingers of electrical wiring emerge from a hole in the eaves over the front door. Are they clutching at the space where a light fitting was supposed to be?

An abandoned swimming pool. Its blue paint is cracking and peeling. Slimy black sludge has collected at the deep end. A few straggly weeds are sprouting here too. In spring they'll flower into pretty, white daisies. Is that the corpse of a possum or a cat down there?

There are places even in Melbourne's suburban sprawl where the imagination can roam free.

library of dust

In keeping with the themes of biology and decay, I stumbled on a post (on BLDG BLOG) about a book, Library of Dust. The book is a collection of photographs of unclaimed, cremated human remains from a psychiatric hospital — compacted and tinned humans, stored like corn and beans on a supermarket shelf!

Unlike the bones of the catacombs beneath Paris or the ossuary of Sedlec, the human form of the remains has been completely obliterated. Whilst the bones of Paris and Sedlec have been jumbled, these human remains have been kept separate from one another. Each can of ashes leaves its unique, visible mark on the world through the patterns of corrosion on its surface. The ex-patients may have been tinned and stacked, but they regain a unique identity in a most unlikely way. Library of Dust is a strange, visually arresting and thought provoking record of people past.

Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books

foul foods of the world

I've not yet tried surströmming (fermented herring). I have tried nattō (fermented soya beans) and blue-vein cheese. Contrary to our gut feelings, they are actually good to eat. Why should we "acquire" a taste for something that our reflexes guard so strongly against? Is this a bit like the thrill of bungee-jumping? Despite all our senses telling us to refrain, we overcome our innate fear of food with reason, chew, swallow, and smile with exhilaration.

notes on monuments

Note 1. In the paper, Public Monuments, from Alan Sonfist's contribution to Artful Ecologies, University College Falmouth, 2006, pp 9-10, the artist reiterates some of his ideas from the late 60's. Specifically, he suggests that a city should erect public monuments to commemorate the natural systems that they replace. We are all familiar with memorial statues, plaques, monoliths, commemorative parks and gardens, even symbolic trees. But these are usually placed in recognition of significant human events such as wars, adventures, political careers, lives spent in service of the poor or perhaps the prior existence of an important civil building or the residence of a respected citizen. Sonfist wishes for monuments to be made for nature. Why not place a reminder of a river that has been lost? A copse of trees to commemorate a forest that was axed?

Note 2. A monument is, by definition, something that aims for the permanence of stone. The ancient Egyptians had this idea and it has been dominant right through the Greek and Roman periods, the Middle Ages and Renaissance right up until the present day. The art of sculpture took until the 20th century to overcome its obsession with monolithic forms carved from stone or cast in bronze (See Herbert Ferber, On Sculpture, 1954). On human time-scales these massive works are sturdy yet... Andy Goldsworthy remarked when observing the stone about him (documentary, Rivers and Tides, 2000), that where it has bent and buckled in its molten form, or where it has crumbled and decayed through weathering to be returned to dust and recycled by the same processes that created it, it is easy to see that even stone is fluid. A geologist works with this same fluidity on a massive scale. A rock climber recognises stone's seams and pockets, bubbles and streams at the macro level. Yet humans are short-lived and physically weak so of course stone is for us a powerful symbol.

Note 3. A planted tree has an immensity, power and above all a dignity about it that a stone monument can never have. A tree, like us, has a beginning and an end, even if these are thousands of years apart. A tree also has the active force of any organism. A tree makes a lovely symbol without the arrogance of stone. The tree retains its own identity even when used as a symbol. A stone's identity is stripped when it becomes a monument.

Note 4. The act of scratching a person's name into a cut stone as a long-term reminder of their existence, presence or passing is ancient. Have such cuts been made in living trees for as long? What is the first evidence for the practice?

(Examples: the Dig Tree in Queensland has become an icon due to the unique set of circumstances surrounding its carving. The Sister Rocks near Stawell in Victoria are an indication of just how arrogant and ugly people can be.)

Image credit: picture from Wikipedia of the (ugly!) stone monument in Royal Park to commemorate Burke and Wills' expedition departure in 1860 from the site.

a photographic wunderkammer

Rosamond Purcell has worked with Stephen J. Gould to produce some slightly clichéd imagery, but also some lovely interpretations of museum specimens and found objects. A slideshow of some of her photographs is available online. Some of her photos also appear in this bizarre, slightly macabre online Zymoglyphic Museum.

Image credit: Rosamond Purcell, Mole Skins From the Collection of van Heurn. From Finders, Keepers: Eight Collectors, 1992.

As a fan of "traditional" natural history museums, rows of pinned insects and marvels of taxidermy displayed in dusty dioramas, any work that shows a similar fascination with historically significant museum collections is guaranteed to pique my interest. I am waiting for somebody to remark on the apparent contradiction between this fascination and my discomfort regarding Damien Hirst's acquisition of a fresh shark.