Cycling and Photography. Strange Bedfellows. But who am I to judge.
International Photo Festival - Photo 2022 - Being Human
A couple of weeks ago I dragged my reluctant ass off the couch on a lazy Sunday afternoon and rode my bike into the city to meet up with a bunch of other randoms to look at some photos. For a measly 10bucks each, Associate Curator Brendan McCleary guided us around city streets, parks and lane ways to check out large scale outdoor photographic installations. And it was awesome.
Photo2022 has 90 photography exhibitions on the go around Melbourne (last day 22 May). Brendan gave a brief overview of each artist and what their work was about. It was a bit like speed dating and a good, quick introduction to a lot of artists in a short time. I have a couple of favourites to revisit to have a more intimate date with and really get to know them better.
There’s one more bike tour running this weekend (22 May) and then the exhibition packs up, so if you want a reason to get off the couch you can book here.
On grief and mourning and ‘Art Speak’
We cycled up to Ioanna Sakellaraki’s work (above) and Brendan gave us a brief run down on how the artist went back to Greece after her father died and explored the rituals of grief and mourning. I’ve made a mental note to do a self portrait with lace and pomegranates to honour my friend Bryce who I would normally have been sharing these experiences with, debating what the heck is art and what makes a good photograph. Although he’d sold his pushbike a few years ago after stacking it along the St Kilda bike path when a child cut across in front of him and he slammed the brakes on and slammed his shoulder on the concrete path resulting in a very nasty broken collar bone. It wasn’t the broken bone that made him give up riding though, it was because he believed the impact of the accident triggered a sleeping melanoma in his lung to wake up and almost claim his life about 5 years ago. After flirting with death at that time, he came back for a few more years while slowing losing lung capacity and he stopped breathing just before Christmas last year.
I’m really glad Brendan gave us the short version of what the work was about because I might not have gotten past the first sentence in the description on the website. It might as well be written in Greek for all the sense it makes to me. And again, Bryce and I would have debated the concept of ‘WTF is art?’ and what makes a good photo and how we would never be considered artists because we don’t understand what we call, ‘Art Speak’.
“Ioanna Sakellaraki’s conceptual practice positions photography as ontological proposition within a nexus of fiction, collage and the archive.”
I think it was Georgia O’Keefe whose answer to ‘What is Art?’ is closest to what resonates with me.
“Art is a mark on a piece of paper that makes you feel”
At least, I think it was Georgia O’Keeffe. I saw some of her work at Heide many years ago and it was part of that exhibition that I recall the quote from. Memory is an unfaithful accomplice though and Google has failed me in searching for confirmation. Georgia lived until she was 98 so she certainly had plenty of opportunity to say it.
Anyway, back to Art Speak. I prefer the explanations in Art Galleries that are geared for kids. If you can explain it to me like I’m five I’m with you all the way.
Any art form though, is surely not just what the artist is trying to portray, but what the viewer takes from it. Some things you connect to. Some things you don’t. I am inspired by Ioanna’s work to create my own photograph on grief and mourning. I will borrow from her concepts of lace and pomegranates because they both have special meaning to me.
And that was all from just one of the many installations we experienced.
On the opposite side of Spring St the five story high image by Richmond Kobola Dido’s “Men Do Not Cry” (below) considers the challenges of men and emotions.
We set off again on our deadly treadlies to explore laneways bulging with art.
We huddled at the top of Hosier Lane and gazed through helmets to take in Cindy Sherman’s gigantic self portrait on the side of the Atrium in Fed Square. The imposing image is the largest single work in the PHOTO 2022 show and I wonder at her impervious gaze. The 1980 self portrait is from the Untitled Film Still series.
Both Atong Atem and Song So also used self portraits to recreate scenes and characters, although possibly due to two years of lockdowns and restrictions meaning that was the only option available to them.
As a fan of flowers I loved Christian Thompson’s work in the courtyard beside the Old Melbourne Gaol.
And the finale in our cycle tour was the 100 years series of portraits by Jenny Lewis in Barry St in Carlton. Well worth wandering along.
This just barely scratches the surface of what’s on. I’m off to Monsalvat tomorrow for Arrayah Loynds exhibition. While not part of the Photo 2022 exhibitions, she has been shortlisted for the 2022 Australian Photobook Awards and her exhibition is running until 12 June.
Enjoy and be inspired.
Artist's Retreat - Day One - A room of one's own.
Friday: My neighbour leaves for the airport at 7am for 7 weeks in Bali (a working holiday) while I sublet her flat. I’m as excited as a kid in a lolly shop. I pop in before work to take some ‘before’ photos. And now, as I write this, it’s 11pm at night. I’ve moved a few bits and pieces over from next door and rearranged a few things. I have so many ideas I don’t know where to start. Photography, writing, stitching, sewing, printing.
First thing tomorrow morning will be to see where the light falls and to find the quick release base plate for my tripod which isn’t in any of the places it should be!
It’s a chilly 9 degrees Celsius outside.
I have a Spotify Chill Rock Playlist pumping through the Bose bluetooth speaker. (Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam etc)
Camera batteries are charging.
Scented candle is burning.
Tomorrow: Must Vote!
Where do you find Wildflowers in Victoria in January? High up in the Alpine Region
SNOWGUMS & WILDFLOWERS
And March flies, but let’s focus on the positives. Why go to Western Australia for the Wildflowers when you have places like this on your doorstep? Mt Baw Baw is about 2.5 hours out of Melbourne and is a jewel of a discovery for me. I chanced upon a random facebook post that prompted me to pack my camera and go exploring. I stayed at a friends place about an hour away and only got there for one morning and this is the bounty of images I collected in a very short space of time. And in January! I can’t wait to go back.
Bryce
I can't begin to find the words that touch the depths of the friendship I shared with Bryce. So I won't try. I'll just share a couple of thoughts with you.
I met Bryce in one of those serendipitous moments just a couple of weeks after I moved to Melbourne 11 years ago. As the introverts at a gathering, we navigated to a quiet spot and hit it off instantly. Bryce's photography short courses were so popular at RMIT that he needed a back up and so he recruited me and trained me up.
We had very different photography styles with Bryce more a traditionalist and me a bit more loose with my interpretation. We had many a discussion over lens flare in photographs and I'm amazed to say that after many years Bryce would occasionally agree it had artistic merit.
Bryce and I mentored each other. And I googled mentor to make sure I had the right word: an experienced and trusted adviser. He helped me navigate life and I tried to teach him how to navigate social media.
It's not an exaggeration to say that Bryce changed my world. He restored my faith in humanity. He was a constant, consistent, reliable rock. I was like a boat without a rudder, swept around by the whims of the ocean, and Bryce was a lighthouse, perched firmly and safely on high ground.
I don't know anyone else I could cover such an array of conversational topics with, in such an easy way. From the deep and meaningful to the fun and frivolous, from the meaning of life to 'how the hell did that photograph win first prize'.
A thoughtful, considerate gentleman, who always opened and closed the car door for me. Bryce had a cheeky grin, a sparkle in his eye and a gentle wisdom laced with great humour.
For a chronic over thinker like myself, Bryce taught me to adopt what he called the philosophy of Capperism. It goes something like this. At a pre game interview with the Sydney Swans when a young Warwick Capper of the tight red shorts fame had been embroiled in a series of flamboyant controversies. The interviewer asked a Team Mate how Warwick was faring and whether he thought the stress would affect his game. The team mate shook his head and said, What you have to understand about Warwick is that if you don't think, you don't worry. So whenever I'm overthinking or worrying about something I can't change, I think of Bryce's advice and it helps put things in context.
I’m honoured, humbled and grateful I got to spend Bryce’s last day with him. Of course, we didn’t know that at the time. We still had plans.
When I kissed him goodbye at the end of the day, he gripped my hand, looked fiercely into my eyes, and said, “I love you”.
What a beautiful gift it was to know Bryce.
Taken only a few weeks ago. Fish and chips in the afternoon sun on his front porch. He was in awful pain but he rarely let on about it.
The last message I sent Bryce was that I’d take him to this exhibition (even if it was in a wheelchair). Well, he didn’t hang around long enough to see it.
I met Bryce at the Bean Counter 11 years ago when there used to be an exhibition space above it. How I got to be there is a great story in itself I might tell one day. I had no idea where this place was until years later when I moved to Fairfield and discovered it again. I went back there this week and found this artwork in the courtyard where it all began. Bryce is free from the cage of suffering now. His mind was sharp, his grin intact, his sense of humour shone until the end, but his body was the cage. Now he can fly.
Bryce's Slice
Today is the day of Bryce’s funeral. I didn’t go. (It’s a long story for another day).
I’m sitting on the balcony, still marvelling at daylight at 7.30pm (I adore daylight savings).
I’ve poured a vino and started Helen Garner’s Diaries 1995 - 1998. A christmas gift from my boss after I borrowed her original (1977) copy of Monkey Grip.
I’m after a copy of The First Stone. I’m not sure what I think about these diaries yet.
I’m agitated. End of year. Restless. Listless.
The birds are going ballistic in the surrounding trees. And by ballistic I probably mean noisy. Tweeting, chirping, whistling, warbling, carolling and so on.
Damascus the big ol’ cat is sleeping at my feet. He’s wandered over from Bekky’s place, two doors over. He’s like my grand baby and gets spoiled accordingly.
I put the book down and grab a diary and pencil. And then put that down and grab the laptop. I’m not sure what I’m doing yet. Is this note taking, a diary entry or just an email to a friend? Fucked if I know. But it’s writing. That’s all that matters. I kid myself I’ll do more writing, but then life gets in the way. And doubts. And another year passes. And then a friend dies and you start to think about the dwindling time you have left. And what you want to do with it.
What I really want is a “Room of one’s own’. A play room. To create. To play. To explore. To photograph. To write. To explore. To sew. To stitch. To ignore. To sit. To Think. To read. To make mess. To rearrange.
To do nothing. To be.
I spent all of Bryce’s last day with him. Of course, neither of us knew it would be his last day.
We had plans. I had a list.
It was a shock.
Grief packs a punch.
Today I made a caramel slice in his honour. I don’t know why. I mean, I know why I chose a caramel slice because we have a long history of sampling and comparing. And sharing. So I get the connection. But I’ve never made one before. I could’ve just gone and bought one. It would probably taste better. There’s something in the making that matters. I haven’t figured out what it is. Just that it was important.
The birdsong is a bit like listening to Jazz. Seems a bit disjointed to me. I don’t feel sophisticated enough to appreciate jazz. I prefer blues.
How do we find joy?
There’s so much heartache and tragedy.
5 children died falling off a wayward fucking jumping castle. I can’t comprehend the grief.
My friends mother died. She lives in Perth, the mum. My friend is in Melbourne. Her Mum had an aneurysm and had two brain ops. She woke, confused, disoriented and panicked, believing she was a child again who’d been stolen and taken into care. And I still hear people say they should just get over it.
My friend got knocked back for a border pass twice. Fucking covid. Third time lucky, because her mum was critical. Not expected to make it.
She has to isolate. She gets checked 3 times a day. Her white boyfriend doesn’t get checked once.
And her Mum does pass. She’s the same age as my Mum.
Bryce had multiple complications after nearly dying from a melanoma in the lung four years ago. But what killed him was not being able to breath. The pulmonary fibrosis. He never lost his sense of humour though.
I don’t make friends easily. I’ll miss Bryce. He was one of the good ones.
I have renamed the Caramel Slice ‘Bryce’s Slice’.
Thanks for listening.
Deb
Next day now. (You can see Helen Garner’s Diaries influence, can’t you).
I find I don’t want to leave the house. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to stay secluded in my black hole. It’s not all grief. Some of it is fear and practicalities. With over a thousand cases of covid each day I don’t want to risk not being able to get on a plane next week to get to Qld to see my boy and my Mum.
I did take some still life shots because Bryce would be happy that I’m taking photos.
