Isabelle closed the door gently behind them, noting that it was catching again, due to all the recent damp. She still wasn’t sure about heading out in this weather, but felt compelled by something she couldn’t put her finger on to follow her instincts and go. She wondered whether it might be something to do with the man she had imagined meeting in the forest.
Perhaps his cryptic little spiel would make more sense if she was in the woods? His words kept playing around in her head – “trust yourself”... but with what? The image of the laughing wolf also kept flashing before her eyes, and she shuddered. There had been no wolf sightings around these parts for years, yet some strange things had been happening lately.
With all this playing in her mind Isabelle was quite startled when she looked around after closing the door and, just a few doors down the street, saw that strange, cold Mr Crouch.
“Emily!” she cried, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Emily had been looking back up at the window through which Percy was still working. Something told Isabelle she must not let Emily see Mr Crouch, under any circumstances.
“What is it?”
“Oh, it’s just, do you think I might have left the copper too low? I don’t want it boiling dry.”
“It’s fine, I saw it myself before we left, it’s quite full.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” sighed Isabelle, truly relieved as she saw Crouch disappear though Mr Wills’ front door.
“Okay, well let’s get going, if we’re going to beat this rain.”
The pair walked down towards the main road, the daughter stepping in big strides to try and keep up with her mother, than giving up on that tactic and going for swifter, smaller steps. Emily was wearing a big red cloak wrapped around her shoulders and a bright red woollen hat, while Isabelle had opted for a simple black cloak, her head bare so as to better sense the true state of the weather.
Isabelle puzzled over what had brought that Crouch fellow up to their end of town, and what he and Mr Wills could possibly have in common that would have brought them together this way. She hadn’t ever spoken directly to Crouch, and did not usually make it a habit to take a dislike to somebody without having at least met them, but for him she was willing to make a rare exception.
There was something about his cold, shadowy look, his way of moving that seemed immediately like skulking, and though she was not a fan of gossip, dismissing most as mere scuttlebutt and a sign of someone with too much time on their hands and too little respect for others, she had heard enough stories about him to know she wasn’t comfortable with the thought of him being anywhere near her Emily.
They reached the corner where the lolly shop stood and Isabelle waited for Emily’s insistent tug on the sleeve that always followed, but she was quietly surprised when no such tug came, when no imploring eyes looked up at her like saucers brimming with spilt tea.
Of all the small things that had seemed strange of late, this one threw Isabelle the most. She didn’t exactly approve of Emily’s sweet tooth, but it was simply too strange that she seemed not even to give the window, crammed with every colour of the rainbow in the form of lollipops, humbugs, bullseyes and liquorice, a second glance.
Emily must have sensed Isabelle’s concern, because she shortly felt her eyes looking up keenly at her, burning two small holes through her cloak. But the pair walked on in silence, their pace picking up a little – due to the chill in the air, Isabelle told herself, pulling her cloak a little more tightly around her shoulders.
Isabelle felt something touch her hair, and then again. Small round specks began to appear on the path, dark little dots that began appearing on the road as well. Isabelle looked up to see heavy black cloud passing over the top of them, galloping by like frightened stallions.
“Emily, I think we best turn back,” she said, looking down at her daughter, who seemed to be lost in thought.
“Mmm? What was that?”
“Look, it’s started to rain and I think it’s going to get much worse any moment – it’s best if we turn back.”
Emily slowly returned from wherever her mind had drifted, looking around and seeing the spattering rain drops. Isabelle once more saw that dark shadow pass across her face, then slip away as she looked up.
“I suppose you’re right mother, I imagine you know best.”
Isabelle thought that a strange way to put it, but by now the rain was gathering a bit more force and was spitting quite heavily. The pair wheeled around and began to head for home, but before they even reached the corner the skies opened. A blinding flash of lightning forked above their heads, seemingly jumping from one roof to another, followed almost instantly by a tremendous crash of thunder that sounded like the sky was splitting in two.
Grabbing Emily be the hand, Isabelle pulled her into the doorway of the lolly shop, just as the rain began to torrent. Even from the doorway they were getting splashed, so they opened the door and passed into the shelter of the shop.
“Ah, the delightful Miss Button, so good of you to drop by," smiled Mr Pollock, the silver-haired shopkeeper. “And I see you’ve brought your big sister along.”
Isabelle smiled, for Mr Pollock seemed never to tire of this flattering line.
“Isn’t it simply ghastly out there? Come in, get warm. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No thank you, but you’re very kind to offer.”
“Oh phooey, it’s nothing at all for my favourite Buttons.”
“Emily, while we’re here, how about choosing a few treats? It will make up for not getting to the woods today.”
With a wan smile, Emily nodded and began looking around at the shelves. All along the walls of the shop, the side walls and the wall behind the counter at which Mr Pollock stood, his hands pressing down, fingers poised like five-legged spiders, there stood jar after jar of treats.
Boiled sweets and chocolate pieces jostled for shelf space alongside sugar-coated nuts and – Emily’s favourite – liquorice.
“Lovely weather,” observed Mr Pollock, a gleam in his eye. “Just the day for a picnic.”
“We were lucky to get away without being absolutely saturated,” Isabelle said. “A couple more seconds and we’d be drenched.”
“Well, stay here as long as you need, it was all pretty quiet so it’s nice to have the company.”
“Thanks. We’ll choose a few treats and be off once it settles.”
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Vinyl Diaries XXIX: Sono Perception
In which I waffle on a bit about this and that in the general hope of making some sort of sense of 'Sonic Art', all over in the part of the webesphere known as Resonate magazine.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
She sits to write
She sits to write, but her fingers freeze.
She sits to write, but nothing comes out.
Snatches of conversations, snippets of thought, countless answers to questions long since past – things she could have said then, but make no sense now.
She sits to write, but the weight of all those words already out there, pushing back against all those clouding her own mind, is too much. They laugh as they casually poke each word that threatens to spill back in, warning her to find a new patch, to go somewhere less crowded.
She’s on her second cup of tea. She’s quite full enough from the first, but the familiar action – the flick of the switch on the kettle, the brief silence, wondering if she has switched it on properly, then the slow hiss as the water begins to catch, begins to swirl, organises itself and votes on which particles will become steam and escape through the spout, which will be poured into the teapot and take on the honey hue of the tea leaves – soothes her.
It’s all part of writing, it’s all part of the delicate mask that must be assembled, the hood put over the writer who must become blank, erased, forgotten, before she can begin. Her stories must not be hers – they can’t be hers anyway, she doesn’t know who she is.
Thinking about who she is is the quickest way to upset her, freeze her. She has no idea. She fancies she should, by now, have a clue, an inkling, an occasional wake-in-the-night connection that whispers to her a truth, a secret, a startlingly clear image that disappears as soon as it arrives.
But no, never. Not once.
Is that why she writes? To find herself? Not likely. She’s looking to lose herself, find out less and less about herself until there’s nothing to know, or not to know, there’s just nothing, which leaves knowing at the door, knocking gently, half-heartedly, disconsolately perhaps, then wandering away, down streets black with lost tears, a black as silky and shiny as a raven’s haunch, a street rustling with the same sound of death upon us that’s brought by that very same raven’s swishing, time-stopping flight.
She sits to write, lost inside that veneer of time that sends the minute hand swirling out of control, yet the hour hand never moving.
She sits to write, but now her mind has wandered. Her nose itches, her foot’s asleep, tucked back under her chair. The birds are carrying on like they’ve just woken to find a new day waiting, but she knows the day is well underway. It’s passed her by really – while she sits, waiting, trying, it’s gone. She has nothing to show for it, no trace of writing, no hint of an idea. She could have walked down to the small park on the corner of her street, felt the sun tickle the back of her neck like a familiar love, pulled out a favourite book, fallen asleep with the smell of its well-thumbed pages and old ink gently wafting into her daydreams.
But she didn’t. She stayed to tackle the empty page, to put her demons to rest, drive a pen through their mocking heart, their leering, jeering faces that once peered round doorways, but now perch happily on the edge of her desk, flipping through old magazines, laughing at her choice of passages pulled from other books, written in her leaning hand in a small exercise book originally bought for her own words to fill.
She sits to write, but blood pounds in her ears, blood she pictures a deep black, a stultifying inky black, blood sour with loss, blood thickening by the moment, stale blood that’s curdling and crusting.
‘Help’ she whispers, but nobody hears.
She sits to write, but nothing comes out.
Snatches of conversations, snippets of thought, countless answers to questions long since past – things she could have said then, but make no sense now.
She sits to write, but the weight of all those words already out there, pushing back against all those clouding her own mind, is too much. They laugh as they casually poke each word that threatens to spill back in, warning her to find a new patch, to go somewhere less crowded.
She’s on her second cup of tea. She’s quite full enough from the first, but the familiar action – the flick of the switch on the kettle, the brief silence, wondering if she has switched it on properly, then the slow hiss as the water begins to catch, begins to swirl, organises itself and votes on which particles will become steam and escape through the spout, which will be poured into the teapot and take on the honey hue of the tea leaves – soothes her.
It’s all part of writing, it’s all part of the delicate mask that must be assembled, the hood put over the writer who must become blank, erased, forgotten, before she can begin. Her stories must not be hers – they can’t be hers anyway, she doesn’t know who she is.
Thinking about who she is is the quickest way to upset her, freeze her. She has no idea. She fancies she should, by now, have a clue, an inkling, an occasional wake-in-the-night connection that whispers to her a truth, a secret, a startlingly clear image that disappears as soon as it arrives.
But no, never. Not once.
Is that why she writes? To find herself? Not likely. She’s looking to lose herself, find out less and less about herself until there’s nothing to know, or not to know, there’s just nothing, which leaves knowing at the door, knocking gently, half-heartedly, disconsolately perhaps, then wandering away, down streets black with lost tears, a black as silky and shiny as a raven’s haunch, a street rustling with the same sound of death upon us that’s brought by that very same raven’s swishing, time-stopping flight.
She sits to write, lost inside that veneer of time that sends the minute hand swirling out of control, yet the hour hand never moving.
She sits to write, but now her mind has wandered. Her nose itches, her foot’s asleep, tucked back under her chair. The birds are carrying on like they’ve just woken to find a new day waiting, but she knows the day is well underway. It’s passed her by really – while she sits, waiting, trying, it’s gone. She has nothing to show for it, no trace of writing, no hint of an idea. She could have walked down to the small park on the corner of her street, felt the sun tickle the back of her neck like a familiar love, pulled out a favourite book, fallen asleep with the smell of its well-thumbed pages and old ink gently wafting into her daydreams.
But she didn’t. She stayed to tackle the empty page, to put her demons to rest, drive a pen through their mocking heart, their leering, jeering faces that once peered round doorways, but now perch happily on the edge of her desk, flipping through old magazines, laughing at her choice of passages pulled from other books, written in her leaning hand in a small exercise book originally bought for her own words to fill.
She sits to write, but blood pounds in her ears, blood she pictures a deep black, a stultifying inky black, blood sour with loss, blood thickening by the moment, stale blood that’s curdling and crusting.
‘Help’ she whispers, but nobody hears.
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Three
Slipping off Crouch’s wet boots, a torrent of water pouring from each as she sat sodden on the edge of the sea, Emily knew she had to get going. There was no time to even stop in at Crouch’s store and see if there was anything into which she could change – she would have to go like this.
With no real plan at all as to how she was going to get inside, she knew she must make for her home if she was going to have any chance of getting her parents out of harm’s way. Striding briskly away from the shoreline and up to the main street, Emily was intensely aware of the stares she was drawing. She must have been quite the sight! Throughout her ordeal her hat had miraculously stayed perched on her head, and now she was grateful for the chance to pull its brim down over her eyes. Even so, from their corners she could pick out the village folk past whom she wilfully strode, catching small snippets of their murmuring as she stomped by.
A squelching was coming from her boots as the last of the sea water hung on tenaciously, as though excited to be travelling this far from home. She squeezed what water she could from the ends of the coat, feeling the chill in the air start to penetrate. She was bound to end up with a cold is out much longer, but had more pressing matters in mind.
After what seemed an eternity – learning that the when people were staring at you, time seemed to all but cease to tick, Emily reached the top of the main road. Branching off onto her street, she began to slow her step. She tried to shrink into herself, which wasn’t so easy with such a large frame as Crouch’s. Moving from doorway to doorway, she kept an eye scanning up the hill, where her house stood.
A sudden gust of wind managed what the ocean hadn’t and swept Crouch’s hat clear off her head, sending it tumbling across the cobblestones. She was so used to wearing it now that without a thought she went after it, stooping to pick it up where it had settled on the edge of a step. The door opened and a stern face peered out, though Emily saw this quickly skip to a look of near panic.
“Oh, Mr Crouch, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. What... what... what brings you here?”
“Oh, I’m just passing, my hat...” Emily trailed off and didn’t know what to say. She spun on her heel and made as if to leave, but saw the front door of her own home, just a handful of houses up, had swung open. She was stuck to the spot as she saw herself step down into the street and turn her way, with her mother following just behind.
“You must let me in!” she cried to Mr Wills, as she now realised him to be, sending the poor man jumping half out of his clothes.
“I mean, please could I see you for a moment, I have something I’ve been meaning to ask.” Emily saw Mr Wills was most unimpressed at the thought of Crouch crossing his threshold, but also that he was scared enough that he seemed like he would not dare the consequences of saying no. After wavering for what seemed like eternity but could have only been a moment – Emily aware that if the real Crouch or her mother looked up for a second, she was sure to be discovered – Mr Wills stood just far back enough for Emily to brush past. She felt very rude and knew Mr Wills must be scared half out of his wits, but knew a second longer and she would have been discovered.
As it was she had caught a glimpse of her mother as she hurried to close the door. She longed to turn and embrace her, to jump with joy to know that she was still okay, but to have done so would have been impossible – she would have scared her to death and had no chance of setting things right.
No, her only chance was to get into her home unseen, to leave the liquorice Oscar had slipped into her pocket somewhere Crouch would find it, and wait for him to eat it. She still wasn’t sure how she was going to explain to her mother what had happened, but that seemed less important at this stage than getting into her home. She knew Crouch and her mother would not be out long. She wanted to follow them, to see what Crouch was up to, but knew to do so would be to miss what could be her only chance to get inside.
Emily didn’t dare think about what might have happened to her father, but took heart at seeing her mother and, yes, even Crouch, acting normally enough. If anything had happened to her father, she reasoned, they wouldn’t be getting out and about so casually. After the shock of having seen them began to subside, she began to wonder where it was they might be heading.
“So, how can I be of assistance, Mr Crouch?”
It was Wills – of course he would want to know what business she had here.
“Oh, well, I was going to ask you something, but it’s completely slipped my mind. I‘m afraid I must bid you farewell.”
Emily raised her hat as politely as she could, spun on her heel and made for the door. Then a thought struck her.
“Oh Mr Wills?”
“Yes Mr Crouch?”
“Tell me, are you on good terms with your neighbour, Mr Button?”
W-well, yes, I suppose you could say so,” he began, warily. “W-w-why do you ask?”
“Do you think you could grant me the courtesy of an introduction?”
Mr Wills just stared, his dry lips slightly parted, clearly not quite believing what he was being asked. And it must seem awfully strange, Emily realised, Crouch here completely out of the blue, not giving his reason for arriving and suddenly asking for an introduction to someone else – again without explanation.
She had to think quickly.
“It’s just that, well, I have some important new to share with him, but would you believe we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting in person. I just thought that, well, it would be best this way...”
It was the best she could do, and though Mr Wills still had a puzzled look to him, she saw that while he was wary of anything further to do with Crouch, he realised this was at least a way to get him moving along and keeping him happy.
“Well, I suppose I could. Just let me get my coat and let Martha know where I’m going.”
With no real plan at all as to how she was going to get inside, she knew she must make for her home if she was going to have any chance of getting her parents out of harm’s way. Striding briskly away from the shoreline and up to the main street, Emily was intensely aware of the stares she was drawing. She must have been quite the sight! Throughout her ordeal her hat had miraculously stayed perched on her head, and now she was grateful for the chance to pull its brim down over her eyes. Even so, from their corners she could pick out the village folk past whom she wilfully strode, catching small snippets of their murmuring as she stomped by.
A squelching was coming from her boots as the last of the sea water hung on tenaciously, as though excited to be travelling this far from home. She squeezed what water she could from the ends of the coat, feeling the chill in the air start to penetrate. She was bound to end up with a cold is out much longer, but had more pressing matters in mind.
After what seemed an eternity – learning that the when people were staring at you, time seemed to all but cease to tick, Emily reached the top of the main road. Branching off onto her street, she began to slow her step. She tried to shrink into herself, which wasn’t so easy with such a large frame as Crouch’s. Moving from doorway to doorway, she kept an eye scanning up the hill, where her house stood.
A sudden gust of wind managed what the ocean hadn’t and swept Crouch’s hat clear off her head, sending it tumbling across the cobblestones. She was so used to wearing it now that without a thought she went after it, stooping to pick it up where it had settled on the edge of a step. The door opened and a stern face peered out, though Emily saw this quickly skip to a look of near panic.
“Oh, Mr Crouch, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. What... what... what brings you here?”
“Oh, I’m just passing, my hat...” Emily trailed off and didn’t know what to say. She spun on her heel and made as if to leave, but saw the front door of her own home, just a handful of houses up, had swung open. She was stuck to the spot as she saw herself step down into the street and turn her way, with her mother following just behind.
“You must let me in!” she cried to Mr Wills, as she now realised him to be, sending the poor man jumping half out of his clothes.
“I mean, please could I see you for a moment, I have something I’ve been meaning to ask.” Emily saw Mr Wills was most unimpressed at the thought of Crouch crossing his threshold, but also that he was scared enough that he seemed like he would not dare the consequences of saying no. After wavering for what seemed like eternity but could have only been a moment – Emily aware that if the real Crouch or her mother looked up for a second, she was sure to be discovered – Mr Wills stood just far back enough for Emily to brush past. She felt very rude and knew Mr Wills must be scared half out of his wits, but knew a second longer and she would have been discovered.
As it was she had caught a glimpse of her mother as she hurried to close the door. She longed to turn and embrace her, to jump with joy to know that she was still okay, but to have done so would have been impossible – she would have scared her to death and had no chance of setting things right.
No, her only chance was to get into her home unseen, to leave the liquorice Oscar had slipped into her pocket somewhere Crouch would find it, and wait for him to eat it. She still wasn’t sure how she was going to explain to her mother what had happened, but that seemed less important at this stage than getting into her home. She knew Crouch and her mother would not be out long. She wanted to follow them, to see what Crouch was up to, but knew to do so would be to miss what could be her only chance to get inside.
Emily didn’t dare think about what might have happened to her father, but took heart at seeing her mother and, yes, even Crouch, acting normally enough. If anything had happened to her father, she reasoned, they wouldn’t be getting out and about so casually. After the shock of having seen them began to subside, she began to wonder where it was they might be heading.
“So, how can I be of assistance, Mr Crouch?”
It was Wills – of course he would want to know what business she had here.
“Oh, well, I was going to ask you something, but it’s completely slipped my mind. I‘m afraid I must bid you farewell.”
Emily raised her hat as politely as she could, spun on her heel and made for the door. Then a thought struck her.
“Oh Mr Wills?”
“Yes Mr Crouch?”
“Tell me, are you on good terms with your neighbour, Mr Button?”
W-well, yes, I suppose you could say so,” he began, warily. “W-w-why do you ask?”
“Do you think you could grant me the courtesy of an introduction?”
Mr Wills just stared, his dry lips slightly parted, clearly not quite believing what he was being asked. And it must seem awfully strange, Emily realised, Crouch here completely out of the blue, not giving his reason for arriving and suddenly asking for an introduction to someone else – again without explanation.
She had to think quickly.
“It’s just that, well, I have some important new to share with him, but would you believe we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting in person. I just thought that, well, it would be best this way...”
It was the best she could do, and though Mr Wills still had a puzzled look to him, she saw that while he was wary of anything further to do with Crouch, he realised this was at least a way to get him moving along and keeping him happy.
“Well, I suppose I could. Just let me get my coat and let Martha know where I’m going.”
Friday, 27 June 2008
Vinyl Diaries XXVIII: the hermit awakens
A small milestone passed quietly this week.... three months since attending my last gig.
Now by gig, I should clarify by pointing out that I did not consider the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, the Australian Chamber Orchestra, any performances at the Sydney Conservatorium (where I saw an inspiring rendition of Messiaen's Quartet for the End of Time last Sunday), various jazz and improvisational shows and their ilk to count as gigs. By gigs I meant bands playing songs that the ordinary man or woman in the street would say was a band playing a song at a gig.
One of the main reasons for the three months was to see if I could do it, the other was a slight case of simply going out too much and not having much time left to do my own things. In a ridiculous six or so weeks from late January into March, I seemed to end up at gigs by fourplay, tunng, low, mice parade, joanna newsom, sufjan stevens, arcade fire and bjork (all in less than a fortnight), iron & wine, broken social scene, okkervill river, feist, beirut, pj harvey, sonic youth... and more. After the joy that was Múm I decided to take a bit of a break, and here we are three months on.
It's possibly a coincidence, but during the break I've enjoyed the orchestral concerts more than I have in a long time. But I think that might be more interesting programing and better seats than in the past few years - the ACO's show last week with guest director John Storgards on lead violin was outstanding, particularly Lutoslawski's vivacious Preludes and Fugue for 13 Solo Strings.
Certain wags may argue (have argued, continue to argue) that my three month moratorium was made simpler by the paucity of touring acts through the period and my tendency to talk my way out of most of the performances I actually went to as being gigs as such.
All I know is I made it. I've now got a Sigur Ros ticket for their August show, but that's far too far away - I think I might have to go see Grand Salvo next Friday, but even that seems a long time away.
Now by gig, I should clarify by pointing out that I did not consider the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, the Australian Chamber Orchestra, any performances at the Sydney Conservatorium (where I saw an inspiring rendition of Messiaen's Quartet for the End of Time last Sunday), various jazz and improvisational shows and their ilk to count as gigs. By gigs I meant bands playing songs that the ordinary man or woman in the street would say was a band playing a song at a gig.
One of the main reasons for the three months was to see if I could do it, the other was a slight case of simply going out too much and not having much time left to do my own things. In a ridiculous six or so weeks from late January into March, I seemed to end up at gigs by fourplay, tunng, low, mice parade, joanna newsom, sufjan stevens, arcade fire and bjork (all in less than a fortnight), iron & wine, broken social scene, okkervill river, feist, beirut, pj harvey, sonic youth... and more. After the joy that was Múm I decided to take a bit of a break, and here we are three months on.
It's possibly a coincidence, but during the break I've enjoyed the orchestral concerts more than I have in a long time. But I think that might be more interesting programing and better seats than in the past few years - the ACO's show last week with guest director John Storgards on lead violin was outstanding, particularly Lutoslawski's vivacious Preludes and Fugue for 13 Solo Strings.
Certain wags may argue (have argued, continue to argue) that my three month moratorium was made simpler by the paucity of touring acts through the period and my tendency to talk my way out of most of the performances I actually went to as being gigs as such.
All I know is I made it. I've now got a Sigur Ros ticket for their August show, but that's far too far away - I think I might have to go see Grand Salvo next Friday, but even that seems a long time away.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Vinyl Diaries XXVII: dj museum
When last we were away Peter and Angela were kind enough to water our plants and bring in the mail... while they're away it seems to be our turn to repay the favour by hijacking Peter's splendid radio show, Utility Fog, which features, if i remember correctly, postfolkrocktronica, from granular pop to orchestral breakcore and beyond...
I think I know who got the better deal, but given they're off gallivanting around Europe and off to see My Bloody Valentine in Glasgow maybe they're coping somehow. Oh well.
While I've been doing bits and pieces of production, it's been a while since I've done any programming or on-air presenting. I'm rather looking forward to it and it's been fun auditioning tracks that might get a spin - the idea being to try and keep to the flavour of the show while lending it a benjamin and serena sprinkle.
Thanks to the wonders of the interweb, apparently it will be streaming from hereabouts from 10pm Sunday to 1am Monday, Sydney time.
So thank you to Peter for letting us play with your shiny show and enjoy the rest of your trip - we'll try not to break it while you're gone ;-)
I think I know who got the better deal, but given they're off gallivanting around Europe and off to see My Bloody Valentine in Glasgow maybe they're coping somehow. Oh well.
While I've been doing bits and pieces of production, it's been a while since I've done any programming or on-air presenting. I'm rather looking forward to it and it's been fun auditioning tracks that might get a spin - the idea being to try and keep to the flavour of the show while lending it a benjamin and serena sprinkle.
Thanks to the wonders of the interweb, apparently it will be streaming from hereabouts from 10pm Sunday to 1am Monday, Sydney time.
So thank you to Peter for letting us play with your shiny show and enjoy the rest of your trip - we'll try not to break it while you're gone ;-)
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
outing
She stares out of her window, sitting straight-backed behind the empty passenger seat. The passenger door is open, nobody is sitting there. It must be for her mother – the father would be driving, a car like this. The years on her face outweigh her size, the muscles drawing her brow in, like she’s squinting against the glare of existence, or as if she's seen it all before. Seen all there is before her, already. She seems to be wearing make-up, but isn’t. She seems to be looking past wherever her eye appears to be resting. Though it isn’t resting at all, it’s working, always working. What she’s seeing is not necessarily there.
She’s lost in thought. Not imagination, but reflection, not possibilities for the future, but ruminations on the past. She’s all in black, a crushed velvet, lace trimmed. Real lace. Her hair is a shock of white spilling over its gentle, scalloped neckline, preternaturally blonde, prematurely straightened before it could find its natural curl.
She stares at the spot her mother’s heel last trod, before the glossy green door closed. She’s gone back for something – a scarf, a glove, something they forgot to pack as they went to the car. She forgot it knowingly, aching for the moment to herself. She left it on the dressing table well aware she would have to go back, timing it so they were all in the car but the key hadn’t turned. She knew he would be annoyed, knew he would spend the time tapping on the dashboard and looking every ten seconds at its clock, choking with silent rage, as if that would somehow make her any faster.
She walks up the stairs, not fast not slow. Her breath is so tight, her chest so locked, you could hold up a mirror to her mouth and no mist would appear. She wants to go faster because that’s how she does things, slower because she needs that moment to stretch on as long as it can, as far as it can go before snapping.
He drums his fingers on the dashboard. He looks at the clock again, then checks his wristwatch. Its heavy, gold body gleams against his tanned arm, black hairs curling over its band. The cuffs of his starched white shirt peek out past his coat, the gold cuff-link flashing like toothache.
She looks down at her shoes, their tiny buckles, the rough scuff on the end of the left one where she dragged it over the gutter getting into the car. ‘Mother will not be pleased’, she thinks, not sure whether she herself cares. Not sure of anything. She looks at the freckle just below the third knuckle on her middle finger. She scratches at it, as she always does while waiting for something, anything, to happen, but it doesn’t go anywhere. It never goes anywhere. The skin beneath it whitens and the freckle slides back towards her wrist, but then returns to exactly where it had been.
She is too cold, or too hot, but not quite sure which. Her father drums on the centre of the steering wheel, sucking his back teeth.
She is close to the window, so close her forehead almost touches the glass, yet no mist of breath appears.
She closes her eyes.
She’s lost in thought. Not imagination, but reflection, not possibilities for the future, but ruminations on the past. She’s all in black, a crushed velvet, lace trimmed. Real lace. Her hair is a shock of white spilling over its gentle, scalloped neckline, preternaturally blonde, prematurely straightened before it could find its natural curl.
She stares at the spot her mother’s heel last trod, before the glossy green door closed. She’s gone back for something – a scarf, a glove, something they forgot to pack as they went to the car. She forgot it knowingly, aching for the moment to herself. She left it on the dressing table well aware she would have to go back, timing it so they were all in the car but the key hadn’t turned. She knew he would be annoyed, knew he would spend the time tapping on the dashboard and looking every ten seconds at its clock, choking with silent rage, as if that would somehow make her any faster.
She walks up the stairs, not fast not slow. Her breath is so tight, her chest so locked, you could hold up a mirror to her mouth and no mist would appear. She wants to go faster because that’s how she does things, slower because she needs that moment to stretch on as long as it can, as far as it can go before snapping.
He drums his fingers on the dashboard. He looks at the clock again, then checks his wristwatch. Its heavy, gold body gleams against his tanned arm, black hairs curling over its band. The cuffs of his starched white shirt peek out past his coat, the gold cuff-link flashing like toothache.
She looks down at her shoes, their tiny buckles, the rough scuff on the end of the left one where she dragged it over the gutter getting into the car. ‘Mother will not be pleased’, she thinks, not sure whether she herself cares. Not sure of anything. She looks at the freckle just below the third knuckle on her middle finger. She scratches at it, as she always does while waiting for something, anything, to happen, but it doesn’t go anywhere. It never goes anywhere. The skin beneath it whitens and the freckle slides back towards her wrist, but then returns to exactly where it had been.
She is too cold, or too hot, but not quite sure which. Her father drums on the centre of the steering wheel, sucking his back teeth.
She is close to the window, so close her forehead almost touches the glass, yet no mist of breath appears.
She closes her eyes.
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Vinyl Diaries XXVI: Mike Cooper & Chris Abrahams
Mike Cooper & Chris Abrahams
+AustraLYSIS Electroband
April 4, 2008
I've been tinkering on a few things lately, but here's another piece put together for resonate magazine.
Back soon...
+AustraLYSIS Electroband
April 4, 2008
I've been tinkering on a few things lately, but here's another piece put together for resonate magazine.
Back soon...
Thursday, 5 June 2008
Vinyl Diaries XXV: Sydney Symphony Orchestra
Dimitri Shostakovich & Georges Lentz
Sydney Symphony Orchestra
March 26, 2008
A little something I put together that's now popped up over at resonate magazine.
Sydney Symphony Orchestra
March 26, 2008
A little something I put together that's now popped up over at resonate magazine.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
back from bundanon
It’s been less than a fortnight since I left Bundanon, but already it’s feeling like a fairly pivotal turning point in my creative life.
Having moved fairly smoothly from school to university to the workplace, finding myself in jobs (journalism/newspaper editor) that offer plenty of challenges and require a substantial amount of attention from my mind, I’ve never really had the opportunity to spend any great stretch of time on creative projects.
Those that I have pursued have been, invariably, either spontaneous or reactive. My two novel length works-in progress both began as short stories that simply got out of hand, taking on a life of their own. On the photography front, I’ve been very much of the verité school, shooting what I see, the world ‘as it is’ without my interference. I acknowledge, of course, the choices I make in subject selection, framing, composition and the like, but have rarely been active in setting up or directing a scene or an image. I’d figured this was a stylistic choice, a philosophical consideration of photography as documentation and momentary, but am now wondering whether it was simply a lack of time.
On the writing side, the hope entering the fortnight had been to finish a few projects, in any spare time that may have emerged around our main major life between buildings project. Yet after two weeks these never even made it out of the suitcase – this was a place and a time for thinking afresh, for inventing/crafting not polishing; opening doors not closing them.
So instead of wrapping up existing projects, I seem to have started more than I can keep track of. Central is the life between buildings song cycle, to which I intend to co-contribute text along with Rhiannon and Danielle, and work on more visual ideas that will hopefully augment its final presentation.
‘The Last Supper’ is to be a 12-song song-cycle, co-created by the life between buildings team of Serena Armstrong, Danielle Carey, Rhiannon Cook, Julian Day, and, in there as well, me.
The cycle will build upon written texts exploring the last meals of condemned death row prisoners, combining the irresistible motifs of Food and Death.
The idea is to create a work that can stand alone in a traditional performative sense, incorporating visual elements , but there is also strong interest in looking at the ‘event’ possibilities the idea holds, to explore its potential in installation or even ‘happening’ terms, such as incorporating the work into an actual meal with audience interaction, a blurring of the active performer/ passive audience lines.
This idea developed throughout Bundanon and grew richer each day, particularly in the second week. We would share our thoughts and ideas for it, discussing its difficulties and problematic aspects as well as what intrigued us.
Once the idea had developed to a point where we could all see where it might be heading, we were each able to work on bringing our various strengths to it, working on potential texts and some basic musical possibilities.
Amidst all this, as I was being drawn further and further into the surrounds, I also found some windows to experiment with some visual ideas. With a fortnight to spend free of daily concerns (cooking and grooming matters notwithstanding), my early ideas for some photographic series developed, expanded and then shifted quite substantially. For reasons I expect I’ll explore at greater length down the line, I’ve developed a fascination bordering on obsession with red. Red in all its forms, but particularly red as a thread – in this case wool.
‘Threads’ are a theme I’ve begun to quietly follow, but the red is quite recent and appeared quite suddenly, almost violently. Apart from its symbolic elements, which I’ll discuss down the track, I’m quite taken by the difficulties cameras appear to have in processing reds of this intensity.
My early red interventions at Bundanon were quite rushed and quickly executed. I wasn’t sure if the idea even had any lasting worth, and hadn’t fully understood what it was I was trying to say. Spending more and more time wrapping objects, winding the wool around the man-made or natural items that drew me, that seemed to be asking for a red challenge, or echo, I found the time and space to think more about what it was I was trying to do, and say.
I had gone into Bundanon thinking I would look at spending more time on photo manipulation – working with layers to get my photos to look at the relationship between the ‘observed world’, text and music. But instead of post-production and scanning, layering disparate images for a common cause, I found I was more and more drawn towards creating these layers in real-time and real-space.
The poetics of the bush and its musicality was utterly enthralling. I couldn’t face sitting at my computer trying to recreate when here was a chance to create directly, to interact with the natural surroundings and enter into a type of direct dialogue.
Hence the paperbark/paperback project, the Byron rock, the Haydn gum, and variations on the ‘poe-tree’ project. Many more ideas have also been sifting through since my return, with the urge to create kicked along again after seeing Jeanette Winterson, a favourite author, speak at the Sydney Opera House to open the Sydney Writers’ Festival on Tuesday.
While perhaps seemingly like a fairly haphazard hotchpotch of concepts and threads, each, in their way, has been spawned by the Bundanon and life between buildings collaboration. In the past I’ve tended to work fairly individually, drawing upon my own ideas and bouncing them up against, well, myself.
I think what I’ve taken from this experience is not just the amazing time I had working closely with such creative, inspiring artists (and good friends!), but I have learned how ideas bounced around can grow and develop and take on a life of their own, thanks to the enthusiasm and input of others.
So while we have a common cause in our central project, we all each have other strands to follow, other threads to explore, that each developed, to some extent out, of the collaborative process. The actual ‘practice’ part, the writing or the photography is, for me, still a fairly personal path. I tend to process ideas over a longer period than some, then quietly chip away at them, channelling through my work things I can’t always explain in discussion. I think my strength in working with others is more likely to be a piece of text or a photo that tells a story, rather than ‘discussed’ input as such – that may change, but my work seems to come from a part of me I don’t necessarily have access to in conversation form.
To spend two weeks immersed in this, in such a deeply inspiring place as Bundanon, has been an experience that will ripple through my life for some time.
This was an inspiring group of artists to spend time with, and I like to think we’ll be able to keep working together, even if loosely, under the life between buildings umbrella.
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