The exhibition I never curated

Where was everyone? At PJ Hickman’s Metro Arts opening last night I didn’t see a single person I know. Weird. Nonetheless, extending on the Sophie Gannon exhibition mid-last year, there’s a number of insert: [AN ARTIST’S NAME] and artists from the Venice Biennale, such as Vernon Ah Kee. The works evoke a portrait of the artists, an image of their works, the broader art world and its institutionalised systems. There’s also multiple new works, or paintings-as-administration.

The institutionalised frameworks for exhibiting art/artists, particularly painting; the works question the art world and arts status. Sometimes encased in boxes, similar to shoe-boxes, further questions its commodification. The exhibition is also nicely complimented with a text by Christine Morrow with comments such as ‘in the sense that everything has already been made and, at most, requires only a little reheating’ and ‘consider painting as an estate whose stock and assets have been stripped’. As well as paintings that mirror their attribution, the staged pilcrows, the typographical symbol or the backward P that marks the presence of a carriage return between paragraphs, suggests both blankness and no doubt a return to something.

Hickman’s reductive approach employs a limited colour palette (the serious colours); minimal content and a serial conceptual approach that eliminates all the fluffy. It’s on point. And I don’t think it’s an in-joke, it’s apparent. You see that the painting and the attribution are the same. Surely.

Rafael Bonachela's 360º, Sydney Dance Company, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

I’ve wanted to see the Sydney Dance Company since forever. It seemed that I always saw the marketing material too late and as a consequence missed their performances. So, needless to say, I was very much looking forward to seeing 360º. Finally. And thankfully it delivered fully toned physique and physicality, which I love. Although, curiously I witnessed some of the palest bodies I’ve ever seen (particularly in Australia). Initially, there was some sensory overload (never thought I’d say that about anything, ever) and simultaneously, slow and meandering. Aside from some early twittering, cliqued movements (is contemporary dance still suffering a psychofrenic crisis?) and being distracted by such thoughts, my experience gradually settled into a better rhythm and became total. The male ensemble and the waves acts/movements produced some beautiful and compelling moving images. There were even some slippery yoga tiger moves and the pop light/music was perhaps the most pure.

from Mary and Max, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

How awesome is Mary and Max? It’s like the best Australian (and New York I suppose) film I can remember seeing in ages. And even better that it’s claymation, which also manages to make Australian kitsch digestible. There are so many great details: Max’s totally grotesque recipes; The ‘life be in it’ stamped to the crotch of Grandpa’s buggy-smugglers; Max’s problem-solving; Mary’s dream of some day marrying Earl Grey; Max’s anxiety attacks; Philip Seymour-Hoffman pronouncing Mary’s full name as he begins to type each letter. His voice was so familiar. It wasn’t until the end when I thought about it that I realised, oh it’s Seymour-Hoffman. Actually, the voices of the superior cast really cares for and shapes these characters so convincingly. It’s unfortunate that the bittersweet is being described as bleak. Particularly when it was a relationship and tale that ultimately stumbled upon such good fortune.

Erzan Adam, 'Naked as We Were', 2008. Fabric 59 x 59 x 142 cm. Photo: D. Eckersley., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Illness aside we managed to get out and about a little. How could I possibly stand not seeing the galleries: ‘Manifold’ at the Substation, the Singapore Art Museum (Damian’s sneaky photo posted above) including ‘@ home abroad’ at the new, diagonally adjacent 8Q; Post-Museum, and a very brief glimpse of Little India, and the opening of Betty Susiarjo’s ‘Someday We Will Know’ (images previously posted) at Lasalle on our way to the airport. Noting that ICA and/or Lasalle haven’t updated their website for some time, they don’t list their opening hours, didn’t respond to my email query, appeared to have other exhibitions on (?), but I had to learn about the opening from the sitter at ‘Manifold’.

But like a lot of people, the standout activity was the Night Safari next to the Singapore Zoo. And I’m so glad we got to visit, as we didn’t make it to see the orang-utans near Kuching. I wasn’t sure why there were so many ‘nocturnal’ cows, but Damian made the point that it’d probably have something to do with them being one of the most revered animals in Asia (per capita at least). Fair point. The spotted hyenas were absolutely terrifying and this adrenaline spiked experience made them Damian’s favourite. He thought they really, really wanted to jump that trench and gorge on our throats while we screamed blood curdled cries for help in the dark ‘jungle’. And for me, that South Park episode develops real sense after seeing the capybaras in the ‘South American campus’ (worlds largest rodent, which resembles a freakishly large guinea pig with a dog-like body). Although the fishing cats didn’t dive we were very fortunate in that all of the animals came out to play; most notably the giant flying squirrels. Normally I can’t stand squirrels and get into all sorts of stand-offs and freak-outs with them bouncing, scurrying and attacking, but the giant flying kind are cool with me.

A portrait. Photo: D. Eckersley., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

IMG_2336, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

IMG_2338, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

We’ve been talking about spending some weekends in Asia for a while. A discussion that spawned the DH boys’ one-night mantra: kebab, passport, Bali. But thanks to an invitation for Damian to speak at the Malaysian Institute of Architects Conference, we’d be spending this first weekend away in Kuching, Sarawawak, northern Borneo.

Our mornings seemed to begin overcast. Either: this is normal in Kuching; they also don’t have day light saving and/or the remaining preparation of Damian’s presentation loomed. Either way, each day inevitably brightened. It was all quick looking, looking, looking, eating, eating, eating, again and again and again. With Koh our tireless host and two tables of Architects, our first dinner was at the infamous Top Spot. Many were from Kula Lumper and it seemed at least fifty percent had studied in Australia. With curious accents they joked, “I’m half Australian. Can’t you tell?”

The next morning Damian was first up and his presentation went very well. So, with that squared, I headed out for a mini-adventure. To encounter the things we’d quickly scanned from Koh’s car the day before, in person. Mainly the old Chinatown shop-houses, Buddhist Temples, the curiously overt blue and white police station, the magnificent old tree with roots as tall as the passing cars and Little India. Painfully, during my first attempt I dropped my camera! I saw it bounce and briefly thought maybe it’ll bounce back, but to no avail. Anyway. The excursion didn’t take too long and I made it back to do some laps in the pool before ducking back into the conference for the Q & A in all its glory: the speakers seated behind a panel table covered with a shimmeringly resplendent cloth, as if they were judging a Thai queer beauty pageant. Awesome.

The conference and the evening almost ended with a dinner at Blah, Blah, Blah, with its huge goldfish, and finally a visit to a locally designed house. Almost: because a ferocious dragon bug would later unleash its wrath.

Betty Susiarjo, ‘Someday We Will Know’, 2009., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Tokyo-Ga, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

And when you’ve seen Tokyo-Ga, a documentary about Japanese director Ozu, then obviously you want to know more about Ozu - the emphatic statement in The Elegance of the Hedgehog that compelled us to find the documentary. In addition we specifically wanted to see The Munekata Sisters, but settled for revisiting Tokyo Story and others.

The two single most captivating things about the documentary are the introduction that begins with ‘if there were still sacred things’ and the soundtrack, which I’m not sure how to describe: maybe grinding, sharp, abrasive, sinister, ominous. Per Wenders, Ozu’s films again and again tell the same simple story always of the same people and the same city, Tokyo. His work depicts the transformation of life in Japan, the slow deterioration of the Japanese family and thereby the deterioration of the national identity (or trauma) by lamenting with an unindulged sense of nostalgia, the loss taking place at the same time (universally).

On the heels of Colliding Islands, Wenders description of the spring of 83 - I just don’t remember anymore. These images now exist and they have become my memory. If only it were possible to film likethat (to just open your eyes), just to look without wanting to prove anything. He describes his experience as that of a sleepwalker - recognising his Tokyo surroundings, but detached, grappling with his consciousness, in fact touching this space for the first time. This experience is reiterated in the Pachinko parlour (or galaxy) alone among many induces a kind of hypnosis, a strange feeling of happiness, but time passes and perhaps you forget what you always wanted to forget; the wax/plastic food studio where he wasn’t permitted to film while they ate their lunch amongst their wax creations and food catalogues; and the trains, all the trains, the constant movement, re-reflecting Ozu and further implying extremes or experiences between internal and external migration, something and nothingness.

One recognises the image and the experience. Constantly comprehending an inflation of transitory images and experiences, it’s difficult for reality to reveal itself within those extended moments. Anyway, a curious case of multiple influences collecting at the same time, or at least reading and interpreting multiple sources in a similar way. After Colliding Islands, it was good to pursue an obsessive film kick. I love mini-projects like that; next, Hiroshi’s Korean film list.

Simon Evans, Everything I Have, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Over the weekend, the idea – I must remember to start writing that review Monday, kept popping into my head. Then today, why not start differently - looking at blogs I’ve been meaning to for months. So, I’ve been sucked into a wonderful vortex, before a Tea Master lunch with the boy.

Beginning with Garance Doré, I sighted some other yellow-holics. Bright, anise, neon or whatever the exact colour is, I’ve also increasingly become obsessed. Often teaming with the equivalent blue, mixing stripes, patterns and scarfs. Trying to purchase whatever I can lay my hands on, before it disappears and/or sadly fades. Wish a sublime yellow dress could appear in my wardrobe. Have been meaning to purchase salmon-coloured items. Ha! To all those skewered eyebrows and looks. But more generally, what a femininely-written blog.

Then the vortex spiralled into Simon Evans, Everything I Have (pictured, courtesy of A CUP OF JO, noting the semi-regular post Have a fun weekend. What are you up to?..). Slightly similar to John Freyer’s allmylifeforsale, except Evans doesn’t sell and document the ongoing life of his possessions. ‘Evans implicitly compares being shipwrecked, to the role of the artist as an outsider… He’s also obsessed with counting and charting’. Followed by, the plug. A project, which ties disposable cameras to benches with notes that read: I attached this camera so you could take pictures. So have fun. I’ll be back later this evening to pick up… And people take photos.

Subsequently, Mark Gonzalez’s performance at the Stadtisches Museumm, Germany late 1998 (pictured, courtesy of Kate Neckel). Yes, gotta love the skating and West Coast by Coconut Records. Perhaps a fitting soundtrack to - sometimes I want my time to be mine. Not to mention cruising in the modified fencing outfit.

Benjamin Duterrau, The Conciliation (1840) (TMAG)., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

With Archie trying to spot other Indigenous people and scanning maps for Indigenous names, I visited the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG). I normally don’t pay any attention to works I dislike and I certainly haven’t written about them, but I’ve been preoccupied with The Conciliation. I suspect it’s the art-equivalent of watching a car crash. In addition to the accompanying works on paper, or studies I suppose of connected Indigenous Tasmanians, showing for example Woureddy’s resplendent ochre dusted dreadlocks; what’s particularly compelling is that The Conciliation very clearly depicts Indigenous Tasmanians not amidst flora and fauna, but rather their distinct identities.

Duterrau's, The Conciliation is credited (namely William Moore, a critic and historian of the time) as the first historical epic painting in Australia. The painting depicts George Augustus Robinson with Indigenous Australians including Woureddy and his daughter Truganini. Two of the most celebrated Indigenous Tasmanians. In particular, a meeting with the so-called ‘Protector of Aborigines’ in Van Diemen’s Land. Post Lieutenant-Governor George Arthur announcing the Black War (1830), Truganini (Sinead O’Connor on right), who would have feared further reprisals and concerned with the safety of her people, was persuaded by Robinson to assist or guide him. However, she was betrayed as part of a broader plan to re-settle them at Wybaleen, a kind of death camp on Flinders Island (1830-37). Also known as the Black Line: the attempted genocide of the Indigenous Tasmanians.

Before Truganini was seventeen, her mother Tanleboueyer had been killed by whalers, her uncle had been shot by a soldier, three of her sisters had been abducted and sold to sealers (one of whom was later shot) and her betrothed Paraweena, was drowned in the Channel by timber sawyers. Truganini was part of a guerilla war campaign (1838) at Port Philip, Victoria with a group of other Tasmanians - the men were recaptured and executed in Melbourne's first public execution, and her husband died during their return.

Tragedy after tragedy: Truganini and the remaining 45 people were moved from Wybaleena to Oyster Cove (1847). Even posthumously her skeleton was displayed at the Tasmanian Museum (until 1951). It wasn’t until 100 years after her death (1976) that, in accordance with her wishes, her remains were finally cremated and scattered near Oyster Cove, near her traditional country in the D'Entrecasteaux Channel, south of Hobart. Even today, samples of her skin and hair continue to be sourced and returned.

Benjamin Law also produced busts of Woureddy and Truganini, which are the earliest major pieces of Australian sculpture. Woureddy’s portrays a hunter, a warrior, or a Greek hero in kangaroo skin (Mary Mackay), whereas Truganini’s could be the most emotional colonial portrait of an Indigenous person. According to a colonial account, she is ‘sorrowing, mourning the slain members of her family’ and people.

For me, Robinson, historically the focal point, and his glowing white pants appears transplanted. Instead today, The Conciliation’s focal point is rather dominated and overwhelmed by ‘the Others’, embedded with legends and the premeditated deception against them; but especially Truganini and her burden.

DSC03973, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

IMG2251 Photo Damian Eckersley., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

DSC03846, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Aside from the obligatory stops: Franklin River, Cradle Mountain and Freycinet. I’d discovered Damian was seriously entertaining the idea of a possible alternative: planning our entire trip around vegetarian food. He’d found an alarmist with a very limited list; as-in more dire than a vegetarian in Cuba. While it’s a curious and completely understandable approach, thankfully it was unnecessary (much like the 9 day canoe trip down the Franklin). However, more surprising was discovering that restaurants tend to close early in Tasmania, especially in Hobart’s city centre.

From memory one of the worst fears was not being able to eat in Strahan. Knowing that the Franklin Manor was a back up we aimed for the local pub. The copiously appointed gnocchi salad with walnuts, fetta and whatever was more than enough to feed the big, bad and hungriest vegetarian male.

There were scrumptious Huon valley mushrooms all around. Even at the yacht club in Launceston Damian found asparagus and haloumi in a stack; while I enjoyed an awesome seafood green curry and other such things. The wine was great too, pity we found some of it was owned by Gunns… the desert wine wasn’t though!

The sweet potato cakes at Fresh (Charles Street, Launceston), filled with zucchini and fetta, topped with fried eggs, mushrooms and sweet tomato relish would be ranked within my all time top 3 breakfasts. Damian will always get the beans where on offer: baked eggs with chilli. In fact, like Damian, my breakfast at Zum (Hobart) was also near perfect. A potato rosti with salmon and hollandaise sauce, though a little oily was the perfect portion without poached eggs. Of course Damian had the baked beans (with poached egg) special, as did almost everyone else: he says ‘yum!’

DSC03932, photo Damian Eckersley., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Day #2 of our whirlwind tour of Tasmania was all about Cradle Mountain. When we arrived it was raining, misty and below 11° (Celsius). After whining a bit, we set off on the Dove Lake circuit and were snap-happy and captivated within moments.

In Australia, especially Queensland, we’re forever exposed to unrelenting, scorching bright sunlight. It’s a relief to be overseas in the softer light. One relaxes the eyes, the squinting and the face generally gets to rest. One becomes accustomed to seeing rather than always glaring to see through the mandatory sunglasses. Well, that is until you step out of the airplane and are again confronted with the blinding pain of it all. Not to mention the insects. That is except for Tasmania.

We got to look at things with our own eyes without squinting: the shimmering colours of moss, rusty rocks, bright fluro pink berries, naturally occurring bonsai, the unique fairytale forests and landscape in general. That is everything except for Cradle Mountain itself. Covered by mist and unfamiliar with the landscape, we wondered, where is Cradle Mountain? Tasmania, including Cradle Mountain in particular, is renowned for rapid variations in the weather. So, we succumbed to the idea that we’d been a bit unlucky, that the park was living up to it’s reputation and that we, as it turned out were coping with the cold and were having a pleasant time regardless. Reaching about the last quarter of the walk, we were periodically turning around, gradually the mist lifted and there it was. Almost.

Peter Dombrovski, Morning Mist, Rock Island Bend, Franklin River (1979)., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

How could we not pay our respects to the Franklin. It has been considered the last wild river and is synonymous with one of, if not the largest Australian conservation battles (and part of a broader context for the subtle political undertones in the exhibition).

After the loss of the Lake Pedder campaign, the Tasmanian government decided to proceed with a Hydro-Electric Commission plan to dam the Gordon-above-Olga in preference to the Gordon-below-Franklin. In the first Australian referendum without a ‘no’ option, a third of voters responded with electoral defiance by writing ‘No Dams’ across their ballot papers. Although less than half the voters supported the Franklin dam the government somehow managed to proclaim the outcome as an endorsement.

The dam would have obliterated the pristine landscape, flooded the river and swallowed caves occupied during the Last Glacial Maximum. Including the Kutikina Cave, where Rhys Jones and Kevin Kiernan had excavated stone artefacts and bone fragments. Part of the world’s cultural heritage, radiocarbon dates indicate it was the southernmost limit of the last Ice Age settlement.

Conservationists launched targeted guerilla blockades to save the Franklin that, assisted by Dombrovski’s photograph of the Rock Island Bend, attracted intense media coverage and galvanised Australia. As the campaign gained momentum, damming the Franklin became a national election issue. During the dispute, the area was World Heritage listed; Dr Bob Brown, then Director of the Tasmanian Wilderness Society was named by the Australian newspaper Australian of the Year, because while his activities provoked strong opposition, they should also attract admiration; and became a member of State Parliament. Upon election, the then Labor Prime Minister, Bob Hawke announced that the dam would not proceed. The Tasmanian government took the matter to the High Court. In a landmark decision, the High Court ruled in favour of the federal government and the Franklin dam was stopped.

Of course Damian had been keen to embark on the lengthy (5 days into an overall 9) and arduous canoe-journey to the photograph – Rock Island Bend; while my argument was: there wasn’t time and people die in the middle of nowhere, including Dombrovski himself. This was later bolstered by Pippa’s remark re crapping in the communal box that’s carted throughout. Thankfully time really didn’t permit and we settled for driving the Wild Way, taking some brief walks along the way, touching the Franklin and paying our much-elated respects, before staying at Strahan - base camp for the blockade back in the day.

IMG2073 Photo Damian Eckersley., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Hobart reminded Archie and I of Toowoomba, while Hobart and Launceston reminded Damian of Newtown during the nineties. The exhibition is in a large part about this experience - as a kind of constant tourist. When do we ever encounter a place in isolation to the landscapes we’ve experienced previously? It usually takes some time before a place develops its own identity independent of other spaces.

In retrospect, I’m not sure what I expected, but for some reason I’d presumed that there would be some mid-height buildings and density or people living in the city as with the other capitals... Instead, the city is a kind of outpost set against Mt Wellington and you can see the sky, like Toowoomba. And there were buildings that were so much older than any elsewhere in Australia, bypassed by the destructive forces of the eighties boom. So well built too. According to Damian, it’s amazing what you can achieve with a captive work force. Regardless, we had an awesome time in Tasmania overall, everyone was so hospitable, and we’re looking forward to the opportunity to return.

The full colour exhibition catalogue, designed by Melanie Schafer and with a foreword by Kevin O’Brien, can be viewed online at www.castgallery.org, and documentation of the floor talk with Archie Moore and myself may be viewed at CAST, Hobart.

Colliding Islands, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

For months I’ve been increasingly preoccupied with the forthcoming exhibition Colliding Islands. All the little details: venue/context, freight, writing, finalising the catalogue, triple-checking details. My sleep was out of whack due to lingering grammatical questions: an overused comma in my predictably long sentences. The usual process that inevitably peaks and then wanes post-opening. Essentially, it’s a kind of landscape exhibition. Which is humorous to me, because if someone had told me that I’d be curating a ‘landscape’ exhibition 18-months ago, in my mind - I would have reached over and slapped them. But I think this coupled with a gradual consideration of the project has ultimately led to a richer interpretation/s.

The project has come about through a series of studio situations and visits, where there was a noticeable subsistence of landscapes, either overtly or more subtle ideas about landscape. Particularly, American artists opposed to occupation in Iraq and confounded by the enforced rules of political and military spaces in the US. Grappling with this identity conflict while traversing sedition and managing self-censorship. Landscapes imbued with politics. It’s a minefield.

From an outsider’s perspective, headlines regarding Iraq would be missing from US newspapers; instead there was a persistent radio advertisement to recruit for the CIA. What are our social responsibilities in this global context? As an Australian, how do we participate? How can we when we’re still reconciling inherited ideological differences here? Can Indigenous Camping lend it self to site-specific models? Is there a new kind of landscape genre - post-site-specificity or at least a revised way of considering the genre?

More broadly, the project acknowledges that the screen makes it possible to encounter other spaces and allows for a distorted picturesque. Namely, our experience and perspective of Los Angeles is fashion and fiction, populated by celebrities. Los Angeles, and its realities are questionable. We expect it to be a vacuous husk that can be endlessly overlaid with new fictions.

Rather than permanent migration post-WII or a nostalgic, bittersweet memory, the project is more concerned with being briefly and continuously displaced, both physically and psychologically, and in particular via digital communications. We’re bombarded and seduced, in a similar way to advertising, by different spaces. How do we reconcile these colliding spaces?

Perhaps it’s easy to think of landscape exhibitions as quaint, and not typically relevant to contemporary contexts. They’re often dragged out of storage and installed without re-defining their relevance to the contemporary moment. As individuals and islands we knock about and transfer (no man is an island). The responsibilities of global citizens demands that one can extend one’s self to act beyond the immediate situation. In effect, burst the bubble.

Nomads & Residents cover, designed by Melanie Schafer, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

“Oh, you’re a curator at ‘the gallery? No, I said I’m an independent curator.” The responses are invariably… “I didn’t realise there were other galleries? Or, I don’t understand your role, what is it that you do?” Which, if not actually asked, infers: how do you make a living and what is your value?

It was so nice in New York (in fact, almost anywhere else) I could be talking with my driver, who’d respond, “Oh, well this is the place. There are so many galleries, have you been to this gallery” or exhibition, or work, I really liked blah, blah. The conversations were so easy; I never had to start from the beginning. Here, whether layperson or artist, I often have to start from the dawn of time and it can be so difficult to jump start this kind of conversation.

It’s forced me to spend a lot of time essentially advocating for my profession. But sometimes it is interesting to be asked such seemingly obvious questions. Namely, what is an exhibition? What is an exhibition’s value? So a while back, months ago, I wrote a brief do-it-yourself guide. The publication format sits somewhere between a designed zine and a pamphlet. It explores exhibition models or exhibition types that contemporary and independent exhibition makers utilise as materials that are continually transformed.

The approaches described are by no means shiny-new-fangled practices and I’d imagine the guide offers little new information for those in the biz. However, it does divert from prescriptive definitions of exhibitions, contained by a dedicated venue with white walls. Just as artists employ genre-breaking approaches to making, associated roles also blur and oscillate: artist-as-curator, curator as collaborator and collector as sponsor.

For ages I’d been reluctant about the idea, because I’d considered the micro text and macro images of guidebooks a bit silly really, but I’ve gradually realised that they can be quite useful references, a quick resource for succinct on-point information. By popular demand, this edition also contains an ‘insert’ that lists and locates, with an accompanying map, preferred New York galleries and locations of interest; which is great for me, because I won’t have to continually search for that list anymore.

Ultimately, Nomads & Residents presents a context for my regular encounters in the hope of jump starting that inevitable conversation, to rectify an imbalance. Or at least, reassure others (and myself) of the inherent values of exhibition making and in a way, how to consider paradigm shifting exhibitions.

Zombie Limbo. Photo courtesy of Mel., originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Triathlon Pink, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

I was excited and even a little bit scared – hoping I’d make it, rather than fall in a heap before the finish line. As many of my friends and colleagues know, last year my idea was pink cupcakes for a pink breakfast, but this year I thought I’d up the anti and participate in my first triathlon. After continually writing for a couple of months I was sick, not even swimming and needed a new kind of kick-start. So, why not sign up for a triathlon. And besides, I figured it wouldn’t matter if I collapsed, passed out, or whatever, because it was all about raising funds in aid of the National Breast Cancer Foundation. So, I spent the past weeks more-or-less cramming a two-month training program into two and a half weeks (which Handsome Dan seemed to think was quite amusing). And definitely one sure-fire way to kick-start moving the junk-in-the-trunk. The process has dominated my conversations, but now it’s all over. I made it.

Dsc03606, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Works, top to bottom: Tony Schwensen (in background), Paul Pfeiffer in Industrail Precinct at Cockatoo (x 3), Janet Cardiff & George Bures Miller, Tony Schwensen, and Nedko Solakov, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

8.6.08, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

polytoxic p.tony philips brisbane times, originally uploaded by mxccuba.

Per the accompanying program note by Dramaturge Guy Cools, 'Sacred Monsters. Monsters Sacres. The term was used for the first time in France in the 19th century as a nickname for the big stars of the theatre, such as Sarah Bernhardt. It marks the birth of contemporary stardom in which the icons of the arts and sports world are given divine status by their audience and the media...

But there is also a flip side to stardom. Having to live up to the expectations of your audience to be perfect, positive, good (at),... There is no more room for failure, imperfection, to express one's real feelihngs and emotions. The divine status becomes inhuman, monstrous.'

The intense onstage collaboration between Choreographers, Dancers, Singers and Musicans becomes apparent form the initial moments. Differences in form are exhibited, namely in Akram Khan's Kathak solo, an Indian classical dance form; which if compared with Classical Ballet, it would appear that the hands dance and almost lead the complex rhythms of the feet. The performance intersects with Khan's spoken words about the early desire and struggles to represent Krishna. Later referenced in a duet when Sylvie Guillem has locked her legs around Khan's waist and the rebellious questioners' arms, and dark blue shadows, almost replicated the Indian god.

Guillem's status as the super-ballerina of this era would seen unchallengeable. In an interview 'Fear is the drug' with Judith Mackrell, Guillem states, "When I am just dancing there is always something round me, a character, a role, that protects me. Here (Sacred Monsters) it feels much more myself." Through the performance, the supple Guillem twists herself into a comical knot, like Khan she exposes fears, puts herself back together and re-emerges anew.

The impressive movements were interspersed with their desire to question classical inheritance, to push and challenge the conceptual boundaries of their dance forms. Questions were verbalised. What is right; what is the right movement; is this the right position or is this wrong? The processes (and exhaustion) are also literally performed when rather than exiting offstage, they sip water and towel down admist the minimal set, a torn white glacier. In its entirety, the work unpacks its self as it is performed.

IMG_1764, originally uploaded by cubamxc.

IMG_1597, originally uploaded by valleygirl2005.