Everything is art/work.

another artists sharism.

Month: November, 2012

A mobile library.

One of my good friends and collaborators did this trial.

A list of why I like this:
It turns the library into a character. A bright coloured yellow-type-snail of a character.
The ability for the books to be location specific
It breaks that awkward barrier in public space of marketing vs busking. There is general understanding of what a library is – but i do wonder if they think he is selling them at all.
He has his own seat that still makes him look like a snail.
Accessible, amusing, even a bit joyful and generous.

Questions I have:
Is it for temporary or long-term borrowing?
Could there be seats (or hammocks!) for those that borrow for an hour or so?
Would it need to be regular to gain momentum?
Where are other potential locations – festivals. events. parks. beaches. hospital waiting rooms. train stations. airports. ticket queues & camp outs.
Would it be of value to make some form of “payment” to make it of more value/books returned?

Check out Ben’s other stuff here: http://www.benlandau.com



The Moon.


I’ve been a bit moon-centric all year.
And as 21 Dec 2012 approaches, I am just going to embrace it.
So here is my list of moon-type musings of the year.

It began with Murakami’s IQ84. Two moons. One a little sickly.
Then Melancholia. And the stillness.
There was also Miranda July’s protagonist conversing with the moon in The Future.
And the amount of times I’ve seen these pictures pop up. By Laurent Laveder.

I started learning about Saturn.
It has 62 moons.
One of them is called Hyperion.
And it looks like this:

I cooed about the moon, while absent from a lover.
An apex between two people, i think that’s what i said once…
(cringe. albeit true.)

I spent three weeks in the NT and I saw the moon every evening.
This isn’t the case where I usually live.
I found it very comforting, grounding even, to find it there every night.

An eclipse happened.
The experience travelling to me through friends.

And then.
I was angry at the mislaid hope I’d had in the moon earlier this year.
So i made a paper mache pinata of one.
In the making it collapsed. it tore. it was sewed together.
Then we had fun:

And we hit it open:

And I hit it to bits:

The moon and I had a fight.
And I think we’re friends again.
Maybe we’re like family. Unable to not love each other despite the disappointments.

Dear moon.
I’ve got my eye on you.


“There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose – a gleaming round saucer – over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travellers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul – or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. THAT moon.”
– Haruki Murakami, 1Q84


Public & Me Space.

I sit in public space.
Waiting for those brave & curious enough to approach me.
I offer an unexpected world within the grey landscape.
I chose to work in public space:
– as a claim to public space
– to reduce barriers of accessibility
– to interrupt routine and expectations
– to gift and interact with strangers

Yesterday this all was rocked. And I’m confused on many levels, as to where I am naive, defiantly optimistic, overly critical, compromising or lacking resilience.

Throughout the day, there was a man loitering near by. He had a conversation with me earlier in the day. He was concerned about my caravan as he felt that it was scary and would make people “sick” being in there.
He was quite sick himself. He had cancer. And wanted to die. Really wanted to. And muttered this many times during the day..
“Melbourne is the worst city in the world. It’s poisonous. Why can’t I work? I have to rob to eat.”
Do you go to the soup kitchen?
“Would you eat soup and pies five days old? It’s poison.”
Have you been to the shelter?
“I don’t want to be around the junkies. They scare me.”
“I had an operation. They fucked up my stomach. I have cancer. I didn’t ask them to cut up my stomach, but they did.”
And when I say loitered, he was always within sight for 8 hours. Behind me. Down the street. Left. Right.
I felt he was harmless, but the same conversation muttered throughout the day wore me down. Mainly, for the sympathy I felt for him.
And I didn’t know how to help.
My little caravan felt pretty useless…

Then. Towards the end of the day another (assumed) homeless guy started talking to me about 20cm away from me, and started criticising me for wearing white. He tapped me on the breast and said “you shouldn’t wear white you know. You can see your…(whistle)…you know what i mean.” (I should point out here I was wearing 4 layers of white, including a white wool coat.)
He wouldn’t leave me alone.
I tried asking him to leave. To answer him with 1 word answers.
A male stranger walked up behind him and mouthed “are you ok?” at me, sticking around and helping me get rid of him. (oh god, there are some lovely people!)
Eventually he wandered off.

But so did my cloak of protectiveness. My defiant claim to space.
Was I stupid standing there by myself for an art project, without a back up friend to keep an eye out?
Was it the fact that he touched me that freaked me out?
Or that my skill/luck in avoiding those situations failed?
Or maybe I’m over-reacting and its just something that I should have expected, and deal with it.
And the man that stopped to help me, is that my back up plan: to rely on someone stopping, should it happen again?

Obviously, there are worse things that could have happenned. I just need to murmur the name Jill, and women stand up straighter, sadder, angrier.

Clarity of thoughts blurred.
Assistance to refine appreciated xx

29. A foreign number.

I was scared of 28. And now I’m 29.
28 was the year my mother got married. That our family began. A late-ish marriage in her time, it was an age I’d always thought I’d be married by. But not so. Very single even.

But as Saturn returns unfurls itself, I feel a sheet of foreign armor around my middle that assists me.
Perhaps this is the time I’ve been waiting for.

A  friend sent me an email for my birthday and mentioned how much I’d done this year.
This at first seemed odd, asfor me I feel like I’ve done little.
But then I reflected and found this:
Camping with a hammock. And feeling the salt on my skin.
A new years eve of realisation of a crush well and truly gone.A dip into hospitality again.
My first arts x activism in City Square.
The first beginnings of Small Voices.
A frame drop that, really, failed.
A speed trip to Perth and the beginning of a love.
A time of missing.
A death.
Grief. Reflection.Then a time of travelling.
Of interventions in London. A residency in Denmark.Performances in Milan. Discovery of Jeremy Deller.
A delve into Joseph Beuys.
A sense of freedom and change.
Stagnant waters of a relationship beginning to end, yet so much hope.
A week in Sydney.
A weekend in a commune.
A bit of being lost.
A new studio.
Trying to keep love alive. But it falling apart.
Dreaming of new projects. Applications galore.
A pussy riot dance.
A caravan launch.
Making with kids in Arnhem Land.
New friends. Social endeavours. Conversations of change.

And amidst it all, this hardness begins. This resilience.

I didn’t learn Danish.
I didn’t watch Ted talks every morning.
I haven’t done enough yoga.
I haven’t danced enough, grown a garden, or called my brother every fortnight.

But I’m human.
We’re all human.

And that’s something to be pleased with.