57 Variations – Installation Pictures

57 Variations of an incomplete elongated dodecahedron – The Day Gate Variation.

57 Variations of an incomplete elongated dodecahedron – The Boom Boom Firepower variation.

 

The Tortoise and Achilles with some of those strange acting smart-stupids: A meta-metaphorical fugue.

 

 

 

 

When I was approached about exhibiting my work in Latrobe Regional Gallery’s revamped sculpture courtyard I was doubly excited. Not only is it a ravishing space but it’s also my hometown gallery.  I had a strong body of work from my 2006 show at the Gippsland Art Gallery and I was busting for the opportunity to revisit and ‘re-tune’ that work.  However, after discussions with the Gallery I decided to change tack.  This new space was deserving of new work, and I was interested in developing this in a more capricious and whimsical manner.

57 Variations – variation 33.

This suite of component based assemblages and spatial interventions was developed from a need for an activity that I can just grab on a sunny day, get away from other projects, gain perspective, and most importantly, play.  It has become a form of three-dimensional or sculptural doodling.   Traditional ‘back-of-the-envelope’ doodling is great to help to clear one’s mind but doesn’t stretch the physical body.  The nature of this new work allows me to challenge both.

57 Variations – variation 33. Shown here spilling out the back door and into the car park.

 

So you want to be a boxer

Terry’s final march.

Shed Work.

Had a big day in the shed yesterday. Spent the day developing and designing some jigs to help speed up the process while still allowing for uniqueness. Worked all morning only to come back after lunch to redo everything.  Allot was learned in the process. I ended up with some good work.  When all that was done I thought it was high time for a play and had a go at a rams head for the first time.  How do you think it came out?

My Dad came down from Melbourne and turned me up this handle on his lathe. Turned (ha!) out great. Has anyone seen wooden handles on fire pokers before?

The Gates of Hell

After my last post, which side tracked into my information gathering and percolation techniques my thoughts returned to those days spent in the library.  This post contains excerpts from an essay I wrote about “The Gates of hell” by Auguste Rodin. As a visual reference point I have included a small image, check out the web for more pictures.  Most of you will be familiar with the character sitting in the middle.

The Thinker. Or as shown here, The Stinker.

Confronted. Standing aghast. Body jolted, mind frozen. Bewildered, confused, curious, entrapped. You are standing before (cue dramatic music and deep baritone voice over) “The Gates of Hell”.

The structures oppressive size belittles you. Ones’ eyes are swept up, drawn to the heavens, hoping to escape this tumultuous scene. The computer says NO. A scornful gaze carried by three men who stand upon the apex bores into you. The stand accusing, each with his index finger pointed straight at you. These are the “Three Shades”.  Glancing around, “Who me?”, you follow their fingers and discover to your relief, that it is not in fact you but the man who sits below them. The Thinker.

….As you remain transfixed by this solitary figure, from the shadows emerge – something. You can not quite make them out for the light is low. Into these dark recesses you are drawn, straining to see what lurks within. BAM!! you are knocked flat on your arse and sucked in the same instant.  Figures swirl about, twisting and writhing. Receding and leaping out towards you, fingers groping. You are engulfed by entropy, like a piece of driftwood carried by the sea, smashed into the rocks. Trapped within, resistance is futile. You let go and become one with the work, an actor upon the stage, no longer a passive viewer sitting safely in the audience.

…….Your eyes are drawn back once again to meet The Thinker, pausing for breath in this the only moment of peace in the entire composition.  However you soon realise the The Thinker is not at rest, he is not peace, he can not provide you with solace. The anguish and turmoil you feel resonates from within him, he is at once the cause and the effect. The entropy of the work, the fear you feel is the echo of his thoughts.

I was lost within “The Gates of Hell” for months. Completely fell in love with this work.  There is no way to see it but in the flesh, something I am yet to do.  It was explored through the many collections of detail images housed within books written about Rodin’s masterpiece.  The purpose of the essay was to provide a visual analysis of a work of your choosing.  When writing these you are supposed to discuss things such as line, form, colour and so on.  This I found dry and boring and so quite difficult, until I was encouraged by my lecturer to be expressive. Write a story. So I did and before long found myself thinking about everything I saw with this in mind. Still do.

Find the story and tell the story.

 

 

 

A by-word for filth.

I found an old book of mine containing bits and bobs written around the time I was oh so deeply in love with dada.  (google dada if your not sure about it, but be careful, you could fall down the rabbit hole) Enjoy.

 

A by-word for filth languishes on the precipice of denial.  Reported to elope with strangers my sensibilities are rancid, putrid and dank. Spat with vitriolic force a poison oh so lovely.  Sunsets turn; turn on me, for what? For whom? Zoom! Throwing blindly it always rests. Resets.  Never against but astoundingly present for all time. 

Wind dozing with its self- referential pace slothful and pure.  If not for one then for all.  Changes rent stuffed.  A burning drip of love spent.  Building up rolling out, plugging the gap.  Mind that gap. Repetition only confuses, sent lengthways to grope and dive. Wading against reasonable expectations, never duping sadly.  Seeing into light swallowing fields resting. Step right up one night only for the rest of your life.

A never-ending procession of confrontations by my green candlestick I hold so dear. Grimace as I plunge furnished, my lack of responsibility gritting.  It all equals naught but one time it did, slender and yet skinny not dissimilar in any environment. Relentlessly resting retried formulation of a unmentioned pandemic. 

Reaching slowing banging on about this bloody slow full stop.  Changes rent sheared with glee turning hot.  Left in weekly spasmodic weakly driven.  Banging on about this bloody slow full stop. This bloody slow full stop. Tirelessly tying to stop.

A         slow             full            stop.

.        <— that is the slow full stop.

Terry The Terrible Troublesome Trolley Training Tramp aka The T7 Project. Chapter 3

I sat there, upon that rocky outcrop, rearranged. Time wasn’t standing still, it was hoping from leg to leg as though it desperately need to pee. I could see Terry standing there, in what had become ground zero, gleaming, alone. He looked up to me a wry smile upon his face. That cheeky bastard was smirking at me as if to say “You didn’t expect that did you?”

No I didn’t. I didn’t know what to expect. I wasn’t expecting anything. This smugness he was displaying was pure arrogance and it pissed me off. What was I doing blinding following this strange man on a ‘journey’? It was right out of a B-Grade Kung-fu movie. Since I first found him near death in that car-park our time together couldn’t have been more vague. It was meta-vague.

He had said nothing but a few of words, seemed to communicate almost entirely with significant glances. Who the hell was this man? Where had he come from? Why had our paths crossed? More importantly, what the fuck was I doing here?

Questions rattled about in my mind like a coin in a clothes dryer.  I didn’t seem to be able to make heads or tails of anything. I had nothing with which to gain purchase, scrambling like a man chasing a shore footed mountain goat across a cliff face, and feeling just as pathetic. Panic began to take hold. My heart pounded, hands trembled. I had my eyes open and yet could see nothing. The only sound was white noise, but I could feel the wind. The wind.

The wind and nothing else.

 

Stay tuned for the next installment.

PS no references today

Terry The Terrible Troublesome Trolley Training Tramp aka The T7 Project. Chapter 2.

After we finished breakfast, Terry asked if I had access to the internet, and could he use it. I did and showed him to the computer. He struck down with great vengeance upon the keyboard and furious anger upon the mouse until he found the information he was seeking.

As he surfed, I hovered about trying to see what he was up to. Without turning he said to me “Go and prepare”.

“For what” I replied

“The journey”

Sensing I wasn’t going to get any more information, I went upstairs and packed a bag with some clothes, a toothbrush and some food. When he saw the bag he said.

“Bag, where we’re going we don’t need bags”

I put the bag down and followed him out the front door. We walked and I tried to make conversation. He wasn’t rude about it, but silenced me with a look. We were walking not talking.  He led me through town and we headed into the hills. After a couple of hours climbing up into the hills we came to a heavily wooded plateau whereupon he stopped.

“We will rest here”

Happily I sat down, leaning my back against a tree, listening to the breeze working its way through the trees.

“Can you see the rocky outcrop upon the next ridge?” he asked

“Yes” I replied

“Go there”

“What about..” I started but he again silenced me with a look.  It took about an hour to reach the ridge and when I sat and looked down I could make out a glint of metal through the trees where Terry was. He was not moving but I could hear a kind of droning noise, kind of like throat singing.  It became louder, well louder isn’t quite the right word, more intense is a better fit. It built and built until I felt, not heard, an explosion. It went right into the core of my body, scrambling my cells and leaving me stunned.

I saw Terry there upon the plateau where I left him, not I single tree left standing.

Stay tuned for the next installment.

PS Again prize to the first person who picks the two references, movies this time.

Polished Concrete Bench-top

Been experimenting with embedding glass in concrete to enhance the finish of polished concrete. After the first couple of trials we weren’t happy with results, seemed to haphazard and lacked purpose. So we began to experiment with ways to control were the glass went. Was going to try stenciling but dredged up an old favorite technique using a pendulum and PVA glue. Glass was then sprinkled over the wet glue and concrete poured over that whilst the glue was still wet. Waiting to see results of first test polish.

The glue is laid down awaiting glass

After glass has been applied and boxing ready for concrete

 

Testing was less than successful. After the first pass with the grinder the glass is all but gone. Back to the drawing board. Some combination of pendulum, and glue and ???? in order to “push” the glass deeper into the concrete 5=6mm. We’ll see.