Sunday 21st April 2013 13 ROOMS - Final Day: ThisIStheArtmyBeautifulFriendtheART

       
                                                             Last Day of 13 ROOMS

Last day for 13ROOMS and I feel relieved on one hand because it is over, however, I am melancholy as well. It has been a great experience. No, 13 ROOMS was more than simply a great experience it has been a wonderful opportunity to be part of a special event, a one off so to speak. My foot continues to throb but it’s not as painful as it was when I first started this gig. Still, in June if I am going to do the San Francisco half marathon I will need to rest my foot until May and then do as much training as possible. All my training from September 2012 has basically gone down the drain since my injury. I kind of wish I was still contemplating the marathon but I will aim to do a marathon later in 2013 or early 2014.

                                                                    Banksy Original

For now the ‘show must go on’. I can hear art fans wandering about with the occasional baby’s cry and laughter. A space used for a period of time contrasts itself with the experience prior and following the intensity of the said activity. The sudden and abrupt space break leaves the legacy of the human activity that perhaps some highly sensory people feel. Like the haunted house, torture chamber or drinking and eating at Café de la Paix if you are of a more literary bent. Thus, this wharf space once deconstructed (how witty is that) will return to its former identity and the sounds, activities, impressions and concepts of 13ROOMS will second by second disintegrate into bits and bytes of human memory.

Man, ‘Does he do anything?’

Woman, ‘’Dunno.’

Man, ‘Maybe he’ll turn around?’

Woman, ‘Dunno.’

Man, ‘Excuse me (to me) do you turn around?’

Woman, ‘Dunno.’

Man, ‘We’ll leave. Should we leave?’

Woman, ‘Dunno.’

Man, ‘Let’s just wait he might turn around.’

Woman, ‘Dunno.’

Man, ‘He doesn’t do anything.’

Woman, ‘Dunno.’

Man, ‘Let’s go.’

Woman, ‘Dunno.’

                                                  Art Advertising is everywhere

Not that I have much time to digest the twelve other rooms but from what I have seen I see two different aspects to the project rooms. I think rooms are made up of concrete interpretations and abstract interpretations. What I mean is if you enter the rooms belonging to Damien Hirst’s, Santiago Sierra’s, Baldessari (to a limited extent), Roman Ondak and Allora & Calzadilla’s you can if you wish make a judgment call on what you see before you i.e. Twins, Veterans’, Painting, Swap, Revolving Door. However, I truly feel Santiago Sierra’s piece throws more of a wobbly than anything Jackson Pollock created on his good days. The questioning and the concern of some visitors in relation to ‘what is he doing?’ I am doing what the artist has set out to do, ‘What is this one about?’, read the handout, do a five second research paper (it’s on the wall next to the door). People of course can do or say what comes to mind but there seems to be a tinge of hostility at the outset of the experience (some visitors). Today a hoity toity voice, ‘It’s all just so narcissistic, know what I mean…narcissistic?’ (it could be I suppose).

                                                                  Banksy Glass Art

Or, ‘Very powerful.’

‘Powerful stuff this art.’

‘Is it real?’

‘Curious.’

‘Makes you think.’

‘Can I get an ice cream?’

‘I’m not sure if we can get one in here.’

‘Awesome.’

‘I like it…I think.’

I just had a moment in my room. There was a change over error as Greg walked out of the room under the impression I was in my corner. Leaving the green room I walked up to Greg and asked if he was ok (as he wasn’t in the room)? A mass of people snaked in and out. Creating the ubiquitous art block. I went in and was about to start my corner time when the questions started flying. It was serendipitous so I decided to go with the flow. The questions centred on:

1. Why did I have to face the corner?

2. Did I turn around?

3. Could I speak to them the art fans?

4. Are we ‘real’ veterans?

5.  How long do you stand there?

It was a pleasant exchange considering the almost two weeks of facing away from people and ‘ignoring’ their persistent but understandable questions. We got on well in that short break and I’m sure Santiago wouldn’t mind just the odd break of form. I mean we are people not statues.

Tom &Nick Getting Culture

ARTFANSLINEup

Flags 4Art

Saturday 20th April 2013 - ArtFAllsApartPluSonEeQuelsdOGBoWL

Yesterday’s tally of art fans came to 3,500 lookers. It felt like it in Santiago Sierra’s room where the vibe and hum of the humans almost seemed to be pushing me into the wall. Their warm bodies filled the room so much so that I was claustrophobic and anxious. It was the Invasion of the Body Snatchers come to life. It is difficult to come to any conclusions about this piece. Art fans responses cover a broad spectrum of attitudes. The laughing and sniggering certainly stand out and I surmise this has more to do with their social unease at confronting the work head on. The door openers and slammers are as numerous as the first week, however, when the seagulls’ flutter and mass they pick at me with their verbal thoughts, jibes, questions and occasional touches. 

                      

      Indiscriminate Mortar's fall scaring the living shit out of me, even though they were 

                                                         far away Iraq 1991

When grouped together the visitors change the light in the room. As the move in and out I can see subtle changes in line and shadow in my space. It is as if on a bright sunny day a rolling black cloud looms heavily on the horizon. The light does not entirely vanish it dampens and perhaps in time the cloud dissipates and the light returns. It has been a fascinating experience and one that I am fortunate to have been given. The difference between the first days and the last with respect to my corner meditations is tremendous. I am mostly aloof from my surroundings and create pictures, thoughts and fantasies to keep me rooted to my spot. 

                                      American Soldiers - friendly and extremely generous

Here's another short story I wrote a few years ago about my time in Iraq. The writing is a bit rough but the I feel its sentiment works.

                                                                          NKA

It was fifty degrees and a blue mammoth sky heaved upon me heavy metal Karma. The Giri-Pit-Valley shattered and I was left adrift in a sea of light. Ever since I set foot in Iraq I had been uneven, disjointed and scared. The rush of abandoning the safety of familiar surroundings left me nauseated.

We sat on our packs fingering our weapons listening out for the magic word. I felt a rush of lust to get into the belly of the chopper. Nothing to that moment of my life matched the intensity of deploying to Iraq. The shooting had stopped [officially]. However, information abounded [unofficially] that our enemy had not [unofficially] extracted themselves and we could fire [at will] under various circumstances [officially].

A blatant bureaucratic sociopathetic mess. Yet, there I was somewhat intact but anxious in mind and body [no spirit]. Images of Sydney, its ferries, beaches, bridges and red roofs had disappeared from my accessible memory. My senses unreadable, my fleshy hard drive knocked senseless by incessant fucking fanatical heat and a dose of cultural clap. Inside the chopper through a thick fragrance of gasoline I tried to talk with the others but they were disinterested. We were individuals and when we dropped into the valley it was everyone for themselves. 

                             Children always willing to share laughter and smiles

I unravelled quickly. I didn’t know who I was. Though, I didn’t know it. I met this other ‘me’ when he [me] unearthed himself [me] to me in the darkness of the gun pit where. In the hot blackness I shivered with fear when I realised that he was I and I was he [identity snapped]. Enclosed in a bubble of darkness sounds crept in from the dark. Ugly sounds and I felt compelled to fire indiscriminately. To control my impulses I counted to thirty, three times. Alone, frightened and excited with one fist on the gun I held on. My insipid mental experience became an all-encompassing terror that dug deeper than I realised. It was real and even in the daylight fear came looking for me. It was a crash unable to stop.Back in Townsville we leaped for joy when told of our Iraq deployment. Though I was surprised when tanks cruised into Kuwait concluding the mother of all wars. The modern age brought us the two-minute burger and the 20-minute war. In my seedy barrack’s room I guzzled beer hypnotised by flickering green images drafting the coming apocalypse. I was going overseas and no peace-mongering politician was going to stop me. 

          

                                        American soldier, he was New Hampshire

Weeks later I’m pissing fear in a pit. Nevertheless, I followed the rule ‘be afraid’ but don’t look afraid. We undertook misery paparazzi patrols through the refugee camps, scorched gassed villages and sewerage swept clinics. It was inhumanity on a massive scale and nothing I did made a difference. For every injection, bandage, sweets, cordial or food parcel I handed out another nest of dirty wriggling fingers slithered out. They grabbed and groped at everything. It was always more, much more than I had to give and they sucked me dry. Before long I would shout and treat them with hatred. I lost sight of their plight and sneered at their desperation. Was I another person or did the experience uncover the true me?

By the time we were re-deploying for home nothing had been achieved. It was over for us. And what about them? I didn’t give a rat’s fuck in shit. 

Our final patrol was a leisurely Sunday drive in the country. It was beautiful apart from the starving, the stateless, the wounded the sick and the dead. The monochromatic landscape of bombed out villages and towns added to the mise en scene. By then I couldn’t remember who I once was. The villages were sickly brown and sooty like the inhabitants. They had been ripped by historical convenience, but mostly by physical forces. In Iraq I had felt the reverberations of explosions but none fell near enough. The negative effects of bombs raining down on humans cannot be understated. However, back then at this point of history I was dumb to reflection.

   

                                       Iraqi spy (left) and British Royal Marine Nick

We stopped in the village centre. Three terrified children surrounded and implored me to follow. Inexplicably I wandered off alone. I followed them into a dank dark house. The stench was overwhelming and I caught some vomit in my hand.

The children ran down the rabbit warren. I held my weapon out in front me as I moved down the hallway. Ahead the children stopped and I walked into a foul smelling chamber. A child’s bony arm pointed to a bundle of rags in the corner. I looked and the details emerged one moment after the next. A resonating ting of flies feasting and the fetid stench of rottenness kissed me. Moronically I pointed my weapon at it in retaliation. I stepped closer and saw a sniggering jawbone of a rabid dog. Flies flew manically in and about its head and it shook hideously. I lunged back in disgust and fright. Fear seared itself permanently in my head. I was vulnerable my heart stammered and a wash of freezing anxiousness overwhelmed me. I panted and looked away. My rifle hung flaccidly. The children stood still as I placed my rifle barrel on its head. I ran quickly from the room and passed down the corridor feeling for light and air.

In the context of my life in middle suburbia a war continues where a war officially [unofficially?] ended. I am unfortunately happy.

 Song, ‘This is my beautiful house, this is my beautiful wife and this is my beautiful barbeque.’

It wasn’t a dog.

Song continues, ‘my god…what have I done?’

                   

                            Last day tomorrow Art Fans hope to see you there.

Friday 19th April 2013 Art on the Urge of a Nervous Breakdown

I start at 3:30pm today, there are three more days to go (including today). If you haven't checked 13ROOMS out come on down and enjoy this truly rare experiment in performance art. Even if it's not your thing give yourself something to talk about at your next family or friends social occasion. It's a real conversation starter.

                                                                  ART HEADS

I have placed here a short story I wrote about a soldier friend of mine who was severely injured whilst serving in the Australian Army. His injuries left a permanent impact and I hoped to reconcile my feelings about the outcome of knowing someone well as a friend then they become a friend who isn't the man you once knew.

                                                                  A SIMPLE VISIT

                                               

I hadn’t seen RJ since the accident. Little resembled of the man I once knew. RJ’s mind was entombed in his emaciated body that was held inside a sack of drooping skin. The impact of his fall from the sky had crushed RJ’s skull turning his good looks into a poorly ploughed paddock.  At his bedside I didn’t move because I was afraid. I wasn’t sure RJ could still talk. He was unable to breath, eat, shit, piss, talk, smile or laugh. Life as he knew it ended the moment he left from the hercules. At ground zero his twisted body was meshed with and was tightly wrapped up in his silk shroud. Buried before his funeral. Bar talk indicated that RJ’s head was the size of a melon. Now it was a shrunken pea.

RJ may have smiled because a patch of muscle quivered above his lip. His mother, Nannette stood by a rocket waiting to blast off. Three facts reeked in the ward, colostomy bags, RJ’s acceptance and Nannette’s obnoxious positivity. I guessed that RJ didn’t want live as a mullet.

            Nannette’s double plus propaganda inspired newly graduated nurses and ward visitors to get RJ walking again. Though, I knew insensitively RJ was one ‘a fucked unit. Nevertheless, I wondered if he could still smoke because RJ like me smoked the light fantastic fanatic. But, from the tubes, wires and pumps regulating his body it didn’t seem likely. Nannette spent six months not only nursing RJ but also spamming his interests and sticking it to the man. She was resolutely, absolutely, fundamentally and doggedly driven to change RJ’s circumstances.

The doctors and specialists consistently reminded Nannette that RJ’s survival was miraculous in itself. Yet, Nannette felt hope would transcended their frail human endeavours. I sensed wretched desperation but my ignorance utterly failed to understand her torment and desolation. A slight sociopathic bent disengaged me from the swill of emotions that others found meaningful.

Nannette watched me closely. She read the signs a doubter and recognised the fear flashes in my eyes. On this point she was ice cold and all she wanted to do was rid the room of the ogre. To stir the mix I intermittently broke contact and peered out the window. It broke up the pattern recognition. She moved closer to claim RJ’s sovereignty. I was thinking about how could I suffocate him?

I pushed mum and leaped onto the bed and twisted RJ’s lifeline then smothered him with a pillow. I was oblivious to the bellowing chaos around us. Nurses, doctors and visitors clutched, scratched, kicked, groped and punched me with hysterical impunity. I collapsed fell from the bed bloodied and bruised but managing to smash the hissing ventilator.

My thoughts drifted down from the beautiful cloudless sky. In the near distance a row of Blue Gums seesawed soothingly in a guileless wind. The landscape tempered my outlook. I smiled and realised that RJ’s life was his own. That was it. I shared a joke and left never knowing what became of them.

                                                                      Lady Dangling

In the military there is a lot of standing. Standing around doing bugger-all, standing at attention, standing down (return to regular duties, going on leave), standing orders (follow the rules) and standing to (at dawn & dusk all soldiers stand weapons ready facing out into the bush, jungle, desert or landscape as a way of preparing the troops for attack. Apparently it’s the most opportune time to do so, however, wouldn’t the enemy be standing to also?).

In Iraq privates and corporals (senior NCOs and officers were excused due to rank) were tasked with providing security 24/7. This required each soldier t perform a two-hour shift of guard duty. We stood in a hole with ] a Mag 58 (heavy weapon), our personal weapon, communications as well as a heavy Vietnam era night vision scope.  The two-hour guard night shift consisted of a one-hour gun pit shift (on your own) followed by another lonely hour walking the perimeter fence. It was always reassuring to walk around our camp and come to the end of the wire! Our razor wire simply ran out and I always wondered why bother in the first place. Was it a ruse to fool the enemy, whoever they were because we didn’t have a clue.

 For me, it was a fearful two hours. When I asked some of the others how they felt about the lack of security they indifferently shrugged their shoulders. One, being alone in the gun pit (on a weapon requiring two operators) then walking the perimeter fence solo (a fence that drooped flaccidly exposing the entire camp) I suppose I am near enough to a coward because I was always hearing noises, seeing shapes, hyper-anxious and fearful about getting my throat slit. The antiquated night vision scope was as heavy as a sack of rice. It was difficult to manipulate and when used for too long resulted in truly painful skewed vision migraines. Blots of yellow and green circles popped like dandelions in front of you. It was like a Sgt. Pepper music video. The entire shift was a tough fretful stomach churning two hours. I once questioned my section sergeant about the gun pit shifts.

He said, ‘Fuck off Daly and just do the job.” (he never had to do them).

I was never comfortable or relaxed and couldn’t wait to get drunk out of my skull at the very next opportunity (unbeknownst to me this was endless weeks away in Cyprus). 

Thursday 18th April 2013 - 13BROOMS13ZOOMS13MOONS13ROOMS

                                                  Sarsaparilla: A soft drink inspired poem
The following lecture has nothing to do with art per say. Though, if you have been reading and following the groove of my blog you should be aware that I have stressed the idea that aficionado’s like Dennis Hopper and R. Mutt determine art in the immediacy of action. ‘I point my finger and declare this art!’ So we’re all on the same page then? This morning Jackson and I are hanging out before my shift at 13ROOMS this afternoon.

         Jackson's preferred Performance Art but he's coming to 13ROOMS again tonight

We decided to take a drive and grab a milkshake (for him) and a flat white coffee (for me). As we were cruising hemmed in by the awesomely green and yellowish bush reserves of the northern suburbs Jackson piped up, ‘Dad I feel car vomit.’

‘What?’ Include a sickly worried appearance as I peered over my shoulder.

‘Dad…dad…dad, da..da,da Dada, Dada is this Dada art dad…’

I threw him by baseball cap (purchased in New York). 'Spew into this.’

‘Uuuughhhhhooohhhyyuuchchmulchy.’

‘Feel better?’

‘Yes dad…thanks. Here’s your hat back.’

I’m still driving mind you, ‘Uh thanks mate.’

‘Dad can I have a milkshake when we get there?’

‘Why the fuck not.’

Bifurcation

I ambled in through the stage door all very la-de-da until I saw the stage manager’s pig eye. I thought I was early when in fact the 2:28pm was two minutes short of my 2:30pm first corner shift. I stepped through the green room curtain walked straight through exiting the opposite door walked into my 13 ROOMS bang on the half hour. Minutes before I was sitting on a bus and now I a mere spaced out minion facing a white corner at the behest of an off the wall Spanish artist’s postulation.

Last night I spent the evening discussing 13 ROOMS and other things with the always very generous and gorgeous Ruby Molteno. She asked me how I felt the show was going, and my answer was unanimously ambiguous. I talked at length (poor Ruby) about how 13 ROOMS stimulates ideas, provokes social mores and evokes an atmosphere of meaning. Yet, in the same breath I mentioned with as much well intentioned argument how I was finding it difficult to reconcile my feelings with regards to how easy it is to view ‘this’ as a kind of Vegas magic act. I know that sounds awful but what I mean by that is searching for a method of measuring the significance of 13 ROOMS and any other space, shape, forms and colours as art. 

                      
                                                                Guardian of Art

Ruby, always the one to be first to say, ‘What do you mean?’ And her tone suggests someone who won’t just listen to my bullshit with explanation or justification. I tried to explain what I meant and I attempted to sweet talk her with my false quick-witted-wikipedia sought knowledge. However, that fell flat and I said, ‘I don’t know what I am saying or doing.’ I think for me it’s great to be hanging around these arty people talking shit and also being part of something special and this I know because the brochure said so. Also, I’m getting better at standing and thinking about nothing.

                                                          Nachos with extra cream 

Here’s one for all you budding Bachelor of Arts students. When art fans massing and in particular when pushing their way in or out through the narrow doorway to my 13 ROOMS room it results in an art block. Now I hear you ask. What’s an art block? Well I think I made this term up because an art block us when art fans coming in and going out of a performance space block the performer (in this case me) from entering the art space because I am no different in dress or attitude from the tourists.

                                                        Cut Throat Art Critic at Large

I wear no special clothing; I am not a recognizable performance art celebrity (they exist) and I basically come across as bland as any of the other screaming angst ridden Edvard Munch’s. Thus, my efforts to push and shove through the melee are met with scornful indignation and absolute arty horror. ‘Who in the fuck are you?’ My behaviour is not what art fiends expect from their fellow travellers. However, once broken free from this boorish art squash I suddenly become the ‘ART’. It’s the separation, this point of departure where I stumble from mediocrity and feel the appreciation and approval of the art fans’ spatial tenderness.

                                                   Beckett wants a living sculpture job

Does that make sense? No? In other words when I enter the room I am like anyone else but in seconds I am the ‘thing’ (the art) they have come to see. 

                                               ‘I am not an animal…I am a living sculpture!’