Chapter 1 – In the beginning there was the word - By Rick

“Religion?”
“You?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m angry”, I replied. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.”
“Network, 1976 with Faye Dunaway and William Holden. Oh that was one of my all time favorites.”, Jim gushed.
“But doesn’t Rick have to kill himself?”, Sharron continued. “Hey maybe that’s how he’s going to start his new religion. He’ll commit suicide on national television. Sorry Rick. That’s already been done. Besides how can you start a new religion if you’re dead?”
“Wait, wait.”, Lumpy leapt in. “That’s where we come in. Jesus didn’t start Christianity, his disciples did. We’ll have to be his disciples after his death. But I don’t know. Bakeranity doesn’t sound like much of a name for a religion. I think we would make pretty cool disciples though. Might work.”
My friends were on a roll. At this moment I’m using the word “friends” guardedly. I guess I should have known better than to start a serious discussion with the Thursday Night Philosophers. As if he was reading my mind, Dennis chimed in with “People, people stop. You’re not taking Rick seriously. He’s more in to Enron Hubbard than Jesus. Maybe it’s going to be Scientology II and he’ll ditch us all and take up with Tom Cruise and Paris Hilton. That’s it isn’t it Rick. This is your way of telling us that it’s over, you’re moving on. We’re not good enough for you anymore.”
“What do you mean, ‘anymore’? I’m deadly serious and hold off on the wise-ass for a minute. I’m going to start a new religion. Somebody’s got to and since I thought of it, it’s up to me.” I shut up and downed the rest of my Guinness.
Apparently I’m a lot wittier than I thought. They all burst into hysterical laughter. I think Lumpy came close to pissing himself because he flew off to the john faster than if the waitress had come around with the bill. When he came back the others were still chortling to themselves, except maybe Sharron who was giggling like a silly school girl.
Dennis spoke up first. “For Christ’s sake Rick. Oops. Maybe I should have said for Rick’s sake. Oh no, we’ll need a whole new collection of swear words.” The Four Stooges let go with another round of knee-slapping laughter.
“Done yet?”
They weren’t. My wit set them off even louder. Assholes!
Finally Sharron sobered up, well sort of, and said “C’mon Rick. You’re a devout atheist. How can you be the one to start a new religion?”
“So this will be a religion without a God. Maybe religion isn’t the right word but I’m not sure what else to call it. What we need is something for people like us, something like a church where people can gather together and get inspired and talk about important things.”
“A religion without a God. Let me sit with that a bit. But doesn’t a religion need some sort of faith in something, some sort of moral code or belief?” she added.
“Look I haven’t thought too much of this out yet, but yes of course it needs a moral code. I’m not sure about a faith or a belief. Those notions go along more with a superpowerful being so whatever we come up with, it would have to be something a bit more realistic.”
The yokels quieted down a bit and actually looked as if they were thinking about what Sharron and I were saying. Lumpy broke the silence. “What do you mean, ‘a bit more realistic’, and what do you mean, ‘we’?”
“Realistic means real Lumpy. You know, things like a glass of beer or a Porsche. Not some notions that come out of the beyond that people are supposed to take seriously. And by ‘we’ I mean us, the Thursday Night Philosophers. From time to time you four show signs of having IQs that get into 3 digits.” I was still smarting and needed to jab and poke a bit more. Nobody cared, nobody bit.
Dennis was next. “Ok RB, so you’re serious and we should start a new religion. Can you enlighten us as to where this out-of-left-field bombshell came from? You’re a software analyst, not a theologian. What has you thinking about religion at all?”
“Good question Den. Here let me show you what got by blood boiling.” I pulled out a newspaper article that I had saved from this morning’s paper and unfolded it onto the table. The headline sneered out at us.

Faithless are coarse, uncaring and without purpose, says Cardinal Snelling

“I saw this headline as I was drinking my breakfast coffee and went ballistic. I’m still not sure why I reacted so strongly but I did. I read the whole article a few times and every time I did I got angrier. It was as if the headline ended with ‘And I’m talking about you Rick Baker.’ I reacted so personally to it and yes Jim, I was just like what’s his name in Network who suddenly snapped and yelled out the windows that he just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m aware of how irrational this all sounds. I mean it’s just a newspaper article about what some Roman Catholic high and mighty said and it’s not like it hasn’t been said before. But somehow I got what he was saying and it insulted me. It insulted me to the heart of my being and I spent the whole day thinking about it instead of working. I downloaded the full text of his speech just to make sure it wasn’t some exaggerated misquote intended to get people like me to write letters to the editor. And it’s what he said and worse. I brooded all day and then tonight it all came out.”
“I think what got to me was that this spook-worshipper is serious. He really does think that about the faithless of the world. Read through the article. Wherever you find the word ‘faithless’ or ‘secularist’ or whatever, substitute the word ‘Jew’. Would he have dared to say that in public? Wouldn’t the media have been all over him in an instant and pulverized him in their editorials and commentaries? Yet I scoured the internet, watched some of the TV newscasts before coming here and other papers and not a word of condemnation or ever mild criticism from anywhere.”
“Amigos he’s attacking us. He’s saying that we are ‘coarse, uncaring and without purpose’. Or look here, that we have‘… nothing but fear to distract themselves from the fact that without God the universe has no objective purpose or meaning. Nothing beyond the constructs they confect to cover the abyss’. I still don’t know why I got so bloody outraged but I did. All bullshitting aside, you guys are not coarse, uncaring and without purpose. We’ve been meeting almost every Thursday for 17 years now – I worked it out – and we’ve covered pretty much every topic I can think of from the profound to the ridiculous so I think I know you. The man is an idiot or a liar or both and we are the target of his abuse.”
I stopped speaking to catch my breath and cool down a bit. “Maureen another round here”, I said as our server went by.
Nobody spoke. I could see that no one was bored or had tuned out. Something I said had touched a chord although I didn’t know yet which one. As Maureen set our drinks down, Lumpy broke the silence. “Rick we all really got how pissed off you are at this. And I think I can speak for the others if I say that we get that this Snelling is really putting us down. But an angry reaction to something isn’t enough to start up a religion or whatever you want to call it. Have you really got something more in mind or is this just a well-deserved rant and a good night’s sleep will settle you down? Where do you see this going?”
Lumpy aka Morris Glickman was our token theist, a lapsed Jew who hadn’t been to a synagogue since his Bar Mitzvah. He was also a very successful lawyer and our adjudicator when our discussions got heated.
“Lumpy I’m not sure. I’ve never felt like this before and I just have this sense that this is important to me and it’s not going to go away. Not ever.”
“So let me put this on the table. I’ll go away until next Thursday night and think about all of this. I’ll write a few things down and bring them to our next session. If what I say grabs all four of you, we can spend the night talking about it. But it has to be all four. If even one of you is hesitant we’ll drop it for the TNPs. Then I’ll go over what ever I come up with and bring that back for next week. And we’ll keep doing this until I either run out of steam or one of you votes nay.”
Lumpy drained his glass and stood up. “Ok Scheherazade. I’m in. Lady, gentleman. I’m calling it a night. Rick I await next week with dare I say piqued enthusiasm.”
“Yeah that’s it for me too people.” Jim said. “Next week for sure RB. I’m with Lumpy.”
“Me too.” Sharron and Den chimed in together.
As they filed out I sat there wondering what in hell I had done. As Maureen brought the bill over, I realized that they stiffed me for the tab!
“See you next week Dudes.” I thought to myself.

Erica Jong is wrong... by Peta

“If you don’t risk anything, you risk more.”

God knows what she was thinking when she came out with this pearl of wisdom. And what the hell was I thinking when I followed this advice??? Erica Jong has a lot to answer for. Shame she didn’t think to follow on with advice that could be useful to us poor idiots who went down this path and now find themself, in a dark dank basement, with their hands tied tightly behind their backs, and their bladder about to pop it is so full with no relief in sight. And that’s just a few of my current problems. Add to that the splitting headache I have as a result of being thwacked over the head with a piece of four by two, the blood trickling down the side of my head from the wound and the bloody annoying itch in my groin that I cannot scratch. I think this officially falls into the category of “a bad day at the office”!

This PI lark used to be fun once upon a time but things have changed. The punters definitely have more street smarts these days and they are onto you like a shot if you slip up. And you can’t trust a bloody snitch any more – well, could you ever really? Probably not but at least you knew pretty well how to play ‘em. Jimmy Little used to be reliable. But now his old lady is in the slammer for B&E, his taste for the good life leads him astray. At least that’s what I figure got me here. He played both sides and gave me up for a few bucks. When we met over a beer just a day or so ago, he told me unequivocally that the job was going down tonight. So I stake out this crappy joint all night waiting for some action. My client has paid me pretty well (and in advance if the truth be known) to get some hard evidence, photos even, of the blokes involved in the heist. He doesn’t like being taken for a ride, no sirree. Word on the street was that this mob were going to do over his store and take the lot, everything. Unisured as he is, Mr Taylor was not happy with that prospect.

Enter good old Phil, PI extraordinaire. “No problem Mr Taylor, I can take care of that for you like a charm.” Ha! After a mind numbing couple of hours squatting in the bushes, they jump me. Who, I don’t know. One minute I am planning my next great seduction of Julie Filmore to pass the time and the next thing I’m here bound up like a Christmas turkey waiting to go in the oven, no escape route in sight. A fine predicament.

A new beginning by Peta

The fabric she had chosen was fine and soft but she couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding. Ruth held the fabric against her cheek. It felt like the skin of a baby but her reflection was disappointing. She wasn’t sure about the colour. She knew she had promised to go with yellow. Bright canary yellow - a new beginning, Jeremy had said, like the rising sun on a new day. Cheery. The polar opposite of how she felt. But there was no going back. She knew that.

Ruth struggled to pull the tired old shift over her head. She just had no energy for this. Her arms were trapped in the sleeves. She struggled to free them to no avail and dropped to the floor, overcome. She had been so controlled through the whole ordeal. Trying to be strong for everyone, including Jeremy not that he needed it. He had accepted the inevitability of his condition easily, too easily in fact. Just once if he could have yelled or screamed at the injustice of it all, maybe she could have too. But no. Jeremy soldiered on like he always did, right up to his last rasping breath. So Ruth had promised herself she would not break down. She must remain strong. It’s was what Jeremy expected. But now in an instant, it was all too much to bear.

The tears started, slowly at first, then a torrent. Her body collapsed, landing heavily in a heap on the floor of the cubicle. Her shoulders heaved, her breathing was ragged. Sinewy arms remained trapped sticking up to the ceiling. She shrunk within herself and bawled.

“Madam, are you alright. Do you need help?”

Ruth held her breath but could not respond. She heard the saleswoman retreat.

Her back found the wall and she rested against it. Her chest rose and fell heavily. Her feet popped out from under her bottom. Sore knees relieved, as she stretched them out across the carpet, synthetic threads stung her delicate skin.

Her bra was soaked from the waterfall as the tears continued to cascade over her belly, down to her knickers. She felt ridiculous and exhausted.
Ruth caught herself in the mirror. My god how awful she looked. Her once plump and joyous face was skeletal, her cheeks sunken and cave like. Deep dark ridges underlined her eyes. All colour had drained from her face. She looked deeply disturbed yet somehow comical, her hunched up arms above her head still caught in her cheap and nasty dress, bony elbows sticking out at all angles. Jeremy would be mortified if he could see her now. How undignified. But, Ruth thought, he will not see me now or ever again.

Pull yourself together woman and get on with it. The sooner this is done and over with, you can get out of here.

Ruth took a deep breath. Her body relaxed. Her arms slipped out of their straightjacket, the shift falling to her side on the mottled carpet floor. Dragging herself to her feet unsteadily, she eyed the yellow frock hanging on the back of the door. It was quite lovely and definitely met the criteria Jeremy had specified.

OK she said to herself let’s get on with it. Carefully she drew the silky garment over her head and shuffled her arms through the holes. The straps settled on her bony shoulders. The fabric floated down over her breasts, stomach then hips and settled snugly around her. There was no mistaking it was made to measure. The transformation was unbelievable. Ruth was mesmerised by the vision before her. The sad sullen face was uplifted. The yellow created an aura impossible to describe. Despite herself, Ruth smiled. Her face enlivened and her smile broadened. Her reflection laughed back at her. And she knew that Jeremy knew this was how it would be. All at once a surreal calmness settled over her. She felt strangely stronger, cleansed. This would be a new beginning.

Death of a Tree by Gordon

Death of a Tree

The saw cut true
The high back cut
And purring sounds
Abound around

The axe hit hard
The sound was crisp
An echo rang back
With a hardened crack

Again and again
The strike was deep
The chips flew high
And the scarf was nigh

The blows were hard
The wood wound back
But the handle clasped
Each with a gasp

A creak was heard
The blow was quick
A creak again
An upward strain

Which way to fall
Not yet we tell
But soon a tremor in the stem
Has all say their last Amen

A path was cut
Through the air
The green leaves waved
And a shadow heaved

The crash came soon
With crushing blow
Death was swift
And none could lift

As one life ends
Others begin
Nature is cruel
Yet never unkind

Gordon MacAulay
1 November 2010

Work in progress! Peta

“Come on Buster, I’ve told you before to cut out this crap. I’d love to lie around here all day, chewing the fat, pandering to your every wish but it just ain’t gonna happen. Now leave me alone to enjoy my last few minutes of lie in.”

I could feel Buster’s eyes boring into me disapprovingly. I heard the deep clunk of his chain against my briefcase as he lowered his head to rest there. His breathing was slow and deliberate. A low whisping sound, in and out. Rhythmical.

Shadows danced on the wall. The wind howled and the smell of fresh rain not far away mingled with the scent of the star jasmine. There was certainly no incentive to leave the comfort of the doona.

... “7.17 here at Seatown 87.4. Wakey wakey folks, you’re running late..” the radio alarm kicked in and the usual rubbish whined on. Stretching out, I slammed my hand on the clock radio. “snooze” kicked in and I snuggled down, closing my eyes tightly.

“thanks, Joe. That was Joe Windrom folks, sharing his insights on ..” blah blah blah. It seemed only seconds had passed.

I shifted to my left, swinging my feet off the side of the bed. Steadying myself I felt in the dark for my robe. Buster stirred and leapt to attention. I shuffled to the door, knocking my shoulder on the partially open cupboard. Buster’s long hair tickled my bare skin as he sidled up again my left leg. His chain rattled as he shook himself awake and blocked my path.

“Come on mate. It’s time for the bathroom.”

We trundled down the hall like an old couple on an outing. Buster close by my side, my hand tracing the wall as we moved on. With each stride my body was slowly coming alive.

“Good boy Buster, back in a little while.” He settled in the bathroom doorway.

The hot water streamed over my body. It felt delicious.

“Damn”. The body wash was empty and the shampoo was missing. Julia must have moved things around again. I wish she’d stop doing that. It’s so annoying. I scrubbed hard, feeling my skin respond with a tingle. The water gurgled as it welled in the exit trough and circled its way down through the pipes.

Thesis Introduction - Version 2 (Kerry)

The Role of Art in Imagining Sustainable Futures: The Barmah Forest

Introduction

My proposal is that by understanding and coming to terms with the current degradation of the Murray River and the Barmah Forest , the key aspects of the sustainability of the forest may be identified and, through the medium of art, Australians may begin to imagine a sustainable future for the river and its environment.

Since European settlement the nature of the Murray River has changed substantially with the construction of weirs and dams and the widespread use of its water for irrigation purposes. This has meant that the natural propensity for the river to flood has been curtailed. The Barmah Forest has also been harvested extensively for wharves, railway sleepers and charcoal since the late 1880s. Throughout the twentieth century, the forest had been used for the agistment of cattle, leading to the annual Barmah Muster where the cattle were rounded up for identification and sale.

A community of Indigenous people, the Yorta Yorta, is connected to these lands. The Cummeragunja Mission was set up on the New South Wales side of the river to relocate these people in 1881. Perhaps due to particular interest taken in the Indigenous people by one of the local British settlers, Daniel Matthews, and because of the play-off between the governments of Victoria and New South Wales given that the Murray River formed the border between the two states, the Yorta Yorta people became highly politicised and Cummeragunja became a breeding ground for Aboriginal activism into the twentieth century. In 1975, 1983 and again following the Mabo decision in 1994 and in 2002, claims by the Yorta Yorta for the Barmah/Moira Forest area and their surrounding traditional lands were rejected.

The intention of the research is to illuminate the history of this part of the Murray River and to enable Australians to understand what has been lost in terms of the cultural and natural environment. As a consequence of understanding the loss, it is intended that a new imagining of a sustainable future for this environment, particularly for the Barmah Forest, will emerge.

Personal Involvement

I am the daughter of a dairy farmer, a soldier settler who was in the pioneering group of returning soldiers from the second World War to be allocated newly-constructed irrigation properties in the Nathalia district of the Murray Valley, Victoria, thirty kilometres east of the river port of Echuca. My father’s father had a mixed farming property southwest of Echuca. At the end of the war, after he made the decision that he wanted to be his own boss and not be employed by the Victorian Department of Education as a schoolteacher, my father returned to this property to share the running of the farm with his father and another brother. He built a house for his growing family down the road from his childhood home. It was not until the early 1950’s that we moved to Nathalia and the new farm.

Twenty kilometres from our farm, whether you travelled north or west, was the Barmah Forest. It is still part of the largest river red gum forest in the world. It was formed thousands of years ago when the earth was uplifted along the Cadell Fault and the flow of the Murray River was re-directed from its westerly flow in a great curve to the south. As a result a huge flood plain was formed. This is where the forest is located. The river red gums depend on regular flooding at specific times to regenerate. The entire eco-system is dependent on the river’s ebb and flow over the seasons.

This is an important area of research because of the current malaise of the Murray River and the potential demise of the Barmah Forest. However this research is also important for me at a personal level as the Barmah Forest is on the land of my childhood and has a mythic quality to it. I remember school excursions to the area but particularly recall a night car rally around the forest in which my family participated. We drove with ‘Fortune Favours the Bold’ writ large on the car. I am interested in investigating my connection to the place and in untangling my family’s role as settler farmers and irrigators in the Murray-Darling River system.

The artwork that I will produce as part of this study will be an expression of my relationship with the area in terms of a shared connection to the land with the Indigenous people and an interpretation of the cultural colonisation that has taken place since European settlement. The artwork is essential as the means of imagining the possibility of hope for the sustainable future of the forest. It will be a vehicle for implicitly communicating the knowledge gathered from the study.

Irrigation History

After more than sixty years of irrigating this country, the balance has moved. The climate has changed. There are concerns about the water table rising; there are issues with salt damage to irrigated country; there is not enough water to quench the demand from irrigators; the environment is suffering. Also as a consequence of the widespread use of water for irrigation and the regulation of the rivers, the Barmah Forest is in decline. Perhaps the forest can be seen as a barometer for the health of the environment.

With the new twentieth century regulation of the river, the natural river flow was interrupted. Water was directed to areas that had previously only experienced annual rainfall and possible occasional flooding and, as a result, was directed away from areas such as the forest. The irrigation schemes were set up along the entire length of the Murray from Albury in Victoria through to South Australia.

The system of irrigation channels, drains and bays had been constructed on the understanding that water would be available as required by the irrigators from the Murray River. This was part of a major economic development that was taking place across central northern Victoria. With the construction of the Hume Weir, the Yarrawonga Weir and numerous other smaller weirs along the Murray River and its tributaries, the regulation of the flow of water was maintained for the benefit of farmers. At the same time the construction of the Snowy Mountain Scheme for the generation of electricity was taking place. The combination of these two huge infrastructure schemes was to have an immense effect on Australia’s economy. The catch-cry of the time was ‘Water into gold’.

There were parallels to the mid-nineteenth century gold-rush days in Victoria when there was an influx of immigrants into the country coming to make their fortunes, lured by the magic of gold. Now, following the end of the war, there was an influx of immigrants, refugees from Europe on the whole, and returned soldiers looking for work and a new way of life. They were boom days for agriculture, the golden years. In the 1950s, wool prices were high. Australia was riding on the sheep’s back. Other agricultural commodities were in high demand as Australia’s population soared. The dry country in northern Victoria thrived on the ready supply of water and the bountiful application of fertilizer.

By the 1980s it was apparent that the water resources and the environment of the Murray-Darling Basin were degraded. The Murray-Darling Basin Commission became the first official agency to co-ordinate the interests of the five states within the Murray-Darling Basin system. In 2008, the Murray-Darling Basin Authority, an independent expert-based federal government body, was established in place of the Commission to manage the water resources of the Murray-Darling river system in the national interest. The Authority has implemented various monitoring programs and developmental strategies to restore the health of the river system. These include programs such as the Native Fish Strategy to restore native fish populations in the system back to pre-settlement levels within 50 years, the Living Murray program to restore the health of the Murray River system and the Sustainable Rivers Audit to monitor the long-term health of the Basin’s rivers. In October 2010 the Murray-Darling Basin Authority published its draft guide to a plan for the allocation of water resources in the Basin.

European and Indigenous History

The search for water had always been a primary concern for the European settlers in Australia. Charles Sturt had specifically sought the inland sea in the early nineteenth century. In 1829 Sturt and his party set out from Sydney to travel down the Murrumbidgee River and along the Murray in the hope that it would lead them inland to the mythical sea. They were to be disappointed. Sturt continued his exploration of central Australia but to no avail. He had established that the rivers flowing westward in New South Wales were all tributaries of the Murray River that eventually flowed into the sea in South Australia.

The early story of contact between European and Indigenous people in the Barmah Forest and surrounding areas is documented in the diaries of Daniel Matthews who came to Australia with his family in 1851 and selected land on the New South Wales side of the Murray, the Moira Run, in 1865. Matthews was the founder of the Maloga Mission and later was instrumental in forming the Cummeragunja settlement, which still exists today, for the local Indigenous people. He has been acknowledged for providing a school for the community, which ensured them a good education and subsequently the means to work independently in the European economy as farmers. In turn, this is where the seeds were sown for the Indigenous political movement throughout Australia leading up to the 1967 referendum.

Social History

Paul Sinclair has undertaken a major sociological study of the Murray River and its people, particularly since the time of European settlement. He documents the stories of people who have grown up along the Murray as a way of telling the story of the river itself. He uses the decline of the Murray cod as a metaphor for the degradation of the river and the land in its floodplain. He concludes that “settler Australians need to understand and mourn the immense losses they have inflicted on the river” in order to then be able to imagine a sustainable future for themselves and the river.

Sinclair tells of an excursion made by artist John Davis to the Barmah Forest in 1979 when he responded to the place by constructing a work around some tree stumps in situ on the banks of the river. Davis had grown up along the river and this was a way for him to make sense of his connection to the river and the forest and as part of a “questioning of the cultural and development imperatives which had driven efforts to regulate the river since the 1880s.”

Rather than take a scientific approach to understanding the decline of the forest, my intention is to wonder about ways of imagining its sustainable future through the medium of art. The sustainability of the forest is intricately linked with the community of people who live and work in its vicinity, including the Yorta Yorta Indigenous people. It is also part of a delicate web of living organisms that sustain and nurture each other. By tapping into this rhizomic system and expressing something of its nature through art, the intention is to find a relationship between the art and the community’s ability to imagine a sustainable future for itself, for the river and for the forest.

Concluding Remarks

The just and equitable allocation of water resources is possibly one of the prime struggles facing Australia in the twenty-first century as issues of climate change aggravate concerns about environmental degradation and agricultural productivity as well as community survival. The intention of this research is to examine the possibility of art playing a role in the adjustment of communities to changing circumstances by allowing them to imagine the possibility of sustainable futures.

It is clear that science plays a major part in understanding the workings of the ecosystem, however there may be a role for art in rupturing the accepted knowledge about the environment and in providing a conduit for a new way of thinking about sustainability. By understanding the historical and social background of a particular environment and its community, in this case, the Barmah Forest, it is intended that this research may uncover just such a role for art.

Thesis Introduction (Kerry)

The Role of Art in Imagining Sustainable Futures: The Barmah Forest

Introduction

I am the daughter of a dairy farmer, a soldier settler who was in the pioneering group of returning soldiers from the second World War to be allocated newly-constructed irrigation properties in the Nathalia district of the Murray Valley, Victoria, thirty kilometres east of the river port of Echuca. My father’s father had a mixed farming property southwest of Echuca. At the end of the war, after he made the decision that he wanted to be his own boss and not be employed by the Victorian Department of Education as a schoolteacher, my father returned to this property to share the running of the farm with his father and another brother. He built a house for his growing family down the road from his childhood home. It was not until the early 1950’s that we moved to Nathalia and the new farm.

Twenty kilometres from our farm, whether you travelled north or west, was the Barmah Forest. It is still part of the largest river red gum forest in the world when taken as a whole with the Moira Forest on the opposite bank of the Murray River. It was formed thousands of years ago when the earth was uplifted along the Cadell Fault and the flow of the Murray River was re-directed from its westerly flow in a great curve to the south. As a result a huge flood plain was formed. This is where the forest is located. The river red gums depend on regular flooding at specific times to regenerate. The entire eco-system is dependent on the river’s ebb and flow over the seasons.

The system of irrigation channels, drains and bays had been constructed on the understanding that water would be available as required by the irrigators from the Murray River. This was part of a major economic development that was taking place across central northern Victoria. With the construction of the Hume Weir, the Yarrawonga Weir and numerous other smaller weirs along the Murray River and its tributaries, the regulation of the flow of water was maintained for the benefit of farmers. At the same time the construction of the Snowy Mountain Scheme for the generation of electricity was taking place. The combination of these two huge infrastructure schemes was to have an immense effect on Australia’s economy. The catch-cry of the time was ‘Water into gold’.

There were parallels to the mid-nineteenth century gold-rush days in Victoria when there was an influx of immigrants into the country coming to make their fortunes, lured by the magic of gold. Now, following the end of the war, there was an influx of immigrants, refugees from Europe on the whole, and returned soldiers looking for work and a new way of life. They were boom days for agriculture, the golden years. In the 1950s, wool prices were high. Australia was riding on the sheep’s back. Other agricultural commodities were in high demand as Australia’s population soared. The dry country in northern Victoria thrived on the ready supply of water and the bountiful application of fertilizer.

This was rich river country. Country towns sprang up and expanded. Schools, shops and churches were built to cater for the growing population. It seemed that there would be no end to the fortune.

With the new twentieth century regulation of the river the system was interrupted. Water was directed to areas that had previously only experienced annual rainfall and possible occasional flooding and, as a result, was directed away from areas such as the forest. The irrigation schemes were set up along the entire length of the Murray from Albury in Victoria through to South Australia.

The regulation of the river also disrupted the traffic on the river itself. Paddle steamers had been travelling along the Murray-Darling river system since the late nineteenth century but were now blocked by the weirs that had been installed to regulate the flow of the water. The paddle-steamers had been used to transport the produce from Australia’s inland grazing properties, particularly the wool, and to take it to the river port of Echuca from where it could be hauled by road or rail to Melbourne and hence by ship to the lucrative markets in Europe.

The early story of contact between European and Indigenous people in the Barmah Forest and surrounding areas is documented in the diaries of Daniel Matthews who came to Australia with his family in 1851 and selected land on the New South Wales side of the Murray, the Moira Run, in 1865. Nancy Cato has investigated the story of Daniel Matthews and his mission to provide for the Indigenous people in her book Mister Maloga: Daniel Matthews and his Mission, Murray River, 1864-1902. In undertaking this research she has depended heavily on diaries and letters kept by Matthews and his wife, Janet, as well as photos, maps and documents from the period. Matthews was the founder of the Maloga Mission and later was instrumental in forming the Cummeragunja settlement, which still exists today, for the local Indigenous people. His story is necessarily that of a Christian man intent on converting the Indigenous community to his faith. In the process he has been acknowledged for providing a school for the community, which ensured them a good education and subsequently the means to work independently in the European economy as farmers. His work is also acknowledged in the book edited by Rachel Perkins and Marcia Langton, First Australians: An Illustrated History. In the chapter written by Wayne Atkinson, he claims that the Scholar’s Hut at the Maloga Mission established by Daniel Matthews was the birthplace of political awareness of the Yorta Yorta people. In turn, this is where the seeds were sown for the Indigenous political movement throughout Australia leading up to the 1967 referendum.

Paul Sinclair has undertaken a major sociological study of the Murray River and its people, particularly since the time of European settlement. In The Murray: A River and Its People he documents the stories of people who have grown up along the Murray as a way of telling the story of the river itself. He uses the decline of the Murray cod as a metaphor for the degradation of the river and the land in its floodplain. He concludes that “settler Australians need to understand and mourn the immense losses they have inflicted on the river” in order to then be able to imagine a sustainable future for themselves and the river.

Sinclair tells of an excursion made by artist John Davis to the Barmah Forest in 1979 when he responded to the place by constructing a work around some tree stumps in situ on the banks of the river. Davis had grown up along the river and this was a way for him to make sense of his connection to the river and the forest and as part of a “questioning of the cultural and development imperatives which had driven efforts to regulate the river since the 1880s.” Like Davis, I intend to respond to the forest as part of the creative research I will undertake for this study.

After more than fifty years of irrigating the country in the Murray-Darling Basin, the balance has moved. The climate has changed. There are concerns about the water table rising; there are issues with salt damage to irrigated country; there is not enough water to quench the demand from irrigators; the environment is suffering. With this change of perspective on the development of the irrigation schemes, I am interested in investigating my connection to the place and in untangling my family’s role as settler farmers and irrigators in the Murray-Darling River system. Also as a consequence of the widespread use of water for irrigation and the regulation of the rivers, the Barmah Forest is in decline. Perhaps the forest can be seen as a barometer for the health of the environment. I intend to use the forest as a case study for my research.

Rather than take a scientific approach to understanding the decline of the forest, my intention is to wonder about ways of imagining its sustainable future through the medium of art. The sustainability of the forest is intricately linked with the community of people who live and work in its vicinity, including the Yorta Yorta Indigenous people. It is also part of a delicate web of living organisms that sustain and nurture each other. By tapping into this rhizomic system and expressing something of its nature through art, I hope to be able to find a relationship between the art and the community’s ability to imagine a sustainable future for itself and for the forest. This may include involving some of the community itself in the art-making, perhaps in a collaborative work.

Before proceeding with any discussion about the role of art in imagining sustainable futures, it is necessary to provide a base understanding of the meaning of the term ‘sustainable’ in this context. It is a word that has entered the everyday language to the point of being a buzzword; a word echoed by corporations, politicians and grassroots eco-warriors alike.

In 1987 the World Commission on Environment and Development produced a report, Our Common Future, which included the most commonly upheld definition of sustainability. In the report there was a clear call to global cooperation and to consider the combined “social, economic and political concerns if we are to successfully move toward a more sustainable future.” Sustainability was understood as “development that meets the needs of today without compromising the needs of future generations.”
In 1991, The World Conservation Union, the United Nations Environment Programme and the World Wide Fund for Nature joined forces to produce a document called Caring for the Earth: A Strategy for Sustainable Living. The aim of the document was to help improve the condition of the world’s people, by defining two requirements as follows:

“One is to secure a widespread and deeply-held commitment to a new ethic, the ethic for sustainable living, and to translate its principles into practice. The other is to integrate conservation and development to enable people everywhere to enjoy long, healthy and fulfilling lives.”

In her book, Hijacking Sustainability, Adrian Parr voices a concern about a limited view of sustainability. She is concerned about a view that favours global economic prosperity and gives priority to action from multinational corporations and multinational organisations to the detriment of local specificity. She notes that there are thousands of grassroots local organizations seeking justice for “the underprivileged, including the right of the environment not to be destroyed.” Parr uses the term ‘sustainability culture’ to describe this localised enthusiasm for sustainable ways of life and social equality. She sees popular culture as the arena in which the “meaning and value of sustainability is contested, produced, and exercised.” It is a social practice that allows new and emerging values and practices to intersect with the traditional. Although Parr does not refer to the role of art in the conversation about sustainability, nevertheless it can be the artists within a community who influence popular culture.

An exhibition held in 2010 at the Museum of Contemporary Art (Sydney), In the Balance: Art in a Changing World, is a specific example of popular culture dealing with the issue of sustainability and responding to current environmental debates. Irene Watson begins a discussion in the exhibition catalogue by mourning the lost possibilities for Indigenous Australia following colonisation by European settlers in the name of progress. She is referring in particular to the Murray-Darling river system. She observes that the coloniser’s idea of progress has directly impacted the river system and in so doing has disconnected the Indigenous people from their country and their “sustainable relationships with the seas, waters and lands” of their ancestors. Watson acknowledges that the Indigenous people now live at the margins of Australian society, however she sees the evidence of Indigenous artists providing “a creative response to the environmental imperatives of our time.”

The intersection of the new and the traditional culture, as referred to by Parr, is made clear in the work of several Indigenous artists at the Museum of Contemporary Art, including Lorraine Connelly-Northey. Connelly-Northey is a Waradgerie woman who is “remaking the past.” According to Watson, she works with settler’s discarded commodities as an act of resistance and “transforms them into the baskets and possum-skin cloaks of her ancestors.” Watson describes Connelly-Northey’s work as a re-weaving of materials such as the barbed wire of settler’s fences, corrugated iron, and mesh, processing them as an act of decolonisation.

Watson is realistic about the effects of colonisation and climate change on the river system but claims that “what we call Art can also be a strategy for survival.” She suggests that the In the Balance exhibition could be a “strategy and a hope for the ending of acts of inhumanity and environmental destruction and [could] allow [the Indigenous people] to grow up and take that different path…, back towards being human on earth.” Watson recognises that this could be a dream but that the generations to come “need visions to imagine and grow a future humanity.” Watson is referring both to the sustainability of the Indigenous people’s way of life and also, inevitably, to the sustainability of the environment. Hers is a political view; she identifies the In the Balance exhibition, and the Indigenous works in it in particular, as “calls to action to change…going beyond political rhetoric, going to a place of ancient obligations in order to bring change, but also the balance and harmony to our lives as humans on earth.”

A Culture of Liars - By Rick

“There’s no such person as Santa Claus”. My best friend Gordie Lepine dropped that bombshell on me when I was about 5 years old. Gordie was a year older than I was and had just found out the truth about Saint Nick from his older brother. We weren’t happy about this revelation. One part of me slapped my 5 year old forehead muttering “I knew it! We don’t even have a chimney he could come down.” How could I have been so gullible. Another part of me felt betrayed. “Why was I lied to?” I was taught it was wrong to lie and would get in deep trouble if caught lying. Something didn’t add up. The solid foundation of my innocent childhood suddenly felt a bit shaky. And I remember not being convinced later when Mum confessed that indeed Santa Claus was only made up and was just told as a story to children. Even then that explanation didn’t ring true. I knew the difference between something told to me as a story, like “Hansel and Gretel” and something told to me like it was true. I mean we didn’t put cookies and milk out for Hansel and Gretel to eat as they tried to find their way back home! Very quickly the Easter Bunny bit the dust and later, as my baby teeth began to fall out, I never did buy into the Tooth Fairy scam. “Fool me twice, shame on me” was not something I had to be taught a third time.

Looking back I can see there are a number of lessons we could make from this vignette. One might be that this was a child’s first lesson in learning not to believe something just because some authority (Mum and Dad) says it’s true. Always check things out for yourself, question everything, see if it compares to other facts that you know. The Truth is Out There! Another lesson might be that a lie is not a lie if it’s told for a good reason, if there is some greater good out there that justifies the lie. There may be other lessons, but I’m afraid that it is the second lesson that most of us were left with. A lie + a good reason for telling the lie = the truth. And as we grew up, more and more we were told other lies and when we questioned the lie we always received some sort of “Yes, but….” reply and what followed the “but” was the beginning of the lie.

We learned to lie this way in the process. How many of us repeated the Santa Claus story to our children? How many of us justified it later as just being a harmless part of childhood? And how many of us later made personal phone calls at work, never paying for the phone call, never making up the lost time and for the most part never thinking of it, never considering it to be theft? I know that I did and while it’s just a small lie, even saying that is part of the coverup, the justification.

If lying to children about mythical beings or swiping pens at work was the extent of our lies one could argue that it was all a harmless part of life and not worth carrying on about. If that were the case, I might agree yet even then I would question why it is ever acceptable to lie to each other. But as I progressed through life, I found the lies to be more sinister. I remember quite clearly my history lessons about World War II and the atrocities committed by tyrants like Adolph Hitler. The waging of war, the persecution of the Jews, the Holocaust were not lies. He was indeed an evil man. But I was also told in the same lessons that we were the good guys, that we united to fight this evil and that our heroes such as Churchill and Roosevelt led us to victory. It was only later that I learned that our heroes fire-bombed the cities of our enemies, cities that had no known military function and that we murdered innocent civilians. And when I did learn of this, it was always put off with a “Yes, but…” Perhaps the truth about war is simply that there are no heroes, only villains and the sooner we start telling the truth about wars, the sooner we can put an end to them once and for all. But instead we repeat the villainy of the past. Today young Australians murder women and children of Afghanistan and it’s reported as some variation of “collateral damage”.

My greatest fear is that this lying to each other is systemic. I am not a religious person, yet I believe that the commandments “Thou Shalt not Kill” and “Thou Shalt not Steal” are holy. These commandments have been part of our Western culture forever and yet we kill and steal. Why?

Because we have a good reason for doing so and that is like some sort of fine print that went along with the commandments as a disclaimer. If it’s ok to lie about killing and stealing anything else is child’s play.

I think that it’s easy for us to look at my example of the pen “borrowed” from our workplace and see that as a little white lie that we tell ourselves. But consider the question of human rights. We like to think that Australians are a free people. We believe it to be true. Yet It is compulsory as a parent to send your child to school. Failure to obey is a punishable offence. Do any of us see the “compulsory” aspect of education being a lie told about our nature as a free people? How is it that a free people can ever be compelled to do something? Is not compulsion the opposite of freedom? And as you read these words, do you find yourself saying “My goodness, that’s true.” or is what comes up some sort of automatic “Yes, but do you want to see the poor denied their right to educate there children? Do you want to throw us back into the days of chimney sweeps and children working in the mines? And what of the people who too foolish to send their children to school? Should we punish the child for the ignorance of the parent?” And so on. Of course we have good reasons for overruling a parents’ right to educate their child or not. And yet here in Australia we have begun telling the truth about the Stolen Generation. Weren’t the reasons of the legislators and voters of those times pretty much the same as ours today about education? Didn’t they have the welfare of the Aboriginal children in mind when they took them from their parents and put them into foster homes? Don’t we have the welfare of Australian children in mind when we take them from their parents and put them into schools? If we can begin to tell the truth about the Stolen Children, why can’t we do this about everything else?


I could go on with examples of the lies forever. Everywhere that I find some social concern I can pretty much guarantee that if we keep digging in to it, we will come to a lie. And with the lie is the underlying truth, the “Yes” that goes with the “but”.

So where does that leave us? For starters, I invite you to examine again what you have just read. I would guess that this is not the first time you have heard this said. What I am doing personally is to stop lying about lying. The starting point for me was to simply say “Yes.” and leave off the “but…”. Stop the justification, stop the explanation, stop the rationalization, stop the deliberation, stop the contemplation, stop the examination. I just leave the lie there in the open to be examined. Join me in doing that. Look at this issue from the same side of the table. Somewhere over on the other side is a new world to be created but it’s too hard to see yet. To see it more clearly, shining our light on the lies about lying is a good start.

The Ice of Spring from Gordon

The Ice of Spring

Winter cold grades into spring
The sharpness fades with every ray
A pinch of warmth strikes to the face
And shifts a mind from hold to go

When leafless branches start to sprout
And memories fade of golden glow
Of circled ice that held the sun
That great amazement just begun

The brilliant white across the land
Encompasses all on which it lands
A generous spirit sweeps through all
And helps the mind to be enthralled

But far too soon a delicate green
Tinges all that spring can dream
It’s here and everywhere to gleam
With possibility created from all the green

Bursting forth the green transforms
The birds excite each others dreams
The squirrels run with rapid chase
And show us all expanded space

When leaves turn green and then to brown
They are complete and in the round
The season has just come to go
Like life is round with circles found

Gordon MacAulay
October 2010

Darwin in the wet - cafes and restaurants

Hi all

This is draft and would appreciate input on the format. Does it work to have an experiencial introduction to cafes or would it be best to just have the logistics. I do need to add logistics to these places too, eg opening times etc

The Office

This popular, noisy and definitely local haunt disguises itself as the ground floor of a hotel. But just a few metres from the centre of town, this cafe serves up sumptuous salads like a plate piled high with raw energy or lavishly filled nutty looking bread rolls. The coffee is great and they stock my favourite T2 tea, lemongrass and ginger.

Buzz in the setting sun

The water stills, reflections become clear and the long asian style bamboo lights bend outwards to the sea. The restaurant hangs out onto the boardwalk overlooking sleepy yachts and funky triangular tables give intimate corner spaces.

Il Lido

Wander along the seawall to inviting wicker bucket seats with bright red cushions. Settle into the comfy chairs, order a cocktail or a tapas and just watch the world go by. The waterfront glistens in the late afternoon sun, a sea breeze slightly cools and the rest of the world seems a million miles away. Try the meals too. Il Lido is open for breakfast, lunch or dinner, from early until very late.

Boadwalk/Boatshed Cafe – Cullen Bay

Breakfast at the boardwalk is a Darwin institution especially on a busy and atmosphere filled Saturday morning. The speciality “Pan”?? breakfast is as it sounds - the works served up in a frying pan. Or for something lighter, try the big chunks of fresh fruit salad or the honey smeared muesli with yoghurt. The coffee is one of the best in town and there is nothing better than sitting out on the boardwalk, sipping a coffee and reading the paper.

The cafes in Star Arcade

This is my favourite place in Darwin. The Frangipani trees send dappled shade across the pavers and the occasional umbrella shades the takeaway tables. The passageway into the courtyard tells a fascinating story about the old Star cinema, a classic open air picture theatre which operated from ??. which then opens up into a buzzy and inviting place to dine and shop. It’s where the locals hang out at lunch time. And sometimes they just stop for a while - read the paper, get a coffee, check out anything new at the Vintage clothes shop or intriguing shoe shop called, Me and My Llama.
• Me and My Llama
• Vintage Twist
• Frond
• Pure Indulgence chocolate
• Cafes – a popular and busy local’s haunt

The 4 Birds

This little cafe is tucked away but far from a hidden treasure it is becoming a very popular place to “hang out”, have a coffee, or a Panini. Relax inside on the comfy sofa or soak up the atmosphere outside on benches, stools or upside down crates (with cushion) organised around little low asian tables. It’s a very cosy place to be (and the coffee is great).

Simply Salads

This is more than just green leaves. Stop here for sumptuous salads, homemade every day, or add a falafel or today’s special pie. There’s a shady and cool corner to sit and relax, meet a friend and catch up on a bit of gossip.

Rendezvous Cafe

This unassuming little cafe, bursts at the seams at lunch time as people queue up for their regular laksa fix. That’s its reputation, “the best laksa in town”.

Takeaway by the Post Office
It might be a weird location but Coffee Beanz makes wonderful coffee, especially the double shot piccolo latte! It’s perfect to just drop in here on your way to work or play.

reflecting on the forest (Kerry)

It was my sister’s counsel in the end,
“In my experience, be there when something’s happening.”
I couldn’t resist,
Packed and was gone
In a day.
Caution to the wind.
The one concession
A caravan park away from the river’s edge.
The old hometown.

And the river?

Awesome in flood.
Brown water sweeping debris from the forest floor.
Ancient sandbags compromising levee banks
Leaving townships inundated.

In the forest
Rain-soaked clouds over treetops
Encourage re-incarnated frogs.
Their afternoon chorus
Staccato tympani in the watery landscape
Despite the poised heron statues in the shadows.

Battered by fifteen dry years
Broken river red gums suck hungrily,
Draw moisture into mighty limbs.

Birds respond to the spring siren,
The promise of abundance.
A sacred kingfisher alert at water’s edge.
Black swans sail with young
Over yesterday’s dry grass plains.
Black-jacketed ibis flock to lush pasture.

My reverie is interrupted.

Undermined by relentless floodwater on exposed roots
It is a graceful fall.
No shout of timber.
A tree-high splash followed by silence.
Sinking below the rumbled surface
To a shadowy afterlife
Melting in black mud.

“We’ll turn back here,” our riverboat guide declares.
She has no choice
Our way is blocked.
A narrow escape.
Hearts pounding
Only seconds from our own demise
Every giant now leans ominously.

Back on terra firma
The water creeps up the track.
Barely perceptible.

Lulled by the blaze of sun
A splash startles me.
I turn.
Another heart-stopper.
Thirty kangaroos pounding rhythmically through the water-bound trees.
No sideways glance.
Parting around me.
Far behind follows the big male.
Stops to catch his breath,
Great chest moving steadily.
Looks me in the eye,
Suspending time.

I am awestruck.
Mesmerised.
Enchanted
To be witness to the forest,
Its future sustained.

Kerry MacAulay
27th September 2010

Just a hare’s breath apart (by Heather)

After years of handing out dyed eggs, the Easter Bunny is in search of a new gift to give to kids. You're a pitchman for a company who's hoping to land the Easter Bunny's account. What's your product and your pitch?

It was those teeth that impressed me the most. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. There were two of them, each the size of an I-Phone.

About what you could expect in the mouth of a six foot rabbit, seated just across the desk from me.

He cleared his throat and I hastily shifted my gaze to meet his eyes. Big round soft eyes, framed by gold granny glasses. When my company had appointed me to be the one to deliver our pitch to the Easter bunny, I’d done my research. This guy didn’t look like the Easter bunnies of my childhood storybooks, but he did look like the photos that Wikipedia had recently published. I was in the presence of the real deal.

“Sorry about the Myxy-Mist, sonny,” he said, referring to the spray treatment I’d undergone as I came through the final length of the burrow. “It’s routine for all our Australian visitors. We can’t have you accidently bringing in the ol’ myxotosis, can we?” He looked at me intently over his glasses.

“Oh, no, sir,” I reassured him, feeling unexpectedly guilty. “The spray was nothing. No worries. Just what I’d expect, of course. I mean, we spray our own visitors when they arrive in the country.” I realised I was babbling and shut up. I was a bundle of nerves. “Sorry, I don’t mean to rabbit on,” I said, promptly groaning inside and biting my tongue.

“Well, we don’t want this to be hare-raising for you, do we?” he said solemnly. “But let’s proceed. I’m ever so keen to hear about what you have for me.”

“Well!” I said. I was feeling harried but took a deep breath and launched into my spiel. “We certainly appreciate the opportunity to show you an exciting new Easter product line. And we feel we can offer you the most astounding breakthrough in, well, in history.” He waved his paw in a move-on gesture so I cut to the chase. “As you know, my company GenuTech is a pioneer in the area of nano-tech gen-mod. That is to say, we use nano-technology to assist with genetic modification.” I paused to see if his eyes were glazing over, which often happens at this point. “Do you follow me?”

He held up a paw. A very large paw with very large pads and very large claws. “I may be a rabbit but I’m not hare-brained,” he said, glasses flashing. “Speak, sonny. Show me the next generation Easter Egg.” He leaned in toward me.

I cleared my throat, trying to smile. “You will love this idea,” I said. “We wanted to keep the tradition of spring-time, of rebirth, renewal. We think that’s good.”

“I’m glad you approve,” he said drily, “as it IS a tradition of several millennia.”

“And we love the Easter colours that have been so popular over the last few decades.”

“How observant.” Dry as the desert.

I coughed and sped up. “So we’ve identified the genomes that give chlorophyll its green, that give tulips their reds and yellows and pinks and oranges, that give delphiniums their blue and irises their purple. And we’ve been completely successful at implanting these colour genomes into…” I paused for effect, “….into the cocoa plant.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “So we now have…?”

“You guessed it,” I said jubilantly. “Coloured chocolate! Chocolate in all colours of the rainbow!” I scuttled for my briefcase and popped open the latch. A cascade of eggs, bunnies and chicks poured out – a riot of coloured chocolate.

“AND,” I shouted, thoroughly on a roll, “not only that, we’ve identified the genome that gives chocolate its unique taste. So not only can we take any chocolate thing and make it any colour of the rainbow, but we can also take any organic thing and make it taste like chocolate! How’s that for an unbelievable Easter?!”

I paused, partly out of breath and partly to let the magnificence of this thing we had done sink in. The years of work, the patent manipulation, the successes and failures, the children’s focus groups, the sheer wonder of those vivid chartreuse chocolate bunnies and the chocolate-flavoured spinach leaves!

The Easter Bunny rose majestically to his full height and hopped over to me, placing a paw around my shoulder. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “Good for you, very good work indeed.” He pushed his glasses further up his nose and began to lead me around the room. “But let me tell you a bit more about what I’m looking for. I’ve had this idea for something I’m calling ‘pet rocks’, and if I’m right, the children’s market is ripe for…”

“Pet rock?” I breathed. “Pet rocks?!”

“Yes, isn’t it marvelous? How’s THAT for hare-brained?” he announced proudly.

Don Draper’s Rabbit Punch - by Rick

“Mr. Bunny a Don Draper is here to see you.”

“Ah, thanks Bettina, please show him in.” The Easter Bunny sat with a smug look, his whiskers twitching with anticipation. “The fun begins”, he thought to himself.

Bettina escorted a tall, handsome and well dressed man into the office. He strode over self-assuredly and held out his hand. “Don Draper Mr. Bunny. It’s such an honor to have been invited here. What can I do to be of service?”

“Thank you Bettina. Mr. Draper, please have a seat.”

“I’ll get right to the point. I called you in because I’m in need of some help and I think you’re the man for the job. Easter is being stolen from me. The Christian Right as they like to call themselves is trying to take the Bunny out of Easter. Preposterous! I invented Easter over 5,000 years ago. It had always been a Pagan celebration of the coming of spring until these Johnny-come-latelys hijacked MY EASTER and put their Savior into a feature role. Well share the joy I always thought. But now they want ME OUT. Can you believe it? Well I’m taking the gloves off. No more timid rabbit over here. I’m taking back Easter to the Pagan ritual it always was and I want you to design a whole new Pagan campaign for me. They tell me that you and your firm are the best. What do you think you can do for me?”

Don Draper sat there stunned. He was speechless. His brow furrowed as he ran ideas back and forth in his mind. Pagan…. Easter…. Taking the gloves off…. Suddenly his eyes lit up and a smile as big as his idea broke out. “Mr. Bunny, this is just shooting from the hip so let’s run it up the flagpole before we judge it. We are going to promote the 2011 Easter Holiday with chocolate Lady Gagas. The campaign will feature Lady Gaga in the flesh, on television, talk-show radio, Blogs, twitters, Facebook, you name it. The queen of Pagan will bring the Pagan back to Easter.”

Easter Bunny sat there stunned. Except for 2011 Easter Holiday he didn’t understand a word that Don Draper had said. “Mr. Draper for starters, what is a Lady Gaga?”

“Mr. Bunny, Lady Gaga IS Pagan. Nothing would upset your opponents more than this person. She has already captured the hearts, souls and allowances of the world’s youth. What Lady Gaga wants, Lady Gaga gets.”

“Stop right there Mr. Draper. I’ve heard enough. Go back to your office and bring me your ideas. Money is no object. I haven’t spent a cent on marketing in 5,000 years and my war chest is impressive.”

“Thank you Mr. Bunny. Let the battle begin.”

Uglies by Sue

Ugly is what the kids go for these days. Gone are the days of Barbie, dolls that pee themselves and fluffy teddy bears. The rage today are UglyDolls. They look peculiar, often with multiple brains and horns but they are decidedly quirky and kids love them.

My company, Quirky Toys Pty Ltd, is making these dolls out of chocolate. Not just ordinary milk chocolate but plain chocolate, white chocolate and a favourite for kids is bound to be blue chocolate which matches the real thing. The chocolate is covered with a strong foil, blue of course and the eyes are made out of real pink buttons. The Ugly dolls are not much bigger than an egg.

Can you imagine a Nandy bear hunt? Where these blue foil uglies are hidden around the garden? They are malleable so can sit on branches, nestled in the fork or they can balance on smaller shrubs hidden by a few leaves. Bend their little arms and they can even hang, say from the washing line.

My Company, Quirky Toys, has been in the toy business for 10 years and specialise in toys for the 5-10 age group. We have a department dedicated to researching what kids love today and what they are going to love tomorrow. We mainly employ Generation Y who are very skilled at getting out there on the streets and talking to kids. Of course this same generation are experts when it comes to technology. They have designed and implemented our new web site and some of them have even contributed to the Design Department when we are looking to launch new products.

We can make these uglies into eggs easily. We have a pro-forma cast which can be used for the normal production or any other liquid including chocolate. So our eggs will be cheap to manufacture and therefore cheap to market and sell. 6 of the toys will fit into the standard egg carton. This is the bit I love, just imagine a kid opening the egg carton to find uglies and not eggs. They will just die and go to heaven. How quirky is that?

Image downloaded from http://learningexpressblog.

Size didn’t matter (by Heather)

Write a story titled, “Size Didn’t Matter”

His house stood silhouetted against the severe blue of the late morning sky, its cupolas, chimneys, gables and slate roof lines making stark contrast with the cloudless sky. Andrew leaned against his walking stick and stopped to catch his breath. He waited for the faint whiff of pride he always felt when he looked at the old mansion. Luxury kitchen, ballroom, ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms – the crowd this house couldn’t take wasn’t worth calling a crowd.

But the whiff of pride didn’t arrive. It was drowned out by the thought that the last time this house had seen a crowd was almost out of his memory. There was him and there was Barbara, his housekeeper. There weren’t any crowds.

He definitely felt flat. The chemo was taking it out of him, no doubt about it. And he shouldn’t be this out of puff after the short walk up from the stables. He’d known the walk would be a bit of a challenge, but he’d wanted to see Sidney. At 18 hands, Sidney was the biggest and finest piece of horseflesh in all of WA. Too bad he’d been a bit sullen in the stable this morning. Probably just reflecting Andrew’s own mood.

He stumped his way up the marble steps, pausing half way up to lean against the balustrade. Hell, he wasn’t going to make it to the top of the steps on this lungful, so he might as well sit down for awhile. He dropped on to one of the steps, positioning his walking stick where he could lean his chin against it.

Thoughts swarmed in. He was 72 years old; he had a death sentence; he had no crowds. Truth be told, he had no individuals.

He thumped the walking stick on the marble. Just because he’d been told the cancer was still moving fast didn’t mean he was about to indulge in any maudlin reflections. There would be no melodramatic surrender to the ebbing life forces and all that crap.

So he didn’t have a crowd of people. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Around him lay a good deal of the evidence of his life. There was the majestic house at his back, the sprawling stables and corrals, the immense shed beside which his 45’ SeaWatch catamaran was currently aground, big enough for a good-sized family to holiday in luxury. It had been brought in this morning from the harbour, to spend a little time in drydock while Andrew had it cleaned and worked out what to do with it.

He rubbed the end of the walking stick against the stubble on his chin. He turned his gaze inward, looking at how he felt. All he could find was tired, tired, tired.

And scared.

And alone.

He sucked in a deep breath. I could die right here, he thought, and nobody would notice until Barbara came to take out supper to the stablehands. Further, nobody would care. The boys and good old Melanie would head straight for their lawyers. Yes, the lawyers and the accountants would have a field day and otherwise there’d be scarcely a ripple in the universe.

To hell with that. That counted as maudlin reflection and he wasn’t having a bar of it.

That’s when he noticed a car pulling up the long driveway. Ah, William’s black BMW. Not driven by William, though. By his chauffeur, what was his name anyway? – Mike, yes that was it. What was Mike doing here? Then his heart leapt a little as he saw the tiny blonde head in the rear seat. The chauffeur jumped out and whipped open the back door, fiddling with the devices on the child’s car seat.

Released, the tiny figure bounded out of the car and began racing toward the house. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the old man on the steps. “Grandpa!” he shouted. “GRANDPA! I comed to see you.” He tripped over the first step, then flew up the remainder until he catapulted himself into Andrew’s arms. “I can stay for THIS many days, Grandpa,” he said, holding up a hand with all fingers thrust out.

Andrew hugged him tightly, for a moment unable to speak. He rose unsteadily to his feet as the chauffeur approached the steps, a little suitcase in one hand and a large empty cardboard box carried by its flap in the other.

“Hello, Mr Branford; you remember me, Mike Bensall. William asked me to drive Ben over – he thought it would be a nice surprise; he can stay for a few days if he’s welcome.”

Andrew ran his fingers through his grandson’s hair as the little face pulled back to beam up at him. “Thank you, Mike. He’s very welcome. He’s very welcome indeed,” he said. “Would you care to stay for a drink?”

Mike shook his head. “I’ve got to get the car back.” He dropped the suitcase at the foot of the stairs, then waved the cardboard box. “Pardon me, sir, but Ben insisted on bringing his cardboard box along.”

Ben released his grip on Andrew and barrelled back down the stairs. “It’s my boat, Grandpa. It’s my BOAT. Watch!” He clambered inside the box and began rocking from side to side. “Watch out for the big waves, Grandpa!” The chauffeur returned to the car and waved goodbye.

Andrew gazed at his grandson ruefully. He could not help but glance at the other boat on the property: the SeaWatch, elegantly perched on its double hulls, the gleaming brass of its railings visible from here.

He had collected around himself the finest of everything – and his grandson chose the cardboard box.

He had anything a body could want, and no one to share his life with.

– Except this miracle, this little grandson with the shining eyes.

“Come fishin’ with me, Grandpa,” the boy shouted, sliding to one side in the big box.

Andrew walked down the steps, to play with his grandson.

Extract from Kakadu, Darwin in the Wet

Ubirr and Noulangie

Experience a fascinating and unique world of art, many thousands of years old, in some of the most beautiful scenery in the Northern Territory. Bush tracks lead to a number of rock art sites where intriguing stories shed light on some of the mystery and culture behind the paintings.

Wander past sheer sandstone rock faces, in vivid shades of orange and red with splashes of black, which tower alongside the eucalypts with their stark white trunks. Compare the burnt and almost dead bush from the dry season as it comes alive with vibrant new growth and tiny unfurling leaves, and discover carpets of wild pink ginger that look like bluebells in an English wood.

The rock art tells stories of the Creation and how the landscape and cultural influences have changed the Aboriginal way of life over many thousands of years. Be amazed at the fine and intricate detail that is so beautifully drawn in yellow, orange and white shades of ochre. Stop for a while and look, imagine and speculate. Your own stories and interpretations will probably unfold.

At Ubirr, follow a 1 km circular track, ultimately to a lookout. Time your visit for sunset. It’s a steady and moderate climb to the top of the escarpment where the setting sun lights up the rocks in a golden glow and the green floodplains look vibrant and lush. Don’t forget the camera!

Yellow Waters

Water is everywhere as the South Alligator River bursts its banks and overflows across the floodplains. On a breakfast cruise through this water wonderland, the river pandanus form dense hedges of green and the lush buffalo grass encroaches on the tiny white flowers of the native Wiligia vines. Lily pads, bigger than any dinner plate, gently unfurl alongside the spears of new bright pink lotus lily and a brilliant carpet of red mangrove tree flowers suddenly appears amongst the jungle of green. A crocodile lurks in the murky shallows standing guard on his mound of eggs and a darter with wings like a silver jumbo jet perches perfectly still on a dead bit of tree.

A Shock of White - By Rick

When I look back at what I saw first, what's weird is how come that's what I saw.

I remember lying there with my eyes still closed and thinking to myself, "Wow. I thought I would be going through the world's worst hangover after last night but I don’t feel a thing.”

I remember opening my eyes and staring into this mirror above me and thinking, “Oh my God, my hair’s turned white!” And in the next second thinking “Lumpy, you little bastard! I’ll bet you set this up after I passed out. Oh you are so dead!”

And then from somewhere this little voice kicked in and asked, “Hey how come there’s a mirror up on the ceiling? I don’t have a mirror there.”

The little voice rolled on, “And how come I’m all pale and wrinkled? And why am I wearing a white smock?”

Good questions. Lumpy had gone way beyond practical joking. He was seriously going to die!

Then the little voice popped in with, “Hey, how come I can’t move?”

“Ok Lumpy”, I screamed. But what I heard was a faint, raspy, “Ogaylummy”

And then off to my right somewhere I heard a woman’s voice. “Oh my God, Mr. Johnson is conscious. Marion, call Dr Franks immediately.”

And as Marion, whoever she is, went off looking for Dr Franks, whoever he is, the voice became a face looking down at me.

“What’s happening?”, I asked the face and I heard something that sounded more like “wusabig” crawl out of my mouth.

“Don’t try to talk Mr. Johnson”, the lady said. “We thought that this would never happen. Nobody has ever come out of a coma after 47 years. This is a miracle.”

And the little voice and I were speechless.

The strange way of things (by Heather)

Your hair has turned white ..... why?

I press my fingers to smooth the lines on my forehead. A glimpse of white at the edge of my hairline catches my attention. I yank my hair back. A full half inch of white hair is coming from the roots, in sharp contrast to my natural dark brown hair. I check all over my scalp, and the half inch of white hair is everywhere. What is THAT about?!

Something rears up deep inside me. I notice the frown on my face in the bathroom mirror. I exchange it for a smile and head back into the bedroom. I decide to make the bed. Jake’s side is not particularly rumpled today so it’s an easy job.

I think about Jake. And Megan. I’ve only just woken up, so Jake must have left the house before I did, taking Megan with him. Jake teaches at the highschool so it’s easy for him to drop Megan off at her primary school on the way there.

I sit down on the freshly made bed. That’s when I notice the phone is off the hook. Well, that explains the faint buzzing I’ve been hearing – I was wondering if it was my ears acting up. I grab the receiver and slip it into its cradle. But immediately a feeling of nausea comes over me. I whisk the handset off the cradle again and my stomach settles down.

Very mysterious, really. The body is a mysterious thing. I’ll think about it later, I say to myself.

I go downstairs into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. I glance out the window; I do NOT want to see Grace’s car there again, and fortunately it’s not. Don’t get me wrong, Grace is my best friend and I love her dearly, but she’s been so lachrymose lately that she’s been impossible to be around. In my mind I replay the conversation we had yesterday just before she left the house.

She’d looked sideways at me and said, “Darling, you should get out more. It’s not healthy for you to stay at home all day at a time like this. It’s time you got out more.”

And I’d said, “Darling yourself, there’s so much to do in this house. I need to keep things shipshape here.”

Grace looked unhappily at me (what else is new?). I have the thought that she’s probably always been negative about my relationship with Jake. She likely thinks I’m over-reliant on him, and maybe she’s right.

I’d find it very hard to go on without Jake. My stomach constricts again at the thought.

The coffee’s ready so I pour myself a cup. As I take my first sip, I notice that the morning paper is in the magazine slot. I slip out the door and reach to grab the paper out. I’m surprised to see that there are several days’ worth there. Funny that we haven’t picked them up. I take them back with me to the counter to finish my coffee while catching up on the news.

But I can’t open the paper. The thought comes unbidden to me: newspapers are not my friend. I slide off the stool to toss the papers into the recycle bin.

That’s when I see the black and white turning into the street, causing a familiar feeling of panic to arise in me. Why is it that we have that reaction to policemen? But sure enough, he pulls into my driveway. I’m really not in the mood to talk to anyone anyone right now, so I slip beside the fridge where he can’t see me through the window. He knocks loudly, calling my name a couple times, then walks away back down the drive.

I berate myself. Who doesn’t answer the door when a policeman knocks? Policemen are not my friends, I laugh unsteadily.

I sit down at the counter again with my neglected cup of coffee, feeling shaken by the policeman’s visit. I glance at the telephone and notice that the light is flashing on the main handset. Five messages, it says. I remember the phone has been off the hook, so that explains why there’s so many messages. My finger hesitates over the Play button, then I hit it. I want to see if there’s a message from Jake, who sometimes calls me through the day.

An unwelcome voice comes on line. “Mrs Mackie? It’s Dr Kohl here. You missed your appointment this week and I’m wondering if you’d like to…”

Not important. I hit the Delete button.

The next message is a man’s voice. “It’s Detective Stephens here, Mrs Mackie. I just wanted to let you know I’m dropping around later this morning. There’s been an important development in the case…”

I have no idea what that’s about. Delete!

“Gemma, pick up please!” Ah, Grace’s familiar voice again. “Have you got the phone off the hook again? That’s not healthy, darling. I’m worried…”

Delete! That woman is obsessive.

“Gemma, it’s John at Midway Insurance. I…uh…I just wanted you to know your car’s finally been officially written off, and we’ve posted you the cheque. Uh…call me.”

Bizarre. Wrong number! Delete.

The last message must be one from some time ago, because I know I’ve heard it before. “Hey Gems, just about to head off home. I’ll pick up Megan on the way, so don’t leave the house. See you shortly, sweetheart.”

This one I don’t delete.

The queasy feeling comes back; I shouldn’t have listened to the messages.

I wander over to the fireplace with my coffee. I look at the photo of Gemma, Jake and me that sits on the mantle. I could not live without those two, I think, running my fingers over their smiling faces. How precious they are!

anticipating the river (Kerry)

It’s Monday afternoon.

I was to have been bustling,
Full of energy,
Purposeful,
With lists, maps, plans.
Stowing.
Folding.
Packing.

Now
The day drags on.
Silent inactivity fuels disappointment.

I would be collecting the hire car,
But the excitement is defused.
I hear the train pass without me.

Cheryl rang yesterday
Questioning my safety,
Anticipating my tourist-artist’s dissatisfaction,
Concerned about her responsibility for me.
She said,
The river is rising.
The forest is flooded,
Ankle-deep in mud,
Cold and wet.
Roads already impassable.
More rain in the high country.

I said,
Ok I give up.
I won’t come.
Bailed out.

But

What of the river?
Its swirling brown wetness inundating the forest,
Lapping against parched trunks of river red gums,
Silently infiltrating the beleaguered cumbungi,
Drowning weedy imposters,
Deeply penetrating the grey soil.
Dry doubts dispelled by long-forgotten abundance.
And the birds
Summoned by the widespread waters,
Singing in the glare of the morning light reflected off wet mirrors of floodwater.

In my absence.

When the danger is passed
I will go.
Sensibly.
In a few weeks I’ll be there with renewed vigour.
Freshly inspired by new plans in a muddy landscape.
Discovering unexpected creative possibilities,
Imagining the future, and
In awe of nature’s power to sustain.



Kerry MacAulay
6th September 2010

Snow white - NOT! by Peta

Rebecca stared at the mirror in disbelief. She blinked, shook her head and blinked again.

“Houston we have a problem.” She continued to stare. “Shit do we ever.”

Rebecca slumped against the bathroom wall, her eyes glued to her reflection. It was 6am and her head hurt. Too many tequilas last night and now this. She stared at the image she didn’t recognise. Her usually lustrous, shiny brown hair hung on her shoulders, snowy white. Not a skerrick of colour to be seen. Her eyes popped red rimmed and grainy. Shell shocked, her body slid down the wall. She landed on the cold tiles abruptly. Every imperfection of the mosaic tiles needled into her naked bottom. Disbelief and nausea engulfed her like a straightjacket. She could barely breathe.

The shrill ring of her mobile broke the silence. Rebecca fumbled in the pocket of her robe. The caller rang off. Closing one eye she managed to focus on the small illuminated screen. She immediately recognised Jody’s number.

Mechanically Rebecca hit the call button. Jody answered cheerily on the second ring. She was way too chirpy for Rebecca in her condition.

“Gidday girlfriend. How’s the head? Sore I bet. You really laid into it last night.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Rebecca responded. “Perhaps you can shed some light on what exactly it was I laid into. All I can remember was the tequila.”

“Yeah well that cheap Mexican stuff will do it to you every time. I’ve told you before. Hey is Jack still there?”

“Jack? Who the hell is Jack?” Rebecca asked. Suddenly she was bathed in sweat. A hot flush heated her from head to toe.

“Oh how quickly they forget. I guess the answer’s no then. I was referring to that gorgeous hunk of masculinity you snaffled at Pierros. You lucky cow.”

“What? I don’t even remember Pierros. When did we go there?”

“Ah, let me see.” Jody paused. Suddenly Rebecca found Jody extremely irritating.

“Well,” Jody continued “it was somewhere between Barons, The Cauldron and Hot Life.” Jody reeled off the names of their usual haunts.

“Oh my god.” Whispered Rebecca. She had no recollection of any of this.

“Look Jody. This is serious. I am in the bathroom at my flat. I have no idea if what his name is here or not. I don’t even remember him. And my hair, oh my god my hair is totally white. Can you explain that? How does this happen? Tell me how?” Rebecca’s voice reached fever pitch. Her tee shirt was soaked to the skin. On the other end of the mobile, Jody was laughing raucously.

“This isn’t funny Jody. What the hell happened last night? What the hell am I going to do?”

“Lovey, calm down for God sake. You’ll have a hernia if you keep this up.” Jody continued her annoying laugh.

“Calm down? Easy for you to say, LOVEY! What am I meant to do,huh? I’m seeing the MD this morning about my promotion. As if I don’t feel bad enough already, my bloody head is exploding, my hair is white and for all I know an axe murderer’s loose in my flat.”

“I think I can solve this for you if you will just calm down and follow my instructions.”

“Hey sweetcheeks.” A gravelly voice came from the hallway.

“Shit Jody he’s here - quick, I don’t have much time. What am I going to do?”

“Listen carefully” Jody was trying to mask her laughter but Rebecca could hear it “I will say this only once” the fake French ‘alo ‘alo accent was pathetic but Rebecca followed the commands to the letter.

“Place one hand on your head and the other on your stomach. Rub your stomach. Breathing deeply, with the hand on your head grab a decent hunk of hair. When I count to 3 pull hard. One two ..... are you ready ...... three.”

On the count of three Rebecca gave her hair an almighty tug as instructed.

“I really must lay off the tequila.” Rebecca sighed staring at a white wig tightly clenched in her hand.

“Come on honey, daddy’s got a special treat for you.” That voice again. Rebecca stood shakily. Before she had a chance to respond she bent quickly over the porcelain bowl and hurled.

Sue - My my hair turned white

Marjorie hobbles up the pathway, slowly and with her walking stick, as the ground is uneven and windy. As she passes in front of the lounge window, she gasps and secretly smiles at her reflection.

Her hair is white, that beautiful soft brilliant white that looks like cotton wool, with no streaks of grey or obvious coloured regrowth. She has had it styled with an old fashioned perm and little tight curls frame her forehead. She had almost had a blue rinse too but decided that really was out of vogue these days. A Kirby grip keeps one untidy curl out of her left eye.

Her face is thin and gaunt looking and granny type glasses are perched on the end of her slightly hooked nose. The only makeup is a bright red lipstick that she has pinched from her daughter’s bathroom and she couldn’t resist the bit of bling that she had also found. The dangly diamond earrings do look a bit out of character but they are such fun. She grins wickedly.

She’s still standing and admiring herself in the window. Her pale pink twinset is a bit tight but she is very happy with the $5 purchase from the local Vinnies and her mid calf length A-line skirt looks pretty cool. Fish net stockings, another gem from her daughter, and granny style black lace up shoes complete the picture.

The party is to be held in a marquee at the bottom of the garden. Soft, inviting music hovers on the wind and Marjorie smiles when she recognises her old favourite, Frank Sinatra. She checks her watch, she’s early. The last thing she wants is to make a grand entrance so she hovers around the house until she can see a few people milling towards the tent.

A couple of car doors slam so she peers around the corner of the house. A little group of people head up the driveway, then another car pulls up.

“Perfect” she thinks “I can lose myself in the crowd”.

She’s inside the marquee. It’s beautifully decorated with red velvet drapes and comfy easy chairs and sofas are huddled together at one end. A waiter is serving tea from fine English china cups and another waiter looks as if his tray contains crustless cucumber sandwiches. Fairy bread, chocolate cup cakes, bowls of jelly beans and individual wobbly green jellies are on a side table and so are the bottles of Moet champagne!

The drums roll, Felicity and fiancé Toby enter the marquee from a side flap. They look absolutely amazing. It’s obvious that Toby is the Mad Hatter, his over large and high silver top hat perches on top of his long blond curls and his maroon velvet bow tie must be about a foot long. Felicity’s pale blue dress, simple white pinny and long blond wig which Marjorie helped her choose, is of course, Alice in Wonderland. They make a bee-line for Marjorie.

“Hi Mum” giggles Felicity. “You look fantastic. That white wig actually suits you”.

Growing relational aesthetics (Kerry)

There are many examples in the world of contemporary art where the artwork itself is not a physical object, like a painting or sculpture, but rather is a performance. Nicolas Bourriaud suggests that “the work of art may thus consist of a formal arrangement that generates relationships between people, or be born of a social process.” (Bourriaud, 2007, p. 32) He describes this artistic practice as relational aesthetics. The main feature of relational aesthetics is “to consider interhuman exchange an aesthetic object in and of itself.” (Bourriaud, 2007, p. 33)

Nicolas Bourriaud published his book Relational Aesthetics in 1998 as a series of essays on the state of contemporary art. (Bourriaud, 2002) He asserts that modernity was based on the Enlightenment desire to free humankind and to help to usher in a better society. However he sees that the advance of technologies and the rationalisation of the production process shackled the Enlightenment project. Nevertheless he claims that today’s art is “carrying on this fight [to free humankind and help to usher in a better society], by coming up with perceptive, experimental, critical and participatory models.” (Bourriaud, 2002, p. 12) Rather than preparing and announcing a future world, today’s art is “modelling possible universes.” (Bourriaud, 2002, p. 13) Bourriaud considers that art is now about “learning to inhabit the world in a better way” so that “the role of artworks is no longer to form imagined and utopian realities, but to actually be ways of living and models of action within the existing real.” (Bourriaud, 2002, p. 13) This argument continues by contrasting the idea of works of art as trophies on the wall of the collector, which can be walked through, to artworks as “periods of time to be lived through.” ( Bourriaud, 2002, p. 15) Thus artworks are experienced, as an encounter, or as a hands-on experience. This encounter may take place in a museum or at an exhibition or wherever the art is situated. It is typified by the interhuman exchange between the viewers of, or participators in, the work and the work itself.

Several works of this kind, which encouraged viewer participation, were included in the In the Balance: Art for a Changing World exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art in 2010. For example, Sydney-based artist Diego Bonetto has created a work called 5 terrariums, 5 tours and a world of Facebook friends. Bonetto’s work is in three parts. He has arranged five terrariums in the Museum with soil gathered from particular sites around Sydney. Weeds have regenerated spontaneously in these enclosed environments. He has designed a Facebook [1] campaign encouraging participants to befriend a ‘weed’. And lastly, he has organised five group tours of Sydney, led by the artist, visiting public parks and gardens to learn about the weeds growing in them. This work is part of Bonetto’s ‘Weedy Project’ which he describes as “a personal reading of connections between human activity and the environment,” (Kent, 2010, p. 34) something he thinks of as an ‘ethnoscape’ which shows the way that all things are linked and interdependent.

One of the four curators of the In the Balance exhibition, Rachel Kent, describes Bonetto’s art practice as treading lightly, “leaving little in the way of material traces and finding ways to communicate through public participation and interaction.” (Kent, 2010, p. 34) Another artist group in the same exhibition, known as The Artist as Family (AaF), has created a permaculture garden, Food Forest, in the grounds of St Michael’s Church in Surry Hills. The group consists of Patrick Jones, his partner, Meg Ulman, and his eight-year-old son, Zephyr Ogden Jones. Their work in Surry Hills consists of a public garden, works on paper and a blog [2], which documents the group’s activities in the garden. The intention of the work is “not only to renew a local ecology [that is, an underused church lawn] but to stimulate ‘social warming’ – a term [Jones] has coined to describe the enhancement of interpersonal relationships through ‘a process of sharing resources such as food, art, land and energy’.” (Davis, 2010, p. 18) To this end the artist has invited the community to assist in the construction and tending of the garden. According to Museum of Contemporary Art curator, Anna Davis, Food Forest is also “a call to action for the arts community to take a more dominant role in creating a sustainable future.” (Davis, 2010, p. 18) The Artist as Family has created a collaborative work that directly fits with Bourriaud’s idea of relational aesthetics where the art is an encounter, a hands-on experience involving the community and the artist together.

Footnotes:

[1] http://www.facebook.com/pages/weedbook-Sydney/113858111997291

[2] http://theartistasfamily.blogspot.com

References:

Bourriaud, Nicolas. Postproduction. New York: Lukas and Sternberg, 2007.

———. Relational Aesthetics. Dijon-Quetigny: Les presses du réel, 2002.

Davis, Anna. "The Artist as Family." In In the Balance: Art for a Changing World, edited by Rachel Kent. Sydney: Museum of Contemporary Art, 2010.

Kent, Rachel. "Diego Bonetto: Weedy Connections." In In the Balance: Art for a Changing World, edited by Rachel Kent. Sydney: Museum of Contemporary Art, 2010.