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.

SEM Alternative Models--Gordon (Use Fullscreen)

SEM AltForms(1) 29-8-10

Children ruling the world - Sue

The Australian Government would look completely different. The House of Representatives would be more like a wartime operations room and the maximum age of each member would be 17 years old.

Each member of the house is sitting in front of his personal computer. It has a wide screen and 3D with a keyboard of blue flashing lights. Now and again he, or she, receives a message which prompts his own personal melody to ring out loud and clear. It’s a cacophony of noise like a disconnected orchestra. Each player, ‘cause the process is more like a game, sits inside of a sort of capsule with not only his PC, but also his Apple i-pads, one for home and one for work, and the latest release of i-phone, again one for personal and one for work. They are wearing the 3D glasses and talk to their phones via the latest release of Bluetooth. Even though they all sit next to each other, they actually don’t speak. Instead they communicate in the same way as they do with the State and Territory governments, via the World Wide Web. All of the policy documents and other research and administration resides on the ‘Web’ in a virtual office environment.

In the centre of the room there’s a model of Australia. For anybody who has played the Warhammer Games, the model is quite similar. The armies are painted blue and red with the minority, but powerful terrorists painted green. The only person in the room not ensconced in his private capsule, is standing alongside the model, and moves the armies around at the direction of the other 150 people. It’s an extremely busy and chaotic role but he is the only person who knows what is going on in the country.

There is one capsule that stands alone on the perimeter of the room and its painted gold. The king of the room is the person best able to negotiate with the world. He has a circle of 5 computers, one for each continent and is in constant communication with the UAV (Unmanned Ariel Vehicle) operator in each area. These guys are expert at operating remote controlled toys. They spy on each other’s Operations both on the ground and in the war rooms.

Voting is still at the local level but it’s not compulsory and has at long last been automated with each home connected to the Operations Room via the new fibre optic technology.

A Changing Life by Peta

“Jen love, sit next to me and keep quiet for five minutes, I have something to tell you.”

Matt nervously twisted a strand of hair tightly around his finger.

“I have decided to have the surgery.” Jen’s jaw dropped as she stared at Matt in disbelief.

“Now before you go off your trolley just listen to me.” Matt hurried on. “This isn’t a sudden decision, I have been thinking about it a long time. You know that. Now that I have Gran’s inheritance I can finally afford it without going into all sorts of debt. It will be the beginning of a new life for me.”

Matt stood and wandered to the window. He stared dreamily out at the manicured gardens. He always thought they were beautiful this time of year,. He turned back towards Jen who’s mouth still hung open.

“Come on girlfriend shut that gob of yours. It’s very unattractive.”

Jen obeyed Matt’s direction, then finally found her voice.

“Matt are you sure about this? There’s no going back. You know that. What’s wrong with things the way they are? I thought you were happy?”

“It’s not a question of not being happy. I am “happy” whatever that means but I am not me. I have lived this lie far too long. It is time for me to leap forward.”

“Some leap! Into the unknown. You have no idea what lies ahead if you take this path.”

“Jen, I don’t expect you to understand. How could you. You’re a woman. You have everything I want and you take it for granted. No offence. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with this. Don’t rain on my parade. Just hug me and be the great friend you have always been.”

Matt stretched out his arms towards Jen. She fell into them and hugged him tightly.

“I am just so scared for you darling.” Jen spoke softly into Matt’s chest.

“I know, so am I.” Matt sighed with resignation.

“What if they botch it up?” Jen asked with concern.

Matt laughed. Jen joined him.

“But seriously.” Jen said. “A sex change is a very complex operation, there are so many things that could go wrong. Have you thought about that?”

“What do you think? Of course I have thought about it. It’s all I have been thinking about. It’s why it’s taken me this long to do it. Once they cut off my dick I’m in no man’s land – pardon the pun.” He cackled infectiously. “But love you know what, I have to do this. I don’t want to be the local he-she any more. I want to walk proudly in my Jimmy Choos without all the snide remarks and finger pointing. You don’t know what it’s like to be the butt of everyone’s jokes. The best thing you can do for me is to organise my coming out party – make it huge! Gran will pay for that too – loads of champagne and caviar and MEN, lots of gorgeous MEN! Let’s say November 12th, I should be ready by then.”

“oh and Jen, you are not to tell a soul. It will be our little secret until then.”

Mid life crisis (by Heather)

A close friend has a life-altering decision to make and asks you for advice. What advice do you give? Write the conversation between you and your friend.

Liz nibbled a knuckle, then moved her hand to wind a blonde curl around her finger. “Oh, Sally," she said, grabbing my hand impulsively, “thank you for agreeing to meet on such short notice.” She hesitated. “I’ve got a little problem.” She coughed delicately.

I thought, yes, she does. My sister, the bane of my existence and the closest thing to my heart, showed no trace of her usual happy-go-lucky demeanour. She looked edgy; no -- outright worried.

“So what’s up, kiddo?” I asked. We ordered coffees. I waited while she collected her thoughts.

“The truth is,” she said, “I need your advice.”

Well, I can say with pride that I did NOT faint dead away and fall under the table. We have known each other for almost 40 years, my little sister and I, and never once in all that time has she asked for my advice. This is in spite of the fact that on 1,234,567 occasions I have offered it, and although she has not once acted on this advice, I have almost always been proved right.

Utter scepticism and pathetic eagerness warred within me.

“All right,” I said, clearing my throat cautiously, “what’s the deal?”

“Well,” she said, “I’ve met this guy.”

I checked my vitals. No problem yet. I’ve heard those words a thousand times or so.

She continued. “I went with Janet to a rally for the Tamil refugees, you know how Janet is, but I’ll tell you it was really inspiring, all these fervent speeches about the conditions those poor people live in at home, and how they’re being treated here, and the injustice of it all.” She paused to looked up at me from under those long mascared eye lashes. I swear I saw a tear forming in the corner of one eye.

“Anyway, one of the guys was so passionate and so gorgeous…”

“One of the SPEAKER guys?” I interjected. “One of the ORGANISERS?” My heart skipped a beat.

We both paused while the coffees showed up on the table. The guy could probably sense the racketing up of tension because he gave us both a look as he placed the coffees.

“Yes,” she said, “one of the most important guys. He had a strong accent but he was so articulate and so driven by his cause. And you should see his slim, vigorous body. Anyway, we met up afterward, went for a coffee, then out for dinner, and then, well, I mean, really, Sally, he’s just gorgeous and a wonderful man in spite of all he must have done and been through…”

“So you slept with him,” I said, not a question, in the most even tone I could manage. She nodded. “A Tamil Tiger terrorist and you slept with him?” I whipped a smile onto the end of the sentence to take out its sting. I had been asked for advice and the last thing I wanted was to blow my one chance at what was obviously a life-altering contribution I had to make.

Liz leaned toward me. “Oh, Sally, he’s SO not a terrorist. I mean, he might have been a terrorist once when his environment was so against him, but I can tell he’s just a wonderful loving man now. So what if he’s a few years younger than me? So what if we have different religions? So what if we have different interests?”

“So you’re wondering if you should start a relationship with him,” I asked in strangled tones.

“Oh, goodness, Sally, we’re a long way past starting a relationship. He wants me to marry him, move into his family’s home and have a baby together, and THAT’S what I’m wondering. Am I too old to try to start a family?”

I sat frozen, barely able to breath.

“Sally, I love him so much, he just makes my head spin. I feel 16 again. I want to dance all night, and sing in the streets…”

Then her tone shifted subtly. A flicker of concern accented the little lines between her eyebrows as she leaned forward slightly. “But it’s crossed my mind I might just be having a midlife thing. I mean, I’m over 30...”

“You’re over 35,” my lips corrected her, as a flicker of hope gripped my heart.

“Yes, well, I am, yes, I am,” she said. “So I’m thinking, if I really AM having a midlife thing, should I marry this guy and start a family, which is really, like, stepping into the unknown, or should I just, you know, get a Botox treatment and try to forget about him.” This time she looked straight into my eyes. The hint of tear had turned into two pools that escaped her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “What do you think, Sally?” she said, as the eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly.

“Yes,” I croaked. “Get Botox, absolutely.” I could tell I was babbling but I couldn’t stop. “I have a friend who Botoxed out two worry lines and she says she’s stopped worrying now that…I mean, I wouldn’t use it myself but if that will help you take your mind off things, that’s what you should do.” I nodded wildly to underline my conviction.

She looked a little crestfallen. “Oh Sally, are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure, I’m sure, I’m really sure. I’m so sure I’ll pay for the treatment for you.” I tried to smile brightly at her. “I’ll write you a cheque right now. How much?” I grabbed my purse, fumbling for my cheque book.

“Oh, YOU,” she said. “You’re really something. What would I do without you? All RIGHT, I knew I could count on you. To tell me what to do, I mean. I’ll just pick up the pieces of my life and get on with it.” She grabbed my hand in hers. “It’ll be about $850, I checked just in case.” She beamed at me while my trembling hand dashed out the details of the cheque. She picked up her bag. “I gotta dash, sis. Love you madly!” She wrapped an arm around my neck and buzzed me soundly on the cheek with a sloppy kiss, and disappeared out the café door.

I sat frozen for a moment, then sipped the dregs of my coffee while I tried to compose myself. I pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my change purse and placed it on the table. I sat looking for a moment at the bill and thought fondly how it was always, always, always me who picked up the tab when we met.

The smile that had formed with the fond thought faded slightly. I looked at the money on the table, I looked at the door where currents of Liz’ blithe departure still lingered, I glanced at the cheque book lying just inside my purse. I nibbled a lip, then shrugged, relieved that I had played her so well and saved her life.

What are sisters for?!

Kunhn-Tucker Conditions v2 23-8-10 Gordon

Further work on the SEM Book

The yellow area was edited in detail. The boxed areas are new this week. Unfortunately Figure 3.12 did not download properly this week.

The chapter is getting close to finished and is about 20 pages long.

SEM Book KT 23-8-10

Imagining Sustainable Futures (Kerry)

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.” (Parr, p. 1) Sustainability was understood as “development that meets the needs of today without compromising the needs of future generations.” (Parr, p. 1) 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 is 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.” (Caring for the Earth, p. 2)

Some principles to guide the way toward sustainable societies are outlined:

• Respect and care for the community of life
• Improve the quality of human life
• Conserve the Earth’s vitality and diversity
• Minimize the depletion of non-renewable resources
• Keep within the Earth’s carrying capacity
• Change personal attitudes and practices
• Enable communities to care for their own environments
• Provide a national framework for integrating development and conservation
• Forge a global alliance (Caring for the Earth, p. 2)

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. (Parr, p. 2) 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, p. 2) 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.” (Parr, p. 3) 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, p. 12) 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.” (Watson, p. 12)

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.” (Watson, p. 12) 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, p. 12) 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, p. 12) 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.” (Watson, p. 13) 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, p. 13) Watson recognises that this could be a dream but that the generations to come “need visions to imagine and grow a future humanity.” (Watson, p. 13) 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.” (Watson, p. 13)

References

Parr, Adrian. Hijacking Sustainability. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2009.
Prescott-Allen, Robert. "Caring for the Earth: A Strategy for Sustainable Living." ed David A. Munro and Martin W. Holdgate. Gland, Switzerland: The World Conservation Fund, United Nations Environment Program, and World Wide Fund for Nature, 1991.
Watson, Irene. "Aboriginal Worlds, Genocide, Ecocide and Cycles of Life Returning." In In the Balance: Art for a Changing World, edited by Rachel Kent. Sydney: Museum of Contemporary Art, 2010.

Sue - Life-Changing Event

“My hair, no, oh no not my hair!”

Jeanette wakes up in a sweaty panic. She can cope with the rest of the drama around chemotherapy, but losing her hair was beyond the bounds of acceptable.

She rings Mary.

“I can’t go bald. I’d have a terrible egg shaped bare head, sticky out ears, such pronounced cheek bones that I’d look like I’ve starved myself and I’d be so cold. Mary what am I going to do?”

“I’m on my way around. We’ll create something, don’t worry”

The two girls huddle around the coffee table. Mary has a glass of red wine, Jeanette a steaming mug of cocoa.

“Right” says Mary. “First things first. How long, or how many chemo sessions, before your hair starts to fall out?”

“Oh Mary. I’ll look so terrible. Just look” and she pulls her long blond hair back from her face and severely smooths down the top.

“Ok, a wig it is. That’s easy. Would you like a real one, one with real hair, or can you handle one of those shiny synthetic ones?” “Or, we could scrap the wig idea and get absolutely carried away with a hat. Not just one hat, but a hat for every outfit. Can you imagine a floppy pink hat for parading around Bondi, a pull down over your ears 1920 style one for wearing to work. A black one would go with a few of your suits. Then you could go for a bright orange or wicked pink for party time.”

Jeanette manages a little grin.

“And we could play up even more with earrings. You know, long dangly ones to go with the floppy hat or colourful little studs for work”.

“Jeanette, I know this is a real challenge but we could make it into some fun”.

Now Jeanette gets into the action.

“Let’s go shopping Mary. There’s no better therapy than a bit of retail. I need some warm gear especially for casual wear, you know, a fleecy lined trackie, some red ugg boots and matching pom pom hat.”

She bursts out laughing. “I think Santa earrings would look great with that even though it’s not Christmas”

Now it’s Mary’s turn.

“Well I want a long dress for next year’s Darwin Cup Ball. Can you imagine, for such a way out, isolated place, Darwin has more formal events than the rest of Australia.” “I want something interesting and funky, but I will have to wear it more than once. What colour shall I go for?”

“I’d love to see you in something bright. For God’s sake don’t do any more black. You keep buying black and it washes you out and is so severe. How about purple? Or rust?”

“Wanna go shopping now Jeanette? We’ve got a couple of hours before they close at Bondi”

The two girls bundle themselves into Mary’s Suzuki. The roof is down and the air warm. Mary pulls an old cloche hat down over her short hair. Jeanette drags her hair back into a pony tail then plonks a sou’wester, a yellow shiny one, on top. They look at each other, they both cuddle to look at themselves in the rear vision mirror. They start giggling. And giggling. And giggling. In hoots of laughter they troll up the road.

If you want my advice - by Rick

“You want my advice on whether or not you should propose to Denise?” I asked Simon dumbfoundedly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because Ralph. I need some feedback from someone who doesn’t think the way I do and as I went through my spreadsheet of all of my friends, you were top of the list of who doesn’t think rationally about things.”

“You have a list of your friends in a spreadsheet. Why?”

“Doesn’t everyone? How do you keep track of your friends? How do you know which you can ask for a ride somewhere? How do you keep track of their birthdays? Or all the other things?”

“Ok Simon, so no, I don’t have a list. And I think I might have been insulted there. But why are you having a problem with this anyhow?”

“Ralph, perhaps I’ve thought about this too much and I’m looking for something a bit more impulsive, something you are good at. And I mean that as a compliment. Look, let me show you the printout of the worksheet I put together on Denise. I’ve listed all of the positive things about her and given each item a ranking. Then I listed all of the negative things and also gave them a ranking. After I added up the rankings of both columns, they turned out exactly the same! Do you know that the odds of this happening are 1.735 million to one AGAINST?”

“No I didn’t know that Simon. Math never was my best subject. Let me see those lists.”

I read down the columns and when I finished I knew more about Denise than I know about my mother.

“Nice lists Simon. But they’re all crap.”

“There! That’s why I’m talking to you. You didn’t ask me to justify what is on my lists. You didn’t attempt to refute my logic. You simply replied insultingly without thinking. So what should I do? What does your impulsive instinct for reaction tell you to say to me?”

“Arghh. Let me look at those lists again. Aha. I see the problem. Here, give me a pen.” I scribbled on the positive side a bit and handed the list back to Simon.

He read what I added, stopped, and then said quietly, “Ralph your logic was impeccable. I’ll ask her to marry her of course. And yes, I do love her and I won’t argue that putting that missing point on the list was worth one million points or one billion. But how do you know I love her?”

“Simon I didn’t think I used logic at all. I just figured that anyone who could spend as much time writing down so much one person the way you’ve done about Denise could only have done it because he’s crazy about her. And since you asked me, as I see it that’s the only point worth considering.”

“Ralph, you’re right. I’ll propose this evening. Thankyou so much.”

“One last thing Simon. Under no circumstances will you show her that list, nor mention that you even had one, nor mention that you talked to me or anyone else about this.”

“No wait. One more last thing. If for some reason she says no, would you mind if I asked her out?”

Closing the door (by Heather)

You’ll never understand another person until you’ve walked a day in his shoes.

Hopeless old drunk.

I stand in the paint-peeled doorway looking into the one-room bedsitter that my father had so recently inhabited. My stomach lurches. No wonder he kicked the bucket at age 59. Although he’d made a valiant effort in the last decade - never touched a drop in all that time, so he said, the previous 30-odd years must have turned his liver to Swiss cheese. I remember that that self-same liver is probably hell-bound in the crematorium at this exact moment, along with the rest of his used and abused body.

And here am I, stuck with clearing out the hopeless old drunk’s place. Before me stands a pathetic array of cheap, scarred, worn junk in a bedsitter in the worst part of town, requiring final distribution. I step in and close the door.

I notice his slippers sitting side by side just at the edge of the bed. I sit on the faded patchwork quilt (probably a gift from the Salvation Army) and pick them up. They’re brown plaid, seams wore out down the front so that bits of fleece are finding their way out. The rubber heels are flattened on the outside. On an impulse, I undo my own shoes and slip his on. They fit like gloves. I’d forgotten we were the same size. They are familiar in a way that I’ve been feeling all day, to my great discomfort. It’s as if a little of his soul has slipped into my feet. I almost kick the slippers off, but I don’t. I flex my toes inside them, surrendering to this feeling of profoundly knowing/not knowing my father.

I inspect the bedside table. There’s a photo of three boys by a lake. I’m not sure I’ve seen this photo before but it’s certainly Sammy, Bert and me. I’m the one holding a foot-long trout. I remember the day. It had been a good one. Dad had taken us out to Johnson Lake, where we’d spent the afternoon alternatively casting off the main pier or leaping off it into the lake. I remember the joy of catching that fish, and can feel Dad’s pride as he helped me get it off the hook.

I study the faces of Sammy and Bert. I feel a little wash of affection mixed with regret, and I can’t tell if it’s me or if it’s Dad’s slippers talking. Anyway, they sure as hell weren’t here for the service this morning -- couldn’t locate them anywhere among the seven people who gathered to say goodbye to Dad.

I get up from the bed, shuffling a bit in the slippers as I cross the room. There’s an old laminated closet. Three shirts are hanging neatly in there, along with two pairs of trousers folded carefully over wooden hangers, a summer jacket, a winter coat and a threadbare plaid dressing gown. There’s a pair of shoes, old as the hills but spit-polished to a high shine. It’s hard to reconcile this neat and tidy existence with the chaotic one I knew as a boy growing up.

I close the closet door. The slippers drag a little on the threadbare carpet, where a worn path takes me through the little archway into the kitchen area. I see his teacup on the table, on its side. They said he was sitting at the table when the heart attack got him. The cup is stained with tannin and there’s a little ring of tea on the bottom. I give the cup a careful rinse at the sink. There’s a canister of tea on the shelf, and I take out a teabag. I spill a little water into the old jug, which promptly sighs into action. I find a litre of milk in the fridge. I don’t generally have sugar or milk with my tea but today the slippers seem to be calling the shots.

I bring the tea with me as I trundle over to the old arm chair in front of the TV. God, I haven’t seen a TV like that for a few years. I thumb through a magazine rack sitting at the side of the chair. There’s a Reader’s Digest, a couple issues of MacLeans, and to my surprise a dozen New Scientists. Who’d have thought the old man had an interest in science?

I think about this morning at the chapel, where a couple of Dad’s old AA buddies had shown up. They’d both pumped my hand and told me what a great gin rummy player he was. “Oh, we had a lot of laughs together,” one of them had said. “He was a great guy, your dad.” They’d asked about me, and I told them I’m a science teacher with a wife and a couple of kids in Vancouver. They’d liked that.

There was also a buxom middle-aged woman who was dropping a few tears into a tissue. “I’m so sorry for your loss,“ she’d said to me in a shaky voice, obviously feeling a lot more loss than I did. “He was a wonderful man.” I stood completely still while she patted my shoulder, neither of us able to say anything. I thought, it’s clear he didn’t break your face on numerous occasions like he did Mum’s. Obviously you didn’t see him whacking his sons around. You didn’t see what he could do to a dog that annoyed him. You didn’t see him hurling the phone through the window when the landlord called.

I get up to take the cup to the kitchen table. There’s a deck of cards there and I sit down. I surprise myself by remembering how to play solitaire with a real deck.

I hear a car pull up outside and realise it’s Sally back already with the rental. I snap the cards back into the box, kick the slippers off, and swing the door open just as she’s about to knock. She gives me a big kiss, then looks around my shoulder. A look of dismay crosses her face.

“Geez, Dave, didn’t you get anything done?” Her glance takes in the whole of this little dump. “Look at this place. Imagine living like this! What a hopeless old drunk.” She speaks with distaste but I hear a note of sympathy leaking into her tone, whether for me or my father I don‘t know.

“He hasn’t been a drunk for years,” I say. I grab a plastic bag and stick in the slippers, the tea cup and the photo. “Anyway, let’s get outta here. I’ll get the Salvation Army people over in the morning and I’ll have it finished before we have to catch the plane.”

Sally looks relieved. We step outside and I close the door firmly behind me.

Kuhn-Tucker conditions--Gordon

This is text on the Kuhn-Tucker conditions which sits my spatial equilibrium book in the chapter on optimisation. Tonight I have extended the last three paragraphs and some equations. Also, I have found a way to download a pdf file using Scribd. Make sure you enlarge the page and print using Fullscreen.

Gordon
15-8-10

SEM Kuhn-Tuck 15-8-10

Creating art to 'save the world' (Kerry)

A group of teenagers is seated around a low table on which are displayed various artworks and brochures from Uluru and Kakadu. They finger the boldly etched wooden carving and study the map of Australia curiously. Some are sketching designs from the brochures and prints in front of them. There is an excited buzz in the room.

These are students from a secondary school in Palo Alto, California. They are undertaking a project with their art teacher in collaboration with the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney, rangers from Uluru and Kakadu National Parks, authorities from their local Olhone Indigenous communities and four artists from Victoria, Yorta Yorta women, Treahna Hamm and Lee Darroch, and Kirrae/Gunditjmara women, Vicki and Debra Couzens (Palo Alto, 2007).

Their goal is to create works that encourage their communities to take care of the environment. They are referring to design elements from Australian Indigenous artworks as aids to creating their own symbolic language for environmental awareness. They are taught that the symbols used in the Indigenous works are significant in describing country, cultural practices and community relationships. Over the following weeks, two of the groups within the class complete their project using rabbit and possum skins from which they create two cloaks. The cloaks are decorated on the inside (away from the fur) with symbols and patterns of significance to the students in urging others to be environmentally aware.

The four Victorian artists consulted for the Palo Alto High School project have been responsible for reviving the art of making possum skin cloaks in Victoria over the last ten years. Treahna Hamm and Lee Darroch began by creating an Echuca possum skin cloak after seeing a Maidens Punt (Echuca) cloak and a Lake Condah cloak in the Melbourne Museum in 1999. They then proceeded to teach other Victorian Indigenous communities the necessary skills to make their own cloaks. The cloaks of 35 of the 37 Indigenous language groups in Victoria were worn at the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne in 2006. Subsequently a series of glass possum cloak panels designed and constructed by Hamm, Darroch and a third Yorta Yorta artist, Maree Clarke, has been installed in the new Oxfam Building in Carlton, Melbourne.

These two art projects using possum skins raise some pertinent issues about the role of art in imagining sustainable futures. The artists are creating the art collaboratively and in the process forming a strong sense of community. As well, the collaboration serves to unite “diverse skills, experiences and interests” (Carter, p. 9) and has the potential to materialise a new inventive understanding of the community’s shared culture. Paul Carter uses the metaphor of weaving to explain his idea of the collaborative process. He proposes that the warp threads extending lengthwise in the loom represent the “culture’s myth lines, the grand narratives in terms of which it defines its sense of place and identity” (Carter, p. 11). However he suggests that the warp-thread narratives cannot gain cohesion “unless the shuttle of local invention is at work, casting its woof-thread back and forth” (Carter, p. 11). The term 'local invention' refers to the art-making process itself and Carter sees it as being “a structure for reinventing human relations” (Carter, p. 10). Thus we have the idea that a collaborative art-making process can be the means for inventing and strengthening a community’s culture and its stories.

In each of these projects, in Victoria and in Palo Alto, the artists were explicitly involved in creating sustainable futures. For the students in Palo Alto, it was important to be using natural materials, materials that could be seen as recyclable. Their focus was also to proclaim the message of environmental awareness and to remind their community of its responsibility, both as individuals and as a community as a whole, of the need to take care of the environment. In Victoria, the Indigenous artists are also involved in imagining a sustainable future, but this time in terms of sustaining their cultural heritage, by telling their community’s stories and reviving past skills and traditions. They have already inspired other Indigenous communities to reconnect with their past traditions and stories by creating possum skin cloaks using their own signs and symbols. Carter regards this process of collaboration, and creative research, as “the always unfinished process of making and remaking ourselves through our symbolic forms” (Carter, p. 13). He sees it as an “imaginative breakthrough, which announces locally different forms of sociability, environmental interactivity and collective storytelling” (Carter, p. 13).


References:
Carter, Paul. Material Thinking: The Theory and Practice of Creative Research. Carlton: Melbourne University Press, 2004.

"Patterns of Culture: Cultural Identity and Environmental Practices Illustrated in Design Symbols." Palo Alto, California: Palo Alto High School, 2007.

Swapping shoes - Sue

I love casual, almost hippie like clothes and this is my favourite outfit, if I’m out for a coffee in one of the funky areas of town. A mid calf-length floppy skirt in bright pink with orange splodges and a double layer tee-shirt in orange and white. On my feet, I’d have my everyday-wear orange Birkenstock sandals and my Raban sunglasses would be pushed back over my short spiky hair.

But today, I am being my twin sister. We look exactly alike so we can get away with standing in for each other if tricky situations demand a less passionate position. According to Amanda, she’s had a stand up argument with her garage mechanic who is trying to rip her off on the repairs to her Porsche. I’m off to sort it out.

Amanda has dressed me in her “off to combat the men” gear. She thinks I’m dressed to do battle whereas I feel a complete burke. But let’s see what you think.

Naturally I am in trousers. It’s a cream trouser suit with tight creases and narrow legs and a very fitted jacket that slightly flares from the waist. The trousers narrow to my thickening ankles to reveal strappy, amazingly high heeled, black leather sandals. My short hair is flattened with moose so I look almost bald.
Well here goes. I’m walking, or trying to walk, down to the garage.

I take tiny steps as the trousers refuse to bend at the knee or crease at the groin and the shoes create blisters on the outside of my little toes. In fact my toes feel like squashed tomatoes. It takes half an hour to walk the 500 metres and by the time I get there I am hot, sweaty and sore. I glance at myself as I pass the deli at the corner. Oh my god. My face is like a beetroot, the hair has gone spiky and stiff and my feet look like lumps of puffy dough. The crisply ironed trouser suit looks the same as it did hanging in the wardrobe.

I take a few deep breathes and think of Amanda’s $3000 bill and her beautiful silver Porsche that the garage has refused to let out of its sight. I’m inspired to do battle.

“Hey you. You’re Jones aren’t you?”

“You slimy, good for nothing. I’ll teach you to try and rip me off.”

“Now. Let’s get down to business”.

Poor Mr Jones hasn’t been able to get a word in. I’m on a roll, and I’m on a mission.

“Right, I booked in my Porsche for a 180 km service. You took a week. God what where you doing? Anyway at the end of the week you dish out a bill for $3000. Where the hell did that come from? What? Do you think I’m made of money?”

Mr Jones is trying to speak. His mouth is opening like a sleepy goldfish and is tongue is wobbling up and down. Barely a squeak escapes his narrow mean looking lips.

“I uuum, I don’t ......”

”What do you mean, you don’t know. If you don’t who does? Anyhow I don’t really care about the hows, the whys and the wherefores. Just give me the keys to my car.
Now”

“Now. Do you hear me?”

Vaguely I hear a door slam. Then I hear the familiar roar of the V8 Porsche. There’s a flash of silver. There’s a raucous roar of laughter from Amanda as she and the Porsche disappear down the road. She must have found her spare keys after all.

The tracks (by Heather)

Write a story using the phrase, “The earth shook”.

Phoebe balanced on the rail of the train track, still panting from her wild climb up the hill. The rail felt smooth and warm on her battered feet. She lifted one foot and glanced at the sole - it was torn, scratched and bleeding. Typical of her to be so stupid as to come here with bare feet.

She intended to kill herself but she hadn’t intended to do herself so much damage on the way.

She reviewed her decision. She thought about the kid from her school who’d been killed on the tracks last year. Lester. Lester Yellowfeather who’d lived on the reservation. Nobody knew if he’d done it on purpose or not, but the accepted wisdom was that it had been quick and painless. Well, painless? - who knew, but quick, anyway. Quick was the important thing.

The 11:35 freight would be along in a few minutes and that would be that.

She stepped on a tie between the two rails, then bent to put a hand to the rail. Did she feel a faint murmur in the rail? She put an ear to the silver track, as she’d done many times near here in the past. Yes, the familiar hum was definitely stirring the rail. In a few moments, the train would round the bend a half mile away.

So, this was it. She straightened, standing tall between the rails. She closed her eyes and stilled her breathing, just as she had when she’d imagined this happening. For an instant, she could feel the summer sun drying the grasses around her, then she put her senses away so that the sound of the train racing toward her dissolved into her own heartbeat.

Suddenly the wail of the train’s whistle rent the air. Get off! it shouted.

Phoebe’s eyes flew open. Get off the tracks. Get off NOW, the whistle screamed at her with ferocious intensity. From somewhere, she collided back into her body. Her muscles clenched beneath her and she flew off the tracks, coiling into a rolling ball almost exactly as the train sliced through the space where she had been. Where she not quite still was.

She landed against a grassy tuffet at the foot of the little gravelled incline. She lay there, curled into a cocoon. The earth beneath her shook as the mighty engines and heavy boxcars flew by. The whistle sounded its furious reprimand over and over, Don’t ever do that again! Never EVER do that again. Never ever EVER.

For some unimaginable amount of time the train pounded by. Phoebe lay unmoving, palms pressed into the jagged gravel. Finally the last car passed. Her heart slowly resumed its regular rhythm as she heard the train disappear into the distance.

She pushed herself up with trembling arms til she was sitting. She lifted her head and inhaled, allowing her senses to begin talking with her again. She could smell barnyard smells from the livestock cars that had so recently passed through. The trees soughed behind her; a little brown bird flickered by. The sun beat down on her with its summer intensity.

She looked at her arms and legs stretched in front of her.

They could have been broken, but they weren’t. She thought about the baby taking shape inside her. It could have been broken, but it wasn’t.

She could have been dead, but she wasn’t.

She got up, scrambled up the little incline and carefully crossed the tracks. No, she wasn’t dead at all.

Phoebe set off down the hill.

Chapter 7 Alternative Model Formulations--Gordon

Introduction (Section edited and 3rd para added for this post)

This chapter is about some of the recent practical and theoretical developments in spatial equilibrium modelling which are aids to practitioners in applying such models to real world policy problems. Consideration will be given to a variety of formulations of the models that take into account economic policy mechanisms such as subsidies, taxes, exchange rates, and fixed and ad valorem tariffs and price pooling. Finally, some formulations that are non-competitive in character will be developed along with more sophisticated nonlinear models which include balance of payment type constraints and dynamic formulations.

The work of Takayama and Judge (1971) provides the substantive starting point and has extensive documentation of various spatial equilibrium models. However, work by Enke (1951) and also Samuelson (1952) laid the early foundation for these models. In modern usage, the most important and distinctive feature of spatial equilibrium models is that the direction of trade is not pre-determined and that there is an intermediate position for which no trade takes place between the two regions. These two characteristics provide the basic reason why such models are likely to be useful. When these issues are not important then other, and possibly simpler, techniques may be more appropriate. However, the spatial equilibrium model, in the form presented in Chapter 4, is very efficient in terms of data and therefore can be built quite rapidly and easily.


There is one further feature of spatial equilibrium models in what is known as the primal-dual forms. In a primal-dual structure there is a price or shadow price associated with each constraint. This provides a very clear picture of the economic structure, in both price and quantity terms, of complex trading systems. Particularly is this the case when there are nonlinear constraints, say, in the physical domain, that must have an equivalent in the price domain. The direct incorporation of the Lagrangian variables (prices) into the structure of a maximisation problem allows for the combining into one model relationships between both price and quantity variables. This opens up a whole array of new model forms that can be modelled with a greater richness and directed toward defining a more useful but still abstract representation of the real world. Such models will always rely on a degree of abstraction so as to deal with the essence of a problem rather than with the impossibility of representing the detail of the whole world.

Thoughts on Collaborative Artwork (Kerry)

Art is intrinsically a collaborative process. A collaboration takes place between the artist and the artwork through the process of creating the work; there is a responsive relationship between the two. However, in order to take on a wider collaboration involving more than one artist, each artist is required to step back from their unique ownership of the work, to allow the creativity and inventiveness of others to be heard, and to contribute to the work in a spirit of co-operation. Inevitably the distinctions between the individual artists will become blurred as a result of the discourse that takes place between them and their materials, as the creative process progresses.

Over the last twenty years, Australian author and artist, Paul Carter, has undertaken a series of collaborations as a writer interacting, variously, with dancers, artists, museologists and film-makers. His observations on the collaborative process in his book, Material Thinking, are pertinent to my investigation into the role of art in imagining sustainable futures. He states that his aim is “to show how the process of material thinking enables us to think differently about our human situation, and…to demonstrate the great role works of art can play in the ethical project of becoming (collectively and individually) oneself in a particular place.” He suggests that material thinking is what takes place as a result of artists daring to ask ‘what matters?’ and ‘what is the material of thought?’ when embarking on a work of art. Carter claims that the decisions that are made in the artistic process are inevitably material ones. He sees these decisions as part of creative research.

He asserts that societies are “mythopoetic inventions” and that it is necessary for us to understand how identities form and “how relationships with others are actively invented (and therefore susceptible to reinvention)” if our societies are to sustain themselves. It is one function of the artist to rematerialise these metaphysical myths through the creative process and to show how more sustainable artificial myths can come into circulation. Artists can do this by “displacing those myths that are no longer sustainable and brokering a new relationship with degraded environments, displaced others and…an impoverished imaginary.” By undertaking creative research in a collaborative environment, the artist can hope to broaden a community’s understanding of itself and of the society and the environment of which it is part.

Carter concludes the prologue to his book by declaring that “in the end, collaboration is not simply a pragmatic response to increasingly complex work conditions; it is what happens wherever artists talk about what they are doing, in that simple but enigmatic step, joining hand, eye and mind in the process of material thinking.”


Appendix:
Sydney Art Exchange collaboration

In July 2010, the seven artists making up the not-for-profit artist organization, Sydney Art Exchange, hung their collaborative work Girt By Sea in the Bondi Pavilion as part of a joint exhibition by the same name. The artists involved were Anya Pesce, Kerry MacAulay, Christina Puth, Elke Wohlfahrt, David Jones, Eleanor Er and Corinne Brittain.

The forty-nine pieces making up the work stretched the whole length of one wall of the gallery and extended around the corner onto the adjacent wall. Each A5 (20cm x 15cm) piece was framed separately. The individual pieces had been created over the previous seven months according to a set of guidelines created by Sydney Art Exchange artist, Elke Wohlfahrt. Seven blank mdf boards were distributed to each of the seven artists with instructions to create a painting including some motif on the theme ‘girt by sea’, which is a phrase from the Australian national anthem (as in ‘our home is girt by sea’). These motifs were not verbally divulged to the other artists. On the appointed day the artists sent their completed works by mail to the next artist designated on their roster. Over the following month the artists created a new work incorporating their own motif as before and including some element from the work they had received in the mail. Each of the second paintings was again posted to the next artist on their roster. The process continued over the next seven months until each artist had completed seven paintings.

Frames had previously been constructed and lime washed by the participating artists. The group gathered to frame the collection of paintings before the July exhibition; each artist bringing the seven works which they had collected over the time of the collaboration. It was a revelation to finally view the entire collection of the collaborative works and to begin to identify the interweaving of the various motifs that the artists had used.

The artists explained their ideas about ‘girt by sea’ in relation to the motifs they had chosen. Pesce’s concept of a vertebra shape referred to life and existence on this planet – past, present and future. She placed the shape on paintings of golden sand, blue water and sky. Puth’s works were inspired by the relationship of the sea and sky and the constant change in colour and shape of these two elements. Particular words from the national anthem were placed in Brittain’s works to convey concerns about climate change, border protection policies and indigenous issues. Jones saw the colours of golden sand, blue sea and white surf as defining the Australian way of life and expressed a desire to see these incorporated in an ‘independent Australia’ flag design. Er overlaid the letters spelling out AUSTRALIA on her paintings depicting where land meets sea. The shape of the Australian continent was repeated in all of Wohlfahrt’s works and references to weather told of climate and climate change in the Southern Hemisphere. MacAulay’s Girt By Sea pieces were concerned with the idea of Australians surveying the sea from the beaches. She used the stylised surf lifesaver’s chair to represent the perceived need for vigilance; recognising the dangers posed by the sea itself from sharks, rips and tidal waves; and referencing political concerns such as watching for boat people, and dealing with quarantine issues and the importation of drugs and illegal products.

There was no restriction on the materials that could be used in the collaborative work. This allowed the artists to consider for themselves the most appropriate material to convey their ideas. All artists used paint in some form but other materials ranged from glitter, sponge, found manufactured objects, photographs, newspaper cuttings, and shells. Artists also chose whether to make any one of the works as portrait or landscape format. In the end, eleven of the works were in portrait format. This introduced some variety in the hanging at the gallery.

The hanging of the work was the final challenge in the collaborative process as the artists discussed the most appropriate way to show the pieces. At that point there was no individual ownership of the separate pieces. It was clearly a single work by a group of artists in collaboration. Any decisions made about the hanging were from a curatorial point of view.

As the artists were required to envigilate the exhibition, there were many opportunities to talk to visitors about the collaborative work. The experience of speaking to visitors about each other’s work deepened their own appreciation for, and enjoyment of, the work as a whole. The artists agreed that individual pieces of the work should be sold separately and all proceeds were directed to the Sydney Art Exchange rather than to the individual artists.

The Earth Shook - by Rick

“Mr. Brown I know you asked not to be disturbed but the caller says it’s urgent. Will you take his call or should I take a message?”

I sighed before answering. Here I am on my 65th birthday and packing up my belongings after 44 years with IBM. Can’t a man have a few minutes to himself before he’s celebrated twice over?

“Put him through Mary. I won’t be returning any messages after today.”

“Gary Brown. What can I do for you?”, I snorted into the phone, trying to be gruff and businesslike at the same time.

“How do you do Mr. Brown. My name is Arthur Bromley and I have something to say to you that, how shall I say it, is of a rather delicate nature. I was wondering if I could come by your offices in a few moments to talk to you about it?”

“Well Arthur, judging by your Pommy accent, I expected it to be of a delicate nature. What is it? You want to sell me some life insurance?”

“No, no. Nothing like that at all.”, Arthur chuckled. “Although I’m sure you will find what I know to be a bit life-altering. I know it was for me.”

“Is this Amway? My friend Lois already tried to get me in on Amway. I’m retiring in about 15 minutes and don’t need any extra money thanks. Look I’m busy. I’ve got to clean up here and then go to a party. I was in a good mood or would never have agreed to this call in the first place. If you can’t just tell me what this call is about, we’ll have to call it a day.”

“No I’m not from Amway either. All right I’ll give it a try. Oh dear, this is rather awkward. Last month I received a letter from my mother telling me that a Fredrick Brown had died. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Could be Arthur. Fred Brown was my father and he did pass away last year. But it’s a common enough name. Go on.”

“Well what was in the letter was the real shocker. She said that she was to upset to tell me in person or even over the phone. It appears that this Fredrick Brown was my father, which upset me also as she had always maintained that father died during the Battle of Britain. Not so and I’ll condense my story to say that I have followed up on this realization to ascertain that indeed, your father Fredrick Brown and my father are one and the same. So I’m calling to see if you would like to meet your brother.”

The city never seemed so silent as it did at that moment. The only noise came from my desk as it rattled while the earth shook. I caught my breath.

“Arthur come over to my office and we’ll take it from there. It ooks like I might be thrice celebrated today.”

Sues - The Earth Shakes

The earth shakes. The fragile double storey timber house rocks on its stilts. The dining room table, which is more like a card table, wobbles on its spindly legs. The egg cup rattles on the plastic plate and the bread and butter soldiers fall off onto the tablecloth. Even the high chair, supposedly ergonomic and sturdy in design, slips and slides on the wooden floor.

And Billy is having a wonderful time. There he is in his high chair, whooping and yelling, throwing his little arms around in the air and beating his legs against the legs of the chair.

Mary is hanging onto the kitchen island with one hand. With the other she is trying to gather, into a little pile, the loose utensils and ingredient packets for the jam sponge she’s making. It’s pretty difficult with one hand and now the egg carton has just flown across the granite surface. She sighs with relief that Billy is OK and not scared as she’s not sure how she could negotiate the distance between the kitchen and the high chair. She relaxes a second and glances outside.

The view is unbelievable. The sky has turned jet black and has become a moving fury of rolling cloud, interspersed with wild zig zags of terrifying looking fork lightening. The clouds vibrate and echo with roars of thunder so loud that the room, the house and the earth shake. Branches, big and small, fly past the windows, trailed by a flurry of leaves, bits of twig and the odd birds nest. Next, Mary tries to imagine what is going on down in the street. She’s six floors up and suspended, or that’s what it feels like, off the ground.

Umbrellas are either, well and truly inside out or else have been furiously wrenched from their owner’s hands to join the debris of stuff flying around in the sky. Their frames all buckled and bent, their waterproof covers in shreds. Plastic dustbins are probably rolling around the pavements like a load of fallen ten pin bowling pins, lids are doing cartwheels along the gutters. Anyone with any sense is taking cover in the local cafe.

Wow. Mary’s white knuckles grip the granite tighter and she braces her feet against the cupboard door. A sheet of blinding white lightening coincides with such a loud rumble of thunder that she’s positive the house bends right over to the left. Billy yells with joy and he bashes the egg spoon on his tray like a set of bong bong drums.

Phew. It’s gone eerily quiet. Nothing flies past the rain sodden window. The sky lightens amazingly fast. Billy’s egg cup settles back onto the plate, his high chair stands so still, it’s as if it is never moved. The house is once more grounded on its foundations. Now the next drama starts. Billy is crying, not just softly and steadily but in bucket loads. A sea of tears cascade down his cheeks and furious gulps of air whistle through his wheezy chest. He keeps pointing at the bread and butter soldiers, now lying in a muddle on the floor.

The Late Letter--Gordon

The Late Letter

One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in your letter box with the words, "I'm not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one."

I ran to the mailbox in a great hurry. It was a cold and freezing day so I grabbed the letters, and as always seems to happen, dropped one. Bending down to pick it up it was covered in mud. It was late and I needed to prepare dinner so put the letters on the side table. It had been a difficult week, and we both felt tired and exhausted. Mike was in a reflective mood, and said, I can’t believe that Mark is dead. My thoughts raced back to the funeral, I had not been to many funerals. It was an unnerving experience feeling emotions out of control. I cried, and left in a state of disbelief. I was not complete, even though the funeral was a week ago.

Dinner was over, and Mike said: “What was in the mail?” So we sat and opened the mail. I looked at the muddy letter and thought I recognized the writing–it was from Mark. Tears came to my eyes again, as I thought of Mark, he was so alive, and such good fun. He was only 43 and seemed to have much in his future.

I opened the letter and inside was a postcard, and scrawled across the back of it was “I’m not dead. Meet me Friday at Guido’s Pizzeria. Tell no one.” I could not believe what I was reading. My thoughts raced. Do I tell Mike? I thought quickly: I can’t tell Mike. Holding the card away from me, I rapidly made up a story. “Mike, before he died, he sent me a letter, saying why don’t we meet for lunch.” In a laconic tone Mike said: “Better than the dead letter box.” That was a close escape I thought to myself, putting the card in my handbag.

I don’t like pizza, but I was early arriving at Guido’s just as it opened. In the back corner of the restaurant was a table with two chairs. Ideal for a clandestine meeting, so I sat down at the table and waited. Soon the waiter came and asked “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Slowly, I drank my coffee and every few minutes looked out to the street to see if I could see Mark coming. Deep down, I knew Mark was dead, yet there was always a glimmer of hope that he still may be alive. I waited, and I waited. “Another coffee, please”, I asked.

It was two hours and four coffees, so I got up and walked away from the table. In that moment, Mark walked through the door. I ran and hugged him–very tightly. “Mark, I thought you were dead.” He said: “Sssh, don’t say anything.” Lets go over to the park where we can talk. We walked silently.

Secluded by trees we sat on a park bench and Mark explained. “I was kidnapped but escaped two days ago. I must be very careful. I need your help. You see, I owed a million to Featherstone Associates. They kidnapped me and were going to send me to Nigeria to work as a slave till I had paid the money back. They paid the undertaker to set up a funeral and told you and Mark and a few others I was dead. They are looking for me and I need to go underground.” “Mark”, I said, “this is really risky, let’s go to the police.” “No, I think the local copper was in on the deal” he said. I stood up to think and turned around. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Mark was slumped on the bench.


Gordon MacAulay
1 August 2009