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

All In A Day (Eve)

(Prompt: a mystery parcel arrives with something in it which changes your life)

The road wound lazily from Conshohocken to Phoenixville through short hills that were a bedazzling shade of emerald green at this time of year. This breathtakingly beautiful landscape somehow managed to maintain some of its verdant unrestraint even though farmers had tried to tame the terrain for a couple of hundred years.

Brad’s mail run started at Valley Forge, meandered along the very same ridge where George Washington’s Continental Army bivouacked, and finished up in charming Chester County, known for its delightful covered bridges and historical taverns.

What a great job, thought the mailman, as his compact red van smoothed out another bend in the road. Well, not so terrific in the winter months when snowdrifts could finish up10 feet high, the icy road was undriveable and it was 15 below outside. But today was a near-perfect sunny summer day.

Brad was feeling particularly cruisey, listening to his iPod and singing along with his favorite rapper, Drake: It’s more than just a mission
, Hey, Hey, Hey,
 you hear but you don’t listen. 
Hey, Hey, Hey, 
You better pay attention. 
Hey, Hey, Hey. 
And get what you been missing. He was putting himself in a fine hot mood for Cherel of Number 363 R.F.D.

So far, Brad had made points with the object of his fantasy by being very polite and very competent. He could tell that the older woman (at least 5-plus years on him, he guessed) had her eyes on him. One sweltering mid-morning while delivering a package, Brad was offered a cool glass of lemonade, which he of course politely accepted. On that occasion, Cherel didn’t invite him in, but he could tell she wanted to.

Brad pulled over and parked at the top of the hidden driveway. The van’s glove compartment was fitted like a mini grooming salon - spray mouth freshener, hair product, comb and facial moisturizer. Just a quick flick of the comb would do today, as he impatiently jumped out of the vehicle. He sauntered along to the front porch, noticing that Cherel had peeked at him through the closed living room venetians.

He didn’t have time to knock as Cherel swung open the big oak door straightaway, and he was happy to see she stood there smiling and baby-less.

“Parcel delivery for you, Mrs. Robinson,” Brad said in his most professional voice. “I’ll need you to sign for it.

“And, oh, I was wondering if I might just get to use your bathroom before I get on the road again. It’s sort of an emergency.” He grinned sort of bashfully.

As Brad stepped into Cherel’s home, he registered two green-light items: (1) Cherel firmly closed the door behind him, and (2) she was still wearing her bathrobe.

Brad grinned unabashedly.

Guido's Pizzeria by Peta

“Psst. Don’t turn around. Move against the wall of the booth and turn side on.” The voice was deep and husky. Unfamiliar. I did as I was told.

“Are you sure no one followed you?” the voice said.

“What? No I am not sure. Who the hell would be following me? What is going on for God’s sake?”

Through the lattice divider I could see a person I didn’t recognise in the adjacent booth. Red curly hair, framing a pale face with thick dark oversized glasses. A heavy woollen scarf was wrapped around the neck obscuring the man’s jawline.

“Jamie its me, Tyrone.”

“What the??? I thought it was some kind of sick joke when I got the postcard. I only came out of curiosity. Didn’t expect any one to show.” I paused, took a deep breath and tried to compose myself. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

“Stay cool and listen. I need your help.” Ty looked around. Except for a waitress shining glassware, we were alone in the pizzeria. The lunch rush would start soon enough. Ty moved quickly into my booth and shuffled close to me. Now I could seek his trade mark aqua eyes. It really was him. We huddle together conspiratorially.

“Remember the Roller that burnt out in Cavill Ave?” He asked. I nodded. “I did it. I was walking home when I saw the Roller. This guy was doing something in the boot when he got spooked by a passing cop car. He slammed the lid and raced off. As I got closer, I could see the boot lid hadn’t closed. For some bizarre reason I went over to close it, don’t know why but it wouldn’t shut. I opened it up to see if something was blocking the latch. Seemed a good idea at the time. If only I had just pissed off then and there but I didn’t. Inside was a bag of money. I looked inside. It was a lot of money. A shitload. I grabbed the bag and ran home.”

“Tyrone. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking. I was drunk. I just saw the money there for the taking and that’s what I did. Took it.”

Ty’s breathing was heavy as he continued.

“Some one followed me home. Then it started. Notes in the letterbox. Threatening me and ma. They wanted the money.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Ty was verging on hysteria, his shoulders collapsed forward over the table.

“So you gave it to them right?”

“No Jamie, I didn’t. It was a lot of money. I needed to think.”

“So you faked your death? Put your mum through hell?”

“Not exactly Jamie. I told Ma everything. She said we should keep it and get away. I was going to find somewhere safe up the coast and send for her.” I shook my head in disbelief.

“That’s where you come in Jamie.”

“What? You are kidding me? No way man. I can’t get involved in this.” I said.

“Jamie, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“No man I’m sorry.”

“$1 million bucks. Cash.”

I looked at Tyrone incredulously. “I million dollars? Are you insane?”

“I told you Jamie, it was a lot of money.”

Tony Burns - by Rick

If it hadn’t been for that “meet me at Guido’s Pizzeria” I might have chucked it in the garbage as a bad joke. But it had ta be a legit message from Tony. See, when Tony and I were kids we used to play cops and robbers all the time. Of course Tony always wanted to be the robber. Some guys never change. Even then I should’a known that he was on a dark path. I had a feelin’ in my gut, yah know what I mean? Anyways, when him and me were robbers together, he would always say, “Let’s split up and meet later at Guido’s Pizzeria.” See there never was a Guido’s Pizzeria. That was Tony’s code for the band shell in Lincoln Park. It was our secret that we never shared with the other kids and we’ld shoot over under cover to get away from the cops. Also it was a good place to have a smoke or two and not be seen by anybody, but that’s another story.

See he never left any time on the postcard which is why I’ve been sitting here on this park bench beside the old band shell since 8 this morning. I just gotta know what’s happening.

So I’m sitting there going over the baseball scores for the tenth time when this old geezer sits down beside me and say in this phony voice, “Did the Yankees beat the Dodgers yesterday?” Right away I know it’s Tony but boy has he got a good disguise. He looks 20 years older and smells like some old hobo who hasn’t seen a bar of soap for a year.

“So Mr. T.”, I says. “Nice funeral we had for yah last week. How come you weren’t the guest of honour?”

“That’s funny Rocco. I can see you should have been up doin’ the service instead of Father Liuzzo. But shut up a minute and listen ‘cause I can’t stay here long.”

“As you can see, I’m not dead, never was. But Jesus, it was close. I was playin’ my usual Friday night poker with the boys and Gino, my driver, comes down with a severe belly ache around 11. Or so he says. Anyways I tell him to go on home and leave me the car. I’ll drive myself home later. I’m on this lucky streak and can’t lose a hand if I try. Guess it was a sign or somethin’. Anyways I play until around 3 and the other guys finally start packin’ it in. No money left! I was so hot that night. (Maybe I should’a smelled a rat. Who knows? Who cares?)”

“So I go out to the street. It’s all deserted as you’ld guess at that time and I look down the block where my car’s parked, and it looks like someone’s inside of it. I go to take off when I hear the engine start and then WHAM, there’s this explosion and the whole car goes up in flames. I’m knocked to my butt and when I get up, the car’s this ragin’ inferno.”

“Well my mother didn’t raise no idiot so I turns and hot foots it the other way as fast as I can. I hide out in this sleaze-bag motel and later watch the news report of how Tony Soprano, noted New Jersey gangster and Mafioso Don, was burned beyond recognition in what was said to be part of a gang war or somethin’. Body damaged so badly that even the teeth were ashes.”

“My first thoughts? Revenge. Nobody does that to Tony Soprano. But then I gets to thinkin’. That could’ve been me. It wasn’t the first time somebody tried to take me out. And I’m not getting any younger. So I calmed down a bit and worked out this plan.”

“I’ve always had two or three fake ID’s and I’ve got five or six million bucks offshore in the Caymans. Maybe this is fate telling me to take my retirement. Maybe that was my lucky night and maybe I’ll never get a break like that again.”

I was stunned. When I finally could say something I asked him, “So Tone, We haven’t hung out since we were kids. What do you want me for now?”

“Rocco you’re the only person in the world I can trust right now. Here’s an envelope. When I leave here open it and follow the instructions. There’s $100,000 in cash for your troubles. It’s all legit. Just a few things to pass on to Carmela and how to find me later. No way can you get in trouble over this.”

I sat there and already knew what I would do. Blood is thicker than water and our friendship was thicker than blood. We said our goodbyes and I knew it was goodbye forever again.