Photography has been the major creative expression in my life ever since my parents gave me my first camera when I was 10. They were the kind of parents that thought nothing of stopping the car in the middle of nowhere to get the shot that didn’t work out five years ago. Accordingly, every road trip of mine includes planned stoppages and random side adventures.
One example of this is the discovery of abandoned things rusting in the countryside. The contrast of technology and nature, destruction and regrowth, red and green makes for a fascinating aesthetic. It’s even better when there are layers of history such as police tape and graffiti on a burned out car. Sorry about that, Jamie.
Fake album covers have has been an interest of mine for several years but this is my first deliberate attempt to create one from scratch, inspired by the preponderance of op-shop chic on our last night at the Palace Hotel. My pattern recognition subroutine put Casper, Elijah, Lucy, and Toby together in a 1980s New Romantic band with a punk sensibility (clockwise from top left: drummer, keyboardist, bass and backing vocals, lead guitar and vocals). I managed to get two shots without realising that neither was useable… which lead me to cut them down the middle and paste the good halves together. Mistakes can lead to interesting solutions.
One of my extramural COVID-19 projects is “#AHundredHundreds” documenting a hundred things I see while out and about, a hundred times each (Matti, 2021). It was only when I was emotionally committed that I realised 100 x 100 does not equal 1,000 but 10,000. One subject commenced and completed was “A Hundred Tracks at Fowlers Gap”; another ongoing subject was “A Hundred Flags”. These will be digitally collaged into grids; as I have completed only 89 sets there is no forward plan.
Nature surrounds us, keeps us alive, and fills us with delight. From a flower covered in frost because Wellington nights are bloody cold in winter (Bureau of Meteorology, 2021b) to a cricket landing on a canvas drying in the sun because Fowlers Gap days are bloody hot in winter (Bureau of Meteorology, 2021a), nature produces subjects that are infinitely more subtle and complex than our most advanced technology. This trip allowed me to record new subjects from the micro to the macro, from the land to the sky, from the rocks to the kangaroos.
Sunsets are the most ephemeral yet intense display that occurs on Earth, filling the entirety of the sky for just a few minutes as the land becomes ever darker. This liminal event is neither day nor night, a dangerous time for diurnal creatures like humans but also the most sublime. The contrast between fear and beauty adds piquancy to each sunset so an image which captures both experiences is a beautiful nightmare; an image which is a technical failure is a beautiful dream.
Ultraviolet light became a photographic interest for me when my flatmate bought a UV torch to look for scorpions (Kloock, Kubli, & Reynolds, 2010) but we spent more time looking at everything else. I brought torches to Fowlers Gap with the thought that they might produce some interesting results. I learned that organic and mineral objects fluoresce to varying degrees but the artificial ones react most strongly as they include fluorescent compounds (U.S Food & Drug Administration, 2019) to make them appear brighter. Chlorophyll in a eucalyptus trunk glows softly (Johnstone, Tausz, Moore, & Nicolas, 2012) but Blake’s clown make-up and dyed hair are extremely reactive.
So what does this mean for Assessment 2?
I will include a photographic projection of a photo taken at Fowlers Gap, stony ground shining onto the floor so that anyone who approaches becomes the surface on which it is projected.
Johnstone, D., Tausz, M., Moore, G., & Nicolas, M. (2012). Chlorophyll fluorescence of the trunk rather than leaves indicates visual vitality in Eucalyptus saligna. Trees, 26(5), 1565-1576. doi:10.1007/s00468-012-0730-7
Kloock, C. T., Kubli, A., & Reynolds, R. (2010). Ultraviolet light detection: a function of scorpion fluorescence. The Journal of Arachnology, 38(3), 441-445. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/20798577
I remember playing with plasticine in Year 1 or 2 when I made a bird’s nest containing three eggs on top of a tree. I remember how it looked. I remember the distinctive smell as I rolled the trunk and placed it upright onto the special plasticine board. I remember rolling small, soft spheres between the palms of my hands, trying not to press too hard or they’d squash. I remember my happiness in creating, in transforming my imagination into a multi-sensual reality.
When given the raku clay, I was only a matter of time before I nostalgically recreated that seminal bird’s nest.
But my first exploration was a simple textural one, turning an accidental mark on a slab of clay into a deliberate pattern.
Entranced by the ability of clay to hold a direct impression of another object, I approached the burnt out tree stump and wrapped another slab around the twisting bark then shaped it into a soft yet self-supporting curve.
That was great but I wanted more than a “fingerprint”, so I cut holes in the clay with a bottle top, wrapped it around the bottle (need baking paper or similar) and then rolled it over a combination of smooth leaves and rough bark to create a more textured texture. (Hilariously, I was very impressed with the form when it appeared on the dinner table one night, not recognising it as something I had created.)
Enjoying the curvilinear forms, I combined this shape with my first, more aggressive mark.
Next, I did a portrait of the burnt out tree, using a toothed metal kidney to simulate the spiralling bark. Rolling the trunk and branches is what made me remember the birds nest above.
Then I went hunting for more textures and came across two same-but-different materials: cracked mud, and cracked concrete. I imprinted them both on a divided slab as contrasting yet complimentary surfaces.
Returning to the rolled form, I made a pretzel. I don’t know why, I don’t even like pretzels.
Finally, having been careful not to leave hand marks in any of the previous works, I made hand marks in the clay. It was at this point that I understood what I was doing.
I had spent many days traversing the earth at Fowlers Gap, always “protected” from the rocky, stony, dusty surface by machines or footwear. This was the first time I had contrived a physical connection with the earth and it wasn’t even from the station. Although it was possible to take these pieces back to Sydney, I opted to leave them at Fowlers Gap; I felt no compunction to keep them as the memory of having worked the raku is etched more deeply in my body than the shapes left in the clay and for all their aesthetic qualities they are not why I enrolled in the course.
So what does this mean for Assessment 2?
At least one aspect of the final work will be an unmediated impression of my body.
“Long drawing” is an interference technique I developed in Drawing 3 to stop myself from being precious with my mark-making. I tend to agonise over the way that what goes into my eyes doesn’t come out of my hand.
UPDATE: I have since learned that the foundation of this technique is known as “blind contour drawing”.
This blending of methods – not looking at the paper, continuous line, multiple pens, and minimum drawing time –prevents that anxiety as it is impossible to draw photo-realistically. I also discovered an added intervention: quick drawing and keeping nibs on the surface means my hand continuously slides over wet ink, smudging the image.
So I decided that I would try this process in a landscape with which I was unfamiliar. My first essay was in the creek below the Green House, surrounded by rocks, sand, gum trees, flies, emus, and goats.
I like the large paper size as it forces me to open up the composition. The thickness and higher quality adds depth compared to the original 110 gsm cartridge paper. The surface really does matter when drawing.
While reflecting on the day’s work, I realised that I was drawing literally everything I could see inside my chosen frame; the same way a camera records everything in the viewfinder. There was no sense of importance, no prioritised subject matter, no dimensionality. There is some negative space but only because it happens to be a patch of sky. In my next drawings, I decided to draw just one tree so I could address these ideas.
By focussing on this singular tree outside Cottage 1 and eliminating everything else save a touch of grass for balance, I had accidentally made a portrait rather than a landscape. Also, this is my first use of the black pen set from the art kit, on highly-textured 290 gsm canvas paper. As each of the five pens is a different size and the surface simulates canvas, the pens skip and jump preventing them from making a continuous line.
After playing with these concepts, I decided to apply them to a more exotic landscape. Fortunately there was a spare one behind the shearer’s quarters so I set up a table and chair and went to work.
While I was delighted with the open feel – and how a table and chair make drawing on a big piece of paper much more comfortable – I discovered that the further left my right hand moves, the more it skews the subject. Also, the top left of the image is impossible to reach without climbing out of the chair; my portrait of the landscape is also a portrait of me.
The next day, half an hour before first breakfast, on a chilly morning I set up a table and chair to draw. Then I realised that I was getting a high from doing such a sustained art practice and had become addicted to the process.
This is not entirely a bad thing.
For this drawing I deliberately chose a location with lots of Big Sky. While the image is still very flat, the fore, middle, and background have separated. But what I enjoyed most was the new flowing sensation of drawing the lyrical, swirling cloud forms.
Then, to make sure I hadn’t just become good at drawing Fowlers Gap, I began drawing offsite on the way back to Sydney, stopping at Menindee Lakes and the Living Desert and Sculptures outside Broken Hill, where I drew mulga trees in the approaching sunset.
It’s interesting how:
The trees look like mulgas and not eucalypts,
The left side is full of smudges,
Drawing in public has a performative element that lets the public come up and talk to you about your drawing.
So what does this mean for Assessment 2? No work that claims to be the cumulative statement about Fowlers Gap would be complete without a solid reference to the long drawing technique. From experience in Drawing 3, using pens on a large scale takes a long time and most of the ink will be covered or diluted by the next layer. I must therefore apply bolder marks as a final stratum so they don’t get lost. It will be very self-reflexive to use the trees to draw themselves, perhaps using eucalypt branches dipped in ink. This is a most excellent idea that popped into my head by itself, as they often do.
UPDATE: If I use eucalypt branches from UNSW property in Sydney it will provide another link to the trees at Fowlers Gap. Also, Kurt Schranzer introduced me to Li Huasheng, whose stiff, dry brush technique has much in common with the open marks I have been drawing. This is an interesting development.
My initial proposal for our visit to Fowlers Gap was to explore my bodily relationship with the land by revisiting an ongoing series of body/land/performance artworks.
My first Silueto was a straightforward scratch in the dirt of the driveway just after breakfast. Morning cross-light put the mark into relief.
I chose the driveway because it was on the path between Cottage 1 (the assisted living annexe) and the kitchen; I knew that it would be affected by car and foot traffic. Not more than half an hour later, Grant drove us over it on the way to Leopard Tree Hill, beginning the inevitable process of erasure.
Ephemerality is a significant aspect of the series so I documented the changes around the same time on most days (the camera makes the line stand out more than was visible to the naked eye).
Figure 1 – Silueto 242
One night I couldn’t sleep because of a migraine so I went out into the dark and did some long exposures with a bike light to mark my outline. This comes from medical advice I’ve received that you’re going to be in pain doing nothing you might as well be in pain doing something. Furthermore, art, distraction, and movement are all known to reduce pain.
These figures are the most ephemeral I have made, disappearing from existence at the literal speed of light. The app on my phone allowed me to layer subsequent exposures onto the original image, which I animated as a gif.
Figure 2 – Silueto 250
I also did more-traditional Siluetos using stones found in the landscape whence I discovered that the new wide-angle lens on my phone does interesting things to locate the symbolic body in a much broader landscape.
Figure 3 – Silueto 258
Still experimenting, I also made my first Silueto using a UV torch that caused quartz rocks to fluoresce.
Figure 4 – Silueto 259
My largest Silueto – and biggest “failure” – was a 25-metre intervention drawn with bright yellow spray chalk that degrades in months depending on environmental conditions. The size is so large that it can’t be seen from the ground but when I climbed to the highest point on Leopard Tree Hill I couldn’t see anything but the landscape.
Figure 5 – Silueto 260
Tellingly, the land had swallowed my symbolic body whole, leaving nothing for me to see. It is an epic failure and the perfect analogy to my time in The Gap: no matter what you do to make a mark nature always erases it. However, my artist’s ego wasn’t happy with this conclusion so in a fit of pique, I painted white spray chalk onto a sheet of corrugated iron, recording my presence on an artificial surface if nothing else. It might also last longer because it’s out of the sun and from previous experience metal holds the chalk better than more porous surfaces like rock.
Figure 6 – Silueto 261
So what does this mean for Assessment 2 of this course? The ephemeral nature of the interventions draws my attention as I have been thinking about entropy and the loss of information caused by any transformation. Running through several scenarios in visualisation sessions I have found that the more abstract the imagery the more it aligns conceptually. Other elements will resolve as I explore the rest of the work I did on the field trip.
During Sydney’s (first) COVID-19 lockdown, the gyms were closed, the outdoor exercise equipment was fenced off, and bodyweight training triggered a migraine, so I found myself with no way to exercise other than going for walks around the neighbourhood. It didn’t do anything good for my feet but it loosened up my lower back, a constant conundrum. As I wandered around, I started noticing patterns: interesting and everyday items that recurred more often than not.
I started collecting some of these things but quickly realised that the most interesting ones were those that I didn’t want to touch, so I pulled out my phone and started photographing them instead. The first one is a graffiti tag by Mako (I think; they’re hard to read sometimes – it could be Snaleo).
Look at those confident lines and beautiful sweeping curves.
Graffiti tags are ubiquitous and often stand out as damage to the built environment. At the same time, one glosses over them as just another part of the urban background, like anthills, bottle tops, and squashed paper on asphalt.
Meanwhile, I used one set of images for a uni assessment as I could guarantee to complete it: houses decorated for Halloween. It’s not an Australian tradition, but exposure to US culture has made it an unofficial celebration if you have children or want to have a costume party. On the day itself, there were storms in the morning, heat and humidity in the afternoon, and more storms in the evening so I had a window of less than five hours to traverse Sydney’s Inner East in search of opportunities. Fortunately, there are a lot of young families performing Halloween so there was always another house to photograph.
As I pursued these everyday items around the neighbourhood, I found myself staying out for longer and longer periods of time – my record is four hours – because every time I found an item I got a hit of dopamine – the main hormone responsible for addiction – and every time I took a photo I got another one. Once university finished, I had little else to do so I became seriously addicted, finding my feet walking out of the house before my mind realised it. Fortunately, this only lasted a couple of months because I’d found all the easy stuff and now I receive less reward for more pain. The addiction hasn’t completely gone but there’s less blind need and more considered ambition.
Five hours is a long time to remember a series of ever-changing numbers so I had to keep going to ensure I shot a full hundred before stopping; I reached 121. When I got home and processed the photos, I found that almost all had an underlying theme: the Victorian era terrace house; different colours (mostly grey or beige), different frontages, and different property values, but astonishingly cohesive in a visual sense (I discarded a few others which didn’t fit the aesthetic – see above). When I collaged the images I placed every photo right up against its neighbour to recreate the cheek-by-jowl, repetitious design of terraced housing.
Meanwhile, the splashes of greenery from street trees and small front gardens – decked out with adornments seemingly purchased from the same shop – brighten the collage. At the same time, the skewed perspective of each photo makes the houses look slightly unsettling as otherwise they are always seen as a row of identical architecture that recedes stolidly into the distance.
In case you’re interested, this collage represents more than AU$200,000,000 on the COVID property market.
When you’ve done one 10 x 10 grid of a hundred photos you realise that to be complete, you definitely have to do 99 more to make a round number. I was already dedicated to the task but it was only now that I realised a hundred times a hundred is actually 10,000 photos, not counting extras, mistakes, and a hundred collages on top of that. Twice my phone has refused to take more photos because the memory was full so I had to delete months of work (after I checked the backup!).
In the meantime, something that was unusual, omnipresent, and slightly surreal, was COVID detritus. Abandoned masks and gloves – black, white, or blue – were everywhere. My solitary walks were littered with the memorials of passersby so I couldn’t help but shoot them.
The grid assemblage places focus on the repeated image: discarded masks lying in gutters and gardens. Occasionally I’d see a reusable mask but people seemed to take a lot more care with them; the decorated ones were yet to hit the market or people were a lot more careful with them because they were a more intimate choice.
Pretty soon, I found that I was forgetting what I was photographing, what the orientation was, and which ones I’d finished so I made a shooting list on my phone and a spreadsheet on my desktop.
Remember the graffiti tags? Well eventually I realised that I was seeing two different types – dark text on light backgrounds and light on dark – so I separated them into their own categories. Then, because I was spending so much time looking for graffiti, I realised that there were a lot of places where the tags had been covered over with paint or counter-tagging so I started collecting erased graffiti, too.
The blandness of the altered walls makes me think that a little graffiti would brighten the place up, while some places with multiple layers of erasure show that it’s an ongoing battle between society and the “antisocial element”.
Speaking of which, I realised that these collages didn’t represent everything that I was seeing so I deliberately made myself add some abject typologies including one bane of my existence: used dog shit bags thrown into the street gardens, abandoned on the footpath, or squashed on the road. Your Dog, Your Dog Shit Bag, Your Responsibility!
This meant engaging with the subject by getting in close to fill the frame. By the time I had collected a hundred, I was feeling pretty abject myself. Unfortunately, I realised that I had copped out by not photographing the actual cause of my distress so I forced myself to shoot the faeces itself. Your Dog, Your Dog Shit, Use A Bag!
You’ll notice that I’m a lot further away from the subject because my artistic practice has limits and getting intimate with canine faeces is one of them. I’m happy to say that I finished all hundred shots and managed not to step in the theme during this time.
A topic just as non-salubrious is the used syringe. They stand out as a dangerous object so they make a strong impression which in turn makes them seem more common than they are. However, I keep finding myself wandering down the laneways and back alleys in search of more. I assume that lockdowns have reduced recreational drug use because so many venues have been forced to close.
As the summer wore on, two things happened: I came up with too many ideas and I committed to doing another set of hundreds. Thanks brain, that’s 20,000 photos I have to take and 200 collages to do.
Some gas access covers in my area have been painted in bright yellow, some cream, while others are bare steel. Yellow is my second favourite colour so I’m automatically drawn to them. After photographing a hundred, I corrected the perspective to square them up, which is the way I see them in my mind before I take the photo.
This is an homage to Bernd and Hilla Becher’s Gas Tanks photographed over three decades.
The Bechers were much more formal in their approach, benefiting from their ability to line up each image identically, their freedom to travel around northern Europe and the USA, and having the time to shoot only on overcast days. In using a phone camera I have limited myself severely but it is more true to the lived experience. We all have a digital camera in our pocket and it’s the first one we reach for in everyday life. This is the only camera I own these days and it’s certainly the only one I can carry around for four hours. Also, the university’s equipment library was often closed because of COVID.
The gas covers made an interesting collage but I wanted them to stand out more so that it matches the psychological experience of focusing in on the target. I cut out each one and transformed the background to pure black then collaged them all again.
It’s like looking at a stained glass window. Transforming the photos really enhances the subject… unfortunately, staring at a backlit screen while working on a hundred images reactivated my screen addiction which meshed with my finding/photographing addiction. Ain’t life grand?
The second #AHundredHundreds is an over-commitment of time and resources but fortunately, it’s the summer holidays and digital photography is essentially free: a wonder to someone who grew up eking out every roll of film.
I also began interrogating my own archive of digital photographs, coming up with many images that could be grouped together, such as screenshots I made of Shazam results so I could remember to find the song later.
So this is the biggest and longest photographic project I’ve ever done and Part 1 is only three quarters finished. This may well take another couple of years depending on how well my back and feet and brain hold out, but I’m certain it will be worth it.
This is the second post of my ongoing series of interventions in the landscape inspired by Ana Mendieta’s Siluetas. This group is collated from silhouettes made in the eastern suburbs of Sydney.
I made my first Australian, public, and symbolic self-portrait in a drift of London plane leaves. As I couldn’t move the leaves while lying on them, I “carved” out a silhouette with my foot. I felt a slight sense of separation because the Silueto was emblematic rather than a tracing on the ground but I learned there’s no real need for me to draw around my body as it’s the action of my body drawing itself that is important.
At this early stage, my performative restraint was driven by unfamiliarity, externally-imposed limitations (e.g. road laws), and coronavirus lockdown keeping me close to home; as the philosopher once said, don’t shit in your own nest. Being judged as a weirdo for doing strange things in public (again) took a while to get used to (again), but once I start working, I tend to forget that other people exist so it’s all good.
Although I initially shaped materials with my hands, my disability sometimes forced me to use tools like brooms and trowels. As it turns out, I learned that there’s no real need for me to touch the materials directly as it’s the action of drawing that is important. Tools also make larger scale works a lot more efficient and you don’t scrape the skin off your hands!
With each intervention, my confidence in the process grew, and I began to explore new ideas like adding a cartouche/aura to the figure because why not? There were so many leaves in the pile (Figure 4) that I had to do something with them. Trying new things like this – just to see what happens – is a fundamental part of Contemporary Art and a major reason why it has become such an expansive movement.
My longest-lasting Silueto is a floral work which stained the concrete as it decomposed: the trace of the trace was still visible three months later.
Failure is also an option, like the work below, carved from living grass just seconds before the lawn guy mowed over it.
He couldn’t see it, you can’t see it, and I can’t see it. Talk about ephemeral.
Meanwhile, I became aware of my everyday surroundings in a new way. Something as mundane as flower petals in the laneway suddenly became materials on a surface for mark-making (and the scent was heavenly). I played around with the documentary photo later, turning the figure into The Void.
And then there were these clothes put out for collection that someone had rummaged through. After I’d finished the intervention, I put them back on the pile because: I’m tidy, I don’t have to leave them where I placed them, and I can destroy the intervention if I want to. It was interesting to use shirts to create the torso and arms and trousers for the legs. If there’d been a hat for the head, I’d’ve been giggling all the way to the coffee shop.
During this time, I began experiencing a perceptual shift from “silhouette” to “man”; I even referred to them as male in my inner monologue. Like Mendieta’s female works, my pieces were gendered, and now I can’t think of them as anything else. Except when a big storm blows down trees that are cut up by the State Emergency Service and I draw genderless aliens in the sawdust.
In Cuba’s Santería religion, serio means “rigorous, embodied knowledge achieved through repeating actions” (Hyacinthe, 2019, para. 2). More expansively, this is the way an artist returns to particular concepts, such as van Gogh’s sunflowers, Mendieta’s Siluetas, and my Siluetos. Every time I leave the house nowadays, my subconscious is on the lookout for potential sites and materials. Even a trip to the recycling bins is no longer just a walk; it’s a potential future artwork.
Occasionally, I will perform a second intervention on the first. Usually, it is no more than filling in an outline but the result can be worth the effort.
Natural figures are produced in and of the landscape, degrading by circumstance until only the post-intervention documentation remains. Sometimes, even the artificial trace is so congruent it goes unremarked.
Sometimes it is so subtle that no-one sees it.
My first Siluetos were minimalist because they had just two physical aspects: landscape and found material. When I started intervening in an urban setting, a third element was added: contrast. The incongruence of natural materials presented against an artificial surface can make the image stand out much more.
Sometimes, the Silueto is so beautiful that it encourages passers-by to document their own performance, which encourages me to document their documentation. I don’t always call my work beautiful but when I do, it has knocked my socks off. Frangipanis rock.
Meanwhile, I have been exploring the documentation as if it were an archive, playing with new techniques while retaining a sense of ephemerality through the digital medium. Figure 18 explores colour splash (a small area of colour in a black and white photograph) and complementary colour backgrounds (inspired by Vincent van Gogh’s paintings).
Usually, I’m the only one to experience an intervention directly. Sometimes, passers-by observe the performance. I once invited an audience of friends, though the presence of others is not as important as the action. My flatmate did a collaborative drone shot which has opened my eyes up to all sorts of possibilities.
Of course, there’s no reason the interventions have to be outdoors.
And there’s no reason they have to be performed during the day. A night-time walk to burn off some lockdown energy before bed turned into a creative opportunity which got me so energised that I couldn’t get to sleep.
Nor do they need to be beautiful; the abject is as interesting as the sublime.
Although every Silueto constitutes different elements from different times and places, they are each part of the same desire to express/explore connection to land/landscape.
Other artists have been inspired by Mendieta’s work, such as Nancy Spero painting Homage to Ana Mendieta (Walker, 2009) and Genevieve Hyacinthe recreating Siluetas: “As part of my serio engagement with Mendieta’s first Silueta, Imágen de Yágul (1973), I traveled to the site in July 2016 both to gain an understanding of Mendieta’s performatives and, at the same time, to collaborate with her” (Hyacinthe, 2019, para. 3). This “trend” is partly because memories of her life and death remain fresh, partly because enough time has passed that people have been able to write scholarly essays about her, and partly because she was onto something that speaks across the decades.
Silueto is a series of interventions marking my existence in the landscape using found materials whose ephemeral nature generates a particular aesthetic. Conceptually, each photograph records the post-presence of the body within the landscape.
That said, let’s talk about Ana Mendieta.
Ana Mendieta was born in Cuba in 1948, but at 13 was sent to the USA to escape political persecution. She earned a Masters in painting at the University of Iowa but quickly expanded her practice in Hans Breder’s new Intermedia course, a performance-led programme challenging students to create art “across and between a plurality of media and distributed and presented in a variety of contexts” (Viso et al., 2004, p. 41).
Intermedia became the first master-level syllabus in the country to introduce art students to an interdisciplinary approach, encouraging them to explore unconventional formats, combinations, principles, and materials. Intermedia students, who came from different areas of studio art (painting, sculpture, photography), performing arts (dance, theatre, music), writing, and film, attempted to integrate aspects of their individual disciplines into the development of more conceptual forms of expression. (Hertzberg, 2004, p. 138)
In an essay I wrote last year – and have cited because not doing so is plagiarism – I explored Mendieta’s sense of place as a brown-skinned, female, Cuban migrant in mid-20th century the USA (Matti, 2019).
Mendieta declared herself “between two cultures” (Brett, 2004, p. 181), a position which infused her work with “alienation and displacement” (Baker, 2016, p. 3). She located her practice specifically in a grant application:
I have been carrying on a dialogue between the landscape and the female body (based on my own silhouette). I believe this to be a direct result of my having been torn away from my homeland during my adolescence. I am overwhelmed by the feeling of having been cast from the womb (nature). My art is the way I re-establish the bonds that tie me to the universe. (Viso et al., 2004, p. 47)
I was not “cast from the womb” because migrating was a free choice for me, but I am definitely between cultures and that drives a need to understand my connection to place: when I’m in Australia, I often reminisce about New Zealand; when I’m in New Zealand, I dream of Australia.
Mendieta’s first Silueta is an “earth-body work” (Viso et al., 2004, p. 22) called Imagen de Yagul. As she lay naked in a pre-Hispanic tomb, covered with white flowers, Breder shot several documentary photographs. She printed just one in order to share the “deliberately ephemeral and temporal (action)” (Sabbatino, 1996, p. 162).
For the artist, each Silueta was “a private act of meditation and dedication” (Iles, 2004, p. 221) combining several art forms: Body, Feminist, Land, and Performance. Body Art is the use of the artist’s body in the artwork, as a material, surface, tool, or technique. Feminist Art is about breaking down the patriarchy so that other voices can be heard. Land Art involves using the Earth as an integral part of the work (i.e. setting, surface, and/or material). Performance Art (not quite the same as performing arts like music and theatre) involves people generating a living artwork which ceases to exist in its original form once they cease performing.
Mendieta took her transdisciplinary nature a step further by including the documentation as part of a larger work “in the time and place of their creation and in the residues and documentation that live afterwards… both the ‘body earthwork and photo’” (Viso et al., 2004, p. 70). This let her explore “the interstices between conceptual, performance, and land art, and how these practices intersect with feminism and the gender and identity debates” (Viso et al., 2004, p. 26).
Her attitude was directly inspired by her studies but also the zeitgeist of the 60s and 70s: traditional art’s rules were melting away under the intense scrutiny of Contemporary Art, which gave itself the freedom to question everything, even the questioning.
Meanwhile, this post is about my Siluetos, beginning with interventions I performed on a beach in New Zealand. Mendieta’s works are known as Siluetas (Spanish for silhouettes); “Silueto” is a neologism that honours Mendieta as progenitor while changing the feminine suffix to masculine for differentiation. I locate my practice as riffing off her original works, sharing transgression in the social space by acting outside normativity, expressing performativity as an act of meditation and dedication, and promoting environmental awareness.
My first intervention was a direct response to one of Mendieta’s: I lay on the sand and drew my outline with seaweed. Then when I stood to document the work I discovered an indentation in the sand, meaning that I’d made more of a mark than I’d intended.
There is a clear relationship between these two works, although I find it fascinating that Mendieta’s looks female while mine looks male.
At this beginning stage, the Siluetos are minimalist because they are deliberately made from just two physical aspects: the landscape and materials found therein.
As these first figures were produced in and of the landscape, I left them to degrade by natural forces. I like the idea that all my effort only alters the environment while I’m there. As soon as I leave, entropy begins erasing my actions. I will eventually bring my own materials, more like Mendieta’s “blood and gunpowder” (Quinn, 2017, p. 148).
After the intervention, I document the trace with my phone camera. Sometimes, this trace is so environmentally congruent that it disappears (later urban interventions are more visible because the location is usually monotonic). The photographs are a vertical “portrait” which fills the frame, followed by a horizontal “landscape” which shows the Silueto in its environment.
Like Mendieta, I prefer to “fuse with the land rather than aggressively mark nature” (Viso et al., 2004, p. 69) and keep these site-specific self-portraits “ephemeral and temporal” (Sabbatino, 1996, p. 162). A mark in the sand (Figure 9) can be quite ephemeral, not to mention well-camouflaged.
My most transient piece in this location was situated in the tidal zone like Mendieta’s (Figure 10), being erased faster than I could create – let alone document – it.
Mendieta’s guerrilla style is a transgressive political action protesting racism, misogyny, and environmental destruction. When performing a Silueta, she often took friends along to document while watching for the authorities. There were no authority figures for the Nuhiti Interventions but this will change as I explore different locations.
Another way we differ is in the Cuban Santería religion. Mendieta was exposed to it in her childhood and made it a focus of her work. I was raised as more of a compassionate free-thinker so that is the comparative focus of my work: I don’t set out to create suffering but I don’t limit what I can imagine either.
The Ochún Silueta (Figure 13) symbolises the Santería deity of rivers who correlates to La Virgen de Caridad del Cobre, the patron virgin of Cuba and all who brave dangerous waters. Performed across the Florida Strait from her homeland, it is a poignant declaration of here and there, union and separation, earth and water, and the impossibility of being in two places at the same time (León, 2019, paras. 4-5).
Mendieta focused what she felt important, hybridising conventional practices with unconventional ones. For Olga Viso, this was a defining characteristic:
(Her) unrelenting exploration and ultimate abnegation of all forms of boundaries…, her process of making is another aspect of her “between” position. The artist sets in motion a process but does not control its outcome. She allows nature to take its course. She is acted on as much as she acts. (2004, pp. 134-185).
Meanwhile, each of my performative actions is an intimate product of agency, altering the social space and embedding the work into its cultural context: male, masculine, migrant, natural, rural, urban, performative, meditational, physical, metaphysical, entertaining, artistic, conceptual, photographic, sculptural, and transgressive.
Baker, E. A. (2016). To Be Magic: The Art Of Ana Mendieta Through an Ecofeminist Lens.
Brett, G. (2004). One Energy. In O. M. Viso (Ed.), Ana Mendieta: earth body: sculpture and performance, 1972-1985 (pp. 181-204). Washington, DC: Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, in association with Hatje Cantz.
Hertzberg, J. P. (2004). Ana Mendieta’s Iowa Years: 1970-1980. In O. M. Viso (Ed.), Ana Mendieta: earth body: sculpture and performance, 1972-1985 (pp. 137-180). Washington, DC: Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, in association with Hatje Cantz.
Iles, C. (2004). Subtle Bodies: The Invisible Films of Ana Mendieta. In O. M. Viso (Ed.), Ana Mendieta: earth body: sculpture and performance, 1972-1985 (pp. 205-223). Washington, DC: Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, in association with Hatje Cantz.
Matti. (2019). Carl & Ana: The Breakdown of Artistic Disciplinary Boundaries Since 1960. (BFA). University of New South Wales, Sydney.
Quinn, B. (2017). Broad Strokes: 15 Women Who Made Art and Made History (in That Order). San Francisco, CA: Chronicle Books.
Sabbatino, M. (1996). Ana Mendieta: Identity and the Silueta Series. In G. Moure (Ed.), Ana Mendieta (pp. 135-166). Barcelona, Spain; Galicia, Spain: Ediciones Polígrafa; Centro Galego de Arte Contemoránea.
Viso, O. M., Mendieta, A., Herzberg, J. P., Iles, C., Brett, G., Roulet, L., . . . Miami Art Museum. (2004). Ana Mendieta: earth body: sculpture and performance, 1972-1985 (O. M. Viso Ed.). Washington, DC: Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, in association with Hatje Cantz.
You will remember from the previous post, that the next post was going to be called LOVEYOU but this is the next post and it’s called LOVEYOUTOO. There’s a reason for that and I’ll get to it later.
To recap: drawing, flowers, superflat, colour, counting.
According to the course outline, Assessment 2 wants us to “continue to practise the processes of spatial construction already tested, developing and refining more complex and creative responses that introduce elements of sequencing and narrative.”
To wit: draw more flowers, with a story.
So, the last post left me conceptualising what I would draw. Narratively, all I could think of was the event that had hung over my life for the previous two years: my mum’s death. The only story I wanted to tell was about my presence in her life and her presence in mine.
I used this as a jumping off point to develop my previous experiments into resolved drawings.
The first thing I knew was that if I was going to do this right, I would need a bigger piece of paper. I had a 1500mm wide roll that’d been taking up space under the bed so I cut a square because the flower motif is essentially circular and will fit inside a square more comfortably than a rectangle.
I spent a long time shopping for refillable pens because I anticipated using a lot of ink but they are few and far between; also, I wanted the marks to have the look of a fine, felt-tipped pen. Eventually I settled on single-use Stabilo Point 88 pens for the finest nibs (0.4mm) and the largest range of suitable lightfast ink.
For reference I used the following colours:
024 Neon Yellow
22 Night Blue
33 Apple Green
I used our Studio Art Practice studio on campus because of the large tables but I started on the floor, sketching a large flower motif in graphite then filling in the petals with 630 yellow ink flowers, erasing the pencil as I drew to generate the satisfied sense of a job completed. I figured I would need the encouragement as this would be a long task.
Also, it’s hard to see neon yellow on white paper without my glasses but I can’t wear them for long periods of time so I crushed the life out of the first pen by pressing too hard to make thicker lines that I didn’t even need. And as other colours were added, the yellow will stood out more clearly. Art is a learning process!
My parents fostered in we kids a great love of nature through gardening, visits to friends’ gardens, expeditions to wild places, and excursions to the country. Later, when mum couldn’t get out as much as she wanted, she told me she really enjoyed the many photos of flowers that I shared on social media. That made me really happy because she was ever my hardest critic and most ardent supporter. It was good to return some joy.
As I drew, I recalled the final words my mother said to me before she died. It becomes a Zen mantra, bringing calm and focus. I liked it so much that I decided to work them into the drawing sometime later.
Then there was a coronavirus lockdown and most of the buildings on campus were locked. The one large room that was open just happened to have some big tables, so I moved my practice to the student union (Arc) common room.
Once I’d completed the flower background, I began writing “LOVEYOU” with one letter in each flower heart.
This required cushions so I could reach the centre of the paper from every angle. Attaching the paper to a wall would’ve been just as challenging because of the range of heights at which I’d have to work, not to mention all the twisting and turning.
For the text, I chose colours close to the background flowers, making it invisible until you approach the work quite closely.
I like surprises.
I’m sorry about the quality of the image but I only had access to a phone camera because of the coronavirus lockdown. Also, squeezing a drawing that’s one and a half metres on a side into a computer screen doesn’t allow for fine detail.
Then I had to think about doing a second picture that responds to the first in conversation.
Far Too Many Words
In starting this piece, I wanted to return to the loose and informal drawing style with which I started Assessment One as this work represents me, in the same way that 6350 Flowers (LOVEYOU) represents my mother.
I adapted an exercise from Drawing 1, holding five marker pens – four black and one blue – in one hand (big hands come in useful) and using them to sketch the outline of a flower onto another 150 x 150 centimetre square of paper.
The pens weren’t always in full contact with the surface because they all had chisel tips so I went over the outline a few more times with the blue pen and the largest black pen.
Then I started filling in the flower.
About this time, the entire campus was locked down so my workplace moved to a drawing board on the loungeroom coffee table as it allowed for the paper to unroll over the sides (so I can reach the middle).
I filled the heart first, and then started on the petals.
I’ve noticed that the repeated and overlaid yellow motif reminds me of a succulent (Sedum acre aureum “Gold Mound”) outside my kitchen door.
Themes I Have Noticed in this Project
Mass repetition of a motif
Subverting the line by using objects rather than points
Conceptuality: conversation between the two drawings representing the conversation in the text representing the conversation in real life
The personal in art
Self-directed art therapy
Symbolism: flower images carrying information (words, emotions)
Representation: semi-wild florescence of a herbaceous border
The Biggest Number I’ve Yet Counted To
This time, I restricted my palette to seven colours: orange, ochre, yellow, green, blue, purple, and dark blue. That’s two less than I started with so quite a challenge. I added a ribbon of green flowers to soften the black outline and form a gradient from yellow petals to blue background.
I also let the small flowers bleed together to further soften the edges of the main flower.
When I began adding text I decided to make the words a linear feature to mirror the black lines and further soften the transitions.
From a couple of metres away they will look like more flower motifs but as you approach they’ll resolve into words.
I also expanded orange flowers in the heart to match style of the petals. I like the way everything overlaps with motif flowing into text flowing into line. It suits the symbolic nature of the work which has emotion flowing into flower flowing into word.
These works now exist as a diptych (one picture across two surfaces) as it is a literal and symbolic conversation between my mother and me; her gift of love expressed in word and flower, received, transformed, and returned.
I like that the drawings match our characters: mum’s is more subtle and restrained, mine is bolder and looser. I liked drawing on large supports but it is so much easier with a proper studio to work in. I particularly like the multi-pen outline technique and the use of text as a visual device rather than just an informative one. Meanwhile, the outer square of text in 20100 Flowers makes an interesting framing device.
The installation view is outside (on my neighbour’s wall) and includes elements of nature (weeds, leaf shadows). This adds a new layer of meaning about being outside during the COVID-19 lockdown.
With regards my artists from Assessment One, in the first image I have definitely achieved flatness, even with the warm/advancing and cool/receding colour scheme. The outline on the second gives a clear differentiation between foreground and background but the depth remains very shallow. The dark diagonal swathe is because I picked up the wrong pen while in a gloomy room; then I had to work around the purple blob to make it more aesthetic but it echoes the final work from Assessment One. I quite like the contrast and might create a full purple background in a future work.
During the virtual group presentation, one classmate said that the pictures read like a love letter, especially because of depth of time referred to in the work (from my birth through to mum’s death).
The following videos demonstrate the effect of moving toward the images:
Katrina said the Pop Art flower motif became a signature symbol and “a great strength” in my practice. This pleases me greatly as they flow from my hand quite naturally, even by the twenty thousand (yes, “twenty thousand”).
Theo said that the textual element is “a really nice addition” while the loose lines make the second piece “visually striking and interesting both from a distance and up close”. A speculated third work will include both elements.
Ironically, I created the most superflat quality once I stopped trying to draw like Murakami and de Medici, and started using them as inspiration to do my own thing.
More Themes I Have Noticed in this Project
The 0.4 millimetre tips let me draw small flowers en masse; however the paper’s strong tooth (the texture of the surface) completely abraded the felt tip so the metal collar left fine gouges against the surface, but I am surprisingly ok with that. The tools do what the tools do and fighting against that is just an exercise in ego.
I associate flowers with my mother’s gardening and these assessments connected to the last thing she said to me before her death: “Love you.” I wrote “LOVEYOU” (one word because of my dodgy handwriting) on a tally sheet so that every mark would stir my memories. Then, inspired by other students’ use of text in an image, I added lines of LOVEYOU such that they only appear on close examination. The total number of flower motifs and this quote form the title.
The last thing I said to my mother was “Love you, too.” For me, our five-word conversation perfectly encapsulates a narrative that spans two lifetimes. Like many contemporary artists I was inspired by the intimately personal, though I hope the pictures remain accessible even if you don’t know the story behind them.
As self-directed art therapy, I found the drawing process very soothing. Being able to focus on our shared love of flowers for hours at a time has helped me begin processing my feelings of grief and loss.
Earlier this year, I painted a mural (Flowers) based on an ongoing love affair with flowers and pop art; Liam told me that it reminded him of Takashi Murakami’s Flowers Red Velvet so I looked that up and yup, it totally would.
Murakami is best known for creating the “superflat” style from Japanese cultural forms such as ukiyo-e woodcuts, pop art, manga, anime, and kawaii (cuteness). It is characterised by dark outlines and solid, flat planes of colour.
This style happens to resonate well with eX de Medici’s watercolour Asleep while Awake, in which she squeezes all the depth out of bold flora and surreptitious technology. Even though compositional contrasts – mechanical/botanical, cool/warm, pixelated/detailed – push the spy device forward out of the feathery poppy leaves, she subverts this effect by squashing everything into one shallow plane.
I experimented with mixing these works to find a way to make one flower the focal point in a field of flowers, mostly by playing with the imagery and developing sketches past the point where I would normally stop, i.e. until there was literally no room left on the page for mark-making.
I played with different colours and methods of overlapping.
Have I mentioned that I really like lots of bold colour?
These pen-on-paper sketches are fun and generate lots of ideas.
So much fun! I love it when doing art inspires me to do more art.
Unfortunately, my naturally loose style isn’t conducive to replicating the superflat effect. Murakami’s works are too regular to be hand-drawn so, without knowing his process, I digitise some flowers and, after a frustrating session wrangling the printer settings, I manage to create big, flat fields by copying and pasting, pasting, pasting.
Kylie suggests that I consider the change to digital as an entirely new medium rather than an automation of the analogue technique and this really helps me understand what I’m doing. She also points out that contrast controls spatiality.
It quickly becomes clear that although useful, these A4 tests are too small for me to experience the effect that I’m looking for. Rochelle mentions the increased psychological power of larger images. Katrina also recommends going bigger, but draws my attention to the way that darkening the grey background would increase depth and, conversely, lightening would decrease it.
Adriana agrees that I should move to a bigger surface but suggests playing with a larger palette as the sketches remind her of childhood colouring books. She also has the idea to make a publically collaborative colouring-in work, which coincides with something I’ve been toying with for when I have more time. Ahaha.
I try mixing up the size and shapes of the flowers.
I try adding colour and shade. Rhea proposes that lots more colour would be another way to confuse depth perception. I colour in some flowers and it certainly flattens the image.
But then, while attending the Japan Supernatural exhibition at the Art Gallery of NSW, I come across this kimono pattern (when I’ve finished bingeing on the massive Murakami works and am in the little shop by the exit).
The repeated bird motif creates the same flatness. I decide to fill the frame with small flowers and plop a big one on top, just to see what it will look like.
Doink! Close, but no banana. Next, I try moving the focal flower behind the background.
Much better; more like de Medici. Sometimes though, I accidentally push a lot of wrong buttons and create interesting effects…
Ahem. I don’t know how I did that as I was actually trying to make the background black.
And then I try a grey background with serried ranks of overlapping flowers because life is short and why not mix it up a little?
That gives it a sense of movement which might be fun to play with later. Eventually, I increase the size to A3, which means doing battle with the out-dated printer at the library. I prevail but only after much hassle and some piquant commentary on the presence of antiquated technology in a school of art and design.
I love how the big flower becomes lost in the field of small ones.
I colour the hearts with yellow marker pen because they remind me of daisies even though they’re actually generic flower motifs.
This is interesting but there is something missing. I begin a second version, this time colouring the background light grey to add just a little depth.
It only takes this one corner to realise that I will go crazy trying to finish it by hand: it will be easier to redo the template.
Remember: copy and paste and copy and paste and copy and paste is your friend.
It’s a good thing I have a comfy computer chair because I’m spending a lot of time sitting in it. Finally, it’s time to colour the hearts yellow.
And at last, I can colour the heart of the focal flower a contrasting blue.
And this doesn’t work at all.
The cohesiveness of the design is completely undermined by the attention-stealing dark blob. However, I have learned a few things:
The final image size needs to be at least A1 to have the visually overwhelming effect I want.
The central flower will contrast by being uncoloured.
I will remember to count the number of flowers for the title and because it’s fun. I love to count.
Limiting the motif sizes and colour palettes is best for limiting the depth but this doesn’t connect to de Medici’s work.
I reached a fail point when I made the focal flower too obvious. In de Medici’s painting, the weapon harmonises with the surrounding foliage through a contained and muted watercolour palette.
Seeking further inspiration, I go to the library to do some research and discover Murakami’s manifesto, in which he straight out says what superflat means. Libraries are awesome!
Meanwhile, class comments remind me that I like lots of colour so I colour the multitudinous outlines of my A3 print with a bunch of pens I have lying around (because in art, being random generates answers you didn’t know you could ask about – this is a good thing).
This change in technique allows me to be freer with my colouring and looser in application, as with my original experiments.
This version also looks more like eX de Medici’s detailed foliage. And with that realisation, it is time to go large.
I get an A1 version printed and I’m immediately impressed by the increase of scale. I gather all my marker pens and create flowing ribbons of colour.
The uncoloured central flower definitely draws the eye but then you get distracted by the swooshes of colour and you can’t focus on one part for more than a few seconds and it’s like falling into an explosion at a rainbow factory, which sounds like a very good thing to me.
I also remember to count the flowers (there are 5,020) and make my best ever tally mark while doing so.
This first assessment is designed to lead directly into the second, which is a great way to learn about developing a work over time by repeatedly playing with your materials, tools, and techniques. It also underlines how beneficial it is to start your university assignments as early as possible because there are things you miss out on when you rush to do them at the last minute.
You might be wondering why this post is titled “LOVEYOU”. I’d be surprised if you weren’t; I haven’t mentioned love at all. I’m not trying to be inscrutable but the important thing is that you understand that everything you’ve just read leads me to the point where I start conceptualising the next stage: my Assessment 2 picture called 6350 Flowers (LOVEYOU).
One of our assessments in Drawing 1 was to present 30 discovery drawings of the same everyday object on a consistently sized and oriented ground (i.e. the material you draw on).
“Significantly, the task also facilitates the development of an expanded vocabulary of drawing, requiring the experimentation and exploration of new processes and materials, new informational systems and ways of creatively representing and interpreting forms.” – Assessment Brief, 2019
I chose to focus on a sinister Billabong thong (aka jandal/flip-flop) – left behind by Lukas when he moved away – because I thought it had an interesting shape and wouldn’t be too difficult to draw. Ahahaha.
It was such a simple shape that there were very few ways to present it that didn’t look just like every other way. On top of that, it kept looking like an icon of a thong rather than a drawing of a thong. Since I couldn’t see a way to explore it in depth I began thinking laterally. Then I woke up at 2 o’clock in the morning with ideas falling out of my head faster than I could write them down and ended up with 150 directions to go in but I could only do 90 drawings with “interpretative, stylistic, technical, and material diversity” before I had to hand the project in. Such is life.
Also, this is drawing in the expanded field – an outgrowth of the big mid-20th century contemporary art revolution – so the definition of drawing is pretty loose: “marks on a surface”. What marks? What surface? What technique? What materials? They’re all defined by the artist so you can draw with graphite pencils on paper, flame on baking paper, holes in cardboard, bumps on aluminium foil, bleach on a towel, coffee on a t-shirt, water on concrete, or light on a screen rendered in ink on paper and you’re still doing a drawing.
How did things get this way? There was a mindset in the post-war period that the old rules – which were part of the cause of WWII – shouldn’t be above interrogation. Not only that, they should be actively interrogated.
Once you let one question in, there’s no stopping them. And then you realise that the old definition of drawing was arbitrary, based on available materials, traditional methods, and what teachers could teach their students. There was a hierarchy that favoured the old ways and everyone followed it until someone didn’t and that was that.
If you make an accurate definition for drawing, you will always end up with “marks on a surface”. If you posit “pencil on paper” then you exclude ink as a material. If you include ink, then you have to include paint, which is just a thicker type of ink, so now you have now included painting as drawing.
If you’ve got painting as a drawing technique, then other forms of applying liquid to a surface are also included. Printing, digital printing, wet photography, dyeing, rubber stamps, and painting stained glass windows are now drawing.
If you make the definition “rubbing against a surface” then you include graphite pencils, coloured pencils, crayons, charcoal, and silverpoint… also beetroot, tea, blood, rocks, erasers, brass rubbings, and rubbings into aluminium foil.
Since we included charcoal, we have to include soot (they’re both the unburned by-product of fire), which means you can include flame as a material as it leaves soot on the paper.
And then you start getting abstract. “Using writing techniques to make a picture” includes pen on paper but also vellum (aka parchment, made from animal skin) which means that tattooing – ink on animal skin – is drawing, as is wearing make-up, body painting, dyeing your hair, and getting a piercing. If the concept makes the drawing, then a URL or QR code which links to a digital image is a drawing (get your phone out and try the one below).
The QR code links to a downloadable version of the digitised ink on paper drawing that I used for 71: Digital camouflage (see above). You can print it out and colour it in, which would mean that the virtual image on this website is also, simultaneously, an “ink on paper” drawing in your house. This is where Conceptual Art starts messing with your mind. 🙂
Remember “pencil on paper” as a definition? Well that paper surface includes baking paper, toilet paper, tissue paper, newspaper, cardboard, egg cartons, and cardboard boxes. As paper can be made from different plants, you have to timber, papyrus, leaves, canvas, cotton, and linen. Then you have to add artificial fibres like polyester, acrylic, acetate, nylon, and lycra. Paper can also be made from stone, which means all rocks and metals are in. Some printing techniques use wet paper, which means that you can now draw on water, which is made from gases hydrogen and oxygen so you can now draw on air. (Ever seen a skywriter?)
Is everything drawing? Of course not; sculpture isn’t drawing, it’s chipping away at marble, which is making marks on rocks… which we’ve learned is drawing. What about film? Film uses light to record an image on a piece of celluloid, and then we shine light through it again to project an image onto a screen. Is that a mark on a surface? Permanency isn’t required to make a drawing and if you leave a book on your newspaper in the sun, you’ll see the outline of the book bleached into the newspaper: marks on a surface. Video is just film by another technique, and TV is a projection onto a surface, as is a computer screen.
If putting liquid on plant material is drawing, then putting jam on toast is drawing. What about curry on naan? What about ice cream in a cone, or hundreds and thousands on chocolate on ice cream in a cone?
It’s at this point I realised that if I can make a reasoned argument for something being a drawing, then it is a drawing and I’ve discovered the answer to the question I didn’t know I was asking until I wrote this: What is Contemporary Art?
Contemporary Art is the process of liberating your creativity, freeing you to explore what interests you in whatever ways you can imagine. And that is the subject of my first solo exhibition, Stranger Thongs at AD Space, UNSW. It opened with 94 drawings just before the campus went into coronavirus lockdown. With the drawings locked in the building, my show has become the longest running in AD Space history!