Saturday, August 27, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Daniel P Jones, Danny, is an articulate, slightly barrel chested man with big silver-grey hair. His pastel blue eyes have a sadness in them that wells as he talks of his life, his love of Leanne and toeing the line at Pentridge. He describes himself as a thief with a moral code and it's a fair call. He promises to sign my photo. Later he recites Oscar Wilde better than anyone I have heard, to a captivated audience. He tells me that he discovered Oscar out of a desperation to survive prison, and in the end he used Oscar as a medium for expression, reciting to inmates in the yard, guards looking on perplexed. Danny and director Amiel Courtin-Wilson have an obvious bond which has seen them take Danny's story to Cannes and now, to Venice. I must spruke this fundraiser and this exquisite story. Check them out on Facebook, and donate (and online) . This is the first Australian feature film in a decade to make it to Venice, and it's basically a bloody awesome achievement.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
I am not going to be able to throw myself completely into this festival, although I am already planning 2012. I have been fortunate enough, however, to find a moment for quiet reflection over 100 years 100 portraits, and to find some unexpected relief by way of a cool breeze and sweet prints blowing in the wind.
Festival aside there is something else you need to know about Darwin: the street art is sensational!
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
That the exhibition has found itself in the Napier Hotel is a personal fluke that I find extraordinary. This is Anna's pub. I didn't know her, but people that I love farewelled her in the very room this exhibition occupies. A lot of grieving has occurred within the four walls of the Napes. I will never forget the sadness hanging over the pool table on the tenth anniversary of Anna's death (and being kicked out well after the tired bar staff were supposed to close). For someone with an obsession about time and space, I am transfixed by this coincidence.
But back to the Hanky Project: Just Go See It. Julie has collected, on Hankies, the most intimate stories of 100 artists from 12 countries. The stolen generation, children, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, friends. Their stories fill Hankies that are hung loose, pinned up, folded, encased in boxes and dripped in resin. They have been written on, cross stitched, stained, painted and reinvented. "This is the last thing that he touched" reads one. "Permission to cry" suggests another. Precious Little's eloquent words adorn the walls: "I visited your old room yesterday, where the furniture still dimples the carpet with its absent weight". She has a Hanky of her own.
I do cry. What would my Hanky say? "Suze opened her eyes briefly in the hour that I sat looking upon her and I leapt into that last connection like she was a pool of water and I was on fire".