KOBH #0082 — Yemmerrawannie — Australia’s original expatriate, Eltham, UK •
Only the song; no remains— Sans Raison #9 •
“Australia needs to look after its own history because others will not. Thus far, other than in respect for our war dead, Australia’s overseas efforts have been abject … “ — from Geoffrey Robertson, Dreaming too Loud, Chapter “Losing the Plot”, Vintage, Sydney, 2013.
[Note: Quotes are taken from Geoffrey Robertson, Dreaming too Loud, Chapter “Losing the Plot”, Vintage, Sydney, 2013. Hereafter cited as “Robertson (2013)”.]
A forgotten expatriate, an accidental expatriate, the first Australian buried overseas.
Yemmerrawannie of the Wangal people accepted an invitation from the retiring Governor of the New South Wales colony, Arthur Phillip, to visit England as his guest.
[Note: There are at least five spelling variation for this name. For consistency, I chose the version used in Robertson (2013) cf the headstone but it is the same fellow.]
“Yemmerrawannie-who?”, you ask.
Another Aboriginal who made the same voyage was Benelong.
Benelong is a name seen everywhere in Australia — landmarks and a parliamentary seat are named for him. No need for me to discuss him further.
Yemmerrawannie contracted pneumonia during his stay in London. Arthur Phillip paid for Yemmerrawannie’s treatment but unfortunately Yemmerrawannie died and he was buried in the Eltham church graveyard.
As part of the commemoration of the 200th anniversary since European colonisation of Australia, (aka the Bicentenary) Geoffrey Robertson QC, London-based Australian ex-patriate barrister and occasional TV show presenter was working (pro bono, Robertson stressed) on behalf of the Australian government to have Yemmerrawannie’s remains repatriated and re-buried at the Sydney Botanical Gardens in an elaborate mausoleum:
“It seemed a simple matter to uplift Yemmerrawannie, whose headstone stood in Eltham [South London]. But then, to his almighty embarrassment, the bishop [for South London] discovered that the grave was empty: the plot had been needed for more important white parishioners and the Aborigine’s bones had been thrown away.
Of course, the bishop confided, if it was bones we wanted, there were some lying around.” Robertson (2013), pp 19–20.
Any old bones would do in this case, from the Bishop’s viewpoint, it appears.
Long story short, this situation captured neither the imagination of the general public nor even politicians lusting after a unique publicity angle for the Bicentenary. (Note, Robertson made a point of name-checking future Prime Minister John Howard MP, for his show of particular disinterest with Yemmerrawannie’s story — see generally, Robertson (2013)).
Robertson had enough media profile to persuade Australian commercial television show “60 Minutes” to tell the story of Yemmerrawannie’s missing remains several years later:
“Yemmerrawannie’s headstone still stands against the church wall in Eltham … Alongside the wall is a path that runs from the local pub. When I visited in April 2007 with [Australian TV show] 60 Minutes we watched as lunchtime drinkers stumbled out to use the gravestone as a urinal. The Australian High Commission has asked that it be taken inside the church, but the parish council has refused the request so the headstone is desecrated every day.” Robertson (2013), p20.
Plainly, the headstone was in the same spot when I made this picture in December 2012 — the church graveyard is directly opposite. Yemmerrawannie’s remains were discarded and cast to parts unknown. I immediately saw the irony — whilst the Eltham Church authorities discarded Yemmerrawannie’s remains without hesitation; there have been other British institutions refusing requests to return Aboriginal remains to tribal descendants for decades.
Of late, the tide has turned a little — 100 years after being stolen, the Natural History Museum of London returned 37 sets of Ancestral human remains to Aboriginal elders in March 2019.
There are multitudes of Ancestral remains in Europe that should be repatriated, even if we cannot locate Yemmerrawannie.
And now for something completely different — yellow overalls — Sans Raison #8 •
Lest one unwittingly betray a predisposition towards anglophobia, (see KOBH#0079 and KOBH#0080) and since this image recently turned up amongst a trove of images believed lost for good due to an expired hard drive, I thought why not write about a topic close to my heart— British comedy.
This image was made during a tour of the private section at Highgate Cemetery in North London. Many visit the public access cemetery as Karl Marx and other famous names are buried in the public section. The private section is only accessible via guided tour.
This image epitomises the importance of the quality and the direction of light. This is London in winter — dusk, golden "hour" (depending upon location and season, golden “hour” and blue"hour" will run 20-40 mins), the sun happens to align with one thoroughfare within the cemetery and it happens to shine on a particular tomb, just so.
It seems too perfect, too cinematic but zero special effects are at play — just the sun setting. To divine the image, attention needs to be paid.
Aside from the cemetery, Highgate also reminds me of local luminary Graham Chapman from Monty Python. I know not where he’s buried, but I definitely know his local watering hole — The Angel at Highgate. The Angel was where he drank “often and copiously”, so said the unofficial blue plaque unveiled in 2012 in a ceremony officiated by two of the Pythons — Michael Palin and the very recently departed, Terry Jones. (See here for Obituary).
In that unimaginable, prehistoric epoch — before the internet — what and when a programme was broadcast on television took on major importance. As a young comedy fan, aside from the comic magnificence of seeing repeats of Monty Python feature films, paying attention to television guides was a necessity to seek out any off-kilter independent comedy. Predictable lowest-common-denominator sitcoms, like the fictional “When the Whistle Blows” as portrayed in Ricky Gervais’s “Extras” were broadcast on most channels but I’m referring to non-mainstream comedy.
Luckily, the cutting edge of British comedy was revealed one late night on the public broadcaster, the ABC. Oblivious to what I was about to see, the ABC had bought rights to “The Young Ones” from the BBC — and as Rick would say — “It was ah-mazing!”
Who will ever forget Rick proudly wearing his yellow overalls entertaining his party guests?
Keep in mind that if I hadn’t decided to stay up late on a school night to check out this unknown show “The Young Ones”, I may have forgotten about the show and never seen it at all. Before internet, before content streaming, before there were affordable video recorders. Attention needed to be paid.
For some folks today, the fear of missing out (FOMO) would have been unbearable. However, in the current epoch — no FOMO — I have just watched a newly discovered (for this writer, anyways) documentary film “How the Young Ones Changed Comedy”.
Now, a final flourish for this piece — a small but poignant direct link between Monty Python and the Young Ones — the recently departed Terry Jones had a cameo in season two of the Young Ones playing a boozing, brawling priest.
In vino veritas, In aqua sanitas* Part 2— Liminality #6 •
The year 2020 is the 250th anniversary of first contact between Captain Cook on his secret mission to “discover” Terra Australis and the Gweagal at Kamay (Botany Bay). Here’s a salient extract from the text of Cook’s secret instructions:
You are also with the Consent of the Natives to take Possession of Convenient Situations in the Country in the Name of the King of Great Britain: Or: if you find the Country uninhabited take Possession for his Majesty by setting up Proper Marks and Inscriptions, as first discoverers and possessors.“ [My emphasis]
Cook’s attempts to engage the Gweagal at Kamay amounted to: firstly, construing Gweagal warnings to stay away as invitations to come ashore; secondly, the exchange of missiles — spear vs musket shot; and lastly, offering beads as barter or gifts, which were left untouched by the Gweagal.
Otherwise, Cook spent his time taking possession: possession of shields, of spears. And one more possession…
This post expands on themes discussed in KOBH #0079, and akin to that image, this post has a slightly different point of view on essentially the same subject. Here again is Bare Island and even though this is the same cliff face, the sandstone striations are smooth like cream instead of crusty and crenelated. A slight shift in viewpoint can reveal a markedly different perspective.
The discussion in this post was prompted by the story of how a Gweagal shield became part of the British Museum's collection, apparently acquired by Cook at Kamay 250 years ago, and further, discovering a discrepancy between the narrative in the podcast versus the book text in explaining the acquisition.
The BBC podcast “A History of the World in 100 objects” constructed a history narrative using items in the Museum’s collection. The podcast was presented by the Museum’s director Neil MacGregor. Here is a quote from the book version of “Chapter 89 — Gweagal shield”:
When [Captain James Cook] reached the northern tip of Australia, Cook formally declared the whole east coast a British possession … This was not Cook’s usual procedure when land was already inhabited. His normal practice was to acknowledge the rights of existing populations to the land they occupied, for example in Hawaii. Perhaps he failed to grasp how intimately the indigenous Australians occupied and controlled their continent. We do not know what lay behind this momentous first step in expropriation. Not long after the expedition returned to England, Banks and others recommended Botany Bay as a Penal Colony to the British Parliament, so beginning the long and tragic story that for some indigenous Australians spelt the end of their communities. [My emphasis]
(p 584, “A History of the World in 100 Objects”, Allen Lane)
The highlighted portion in bold was not included in the broadcast/podcast version. This point is easily verifiable as both the audio and the transcript are still accessible.
Whatever the reason for this editorial difference I would observe that such an opinion would be deemed highly challenging (or highly favourable) to a particular side of Australia’s history wars. Such is the distinction in historical-political views between the former Colonial power versus the former colony’s current Conservatives. That observation is further underscored by this subsequent quote — methinks it would trigger Australian Conservatives and the right-wing commentariat:
The bark shield stands at the head of centuries of misunderstanding, deprivation and genocide.
One of the big questions in Australia remains how or indeed whether any meaningful reparation can be made.
(p 585, “A History of the World in 100 Objects”, Allen Lane)
After the Gweagal shield was discussed in the podcast it became an minor Australian cause célèbre. The podcast and hence the Museum relied on British eyewitness accounts to describe the provenance of the shield. The British claimed to not know the identity of the shield’s owner and when found, the shield was seemingly abandoned. So for the British, it was fairly acquired. (Refer to the podcast episode or book chapter for exact details.)
Not long after the podcast series ended, a Gweagal man and political activist Rodney Kelly asserted that:
Almost 250 years ago, Captain James Cook and his men shot Rodney Kelly’s ancestor, the Gweagal warrior Cooman, stole his shield and spears, and took them back to England in a presciently violent opening act of Australian east coast Aboriginal and European contact.
(Guardian, 25 September 2016)
[Note — this Guardian article includes both the Gweagal’s account and the British account of first contact. Highly recommended reading.]
Rodney Kelly’s appeal to moral rights to repatriate the artefacts was refused by the Museum.
Further, the British Museum subsequently re-calibrated its provenance story for the shield — it is different to what had been published, thereby avoiding the need to directly consider Rodney Kelly’s claim. The Museum suggests that perhaps this shield was not the shield Cook and Banks described.
Net effect — status quo — the Museum retains possession of the shield and Kelly’s claim is rejected.
However, given the a priori facts — the shield was definitely acquired in Australia by a British naval officer; the shield was made by an Australian Aboriginal, almost certainly a member of the Gweagal people. 240-odd years later, a Gweagal descendant has made a moral rights claim of succession and repatriation for said shield and other artefacts held by the Museum.
To paraphrase an earlier quote taken from the book/podcast:
One of the big questions … remains how or indeed whether any meaningful reparation can be made.
One may wonder out loud — given the context, what practical contribution could the British Museum itself make towards such an endeavour?
[*In wine there is truth, in water there is good sense (or good health).]
In vino veritas, In risu veritas* Part 1— Liminality #5 •
This location is more specifically Bare Island but it’s part of Botany Bay, a landmark with history to it. Across the bay is where the uninvited Britons (thanks to Captain James Cook’s secret mission) and the local tribe, the Gweagal people made first contact — more on that encounter in the next post.
Meanwhile, let’s begin at the end...
After enduring geographic and corporeal (liberal use of the lash) trials and tribulations, the descendants of the first wave of colonists, the First Fleeters, gradually became a major economic cog for the British Empire, and eventually gained a modicum of independence as a nation-state, albeit heavily leaning upon British customs and institutions including its national flag design which is still in use.
One British commentator (Sir Tony Robinson who portrayed Baldrick on the television show “Blackadder”) outlines the positive stereotype of the modern Australian character at the end of a travel documentary:
Straight-talking, practical, very funny, very ironic and very matey.
This post is a response to the “Australia” chapter of a book about drunkenness (“A Short History of Drunkenness” by Mark Forsyth, Viking 2017). The author is British and it’s a common ploy when seeking to extract some laughs out of drunkenness for Brits to tell tales of Australia.
The author confessed to having enjoyed writing the Australia chapter most.
Settting the scene, the author states:
Australia’s landscape was (and is) an unfriendly place where all plant and animal life was (and is) designed by a venomous and vengeful God. [My emphasis]
No white cliffs of Dover but instead, honey-coloured cliffs of sandstone, striated and crenelated. Unfriendly, though? Perhaps it’s in the eye of the beholder.
Australia was established by the British as a penal colony. Those responsible had deliberately recruited prison wardens of dubious character and further, those overseers allowed alcohol — rum in particular — to become entertainment, political power and currency— three in one!
Alcohol was pivotal to the running of the colony.
Adding a splash of hyperbole for humour's sake, the author writes:
This was an unfarmed, unrefrigerated and unfriendly continent where all of the women were, quite literally, convicted prostitutes.
"Unfarmed" is definitely incorrect, given the activities of the Indigenous peoples — see "Dark Emu" by Bruce Pascoe. “All of the women" is also definitely wrong as no Indigenous woman was convicted but it does amply illustrate a common narrative omission when discussing Australia, namely, marginalising the Indigenous people — a consistent British trait — again, see "Dark Emu" by Bruce Pascoe.
Also the author recounts the night when the First Fleet’s female convicts were first ferried ashore by quoting the Chaplain who witnessed events:
[I]t is beyond my ability to give a just description of the scene of debauchery and riot that ensued during the night.
For humour, the “Australia” chapter presses heavily on negative stereotypes that (mainly) Britons hold when it comes to Australians — uncouth, heavy-drinking, scheming, if not flat-out villainous.
However, the drink-related shenanigans (breezily recounted with a hint of judgmental mockery) committed by these "Australians" were the handiwork of fresh-off-the-boat Britons (plus a number of non-British fellow travellers). Australia, the nation-state, won't exist for another century at least. Otherwise "Australian" refers inaccurately to the numerous Indigenous tribal nations. The Cadigal people lived at the place where the First Fleeters pitched their camp, named Sydney Cove by the British. (Note: Sydney Cove is home of the Cadigal. Not to be confused with the Gweagal people of Botany Bay.)
The Cadigal people were not drinking the rum.
The British colonists were definitely drinking rum.
It is an act of bad faith and disownership to imply that these colonists are "Australians". (It does hearten or amuse modern Brits, presumably.)
This observation about the British is most poignant and pertinent — on one hand, disowning the First Fleet people; on the other hand, claiming ownership of the land unbeknownst to the people already living on that land.
[*In wine lies the truth, in laughter lies the truth]
Kill your darlings or Ceci n’est pas (une partie de) mon livre* — Sans raison #7 •
I recently published my second book.
The book is based on one of my projects concerning Paris. This particular series crystallised into 36 images of the Eiffel tower.
An homage to the city with a nod to two artists — Paul Cézanne and Hokusai. Cézanne made countless studies, sketches and paintings of Mont Sainte-Victoire, which presides over his hometown, Aix-en-Provence. I visited Aix-en-Provence to see Cézanne’s favourite views of the mountain and his studio. The studio includes a floor to ceiling window that covers most of one wall. Appropriately, all that one could see was varieties of green plant life. No wonder the myriad uses of green-blues on his canvases. He could study them constantly from his studio. Cézanne’s studio is now a museum so photography is forbidden.
Proper appreciation of Hokusai’s works was a gift of one of my Paris visits. The Grand Palais hosted a massive survey of Hokusai’s work. Hokusai was a printmaker with a studio of apprentices (akin to Rembrandt) and many of his works were for mass consumption and hence mass produced. Included in that exhibition was the entire series “36 Views of Mt Fuji — one view being the now-ubiquitous “Great Wave off Kanagawa”.
The shock revelation for me was the “child” of that series made by French artist Henri Rivière, “36 Views of the Eiffel Tower” also being exhibited. Rivière’s works were deliberately stylised to appear like japanese woodblock prints and even signed off with a red ink seal for each image. Both sets of images used multiple viewpoints and included the visual motif of the mountain or the tower respectively, somewhere within the frame.
Those were the seeds of my own “36 Views of the Eiffel Tower” but I recoiled from duplicating Henri Rivière. I adopted the opposite strategy — same viewpoint, same composition — to witness the transition before me, whenever I made an image.
While perusing the book a friend asked — tongue-in-cheek — whether it required any more than a day’s effort making the images. The images do ostensibly depict the transition from light to dark. In an epoch where it is the norm to live stream video whilst on holiday or to post to social media a photograph of one’s meal before taking a bite — fair question? Perhaps.
However, on further contemplation, it’s a supremely unknowing query. How many years does a sprinter train to run 100m in under 10 seconds? How long does a musician rehearse to be note-perfect performing a piece which may last 20 minutes? Also, the composition itself — how long did the composer work on a piece that lasts 20 minutes as a performance? Since I’m listening to John Coltrane as I write, I know that at a particular time during his time as band leader (cf being a member of Miles Davis’ band) Coltrane would practice between sets of a live show. He wasn’t learning the tunes he was honing his ability to improvise, that is, working out like an athlete.
Between sets.
Musical improvisation is often explained by musicians as composition at the speed of thought — a music composer is conventionally pictured with pen and blank score sheets scribbling down the notes but an improviser is playing the notes as they come to mind and hands.
As a photographer image-making can be akin to conducting an experiment. It just might fail. So one perseveres and sometimes there are pleasing results. So to answer the query — many images made over a number of visits to Paris.
When it comes time to editting one must adopt Ernest Hemingway’s maxim to writers — “kill your darlings”. The work as a whole cannot be compromised by clinging to a single favourite element that jars with the overall oeuvre.
To provide an example omitted from the 36 views — an image I enjoy immensely but I eventually knew it would not fit into the full sequence. Made during blue hour, it is a long exposure of the hourly sparkling light show. The moving image appears like sparkling champagne whilst a long exposure still image depicts this hyper-glowing entity. Also, the viewpoint shows the strata of low cloud cover — the pale mauve of an overcast sky at blue hour then transitions to blue and indigo when the eye to ascends beyond the striated clouds.
To see samples of the final selection, a preview of the book and for purchase — click here.
[* This is not (a part of) my book. Apologies to René Magritte’s “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” aka “The Treachery of Images”]
Cartier-Bresson, the Pinhole lens and the End of the Year— Sans raison #5 •
A friend was disappointed that I couldn’t share any images from travelling to Paris this year. (For health reasons, I could not travel). However, I do have a catalogue of Paris images from past visits that so far only I have seen.
This image may serve as a type of oblique homage to one of the incipient influences on my photography — Henri Cartier-Bresson. (He is an influence on innumerable photographers). On the face of it, my image is alien to the numerous iconic Cartier-Bresson “decisive moments”. A deliberate choice on my part to draw attention to an image that is less known but, one of my favourites, that he made of Paris — Pont Neuf shrouded in fog (see here).
Further, this image was made with the most rudimentary type of lens — a pinhole lens. (The image is part of a series I began in Paris that I decided not to pursue. Still, there are some individual images I particularly appreciate).
A pinhole is exactly as it says — no glass elements to provide super sharp rendition; just a tiny physical hole to admit light, recorded by some light-sensitive medium to produce an image— in this case — a digital sensor. For some, the rendering of the scene by a pinhole lens is unfamiliar but this contrast illustrates the small role that can be played by choice of equipment. The softness of the rendering by a pinhole lens being analogous to the fog in the Cartier-Bresson image.
Historically, pinhole lenses are a fundamental aspect of photographic imaging, connected to the “camera obscura” used by artists way back as an aid to more accurate drafting or rather “tracing” the image projected. This same technique was used by artists such as Andy Warhol, except in Warhol’s case he used an overhead or slide projector — all of which sparked a controversy for some art critics.
As a former photography teacher, constructing and using a pinhole camera was a typical lesson to teach. The lesson illustrated two key principles of photography — viewpoint and the quality of light (irrespective of the equipment used). For this image, I am standing on Pont des Arts facing east (just like Cartier-Bresson), the full span of the bridge across the Seine in frame and the quality of the light is thus because it’s blue hour.
Incidentally, Pont Neuf means “New Bridge” but it is actually the oldest extant bridge across the Seine.
Another detail to note in this image is that the black needle-thin spire at the centre belongs to the sadly incinerated Notre de Dame Cathedral.
A musing made in an earlier post KOBH#75 merits illustration. Lapérouse, a suburb in Sydney, Australia — sandstone pools; Rue Lapérouse in Proust’s Paris — art nouveau design.
Research has revealed this structure to be an “édicule” for architects and on a practical level — the entrance to the Paris Métro station. I love the fan or scallop shell-like shape and the slightly corrugated glass. This style of édicule, designed by Hector Guimard, was nicknamed the “dragonfly”.
Sidenote: as much as these Guimard designed structures are appreciated now, as recently as 1962 an even more elaborate Guimard design at Métro Bastille was destroyed — art nouveau has its detractors.
Salvador Dali described them as follows:
“those divine entrances to the Métro, by grace of which one can descend into the region of the subconscious of the living and monarchical aesthetic of tomorrow”.
Edicule does have an english translation or cognate but it connotes a small shop or changing shed at the beach — kiosk.
Marcel to Monty, Paris to Port Sydney— Liminality #4 •
I have been slowly reading an adaptation of the first volume of Marcel Proust’s master work “A la Recherche du Temps Perdu” (In Search of Lost Time).
Given the size (seven volumes) and depth of the work, numerous adaptations and translations have been attempted — some sincere and at least one that this writer knows, comical.
Most recently I read about the star-crossed love affair between Charles Swann and the elusive Odette de Crécy. In the tumult of desire, Swann’s thoughts inexorably became references to his paramour, no matter the situation. At a grand ball where Odette was a no-show — much to Swann’s disappointment — Swann chatted with General de Froberville and the banter touched upon the marine explorer Jean François de Galaup, Comte de La Pérouse. La Pérouse sailed the world in the name of science at the behest of King Louis XVI, leaving from Brest in August 1785. His last confirmed landfall was at Port Sydney in January 1788 before vanishing during the subsequent leg of his voyage.
For Swann, “La Pérouse” not only referred to the ill-fated navigator of renown but, more compellingly, conjured “Rue La Pérouse” — Odette’s address.
It delights this writer no end to picture the contrast between the boulevards of Belle Époque Paris described by Proust and the shallow sandstone tidal pools La Pérouse and his crew visited.
La Pérouse — commemorated by, inter alia, a Paris street and a Sydney suburb. (Note: there’s a formidable list of landmarks named for La Pérouse).
The "comical" reference to, if not bona fide adaptation of, Proust’s oeuvre is the Monty Python sketch — the “All England Summarize Proust Competition" — where contestants are allowed 15 seconds to summarize the entire seven-volume work.
For the record — although it’s not from the Python sketch — the most succinct summary this writer knows of “A la Recherche du Temps Perdu” reads as follows:
Previously, I wrote about the sage aphorism "Liber librum aperit — one book opens anotherr”. (See KOBH #0056).
Discovering a previously unknown but apposite book is a great joy — a benefit of reading regularly.
Inevitably, a corollary of inconstant reading is encapsulated by the japanese term “tsundoku — a gathering pile of unread books”. A term without direct English translation.
This writer strongly identifies with this phenomenon. Books pique one’s interest, are acquired, yet they sit unopened. Adding to a pile.
The silver lining is that by some intuition, occasionally, a book from the tsundoku is the exact right book to open.... and it happened this week. (More on that particular book in a future post).
On reflection, we could regard a library as the ultimate tsundoku — a plethora of unread books catalogued and ready for exploration.
This particular library is housed in the Strahov monastery founded in the 12th century. The library itself is 17th century baroque decor.
Sometimes when I write these notes to complement the images there's a clear agenda, a fully formed topic emerges.
Sometimes it's a matter of free association. When I considered this image, two words and an acronym came to me: Spiral, Meniscus and ROYGBIV.
Spiral
The sandstone shape in the foreground with the distinctive sea sponge fissures immediately reminded me of "Land Art" or "Earth Art" specifically the piece “Spiral Jetty” by Robert Smithson. The key difference is that one is naturally occurring; the other is the product of human fabrication. The key similarity is the pleasing spiral curve in both instances. The attention of the observer is captivated by the shape/symbol.
Meniscus
The exaggerated curved horizon reminded me of the word "meniscus", namely, inter alia — a crescent or a crescent-shaped body; the convex or concave upper surface of a column of liquid, the curvature of which is caused by surface tension.
Accurate but rather technical and rather drab.
Memory chimed in to reveal the poetic association of this word for me — the poem "Out of Time" by Australian poet and journalist, Kenneth Slessor. In particular, this extract:
Fixed in a sweet meniscus, out of Time,
Out of the torrent, like the fainter land
Lensed in a bubble's ghostly camera,
The lighted beach, the sharp and china sand
Glitters and waters and peninsula -
The moment's world it was; and I was part,
Fleshless and ageless, changeless and made free.
ROYGBIV
The acronym learnt in high school science class — the colour spectrum in order — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. Emphasis for this writer's purposes is the last three colours. This image was made with a viewpoint of south: frame-left is west and frame-right being east.
Closely examine the strata of the sky furthest from the horizon — the colour transitions left to right, from violet to indigo to blue. From our terrestrial viewpoint the frame-right is further from the Sun so the sky tends to blue whilst frame-left is closer and appears violet.
In one frame, the visual vocabulary of blue hour.
(Sidenote: Port Botany container port appears on the horizon — the cranes so resemble giraffes on the savannah).
More accurately entitled “And did those feet in ancient time”, the poem and latterly, hymn popularly known as “Jerusalem” was written by William Blake — it is de facto England’s (not the United Kingdom’s) national song. It’s the song played, for example, when the England rugby team plays another “Home country” such as Wales or Scotland.
In his lifetime, was Blake fêted for writing what was to become England’s anthem and for his works as a visionary, printmaker and poet…?
Not so much.
Partially due to his own sometimes prickly temperament, Blake was more of an outsider, even though his talent was apparent — he did have occasion to meet with Sir Joshua Reynolds when Reynolds was President of the Royal academy of Arts — they did not become firm friends. So, kudos for Blake did not follow.
Pictured above is not the final resting place of Blake’s remains but rather, as writer Iain Sinclair explained, “…[a] memorial [that] had been set up in 1960, an episode of civic pride, to smooth over minor bomb damage, after the Blitz”.
Walking distance from Old Street tube station, the memorial is located at Bunhill (or perhaps apocryphally) also known as “Bonehill” Fields — a cemetery for Non-Conformists — unconsecrated ground. Burial on unconsecrated ground — a gravely serious matter for the faithful.
Today the cemetery persists but the space functions more practically as a busy thoroughfare for pedestrians. Blake’s memorial is at the very centre of the walking path. However, the whereabouts of his actual remains are unknown as he was buried in a mass grave in 1827.
He died a pauper.
In 1957, 200 years after his birth, Blake was honoured with a bronze bust in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey.
On the face of it, no assistance was forthcoming by a benefactor of any kind to lend aid to the poet 131 years earlier, pre-mortem. This is a veritable cliché for artists — ignored when alive; venerated when long dead.
The enduring influence of Blake’s works are manifold but a few are most prominent for this writer:
Beat poet Allen Ginsberg used to play the harmonium and sing Blake’s verse (see video );
the band of the Lizard King Jim Morrison, The Doors, took its name from Blake’s writings via Aldous Huxley’s book title “The Doors of Perception”. Note, Blake’s original lines being: “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is: Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.”; and
Johnny Depp played a character named William Blake in the film “Dead Man”. Blake’s poems are cited in the film. Depp recites selections of Blake’s poetry on the soundtrack album.
However, more recondite and most delicious for this writer is the direct quote of Blake’s poetry by Jimi Hendrix in the slow blues “Voodoo Chile” found on the studio album Electric Ladyland (Side One, Track Four):
Well my arrows are made of desire
From far away as Jupiter's sulphur mines
(Way down by the Methane Sea, yeah)
I have a humming bird and it hums so loud
You think you were losing your mind, hmmm
Compare England’s national song, the following lines:
Reason, Rimbaud and Strange Flavour — Sans Raison #1 •
For no reason, this prose-poem by Arthur Rimbaud has been circling through my head like an earworm:
To a Reason
A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony.
A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders.
You look away: the new love!
You look back,—the new love!
“Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with time,” the children sing to you. “Build wherever you can the substance of our fortunes and our wishes,” they beg you.
Arriving from always, you’ll go away everywhere.
(Translation from the French by John Ashbery, original text available here).
Eschew intellectual evaluation of the piece and simply savour the words and rhythm— semble in Chinese cuisine, when tasting notes are required and the response is 怪味 — “strange flavour”. Indeed, strange flavour is a bona fide cuisine category. Intriguing, surprising, pleasing but unfamiliar.
To describe my response to “To A Reason”— “We had the experience but missed the meaning” (cf TS Eliot “Dry Salvages”).
Reviewing a raft of images, a number of them are thematically unconnected but nevertheless pleasing to my eye. So, I created a new series nodding at Rimbaud’s poem, entitled “Sans raison” or “For no reason” to share them.
The above image happens to visually rhyme with the series I am currently reviewing that is centred on Paris, intended for a book.
The cloud is magnificent — who would need to divine a particular semantic purpose for a cloud?
Kind of Blue and Cardinal Points — Liminality #2 •
To paraphrase a favourite album title: “I don’t know this world without Miles Davis”. Further, I don’t know this world without the album “Kind of Blue” which is marking its 60th anniversary this year, as well as being the origin for the name of this blog.
As with many an œuvre that is both a bona fide masterpiece and nearly ubiquitous — like seeing Van Gogh paintings on tea towels — “Kind of Blue” is playing in cafés and bars everywhere 24/7. It’s too easy to take it for granted — like a firm foundation beneath one’s feet, to continue a point raised in my previous blog.
It is little known that Chinese classical philosophy actually posited five cardinal directions— East, South, West, North and Centre — one includes where one stands. Not as far-fetched as one may think— despite what occidental histories choose to include or omit — it is indisputable that the Chinese invented the compass thanks to the discovery of magnetite or the lodestone. Our origin or fifth cardinal point, if you like, is from whence we navigate — commonsense.
“Kind of Blue” is a cardinal point for my aesthetic values. A way to navigate beyond the horizon — like sailors and wolves raising their eyes to greet the moon and finding their way accordingly.
This image is about lighting the way. I made it just after moonrise. Although the moon itself is unseen, it illuminates what’s below. A priori there is also artificial lighting present — it’s the leitmotif of the entire series — natural/organic and its correlative — rectilinear and human-originated.
Music may be invisible; yet we palpably experience its emotional and sensate effects.
To quote from TS Eliot’s poem “The Dry Salvages”:
... [M]usic heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
Liminality — a series of meditations on Sydney and beyond — Liminality #1 •
To quote the great sage, Lao Zi , who has been (for me) mistranslated:
千萬之行始於足下
A journey of a thousand miles begins... in most translations “...with the first step” but more accurately the second part of the phrase reads “... beneath one’s feet”.
I purposely include the original text (published circa 4th century BCE) above:
as authority for my preferred translation; and
llustrate the living memory that is a published text — being able to read Classical Chinese grants one a ticket to travel back two millennia at the speed of sight.
For me, “beneath one’s feet” evokes firm footing, full presence, knowing one’s situation meta/physically.
The first step, by way of distinction, is the result or “trace” of action. Action itself is the transition from the static. A journey begins from the stationary ... I envisage Giacometti’s striding figure leitmotif... I use the trope myself occasionally. (Note the figure striding top left, as well as Giacometti’s works on the plinth.)
This new series ”Liminality” is about transition, in-between, overt and covert correlations, as much as it is about sharing more glimpses of Sydney.
This image is my starting point: Dee Why at dusk— daylight recedes, blue hour approaches; stillness and motion are apparent; and paramount is the visual motif— organic and rectilinear shapes exemplified in sandstone (continuing the just-completed series Sydney Sandstone) and concrete.
Sandstone evokes geological time as equally, concrete connotes enduring human presence since the Roman empire. Both are prime materia of long-standing.
Note the fissures in the foreground sandstone that are identical to those of sea sponges. Then, the eye moves forward to see the straight concrete edge and painted lane markings of the saltwater pool, a perennial feature of many Sydney beaches. Ocean waves spill over into the pool as swimmers accumulate their laps.
Organic and rectilinear; Mother Nature abuts human construction.
Close Enounters of the Absurd/Third Kind: Truffaut, Spielberg, Ford and Gehry •
During one visit to the Museum (designed by Frank Gehry) I took in an exhibition honouring the Nouvelle Vague (New Wave) director François Truffaut. Truffaut's films are keenly observed stories of unreliable appetites and human frailties. Before ever visiting the city Paris, his films infused my musings on that place — my imagined “Paris”.
What I vividly recall in that exhibition was not the expected artefacts and flickering images of my “Paris” — all were present and given attention. Instead, I honed in on a script sitting in a display case — a copy of the script for "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" autographed by director Steven Spielberg. (Spielberg discusses Truffaut on set [here]).
Truffaut played a scientist pivotal to first contact with the extra-terrestrials. He learnt to communicate with the extra-terrestrials via five musical notes and hand gestures. (Watch the scene [here]).
Seeing the script, I realised that long before learning of the French New Wave, as a youngster, my first conscious cinema encounter with Truffaut was through this canonical sci-fi film.
I still laugh at the incongruity.
From watching alien arrivals to avidly watching "Les 400 Coups”, "Jules et Jim" and the rest of Truffaut’s works.
Absurd.
Further, American filmmakers including Arthur Penn, Peter Bogdanovich, Martin Scorsese and Spielberg loved the French New Wave.
These directors were sometimes considered members of an American New Wave.
Bear in mind, the cohort of filmmakers in post-WWII Paris (including Truffaut) who became the New Wave devoured the work of earlier American filmmakers such as Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Welles and John Ford.
Circular? Symbiotic?
Absurd.
Spielberg went on to create Indiana Jones (played by Harrison Ford), the greatest ever movie character, according to a 2015 poll,
Frank Gehry (the architect of the museum) knew a certain Harrison Ford, before Hollywood stardom. Gehry explained he had encountered Ford as a contractor who bid on cabinet-making projects.
A profile written to mark Gehry's 90th birthday included an anecdote about an intriguing photo hanging in his office.
Ford learnt to fly planes along with the acting and carpentry. The architect and the actor went flying together.
Hence, Gehry has a photo of himself seated in a wooden biplane piloted by the guy who played Indiana Jones.
A few weeks ago I was in Nice, France to visit the magnum opus of Henri Matisse, the Chapelle du Rosaire at Vence. While seated in the intimately sized space I watched the colours of the stained glass window shimmer on the white wall opposite: blue, yellow and green. (Photography in the chapel is forbidden).
When he was younger, Matisse spent a couple of summers in Belle-Île, Brittany. He was invited by an older painter, an impressionist, friend of Claude Monet. That painter, little known today, was an Australian, born in Sydney — John Peter Russell.
Matisse said, “Russell was my teacher, and Russell explained colour theory to me.”
I found this quote after the trip to Vence but I had just seen an exhibition of Russell's work including paintings made in Brittany. One in particular, "Rough Sea, Morestil" reminded me of the colour palette and movement in this image made at Bronte Beach.
