Super Best Friends at McGregor Hall
Pics by qedqed
Entries Tagged as 'Culture'
Traces of a photographer
There’s a crush of people crowding around the complimentary wine and cheese while next to me a flash gun fires. Its early but already the small gallery space at the Front is crowded to get a glimpse of Beth Jenning’s first solo exhibition.
My attention is drawn to a stop sign that imposes itself on a brilliant blue sky. It’s a little crazy and very impulsive. Why take that picture? Next to it is a forlorn collection of wicker chairs on a Baltic beach bereft of their human cargo but still showing the unmistakeable signs of summers past. On another wall, isolated from the rest are a pair of well worn blue armchairs that haunt an empty room.
The work is deliberately ambiguous and although the brief explanations offer some relief they do little to inform the viewer. There are glimpses of other places yet they resonate easily in the Lyneham gallery, images that transcend the barriers of place and culture.
And it almost didn’t happen. Beth relates a story of how her plans to shoot stock photographs unravelled while travelling in Italy. Amid the visual splendor Beth stopped taking photos and took some time to ask herself what would she really like to capture. The journey that traces the impressions places and people make on each other began.
Beth’s technical proficiency is grounded in old school film techniques nurtured in the Lake Ginninderra College program and given room to grow during a crazy world tour across four continents to shoot twenty different families. Her images aren’t just a snapshot of some time and some place, they are moments in the eye of the artist.
leaving traces – A photography exhibition by Beth Jennings
14 to 27 April 2010 @ the Front Gallery
World Naked Bike Ride Canberra 2010 – Pics
click ‘Read more’ below for more pics.
On Sunday past, around a hundred brave individuals, yours truly included, took part in Canberra’s World Naked Bike Ride. Beginning with a mass body-painting session in a marquee down by the paddle-boat hire place, the ride meandered over Commonwealth Bridge, up to Parliament House, through the vintage car show near OPH, past some wedding photos at Commonwealth Place, over Kings Ave Bridge and thence through Commonwealth Park back to the starting point.
It was two hours of gentle cycling for most. Personally, my choice of vehicle and passenger was a tad ambitious and having to ride the damn Johnny Loco home to Downer straight after for another engagement was torture indeed. Halfway home, however, the Johnny Loco partially redeemed itself when I, having totally exhausted the last stringy muscle fibres in my spindly legs, could pause in the shade for a little nap in the caboose.
The police, also on bicycles, accompanied us the whole way, partly to ensure we obeyed the pre-arranged rules regarding exposure of genitals etc. and partly to escort us through intersections. In general they were a benign if not helpful presence. Despite fielding a number of complaints from members of the public, they did no more than hurry us away from the offendees.
There’s a video posted by Nic Welbourn on Facebook if you’re interested, and a gallery of photos below, some taken by me, some by my passenger. [Read more →]
Tweed Ride, Sat 6th June, 2009
Hello Loadedog,
We’re wondering if you can announce the Canberra Tweed Ride for us in Cuturazi. It’s being held on Saturday, 6 June, starting from the coffee van at Gorman House Markets at 11.30 for noon. The ride is about 15km with numerous stops for cafes, bars and foolishness. Wear vintage clothes – no lycra permitted – and ride any old bike-like thing you can get your hands on. Details are on the card attached to this mail.
Thanks heaps!
Steven
Bike Naked Ride World
I rode my bicycle, completely naked, over Kings Avenue Bridge today. I wonder how many people have had that pleasure? Halfway across, the AFP, who had been casting an inhibiting shadow over us since we convened in Glebe Park, cruised past and turned into Wendourie Drive near the Carillon in an apparent attempt to intercept me. I thought it apt to put my boxers back on at that point and, approaching, decided it was equally apt to proceed directly towards the copper heading from the car in my general direction.
‘Just keep those on’ he said. I thanked him for being very reasonable, especially considering he failed to mention my absent helmet. And despite maintaining a vigilant watch on such activities as were readily accessible via car (what, no bike patrol – perhaps they were reticent to appear part of the parade?), and despite making it clear that this naked bike ride wasn’t going to have any actual nudity involved, the cops were fairly amiable and even seemed to quite enjoy themselves at times.
There was a bit of nudity nevertheless. Besides my own miniscule effort, another fellow removed the last remaining piece of his clothing, a ragged scrap of muslin, for a naked mile in front of our august lakeside institutions, and a number of the ladies appeared seemingly miraculously (out the bushes) in Glebe Park clad only in bottom undergarments (and helmets) but daubed with colourful non-toxic paint on their bosoms which is apparently where the ‘law’ draws the line at ‘nudity’.
Thus the first ever Canberra edition of the World Naked Bike Ride came and went, without quite reaching critical mass, without altering the status quo or ending our reliance of petrochemicals. Nor were many feathers ruffled. One lady, sitting on the edge of the castle in Commonwealth Park, remarked loudly that we all looked disgusting. She wasn’t much of a looker even with her saggy bits covered, and she was also in the minority. Most were at worst bemused and at best delighted.
World Naked Bike Ride, Canberra
The World Naked Bike Ride comes to Canberra for the first time on Sun 15th March, 2009. Culturazi will be there and so should you. Check the details on the Facebook page.
Chipping Away
Back in nineteen-ninety-something I fell in love with Kettle Chilli Chips. New on the market, it was the first potato chip to dabble beyond the flavoural mores of the times. Prior to the Chilli Chip, the most exciting innovation in chippery had been the Ruffle, a sort of mini-orb of the corrugated chip (itself an innovation), that promised much in terms of texture, but was still limited to the essential flavours, being plain, salt and vinegar, chicken and barbecue. Besides rampant flavourings, the Kettle Chip range, which grew with time, exuded a sort of class and originality that set it apart from its competitiors. It was a superior chip worth the premium pricing.
The first few years were wonderful. I ate a large packet of Chilli Chips almost every afternoon. They sustained me for those last few, flex-buffering hours in the quietening office. They quelled my growing anxiety that I was wasting my life away.
Following the advent there amassed a plethora of competitors, the Red Rock Deli’s as well as the lame attempts of the traditional brands. Almost every visit to the supermarket evinced a new flavour or brand but, despite occasional flirtations, the Chilli Chip remained, for me, supreme. Until the awful news that the Kettle Chip company had sold out to Arnotts who had themselves, not much earlier, sold out to the Campbell Soup Company, to wider dismay (apparently the Kettle Chip brand was offloaded by Campbells to the Real McCoy snack food business in May last year).
Ultimately the loving of the Chilli Chip has been akin to an affair with a smack addict. It has resembled falling for a cult late night tv show on channel nine, only to be shunted and rescheduled and eventually descheduled. It has followed the trajectory of George Bush’s presidency. It has gone, in fewer words, to shit. Little by little the things that set Chilli Chips apart were whittled away. The last pack of Chilli Chips I ate might well have been a mislabeled packet of ’100% Flavour Free Chips’ for all the sensory gratification they offered. And where was the arse-burn?
I suppose the moral of this story is that things are often the victim of their own success. Enterprises that are inspired by a passion for quality and originality frequently fall victim to the blandness of corporate machinations. And as a consumer, all one can do is savour the good things while they last – and keep them to yourself. C’est la vie.
My New Hero
Click the pic to see the Naked Guy. Perhaps when you’re not at work.
Jesus Would be Pleased
‘Well, we all get up at 5:30am and shower thoroughly, shave all crevices, brush our teeth, and apply perfume and/or sweet smelling lotions. We then sneak back into bed smelling all fresh, where we proceed to wake up our husbands up with oral sex. After morning sex, we go make a three-course breakfast for our families and send everyone off to school/work. We attend aerobics/pilates/kickboxing classes weekly to keep up the cardio, and we eat protein bars to help sustain us. We masturbate five times daily to keep our drives up, and then we have a gourmet dinner ready when our husbands come home from a long day’s work. We then give our husbands a foot rub while they watch the game on TV. During half time we have sex again and then we wash up and retire for the night. Isn’t that how it works at your house?’
I think it’s pretty safe to say it doesn’t happen like that in our house…
The above comes from a web site called Christian Nymphos – Marital Sex: Spicy the way God intended it to be. Therein we learn that Christians, far from their stereotypical image of prudish frigidity, are getting freaky in the bedroom and even, shock horror, other rooms and in positions other than the missionary. The CN girls give advice on sexual technique, as well as theological advice such as, since anal sex isn’t mentioned in the Bible, it’s ok to do it with your hubby.
Sluttiness is next to Godliness – got that all you Christians. Rimming isn’t sinning. Speaking in tongues? Such cunning linguistics.
As with all things Christian, the fun has to stop somewhere. Generally this involves involving anyone else in the fun, which from my perspective takes a lot of the fun out of it. Nevertheless, it’s nice to think that our Christian brothers and sisters are enjoying a little more than lying back and thinking of John Howard.
PS. I’m pretty sure the quoted paragraph is ironic, in case the feminists amongst you were outraged by the stepford tone. It seems Christians can have a sense of humour as well.
Olympics Sexfest? My Arse
Did you notice the Olympics? Aussie Aussie Aussie! Yawn yawn yawn!
An anachronism? A farce? How many of this year’s heroes will be next year’s drug cheats? How many Beijingers had their houses demolished? Can we quantify the dividend in world peace and understanding? Would we be better off diverting sports funding to public health like Canada? Was it the protests over Tibet? The sickeningly jingoistic television coverage? Whatever the reason(s) I just didn’t get the Olympics this time around, as if it had become an irrelevancy in a world with far more pressing concerns than who is the fastest/strongest/most agile man/woman this year. And I missed SBS.
The Sheik and Dave
Tonight’s edition of Cutting Edge (SBS, 8.30pm), Embedded with Sheik Hilaly, made for interesting watching. The defining nature of Aussie attitudes to Islam is profound ignorance and Dave Zwolenski, the unassuming Aussie bloke sharing the Sheik’s house for two weeks, makes a reasonable fist of remaining open-minded in his quest to understand the workings of Islamic society in Australia.
I was surprised and pleased to learn that Muslim men, at least the Lakemba mob, sit down to do a pee, a practice I have long advocated. They also wash their bums with water as well as wiping after a poo, which strikes one as much more hygienic and aesthetic than the Aussie norm of smearing with paper alone. Then again, they also apparently shave their armpits and pubes, a practice I have long railed against for both man and woman, if for no other reason than who has the time? Wiping with the left hand is a dictum shared by many cultures, and makes sense if proper hand washing is difficult to obtain. I would have liked to ask the Sheik which hand Muslim men use to pleasure their wives (I’ve always wanted to know) but that’s probably why Dave was in the show and not I.
Horror Movie: It’s the 6.30 Fishing Show
Imagine this. A TV show called ‘Birding Australia’. A crew of Aussie blokes head out into the wilderness with traps, lures, radar and baits, and pluck birds from the skies, drowning them in aquariums so we can have a nice long wet look at them, simultaneously ripping a barbed hook out of their beak before giving them a tongue kiss and throwing them into the air. Unless they decide to cook them. Mmmm. Wedge-tailed eagle must, if anything, taste like chicken.
Apart from certain cultures’ sacred exclusions (and the western world’s pathetic embrace of the latest cute and cuddly victim of mankind’s rapaciousness) it is generally open slather on any creature of the earth as far as hunting, killing and eating goes. But in all this world of hunnin’ and killin’, of all the creatures subject to the indignity of slaughter at the hands of human beings, there is but one class of animal that must have salt rubbed into their wounds by starring in their own horror show, frequently of the snuff variety.
Work: What is it good for?
I know. It’s a silly question. What work is good for is shutting up people who ask ‘and what do you do?’ Because here in Australia, not having a readily accessible answer to that question is tantamount to admitting you’re a good-for-nothing, dole-bludging drug dealer with low self-esteem, BPD, irregular sleeping habits and poor personal hygiene. ‘What do you do?’ people ask, and everyone with a job answers not ‘I slop sludge’ but rather ‘I’m an [insert job title].’ Their very identity is bound with their job. They aren’t a human being who sludges out slop for a crust, they are a Culinary Services Operator.
I made it to work early this morning. Since then I’ve answered a slew of personal emails, smoked five cigarettes, bought and eaten a vegemite roll and coffee, done a lengthy crap, handled negotiations for a wedding we’re playing on Saturday and, the only work related task so far, worked out how to login to the telephone. And it’s only 11.30am. Time for another ciggie.
Unemployment is thus identity death. One can be a husband, father, son, friend, mentor, lover, train enthusiast, but without a ‘job’ we are invalid, a non-person, a drain on the country’s resources, a waste of space, a loser baby so why don’t we kill them.
It’s ten years since I last held a ‘proper’ job, that being Customer Service Operator at the DSS/Centrelink, a job offering such immense and fathomless psychological pain and emptiness that, had they run out of large rocks and mountains, it would have made a suitable alternative punishment for poor Sisyphus. Let it roll, baby, let it roll!
Henson
The public debate about Bill Henson’s exhibition is in full swing, as no doubt are the prosecutorial efforts of the NSW DPP, and very little of what one reads comes close to penetrating the hysteria that surrounds child pornography and pedophilia generally. ‘Revolting’ says Australia’s Prime Minister, of art made by one of Australia’s most annointed artists, who now stands accused like any dirty child porn peddlar, a sex offender, a pariah.
It’s a fait accomplis (once someone complains) according to the law, so maybe there’s something wrong with the law? And with our society.
And with the Prime Minister? Because I can say, as an adult, that I can look at images of naked adolescents and have all sorts of feelings, amongst which may be an aesthetic appreciation of a fine young human being, yet not feel any furtive compulsion to have sexual relations with a child. I am seldom revolted. Nor am I turned on.
But that’s just me, and the great majority of Australian adults (I presume) who think of having sex with kids as often as they think of dancing the samba with a turnip. Must we all be constrained by the perversion of the few? Shouldn’t there be some presumption of innocence? Maturity? Vale the carefree days of kids stripping off to run through the sprinkler. My Dad cleaned the pool naked, apparently to the vast amusement of the neighbours, and to me he represented an unfolding age of open-ness about the human body, an end to Victorian prudery. That was before AIDS and the culture wars, Tipper Gore, the Catholic Church’s pedophile woes and internet-delivered child porn. Man have we become uptight?
