ET IN ARCADIA EGO
Fish and game soon slip away
Blue soul, darksome wandering
Soon severed us from loved ones, others.
Evening alters sense and image
From George Trakl’s Autumn Soul

Across the Valley, Christchurch, April 2008
“There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.
In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.”
Milan Kundera, Slowness (1995)

Cockatoo Island, Sydney, April 2008, jb

Recording battlefield sites, the interior of the Sydney War Memorial in Hyde Park offers a kind of cataclysmic catechism, a series of answers for which there is no question.
This lamentation, this litany, invites recitation.
Whether aloud, if that is allowed within the hallowed hall.
Or in one’s head, a silent internal navigation through places far away.
A poem without rhyme, or reason.
An ubi sunt prayer, the ‘where are?’ question echoing through the years.
Opposite this hotel apartment complex here in Sydney is an apartment building. With a facade of glass it is like a large vitrine, with lives exhibited. A distant echo of the small cabinets that would travel to the country school I went to as a child, magical boxes containing microcosmic exhibits from the museum in the city far away. Like the Wardian cases that the plant hunters packed New Zealand’s plants into to take them back to the Mother Land as exotic curiosities. And, echoes too, of Joseph Cornell’s constructions, shadow boxes containing surreal collections of elements, evoking a somehow forlorn air.
And these window boxes are most definitely forlorn. On display are not the exalted moments of life. These are not trophy cabinets, more like atrophy cabinets. Places where things go to waste away. Life’s detritus packed into these spaces, marginal zones, out of sight for the residents perhaps, but exhibited for the world beyond. Life as Readymade.


Cockatoo Island, Sydney, April 2008

And now, silence for awhile, flying away to other shores, and head in the clouds …

The clouds’ play — nature’s essential poetic game.
Novalis, Fragments (in Bachelard, Air and Dreams)
Clouds are numbered amongst the most oneiric of “poetic things”.
Gaston Bachelard, Air and Dreams: An Essay on the Imagination of Movement
