Most of the source images take place between Western and East Victoria but still, Hayley breeds an ambiguity that confuses geography. She repeats her insertions: using the same archived cut-out several times over across different images and collections. People have started noticing this repetition——the fabrication of these storylines becoming more and more obvious in the process. She makes sure that light sources clash object-to-object. She sizes things awkwardly.
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She maintains sharp outlines. Hayley navigates this tight rope with extreme care. When Hayley takes images of objects, she photographs all the way around something.
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She collects options of light and angle to ensure a clumsy edit. She makes sure collect whole perspectives and bigger pictures, even if she only uses a fraction of them. The second reason informs the first. History begins and ends with its documentation. For more information on Hayley and her practice, check out her website. As you warily tread the muddy ground, your eyes adjust to bright white fluorescent light. A trickle of water catches your ear.
You arrive, surrounded on all sides by windowless white walls, in a truncated thatch of forest. The smell of damp earth slows your pace as you navigate the terrain of fallen logs and low growing shrubs. Venturing beyond the first enclosure, a well-trampled corridor opens onto another white-walled room. The sound leads you along a stream fringed by greenery towards a small waterfall, whose pool offers a rippling reflection of the harsh ceiling lights. Every leaf is thrown into sharp relief against the saturated hues of the forest floor.
At first glance, the images appear to photos of galleries filled up with landscape installations. But in fact, the large-format photographs make of actual ground a figure, like a sculpture in a room, inviting viewers to attend to it with heightened care. At each of the selected sites, a fluorescent-lit white box is dropped atop a rectangular swatch of land—a fragment which, decontextualized from its surroundings, evokes its own set of associations, analogies, desires and anxieties.
The boxed scenes vary and trick the eye. A luscious field of wildflowers recedes into infinity in perfect one-point perspective. In another circumstance, the flat ground is strewn with trash. One wonders how far the artist and his crew had to wander the Russian winter in search of that vantage point, how his eye had to squint, and how the camera had to be trained at just the right angle, height, and time of day, to catch the resemblance without overemphasizing the identity between the scenes. This is not a matter of matching found landscapes to familiar scenes from paintings or historical photographs.
In Isolation, we are presented with the workings of a frame by means of the scenes that they enclose. Indeed, beginning with an isolated fragment of a landscape, the logic of the frame echoes outwards— the structure built around it, the frame of the camera viewfinder, leading to a photograph of its interior; the frame of the photograph with its own reflective glass surface , now hanging on the white wall of a gallery—whose form is repeated ad nauseum in the temporary architecture of the art world, from fairs and biennales to museum shows.
In Water and Dreams , Gaston Bachelard describes reveries afforded by ponds, lakes and rivers, in whose reflective surfaces the sky itself contemplates its own image. Functionally, these behind-the-scenes images reversed the gestalt, rendering the terrain ground again, while turning the built object into a diminished figure. Or does it? Such destabilization might suggest that Knecht is provoking the viewer to doubt the veracity of everything they are seeing—in the work and the world. Perhaps it is a digital confection, small-scale model, or terrarium.
It is compatible with an entirely different viewer relation: conveniently, what was once an unpalatable corner of a brownfield site, its rutted dirt and tufts of grass, is now ready to be swallowed in its photographic candy-coating. The key is that the image is consumable. The box is also a shelter. Knecht opened Isolation to visitors for the first time at his solo show at Kunstverein Arnsberg Radition, , where the mossy remains of a dead tree took centre stage.
Until this moment, despite a critical edge, the series has mostly performed at a degree of distance from the audience. The landscape-figure remains fully isolated within three gallery walls and closed in by the fourth wall of photographic re-presentation. In Buckow, Isolation categorically puts the viewer into the picture, both figuratively and literally.
Indeed, dramatic emphasis proceeds from the visitor literally taking leave of art ifice —moving through the artwork out into the world. As mentioned, during the vernissage visitors are blindfolded and led into the constructed space—dropped into the architecturally framed landscape in media res, without having seen the structure or its surroundings from the outside.
This is quite the opposite of a normal encounter with an artwork, where one approaches a proposed world and attempts, imaginatively, to penetrate its milieu. Here, after the blindfold is removed, the visitor explores the inside of a frame wherein everything is offered up for pleasure and contemplation, whether or not they are amendable as such in reality. Perhaps mud is getting into your shoes; perhaps you oppressed by the white lights, or harassed by insects. Now comes the crucial moment: however the teleported visitor relates to the situation, they must eventually emerge from it, into a beyond.
The must leave the structure. Every tree and puddle surrounding the structure become benefactors of a heightened psychological investment in twigs, leaves, etc. How long will it take for this uncanny perspective on the world beyond the artwork to wear off? It must be noted that Buckow is also known for guided, intensive experiences of terrain that are meant to be curative.
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Indeed, it is home to a number of paths designed in accordance with the naturopathic philosophy of the eighteenth century monk Sebastian Kneipp, who espoused the virtues of bare-foot walking through ice cold water, dewy grass and mud. This type of practice of is less about the appreciation of nature or landscape as an object of value than it is about being physically and spiritually transformed by it. Dehlia Hannah b. She holds a Ph. Her most recent project, A Year Without a Winter Columbia University Press, , revisits the literary and environmental aftermaths of the eruption of Mount Tambora through a transdisciplinary thought experiment in order to reframe contemporary imaginaries of climate crisis.
Nadim Samman b. In April, I was introduced to a brand-new social circle, one that had its own self-constructed idioms, in-jokes, nebula of references. In the handful of weeks that followed, I listened in. I kept myself attentive at bars, house parties, dinners, and I compiled qualitative data until I reached the point where I could also engage in the idioms, in-jokes, and references. This was me being fed information and testing their limits. It was me growing feelers for what I can say and how it will be interpreted. It was me constructing a new self.
Algorithm is intrinsic to human socialising. If X then Y, with both letters wholly limited to just five-or-so sentences. We spend our time exploring Xs, expanding our flowchart to as many Ys as possible. It shows us the consequences of algorithmically determining sentiment: the self is an assembly of neurons, independently collected and then yoked together.
In response to the sentiment, the bot will thrive, wilt, or remain the same. In the above algorithmic list, the numbers are our Xs and the letters our Ys: both confined, both representing our very limited options when constructing the social self. What, if any, is the difference between AI interactions and human interactions? At the age of twenty-one, Ash Keating goes to Canberra as an experimenting artist. Rosalie Gascoigne has passed away, but her grandson takes him to her studio.
He sells Ash paints: ultramarine, black, and yellow, which he uses to paint a local bridge. The work is undocumented and now long gone.
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He is given insight into something not yet created; into the creative process of making something out of nothing. Following the visit, he paints a bridge blue, punctures aerosol spray cans with a screwdriver, and sprays and drips yellows and blacks over the ultramarine. This is before fire extinguishers become a part of his practice. Creating this work, Ash is not performing. There is no spectacle to his work: no one there to tell people, this happened and no photos taken for Ash to tell people, this happened.
As a VCA honours student, Ash uses the found remnants in his own work: he too starts making something out of nothing. The revival of waste continues to be a part of his practice, this time escalating to a controversy that causes him to become a spectacle to the public for the first time. His art is documented as something that happened. With spectacle comes expectation and with expectation comes servitude. In the past, Keating has dealt with a work being finished long before his performance is due to end. In some cases, he has been compelled to value public interest over the integrity of a piece, painting past the point of completion for the benefit of the performance.
Love Letter to a Very Rocky Creek Hume Response relates back to his painting the bridge in Canberra —— video and photo documentation only capture the end, where he nails the completion of the work, and he revives the colours used unplanned twenty years ago. The work in Hume is not a spectacle, and we are given very little insight into his process: a video less than a minute long and a collection of paintings in his new Coburg North studio that represent fragments of the installation at large.
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He uses an airless sprayer to mimic the motions of the fire extinguishers used in Hume. The Hume wall and the Coburg North canvases are a synergy between the inside and the outside worlds, the concrete walls paralleling to a tee the inside of the building in Hume. It was cheap and accessible.
His practice is still very much about waste and reviving it. A lot of the paints he uses today were acquired after Masters Home Improvement was closed down and desperately trying to clear their stock. With her previous position as the prize manager and current role as an online editor, both for The Lifted Brow, Lujayn focuses on works that test what one is allowed to do within the scope of literature, bringing together multiple contexts of and disciplines for storytelling. View Synthesisers: Sound of the Future after dark with curator Heather Gaunt leading an immersive walk through, beginning at 6.
He was a key figure in the world of digital synthesisers and sound art in Australia in the s. OK EG are a Melbourne based project featuring Lauren Squire and Matthew Wilson, generating spaces between hypnotic polyrhythms and lush ambience through the mixing of experimental music and visual art.
They have performed at Dark Mofo and been mastered by Italian techno legend Neel.
The exhibition features unique artefacts from the Electronic Music Studios EMS of London, and anti traditionalist video art produced by key figures from the s, a vibrant time of creativity and exploration of experimental music in Australia.
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