Overcoat Issue Three: Dreams

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reams

Overcoat is an independent production publication. The articles appearing within this publication reflect the opinions of their respective authors and are not necessarily those of the publishers or editorial team.

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Editor: Alexandra Gibson Sub-Editor: Hannah Grey Designer: Pete Saunders Illustrator: Sam Lyne Cover: Tristan Greszko — Light pillars are an optical phenomena that occur under very specific conditions — very cold air, high humidity, and little wind. The cold air (in this case, about -30F/-35C) freezes the water vapor into tiny ice crystals that remain suspended in the atmosphere, reflecting ambient or artificial light and creating the illusion of pillars. hello@undercoat.net www.undercoat.net

contributors Leyla Acaroglu (RMIT University) Dr Deirdre Leigh Barrett (Emory University/University of Tennessee) Adam Brereton (Australian National University) Warren Frey Stacey Isaac (Whitehouse Institute of Design/ L’Accademia Italiana) Hanna Lachert (The Fryderyk Chopin University of Music) Jessica Tremp Phil Vardy (University of Queensland)

additional images Emma Battaglene Fernando Barraza Solange Fabião Fernando Guerra Sean Hastings Jackie Kay Kim Maisch Overcoat is an online publication that aims to share the highest standard of work being produced in creative and professional fields from different institutions globally. It is a platform designed to inspire and connect students and alumni within their own community and with like-minded people around the world. If you would like to contribute work to Overcoat, please send us an email.

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dreams/editor This issue we look at the concept of “dreams” — psychological, motivational and interpretive. During the production of this issue, I have been reading Daryl Dellora’s book, Law, Life and Love about the life of former High Court of Australia Justice Michael Kirby. While subjective, his dream growing up was one that has been shared by many around the world. “[Mid 1950s] About once a week the front page of the Daily Mirror or the Daily Sun was filled with stories of people, often distinguished people, who were being humiliated and shamed because of their arrest on the basis of their sexuality. So I knew this was a very dangerous and shameful thing, that I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself — and I didn’t really feel that ashamed of myself. But I knew that that was how I was expected to react to it and therefore to keep it quiet, including from those who were closest to me — my family.

This is the real mischief that is done by such laws and attitudes and teaching — that at a critical moment in a young person’s life they have to hide their reality from those who are their greatest source of love and strength. But that was what you were supposed to do and ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ lasted a long while in Australia, and I just went along with it. That was just part of the reality of those days.”

(Kirby in Dellora, pg.43).

Kirby believed he would live a loveless life, until he found a degree of acceptance and eventually love with life partner, Johan van Vloten.

He publically announced his homosexuality in 1999 while serving as a judge on the High Court of Australia. This must have taken enormous personal courage and a huge amount of support from Johan. They are still together today.

I believe this to be the equality dream of our generation and while there are positive developments every day, my dream is that my peers have the sense to favour equality over politics, tradition or personal prejudice.

alexandra gibson 6

Contents 09/ the sixth woman

hanna lachert 19/ dream muse dr deirdre leigh barrett 27/ house of croocked teeth jessica tremp 37/ the reality of disabled sailing phil vardy 45/ a sustainable dream leyla acaroglu 53/ not the neutral observer adam brereton 57/ isaac vivier stacey isaac 69/ from fire to photography warren frey

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the sixth woman

Hanna Lachert took her love affair with the violin from post-WWII Poland to the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. hanna lachert the fryderyk chopin university of music

I was a child born at the very end of World War II in Poland, which was in rather difficult physical conditions. My parents ran away from the insurrection to a small village close to Warsaw and in late November 1944, I was born there in a private little room that had been rented for that occasion. I’ve been told that my mother had only half to a dozen cloth diapers for me and there was no heat in the room — except for a kind of a stove, omitting soot into the air that made my infant nose all black.

My childhood was probably a very difficult time for my parents.

Towards the end of the war, my parents were living on their estate, some 500 hectares or more. My father was an agricultural engineer; he was very progressive in his way of cultivating land. After the war, so many people were hungry, my father was put in charge of teaching people how to cultivate their land so that they could grow and put food on the table. Around one third of the Polish population was put under his direction and he put an enormous amount of work into helping these people.

This was what he was doing when he was taken away from our family and imprisoned because of his political connections to the allies during the war. He was imprisoned by the communists and sentenced to death. After two weeks, the sentence was changed instead to life imprisonment, during which he was tortured. It was a nightmare. Not only was my father imprisoned, but my parents lost all of their possessions during the war, including their estate which was confiscated.

My mother was left alone with four children and was extremely brave to bring us up during that time. She had to go back to her profession in order to support us. She had been trained as a pianist; that’s how she had begun to make a living. She was teaching her students at home, from what I can remember, two full days a week. I was the youngest of the four and was at home during these lessons and that was the only time I had my mother at home. My father wasn’t there, so it was always Grandma who brought me up. Naturally, as I started to grow up, I began to feel a connection to my mother through the piano. During her lessons, I would sit on her lap or I’d listen to her 10

teaching from the next room. When she was not there or I was sick, the keyboard was very attractive to me. In those days, we had no television; there were only other children to play with and we played some wonderful games. We played outdoors with sticks and flowers and anything else we could find in our garden and the surrounding forest that we had access to. As well as this, I would play on the piano.

Therefore, my relationship with music began at a very early age.

I started playing when I was three and it was nothing out of the ordinary, until I turned four and was invited to play the role of little Chopin in a film. There is a legend, or perhaps it is true, that Chopin’s parents woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of music playing and to their great amazement they found their son, Fryderyk Chopin in the living room on the piano. It was this and other accolades that I received throughout my childhood that caused some to label me as a child prodigy. I never saw myself as such; I was simply interested in playing. The first concert I performed was when I was five-years-old, but there were other kids who were practicing so I thought I was quite normal.

Around that time, my mother had a friend rehearse for a concert at our house; she was a violinist. That was the first time I heard the sound of a violin and I fell in love with it immediately. I kept begging for a violin. I believe I got one when I was six or seven-years-old.

I remember sitting down and trying to produce some sound, but it was pretty awful and nobody could stand it. There was no teacher in our village, so it wasn’t until we moved back to Warsaw, a little while later, that I could begin my formal education on the violin at eight and I never looked back.

It is rather amazing that I can say I have played the same instrument for practically 60 years. I still love it, but I definitely have my ups and downs with it. There have been periods during my study years when it was the norm for me to practice for four, five and six hours a day.

I think there were periods where I was trying to do even 10 hours a day. I haven’t done that for many, many years. I have learnt how to practice with my head more, rather than having to use my fingers.

At the moment, I’m practicing for about an hour and a half to two

My brother pianist, Piotr Lachert (today a composer) and I performing together in former Yougoslavia, August 1968

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hours every day, which feels good. I’m not sure how long I will continue, but at the moment it makes me very happy.

I began my musical education in Poland. I went from high school to a conservatorium of music and ended up with a Masters degree.

I then decided to continue my education in Germany in Brussles.

While I was there, I was invited by the University of Connecticut to be a graduate assistant, to teach and earn another Masters degree. I was curious about America and at that time the political situation in Poland was not very stable. I had prolongued my stay for study purposes in Germany without the permission from the Polish Minister for Culture so I was afraid that if I went back I would punished. I decided to take my chance and try America. I went for two years to study in Connecticut and after that, I moved to New York on my own.

New York was a fascinating city and it was the music capital of the world. The amount of daily concerts were enormous. I was fortunate enough to get to know the director of Carnegie Hall who happened to be the Director of Jeunesses Musicales, which I had been collaborating with in Europe. Little did I know that he would become my mentor and great friend. Thanks to him, I played my first series of recitals in the US, including my debut in Carnegie Recital Hall in 1972, for which I got wonderful reviews. That’s how I began in New York.

At that time, it was very hard for me to make a living. I was teaching a few lessons and trying to freelance in some orchestras when there was an opening for an esteemed role at the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. I didn’t think I was qualified, but I didn’t know much about how they hired people. I hoped, if I was good enough, I would be accepted to this section and somebody else would be moved up.

I auditioned and got into the finals — there were only six of us and I didn’t get it. As it happened, two people from the orchestra were promoted. I was very upset and thought, “Gee, me the soloist, isn’t good enough to get accepted into an orchestra? I’ll never audition again.” And then a few months later I got a telephone call from the office inviting me to come and audition again, because there were two new openings. I said to myself, “well, perhaps I have a chance,

in Feb, 1991 at Polish Mission to UN, I performed for than General Secretary of UN Javier Perez de Cueller (Peru).

He was a good pianist and loved music.

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why would they call me?” So I did go, and while there were a hundred people auditioning, I got the job.

In an orchestra made up of a hundred men, I became the sixth woman in history to join. I didn’t think much of it, because I came from a communist country where gender was never an issue. Either you played well or you didn’t; either you qualified or you didn’t. It was a little bumpy in the beginning, however it turned out that the first woman who was accepted to the orchestra was still there — Orin O’Brian, the double bass player. She got the job because she auditioned behind a curtain, so nobody knew she was a woman. Then Lenny Bernstein made a decision to take her, because she was just so good.

That’s how it started.

Playing in an orchestra has its rewards and difficulties. It’s difficult being anonymous and it can be difficult to be part of a team.

The requirements are slightly different from being a soloist. I had to learn how to listen to my colleagues to match my tempo and my rhythm, not only within my section, but within other sections and with the conductor. I had to have my eyes in several places at the same time. It did take me a few years to really feel comfortable and understand what was going on.

In my profession, people who are extremely famous — those who reach the highest peaks — pay the price. It’s a very difficult life for people at the top and the price is often reflected in their private lives, which suffer. I chose perhaps an easier way, among the valleys if you will, by being employed by an orchestra and therefore, being one of many. That alone gave me lots of opportunities, which I wouldn’t have had if I’d been a big soloist. First of all, it was the most incredible education I could have dreamt of. I was part of music making on the same stage, sharing the same music, with the greatest artists of the last 40 years. I also learnt that these artists were also human, like the rest of us. They had better days and worse days. Even though the audience wouldn’t pick up on it, I had the privilege of knowing that at the rehearsal, when that particular movement was better in the morning, not in the evening. It was still very, very good in the evening — but I was able to judge the peaks. That’s what made it so exciting.

Leonard Bernstein and I at a party in Waldorf Astoria Hotel after the concert in Carnegie Hall (a special ocasion, as our “home� was the Lincoln Center)

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In addition to my musical career was my family life. I became a very happy wife and mother of two. Overall, I would definitely say, becoming a mother of those two wonderful people and being instrumental in their upbringing and witnessing their growth is my greatest achievement.

My son is violist and a conductor and he was also an actor. Our daughter is also an artist, she’s in visual arts. My husband is a violin maker and as a matter of fact, I played on the instrument that he made in 1982 and as soon as he finished that one and I tried it I said, “This is it, you’re not going to sell it, this one is for me.” It’s a perfect instrument for me; it has phenomenal power and it has a deep, metal-like sounding voice. I’m really very happy with it, even though, through my husband David and his studio shop in New York, I have access to some of the best instruments in the world. I have played on several Stradivarius’.

On a professional level, I have had many great accomplishments.

Not necessarily in numbers of good reviews or CDs that I have been part of. No, the greatest accomplishments are those concerts that I feel that I am at one with the audience. Where I was the vehicle for the composer and through my craft, I was able to pass on the composer’s vision.

All of us are born with certain potential, but it’s not set in stone.

Our potential can grow with us. There are awards along the way and it applies to almost every profession. Somebody once said, “If life kicks you, it’s up to you whether you fall on your face or whether that kick will transport you a meter ahead”.

I can say that I am very happy — professionally speaking — that my life was spent on an instrument. It was clearly what I wanted to do and have done it. I continue to play today. This wouldn’t have been possible without the enormous help of my husband David. He was totally ok with my lifestyle and was like a second mother, putting the children to sleep when I was going out in the evening to play concerts — it wouldn’t have been possible without him and I’m very grateful for his continuous support. I remember when the kids were little and if in the evening I didn’t have to go out, I would hear, “Hooray! Mama doesn’t have a concert tonight.” Well, that’s how it was.

Leonard Bernstein and I on board of the plane on the way to New Zealand, Australia and Japan, my first big tour with the New York Philharmonic and first time in Asia (August 1974)

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dream muse

The potential our mind has to learn, solve and achieve while asleep. dr deirdre leigh barrett emory university/university of tennessee

I’ve been fascinated by dreams as far back in childhood as I can remember. Magical adventures every night — as vivid as waking events — seemed one of the most remarkable and mysterious things in life.

Most psychologists go into a general field and choose a speciality during graduate school. I did it the other way around; I knew I wanted to study dreams and gradually realised that this meant I should become a psychologist.

Early in my career, I studied everything about dreams. I gathered data on those who had a tendency to remember more dreams — it turned out to be more creative people, the more psychologically-minded and introspective. On a more mundane note, those who get the most sleep at night and people who’ve just read a book on dreams or have taken a course about dreams also get a boost of recall. I found that “dream incubation”, a ritual of telling oneself at bedtime that one wants to remember dreams, increased recall for most people — regardless of their natural starting point.

Among my own most enjoyable dreams, two categories stood out: flying dreams and “lucid dreams” (dreams in which we are aware that we are dreaming). I did two formal research projects on this and found that the two categories correlate; it is likelier for these two elements to happen to the same people, on the same night, and sometimes even in the same dream. Lucid dreams also correlate with logical reflection in dreams and other signs that we are close to the waking state.

However, lucid dreams still turned out to be amusingly non-lucid in regards to some of the behaviours demonstrated by those who knew that they were dreaming. For example, during a dream the dreamer often: told the characters in that dream to call them as soon as they woke up; grabbed objects to bring back to the waking world as proof of the dream; wrote down accounts while still dreaming; and searched for keys instead of just walking through locked doors. Lucid dreams benefit from the same incubation methods I just described — but in this case, you remind yourself at bedtime that when you dream, you want to know it’s a dream.

I also studied post-traumatic nightmares.

The natural course of these dreams is to occur frequently at first — with content either very literally re-enacting the worst trauma, or even in some cases, the trauma goes one step further in its intensity than it was in reality. The dreamer would either only dream about something that was threatened when the person was awake or they would acquire some element of dreamlike distortion — usually less than other dreams. People describe these nightmares as feeling like the trauma is happening over and over again each night.

As people recover, these dreams become less frequent, milder, occasionally weaving a reference to the trauma into a dream about mundane present events. Some survivors have a spontaneous “mastery dream”: the nightmare begins as usual and then changes course radically so that the dreamer fights 20

off their attacker, is rescued, or things transform in a magical manner.

I found that people who didn’t spontaneously have such a dream could plot out an ending they find satisfying and then incubate the new ending. Just as the nightmares had been re-traumatizing, mastery dreams carry over into reality for that person; dreamers wake feeling more empowered, more like the trauma is really behind them.

August Kekulé dreamed the structure of

I was invited to teach in Kuwait right after the first Gulf War when the burned out Iraqi tanks still littered the ”Highway of Death” and the last oil fires still burned. I interviewed Kuwaitis about their dreams and found that many were having classic post-traumatic nightmares. However, Arabic folk beliefs and Islamic religious traditions emphasise dreams as channels for foretelling the future.

Therefore, having these same nightmares interact with the belief system is found to be even more alarming in this culture. Those who put any credence in western social science were often quite relieved to hear that posttraumatic nightmares occur to all traumatised people, even where there was no possibility of the trauma recurring.

and Mr. Hyde. Musicians from Beethoven to

In recent years, I’ve focused on dreams and creative problem solving. Clearly, the major concerns of dreaming are our personal issues — childhood slights, current moods and how we relate to significant others. But these aspects of dreaming have been extensively examined by other dream researchers. I find it fascinating that dreams can sometimes suggest solutions to practical problems.

benzene, Dmitri Mendeleev dreamed his final form of the periodic table of the elements and Otto Loewi won the Nobel Prize in Medicine for an experiment he saw in a dream. Thousands of painters, sculptors and filmmakers have depicted images born in dreams. Mary Shelley dreamed the two main scenes that became Frankenstein and Robert Lewis Stevenson did the same with Dr. Jekyll Paul McCartney and Billy Joel dreamed tunes.

Gandhi’s call for a non-violent protest of British rule of India was inspired by a dream.

After reviewing all the historic anecdotes I could find in the biographies of artists and scientists, I interviewed modern professionals about their use of their dreams. This turned up equally dramatic modern examples.

Astronomer Paul Horowitz had seen designs for radio telescope controls in dreams and Bell Laboratory’s Allen Huang got the idea for a laser circuit computer in his. Two modern architects, Solange Fabião (see accompanying pictures) and Lucy Davis have both walked through their future designs in dreams. These examples do cluster: painters and sculptors use their dreams the most, and novelists and playwrights second.

Many anecdotes begin with how long an inventor was stuck on a problem before the dream showed a solution that was anathema to conventional wisdom. Dreams tend to be especially good for finding solutions that require thinking outside the box or that benefit from vivid visualisation. But absolutely

Dream sketch that lead to the design of the Cité de L’Océan et du Surf in Biarritz, France — Solange Fabião, 2005

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any realm of endeavor can occasionally crop up in the dreams of a prepared mind — lengthy dialogues, abstract mathematics or philosophical theorems. There are many more examples in my study, The “Committee of Sleep”: A Study of Dream Incubation for Problem Solving.

It turns out that dream incubation works well for creativity and problem-solving also. Most of the artists and scientists I interviewed had only occasionally experience spontaneous practical dreams. However, the ones who had developed techniques for asking their dreams for help reported many more. I carried out a more formal study of this with college students incubating objective problems of their own choosing. They recorded their dreams for a week and noted ones they thought addressed the problem or contained a satisfactory solution. My subjects chose a range of problems they were already working on, far simpler than the famous historical examples. Half of the students had dreams they felt addressed their problem. One third dreamt a solution.

If you want to try dream incubation, you can increase your recall by telling yourself as you are falling asleep that you want to remember your dreams. Let it be your last thought as you drift off. Keep a pad and pen by the bed.

When you first wake up, don’t jump up or even turn your attention to anything else.

Even if you don’t think you remember a dream just take a minute to see if you woke with any feeling or image. Focus on that and sometimes a whole dream will come flooding back.

To seek your dreams’ help on a particular problem, you should first of all think of the problem at bedtime, and if it lends itself to an image, hold it in your mind and let it be the last thing in your mind as you’re falling asleep.

For extra credit assemble something on your bedside table that makes an image of the problem. If it’s a personal problem, it might be the person you have the conflict with. If you’re an artist, it might be a blank canvas. If you’re a scientist, it could be the device you’re working on that’s half assembled. Again, just as with simple dream recall, it’s important to lie still when you awaken, reflecting whether there’s any content relevant to your query. Good luck with these techniques!

Photography: Solange Fabião (pp. 22 & pp. 24) Fernando Guerra (pp. 25)

Initial 3D-model study developed after sketch — Solange Fabião, 2005

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house of crooked teeth

The need to express — illustrated through an exploration of dreams. jessica tremp

When I was little I used to dream about being a dancer or that I could fly and that I would learn to speak the language of the animals in the forest or that of the most dramatic actor. With the click of a finger I’ve found a way to make these things come true.

I’ve always needed to find ways to express myself. As a young single child, this used to be hours locked away in my room scribbling on fresh notebooks. I’ve dabbled in singing, painting, writing, drawing, studied dancing, considered drama school and practiced the guitar, but photography just seems to have stuck the most. It just linked arms with me one day and never let go.

What I want to express I find is difficult to put into words…it’s “that thing” that we all feel is there but can never quite put words to.

Hence the imagery instead. Further to that, I learn more from what I’ve already created than what I want to achieve. A type of theme usually forms without being too conscious of it. Often it has to do with wanting nature to feel womb-like, like we are being cradled by it, but because we are so far removed from it nowadays, it is almost unnatural, eerie, discomforting at the same time.

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the reality of disabled sailing

Phil Vardy dreamt of a National Organisation for Disabled Sailors in Australia. phil vardy university of queensland

It didn’t start as a dream. Rather, it started as a desperate attempt to sound intelligent.

The scene was a dinner party hosted by friends Niels and Beulah Warren at their home in Balmain, Sydney. John Doyle (of Roy & HG fame), Ross Gittens and I were guests. John regaled us with a few hilarious stories. I thought, “How can I possibly compete with such verbal dexterity?” And then my heart sank: John asked, “And what do you do, Phil?” I explained that I taught biology at the University of Western Sydney. When he asked what I did in my spare time, I mumbled that I sailed a small keelboat on Sydney Harbour.

As a 21-year-old, I wintered in Antarctica and sailed an ice-yacht constructed from scrap steel. During the long winter nights, I had pored over a dog-eared copy of Bristow’s Book of Yachts. I dreamed of sailing on liquid. After returning to Australia, I joined the University of Queensland Sailing Club and crewed in dinghies. I was a poor athlete, more seaman than sailor; nevertheless, I loved the wind and the waves. But in 1974, I broke my back in a motorcycle accident.

Confined to a wheelchair, I gave up all thought of ever sailing again.

Fifteen years later, my love of sailing was rekindled. In a chance meeting with Peter Aspinal, a blind sailor, I learned that people with disabilities sailed in the UK. Peter added that a friend of his was seeking someone with whom to share a small keelboat. As it happened, that friend was Niels Warren. I subsequently bought a half-share in Niel’s boat and enjoyed many sunny, salty days with him and other friends.

“Where would you like to take your sailing?” John asked at the dinner party. Stumped for something to say, I replied that I would like to gather a group of disabled sailors to complete the 50th Sydney-to-Hobart Yacht Race the following year. John, who hosted an afternoon talkback session on Sydney ABC radio, said, “What a great idea. Why not come on my program and discuss it.” My heart sank.

The dinner party ended. I drove home annoyed at my stupidity; surely the idea was impossible and John would forget about his request.

But no, John’s producer phoned me to set up a radio interview. When a severe bout of cellulitis hospitalised me for a week, I felt relief. Surely the producer would not pursue me further. But he did. I reasoned that the only way in which to end the pursuit was to do the interview. After all, it was only local radio, a mid-afternoon show. Few people would hear it. Wrong!

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I rolled up to the ABC studios in Sydney in December 1993 expecting the ordeal to be just a few minutes in length and the session to be taped. But the interview was live and lasted more than half an hour.

I left the studio to sail to Pittwater from Sydney with my teenage son Scott. Surely now the idea had run its course. Wrong again!

Christmas and the New Year came and went. I returned to a studentfree campus at Westmead to prepare for the year’s teaching, but I had miscalculated the popularity of John Doyle and I had underestimated the momentum of the idea. People from all over the greater Sydney region had heard the program and those with disabilities from as far away as Melbourne and North Queensland registered their interest.

Experienced sailors offered advice.

Regardless of enthusiasm, the project was dead in the water without a boat. Surely no one was going to lend an ocean-going yacht to inexperienced disabled sailors? But then David Pescud called.

“I might have a boat for you,” he said.

David Pescud is a self-made man. Despite dyslexia, he ran several successful businesses before retiring at the age of 44 in order to pursue his love of sailing. David’s 54-foot Adams-Rashford was set up for short-handed ocean racing. It was the ideal boat for what we wanted to do. David’s generosity enabled the Sydney-Hobart Challenge for the Disabled to become a reality. But that name was politically incorrect. At Colin Henson’s suggestion, I changed it to Sailors with disAbilities (SWD). Under David’s tutelage, we started training. It was then that the dream started.

I dreamt that the concept of ocean racing for disabled sailors could spread throughout Australia e.g. a Melbourne group could attempt the Melbourne-to-Launceston race; an Adelaide group could attempt the Adelaide-to-Port Lincoln race etc. Indeed, why could we not create an Australia-wide sailing movement for people with disabilities? I said as much to a Murdoch journalist. In early 1994, an article describing SWD appeared in The Weekend Australian.

Alastair Mitchell, the National Coaching Director of the Australian Yachting Federation (AYF, now Yachting Australia) read the article.

On the Monday following publication, Alastair phoned me and suggested that SWD become part of a national disabled sailing program. Great idea. When I met with Alastair, I learnt that,

1The

Squib is a British 19’ keelboat designed

by Oliver Lee. It is sailed by two people.

In the 1994 championship, it was sailed by three disabled sailors.

Neil Anderson and Phil Vardy (r) sailing past a square rigger on Sydney harbour.

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unilaterally, he had entered Australia in the 1994 World Disabled Sailing Championship to be contested in Squibs1 on Rutland Water, a large reservoir in the UK. He asked if SWD could field a crew that might meet the classification scheme of the International Foundation for Disabled Sailing (IFDS). I said that I was sure that we could.

At the next weekend training session, I floated the idea of SWD becoming part of a national organisation and members of SWD contesting the world championship. The idea sank. David wanted SWD to remain a single entity and to focus solely on the Sydney-to-Hobart.

He added that if any member of the group took time out to go to England, he would not be welcome within SWD. For me, early 1994 was often more nightmare than dream; I had to balance a demanding lectureship with the self-imposed task of promoting sailing for people with disabilities. Often, when I should have been developing a new course, I was addressing a service club or chasing a sponsor. And when I should have been in the gym or training with SWD, I was in the lab. Something had to break. That something was the relationship with my partner.

In April, the AYF held a conference in Melbourne to discuss sailing for people with disabilities. There I learnt that an organisation called Sailability Australia had been established the previous year under the auspices of the Victorian Yachting Council (VYC). The name suggested a national network. In reality, however, it was no more than a local program at Melbourne’s Albert Park Lake. The conference resolved to establish Sailability Australia as a nation-wide program under the auspices of the AYF. During an on-water session at the conference, I sailed solo in a Sunbird keelboat (a 12’sloop of British origin) and an Access dinghy (a 2.3m pram designed and built by Australian, Chris Mitchell).

I had not sailed by myself for 20 years. The experience of being alone without a wheelchair was wonderful. It changed my life.

Three members of SWD met the eligibility criteria for the world championship. Denis Critchley and I were spinal paraplegics; each of us rated two points according to IFDS. John Woodward was a lower-leg amputee; he rated seven points. Together we constituted one fewer than the maximum 12 points permitted for three-person keelboat competition. We decided to seek selection despite the

Photography: Jackie Kay

Ventilated quadriplegic Nava George sailing a servo-assisted Access dinghy.

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probable consequences. Success. I resigned the UWS lectureship and took up an honorary research fellowship at Macquarie University.

John and I sailed with SWD in the 1994 Sydney-to-Gold Coast race and then flew to London. Denis followed a few days later from Sydney.

The 1994 World Championship was a revelation. I learnt that there were national disabled sailing organisations in many European and North American countries. The most attractive model was Sailability, the British organisation that had lent its name to the Albert Park program. Sailability was conceived in 1991 at the home of Ian and Pauline Harrison in Wanlip, a village in Leicestershire. There, in a room filled with marine antiques, several people gathered around an old mahogany table to plan a national program. Ian and Pauline agree that the name Sailability had its origins in Motability, the British scheme for disabled drivers. But Ian and Pauline cannot agree as to which of them coined the term.

Denis, John and I would have come third at the Worlds if I had not prematurely called us across the starting line in the last race.

We returned to Australia to discover that we were no longer personae gratae within SWD. We also learned that SWD intended to contest the Sydney-Hobart with a mixed crew of able-bodied and disabled sailors. Neither Denis nor I were selected. We therefore resolved to found Sailability NSW. In 1995, I became National Chairman and subsequently National Coordinator of Sailability Australia. My office filled an enclosed balcony of the house rented by the AYF from the Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron. I could throw a stone from the window into the sparkling blue water of Neutral Bay. Ignorant of how to build a national disabled sailing network, I applied for and won a Winston Churchill Memorial Fellowship. With knowledge gained from three months in Europe and North America, I was able to help make the dream come true.

Sailability Australia eventually became the world’s largest (per capita) national disabled sailing organisation.

SWD has attempted the Sydney-to-Hobart every year since 1994, but always with a mixed crew — able-bodied and disabled sailors. No crew consisting entirely of disabled sailors has attempted the race.

It remains a dream.

Andrew Hartley, a complete quadriplegic, competing in the first Access dinghy world championship. Andrew controls the boat through electric motors switched by his chin.

He breaths through a tracheostomy attached to a ventilator housed behind him.

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a sustainable dream A call upon designers to consider the entire lifecyle of their creations. leyla acaroglu rmit university

Leyla Acaroglu is a proponent of systemic and lifecycle-based thinking in sustainability and design decision-making. She is the founder and director of the award winning creative studio Eco Innovators, a lecturer and a Ph.D. candidate at RMIT University in industrial design. Her work focuses on developing innovative and engaging projects that seek to overcome obstacles by embracing sustainability across design, production and consumption. Her projects include the development of the award-winning animation and e-curriculum project The Secret Life of Things as well as a variety of collaborative projects aimed at engaging people with environmental sustainability.

Humans have an amazing ability to dream in that they are able to visualise a future that is entirely different to the reality in which we currently live. We can consciously build a person, experience, product or world and with eyes wide open or shut — transport ourselves into our ‘dream’, whether it be better or worse than the reality. I believe this is what keeps us sane, drives us through the shit days and (at least in my case) gets us out of bed in the morning.

Dreaming is an intrinsic part of what makes us willing and able to test new ideas, to imagine, innovate, and completely revolutionise the things that fill our lives. The people who are tasked with this job — the dreaming up and designing of things — are in a unique and privileged position to help create a better future. I started my career wanting to be one of these designers and now, well, I still am one. However, I don’t spend my days designing material things, but more specifically ideas and propositions that encourage other designers to ‘dream differently’.

I’m hesitant to describe my dreams for the future, as so many people who do what I do love to present the utopian versions of the future, yet neglect the realities of what we are facing today. I have come to realise that the best and worst thing about the future is that no one has any idea what it will actually be like. I remember watching a TV show when I was a child called “Beyond 2000” that demonstrated all the space age gadgets and inventions that the years beyond 2000 would hold. I would watch in awe as the possibility of flying cars and video phones were presented by a very 90s dressed Amanda Keller. Twelve years into the new millennium and we have phones that can do much more than just make a video call. In fact we have such a collective obsession with these multifunctional ‘smart gadgets’ that more 46

iPhones are sold per second than babies are born around the world1 and this ever increasing appetite for new and improved versions of what we already have is slowly eating into the opportunities for future generations to enjoy the quality of life that we have today.

In the present reality, the way we design, create and consume things has a dramatic affect on not only the natural environment but it also affects the things that will be possible in the future. The materials that we pull out of the ground and transform into everyday goods is in many cases finite — so the more we extract, use and abuse today, the less there will be available in the future. This is not a prediction — this is a stark reality. We can’t make something from nothing (although there are some who would love to think they can synthesis everything!). Many resources that we rely on currently are at a critical extraction point, are rare or are simply almost gone. Soon we will be talking about not just critically endangered animals, but over extracted minerals as well. And it’s the decisions made by the designers and producers of these goods and services that ultimately dictate how much we inconsiderately consume and in what ways.

Not only are we extracting and processing materials at an unprecedented rate, we are doing so in ways that adversely affect the people that we share this earth with — just Google “e-waste processing in china” or “conflict metals” to get a small glimpse of the flow on affects of our production and consumption habits.

But enough of the melancholy. Here goes my dream for the future; it’s one where equality, in every respect of the word, is the corner stone of human endeavours. Where systems and services that fuel the monolithic machine that is ‘the economy’ are designed and developed to respect and conserve the precious and fundamental resources that sustain all that co-exists on this earth. Utopian? I hope not. Tragically optimistic? Yes I get the feeling some days that I might be setting myself up for disappointment; the dichotomy of dreams. But I have a passion for change that inspires, energises and often tricks me into thinking that if we preserve then perhaps, we might be able to get humanity out of this mess that we are currently in.

I would prefer to say that my dream for the future is actually a big fat agenda to change the world. I came to the conclusion early on in my career that you need to aim high otherwise you will always

1Wells,

R (2012) “More iPhones sold per second than babies born” The Age: February 17 2012, available online: http://www.theage.com.au/ digital-life/mobiles/more-iphones-sold-persecond-than-babies-born-20120216-1tbx4.html, Accessed: 17/8/12

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be disappointed. The rationale behind this is simple — if I never gain the satisfaction of completing my life ambition then I can never be disappointed that I didn’t achieve it. I am always working hard to fulfil my desire to change the world and since you can never really say “Ok, yep — I’m done now — the world is all changed, let’s move onto something else.” Therefore, I have a life ambition that will keep me impassioned and busy until the day I die. But for now, I have my sights set on getting designers, engineers and product developers to do things differently — to think about the systems, the entire life of a product, the complexities and the possibilities — not just the initial product.

I spend my days and nights immersed in the slightly confusing arena of sustainability. I know it’s an overused and abused word that in itself is a complete oxymoron — but it actually has a definition provided by the Brundtland report in the 1980’s2. This roughly translates into doing good things now so that current and future generations can enjoy the same quality of life that we enjoy today.

The more technical definition is to live within the earth’s carrying capacity (ability to produce resources) and do so in socially equitable and environmentally responsible ways. In order for that to happen we need to start with the material economy. In my desired version of the future this would involve radically reconsidering the way in which we design, produce and consume ‘things’. And when I say ‘radically’ I really mean more like slowly shift the systems and services into directions that facilitate sustainability. We live in a complex world, full of integrated systems and many vested interests, but I can still dream and be a part of the directional shifts toward a future that is remarkably different to the way we live today. Yet surprisingly similar in that I can envisage an awesome quality of life, limited environmental and social degradation — yay!

Dreams by their very nature can be seen as myths that we conjure up to comfort ourselves — there is no way of knowing or predicting if a dream will ever come to fruitarian. Post structuralist Roland Barthes once stated that the dominant discourse of a society consists of an elaborate system of signs that together constitute powerful and convincing myths; these myths form our social and cultural reality.

This is one of the areas that I am particularly interested in when it

Sustainable Development is defined as: "development which meets the needs of current generations without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs". United Nations Economic Commission for Europe: “Sustainable Development — Concept and Action”, Available at: http://www.unece.org/ oes/nutshell/2004-2005/focus_sustainable_ development.html, accessed 22/8/2012

we live in a complex world, full of inegrated systems and many vested interests, but i can still dream and be a part of the directional shifts toward a future that is remarkably different to the way we live today.

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comes to addressing environmental and social issues. The myths that are promoted and perpetuated affect our ability to address pressing social, economic and environmental concerns. My colleague Tim Grant and I call this our ‘environmental folklore’ — and it’s a major hindrance to making my aforementioned dream come true.

It goes a little bit like this. We make decisions as consumers and professionals based on a complex series of misinformation and intuitive guesses about what is ‘better’ for the environment. We rely on our ‘environmental folklore’ to guide us through the minefield of complex environmental issues. The problem is that this intuitive framework is often based on our experiences, family, friends, media exposure and advertising, rather than based on a scientific framework or systemic investigation into what is really going to happen if we swap a material or intervene in a system. In fact we have NO IDEA what will happen and in countless cases where things that we think we know have been investigated via the scientific process of life cycle assessment, we have found out that when you look at the entire system, things are not as they seem. Bio-plastics are only really better when we don’t use petrochemicals to grow them and make sure that they are actually composted at the end of life.

We need to stretch our brains and start to really question and challenge what we know to be true when it comes to ‘being sustainable’. We have all been a little bit duped into thinking that simplistic things will fix our complex problems — when in reality, we are simply not doing enough to solve some seriously screwed-up inequalities both to humans and the environment.

And here I am writing about my dreams for a future and my aspirations to change the world, knowing full well that I am only one very small part of an infinitely complex, convoluted-yet-beautiful world. But it’s the ability to dream that keeps us humans sane. My sanity comes from the dream that the future will be more equitable and dare I say it — sustainable.

Life to date has taught me that if you want to see change, then you need to be a part of the change that you want to see. The world, with all its cultures and places and population, is in a constant state of evolution, flux and change — open for the contribution of those who choose to participate in it, so why not be a part of the forces that form?

Photography: Sean Hastings

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not the neutral observer

A dream to live life in such a way that wouldn’t disappoint the greats that came before. adam brereton australian national university

I recently read a wonderful story, recounted by the Catholic activist and journalist Dorothy Day in her autobiography, The Long Loneliness. Day founded the Catholic Worker newspaper and social movement with Peter Maurin (who was something of a Rasputin figure) which melded a focus on the labour struggles of the depression era with direct action on behalf of those who had been dispossessed; Maurin and Day established hospitality houses, communal farms and sold their newspaper for a cent a copy. They were constantly plagued by debts and doubts, and were exhausted from pouring their hearts into the broken and ragged workers and families who relied upon them to survive.

At one meeting in New York, Day was approached by a Russian socialist who told her that her project was futile. That going to the people was a waste of time.

That it had been tried in Russia and had failed. A self-critical woman, Day doubted herself. The movement’s slow progress and many failures weighed heavily upon her, and she momentarily wavered, until she learned the identity of her critic. The man she had spoken with was Alexander Kerensky, the head of Russia’s provisional government who had been deposed by Lenin’s Bolsheviks — ”one of the greatest failures in history”.

Christopher Hitchens tells a story with a similar moral about Peter Schneider, who wrote a book about those ordinary Germans who had risked their lives to perform trivial acts of grace toward Jews during World War II. By giving food, shelter and assistance, many hundreds of Jews were saved; even the

most minor acts of charity kept bodies from the furnaces.

Schneider, thinking his book would be well received, as stories of ‘good Germans’ tend to be, was surprised to be the subject of bad reviews. By praising the invisible actions of many he destroyed the myth of the exceptional individual, and had, of course, unwittingly blown the moral alibi of all those Germans for whom even the smallest moral acts were rationalised as being too risky.

Both of these stories indicate the hollowness at the heart of moral accusation and the necessity of grace. Most importantly, they confirm the tragic maxim that if the weak prey on the weak, those who help them will be demonised tenfold.

One of my journalistic heroes, Sam Smith, who for decades has published The Idler, The Progressive Review and other publications in Washington DC, turned down a job at The New York Times. He preferred to work as a Left-wing pamphleteer, in the service of the African-American community. In his seminal essay “Why Journalism is not a Profession”, Smith explains his decision: “Too many reporters have nothing but technique. Trained not to take sides, to be ‘balanced’, they lose the human passion that makes up the better part of the world about which they write. They are taught to surrender values such as commitment, anger and delight that make the world go round and thus become peculiarly unqualified to describe the rotation. Disengaged, their writing is not fair but just vacuously neutral on the surface while culturally biased underneath.”

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How many journalists would agree with Smith’s manifesto? After all, the consequences of commitment are great.

Ryszard Kaps´cin´ski, the Polish journalist, reported on twenty-seven revolutions and coups, was jailed 40 times and was sentenced to death four times by various governments.

Yet his books on Iran, Ethiopia and the Soviet Union are required reading. What is important is that he bore a witness; somebody was there to see and write about what would have otherwise faded from memory. And how vital a task! In his book Shah of Shahs, about the Iranian revolution, Kaps´cin´ski recorded the heinous tortures of SAVAK, the secret police — which were responsible for radicalising many against the regime.

Closer to home, the journalist Wendy Bacon, who had spent her youth fighting for women’s sexual rights and had been jailed for her activism, wanted to join the legal profession.

She was judged to be unfit because, in the words of Justice Reynolds, “it is demonstrated that in the zealous pursuit of political goals she will break the law if she regards it as impeding the success of her cause.” Undeterred, Bacon returned to journalism and went on to win a Walkey award for her stories on institutional corruption in New South Wales. She continues to publish in her 60s.

One of the outfits Bacon writes for is New Matilda, an online publication for which I currently work as Associate Editor. I’m 24, and working at New Matilda is my first job as a journalist. We’re a small organisation — there’s none of the (admittedly fading) glamour that comes with working for legacy

media — but we publish stories about environmental degradation, the treatment of refugees and indigenous communities, labour strikes. We believe in justice and compassion, and we bear a witness.

That said, if I miss out on the hack’s perks (and salary), I also miss out on his responsibilities. I’ve reported from the picket line, snuck onto a bus full of anticlimate conspirators, and interviewed Jacob Appelbaum, the Wikileaks associate and hacker. The stories I pursue are my choice and I don’t have to chase them from behind my desk (and that’s not just because I don’t have a desk).

There is in my mind a great, unbroken tradition of dissenting journalism that stretches back throughout the 20th century and beyond. It is my dream to live my life in such a way that would not disappoint the greatest in that tradition.

That means more than being a ‘neutral observer’, as journalists are trained to be.

It means being plunged into the immortal river of your cause like Achilles but retaining a heel of objectivity — the slightest part, but the part that if left unprotected, will be the end of it all.

there is in my mind a great, unbroken tradition of dissenting journalism that stretches back throughout the 20th century and beyond. it is my dream to live my life in such a way that would not disappoint the greatest in that tradition.

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isaac vivier

Conquering the world to achieve a dream. stacey isaac whitehouse institute of design/l’accademia italiana

Dreams are a funny thing. No matter the amazing success you have or what you do with your life, if you don’t follow them, there is that little feeling deep down somewhere that feels unfulfilled.

I have been lucky because I decided to follow my dreams of being a fashion designer. From around the age of 18, I knew I wanted to be a designer. At school I loved all things creative and after being encouraged by some great achievements and awards, I decided that design was the career I wanted to pursue.

I studied both Art and Design at school and ended up taking them as electives for my HSC. I did Textiles and Design topping the class in most of the exams and really loving it. I was shocking at sewing. I remember our first assignment making a pair of blue polkadot shorts and getting five per cent for them! But the more I loved it the more I worked at it and eventually I was having great success, including a scholarship to study at the Whitehouse Institute of Design after school. In year 11, I went for a school trip to Italy and Greece which was my first overseas trip and I fell in love with Italy.

We had loads of fun and caused a bit of mischief and the photos I took of all the old doorways and windows became the inspiration for my major work. It planted a seed of intrigue about Europe and the wonderful culture and history there. I decided to do a gap year after school in London, which was amazing and great fun before heading back to get serious for the three year Advanced Diploma in Fashion Design and Management in 1998. It was

probably the hardest I’ve ever worked in my life. Unlike my friends studying law and going to university a few days a week, we had classes 9 – 5 every day and then we had to go home to start our assignments in the evenings and weekends. I survived on minimal sleep for those three years and it cost me my friendships, relationships and social life, but also taught me that if you really want something and if you want to be the best at something, you have to work really hard to get it.

After three intensive years I was lucky enough to get a scholarship in my final year to study my Master of Fashion at L’accademia Italiana in Florence, Italy. It was a wonderful experience and during my study I met a lovely Italian boy and decided I wanted to continue living in Europe. However, almost to the day of ending my year in Florence, I received a phone call from Australia from the head stylist at Channel Nine. I had worked for her on a short film at Fox studios as part of work experience while at Whitehouse Institute of Design. It had been a four day job, working 16 hours a days without a lunch break. This led to her asking me to work for her part time in the wardrobe department at Channel Nine, while I finished my studies. I learnt a lot from this woman, who was a single mum and an absolute professional, with endless amounts of energy. She really became a mentor for me. It seemed my tireless efforts and late nights had paid off and I was now being highly recommended for a fantastic job in menswear product development back in Sydney. It was more money than I could have 58

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dreamt of — having just finished university — and it seemed like fate. So despite my desire to stay in Europe I thought it would be crazy not to accept the offer and within a few weeks I was back in my hometown starting a new job. Looking back it was an incredibly difficult decision to make and took a lot of strength to leave; I was in love and happy, but I didn’t want the opportunity to pass.

The job turned out to be great. The money was amazing and within four weeks I was back in Italy on a buying trip. It was a wonderful experience, but then I got a funny feeling in the back of my mind. I had always dreamt of being a womenswear designer and all the money and travel in the world couldn’t disguise the fact that I wasn’t following my passion. I decided to take some time off to consider my options and headed to Thailand to do some soul searching. I returned home with a boy-short hairstyle (which was very liberating) and the decision to move on.

I had come to realise that this job was taking me in the wrong direction.

I then worked for a few years as a head designer for a high profile Sydney fashion house. I worked extremely hard, had a great time and learnt so much while I was there.

It was very fulfilling to see sales increase and people wearing my designs. I had a great few years as the head designer for the womenswear line before deciding that I hadn’t quite got Europe (or that Italian boy!) out of my system. I made the decision to get on a plane again with a suitcase full of everything I owned and a one way ticket! I reunited with my love from a few years earlier (we had

stayed in contact the whole time I had been home) and had to start my life over again.

It’s funny how difficult and also exciting these decisions can be. A new city, new challenges and no contacts! I’m still impressed I had the bravery and fearlessness to get on a plane with no idea where my life would lead or how I would execute it.

I’m so glad that I did get on that plane, because I enjoyed seven wonderful years working as a womenswear fashion designer in London and Italy — travelling Europe and fulfilling some fantastic dreams. It certainly wasn’t easy. I had to work in bars to survive while I looked for a job and while I had quite a few years experience as a designer under my belt, as well as awards and achievements in Australia, in the United Kingdom I was just another struggling designer in a big pond of talent. The most frustrating thing were the recruitment agencies. They had a set of criteria for possible candidates, one of which was UK experience. There were a number of agents who credited my talent, but wouldn’t put me forward for interviews simply because I didnt have previous UK experience. I initially worked for a supplier to Topshop, which was, but I had my goals set higher than that. I realised that the only way to achieve them was to take things into my own hands. I stopped working with the agents and began contacting companies directly. I wrote endless letters and resumes and made many calls. I also decided to quit my fashion job to focus on getting the job that I wanted and even offered my time for free at a few premium design companies to

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get my foot in the door while I looked for the job I wanted. I went to London Fashion Week to network and see what labels I loved. It was a tough call to do work experience when I was already a qualified designer, but I knew that it was the best way to get into the companies I needed to target.

It paid off. After two weeks in my first placement, the company realised my talent and my experience and offered me the job as womenswear designer for their womenswear line! The sacrifice and humility had been worth it. Working in both London and Italy was amazing because the market is so much larger over there. I was surrounded by many talented and inspiring people. In London even the high street fashion is fashion forward and people are willing to push the boundaries.

During my time designing in London, I worked with some incredibly creative people and worked on some amazing collaborations.

I flew to Italy every month for fittings and design development, as we produced the collections in the north of Italy. After three amazing years working in London, I decided to move to Italy full time. I was very lucky with my experience at this point to secure a job as a designer after two days. And again began the challenges of starting a new life. I had to start a job as a senior designer working in another country and in another language. I’ll never forget my first management meeting thinking “oh my god, I don’t understand a word anyone is saying!” I remember thinking, “this is sink or swim, just focus on what you know and do it.” I literally put my head down and created a collection. It was well received

and sold well and so began my Italian adventure. And in the meantime I learnt to speak Italian properly.

It was extremely challenging having to pick up the phone and try to speak Italian and write professional work emails in another language, but it was also rewarding to see what I could achieve when I put my mind to it.

However, despite my absolute love of my European life after nearly a decade living overseas, that feeling in the back of mind started popping up again. Deep down, I saw myself with my own fashion label in Sydney; I guess I had always imagined travelling to Europe yearly and growing a successful fashion business in Sydney. I had a great life, I was living ‘the dream’ in Europe. So why was I still unfulfilled?

I do think I believe in destiny. Last year I made another very difficult decision to get back on a plane to Sydney and leave my life behind.

I started literally from scratch again — a new life, new friends, no possessions and just a dream. After a lot of soul searching I started to listen to that feeling deep inside. It was like I knew what my destiny held for me and it was trying to get me back on course… It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made to leave and come home. I was so happy in Europe, building a career over there. But at the same time I had not seen my family for nearly 10 years and that dream of owning my own business had never gone away.

In my early 30s this was a big decision.

Watching all my friends around me, with established careers and marriages and kids,

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while I contemplated finding myself again and rebuilding my life from zero again. It was tough and some days I felt like a student again. Going from a big pay packet to living week-to-week and building something from nothing has definitely been challenging. It’s a scary prospect. Funnily enough, it wasn’t until I had lost everything that I had the courage to start something. That dream of my own label that I had carried with me from my school days was somehow suddenly possible and exciting! I invested all the money I had and created my label Isaac Vivier last year. I had underestimated how difficult it would be creating something in Sydney. I had overlooked the fact that all the contacts I had created over the last 10 years were now in Europe. So it took a lot of patience to recreate my contact list and build something in a country I hadn’t lived in for a decade.

Slowly I began to create Isaac Vivier, bit by bit and dollar by dollar. One thing that I brought home from Europe was my love of quality fabrics such as silk and leather. Seeing all the China made polyester fabrics in the market that stick to the body when worn and don’t last more than a few months, I decided to stick with what I loved by creating small runs of beautiful pieces in gorgeous fabrics. Pieces that people love and cherish. And so Isaac Vivier was born!

A year on, I recognise that the journey has been challenging, but I feel very fulfilled and excited about the future. I feel so happy to be finally following my dream and watching people follow my brand and knowing that it is truly my own. The biggest challenge

is definitely money. I have come to realise that money really does make the world go round. I’ve had to approach things very differently than I did when heading up a design department in a big company with big budgets. But every step of the way seems like a great achievement and it has been very rewarding to see people getting excited about wearing Isaac Vivier! And again I look back and am amazed at my bravery and faith that things will always work out. The label is going from strength to strength, I am finally home with family and friends who have given me amazing support along the way and I’m following my dreams. It’s not always easy, but if you really put your mind to something and work hard then anything is possible!

Love them or hate them, our dreams drive us, motivate us, excite us and most importantly, keep us on track!

Isaac vivier is stocked at The Iconic.com.au, Estate of Mind Crown St Darlinghurst.

The Dress Shop Balgowlah, Beautiful Creatures Ibiza Spain and at isaacvivier.com.au Photography: Fernando Barraza from Backstage Fix Hair: Lores Giglio Makeup: Melanie Burnicle

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from fire to photography Using photography to share the work of fire-fighters. warren frey

I have always known what I wanted to be. It revolved around art and being creative, and until the last year of college, I had my sights set on a career in graphic design. Then one day a classmate mentioned that firefighters worked two days, two nights and four days off and in an instant I abandoned all my creative ambitions for a job that would allow me maximum windsurfing and surfing time. Even so, I still knew exactly what I wanted to be; it had just become something completely different.

Looking back now, graphic design may have been the easier choice.

I laugh about how naĂŻve I was; becoming a firefighter was incredibly difficult to get into and it still is. Shift work is also very draining and definitely not for everyone, but at the time I did absolutely everything I could to increase my chances. I made some significant changes to my diet and I trained to be as fit as I could possibly be in order to pass the stringent fitness and physical aptitude tests. I also did every First Aid and Emergency Service related course available at the time.

Finally, after four years of trying I was successful. During that time, I never doubted that I wouldn’t get there, but at times I was concerned about the limited positions and how long success could take.

My friends were studying for their future careers, but I was still working in a surf shop. Fortunately though, when I started my new job as a firefighter it was about the same time that my friends graduated from university. It had been a hard journey, but on the way I had learnt some important lessons in self-belief and determination.

For me, creativity had been sidelined, but it was never really far away — it just needed awakening. As a firefighter you see some amazing things and during the last 17 years I have worked around some of the most significant events in other peoples lives. Every shift is different.

We may have to crawl through a house full of thick black smoke and in total darkness until we turn a corner to find bright orange flames rolling across the ceiling of a room fully engulfed in fire. Sometimes we are witness to some remarkable instances of survival. It never ceases to amaze me how we can arrive at the most destructive road crash to find the occupant out of the vehicle and walking around or even people who have survived after crashing a truck through a building. One day I discussed with my work colleagues about the lack of images of our life as firefighters and of the things we see and do. I purchased a camera and began bringing it to work.

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Over the last few years since, I have carefully managed to combine firefighting and photography. I am able to record what we do at work and am slowly building a unique body of work that I hope will one day show testament to the dedication and skills of the people who work in Emergency Services. Capturing these images remains strictly incidental to my job as a Firefighter. There are so many images etched in my mind that would have made compelling photographs, but when someone’s house is on fire and your work colleagues are relying on you to drag hoses or you have a breathing apparatus mask over your face, the camera stays in the truck. Often the images that I capture are a long time apart, but the exposure they have brought has helped me to begin building a new creative path in photography.

This year I managed to make photography profitable and considering the equipment that I have purchased, expensive software and a working trip overseas, this was a small milestone. The paid work that I do includes corporate, editorial, weddings, brochures and events. It’s a mixed bag at times, but it pays for gear, especially lighting, which helps to create the commercial and advertising images for my portfolio. You will not find wedding pictures or corporate portraits on my website. As much as I enjoy weddings, this is not my long-term goal, so I have made a conscious decision to only show the work that I am aiming to do more of.

In 2011, I was recognised by Capture Magazine as one of Australia’s Top Five Emerging Sports Photographers and was joint runner-up Emerging Advertising Photographer. For this I submitted two portfolios, each with six images. The lesson here for me was that you only show your very best work and if you stay focused you can achieve some level of success in a relatively short period of time.

Today, I have some really exciting work in the pipeline, both personal and commissioned. They have come about by taking opportunities, sometimes at the risk of spending vast amounts of money and time for no profit. However, if I had not taken these risks then I would have missed some turning points and I wouldn’t have developed the portfolio that I have today and more importantly, one that is as diverse as it is.

A few years ago I took an opportunity to photograph base jumpers.

One of the first experiences was to walk up into a remote part of

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Tasmania and over a three day period. We waited for atrocious weather to clear for just two base jumps lasting less than two seconds each, before the jumpers disappeared down a 1000ft cliff. It all happened very quickly, the lads only decided to jump at the last second and I had very little time to set up. Strangely enough, they do not like hanging around on the edge, waiting for the photographer to get their act together. Later, one of these images appeared as a feature page in The Weekend Australian. This really inspired me to do more and last year I took another opportunity to capture the same guys jumping from the KL Tower in Kualar Lumpur. While the base jumping work has not been profitable (although it has been cost neutral), it really doesn’t matter. I love taking these shots and I enjoy hanging out with these people. The images have allowed me to travel and have had a big impact on traffic flow to my site, but most importantly, they set me apart. This has been very helpful, especially when you are new and don’t have much commissioned work to show. I pick up wedding work from people that have never seen a wedding photo on my site.

They remember the fire photos or base jumping shots and contact me as a result of seeing these images. If a potential client is excited about my work then hopefully they get inspired by the prospects of having me do other work for them.

In the relatively short time that I have been pursuing work, I have quickly come to realise that the market is saturated with many talented photographers. The recurring message I get when scouring the vast amounts of information available on the web is that to be successful, you not only have to try to be really good, but you also have to be different and you have to be business savvy. It is pointless unless you can identify your market and be prepared to chase potential clients. There is no point waiting for work to come to you, you need to get your best work to the people that matter and be prepared for rejection. For anyone starting out, a second income will obviously help. It may allow you to chase more of the work and projects that you want to do, rather than worrying about how to get any work at all. Most importantly though, take the time to focus on what inspires you. Even if your personal work is not profitable, it can have a very positive impact on the rest of your business and allow you to pursue your true creativity.

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