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Proudly supported by McKR: www.mckr.com.au Cover: 300gsm Satin Carbon Neutral FSC Text: 130gsm Satin Carbon Neutral FSC Typeset in Whitney 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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Photo: Nipun Srivastava
Editors: Pete Saunders, Jessie Webb Sub-Editor: Eric Brotchie Designer: Pete Saunders Illustrator: April Wright Cover: Sam Woosley — A still shot from the Melbourne hyper-lapse project. hello@undercoat.net www.undercoat.net
contributors Crystal Fong (RMIT University) Shelley Horan (RMIT University) Bryony Marks (University of Melbourne) Moose (Goldsmiths University of London) Anne Richey (RMIT University) Viveka Simpson (Uni Melbourne / Australian National University) Eva Popov (Victorian College of the Arts) Jessie Webb (La Trobe University / University of Melbourne)
additional images Yohannes Baynes Alice Glenn Chris Kastner Franco Paghett Felix Pilling Milenkovic Sanja Noel Smyth Lucy Spartalis Nipun Srivastava
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.
contribute@undercoat.net 4
Photo: Chris Kastner
spring/editor As I sit here writing on a sunny spring morning, I am reminded that there is something exciting and invigorating about this time of year. As nature starts to wake from its winter slumber, so too people start to come out of their shells. The weather warms up, the days become longer and there is a growing anticipation for the warm summer days ahead. Throughout human history, spring has been synonymous with the themes of growth and rejuvenation. It is apropos then, to consider these themes as the seasonal collection of Overcoat starts to wrap up its production schedule. Never before have we attempted to run four magazines concurrently, juggling resources, timelines and our own work throughout the process. It has caused chaos and challenges but also reaped incredible rewards. Threaded throughout this issue are stories of inventing and reinventing: both one’s self and one’s work. It is common for most people, not just those in the creative fields. We are affected by the events around us, mentally, physically and spiritually. The ability to adapt and to respond to these changes, and use them as inspiration or motivation will ultimately pave the way for future successes. The magazine was always designed to be personally insightful and introspective. This has sometimes been challenge for contributors who grapple with the personal nature of the subject matter and their intimate narratives. But by working closely with each contributor through the process, what we have come up with with are compelling and insightful stories of professional and personal development. We end up getting to know these individuals as the incredible people they are and it is one of the most fulfilling aspects of my own career. Reading through the articles as they started to arrive forced me to hold a microscope up to my own work, both for Overcoat and in other endeavours. By looking objectively at what has happened and what we have accomplished, I realise that we have surpassed all the expectations we set upon ourselves. So, if spring is the time to grow and rejuvenate, there are some exciting seasons ahead.
pete saunders 6
Contents 09/ a life of grime
moose 29/ settling the score bryony marks 43/ the weatherman’s umbrella anne richey 61/ a pear in the hand viveka simpson 71/ hello sunlight jessie webb eva popov 83/ this is your captain speaking crystal fong 93/ star/gaze shelley horan
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a life of grime Drawing flowers in the dirt. moose goldsmiths university of london
My name is Moose and I’m a cleaner. I began a lifelong fascination with cleaning large things that didn’t belong to me when I was still at school. I worked as a kitchen porter at our local restaurant where plates and mess flew in with such great momentum — along with banter and general abuse — that I spent hours after everyone left trying to dismantle that chaotic energy and bring my version of tranquility and order to the room. It was here that that I discovered the Zen-like joy of cleaning, while singing along to the American top 20 with the floor-buffing machine. I was nearly unsackable. The kitchen looked and felt new by 6pm every Sunday, and I held the rarest of feelings for a teenage boy: walking home at peace with the world. They were happy days. Around then, I made an awful discovery that would bring me to where I am now. One night when I was in the restaurant (where I wasn’t supposed to be) I instinctively wiped a small gravy splash off the wall. This made a much larger mark than the one I’d just cleaned — that small wipe had cut through the beige nicotine-stained walls like a big swipe of white spraypaint. This turned into an hour of feverish repair, which every second grew larger and harder to hide. I tried in vain to diffuse the marks and ended up cleaning the whole wall. When I finally left, the wall was a different colour to the restaurant. At the end of the 90s I was co-running a small indie record label in Leeds. We had an LP that would make or break us and we needed to get it out. I was stuck with the age-old problem of trying to promote something with no money when the idea of contrasting clean marks on dirty walls came back around. Using this process to make an image or write a message was by no means new (we’ve seen it on the backs of white vans for years), but until that time no-one seemed to have attempted it on the mural-sized scale I was thinking of. It was so simple and obvious it inspired an instantly positive reaction from people — although my memories of afternoons creating these works in the tiled road tunnels of Leeds are also littered with the kind of random drive-by abuse you get from people with loud exhausts. Those tunnels were perfect to work in. All I needed was an old sock 10
to create hand-sized, human-marker pen swipes that gleamed like chrome from the car headlights. It was easy to write large and fast. Thinking that I’d created a way of making legal graffiti (through an act of cleaning or restoration, rather than something that could be deemed as damage) I expected it to happen everywhere immediately. It didn’t. It became an increasingly personal thing of my own instead. Graff artists hold this wonderful code of ethics where you don’t ‘bite’ (steal) other artist’s styles. That allowed me to become more notorious as the man who made this art. I originally coined the term ‘reverse graffiti’ to describe this process in the press release that we sent out to promote the LP. From there, it crept into print in several publications, most notably The Face’s Sept ‘99 Puff Daddy issue. They wrote mostly about the new form of graffiti and little about the LP, which duly dragged the label down. Because of its association with the LP, reverse graffiti was viewed more as a promotional device than as an art form. I’m partly to blame for that. I began to receive commissions and used the money to release music by local artists, privately chuckling at the irony of these corporations writing their names in their own dirt. But the cat was out of the bag.
(Right) El Monumento al la Revolucion, Mexico City Nov 2012. Re:Mex project ‘Flowers in the Dirt’ (each petal has a traffic jam inside it.) I filled the square with skulls and flower images many of which were made by attendees of a workshop I held there.
I made a piece for a cleaning company called Greenworks on the walls of the Broadway tunnel using high-pressure water and wooden stencils. It made the front ‘page’ of YouTube and won some awards as part of a really well-made short film by renowned documentarian Doug Pray. They neglected to tell me that Greenworks was a
(Over left) Hornstull, Stockholm, May 2013. Re:Mex exhibition ‘Anarchy Heart for Amanda’.
subsidiary of Chlorox, and although this plant-based cleaner ticks every sustainable box you can name, it’s the bastard child of the planet-melting mothership Chlorox. The hate mail I received for making this lovely intervention spoke of other future lessons to learn. Drawing in dirt unavoidably conveys a very simple environmental message and is also a kind of performance in itself. It’s borne from a will to clean, and a lifetime of working on large public events — when I was younger I used to build huge stages for people like Wham and Rod Stewart. The fact is that this process is a very
(Over right) Hackney Rd, London June 2013, Re:Mex exhibition ‘Pop up trash market’ the chair in the shot was dumped there, I cleaned up the chair and that little corner with my pressure washer and gave it a floral carpet and all of a sudden the chair looked inviting. It had been picked up by someone within the next hour. I hope people started to use that place for leaving unwanted furniture as it worked well.
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effective way of temporary message writing with practically zero environmental impact. It should be everywhere, but the local authorities are dinosaur colonies and they have struggled to embrace this beautifully simple, harmless idea. No matter, it goes on all around them. I began to hear of other artists using this format. Most notably, Camberwell art student Ben Long caused a stir in the tabloid press with his finger drawings of birds and old fighter planes on the back of white vans. So much so, in fact, that the Sun newspaper started a competition for their readers to send in their own ‘reverse graffiti’ pieces. Long came very close to receiving an award for his art from Peter Blake. But looking at the pages of Google now, he has been eclipsed by all the other people who use this technique. There are a million other ways of making big marks in our environments that cause no damage: using seeds to create patterns with flowers; drawing with lawn mowers; cutting through old billboards using the different colours in each layer. One of my favourites is breaking a twig into a blunt end and using it to scrape moss off a street sign — it utilises the reflective quality of the sign to illuminate each mark you make. It has always felt best when I’ve used grime writing to create a really
(Right) Brighton Marina, England Eternity symbol of poison and repair made for the 25th anniversary of the Bhopal tragedy in India. The making of this piece was filmed by CNN, who interviewed me and cut out the explanation of what it was leaving me saying only, ‘ yeah I think it looks really nice’.
positive message. My work with charities, particularly Shelter and Greenpeace, has been really rewarding. Seeing the full power of this kind of writing cleaned into the fabric of the city allowed the process to be at its purest. Being undiluted with any agenda beyond saving our souls and our planet is where it really came home. Likewise, there was a great resonance writing excepts from TS Eliot’s The Wasteland on the banks of the Thames for the Mayor’s Thames Festival a couple of
(Over left) Surrey Hills, Sydney 2011 Exploding vacuum cleaner I don’t sign any of the pieces I make I use the symbol of an exploding vacuum cleaner instead. Often with the vacuum bag made to look like a lung.
years ago. I carried water from the river to make the words. Using the environment around me for every part of the process is something I try to do: whether it’s collecting rainwater, or water from rivers or canals. It completes a beautiful circle. I work confidently around the public, and that helps me to disappear from their sight when making these often large and unsanctioned murals. My other cloak of invisibility is my high-vis vest. I’m generally
(Over right) The Old Police Station, Bristol 2011 Sign off for a large mural made using the DOFF’ sandblasting’ system. The mural contained lots of tattoos of swallows escaping through the front entrance of the old Police station. And the Love/ Hate fists only they read Love/More Love
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working with semi-industrial tools, dressed like a street cleaner, knowing that once I’ve been spotted in this guise I will barely register on anyone’s radar. I’m sure most people if quizzed won’t even recall seeing me. The drunks, however, spot me every time — why, I don’t know. As a teenager, I found the whole experience of art school stifling, like there was nothing new under the sun. I fell out of love with the art world as I knew it. My work was always about found objects and I looked for ways of getting art out of stuffy galleries and into a more relevant context: the street. It even added an element of surprise. The whole thing has always felt like a very personal response to my own character and my path in life. Little by little my strange hobby began to turn me into an artist as I started to enjoy creating imagery again. I have always been drawn to the process — the pranksterism and the ridiculous hour-long conversations with the police while they try to figure out how to arrest me. I’m asking if it’s ok to express myself in a totally harmless way that does no damage to anything, by restoring surfaces no one would ever think about restoring. To me, it’s like I’m writing in the sand, but to them, I’m challenging
(Right) Valletta, Malta 2013 ‘Tree of Life’ made for Dana McKeon’s video for her ‘Street Art’ single. Dana is an amazing singer and beatboxer.
their rules. And of course I am, only in a very lovely, harmless way. The murals I create emerge from dirty backgrounds and appear in nature’s colour schemes. Tones that already exist in the environment are kind on the eye, and my imagery and symbols can have a very beautiful subtlety about them for that reason. They can be a little ghostly too, as if by removing these layers of ‘history’ another truth is revealed. The designs are generally lifted from imagery of nature and so the audience is initially intrigued by a beautiful image of flowers or
(Over left) 9th Ward, New Orleans 2010 ‘Chaos symbol’ originally I was trying to create a Fleur de Lis, (the symbol of the city) on the wall of one of the breached levee’s of the 9th ward of the city but it became a symbol of fire and water and chaos. I wrote ‘Je t’aime’ next it. New Orleans is an incredible place living on the edge of disaster any moment.
trees. On closer inspection they realise it has been created from a wall of pollution, and a more sinister and significant message emerges. Because no-one will ever have given a second’s thought, respect, or love to the places where I work, they become almost magical when elaborate forms appear gently and surprisingly under people’s noses as they walk their paths to work or school.
(Over right) Broadway tunnel, San Francisco 2008 ‘The Reverse Graffiti Project’ part of a hundred foot long mural depicting a silhouette of a natural Californian landscape cleaned onto the polluted walls of a tunnel that has millions of cars passing through it every week.
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These days, this kind of clean message writing appears all over the world. Five years after I created my first murals, Alexandre Orion, a brilliant Brazilian artist, put us on the map with his skull-lined tunnel in São Paulo, (www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwsBBIIXT0E) using the same process I’d been using in Leeds with the cloth on tiles. More recently, I’ve set up a ‘clean messaging’ service in Australia called A Clean Word. Using the world’s dirt as a message board is both attention-grabbing and poignant. Over time, it’s been unavoidably exploited by rotten street media companies. They unwittingly create a paradox by advertising their consumerism in pollution, but that adds more fuel to the fire in the end. That’s been my point: to challenge the establishment’s thinking so
(Right) The Rocks. Sydney, 2013 ‘There are always flowers for those who want to see them’ A quote by Henri Matisse and part of my ethos on living.
we can develop as a society, and to show in a polite yet sinister way how filthy our world is. All I am saying is that we already have enough of everything. In fact, there’s too much, and I’m playing in its byproduct — dirt — and nobody cares. After recycling it in this way it gains a value, and the dirt becomes a commodity. That is statement in itself and I don’t even know if it’s stupid or clever. It depends what day it is.
(Over left) Belgrade 2011 You can see a video of the making of this piece on YouTube called ‘Moose in Belgrade’ I didn’t even know they were filming. Made entirely using brushes of various types including toothbrushes. Photo by Milenkovic Sanja
(Over right) Broadway tunnel, San Francisco 2008 The making of the short film ‘The Reverse Graffiti project’
(Final image) Kosice, Slovakia 2010 I had made a much more elaborate design but was given a large industrial sand blasting machine to work with which covered the walls with sand and had to simplify things a lot but I think it might have worked out better for me that way. The Russians had turned all the towns waterways into roads and things were starting to reverse there. Photo by Franco Paghetti (VII agency).
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settling the score A child prodigy who wasn’t‌ bryony marks university of melbourne
Like many child prodigies, I started learning piano at the guileless age of five. That’s all those kids and I ever had in common. It didn’t take long to realise that, while being what people referred to as ‘musical’, I didn’t possess the technical aptitude — nor would I ever — of a truly gifted classical musician. Instead, from the outset, music offered a glorious escape. In primary school, it shielded me from the sports-focussed playground during recess and lunch, when my friend Georgie Veevers and I would steal away to the tiny, dark practise room on the first floor to make up music for four hands. It offered me bursts of intense inspiration at home, usually after dinner when it was time to do the dishes. For an oversensitive eldest child whose pale, bony ears poked disgracefully through thin, dark hair, music provided solace and identity. It allowed me a voice while saving me from my fey, introverted self. While more at ease in my skin these days, music still retains for me this personal power and purpose. There are many composers for whom composition is a pure investigation of the extremities of sound. For some, this lies in stretching the boundaries of an instrument’s capabilities. For others, it is creating sound worlds for new instruments, or democratising the compositional process through technology. Of course everyone writes for a multitude of reasons, and I have adopted all these approaches at one time or other. However, my overarching concern — as defiantly old fashioned and humanistic as it is — is to express and communicate my sense of what it is to be a fallible human living in a complex, hilarious, heartbreaking and unbearably joyous world. This desire for connection steered me to writing music for film and television. Or, to be more precise, writing music for certain sorts of film and television projects. Composing for the screen can be as asinine and soul-destroying as ‘colour by notes’, where no-one expects (or indeed desires) any input of interest or originality. It can also be an astoundingly potent, exhilarating collaboration between impassioned individuals who align to create a new work greater than the sum of its parts. 30
In this process, to transcend mediocrity, each departmental head (photography, sound, production design, costume, hair and makeup, editing and music) needs to be trusted to contribute their own distinctive voice, expressed without ego in response to a script and director’s vision. In my opinion, rigorous casting of the heads of departments is as important as casting the right actors. I’ve declined a few projects, sensing that I was not right for the job. Typically this has not been because of the genre or style of music required, but rather because my sensibility has differed too significantly from what I believe the project is trying to achieve. I don’t need to admire or relate to the characters, or to share their (or the film’s) world-view — indeed sometimes the opposite is a fascinating challenge. I do need some ‘essence’ of the storytelling to resonate in a meaningful way. When embarking upon a new screen project, composers watch what is called a ‘fine cut’ — a close-to-finished version without sound design, music or effects. When doing so, I rely on experiencing a genuine emotional response to the film in order to intuit where I will take the music. (Later, of course, craft and technique also come into play). Faking this response is like faking an orgasm. It’s not always clear if anyone else can tell, but I know the difference and it feels… deceitful. I can never fully trust my instincts on how to proceed. An emotional connection gives the process an invaluable clarity, and if you have that connection as a screen composer, you are infinitely more likely to respond in a way that the director and producers value. While the style and orchestration of screen music is important, and fun for the composer, it is not as important as how, why and where the music is used. The way the music sounds is the icing, the rationale behind why it exists is the cake. The soundtracks that I loathe are those whose only function is to re-enforce the obvious. For example: an actor sobs, cue sad strings; an actor walks happily down the street, cue jaunty, happy walking music. Screen music has so much more to offer. If the director, actors, cinematographer and editor have skilfully conveyed
faking this response is like faking an orgasm. it’s not always clear if anyone else can tell, but i know the difference and it feels‌deceitful
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the atmosphere, emotion, plot and pace of a scene, adding music that merely re-enforces what is already there can render a great performance mawkish, while at once assuming that the intended audience is moronic. Yet so much film and television does it. Sometimes this happens when it is felt (by a director/producer/ investor/test screening participants) that a scene is not working. The hope is that coating it in music will fix the problem. It may help, to a degree, but it will only ever bandaid the wound, not heal it. I know, because, like every screen composer I’ve ever met, I’ve been asked to do it. I’ve been asked to do it in the same breath as I’ve been asked to write the jaunty, happy walking music to accompany that image of the happy man as he walks jauntily down the street. Because the audience won’t get that he’s happy, or jaunty, unless we ram it down their throats. But, hang on. Didn’t I write just paragraphs ago that I turned down scripts that didn’t move me? Problem is — and this is where it gets really tricky — when reading a script you can’t always tell how the finished work is going to turn out. By the time you watch the footage, you’ve often signed on months before and you feel like a mangy dog if you pull out. Or, you may sign on because you love the script only to find that the film is brilliant but the director wants to musically wallpaper the movie — to make it more palatable, less confronting: to re-enforce the bleeding obvious. Or, maybe the director doesn’t but the producer does, and he/she wins. Either way, there you are, writing the sort of soundtrack you abhor and quite likely faking that orgasm again. Take a deep breath. Tell yourself — because it’s true — that when in this situation, your job is to write the best music you can within the suggested parameters. It’s not your place to tell the director what they should want, or have. It’s not your party. Their opinion is as valid as yours, in fact significantly more so: it’s their show. While a crystal ball would undoubtedly help, all judiciousness must occur before a project has been accepted.
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Here are a few methods I employ, when the opportunity arises, to create what I feel has the potential to be a satisfying soundtrack: Firstly, and arguably most importantly: rigorous spotting. It’s not as it sounds. Spotting is when the producer, director, editor and composer watch the footage together to decide where the music should go. This process should be as much about where music shouldn’t go. As music is the most overtly manipulative element of an inherently manipulative medium, its absence can result in a raw, seemingly unfiltered transaction with an audience. In a scene where an actor cries, for example, the audience is not let off the hook if there is no music in which to cathartically wallow. Unless, that is, we consciously decide to engage in cathartic wallowing. When spotting, music’s role should be considered holistically. What is the desired overall import? Where does each cue sit in relation to the one before and after? Have we allowed enough breath in between? The more music is wallpapered, the less power it has to affect an audience. It’s like a sculptor considering concrete and abstract space. Spotting the film Noise (2007) and miniseries Cloudstreet (2010), the director and I decided that the function of the music would be to present an omnipotent voice and a world ‘overview’. In Noise the overview was intense and foreboding. The score was dissonant and hard on the ears, as it musically referenced the main character’s tinnitus. It gave a sense that, however the characters may rally and rail, they couldn’t escape the fatalistic march towards the film’s conclusion. In Cloudstreet, the music references the sweetly melancholic harmonies of hymns. It suggests a world overview in which suffering and joy are flip-sides of the same coin. For me, the score starts at the first frame of footage, and ends at the last, regardless of where the actual music starts. In my head, the sections with no music form part of the score — its negative space. The score of the film Felony (2014) starts around twenty minutes into the action. While the film begins with a kinetic action sequence, we decided to hold off until the central premise of the film is revealed.
as music is the most overtly manipulative element of an inherently manipulative medium, its absence can result in a raw, seemingly unfiltered transaction with an audience.
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In this case, the music is plot-centric. It says: ‘game on’. Secondly comes juxtaposition. A cheerful piece of music in a tragic scene can make the scene sadder without resorting to cliché. Melancholic music under happy scenes can give them a more meaningful happiness. When music works against the first layer of meaning, the audience is encouraged to examine a character’s paradoxes — making the characterisation more credible. We did this in Josh Thomas’ series Please Like Me. The first music cue that I wrote accompanied Josh walking through a park, having just dropped his suicidal mother off at her first psychiatrist’s appointment. Rather than have the music articulate the anxiety he was surely feeling, we chose to play his denial. The music chirps along, complete with the sensational Julie O’Hara singing maniacally cheerful doo-wops. The music plays not the plot, but the subtext. This is when scoring is just too much fun. Thirdly: collaborations. There are many practical advantages to embarking upon an in-depth collaboration with the sound designer: not least that sound and music should seamlessly cohere in the final mix. You will have discussed who will occupy which frequencies, and possibly even whose work should be more prominent in certain scenes. But this collaboration also has a far more creative application. For Noise, I recorded a group of musicians using traditional instruments to make noise. I gave these recordings to sound designer Emma Bortignon. She manipulated them beyond recognition, used her new files as part of her overall sound design, and even passed her files back to me. I then added her new files to my original recordings and mixed them with an orchestral score. When we brought our work together in the final mix, it had a unity of purpose and execution that, at times, made it impossible to tell sound design and music apart. I’ve worked with many directors whom I admire greatly and with whom I have a dynamic, collaborative relationship. The one I’ve worked with most, and know best, is Matthew Saville, my husband. It’s not a coincidence that the examples I’ve cited above have all been
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Saville-helmed. Many of the methodologies I’ve outlined are ones that we have developed together, in a partnership spanning from our first student film to our current collaboration, the second series of Please Like Me. We have spent countless hours dissecting all aspects of filmmaking and its relationship to our sense of the world. We have emerged, creatively, side by side. It’s a fortunate position to be in. Collaboration within my own music department is just as important. I’ve worked with outstanding audio engineer and mixer Rodney Lowe for twelve years. Our collaboration is so finely honed that I often go to ask him to try something and find he’s already doing it. It’s the same with the masterful statesman conductor, Brett Kelly, and my talented friend, composer Amelia Barden, who helps me as copyist on orchestral projects. Then there’s all the gobsmackingly-gifted musicians for whom I have the privilege to write. The child prodigies. The truly talented ones. Together with the hundreds of others who comprise a cast and crew, we strive to be greater than the sum of our parts, in order to release something of substance into the world.
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the weatherman’s umbrella Rebuilding a community. anne richey rmit university
I first visited Marysville in 2008 when I attended the Australian Screenwriters’ Conference. It was a gorgeous little town, with lovely shops and tree-lined streets tucked into a valley surrounded by forests. I didn’t have time to explore, but if I had, I would have soon found the waterfall, the lolly shop, and Bruno’s Sculpture Garden. On the 7th of February 2009, the Black Saturday bushfires carved its devastating path across Victoria. Marysville was one of the worst-affected communities; most of its buildings were destroyed and 34 lives lost. In Melbourne there was no smoke, and we wondered if the state had remarkably survived the 47 degree temperature and howling gale without a fire. Then the news started filtering through. I checked the internet, hoping against hope that everyone in Marysville and the other towns affected were okay. As I did so, images of Bruno’s Sculpture Garden appeared. I kept returning to these images over in the next year, wondering if there was a story there. As I didn’t know what had happened to the sculptor or the garden, I didn’t take it any further. Then by accident I noticed an article which said Bruno’s garden had reopened. I decided to visit. I’m sure Bruno thought I was crazy, but he gave me permission to write a feature film based on the characters in his sculpture garden. I set to work on The Weatherman’s Umbrella.
When the Weatherman puts on his boots it gets frosty, when he puts on his scarf it gets windy, and when he puts on his hat it gets warm. The problem is, the Weatherman’s lost his umbrella. Without an umbrella, there will be no more rain.
Young Sarah is dropped off at her great grandfather’s house near Marysville. She expects to spend her time eating, playing on her computer and watching television but when it turns out that none of these things are possible, she sets out to find the shop. She soon becomes lost and encounters a number of strange people in the forest. There’s a scuba 44
diver looking for water, a blind man guided by his young son and a strange guard wearing a top hat. Sarah is determined to reach the shop, and it seems that nothing will stop her — not even the quest to find the Weatherman’s umbrella. Without her help though, it might never rain again.
Over the past five years, the focus has been on rebuilding and regenerating the town. It currently has about 200 residents, including the kids. My aim was for the project to be fun, to have nothing to do with the fires, potentially bring a tourism boost to the town, and bring the community together to make something. Once the script was ready, conducting a stage reading seemed like the best way to start getting to know the people who would like to be involved, and to familiarise other locals with the project. I wanted to make sure that there were no problems with the content before we started filming. The project was added to the crowd- funding website, Pozible and a little over $2000 was raised, largely through friends and family. Although this process was difficult, it gave us the ability to conduct the reading to attract some media interest. It ended up being more money than we needed for the stage reading, so the remainder was used on the film later on. Audition flyers were deposited in local shops and at the primary school. After the auditions were held we were close to the right cast numbers. With some prodding, a few more adults joined us, including Gordon Lyall, a friend of Bruno’s from Melbourne who is an Elvis impersonator and first aid trainer with an impressive background in theatre. He’s playing Harris. We conducted a few read throughs, then performed the stage reading at Crossways Inn in Marysville, with John Wood (Blue Heelers) as the Weatherman and screen industry veteran John Flaus as the Great Grandfather. It was a packed house — standing room only. During this time, I was also working to find a great crew to help make the film. Esteemed cinematographer Don McAlpine (Wolverine, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the
Lily Morrow and Jacob Vulfs: Sarah, the Blind Man and the Blind Man’s Son hide in the huge hollow tree in the background of this shot.
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Daryl Hull and Gizmo: Daryl plays the part of the Weatherman — a man with the ability to change the weather depending on what he chooses to wear.
Cassius Trudinger, Anna Fraga, Amy Morrow, Heide Trudinger: The diver and diverlings are looking for water.
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Wardrobe, Moulin Rouge, Breaker Morant) was just one of the highlycredited people keen to work on the film, but unfortunately despite the calibre of the people involved, we were ineligible for funding through Screen Australia and Film Victoria. I’d written 16 feature film scripts by that stage and it had been five years since I was last able to apply for anything at all. Determined not to let this setback deter me, I called a meeting with the local people keen to be involved and we agreed that we should just go ahead and make the film rather than waiting for the guidelines to change. We had no budget and no professional crew if we took this path, but we did have a script and lots of enthusiasm. Because of all this, the film is being made on a profit-share basis, so if the film makes any money, it will be shared between the people involved. Although Don McAlpine was willing to work for nothing, he lives in NSW and as we were filming on weekends, it wasn’t going to be viable. It was going to be a hard ask for any professional cinematographer to commit such a large and scattered amount of time, so I went out and bought a Canon 70D and a Zoom sound recorder. Unfortunately John Wood’s schedule didn’t work for the film as it had with the reading, as he was performing in a play. Luckily local musician, photographer and visitor centre volunteer Daryl Hull was able to step into the role of the Weatherman. He had narrated the stage reading. The delightful John Flaus remained on board, playing the part of the Great Grandfather. The film was made with the philosophy that anyone who wanted to be involved could be involved, and fortunately the numbers worked out perfectly. It should be added that some of the grouped roles were written to expand or contract as needed. The hardest decision was in choosing the lead character — Sarah. It needed someone who would be completely committed to the task as the eleven year old appears in almost every scene. We held an audition, and Lily Morrow was terrific, although she did have some very serious competition from the other girls keen on the
Lily Morrow, Bill Mitchell, Cameron Giovanetto, Christina Weiss, Jacob Vulfs and Chris Muir: Behind the actors is the house in which the poor people live.
50
role. Lily has a terrific singing voice and has hosted a cooking show in South Korea as well as performing in other acting roles. We started filming on the 16 of February 2014. Lily’s father Bruce Morrow took on audio recording duties, while David Vulfs became assistant director. David is the father of Jacob Vulfs who plays the Blind Man’s Son, the other major child role in the film. In addition to playing the Weatherman, Daryl Hull has also written a theme song for the film, and is providing additional cinematography, along with Bruce. Daryl shot the only footage from within Marysville once the fires had passed. Other local musicians are also providing music. There’s certainly a lot of talent in the area. While filming, I very quickly discovered that incidental lines in the script were imbued with additional meaning by the people in the town. The burnt out pot in the Scavenger scene at the start was the only thing left of Jane Fraga’s house. Local Chris Hobbs’s wooden meteorology box appears in start credits. It inexplicably survived the flames while everything around it burned to the ground. The jar used for the water was found on the block of land which once held Daryl’s grandfather’s guest house. As we had no budget, we sourced props from op shops, costume shops and cupboards, and bought the much-needed umbrellas online from a Victorian retailer. Many of the props ended up being better than we could have wished for. Daryl had a multicoloured scarf which was ideal for the Weatherman. I was initially thinking that the beanie which makes it snow would just be a normal beanie — until I saw the amazing one offered on the day of the shoot. The chest for the Weatherman’s weather accoutrements was the one which David’s ancestors had used when they immigrated to Australia. We were also keen to include local products where possible. The honey is the local brand, as is the wine on the counter in the Great Grandfather’s house. The lightning rock came from Crystal Journey in Marysville. The filming of the Scavenger/Bearded Man scenes needed a pile of junk, and I was initially thinking that we could just get everyone to
(Over) Teake Trudinger, Lucy Bourke, Micci Soriano, Noah Vulfs, Benjamin Fraga, Asher Sims, Hayley Fiske: These seven children run the lolly shop in the film.
David Vulfs and Eddy Bourke: The Demon and the Demon’s Apprentice.
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bring along some junk and then take it away again — but then I was reminded that the people had lost everything in the fires and didn’t have junk anymore. The locations include the waterfall, Bruno’s Sculpture Garden and gorgeous tracks and other locations. When we needed a portal in one of the scenes, we found that one of the houses we had already arranged to use contained a fireman’s pole on the back deck. Fallen tree? Easy! Huge hollow tree? Easy! A house an old man might live in? Easy! A tiny house with a hobbit-sized door? Easy! Luck was everywhere. We were also fortunate to be able to use the Marysville lolly shop for two major scenes. Seven little kids all dressed in brown are running the lolly shop in one of the scenes, and Sarah is tricked into buying lollies. This was one of the most chaotic but fun scenes that we shot. When customers entered the shop, the kids were all mustered into the lower room where they would spontaneously start singing. On another occasion, we were trying to shoot an exterior scene but there was a dog barking, a chainsaw and a motorbike all at once. We waited for about half an hour until finally — silence. We started shooting and then I heard a strange snuffly sound. The Weatherman’s dog (my dog) had fallen asleep under the tripod and started snoring. As a result of the film, many of the cast and crew involved have been inspired to start screenwriting, learn cinematography, or take acting or musical theatre classes. Our young star Lily Morrow has recently been accepted as a competitor in K-Pop Stars, the South Korean singing competition incredibly popular throughout Asia. She’s just one of the amazingly talented people in the area. Hopefully their participation in the film has helped inspire them to follow their dreams. We are now in the final stages of the shoot. We only have about three days of filming left to go. These will be filmed when Lily returns from Korea. One of these scenes involves Bruno Torfs, the sculptor, sitting in a nest playing with his mobile phone. My personal learning curve has been extreme. I’ve been learning how to edit, colour grade, match audio and video and how to direct. None of this would have been possible without the support of the people involved,
Gordon Lyall: Harris guards the Weatherman to make sure he doesn’t lose anything else.
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and I will always be grateful to them. They’re delightful, open-hearted, fun, generous and kind people, and I’m proud to call them my friends. The project has brought people together to create a film of their own, showcasing their amazing skills and helping to form connections within the community. After years of hard work rebuilding, the film project involved doing something just for the fun of it. It also provides a new topic for tourists to enquire about, rather than the locals constantly reliving the fires through being asked about their experiences. I hope that the film has helped people to look forward into a positive future. In retrospect, although I would have dearly loved to pay people for their participation as we worked, I’m glad that the film worked out the way that it did. If we had just filmed for a month and had then gone again, the impact would have been far less than shooting one day each weekend for many months. We’re aiming to stage an outdoor play version of The Weatherman’s Umbrella in Marysville in April 2015, with the audience following the action along a lovely forest track with magical events happening along the way. More information about this will be revealed on our Facebook page (www.facebook.com/theweathermansumbrella) and website (www.theweathermansumbrella.com) soon. In the last few months, I’ve also been approached by cast and crew who would now like to make a sequel, another film, a television series or a web series. Our next steps however are to complete the shoot and post-production, as well as find a distributor to help get the film out to audiences. If need be though, we’ll distribute it ourselves. Video On Demand is a wonderful thing.
(Over) (TOP ROW) Sharon Bourke (chief kid wrangler), Bruce Morrow (audio recordist and co-producer), David Vulfs (assistant director), Jacob Vulfs, Chris Muir, Lily Morrow, Daryl Hull (additional cinematography), Lisa Nolte (co-producer), Teake Trudinger, Lucy Bourke, Micci Soriano, Noah Vulfs, Benjamin Fraga, Asher Sims, Hayley Fiske. All are performers in the film apart from Sharon Bourke. The background shows Marysville’s Thousand Hands — with the handprints of those who helped to rebuild the town following the fires.
Lily Morrow, John Flaus, Jacob Vulfs: This photo was taken on the day we shot the scenes involving Sarah’s Great Grandfather.
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a pear in the hand Turning the edible rancid and the rancid drinkable
viveka simpson university of melbourne / australian national university
In our house, things that traditionally would be understood to have gone ‘off’ — jars that pop when you open them, things that fizz when they shouldn’t — are no longer thrown out. In fact, this is considered their ideal state, and is actively sought after. Good, wholesome foodstuffs are encouraged to putrefy, to seethe and to fester into bolder versions of themselves. Bags of tomatoes hang fetid in our kitchen, a clear liquid dribbling forth and down into a bucket for days. Cabbage turns from green to purple — hissing slightly when disturbed. Moulds are categorised as either good or bad. I knew of beneficent moulds of course — I’ve had all my jabs and willingly guzzle penicillin when ill — but until now I’ve never gleefully mixed them back into a stewing mass of apples. And when I say ‘gleefully’, I perhaps am taking license. It isn’t me who is gleeful, but my boyfriend Sam. And it is he, not I, who is spearheading this campaign to turn the edible rancid. I remain unconvinced, grappling with this paradigm shift, as I step over buckets and jars and negotiate my way through beakers, flasks and pH strips, just to get to the sink. This new found love for all things fermented did not happen in a bubble. Sam has a history of diving head on into whatever it is he is doing with a vim and vigour that is matched by few. And now that we sleep with homebrew bubbling away next to the bed (Sam assures me this is necessary as our bedroom is the warmest room in the house) I can pinpoint the first step in this slippery journey to a houseboat on Dal Lake in Srinigar, India, only one year ago. Sam had travelled ahead of me and I arrived in Kashmir ill and disconcerted, with the keen sense of life’s transience that a menacing military presence can inspire. I was then to discover that, in the week since I had seen him, Sam had become obsessed with juice. Obsessed. He talked to me about juice. He showed me photos of juice bottle labels. We ate apples. He bought more juice. He tried to instigate talks with our hosts about juice. I was confused, and put this obsession down to altitude, or stress, or the simmering war taking place around us. I was wrong. Sam, all of a sudden, just really loved juice. And so, during our trip through India’s north, across to the east coast and back, Sam kept on talking about juice. In Darjeeling, this obsession was becoming the compass point to which Sam was 62
tethering his future, and he enrolled in a fermenting and brewing course back in Australia. Fermenting and brewing? That’s not juice. Ah, but is not cider just fermented juice? It was a crystalizing moment, cementing Sam’s path and beginning the story of Sam Pendergast: Brewer and Cider maker. On our return from India, we moved from Warrnambool, where Sam had grown up, to Melbourne, so I could teach and Sam could brew. Or wine-make. Or spirit make. He was unsure how to break into what we were discovering was a close-knit industry. Stress levels were heightened, and it seemed that everywhere we looked, someone was launching a new cider, or beer, or — heaven forbid — juice. He continued to complete his course and decided he needed to take matters into his own hands. He signed up for a vintage in South Australia’s Barrosa Valley. There, he spent three months of nights — from 7pm until 7am, dragging hoses, filling vats, dragging more hoses and going slightly crazy. Our fifteen-minute conversations, as I drove home from work and he woke up, became more stilted and less enjoyable as the time ground on. He grew pale and scraggly, but remained ever-devoted to his new found passion. He finally returned, hands cracked and stained purple with wine bilge that would not wash out for weeks. His time in the Barossa Valley imparted a new lexicon, and suddenly Sam could talk about sulphur dioxide levels, yeast pitching and deoxygenation with authority. More excitingly, people listened, and Sam secured himself a job back in Melbourne with Victoria’s only large-scale distillery. He was in! He’d cracked the industry and was now part of the small but vibrant brewing and fermenting community in Victoria. Fast-forward six months to a meeting of the Goulburn Valley Food Co-operative. The Co-op formed after a multinational tomato processing company closed down its operations in Gigarre, Victoria, leaving all workers unemployed literally overnight. Co-op members rallied together and pooled their resources, intent on buying the plant and continuing its operation. Unfortunately, the multinational was unreceptive to such a plan, and former employees were left looking for alternatives. The plant continues to sit fallow and idle, stripped
Dario Pulsoni, Liz Waters and Sam Pendergast at Dario’s orchard in Kyabram.
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of any working equipment. Although not able to buy the plant, the Co-op members were determined to make or do something that could ensure income for the families. There was the option of building a new plant, yet members put their minds to supporting other local industries — industries that already existed — whilst creating products they could sell. They moved to the ‘virtual factory’ model, where existing infrastructure is used to manufacture a range of goods for different stakeholders. A factory in Griffith was used to produce a pasta sauce and a local family of pasta makers was brought on to make pasta. The Co-op introduced the Riverina Grove Pasta set to Goulburn Valley retailers in 2012. It was at the Melbourne launch of the set — at a friend’s house — that Sam happened upon Dario Paulsoni, and the most exciting chapter of the story begins to be written. Dario has lived in Kyabram his whole life, and works an orchard of pear and apple trees. His father lives on an adjacent orchard, where Dario grew up. His father, now in his eighties, starts each day with a shot of grappa dropped in a coffee — a concoction he thanks for his ongoing good health. Dario’s father made a good living selling fruit to SPC, and Dario had begun his working life doing the same. However, prices for canning fruit have been declining for a long time, and in late 2013, Dario contacted the Co-op. He had been offered fifty dollars a tonne for his pears, and he decided that, at that price, he would happily donate ten tonnes to the Co-op — if they could use them. It was going to be almost cheaper for him to dump his fruit than to sell it for the price offered. Sam’s initial suggestion was little more than helpful advice. His thinking was that with the pasta and sauce already being produced, a cider could be a line extension or a one-off. Little did he imagine the groundswell of support that would build around his idea. Just two weeks later, the pears had been crushed, fermented and bottled. Friends were brought in to design labels and write copy and, almost overnight, Co-op Pear Cider was on tap at the Blue Brick in Kyabram. Sam received so much support in fact, that Faire Ferments was born — Sam’s own collaboration with Dario and other Co-op members. The first thing he did was to pay Dario a fair price for his pears. Faire Ferments’ philosophy is based on
Illustrations by Felix Pilling.
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equity and awareness. Sam wants people to think about the things they consume and to connect with the people that grow them. Almost like the French conception of terrior, Co-op Pear Cider is made from pears that only Dario has grown. Co-op Pear Cider has been available for a year now, and it has received glowing praise. It is pink and made only from pear juice and yeast. There are no sugars or syrups added. It’s gluten free and preservative free. It tastes divine. It has been, in equal parts, a complete nightmare. Batches have been dodgy and thrown out. People have complained. Sam is at the mercy of distributors, critics, sales people and supermarket buyers. He is responsible for everything — from product creation to sales. He loses sleep over font sizes and packaging options. Adobe Illustrator has given him ulcers. Bit files have induced sweats. A swarm of worries and concerns of which he was blissfully unawares now lurks about his ankles, tripping him occasionally and giving him a decent bite. Yet, he is content. He is, as is his want, surrounded by juice. And yeast. And fetid plums. And fermenting carrots. An unexpected outcome of the wild foray into this world is that Sam’s eyes are now open to the possibility of fermentation in all its incarnations. I can assure you those incarnations are myriad, and mostly disturbing. Take the homebrew in our bedroom, for example. In my humble opinion, this is a step too far. Sam makes cider now for a living. He has a warehouse in which he stores thousands of litres of apple and pear cider. He has kegs of it, bottles of it, vats and tubs of it. It is in barrels, it’s being smoked and massaged and who knows what else. So why do we need a gurgling mass of it next to us as we sleep? Diversification and personal satisfaction are the answers Sam proffers. And this, I believe is fair — to embody and live a vision is the kind of life fulfillment we daily seek. The man is happy. He is currently, and here, I take no license, driving one thousand litres of juice to a warehouse somewhere. As far as I can tell, that is living.
Sam Pendergast with Co-op Pear Cider Vintage #2.
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Co-op Organic Apple Cider being bottled in Nagambie. (Right) Co-op Organic Apple Cider label by Felix Pilling.
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hello sunlight 84000 ideas from Eva Popov
jessie webb la trobe university / university of melbourne
Eva Popov once described songwriting as
Eva, the album includes memories and
‘a cross between creating a really intricate
physical experiences of darkness. ‘I can hear
sculpture and having a magical conversation
that in the album, still,’ she reflects. ‘84000
with the universe.’ In conversation with her,
was, in a way, quite a brutal process. It was
this makes sense. She speaks in the way
made as a way of coping with an internal
she writes songs, shaping thoughts into
challenge in my life at that point. On top
images and getting at the heart of things.
of that, I was pregnant and having my
We sit at her kitchen table with late-winter
second child. It was a physically exhausting
sun streaming across the timber — marked
experience, and it accompanied me through
with its own multiplicity of stories — while
some really raw nerves.’ Not that she doesn’t
Sunny, her youngest daughter, plays behind
also hear the joy in it — and joy, like light,
us. ‘Sunny’ also describes the feeling in this
is a central theme to Eva’s musical life and
room, and I’m reminded of the repetition of
creativity — but with this, she says, ‘I do have
this motif — of light, and sun — throughout
a physical memory of — just darkness really.’
Eva’s work.
Eva Popov is a Melbourne-based singer-
In my memory there is Eva Popov on stage
songwriter who found solace in music early
in Northcote, singing about the first day
in life. She remembers the childhood joy
of summer, the day of her eldest daughter
she found singing with others: Bulgarian
Maisy’s birth, ‘like a shot of cocaine’. There
Hymns in church, and with her family each
is Eva in a Fitzroy pub on a winter night,
night before bed. Following the unexpected
surrounded by her band, Hello Satellites: the
death of her mother when she was ten,
audience drawn in around tables, sprawled
music — particularly the classical piano
across each other on the floor, packed in and
— became an anchoring force, and by the
warm, soaking in sound. There is a summer
age of 13, she says, it was an obsession.
day on Western Australia’s South Coast,
Deciding first that she would be an author,
Eva’s voice filling the room as drummer Mark
then musician, she began accompanying
Gretton and his father listen to early mixes of
herself on the guitar and piano when her
Hello Satellites, the band’s first album.
words evolved into songs. Eventually finding
As we start talking about 84000, the band’s
the piano ‘too lonely’, Eva rediscovered the
second album released this year, I’m also
fulfillment of making music with others,
reminded of a duality at the heart of Eva’s
and is now the centre of an interchanging
work. 84000 is, on the surface, buoyant
cast of band members and collaborators.
and exuberant, consisted with these
Peter Emptage, Cathryn Kohn, Georgia
recurring images of light and sun. But for
Harvey, Amy Tankard, George Weis and 72
Mark Gretton are her ‘satellites’ who have
humming in your veins, you’ll find lyrics about
together created their own experimental
emptiness. It’s a place where windows open
folk-pop sound. Collaboration is now central
to the night and souls fly away (Josie woke up,
to her songwriting: recordings will circulate
said I am empty/While I was sleeping/My soul
between band members’ homes and the
flew out of me). Somewhere beyond Shangri-
studio, where layers and textures evolve
La, we find a piece of the darkness and the
with each exchange. They might return to
sense of physicality that Eva describes in her
her with five different bass lines, or a new
experience of making the album: which for
track called ‘sticky tape’. ‘It’s a collage,’
her is a story that can’t easily be put into
she says. ‘Those albums are collages of
words. ‘I feel like the album tells the album’s
things that happened in different places,
story… enough,’ she explains. It’s already
at different times.’
written in the music.
Despite Eva’s physical memories of darkness,
This was a different experience to making
the magical sculpture-conversation-collage
her first (self-titled) Hello Satellites album
that is 84000 holds many things together
and her earlier solo recordings. ‘Hello Satellites
— experiences that are equally musical,
had a real element of joy and discovery to
emotional and conceptual. ‘I wouldn’t say
it, because it was the first time I had made
it’s a sad album,’ she says, ‘and I wouldn’t say
an album like that. It was a really beautiful
it’s a happy album. But what I wanted it to do
collaboration with (Two Bright Lakes
was present this illusion, the beautiful bright
producer) Nick (Huggins), and I learned so
illusion of infatuation, and then unravel it.’
much about album making. I would make
And unravel it she does. The album opens with
things at home, then I would take them to him,
rich, colourful sound assemblies accented
he would shape them and I’d take them home
with handclaps and layered voices. Titles
again. We kind of dreamt it into existence
like ‘Joy Inside Our Skin’, ‘Like Sunlight’ and
together. I remember that as being a really
‘Belly of the Sun’ suggest the brightness
bright and beautiful process.’
of new love. But, continue on and these
But this creative responsiveness took on a
bright openings stretch slowly out into
different dimension the second time, and
more mysterious musical territory. The final
the ‘unraveling’ process in the recording
track, ‘All Fiction,’ asks us to see it out: what’s
and creating of 84000 became a sort of
behind the brightness? What is in the belly
lived experience for both Eva and other
of the sun? Here — behind the thrill of first
collaborators. ‘If you create songs,’ she
meetings, of waiting for a lover (All the life
explains, ‘they hold this energy in them.
we’re yet to live/I can see it shining), of romance
If you sing them over and over again,
Eva Popov Photo: Alice Glenn
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Cathryn Kohn (Violin, Viola, Accordion) Photo: Lucy Spartalis
Amy Tankard (Vocalist) Photo: Lucy Spartalis 76
it’s like your body learns that energy.’ For
her body, ‘and now I don’t know where it
this reason, Eva warns, ‘You have to be wary
is, or who has it. Where did it go?’ she asks.
of what you put in your songs because your
‘How do I come back to my daily life and
body has to go through it, over and over again.’
replenish that?’ This seems to be a central
In this way, her creative process is a temporal
question to the physicality of Eva’s creative
and embodied thing, where the music is lived
process. ‘I find that whenever I do a lot
as it’s created, every time. I sense that this is
of shows or I’m touring, I wonder how to
also where a creative tension lies: requiring
ground myself. How to give, yet be grounded.’
Eva to crack herself open, almost, as much
And does she get things back through that
in performance as in the expression of her
process, too?
lyrical themes.
‘In the moment, absolutely. I think I have
‘I mean,’ she explains, ‘it’s important to sing
become a better performer in the last few
what’s true. I don’t want to start designing
years, because often when I’m playing I’m
songs to shape life to some construct. I think if
feeling the most ridiculous joy. I’m singing
we’re not sharing truth, it’s pointless — I mean
and I just want to cry with joy. The band is
that’s where the energy is, in what’s true, and
such a beautiful thing.’ The audience, she
it’s important to have forums in life for pain, as
says, contribute to this too, especially when
much as joy.’
they join in. At these moments, she thinks,
The themes in 84000 are just that:
‘I don’t know you, but you’re singing with
experiences of life that can contain in them
me! And I feel like you’re totally looking after
light and joy with darkness and grief. Through
me! And we’re so together in this, at this
birth and death, love, sexuality — and
moment.’ There’s still a process of balancing,
infatuation — she shows us where darkness is
however, once it’s over. ‘It’s re-grounding
always hovering on the periphery of joy: You
yourself back,’ she says. ‘Just like, I don’t
can try to be an angel but you’re born into blood/
know — love affairs!’
to a woman whose body has opened up. Just
Eva sings about embodiment, and she
like the creation of her music, the experiences
embodies what she sings about. This
she sings of are all embodied — we live them
unifying thread is encompassed in the
out through our physical selves. ‘I think every
album’s mysterious entitling number.
song contains blood,’ she laughs. But this
‘Buddha went through and categorised
openness, this honesty, comes at a cost.
84,000 delusions or sufferings, and then
‘It feels expensive,’ she says, ‘in terms of my
came up with 84,000 solutions to them.
own personal psyche.’ She can leave a gig,
I thought that was quite funny, and it
she says, feeling like something has left
became my working title at that point
George Weis (Drummer) Photo: Lucy Spartalis 78
when there were lots of songs about
creates manifest that collaborative nature
infatuation and sexuality, and all these
of her writing and music creation. I am not
things started coming together. Then one
surprised when she tells me people regularly
day I picked up a book by Eliot Weinberger,
confess to crying during her performances.
and inside there was a beautiful quote
Eva embodies the kind of trust that would
describing the way ancient Chinese medicine
allow upswells of emotion, the same care
believed there were 84,000 holes in the
she describes receiving from her audience.
body and the wind got through them and
It also doesn’t surprise me that offering this
they made you sick.
can take its toll.
I thought — 84,000 delusions, 84,000 holes
The deeper she goes into family life, she says,
in the body. There you go. Body: delusion.
the more challenging this can feel. She has
It felt like it held everything I wanted to say
less time, now, to devote solely to songwriting.
without saying it. And I liked the way it sat
‘I have a feeling that when women have two
with Hello Satellites as well.’
small children it’s quite common to be at a
But after the immensity of that undertaking,
really low ebb,’ she says, but she still feels
Eva says she is uncertain where she’ll take
loaded with the sort of ‘emotional excess’
her music from here.
that can spill into song. ‘If I’m doing dishes or
‘I feel a bit intimidated about going forward
driving the car, anything that needs processing
with album-making from this point, because
just comes out in song,’ she says. ‘If not songs
of the edges I came to in that last process,‘
I’ve already written, then new ones. They
she explains. For now she has taken her
still kind of follow me around.’ I think this
songwriting into a new realm, presenting a
sounds beautiful, but Eva says is can also be
series of workshops that focus her interest
frustrating. ‘Sometimes I think, I don’t know
in the connections between people, their
what to do with you!’
own bodies, and their creativity — through
Now, there is also more to be protected.
singing, movement and songwriting. ‘I want
The expense of giving energy and being open
to bring that creative process to people
calls into question how much is to be shared.
in other forms, as a facilitator,’ she says.
‘The more you love,’ she says of this, ‘the more
‘That’s really interesting for me, going about
challenged you’ll be.’ It is another consideration
the work of songwriting and reframing it
to hold in balance, another challenge of
— trying to make it more immediate, more
creative expression — for any artist as much
community-focused.’
as it is for Eva, who cherishes the collaboration.
I am reminded again of my memories of
‘Is it mine?’ she asks. ‘Is it me?’ Whose is it to
Eva in performance. The atmospheres she
give? For this reason, she does not perform
Peter Emptage (Bass player and Collaborator) Photo: Alice Glenn
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under her own name, because, she says, ‘I need some barrier between me and the music.’ She dreams of singing into a hall in the country, unencumbered by equipment and other ‘hoo ha’ — just her voice and the space. She wonders if the name Hello Satellites is neutral enough now for this music she’d like to make. ‘It sounds so technological,’ she says. But I think Hello Satellites speaks in other ways. Perhaps it’s Eva’s ability to hold so many things together around her, and around each other. To find a place for creative expression between opposing tensions and forces. There’s the suggestion of duality, and the unraveling of illusion: you think it’s a star, but is it a satellite? And this universe she converses with expands inward as well as out: You are wider than the endless sea, she sings, You are one unchartered mystery. Eva occupies these places and shows us views — from afar, and up close — of ourselves. Photo: Lucy Spartalis
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this is your captain speaking
A few words from the chair of Apostrophe. crystal fong rmit university
Chapter one — Tokyo business(wo)man. ‘Oh-su-su-me nan deska?’ That’s my fail-safe phrase when I can’t read the menu. ‘Tiramassssssss,’ recommends the dude with the happy nod. He’s left off the ‘u’ but I know what he’s talking about — a caffeine-infused feast, served with a tiny spoon. It’s 10pm in the backstreets of Daikanyama, Tokyo, and I have a brand story to finesse. I’ve come here from Melbourne on business, which is funny because I never dreamt of being a businesswoman. Entering adulthood I thought, ‘business — yuck’. That’s for people who run on autopilot and artificial sweetener, and get released once a year from 336 days in captivity to remember they have children and skin to tan. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t that. I was cheeky and free-spirited; far too curious and bullheaded to live life in a template. Plus, I liked my tan. Turns out I was ridiculously naïve about what business can be. Having one of my own has given me all the things I desperately tried to hunt down in other jobs — freedom, adventure, independence, travel, creativity, lateral thinking and a better understanding of the the human psyche. The liberty to experiment with life and the opportunity to ‘fail forward’. I’m the co-founder and ‘chairwoman’ of a 30-strong copywriting collective. I love my job. I love the people I work with and right now I have the good fortune to experiment with a pop-up office in a city I worship. I’d like to say my business is the realisation of a pre-teen dream, born after years of struggle and toil. But that would be a lie. Truth is, there was no grand plan. None of Stephen Covey’s ‘beginning with the end in mind’. It took a job I hated to try and create one I adore. Chapter two — the academic flirt. I was a solid commitment-phobe from the age of 17. Only not in the way you’re thinking. While most girls were dating boys, I was flirting with university degrees. Design, architecture, psychology, philosophy… maybe law? Or perhaps I’d skip the knowledge factory altogether and become a pilot. 84
‘Good morning passengers. This is Captain Fong speaking.’ I gave two of those six a go, but they didn’t last long. Instead I gave the homework to my metaphorical dog and auditioned for what I considered a respectable mélange of everything above — a Bachelor of Communication, Creative Advertising.. Chapter three — when love turns to hate. Starting a job in an advertising agency goes like this (or at least it did for me): You begin as a junior, devilishly hungry to create. Then you get thrown a brief, one that squeals for an all-nighter and you forage for your nearest lifeblood — award books and caffeine. Weeks pass and you think, ‘Wow, my creative brain is severely underdeveloped’. You struggle with basic functions like understanding acronyms — B2B, CRM and EOD — let alone proper lateral thinking. Trees of notes later, your subconscious starts to fuse with that of your work partner. He says apple. You say pear. He says banana. It’s a beautiful Bernbach riff that ends in a winning idea. ‘Yesss!’ Only your Creative Director doesn’t agree, and you stare at a blank page once again. Days pass, except you haven’t seen them. Midnight is marked by pizza delivery, and mental exhaustion by your sensitivity to bright lights. The time comes to present again and with a moshpit in your chest you wonder if your idea will get through this time. Reams of concepts are cut, save for just two ideas. One belongs to you, the other to another team. There were two in the bed and the little one said, oh you’d better roll over. Finally. Finally. Finally, your idea runs a marathon past the powers that be — Executive Creative Director, Creative Director and a smallish room of suits. You hold your breath, then sigh with a magnificent smile when you hear the client — Tim Burton — has applauded the idea that fell out of your brain. You pick up some medals and life is grand. Until it all unravels again.
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Chapter four — the incredulous power of salami. For me, every brief held a lesson. And it wasn’t in the goods being sold. Instead, it was in the process. Edward De Bono’s theory of lateral thinking is the deliberate search for alternate ways of seeing things to synthesize new ideas. Sure, his philosophy taught me lots of things. Like how to negotiate a parking fine and do my job well, but most of all, how to question everything; especially my own life. Was I happy? Did I feel fulfilled? With that in my subconscious, and with each fluorescent-lit dawn, it became clearer — I was in a place I didn’t want to be. Within weeks, my own thoughts whacked me square in the head, reflected by a respected figure far more senior than me. It was during this wine-soaked evening I had the most profound conversation of my five years in multinational agencies. ‘Crystal, make some money, then get the fuck out.’ I tipped my head to the left. ‘I missed my daughter’s first steps and words; I almost missed her birth. And for what? Bloody salami!’ It was in that moment I spoke with my future self. She was on the set of Gattaca but couldn’t talk because copywriter 339 had been called for a briefing. There’s much more to this industry than any job title suggests; an all-consuming subculture that was choking my idea of a happy and fulfilled life. And I couldn’t commit myself to it any longer. To quote Paul Jun, ‘anything worthwhile to your heart will elicit fear and self-doubt, and this is your cue to proceed.’ So with that in mind, I quit. Chapter five — what’s that, fool? To some, leaving a job without another is the definition of foolish. But staying in a job you hate holds the same definition for me. With 30% of our lives spent working and 33% snoozing, there
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was no chance in hell I’d spend the remaining 37% whining about my unhappiness at work. This was the chance to build something better. Yes, I may have had bills with pretty red stamps, a newly-unaffordable apartment and a forced fascination with the menu options of brown rice. But it was A-OK, because I had great faith in an embryonic business idea with a friend named Stef, based on a recently discovered copywriting niche. Chapter six — literary Frankenstein. $10K is a wad of an investment for a 26-year-old; especially one who spends all her extra coinage in Morocco, Jamaica or some equally exotic point of disembarkation. But ‘hey’, I said ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’ We’d end up exactly where we are now, with an action-packed story to tell. And so it began, the safari toward a self-employed future. Apostrophe Copywriters — Melbourne’s first copywriting collective. In the beginning, we were a multi-disciplined pair. Just the two of us. But soon we were four. And then six. We spent most days collaborating with design, digital and branding agencies. Those who could see absolute value in hiring a copywriter. We knew they couldn’t justify paying one full time. And even if they could, they’d struggle to find the literary Frankenstein needed to work across all tasks. So, our adaptable, multi-disciplined model was the perfect antidote. We’d be their off-site copywriting arm. We became 10, then 15. After 18 months, Stef moved on to other ventures. It was then I became the most masterful ‘slashie’ of all. Director / editor / list writer / pep talker / lawyer / chief of coin /cleaner on the weekends. Fact is, I am good at understanding the human species and their needs (clients, writers, strangers in the street), but still very much a space cadet. I’m the girl who occasionally misaligns her blouse buttons and always forgets the milk. Stef was the organised one, so I had to teach myself — fast.
Photo (previous): Yohannes Baynes
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I learnt a lot. Perhaps most importantly, I learnt how to pick the perfect writer for a job, beyond pure talent. Match to match. Just like Greg Evans, I got to know the writers better: ‘Tell me what you do outside of work. What gets you up in the morning?’ As it turns out there was a trained environmental scientist, rock musician, naturopath and ex-entrepreneur among the award-winning collective. We became 18. The enquiries that followed left me speechless with wonder and pretty entertained: ‘So Kraft is becoming Mondelez International and we need someone who understands internal comms…’ ‘We’re reviving Nokia’s old MeeGo system in Helsinki — are there any tech nerds in the house?’ ‘We’re talking to the Asian market — can you write in Chinese?’ ‘We’re shipping in body building products from the U.S. We need someone who’s had real life experience with serious muscle. Beefcake anyone? We became 30. It was here I hired a team of business coaches and changed my title to chairwoman (a woman who sits in a chair). So, now to end with the beginning in mind. If I’d been told three years ago I’d be experimenting with my own business in Tokyo, I may have poked the poor person in the eye. I wasn’t expecting adventure, independence, travel, creativity and most importantly freedom, to become part of my every day. All I was focused on was kaizen — tiny steps for a better way of being. I admit, I was ridiculously naïve about what business can be, and probably still am, but I never run on autopilot and hardly ever on artificial sweeteners. I am still a cheeky and free-spirited person — far too curious and bull-headed to live life in a template. Starting Apostrophe has taught me a lot of things, but most of all, how to see a shitty situation as a favour, because I’ve had the liberty to experiment with life and the opportunity to fail forward. It took a job I adore to write this story.
Photo (right): Noel Smyth
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star/gaze
Looking for the night sky. shelley horan rmit university
Viewing the night sky is a primal experience. It is an affirmation of identity that provides the ultimate sense of place. Through my work I explore the intrinsic connections we have with the earth and universe, but also the loss of cosmic appreciation and awareness in urban society. Sensations, such as those we feel when viewing the night sky, I believe, are essential for a wholesome human existence. Combining ideas from science and philosophy, star/gaze investigates our relationship to, and perception of, the cosmos. I am interested in what happens when we disconnect ourselves from stars, the greatest feature of the night. The concepts explored in this body of work stem directly from a visceral reaction I had to a photograph modestly titled The Pale Blue Dot. Taken in 1990 by the Voyager 1 spacecraft before leaving the solar system, the photograph depicts the earth from a distance of 6 billion kilometres. This photograph is arresting because it shows that our planet, for all its history and glory, is just a minute particle of dust floating innocently in an expanse of unforgiving darkness. The image affected me profoundly and stirred a desire to connect with the celestial bodies that gave birth to our planet. The knowledge we currently have of the universe relies heavily on the curiosity of our ancestral stargazers. For millennia humans have maintained a strong desire to understand the complex mysteries of the stars and planets, and we have noted our findings ingeniously. On the walls of dark and deep caves, we have painted constellations camouflaged in the form of wild beasts. In the most inhospitable locations, we have arranged solid elements of the landscape to form megalithic monuments, temples and observatories. We have told and retold mystic and mythic tales of cosmic creation through generations. The night sky has long been significant in our cultural and social development However, our ability to perceive the night sky has changed considerably in recent times. As our lives become busier, televisions bigger and city lights brighter, we’re less compelled to turn our gaze upward. As someone who lives close to the heart of an 94
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electrified metropolis, I assume I’m not alone in feeling physically disconnected from a genuine night sky. As light escapes into the sky from unshielded tungsten bulbs it catches atmospheric water vapour, creating an opaque grey blanket that separates us from our ancient home: the stars. This process, known as light pollution, causes serious physical distress across the nocturnal eco-system — for humans and other animals alike. Australian environmental philosopher/activist Glen Albrecht has been developing a vocabulary that examines ‘psychoterratic states’, or environment-related mental afflictions. He coined the term solastalgia specifically to describe the ‘form of melancholia connected to lack of solace and intense desolation that arises when there is recognition that the place where one resides and that one loves is under immediate assault’. Solastalgia is the anguish experienced when a place you know intimately changes at a pace that makes adaptation difficult and acceptance impossible; Albrecht calls it ‘the homesickness you have when you are still at home’. For me, the loss of the night sky evokes such despondency. When you can no longer turn to the stars for comfort, guidance and inspiration, the unspoken crisis is existential and the loss spiritual. As a photographer, I am compelled to express these anxieties with the help of my camera. In an attempt to bring together these ideas concerning our emotional detachment from the stars, I created a series of images that endeavour to reflect our current cosmic situation. Unable to physically perceive and photograph the night sky, I constructed a universe of my own. Using a sheet of black cardboard pricked with holes, LED torches and lasers, these star-scapes were made within the confines of my inner city apartment. The suggested ‘truthfulness’ in the intricate renditions of human eyes lures the audience into acceptance of the impossibility of the constructed star-scapes. It is this false interpretation of the work that comments on the engagement we presently lack with the night sky. Photography is a deceptive medium. While a photograph can replicate reality with startling accuracy, it is the implied truthfulness
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that can lead to misinterpretation and misunderstanding of its content. It is easily forgotten that photograph is but a fragment of time, a compression of space. Employing these beguiling aspects of the medium, I hope to encourage a re-questioning of previously imagined truths and to inspire a (perhaps forgotten) curiosity and respect for the night sky. To look at the stars is to spiritually engage with things that are far beyond our physical reach, yet things we are infinitely connected to. It is an experience we should not take for granted.
References Albrecht, G 2005, ‘Solastalgia’. A New Concept in Health and Identity, PAN: Philosophy Activism Nature, No. 3: pp. 41–55. Bogard, P 2013, The End of Night: Searching for natural darkness in an age of artificial light, Fourth Estate, Hammersmith, London. IDA 2013, International Dark-Skies Association, viewed 20 April 2013, <http://www.darksky.org/>. Sagan, C 1994, Pale Blue Dot: A vision of the human future in space, Random House, New York, NY.
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