Clea Sanders Unbound: A Review – Izabela Barakovska

Explaining MONA to my Grandmother

Clea SanderS knows there are no small parts, only small actors.

Like most grandparents, my Nan is enthralled by even the most banal details of my holidays. For some strange reason, she gets a vicarious thrill from hearing about every delayed flight, severely oversold landmark, and woeful hotel breakfast. Unlike most grandparents, however, my Nan is an art gallery guide, and so expects a detailed, considered play-by-play of every gallery I visit. She was particularly excited to hear about my trip to Tasmania’s (in)famous Museum of Old and New Art (MONA), which is notorious for boundarypushing artworks such as a wall of ceramic vulvas.

The following is my attempt to process this arresting, unorthodox wonderland in a way that is both septuagenarian-friendly and unlikely to result in recurring nightmares about tattooed pig skins (don’t ask):

• On the plus side, there are no plaques in this museum, so you won’t have to wear your reading glasses. Unfortunately, all the information about the artworks is on an app that I don’t think is available on the Nokia 3310. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

• The ‘old’ bit of the name just means ‘we managed to get our hands on a few stolen African artefacts that the British Museum didn’t want’. The ‘new’ bit means ‘your fiveyear-old probably could have made this art, but you’d definitely send them to therapy if they did’.

• A strange amount of the museum is centred around the bloke who owns it – we’re talking hats, mugs, inside jokes on the audio guide that I’m sure everyone is just pretending to understand, the whole shebang. It’s kind of cult-ish, but in such a deliberate way that it cancels out any cool, harrowing vibes. Also, we saw him in the courtyard and he walks weirdly. He likes to bet on greyhound races and is apparently very good at maths, so Grandpa would probably get on well with him.

• It can be hard to tell what’s art and what isn’t. The ping pong table is fair game for any visitor with an ounce of hand-eye coordination (so, anyone but me), but the nearly identically decorated pinball machine next to it is not to be touched, lest its artistic sanctity be corrupted. The man screaming into a microphone in the basement: art. The man doing abdominal crunches while talking loudly into his AirPods: not art, but certainly one of the most profoundly affecting things I saw all day.

Part of the famous wall of vulvas at MONA

• There’s an art piece whose only purpose is to shit. Like actual, human, shit. Having raised as many children and grandchildren as you have, you can probably skip this one – you’re not going to see anything new.

• If we brought Dad and Grandpa here, they would hate the fact that there’s a ‘Ladies Only’ section. You and I would take great pleasure in this, and in refusing to tell them what’s inside.

• There’s a lot of performance art here that makes me realise that you weren’t lying when you told me that I could be an artist when I grew up. I could definitely perform an off-key rendition of a Madonna song to a camera, count out 1000 individual grains of rice, or make a VHS tape of myself saying “I am making art” for eighteen minutes straight. Thanks for always believing in me – I’ll be sure to remember you when I get my big, Marina Abramovich-level break. • Just because I’m young, doesn’t mean I understand all the works here. Your guess as to how a photo of bestiality acts as a postmodernist critique of the hyperfragmentation of human identity and our disconnection from the natural world is as good as mine. Maybe because it’s in black and white?

If you’re thoroughly confused by this account of MONA, that’s because it simply has to be seen to be believed (and definitely not because my writing is erratic or insufficiently evocative). If you’re even slightly intrigued by the prospect of seeing a poo machine, a pool of forbidden oil whose equilibrium could be destroyed with a single touch, or whatever else David Walsh decides to spend his gambling winnings on, I cannot recommend a trip to MONA enough. You may be enthralled, repulsed, or bewildered (likely all within the space of your first minute at the museum) but whether you’re eighteen or eighty-one, I can guarantee you will never be bored.

The Eagle has Landed, Oh Wait - It’s Flown Off Again: The Return of John F. Kennedy, President/ Astronaut/American

gileS Chan brings fish and chips to eat in Aquariums

The barrel feels warm against his hand. Lee Harvey Oswald lets go of his Carcano rifle. His arms fall uselessly beside him. A wave of melancholy washes over the assassin and his face contorts in joyful agony. Oswald stands to salute as an eagle soars over the Book Depository – surrenders to the saline tears of patriotism streaming down his face. He knows, and it is only he alone who must ever know, that he has served his president and his nation well.

“God speed, Mr President…”

My nineteenth can of beans in six days. I wipe away the remnants of bean sauce around my mouth. I hear a guard approaching further down the corridor. He stops… Sniffs…

“Is that… Do I smell Heinz Beans & Sausages?” the guard murmurs.

My cover’s been blown – I dart the other way and, like the roadrunner, my helicopterblade-legs kick up a pile of dust from the immaculate tile-floor. Nobody must ever know I was here. John F. Kennedy, the thirty-fifth President of the United States of America was assassinated in Dealey Plaza. I am now known simply as F.

It’s too dangerous to go back for any more beans. I’ll have to survive with the Chiko Rolls I stashed in the lunar module. Careful not to arouse any more suspicion, I crawl into the alcove I dug out for myself inside the Apollo 11 landing craft and wait for my time to come. My time to leave this godforsaken planet behind and to be with the one I love. Oh, heavenly Moon descended from the Gods, our forbidden tryst will soon leave the dark of the eclipse and finally see the sun!

“One small step for man,” I hear a weary voice say over the radio, “and one giant leap for mankind.”

I watch the two men leave the module from a thin slit in the ceiling. Boots on the ground, in that celestial chalk that has been left forever

untouched by man. I suck the drool back into my mouth before it escapes through the hatch. Slowly, gently, I sneak out and take a step onto the surface of Tranquility Base…

Immediately, I am disappointed. My toes feel sticky, pushed up against each other inside my spacesuit like rush-hour commuters. They form rigid platforms from which I bounce around in the moon’s low gravity. I feel lethargic, as if King Kong had eaten too many people and just wanted to find his way back to the jungle and lie down.

“Buzz, how much air you got left?” the weary voice says.

I turn my body – as I can’t move my neck. Neil Armstrong is speaking to me!

“I’m good for air Neil. How about you?” I mumble, hoping to mask my voice.

“Haha, nice Kennedy impression,” he laughs.

“IMPRESSION?”

I hop over and run him into the ground. We stumble over in slow motion. I reach for his pack and disconnect his oxygen tubes.

“Huuu… H- Why…” he fumbles around frantically trying to reconnect his air.

“We choose to go to the moon,” I mutter over his flailing body, “not because it is easy.”

I turn my body away and walk back to the lunar module.

“But because it is…hard.” “Neil, you okay?” Aldrin asks.

I’ve been trying to stay quiet this entire journey back to Earth.

“You’ve stayed quiet this entire journey back to Earth,” he says.

“Yes, I suppose I have,” I manage, once again attempting to mask my voice.

“God, I miss my family,” he says, head pointed down. “One giant leap for mankind, yes – but my legs are exhausted.”

“Me too. I’m just looking forward to settling down and…living out the rest of my days.”

I look down at the name tag I pinned to my suit.

‘Armstrong.’