September 1

Bronwyn Oliver used to make sculptures, mostly out of wire- fragile, light-webbed things like tumbleweeds or leaf-skeletons, built with slow, compulsive care. These painstaking accumulations of copper wire wrap around themselves and spiral out towards the air with anxious certainty- they enclose space without strangling it, giving it a place to breathe within the fragile metallic confines of her work. She has spent hours, days, years producing things that can be crushed in an instant- in the contrary way of the world, they aren't. They are displayed in a gallery, lit to perfection and festooned with signs imploring visitors not to touch- they are too respectful to do so. They amble through, stubbornly alive, trying to sniff out suicide in the convolutions of her art.

Now that she has gone and done it, of course, you can see it's there- the agony that has gone into her work, the obsessiveness, the attempt to render the world comprehensible. There is talk that she had just ended a twenty year relationship with the wine writer Huon Hooke- he himself is stubbornly silent on the matter. This is what he had to say in the month following her death:

2004 Kingston Estate Merlot, South Australia, A$13/NZ$15.95The Riverland-based Kingston is looking further afield for grapes, with the result that this is a Langhorne Creek/Clare/Riverland blend. An odd mixture, it smells of raspberry and green mint to gooseberry on one hand, and dark berries and oak vanillin on the other. It certainly delivers on the palate, which is big and brawny for a merlot, with flesh, weight and tannins galore. It's chewy in texture and has guts. Elegance is not a word that springs to mind, but it sure packs some flavour and grip. An excellent barbecue wine.

25 august 2006

Even though literature is lying around everywhere, the appropriation of it is not as easy as it should be. Sloth and self doubt are to thank for the long silence – I am having the usual difficulties submitting my internal monologue (which has not been silent) to techniques of active expression, despite an ongoing interest in the sweat and greasepaint and boredom and delusions that constitute the world. The details of my life have altered again, with a change in backdrop: we now live in Alexandria in two- bathroomed bliss. Our flat is on the top floor of one of the blocks that has cropped up in the no- mans- land between Erskineville village with its overpriced fruits and trendy cafes, and the industrial hinterland that surrounds the airport. It’s a situation which takes some getting used to- space, privacy, release from the accumulated old couches and abandoned heaters and multiple toasted sandwich makers of 44 Chelmsford St. Contrary to expectations, the whole business of living somewhere beautiful has provoked a good two weeks of anxiety in me which is only just starting to subside.

On the weekend we moved into our new middle class life, two of Marcin’s friends arrived from Poland after an epic overland trip through Mongolia, Nepal, south east Asia and northern Australia. Lukasz had left his wife to run off to foreign lands with Justina, one of his school students: they inserted themselves neatly into the breach between slum and penthouse like a pair of tawny envoys from another world. From the first glance it was obvious that they had been having adventures- the suntans, the weariness, the intimate memory of the prices they had paid for everything from rooms to plane tickets, from Warsaw to Lhasa and from Kathmandu to Bangkok. Pangs of envy (it’s not a life I want to give up) and pangs of conscience ( becoming a bourgeois pig) ensued. Despite being dirty, poor and chronically underfed, I do love the simplicity of travelling, the immediacy of your concerns. There is a framework for the day, a soothing routine of arranging meager possessions and taking care of bodily functions, within which anything can happen. Packing, eating, shitting, staring, poking, photographing, unpacking, sleeping. Who would have thought it could be so absorbing, only because performed against a backdrop of swarthy strangers and unfamiliar landscapes? Of course there can be disruptions to this exciting round of events- mostly as a consequence of disruptions to aforementioned bodily functions, and in particular shitting out of sequence. I want to travel again and need to make a definitive decision on when and where.