Songlien (n.) A songline bought on the never-never.
Songlines (n.) Title of a 1986 Bruce Chatwin book that
depicted a romanticised, present-day Central Australia.
The sparsely-populated bulk of the Australian landmass, in which a few
urban areas and mining settlements aside, the Indigenous population will
outnumber the settler. Also, to buy
something on credit, when it is improvident to do so, or it entails paying an
excessive interest rate.
I love a good secret
business story, particularly when most of the real drama is at the heart of my
own culture – educated, urban, predominantly white Australia.
Such is the backstage
story behind Nicolas Rothwell’s (itself a backstage) double-story in
yesterday’s Australian.* The
about-to-open SA Museum “Ngintaka” show is not something I have any direct
familiarity with or stake in. But its
divisiveness, as chronicled by the clearly partisan but factually meticulous
Rothwell, is like a newly-installed public sculpture in a prominent place – a cultural
disaster ripe for the picking. I’m aware
of how white-fella unceremonious this may appear; when the “unveiling” has yet
to happen, it would ordinarily be polite to suspend judgment, particularly on
the eve of the opening (which for “Ngintaka” is Friday 29 March). But it is only the full-frontality of
Rothwell’s spoiler that makes it a “long and complicated”** white-fella drama;
a post-opening “review” (meaning an opinionated, timely backgrounder) would
mostly be just a tale of two Pitjantjatjara factions and which way the
white-fellas were lining up.
double-story, I get the feeling that it was the latter, less incendiary path
that was actually his intention, until quite near yesterday’s publication
deadline, with his main story apparently written to run on the day after
opening, Saturday 30 March, but his accompanying page 1 splash story written
later (or if not, just sub-edited) to expressly run six days before the
opening. Some secret white-fella business
here then, just for starters. Maybe
Rothwell was corralled by the powers that be pointing out that a Saturday 30
March print date would still be more pre-emptive spoiler than loose “review” –
and that since the gloves were going to be off, anyway . . .
Dates are an odd feature
of Rothwell’s story, particularly in its cannibalisation of a May 2012*** Stuart
Rintoul story (that itself has a large trace of Nicolas Rothwell authorship
within it, although Rothwell is not formally credited). The plot thickens – did Rintoul simply lend
his name in May 2012, in order for some flak, at least, to bypass Rothwell – a
remote Australia specialist, with apparently impeccable access credentials?
Either way, Rothwell’s
recycling of Yami Lester’s May 2012 words seems lazy and uncharacteristic. Mind-you, some of the recycled words are
“White do-gooders among us
need their boundaries defined.”
Ouch! And rather masterfully, Mr Lester doesn’t say
by whom – if you need to ask this, you
need to go back to clearer bounded territory, perhaps.
Never one to miss an
opportunity for a scolding chime-in, if I may suggest a coda – one more
pedantic than profound – to Mr Lester’s edict: “and white sub-editors among us
need their photos of me, Yami Lester, more transparently captioned”. If you look up the 10 May 2012 story, you’ll
see a picture captioned “Yami Lester, in wheelchair, and Mike Williams
yesterday at Wallatina, in the far north of South Australia”. Fast forwarding to 22 March 2014, a
strikingly similar photo was captioned “Yami Lester, in wheelchair, and Mike
Williams”. Both were by Kelly
Barnes. While yesterday’s photo didn’t
say that it was a recent one, most readers would assume that it was, and it is a
puzzle why the caption couldn’t have just added “in May 2012”. In the body text, Yami Lester ironically invokes
Indigenous intellectual property rights; shabby captioning of Indigenous
subjects, while not a serious violation, is still a point on a continuum of
abhorrent practises, in the recent past, regarding film and photography of
Indigenous persons and material culture.
As I’ve previously written in another context, there is a big problem in how to contain,
and then possibly physically dispose of and mentally forget, a mountain of visual
(and textual, to a smaller extent) material, the capturing, storage and/or
publication of which it can be presumed no informed consent was given to. Some of this material may be obvious,
captioned “secret ceremony” or similarly, and if so, often be found in only in
specialist academic, rare, and/or quasi-banned publications. Most such content, however, is found in
generalist publications, and with non-controversial captions. We (meaning white and Indigenous Australians
both) need to do something about this, or, at the very least, talk about it. Funnily enough, I have a strong hunch that
what’s at the bottom of the SA Museum “Ngintaka” show being claimed as a
serious cultural violation concerns one chapter of just such a generalist book,
and perhaps more particularly, just one photo within.
story is oddly unspecific about what the actually offensive “bits” (to use an
inelegant term) were (the May 2012 story was also unspecific, but then it was
presumably early days as to what might actually end up on display). I recognise that naming and shaming particular
paintings, objects etc may potentially be counter-productive (by attracting a
prurient interest), but a couple of clues suggest that it is the attention that
the “Ngintaka” show may give to a particular 1948 book that is the biggest problem,
rather than the show’s primary content (I am assuming the show makes no more
than guarded references to the
1948 book). If so, I think that this source of contagion
has to be identified, despite concerns over attracting prurient interest.
Ominously in hindsight, I
think, in May 2012, one of the lead white-fellas said: “[Anangu/Pitjantjatjara]
people wanted to tell the ‘open story’ that had been documented”. The trouble with this approach is that
uncontestably “open” stories are, I would have thought, already told to death –
or at least would be thin pickings for an expensive major museum show. “Documented” stories, on the other hand, can
be many things, but it would be a clear breach of Yami Lester’s “boundaries”, I
would have thought, to conflate “documented” with “open”.
Rothwell yesterday picks
up this thread:
“They [the lead
white-fellas] pointed out the Ngintaka story had long been public; it had been
recorded by an amateur anthropologist in 1948”.
As well as not naming the
particular white “do-gooder”, Rothwell – curiously, I think – chooses not to
name the “amateur anthropologist” despite his identity being obvious to anyone
with a slight acquaintance with mid-20th Century publications on
Indigenous Central Australia. In a probable over-abundance of caution, I am not
going to name him either. I will note,
however, that in my opinion he does have a chequered reputation at best, with
his magnum opus being a quasi-banned book (that I have held but, duly warned, never opened).
To base the “openness” of an exhibition’s broad premise on the
foundations laid by this ethnographer/film-maker/photographer 65 years ago thus
seems ludicrous – or a prosaic greedy quest to the Oodnadatta area for fine
flour**, at least.
Speaking of Oodnadatta, I
recognise that geographical precision is another fraught zone – just as
paintings can be sold with their inner meanings encrypted, stories can be told
with GPS co-ordinates withheld, as it were.
I would hate to be the putz who naively name-dropped Oodnadatta as a
cultural site of significance for anything more than the Pink Roadhouse – and
the 1948 book has specific Ngintaka sites only way back west, in the tri-state
Zooming out to the bigger
picture, I do think that the Western Desert may have been “sung” enough in
recent decades for white-fella edification, clean through to the Indian Ocean,
and that going south-east from the beating heart would be a nice change of
songline direction, if you like. Which
is to say, a paying back of the songlien. If the damage of obscenity in the stored visual
record is to be undone, first we take Oodnadatta – then we take CM.
Update 1 April 2014 – Ngintaka exhibition
off, then on again, and “OMG, I’ve turned into ‘Gym Bore’/‘Kidder’”
Diana James, in a terse reply to Nicolas Rothwell
, defends the thorough consultation processes of the Ngintaka “Project Partners”. But Rothwell had already conceded that there was an exhaustive
such process over recent years – and for all this, for a handful of dissidents
at least, still not enough; or perhaps too much. More interestingly, James details a chain of
events, going back four decades, to assert the openness of the Ngintaka story in general; or in industry-speak, its provenance.
Just as Subhash
Kapoor had to invent pre-1972 ex-India provenance for his looted antiquities
(from that year, a blanket export ban was imposed by the Indian state), James
is aware that there is a time-frame into which her “openness” provenance must
not cross. While the date here is not
hard and fast, plainly she can’t go back to the problematic 1948 book. Neatly, she fixes 1974 as the earliest date
in the chain of “good” title – a year by which the Bad Old Days of cultural expropriation
by anthropologists and others were implicitly over, and a nascent fine-art industry
in Central Australia was giving Indigenous artist-custodians the power and
finesse to disclose their stories to whatever degree they chose. From her
1974 jump-start however, James seems to have to clutch at straws:
This version of the [Ngintaka] story has been used by
Anangu to document their artworks in gallery exhibitions since 1974. The story
and song have been taught at the [sic] Angatja in the Mann Ranges to tourists
and school children since 1988 and is still taught today to Indigenous and
non-indigenous children. The Angatja experience is championed as a flagship of
reconciliation by Catholic Schools who include the trip in their Leadership for
Thus, many people, mainly schoolchildren,
have already seen and heard the story; indeed, it is something of a
set-piece. This should not be taken to
mean that the cultural content is relatively trite, although the SA Museum
publicity does emphasise that the exhibition is intended primarily for
children. The bigger problem here is the
Project Partners’ seemingly reckless presumption of scalability – that a remote
community’s in-situ “experience” can be respectfully and meaningfully recreated
in a prestigious big-city venue. The acute
danger, of course, is that extra “sizzle” will be needed in the
greatly-enlarged version, sizzle of which the SA Museum has plenty in its
vaults, including a large number of secret-sacred objects, photos and films that
came to it via the “amateur anthropologist”.
article made it clear that the SA Museum’s role in the exhibition was mainly as
a room for hire, so perhaps there is some consolation in this fact. Nonetheless, the fact that it is Rothwell, rather
than James, making it, speaks volumes.
As do these strong words from a lawyer for the pro-exhibition faction, referring to an unsuccessful last-minute legal challenge# to the exhibition going ahead:
“SA Museum has been accused of ‘caving in’ to the demands
of the tribal elders by Graham Harbord, for Johnston Withers lawyers
representing Ananguku Arts. Mr Harbord said SA Museum should not even be
involved in the dispute”.
Tim Lloyd, “SA Museum
decides to proceed with opening of Ngintaka dreaming exhibition despite legal
threat from some tribal elders”, Advertiser
28 March 2014, 4:35pm
in” – an English figure of speech that may, I suspect, have an unfortunate (if
unintended) set of other meanings in the translation. But that’s white Australia’s trouble with keeping
Indigenous secrets; we feel trapped and suffocated inside that black box.
onto Bruce Chatwin’s provenance. Re-reading
after posting the above (and about 26 years after I first read it),
my mind followed a quite different track from my late 1980s self (who would
have been on “team Bruce”, all the way). The character of ‘Gym Bore’, or ‘Kidder’
– who Chatwin apparently based on the real-life Phillip Toyne – stood out, and
for reasons opposite to the petty-villain role he plays in Chatwin’s book.
first, let’s start with Kidder’s rap-sheet:
he’s a rich young man, originally from Sydney – rich enough to have his
own plane, the use of which as an (presumably) unpaid taxi to and from remote
communities is apparently the only reason that Kidder is tolerated (by white or
black) in his job in the Aboriginal land-rights industry. Kidder’s crass departure from a party at a
private house in far south-eastern Alice Springs in February 1983 – in an over-large and new 4WD, shining harsh headlights over all
and sundry – is possibly the earliest confirmed appearance of the Yuppie Wanker
in a 4WD (in 1983, a species far from the plague proportions they were later to
assume). It may help here to know that
Chatwin and “Arkady” had walked the 5km or so from central Alice Springs to the party
house, almost in eerie anticipatory negation of Kidder by their most un-Kidder
like (and un-Alice in general also, I would suggest) behaviour.
basis for calling Kidder a “Gym Bore” is similarly loaded; nowhere in the book
does Kidder talk or behave like a vain or body-obsessed man, but we definitely
know that any deliberate act of fitness or muscle-building is Not Something
That Bruce Would Do. Chatwin admits to
going for a pre-breakfast jog in Alice Springs once – but he takes care to inform us that
this was only because his motel did not start serving breakfast until 8am. Personally, I would not have forever after
condemned Chatwin as “Runner Bore” on the basis of a single instance of a jog,
however egregious, but Chatwin has much higher standards than me,
obviously. Such high standards, in fact,
that his unnamed motel’s breakfast start time of 8am would make it completely
unsuitable for most tourists doing bus-trips out of town (in my experience,
which albeit is in recent years and not c.1983, almost all bus-tours will be on
the road by 8am). But no doubt having a
breakfast without the clamouring tourist hordes would have been all the better
for Bruce’s erudite and considered notebook jottings. That morning, as Chatwin tucked into his
post-jog repast, he may well have thought about how fortunate he was to be
naturally lithe – and “Arkady” naturally hunky – in contrast to that horrid,
artificially-sculpted colonial, Kidder.
And thus been inspired to write this note for himself: “Important:
explain that my jog was only because of compulsory late breakfast, and
that I normally spend my mornings as languid as Sebastian Flyte”.
the narrative, “Arkady” sums up Kidder as “bad news”. Unusually for a romanticised “faction” book,
there is no later big pay-off to this standard plot device – a single instance
of being a Yuppie Wanker in a 4WD is as bad as Kidder ever gets to be. Other than Kidder’s (possibly drunken) words
about Aboriginal intellectual property, that is. These offend Chatwin to the core, for some
genuinely strange reason – they are indeed left-field, and may be impossible to
achieve in practice, but their idealism
cannot be faulted, I would have thought.
So why does Chatwin so despise Kidder’s idealism, or was it really just
what he (Kidder) was wearing (grey marle) that infected his whole persona?
I’m going to put up my hand to get me some of Chatwin’s deepest contempt
myself, by agreeing with Kidder’s ideas about Aboriginal intellectual property
(this may also mean disowning my late 1980s self, but if the grey marle fits .
. . ). The entire corpus of presumptively
stolen Aboriginal intellectual property in non-Aboriginal hands, on my
guesstimate, could be bought back for a few million dollars (or even better,
just donated). This is small bikkies in
comparison to land rights. This figure
does not include physical tjuringas, etc, the repatriation of which are often –
for good reason – dealt with under a loose heading of intellectual property. But there are also meaty issues of proper custodianship
to do with any physical property, and, in deference to Chatwin, I prefer to
keep the issue here naturally lithe.
provenance for his best-selling “Central Australian Anthropology for Dummies”
is difficult to fault, as befits a man who previously worked in the high-end art
trade. Most of his insights come second-hand,
from impeccably credentialled whites like “Arkady”; thus side-stepping the who,
why, and for how much issues of the supply of the original story. Chatwin is no pre-1970s anthropologist,
greedily vacuuming up content from the source, and making only token payment
for this. He airily, and in 2014
presciently, takes his content from the “cloud”, and not the cave.
2 April 2014
out that earlier media reports that the Ngintaka exhibition opened for business
as usual on Friday 28 March were incorrect (or at least my reading of them was). In fact, due to an injunction, the exhibition
opened on a partially-closed basis. Most
of this injunction was lifted yesterday, but “two videos, featuring song
and dance” remain off-display, for now.
See Mark Schliebs, “Aboriginal Exhibition to Go Ahead”, Australian
, 2 April 2014.
My guess is that these two "videos" are pre-1970s film footage, possibly taken by that ubiquitous “amateur anthropologist”. The legal proceedings are ongoing, it seems: “Arguments
over the consultation process will continue in the Supreme Court tomorrow”
* Nicolas Rothwell “Songlines suffering: desert men in pain
when secrets on display”, and “Culture war”, both Australian
22 March 2014.
** Quote from 1948 book, Ngintaka
story chapter. As ever with this author, “famous first words”. [Second
reference is an element, hopefully innocuous, of the Ngintaka story, as recounted in 1948 book]
*** Stuart Rintoul “Songline at heart of secret men's
, 19 May 2012 [Note that 22 March 2014 “Culture war” story
wrongly dates this as 20 May 2012]
# Verity Edwards, “Songline
show on after legal assurance”, Australian 29 March 2014
Andrew Bolt pulls a sickie – SCOOP!
I usually don’t bother reading Andrew Bolt’s opinion columns
in the Herald Sun. They are predictable
and, in any event, not at all what I am seeking on the Herald Sun website – which
is colourful snapshots of an exotic Other (viz, a Melbourne that I nominally
live in, but actually have little or no cultural affinity with). The Hun is, then, an armchair “holiday” for
me, one that will usually produce a wry chuckle or to. It is necessarily a brief holiday, though,
due to the strictures of the News Ltd paywalls.
This morning, however, I accidentally clicked on an Andrew Bolt opinion
column (“I swear, M’lud, I thought from the headline that it was genuine,
colourful news article, about a suburban battler wronged, or some such”). And rather surprisingly, the Darth Vader-omniscient
paywall then let me through past the headline teaser, despite my full quota of
freebie clicks being well and truly spent for the week, by my count.
But anyway, who’s actually counting, out there in
Bolt-world? His is a time and place of
what I’ll call the “Dreaming”, for want of a better term. I suspect that a therapist could actually
locate it in Bolt’s childhood, as an Australian-born child of Dutch immigrants,
growing up in the backblocks/outback of SA, c. 1970 (Bolt was born in 1959).
The unresolved issue?
Little Andrew, I suspect, could and did pass
for “ordinary” (meaning
Anglo-Celtic) white Australian, in places where the colour bar, at the time of
his birth at least, was a rigid as any, ever, in the American South. Of course, young Andrew was
always going to be on the right’n’white side of this colour bar, but his home
life (and school life, to a lesser degree) must have caused some angst.
On one hand, he and, especially, his parents were so different
from the others (in my experience of Dutch-born people - not so much their Australian-born children, though - they are,
and I use this phrase with affection, the “woggiest wogs” of all). Yet on the other, in outback SA, young Andrew would have
been remorselessly assimilated, without any choice in the matter, into the
Anglo-Celtic cultural bloc. No doubt
this culture-denial sometimes hurt, and especially so when young Andrew would
have felt – with some justification, I should say – that he actually had a fair
bit in common with the black kids in this regard (but that said, there was no practical
possibility of a consequent Bolt/black-kids alliance, under the mores of that
time). Both were outsiders to the smug dominant
culture, but only Andrew Bolt could pass for one of them. And pass he did – but yet he had to.
His column today you can read for yourself (paywall
permitting, of course): “It feels like I
have lost; do I run or resist?”. And sorry, my “sickie” headline is – I hate to
admit this, but anyway – a trick of the trade; a teaser. What Bolt actually details is that he was so
upset by comments made about him on ABC’s “Q & A” on Monday evening, by Marcia
Langton and others, that he was unable to go to work on Tuesday. I don’t doubt that he was genuinely unwell
when he woke up that morning. My
evidence for this is indeed the very fact that he mentions it at all, when he knows
(presumably) that his readership will mostly snicker “diddums” (so meaning that
he was still apparently a bit “sick” when he wrote the column, but good on him for
soldiering on, like a true Aussie). And
equally, Bolt forgot to mention whether or not he got the medical certificate
that is a fact of life these days for many Australians taking a single day’s
sick leave (but snarky me for bringing this up, like I was the Herald Sun
But you’re OK, Mr Bolt.
It no doubt has been a source of lifelong annoyance to you that “Dutch” is an adjective
used in a diverse array of phrases, but with an insulting, if not downright racist
thread connecting them. But I didn’t invent
the “Dutch X”. And by coming up with a
new coinage of “Dutch X”, I am not trying to add fuel to the fire (“I swear, M’lud”),
but hoping to help you to reconnect with your presumably painful childhood,
in which your Dutchness was stolen – yes, stolen
– by a xenophobic,
steam-rolling Anglo-Celtic outback mainstream, painfully aware that they were
outnumbered by their taciturn Indigenous neighbours on the fringe (a stark demographic fault-line that the Bolts no doubt waltzed into, unawares). So here it is: “Dutch sickie” – the sick day you spend
mulling over the newspaper column you will write about your sick day.
On a more healing note, to make it better for all concerned,
one bright day I am hoping that an Anglo-Celtic (or Indigenous, for that matter)
PM will make a brave speech, one that will have tears streaming down many a
cheek, containing this historic – and dare I say, overdue – line: “WE took your Dutchness . . .”
On being a
The High Court decision earlier this month on gay marriage
was all that could be expected – a firm and prompt (but not hasty in an
unseemly way, mind) “no”, in response to
an ACT marriage proposal cooked up more in present desperation than in
the hope of a considered long term future together.
Some would say that the High Court could have consented to
the engagement, at least, at then let the rest harmlessly unravel in its own
way (the Commonwealth can strike down any piece of Territory legislation it so
wishes). But this would be against the
laws of symbiosis – and the High Court is necessarily ever the forlorn
pre-fiancée here. That is, a marriage
between parliament and judiciary would be an indecent proposal, so the two must
simply live together in messy ambiguity, or “in sin” as they used to say. In any event, the never-to-walk-down-the-aisle
High Court, while trying its best not to come across as overtly bitter, is
structurally an institution which could not possibly be sympathetic to other forlorn
brides, in the literal sense.
That’s my reading of it, anyway. If you prefer to see the High Court as a fallen
woman, with the Commonwealth parliament conspicuously chaste in contrast, read Geoffrey
Luck’s “Rush to judgment has hidden agenda”, Australian
Op Ed 27 December 2013 and
David Flint’s prim letter to the editor, in the following
day’s Oz. They both seem to believe that
the 2004 Howard amendments to the Marriage Act needed no constitutional basis,
and that the High Court is showing temerity, if not minx-hood, in suggesting
that they do (see also Nicholas Ferrett’s letter next to David Flint’s). “Can no
one rid us of these turbulent judges?” asks Geoffrey Luck, possibly
rhetorically, but certainly with his hands flapping oh so dramatically, in our
In any event, cheer up, Brides of Canberra (now there’s
horror film title, just ripe for the plucking!). The consolation prize is symbiosis – nature’s
grand pairing of the straights and the gays.
I love this time of year, for its abundance of sweet ripe
fruit. Or, if this ever crosses your mind,
the seeds of a parent tree, lovingly packaged up as to be temptingly both
removable and consumable, so that the parent tree can spawn far away from its
small fixed orbit of reproduction. Gays,
rejoice in being fruit!
We can start with the boast that we’re highly pluckable – some
of us, anyway. (I’m a high hanger, or so I like to think. Which leaves my plucking: (i) for the birds,
or (ii) for the intrepid). And some
fruit – citrus comes to mind – has thorns, but you can always choose scurvy (a
straightly-named disease if ever there was) instead.
Not worth dwelling on, perhaps, but still needing to be
mentioned, is another sort of pointy end – how the seeds, or the fruit’s
payload (from the parent tree’s perspective) get delivered into the soil, so
they stand a chance of taking root in a faraway fresh territory.
We fruit must thus usually be (ahem) spat out or shat
out. Of course, modern
rubbish-collection and sewerage systems rather disrupt such natural payload
delivery. Which is possibly why, in a
very roundabout way, gay sex came to be viewed as deeply unnatural in Victorian
toilet-obsessed times. That is, c .1870
fruit fruit became divorced from its symbiosis of a reproductive inner and
attractively packaged outer, while gay “fruits” similarly fell out of symbiosis, and into singularity.
So that’s gay reproduction for you – how in unlikely outer
suburbs and country towns, far away from the base of the tree, as it were, a
new generation is seeded. Sexuality, if not also marriage, can spring
from even “the poorest Methodist chapel”, as Geoffrey Luck so quaintly puts it.
Canberra man founds
world’s lamest gay sex ring
If success has many fathers (while failure is an orphan), spawning
a “gay sex ring” seems to be a shotgun marriage where any convenient groom/father/founder
will do – and all the better for such a lifelong lock-in should the metaphorical
bride’s pregnancy turn out to be mere abdominal bloating.
Daniel McDonald, one of the two ADFA “Skype cadets”, has
been found guilty of some pretty nasty acts, which I don’t want to defend in
any way. However, some salacious pre-sentence
reporting around a June 2013 incident in a Canberra nightclub, one that almost
dare not speaketh its details – and at which Daniel McDonald wasn’t even
present – seems misguided, to put it mildly.
The headlines about the Canberra nightclub incident refer to
male-to-male sex acts, which, if such acts occurred in a (presumably) public
place, are indeed newsworthy. Occurring
in a public place, they are criminal, even if fully consensual (of which more
about soon). The first hole in this
story is thus that, rather surprisingly you may think, no criminal charges have
arisen from this incident. My best guess
for the reason here is that the reported “sexual acts” are at the lowest,
ambiguous end of the scale. The only
reported details here that I am aware of are:
Umm, I would have thought that the dirtiest word here was “forced”
– and that if the above acts were in fact consensual, to label them “sexual” seems
a bit of a stretch, in my opinion. The
lack of any subsequent criminal charges strongly suggests that the participants
were not “forced”, so all we are left with is some pretty standard straight
boys’-night-out sort of stuff. Oh, except
for the possibly pregnant insinuation that other, much gayer/sexier, stuff may
have happened, by virtue of the word “includes” in the above quote, and also the
widely reported allusion that the Canberra nightclub incident was just the public
exposure of a nine-month long rampant sex ring, one with an obviously ironic (I
would have thought) name, “Love of My Life”.
Oh please. If Daniel
McDonald was the 'founder' of a footy (rugby) gay sex ring – as the Australian’s headline breathlessly put it yesterday
– he has failed abjectly as a sexual entrepreneur. His product is mundane – the least-actually-gay
“gay” activities I have ever heard described as such – and he wasn’t even
present at the supposed crowning debauchery, the Canberra nightclub incident in June.
Four article stubs
and a funeral
Sorry about the lack of posts for the last two and a half
months. I’ve had a lot on – including
some serious “sorry business”, which I won’t be writing about, as such. But I mention this because you may see some
subtext and allusions in the following four snippets.
The connection I want to mention is that they’re all topics
that I’ve been working on for a while, and it’s time to get them (partially)
off my chest – not to mention give this blog some needed oxygen. I know that I promised one expectant reader,
in person, the finished version of “Four – the Timor-Arafura Gap”, some weeks ago –
but sorry, due to recent events, the full article here is still a while off.
One – the opiate
Two years ago, I had day-surgery on my ankle at a private
hospital. Discharging me, they sent me
off with some serious painkillers, including a box of the opiate, Endone
(without any request by me, and adding the cost of the prescription to my bill,
which I rather groggily paid).
I didn’t need any of the take-home pain medication – I tried
the less strong one, a couple of times, but it didn’t seem to do anything. But
my pain wasn’t really painful, anyway, if you know what I mean. So I stashed the Endone in my bathroom
cupboard, possibly for a rainy-painy day.
Which never came.
Recently going through my pills, I saw that the Endone was
out of date. So following the directions,
I took it back, unopened, to my pharmacy for disposal.
There are, I think, three classes of reader response to the
above bare facts: (i) “So what?”, (ii) “You fool!”, and (iii) “You’re weird –
but in a good way – to be writing about this, and it tickles something in me”.
To the first group, you can stop reading now, and to the
third, thank you for joining my tiny club.
But it is to the second group that I must – reluctantly – admit, yes, I
am writing to talk to – sorry, I mean torment
I was and am well aware that a black market exists for
Endone et al, and for a millisecond I admit that I thought I could have made a
tidy sum here. But it wasn’t morals, or
affluence (if only), that made me stoically take my booty (in your eyes) to the
proper receptacle – it was the necessary culmination of my two-year underdose.
“Underdosing” doesn’t seem to have much Google traction in
non-medical literature, and in that, it seems to be a bad thing. On the contrary, I reckon that it is high
time we underdosers came out loud’n’proud, and reclaimed our “thang” from the
contemptuous labels of the medical profession.
Pain, schmain, I say.
Seriously though, underdosing has to be a necessary
corollary, in the great Newtonian zero-sum universe, to the opposite – we all
hear about over
dosing ad nauseum, of course. Opiates are therefore always – and lopsidedly
– regarded as goods in severe shortage.
Well, dang, I’ve just had a two year opiate surplus
– I didn’t ask for the stuff, and the hospital pharmacy
billed me for it, anyway. And I’m sure
I’m not the only one with an unwanted opiate surplus (although, per my first
group above, I am that sure I’m in a tiny minority of people who choose to
Ah, the dormant potential accumulated in my sweet little
opiate hoard – as somehow perfectly balanced by someone else’s (or even many
others’?) lethargy and longing. I hope
that you opiate-big-spenders miss, nay weep over, my late pack of Endone – but for me, it’s simply
gone to a better place.
* This is a complete article, masquerading as a stub for the
sake of a cute title.
Two – Bill Harney’s Anzac Day (stub)
A gifted story-teller, Bill Harney (1895-1962) penned only a
handful of words about his 1915-18 WWI service.
Were it not for Harney’s 1958 ABC radio interview, which formed the
basis of the posthumous book Bill
(1983), Harney’s reticence on this topic would be
unmistakable. But “reticence” may not
be the right word – arguably, it was a calculated, and liberating omission.
War-writing cannot be elegantly autobiographical – the young
soldier must always loom large, so lop-siding the remainder of the author’s
lifespan, if he lives, and chooses, to tell of the decades that followed those
few formative war years. Commonly, of
course, the autobiography is truncated – either by the author’s death in combat
(leaving a scant, beautiful oeuvre, Wilfred Owen style, if not also a beautiful
corpse) or by the tale ending, or shifting down a gear at least, as the
author’s normal civilian life resumes.
Otherwise, some kind of balance can be struck by authors who want to
tell seamlessly of both their war service and the remainder of their lives, but
the formula for this is constricting:
lashings of workaday modest heroism, both during and after the war, a la
Albert Facey’s A Fortunate Life
(published in 1981, nine months before the author’s death).
Some might regard Bill Harney as indeed a modest hero, or
prototypical Aussie battler. But this
would be an under-estimation, a careless averaging of the peaks and troughs of
a life mythological in scale. Most of
all, it would ignore Harney’s keen and sardonic prescience – he was an
eyewitness to, and pithy commentator on, the actual founding of many
twentieth-century Australian founding myths, including Anzac Day and the “half-caste”
Aboriginal child-removal policy (now more generally known as the Stolen
Generations); albeit he used a pseudonym [to be revealed in the full article]
in the latter case.
Bill Harney, writer, thus begins in 1919, upon returning to
civilian life. If you do not know
Harney’s 11 published books, they are more or less one elliptical
autobiography, often told as filmic flashbacks, and with tragedy never far from
windfall, and vice versa.
It would seem that only by making a clean break post-WWI
that Harney became a writer – first tentatively and anonymously in 1928, and
then a decade later, with the encouragement of anthropologist Professor AP
Elkin. And when Harney wrote, the
stories flowed, interwove, and at least once, vertiginously dropped – from a
small boast in print to a searing tragedy in the same year, at the Alice
Springs Old Telegraph Station “Bungalow”, that would take 16 years to write
about, in Harney’s last book published in his lifetime. Writing looking back on his WWI service would
have been sterile, and straight-jacketing, in comparison – and again, Harney’s
prescience in somehow knowing this from the start of his 34-year writing career
- Bill Harney’s Alice Springs impedimenta (stub
or self-contained sorry business (?), loosely linked to previous stub)
Childhood is long and
linear; adulthood is wide and …. moving sideways?
I reckon that “accumulating stuff” could well replace
“taxes”, as that other certainty of life, alongside death. It’s a stage of life, that if prolonged and
“wide” enough, is called hoarding – but even at its “skinniest”, the
accumulation of stuff is still
naked, animal, accumulating stuff. There is a reason for it, of course – to defy
death, that great rubbish-bin into which all and us (and all stuff) must
ultimately be pitched.
Bill Harney lived most of his adult life as a Top End
beachcomber, but towards the end of it (c. 1957 to c. Aug 1962), he settled
down in Chewings Street, Alice Springs (while also living at Ayers Rock for
part of the year, as inaugural ranger in charge during the tourist
Somehow, moving down from the Top End to Central Australia,
Harney seems to have gone from carefree beachcomber to owner of a lot of stuff,
rather suddenly, c. 1957. My own hunch
is that this phenomenon might be connected to Harney’s c.1946 personal tragedy,
during his (relatively short) previous period of residence in Alice Springs –
the move back to the scene (well, 2km away) of the tragedy came with “baggage”. Otherwise, I’ll leave it to Harney’s own
words to explain (or not) this, but first, you should know that Harney didn’t
die in his Chewings Street House of Stuff.
He retired to the Sunshine Coast c. Sep 1962 – AFAICT, unencumbered by
the same lot of stuff at his new home – and died at his modest home in Mooloolaba a
few months later, on New Year’s Eve. After those necessary few years of
learning, or defying, to die; a beachcomber once again. RIP Bill.
“. . . I bought a small place in
Chewings Street, east of the Todd River, in Alice Springs, and around it I built
a house for a man who was growing old, a house which, like a bird’s bower,
would at least accommodate the junk I was acquiring, even if it never accommodated
Throughout my life, to the age of
about sixty, I had lived by the precepts of primitive hunters. I had owned nothing and wanted nothing, regarding
all the trivia one finds in collectors’ homes as impediments to free movement
at any moment.
I had always wanted to be able to
roll my swag, jam my battered hat on grey thatch, and start walking . . . [BH’s
ellipsis] knowing that I was leaving nothing behind, that I could return tomorrow
or never, and it wouldn’t matter. But
now! Goodness me, I had pictures on the walls, crates of books, beds and chairs
and other furniture, and I was even cultivating a lawn.
In the past, my nearest approach
to cultivating anything had been at Two-Feller Creek [on the coast of the Cox
Peninsula, west of Darwin] when one night I threw out the seeds of a
water-melon. I’d had a glass or two of
wine and my friends tell me my mood was expansive; so much so that so that as I
threw the seeds I talked to them. ‘Grow,
you bastards!’ I said. ‘Or die. I don’t care.
It’s up to you’. Now I was not
only planting a lawn; I had an electric mower.
The house in in Chewings Street,
I now realise, was a compromise, neither a nomad's windbreak nor a
semi-detached brick veneer, but a place to put my head and the accumulating
feathers and stones of civilisation until I had resolved what to do with the
years that remained to me. For one
thing, there was no tree in the yard, and that worried me, for without a tree I
was without a shade. On hot days I was
forced to sit inside this cell. To a man
who had spent his life in the open, that was a refined form of torture, and I
doubted whether I’d be able to get used to it, although I knew that many people
Bill Harney and Douglas Lockwood, The Shady Tree
(1963, Rigby) pp 27-28 – note that paragraphing has
been added to the original, but it is otherwise unchanged
Best left behind then,
by beachcombers in the end, Alice Springs is the “sorry business” capital of
Australia. Or in Harney’s pregnant words, a place he lived in in transit
between life and the countdown to death, “until I had resolved what to do with
the years that remained to me”. Transit
passengers aside, Alice Springs is on a permanent, tight toggle loop – if it’s not a grief-numb 8 August there, it’s always a brisk and busy 9 August. Either
way, the flag is only ever briefly at full mast before the next death. And that’s
how the south-easterly winter winds like it – there’s no time for mid-cycle countdowns
to death. And Harney’s “years that
remained to me” post-Alice were, of course, an optimistic estimate of his
lifespan – although not of the “sorry business” still to come, business that
could and would never leave Alice Springs.
Four – the Timor-Arafura
Quite. But sadly, Bill
Shorten is not talking literally about Australia’s near north (which I’d define
as PNG, West Papua and the south-east Indonesian/Timor islands (say, south of
latitude 3ºS, and east of longitude 123ºE) – but about the far
north (or more accurately, from the main population centres, the
far north-west). If Indonesia gets even
a look-in in Shorten’s world view, it apparently goes no further south-east
than Bali/Lombok. Overwhelmingly, though,
Bill Shorten’s “Australia’s near north” is north of the equator, and the
colonial/northern-hemisphere notion, say, of India as “south Asia” would not be
inconsistent with it.
Anyway, I want to move beyond these clichéd north vs east,
and colonial vs modern dichotomies. Newsflash: Asia has a south-east, a far
south-east, in fact (Tenggara
). Yes, it’s obscure, particularly
the central (yes, central
) parts of
it that I’ll be focusing on here. But
this is where it’s at – where the backyards of Australia and Asia meet, 300km
C history of either side of this 300km
gap is poignant (but, cue the boys’ own sidebar, it also contains pirates!). But most of all, it is deeply confronting to
many of Australia’s colonial founding myths – which is no doubt why the events
of 1825 on a new (and thereafter, doomed) British colony on Melville Island and
the Dutch-occupied (sort-of) islands to its immediate north have until now, never
been properly told, let alone analysed for their present-day ramifications,
which include Australian policies re immigration, China trade, and settler/Indigenous
But first, to home in on the “far south-east” area I’ll be
talking about. I’m excluding Indonesian
(West-) and East Timor, and the islands to their north and west. In the other direction, I’m excluding PNG,
West Papua and the Kai and Aru archipelagos, which are firmly in the orbit of
Papua. In turn, Papua is arguably more
anchored in the south-west Pacific than in south-east Asia. What’s left over, then is south of latitude 6ºS
(and north of present-day Top End Australia), and east of longitude 127ºE and
west of 132ºE.
I’ll call these islands 300-500km N and NNW of the Tiwi Islands
(and 400-600km ditto from Darwin) the “Serwatti Islands”. They have the Arafura and Timor Seas** on
their eastern and western fringes respectively, and the straits between them
are/were shipping lanes on the direct route between Macassar (present-day
Sulawesi) and China on one hand, and Top End Australia on the other. However, note that there was quite possibly more
shipping going through these obscure straits in the 19th
C (and even
C), to and from and Top End Australia, than today – the wounds
of 1825 are thus arguably still raw here. Certainly in 2013, without a private
boat (the only airport I’m aware of is at Saumlakki on Tanimbar, which in turn
is only serviced via Ambon), you cannot do the short hop between Darwin and the
Serwatti Islands, and I imagine that the immigration authorities would rather
frown on anywhere the Serwatti Islands as an entry/exit point for Indonesia.
“Serwatti Islands” was a label in popular use in the 19th
C, that in present-day geography corresponds
with most of the islands in the “remote” (as it is invariably described)
south-western area of the Maluku/Moluccas province of Indonesia, about latitude
8º S, between and including Kisar and the Tanimbar group. Note that I’m excluding Wetar here, which is
officially in south-western Maluku, but doesn’t much concern my subject. Also note that the Serwatti Islands, aka “Serawatti
Islands”, both historically and in present-day conceptions of Maluku’s
south-western islands, usually do not include the Tanimbar group. But for present purposes, the islands of
Babar and Yamdena (the main island in the Tanimbar group, aka “Timor Laut
also the largest single island, by far, in my Serwatti Islands grouping) are
peas in a pod, as well as being only 130km apart.
As for the 20-odd minor islands west and north-west of the
Babar/Barbat group, up to Kisar, which I’m also labelling “Serwatti Islands”,
these are too dispersed, and also too peripheral to my subject to be worth a
separate nomenclature. And one more
clarification: confusingly perhaps,
Ambon locals (in Maluku terms, big-city folk) refer to the south-western Maluku
islands as Tenggara Jauh
, or the far
south-east – despite some them being due south, and even slightly south-west,
of downtown Ambon (at 128º E).
But in this part of the world (not to mention most of
Australia, north-west of Cape Howe), south-east is destiny – and going to or
from the south-west is only a Sunday ramble in a cross-wind.
** Darwin sometimes is also caught between deciding whether its
harbour abuts the Arafura or Timor Seas – although the case for the latter
seems geographically overwhelming, IMO. Perhaps,
in occasionally wistfully batting for Team Arafura, Darwin – ever eager to
snuggle up to Asia – wishes to metaphorically bridge the Timor Trough, a rather
non-snuggly natural feature running the entire length of the Timor Sea, whose
eastern end is smack-bang between Babar and Yamdena – at the very middle, then,
of my erstwhile, archipelagic centre of Australia’s “near north”.
Gays, obituaries and
Charles Darwin bequeathed us two great social
constructs: childhood and
homosexuality. Previously, they were
aspects of the same amorphous lump – of being human – but evolution’s “survival
of the fittest” blowtorch inevitably singled-out human states of
The evolutionary role of one’s first 15 years or so being
sterile seems straightforward – decent preparation for the all-important next
stage of life, breeding – but the anxiety in the 0-14 (ahem) mounting yard,
preceding puberty’s starting-gate, was altogether new. Instead of childhood being a ride to
adulthood, it became something ridden
. Life was a race, so natural parental qualms
about their own genetic mediocrity (“nature”) led to a brand-new hothouse environment
for nurture – aka childhood. It was, I
stress, a social construct founded on anxiety: parent-jockeys, all too aware
that their “horse” may not have the pedigree of others in the race, trying to
compensate for this in other ways, all in the ticking-time countdown of
Homosexuality’s evolutionary role is no doubt a thing that
has received serious academic pondering.
For this, and other reasons I’ll try to write on this only as someone
along for ride (as opposed to being ridden).
Again, we start with the post-Darwin construct of childhood – the construct
of homosexuality starts as parental anxiety crystallised, as disappointment (real
or imagined). In crude evolutionary
terms, nature has fired a blank. Then
enter Oscar Wilde – the gay man whose wit the upper classes can’t get enough
of, and whose homosexual predilections for the lower classes would amount to
evolutionary sabotage – if only they were acts of breeding, in both senses of
Gay identity (which is largely to say, gay sex) is a
fantastic counter-evolutionary circuit-breaker, then. It admixes class (and race, when miscegenation
was taboo), and so keeps the breeding “fittest” (upper classes) on their toes,
in more than one way. (Oscar Wilde was arguably an earlier Bradley
Manning – a shocking traitor to the class who trusted him, yet someone who leaked
exactly what they needed to lose at the time, for their
class’ long term survival). In breeding, as in capitalism and the public intellectual
realm (and probably any given ecosystem at all), broad liquidity is a
necessary, if fraught imperative. You
might say that the micro-exchange of bodily fluids (or not) in gay sex thus ultimately
prevents the whole macro-shebang from getting lopsided, and toppling over.
Which brings me, in a slightly roundabout way, to an
obituary for the late Christopher Pearson, who died suddenly on the weekend. The shrill fundamentalism of most of the comments on this page
(including many that you would call well-meaning) is a salient
reminder that evolution can be a bitch, too.
On one level, you could regard the disrespect shown to Pearson
as simply the tearing down of a tall-poppy (or dim-witting of a bright wit) –
with a margin of encouragement here being provided by the knowledge that Pearson
has no children, or life partner (AFICT) to take close-up offence at offensive comments.
Yet I think that there is something bigger and systemic here
– the bon mots, and other gay evolutionary circuit-breakers (non-biological nepotism,
anyone?) do end, more or less absolutely, with death, while breeders, in
contrast, can view – and be obituarised in – death with some consolation.
Alas, then, for gays: evolution
gets the emphatic last word – until the next gay child is born to perplexed
Pearson and celibacy as a gay Catholic – setting the bar low
Pearson’s gradual slide, from being a gay liberation founder
in the early 1970s (previous URL), into almost-celibacy from the mid-1980s (at the height of
the AIDS crisis, when he was in his early 30s), is sketched out in this 2009 Oz column
. If the AIDS crisis was the
initial catalyst here, his 1999 conversion to Catholicism (in his
late 40s) sealed the deal, well sort
“Making a commitment to regular
examination of conscience was unexpectedly therapeutic. It led me to trade in
my double bed for something more austere, observe the Lenten fast and try, for the most part, to avoid low bars.
Ah, “low bars” – seemingly said with an Irish twinkle, but certainly
not a Wildean one; Wilde rather relished setting the bar low in his sex life,
and could not have mentioned “low bars” even semi-seriously. That Pearson gets away with such a slippery
euphemism (for what I interpret as an admission that he was not completely celibate,
post 1999), is testament to the power of the particular sub-culture that he adopted
(or vice versa), alongside – but arguably quite separate to – his conversion:
“The welcome I got, especially
from people in the Latin mass community, was a warm one. Mostly Irish and
working class, its gatherings often involve shucking oysters or shelling
prawns, washing them down with Guinness and singing folk noir ballads . . .”
The wholesome picture that Pearson affectionately paints of
his adopted family (if I may term Adelaide’s Latin mass community that), indeed
seems bigger than any occasional sexual lapses/shenanigans by Pearson. But Christopher – and may you rest in peace –
I’m not sure whether, at least for a tiny moment, you may have got carried away
with your adopted family’s craic
lapsed into kitsch – the ancient, evil, heterosexual
counterpart of camp.
Of bad carpentry, embroidery
[NOTE: originally posted about 1pm AEST; updated about 5:30 pm same day]
What is correct art gallery protocol for the aftermath of a
police raid? This is something I had
never pondered, until I found myself outside a locked-up Linden gallery in St
Kilda, around 12:45pm yesterday. I
hadn’t known until later that afternoon of the reason for the unscheduled
closure, but certainly I’d had a feeling for a few days, after an article ran
on the Herald-Sun
website on 29 May
(1), that the current exhibition at Linden gallery (“Like Mike”, 18 May to 7 July 2013
might not run its full term.
As it turned out, I was just an hour or two too late to see
the uncensored exhibition (or maybe a remnant part of it at least, see below), and/or
the drama of a police censorship raid in action. I’m assuming that the raid probably happened
around Linden’s scheduled weekend opening time, 11am. There seems to be no detailed
information available on this, however, and perhaps even more strangely in this
amateur-media saturated age, no internet photos/video of the police raid in
To return to my opening question, Linden gallery’s
management have so far just stuck their head in the sand – at the time of
writing, there is no information on their website nor on their landline phone
answering machine. Yesterday, there wasn’t
even a humble notice on the locked front door – which would have been some
minimal consolation for those like myself who had made the journey to see the
And to answer the correct art gallery protocol for question:
personally, after a police raid, I’d convene an immediate
protest/media-conference – but if this not Linden gallery management’s style
(which I think is a safe assumption), then the other main option would seem to
be exactly what they have done – that is, clam up like the Catholic Church
faced with paedophiles in its ranks, and hope that the scandal somehow blows over – or at least
becomes someone else’s problem/“inheritance” (2) down the track.
Paul Yore, the artist at the centre of the raid, is right to
be angry that – as appears to be the implication in today’s Age
article – the whole “Like Mike” exhibition is now over
. On first
impression, this is a disservice to all the other artists in the group show, at
least. However, even if unintentionally
(and certainly gutlessly) Linden gallery management may have done Yore a favour
by not continuing with a remnant show on a censored basis. Viewed generously, this is more like the
artists themselves collectively going on strike, than a management lock-out.
As to the nitty-gritty of the alleged obscenity, Paul Yore’s voice-only interview
on the Linden website should be compulsory preparatory listening. Yore is a young gay man, raised as a
Catholic. Issues of gender identity and
sexuality are enshrined, you might say, in his art. For this exhibition, he made a mega shrine/grotto
– “a mountain of junk that you walk inside”, I think he terms it in the
interview – out of bits he sawed-up out of previous, smaller-scale shrines, and
nailed them together for the grand new erection – hence the “bad carpentry”
reference. Of course, the embroidery part
of the installation – which is not “bad”, AFAICT – is an obvious gendered
contrast to the engineering side of it.
Sitting ambiguously between embroidery and
carpentry/engineering are . . . the
dildos. Previous Yore installations, as
seems to be Gertrude Contemporary art gallery director Alexie Glass-Kantor’s
implication in a quote from an earlier version of today’s Age
article (on the Age
website last night (3)), did not feature actual dildos, but objects like
“She said one of his
works, showing a Justin Bieber poster with a motorised plastic banana at crotch
level, had been exhibited at her government-funded gallery in 2010 . . .
‘There will be penises
and there will be vaginas and there will be phalluses and there will be plays
on the body itself as a kind of, almost, playground. I don't mean literally
presented, like dildos or vibrators or cocks, I mean actually more as metaphor
through using $2 shop objects like plastic bananas. The Justin Bieber stuff is
all to do with what things that were taboo for him [i.e. Yore] as a teenager’”.
I presume that dildos are indeed things shuttered behind the
blacked-out windows of sex shops, for legal reasons - so Yore may have been
pushing the boundaries here. But when
you merge embroidery and engineering,
there is bound to be a collision of some sort.
One media report
says (tactfully?) that “parts” (4) of Yore's
installation were removed in the police raid.
I reckon it would have been the dildos that were being manhandled away
by the local St Kilda police. Now that
is art, too. But is dildo removal reverse-engineering of
Yore’s bad carpentry, or the unpicking of his delicate embroidery?
This morning, the Oz led the pack with the news that Paul
Yore is likely to be charged with producing and possessing child pornography. The Age followed
an hour and a half later.
The possession charge is an interesting one, as (what I
assume to be) the offending image (Justin Bieber with two dildos and a pearl
necklace) has been widely reproduced, including in the Age
(unpixellated). It is
still freely available online – so if it is indeed child pornography, Google and others are complicit also.
Interestingly enough, the Herald Sun
, which of course initially unleashed the attack dogs
here, has so far been silent on Yore’s pending charges. In this strange silence, there are distinct shades
of the Herald Sun
’s infamous front
page story on the morning of 19 April 2010, on Carl Williams being a police informer
– which was suddenly forgotten about, by the Herald Sun
anyway, when it was reporting Carl Williams’ murder a
few hours later. Washing away the blood from
one’s tainted hands does rather take time, it seems.
Also, the pixelated Justin-Bieber-with-one-dildo (and also a
pearl necklace) photo the Herald Sun
been reproducing doesn’t even come from the recent Paul Yore exhibition at Linden,
but rather a November-December 2012 exhibition at the Incinerator Gallery in Moonee Ponds
. What the Herald Sun
coyly pixellated was regarded, by one school teacher, as suitable for viewing by
older class-groups at least (Year 11 and 12), “as some of the works are quite
controversial” (same URL).
Further update 5 June
Re the possession charge of the (apparently) offending “image”
(Justin Bieber with two dildos and a pearl necklace) being widely reproduced
and available online, I should clarify that Yore’s work was a 3D
sculpture/installation, and so only partially an “image”, while the 2D
reproductions are, of course, all image. If
this gets to be argued in court, it could well come down to some fine point
like: is a 3D /actual dildo (mounted on a 2D collage) more sexualised than a 2D
photo of the said dildo and 2D collage?
Also, does the angle of the dildos’ mounting matter? The two dildos were apparently – to use an
engineering expression – cantilevered (leaning towards the vertical, like Melbourne’s
tollway giant sculpture “cheese stick”).
Both dildos were plumbed to be fountains – running a clear-ish, almost laminar
liquid (another fine legal point might be whether the viscosity, turbulence and
colour of this liquid matters). One of
these cantilevered water-(?) features pointed towards the viewer, the other towards
the cardboard cut-out’s face (yet again, is there a fine legal point in the
nuances of the angles here?).http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/art-and-design/cocurator-urges-boycott-of-controversial-gallery-20130610-2o05a.html
The Herald Sun
subsequently, if reluctantly, report Yore’s pending charges yesterday (5). Also, for some choice background on the initial
complainants, see Melbourne art blogger Mark Holsworth
. Nothing clear-ish or laminar about these three, that's for sure.
update 20 June 2013
“The gallery's ‘continued silence only furthers the negative connotations
around this exhibition,’ [Geoff] Newton said. ‘They should have had the guts
to open and have the rest of the works on show. I would encourage artists to
boycott the gallery if further inaction prevents the show from reopening.’
Linden chairwoman Sue Foley said: ‘The gallery understands the artists'
frustrations and is working diligently through a number of matters with a view
to reopening the exhibition as soon as possible.’”
Minus the rest of Paul Yore’s works, Linden gallery duly re-opened that same day
. Gallery director Melinda Martin, in an email to Geoff
Newton, explained the decision to censor the remnant of Yore's work, while
keeping the rest of the exhibition open, was that the remnant of Yore's work
was awaiting classification from the Australian Classification Board, which would
“provide advice and guidance to us about the nature of the content of the work
for visitors to the gallery”
Not surprisingly, given the gallery’s lengthy and
unexplained period of closure, the sole customer on its first afternoon of
re-opening appears to have been a security guard (ok, and presumably Age
journo Sonia Harford also) (ibid).
These two bleak facts speak volumes, of course – art needs
Big Brother’s prior permission, if not also personal attendance.
On a related note, I have only recently come across Joe
Dolce's (of “Shaddap you Face” fame) own similarly Kafka-esque encounter with
Victoria Police on a child-pornography witch-hunt. The article
is well-worth reading in full.
In Dolce’s case, it eventually blew over – but seemingly only
because a shaken Dolce did a lot of Internet research on his smart-phone (his computer
was confiscated at the time, of course), to establish that the images in
question were both unquestionably art, and widely published elsewhere, in
digital and hardcopy.
The pressure Dolce felt here understandably causes him to
think that the onus, to prove that it’s art
should not be on the accused in these scenarios.
But nor should rank-and-file police be expected to know the difference:
“What happened to me was not the fault of police. After the Henson
case, there were recommendations to create a body of experts from both sides of
this grand divide. The government ignored them. All that is needed are some
art-savvy police – people who know the difference between child photography and
pornography, between innocence and intent. Otherwise anyone might expect that
knock on the door” (same URL; emphasis added).
“Art-savvy police”? Possibly. But in Paul Yore’s case, basic common-sense
surely could be used instead. If the director
of the Australian Tapestry Workshop is prepared to offer Yore the workshop's
full support (penultimate URL), the mind boggles at what degree of infiltration
of society by child pornographers the police case against Yore must rest on – Prince
Charles must be in on it too, for starters (ibid).
Yet another update 22 September
Paul Yore has been charged with child pornography offences,
on 6 September 2013 (election eve). The three-month lag
between police seizing the evidence, and the laying of charges, is surprising,
and suggests that there was much going on behind the scenes before the decision
was belatedly made. One creaking,
ramshackle system (a/the legal one) thus rather fittingly, I suggest, gets to
deconstruct Yore’s ramshackle sculpture.
The stakes are high here – only one, not both of these edifices can be
found to be made out of rubbish, and silenced accordingly.
Here I am not trying to be oblique per se. My point is that there such a thing as bad law,
as much as bad art. You may think that
the existence of bad art is a commonplace, or glut, while bad law is
(fortunately) an exquisite rarity. Well, no – not if you throw sex into the
Paul Yore’s seized sculpture is one trial mainly, in my
opinion, for being bad art masquerading
as exquisite rarity
. Bad law’s turf
has thus been blatantly infringed, and it must make an example of Yore and Yore
alone – however illogical* this may be – to restore its status as a singular
artefact, a collector’s item that will surely be savoured in legal textbooks
So what has sex got to do will all of this (and aren’t child
pornography laws inherently good things)?
Sex is inherently both delicate and dirty; or to invoke Yore, sex is embroidery
mixed with engineering. Child pornography laws do not deal with this dichotomy
very well, because they de-aestheticize everything. I am not saying that “art” is a thing above child
pornography; merely that badness matters a great deal in sex, and if child
pornography is assumed to be about sex, badness should also matter with it.
To be clear, I am not suggesting that there is such a thing
child pornography. Rather, I am jumping off from what should
have long been a notorious set of photos, including some topless ones, of a 13
year-old girl: “unprofessional, unfocused, cropped haphazardly, with no regard
for lighting.” You will no doubt have heard of criminal sexual acts closely
connected with these photos, but it is very unlikely that you will have ever
pondered just the “sheer badness” of the photos. Legally, of course, assessing the focus (etc)
of the photos seems trite, to put it mildly – “bad” or not, the nude
ness of the photos is what I’d term
an overwhelming category. And laws or
not, you are probably now thinking anyway: What sort of an artsy pervert would be concerned
The answer is that the above quotes
come from the photographed
13 year-old girl (now a 50 year-old woman) and are her long-ago, but still
apparently vivid, recollections of the on-the-spot aesthetic judgements of her
family, her parents in particular, upon seeing the photos soon after they were taken in 1977. The bad modelling-shots (the pretext for the
photos) triggered a family scene which revealed an act that in turn became
worldwide news and is still notorious to this day. The girl has ever since been better known as
the girl that Roman Polanski raped. Her
narrative implies, I think it is fair to say, that the badness of the photos was
a violation that kept on giving, or taking (you be the judge of that). Certainly, had Polanski’s “modelling-shots”
been non-shambolic, the subsequent lives of two people (at least) may well have
been very different. Which (I stress) is
not to say that Polanski’s crime was aesthetic, rather than criminal assault: rather, that bad
child pornography tends to put itself on trial, anyway.
Unlike Polanski, Paul Yore has not harmed any actual
children in the making of his art; his is not a pretext, or record of a crime,
in that sense. I accept that legally,
this is not wholly the point. Equally,
however, Yore is making the determined – and in my view, also a socially
necessary, if courageous – point that a 12 year-old girl’s c.2010 bedroom shrine
to the-then 15 year-old Justin Bieber is not necessarily as wholesome or
innocent as we would conventionally assume.
Not that Yore is exploring, as such, the sexuality of 12 year-old girls
(or some boys, of course) – but he is definitely unpacking some common things
usually just humoured – and so in the adult scheme of things, buried – as
transient crushes. I do feel sorry for Justin
Bieber, however – to be actually sexualised, like he wasn’t once a life-sized (15
It is too easy, I think Yore is saying, to think that we all
grow up and leave our squeaky-clean (or not) fairy-tale crushes behind, without trace. As adults, we sometimes need the jolting of
the intentionally bad
– to put our wholesome
selves, or our childhoods at least, on trial.
Yore presumably took a calculated gamble that the patent ramshackle
ridiculousness of his shrine-sculpture would put the sexualised aspects of it
in a rigorous context. Instead, its very
badness has only unleashed a chain of grim, literal causation.
What seems to be beyond dispute is that Paul Yore, through
his art, has (presumably) inadvertently put himself on trial, instead. And we are none the wiser.
* Illogical because 2D reproductions of the offending work don't seem to be a problem.
Dana McCauley, “Offensive art involving Justin Bieber
collage creates controversy at St Kilda's Linden Centre for Contemporary Art”, Port Phillip Leader
May 29, 2013 11:06am
Shannon Deery, “Archbishop Denis Hart begs forgiveness
for Church mishandling child abuse”, Sunday Herald Sun
June 02, 2013:
“Archbishop Hart said he first
learned of the horrors of the abuse crisis after becoming vicar general in
1996 . . . He said he realised the problem had been
swept under the carpet by his predecessors, including former archbishop Frank
Little who he conceded kept few, if any, records of complaints and moved at
least one paedophile priest to a new parish and into the lives of innocent
children . . . We did inherit a situation where ... we inherited great
Goya Dmytryshchak and Andrea Petrie, “Police seize
artworks, issue warrant” Age
1, 2013 9:30pm
Albeit the same Age
article also says some Yore “pictures” were removed – suggesting that it may
have been instead the teenage/Bieber cardboard cut-outs that were deconstructed and
removed, so possibly leaving the dildos adrift in the remnant installation, but
in a presumably less controversial context.
AAP, Dana McCauley, “Art involving 'obscene' Justin Bieber collage triggers possible charges for Melbourne aritist Paul Yore”, Herald Sun
, Port Phillip Leader June 04, 2013 3:33pm
Acts of charity – the William
Street Pieta, jail visits and gold-plated legal defence teams
On 30 May 2011, there was what the
Christian Brothers Oceania (Australia, NZ and the Pacific region)
blandly termed a “sudden change in Best's legal position
” – that is, their fellow brother Robert Best, who by
then had been living for about four months on pre-sentence remand in Port
Phillip Prison, after being found guilty of multiple child sex crimes by
various juries in the County Court in Melbourne (William Street), and/or
Ballarat, earlier in 2011 (as well as, possibly, back into 2010).
We also know that it was an
expensive saga: a figure of about $1 million in defence-side legal expenses (for
the 2009-2011 cases) was widely reported in 2011 (and again, at the time of
Best’s unsuccessful appeal, in November 2012). But this same figure nonetheless
drew gasps from the public gallery when it was once again cited at last
Friday’s Victorian Parliamentary Inquiry. Of course, the taxpayer-funded
prosecution case and court facilities would have added up to millions more (same URL).
As to why the Christian Brothers
saw Best’s guilty plea to all remaining charges as a “sudden change” is also
hard to fathom. Granted, proceedings at that stage were only about
halfway through the marathon, in total, and all Best’s pleas to that date had
guilty. But Best had been found
guilty by juries on most of the
earlier charges, and so was facing significant jail time, whatever happened
in the second “half”. One might
have thought the early-2011 day (oh happy day!) that Best was remanded,
pre-sentencing, in Port Phillip Prison was a bigger “sudden change”.
(Note that prior to this day, the previously-convicted Best had not so far
served time, other than a three month appeal interlude between his March 1998
trial and the ordering of a re-trial on 23 July 1998 – a re-trial that never
But for the Christian Brothers,
sudden changes, and acts of charity, are obviously very fluid and relative
things. Here’s Br Vince Duggan, the leader of Christian Brothers Oceania
in an early March 2013 email
“Quite a few brothers in
Victoria are regular visitors to Br Bob Best who is currently in prison. I
applaud the brothers who do this. I have visited Bob on one occasion myself,
and plan to do so again in the future. One can visit someone in prison without
making any judgment about the innocence or guilt of that person. Visiting
someone in prison is in no sense condoning criminal activity. Indeed ‘visiting
those in prison’ is listed among what used to be commonly termed the ‘corporal
works of mercy’. I find it appalling that brothers who perform this act of
charity should be publicly condemned in the press by one of their own [viz
Christian Brother Dr Barry Coldrey]”.
Yep, being criticised just for
going about one’s charitable day-to-day business is “appalling”. If the
high-minded Vince Duggan is quite that sensitive, the mind boggles how enraged
he must feel, to this day, about the fates of the hundreds of children sexually
abused by members of his order. Or not – there is no public statement to
that effect by him, at least. Plus it is not hard to imagine at least a
sliver of self-interest behind all these prison visits (I stress here that I am referring to Best’s many Christian Brother
): if Best is kept a happy man in prison, he is
less likely to have a pang of Christian conscience, and name others –
particularly those who concealed his crimes.
The $1 million or so of donated
Church funds that Vince Duggan also saw fit to tip into the pockets of Best’s
defence lawyers between 2009 and 2011 also stretch the meaning of “charity”, if
you ask me. Blessed is the guilty-as-hell, got off by a smooth-talking
QC, perhaps? One mysterious element here is that Best’s (sole?) defence counsel
, (first URL
) at least in May 2011, was the relatively junior – and so
cheap-ish – barrister Sarah Leighfield,
(who was still at Melbourne University
Law School, to co-edit the MULR
, in 2000).
The Christian Brothers recently said,
by way of vague explanation, that spending on Best's defence between 2009 and
2011 “spiralled out of control”.
I suspect that Best may say much the same
thing, by way of vague explanation, about his two
decades of rampant crime. In other
words, the Christian Brothers are still perpetuating what Best (and his
accomplices) started – albeit by being selectively incontinent with their wallet
s, this time.
In all this money, squalor and
pious delusion, there was one beautiful, heartbreaking scene in court on 30 May
“As [Robert] Best stood and
gave his [guilty] pleas, one of his victims turned to stare at him as the man's
mother wept and embraced her son.
” (first URL, again
I call this three-way tableaux the
William Street Pietà. My favourite work of European art, when I
want to touch base with an inconsolably burdened inner-child – somehow a
creature both singular/“me” deep-within, and yet universal, liberated – is the
Photos don’t quite do this unfinished (?) Michelangelo (?) masterpiece justice. The languid Christ figure is sumptuously over-finished,
or put more bluntly, blatantly homo-erotic.
His mother Mary, directly behind, supports him rather well, with one
very hefty hand.
But it is the sparsely-chiselled third, child-size figure
this sculpture. Viewed from the side, she (?) staggers under
a heavy weight – giving the sculpture a forward momentum that is perfectly
balanced and resisted (I’m talking art, not physics) by the backwards fall of
the Christ figure, into the immovable upright pillar of his mother’s arm/s.
The William Street Pietà
is, in my
mind’s eye (I wasn’t there, and only know of it from the newspaper account), a similar
masterpiece: a sculpture of a moment of both steely resolve (between victim and
Best), and primal howling (between victim and his mother) – two personal
qualities Vince Duggan has evidently never encountered in his “charitable”
Update/re-post 8 May 2013
I’ve tweaked this post in mostly
minor ways, adding some links, and fixing some broken ones. There’s also now a clarification/disclaimer,
which I’ve italicised and underlined
a new para on the Christian Brothers propensity to “[spiral] out of control”,
and a two-para
background on my thinking behind the William Street Pietà.