Definitely had a big cry reading Samra Habib's We Have Always Been Here when she visited the queer Toronto Unity Mosque. Ramadan's been hard this year, only fasting half-days, then having to stop a week ago when I was having a particularly rough time. Today's the last day, Eid al-Fitr begins at sunset, more than anything I wish I was preparing to share Iftar and celebrate with trans and queer Muslims.
Yeah, I binged Fast & Furious Spy Racers: Rio. Of course I did. And fuck me if Rafaela Moreno’s race suit isn’t the motorsport I live for. Very much want. Very much wish I could serve Femme Hoonage Realness like that and very much love her thrashing Group C cars around Rio. And Avrielle Corti voicing her? ???????
Keeping things orderly here. Last week of my Naarm / Melbourne trip, Monday 26th March, I got myself along to NGV National Gallery of Victoria for the 2018 Triennial and weird European art.
- NGV Triennial: Richard Mosse — Incoming
- National Gallery of Victoria: J. M. W. Turner — Falls of Schaffhausen (Val d’Aosta)
- NGV Triennial 2018 & 21st Century Collection
- NGV National Gallery of Victoria — Mediæval Art
- NGV National Gallery of Victoria — Baroque & Rococo Art
- NGV National Gallery of Victoria — 19th & 20th Century Art
- NGV National Gallery of Victoria — St. George Hare: The Victory of Faith
- NGV National Gallery of Victoria — Jizō Bosatsu
Mixing the NGV’s Triennial and its own collection together as I was decidedly zombie on the day (Paea saw me and laughed), and sometimes not sure where one or the other began or stopped, and saving all the old cruft for a separate post.
Richard Mosse I confused with Trevor Paglen, whose Limit Telephotography and The Black Sites work has been turning up in my reading for over a decade. Mosse is kind of a successor, or working similarly, pushing photographic technology and making deeply political art. Louisa Bufardeci also, though using manual labour to again create something on first view beautiful and aesthetic, which is contextualised into a evidence of and memorial for refugees whose boats sunk at sea off the coast of Australia. Both these works sit uneasily inside Fortress Australia and within the NGV, as Mosse’s second work (which you have to pass through to reach Incoming) describes: the NGV’s former use of Wilson’s security, to whom the government outsourced illegal detention centre policing. (The NGV ended its contract with Wilson’s after artists’ protests, organised by Gabrielle de Vietri and others, though the relationship between arts institutions like the NGV, policing and generations of human rights violations remains largely untouched.)
Onto something slightly more cheerful, or at least I could not wipe the smile off my face watching Adel Abidin’s Cover Up! where Marilyn Monroe’s iconic subway scene in The Seven Year Itch is replaced by an Arab man wearing a Kandura (Dishdasha, Thawb) giving me the cheekiest eye as he tries (not very hard) to prevent a flash of leg.
Next to that is Faig Ahmed, with a 21st century Azerbaijani carpet, digitally bleeding and glitching. Hal reminds me of the Afghan War Rugs, cultural memory lossy compression like a jpg, copied and recopied with no line of context to an original, regional signifiers and techniques that say authentic and traditional unfolded as repeating geometric shapes of aircraft carriers, World Trade Centre towers, text like USA and Pepsi, blocks of iconography decoupled from meaning, becoming pattern again.
Timo Nasseri, Epistrophy, op-art cut into the wall like the mid-20th century works of Adolf Luther I saw in Von der Heydt-Museum, Wuppertal. Possibly a new profile photo coming out of that, but not thinking much of it until I looked at more of his work and saw the thread of Islamic / Islamicate architecture and mathematics in it. Good choice for a profile photo, then.
Jumping to the last artist, Nusra Latif Qureshi. She used to come into the VCA Student Union when we were both students. I always loved her art, miniatures in the South Asian tradition (which has connections to mediæval European illuminations, art flowing along the lines of trade as much as trade and commerce), and I was really happy to see her work in the NGV. Again, political, the colonial history of Europe in the unbroken history of Asia-Pacific.
I had thoughts, weaving through the Triennial and the NGV’s permanent collection in my spent, post-festival state. Thoughts. Many. I had. Like, the art that can touch me is always political, because art is inseparable from political, unless the artist has the luxury to be insulated from having political’s gaze turn onto them, so they get to play with ideas and technology and pretend there are no consequences, no urgency, no struggle; they get to live without the violence of history. I see myself in art that is political, even though it is seldom specifically ‘about’ me. I see also a difference between the superficially political, diversity as aesthetic, and art by artists whose lives, by their very existence, is political. I saw the strength of the NGV when it celebrates, represents, amplifies Asia-Pacific and Indigenous artists. This is when it makes sense, not when it assembles an incoherent, contextless junk box of ‘European’ art, manufacturing a phantasmic history of Australia, like Australia was ever located just off the coast of England, or when it divides that into Art and anything pre-Invasion Asia-Pacific into Ethnography. I didn’t see the entirety of the Triennial or the NGV, it’s an awkwardly designed interior space, easy to miss cul-de-sac turn-offs that open to entire wings, more time walking to and from and between than through art. It struggles between competing imperatives, like that of its European fantasy, or oddly misplaced exhibitions that owe more to consular trade and advertising than art and artists. But, see the Triennial? Yes, if you’re in Naarm. There’s good stuff there (heaps I didn’t see, let alone photograph).
Gala Moody once again getting the pervy fetish down on the first pose of the day.
There seem to be a lot of Baroque merchant palaces I am visiting lately. Admittedly the centre of Bologna is unavoidable for these; Berlin on the other hand tends more to the vast architecture plus formal gardens. So I was surprised when arriving at a hotel in Wallstr, the façade of which is of that horribly generic post-war German construction that it hid a Rococo gem. One that wasn’t even built on that land, according to the hotel website, but was moved there from its former, 17th century location.
I was there to tie a model for a photo shoot, the photographer Boris Krajl had contacted me via Dasniya. In-between the shibari, I wandered and took some photos. On the walls curiously, were drawings of Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s wrapping of buildings – architectural shibari. One of them was the Sydney Opera House.
A train to Antwerpen with no ticket despite my attempts to buy one. Thirty minutes in which I think upon what I like about living in Europe. Sleeping. Thirty minutes to a new city as intriguing as Brussels or… that a short trip can take me somewhere new.
I arrive. Find chocolate. Walk. Admire the architecture, reminding me of Amsterdam, along with beautiful towers of Art Deco and other edifices laced with Art Nouveau. The Centraal Station for example, one of such beauty. Well, me, I do have a fondness for train stations and airports. Bus terminals tend to be the shabby best-left-unmentioned cousins, as perhaps evinced by the name terminal instead of station.
I walk towards fashion. Yoji Yamamoto, with exquisite felted wool trousers, skirts, jackets, Dries van Norten … I look for Anna Demeulemeester, but fail, though wander near the canal. I find Walter van Beirendonck, but struggle to find my way into the old carpark. Later I do, and exit, with a scarf. Thinking of Daniel.
Later still, I find my way east to Troubleyn. My reason for venturing to Antwerp, to see Orgy of Tolerance (I shall try and write of that elsewhere). I exit the toilet and find Ivo standing there. Later again, it rains, a phenomenal deluge turning highways into small lakes, we pass through in hazes of mist and opaqueness.