Saturday, August 25, 2012

Harbour Wave, Second Wave

by Patrick Sutczak

To begin my Biennale experience, I woke to up to what I was to discover later that evening, would become the hottest recorded winter day in Sydney for seventeen years. As I stood on the balcony of the hotel, uncomfortably high above the bustling street below, I sipped on my cup of tea and watched the interweaving ribbons of vehicles exit and enter the city-side of the Harbour Bridge. It was 7 am and it was already 20 degrees. A quick glance toward my hastily pulled-up bed and I realised the pile of warm clothing nestled at the foot of it was now just useless bag-filler for the journey home. If nothing else, this was a reminder that preparation is excellent, but releasing myself of expectation was even better. No finer day to visit Cockatoo Island.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

A bit more Biennale: water, water everywhere...

by Stephenie Cahalan

The title of the Biennale collection at the Art Gallery of NSW was ‘In finite blue planet’ inspired by an unimposing little piece of art placed by the entry to the exhibition.

Not much larger than a soccer ball and modestly framed, the image appeared at a distance to be a simple globe. On closer inspection, I realised that it was a planet comprised entirely of the seas, oceans and waterways of the world, with all the landmasses excised to leave only the water.

As Tasmania awaits the arrival of a supertrawler, heralding the advent of factory fishing in Australian waters (a third-world ecological disaster springing to right life here at home), the immense importance of the world’s waters has searing relevance right now.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Murder in Casablanca

by Thomas Connelly
Sorell Memorial Hall

Having recently moved to rural Tasmania I have quickly learned that one must make one’s own entertainment. There are few cultural outlets in these small towns. Not even a cinema. So culture is mainly confined to the library and the video shop.

Country people are therefore forced to rely on their own efforts, as we do not get the pleasure of, for example, the TSO or Bell Shakespeare Company coming to our little towns. Into the breach steps our own Sorell On Stage (SOS) theatre group. This is a lively group of enthusiastic amateur thespians. Being, as my wife reminds me, an art snob, this is not the sort of theatre I would produce, if given the chance. But I am only too happy to support them. To this end I went along to their most recent production Murder in Casablanca.