It’s one thing to base a clothing collection on a film heroine, but Sydney art duo, bams and ted, have taken it one step further, dedicating the entire contents of their pop up store to a fresh fictional hero every four weeks. The bams and ted store, which is currently part of the three-month Arcade shop residency at the newly re-launched Gaffa gallery in Sydney has already paid tribute to the lovely but missing schoolgirl Miranda from Peter Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock and Grace Kelly’s femme fatale Frankie from Hitchcock’s To Catch A Thief, with super sleuthing detective Jessica Lange of television series Murder She Wrote to come in April.
Last week, a bunch of young Sydney creatives were asked to describe their vision for the city in the time it usually takes to run to the bus stop, boil an egg, or listen to a decent pop song. Three Minute Sydney launched the two week Creative Sydney festival, the city’s first winter festival to celebrate and promote local creative industries. Sydney’s acclaimed but extremely humble comic artist Matt Huynh stole the show with a three minute time lapse video presentation, a speedy sequence of comics created one frantic Sunday afternoon. From the iconic Eternity message chalked on the city sidewalks to scenes from the city’s late night meat-market bars, indie gigs and packed trains, Huynh explored the places and stories of Sydney in black and white.
Somewhere in a Sydney park, exact location undisclosed, sits a custom built wooden house fit for one. And if you happen to stumble across it, you simply lift it up, climb into the hole dug underneath it and make yourself at home. The makeshift shelter, which loosely resembles a human-sized kennel, is the latest work of Sydney art collective the Bababa International. The trio, consisting of Stephen Russell, Ivan Ruhle and Tom Melick (fourth member Giles Thackway has temporarily absconded to Mexico and is probably wearing a protective swine flu mask at present), say there are plans to install a radio at some point to make the shelter more homely and install similar constructions in parks across Sydney. And they reluctantly offer some hints of this particular houses’ location, saying it’s located in a park in Sydney’s Eastern suburbs, past a hedge and close to a tennis court.
Some things are better said in thread, which probably doesn’t make sense unless you’ve seen the extensive stitched work of Sarah-Jane Cook, an Australian visual artist who works primarily with needle, thread and lace trimmed hankerchiefs. Sweet from afar, a brief admiration of Cook’s handiwork gives way to an inspection of the messages embroidered. Ranging from a thank you for the easter eggs note from child to parent, to pro and con lists, scribbled shopping lists, recipes and abusive notes left for housemates, the collection is diverse and reveals much about the unknown characters who probably penned them in haste.
So simple, yet surprisingly effective, a black and white printed poster strapped to a telegraph poll still has the power to entertain, offend and inform. Especially when they deviate from the usual moving sales, lose-ten-pounds-in-four-weeks and public hunts for housemates. A single A4 sheet precariously stuck to a pole caught my eye, a public declaration of love to no one in particular, complete with tear off reminders. It was simple and sweet, especially appreciated during a time where recession, financial crisis and impending doom are mentioned so frequently.
It started as a joke, a mail out of twenty tiny presents enclosed in matchboxes to friends, containing gifts so personal that they could safely be tracked back to me, despite being sent anonymously. Then came the suggestion that I start leaving them randomly, like a kind of calling card, on a whim, wherever I […]
Banky’s done it before and now so can you, at least metaphorically. A group of Palestinian graf artists will spray-paint emailed messages onto the massive concrete wall that divides Israel and the West Bank and send you photos to prove it. The aim of the project is to creatively transform the physical purpose of the […]
This isn’t an outdoor art installation, but it is still somewhat curated. Or maybe hoarded is a better description. Somewhere in the inner western suburb of Sydney’s Summer Hill, there is a brightly coloured collection of garden gnomes on display. The owner of the home is yet to be seen, but there are hundreds of gnomes, side by side, all with equally dopey expressions on their faces and accompanied by a second fixation: caterpillar soft toys. There are so many gnomes, the garden is no longer visible. Maybe it’s an Amelie style prank that has just piled up over the years?
If you can’t get enough people watching in when you’re out and about and love reading those trashy red carpet fashion specials in weekly glossies, there are quite a few time consuming fashion blogs out there in which be immersed. Thoroughly. For the Vogue-reading, detail-loving fashion forwards, there’s the happy curation that is The Sartorialist. The baby of an ex-fashion marketer, the bodies featured on this site are chosen for their individuality and experimentation: be it long blue socks and Burberry gumboots on the rainy streets of New York, or a three-piece suit complete with handkerchief and flower on an aging gentleman.
As a child, I took piano exams in over-sized white rooms, on baby grand pianos that felt unfamiliar and echoed strangely as someone across the room observed me in silence. It felt clinical, intimidating and completely devoid of warmth. Last week, I started noticing upright pianos, some painted haphazardly, others respectfully untouched plonked in the most unlikely places throughout Sydney. There was one on the edge of the baby pool at the local swimming pool, with a young girl in a rainbow striped dress tapping out a happy but disjointed melody; another shaded under a tree at the park on the way home.
Exploding cupcakes, violent shark attacks, volcanoes, flying men and the pastel coloured remains of a café latte have all been depicted by emerging Sydney artist Tony Curran, who describes his works as experimental neo-paintings. Sitting somewhere undefined between sculpture, installation and conventional painting, Curran distills images onto layers of acetate or resin before physically reconstructing them into a completed work. It’s a precarious process, with the alignment of each layer crucial in the making of the image and the acetate layers easy to steal, an unhappy discovery made at his first solo show.