Here’s to new horizons, new spaces, new challenges…
For over a hundred years, he’s stood guard at the entrance. Most days, he’s benevolent, and swallows up all who would seek to enter, only to disgorge them later, back onto the streets of St Kilda. Some days, like today, it’s a false promise, leaving us to stand and stare through the metal grill, imagining what could have been, and what has been, and what may be…
(Sharon’s interpretation of Luna Park is on her blog here.)
Once upon a time, there was an icon of Melbourne – it was a shot tower, and stood above all of the surrounding buildings. Over time, either it shrunk, or the buildings around it just got taller, until it was almost invisible. And it began to shiver, because the next step was all but inevitable – the wrecking ball, and then ruin, and then oblivion.
But this tower had a different fate…
(Sharon’s interpretation of Melbourne Central is on her blog here.)
Like something from another time, another place…
(Actually, it’s the world’s largest covered fernery, in a National Trust property called Rippon Lea in Victoria. With the massive wooden structure over the ferns, it’s a strange blend of the past and the future…)
The city isn’t really deserted, despite what the images I’ve selected so far might lead you to believe… but the challenge isn’t finding people – it’s finding the right people…
I write these words by hand,
and at the end of each line I wait
for the ink to dry.
And that pause feels like silence.
Like the space between exhaling and inhaling
between waking and sleeping
between closing your eyes to blink and opening them again.
It’s a silence that consumes thoughts.
It swallows them whole
and spits out the bones,
which I then arrange in halting, fragile patterns,
looking for the essence of the thing.
Is this what an image does?
As we march our endless lines
across the pages of our stories?
Does it make us stop, pause, see something between time?
A silence, set free from time, from noise, from movement?
A waiting to inhale?
A chance to see, to feel, to breathe
while we wait for our ink to dry?
Time is my canvas, and my brush is the light. The longer the time, the lighter each stroke of the brush becomes.
With a slow enough line, we all start to fade and blur.
With a slow enough line, we all start to disappear.