Water

There's a light spatter of rain in the city at the end of the working day and everyone is ducking about with umbrellas and rain jackets and newspapers held over their heads. I'm just in my jeans and T shirt, come from the warmth of the office, and strolling leisurely toward the bus stop with my hands in my pockets and my eyes intermittently closed as I lift my face to the sky to feel the drops on my skin. I'm unavoidably reminded of a very memorable passage, read many years ago, from Tom Robbins' 'Another Roadside Attraction' describing exactly this behaviour by the protagonists of his narrative, and realise this is the inspiration for my own action. 'It's only water' I say in my head, 'I’m pretty sure I won't shrink.’

As a child, I was not fond of water. I was happy enough sitting in a nice warm bath but if it was hair washing night, my Mum or Dad would insist on rinsing the shampoo from my scalp by turning on the taps and ducking my head under the flow, with my eyes squeezed shut to avoid the chemical sting. But so often, the water would run hot and the instinctual jerk of my head from the scalding stream would bring the back of my skull a mighty whack against the spout. Showers I was OK with and, like many a young teen, would happily have run the tank dry languishing in the rush and steam as the bathroom mirror fogged beyond redemption.

But at the local swimming pool I was terrified. The sheer scale of the body of water and my almost complete incompetence with swimming meant I would, at most, gingerly lower myself down the ladder at the shallowest corner of the pool and stand there immobile, clinging to the edge tiles. And the beach, on those days the family would make the long trek to join our friends for a day spent idling at Northern Sydney's Whale Beach, was little short of terrifying. I recall hours of playing on the sand or among the rock pools, but the mere thought of entering the surf among the crashing waves scared the daylights out of me.

Somehow, all that eventually changed. After I left home and moved to the inner city, my spare time was frequently spent at whichever public pool was most close – Prince Alfred Park when I lived in Surry Hills; Ashfield Pool during my time at Burwood and Victoria Park when I was sharing a house in Annandale. For a few years, Andrew 'Boy' Charlton Pool became almost a second home - the venue for my daily pilgrimage, making sure to avoid the early morning or lunchtime crowds of 'lappers', I would cycle there each day for a couple of hours spent slowly breast-stroking my twenty lengths of the main pool, or lazing in the sun, or gazing over the perimeter wall at the naval ships at Garden Island, or simply enjoying watching my fellow idlers - all tan and lithe and slothful in their skimpy briefs and sunglasses. All of us simultaneously parading our own bodies whilst wistfully admiring everyone else's.

So swimming pools became somewhere I felt happy and safe and relaxed. Even when my partner and I bought our first home in Thirroul on the South Coast, it was rarely we swam in the surf, preferring instead the security of the beachside seawater pool. But then, one day, we acquired some cheap body-boards and she took me down to the beach to try them out in the small shore break. I still recall to this day the thrill of joy when I experienced for the very first time in my life the lift and push and fall and rush of catching a wave, surrounded by foam and the press of water, all the way to the crunch of the sand.

All these years later, water now has this amazing pull on my psyche and my soul. We are extraordinarily privileged to live near the beach and my every morning is begun with an almost compulsive desire to simply be near the water. I don't even necessarily have to get wet - I just need to feel the presence of the ocean. I love to stroll along the sand and watch the waves roll in, rushing up the sand and over my bare feet. Or simply stand and stare at the rising sun over the gently undulating expanse, perhaps to glimpse a pod of dolphins playing as they glide past. Or wander across the rock platform to witness the swell crashing against the edge, throwing plumes of pure white to the sky.

Now, as I sit on the bus home, the rain streams down from the low grey sky and there's a quiet solemnity to the world beyond the window. I'm reminded of the Japanese expression 'mono no aware' (moh-noh noh ah-wah-ray) which approximately translates as 'a melancholy awareness of the transient beauty of nature'. It is indeed melancholy, yet transient, this day of rainy weather from which we all hide - scurrying from home to work and back; sheltering in our cars, busses and trains; cowering under our umbrellas; ducking from the shelter of one awning to the next; ultimately, on gaining the security of our homes and families, shutting and locking the doors behind us and retreating to the false warmth of the glowing television or snuggled under our doonas with a good book to read. But it's beautiful too - the rain, in all it's natural inevitability and I suspect a part of that beauty is the simple reality of its being water. Water, in all its many impositions into our daily environments - rains, rivers, puddles, ponds and lakes, right through to the vast oceans that cover seventy percent of the surface of our planet - the blue planet, the water planet. Water has a special quality that seems to affect us all. Somehow there's a calmness to it that can rub off on those of us who embrace its beauty and solemnity and melancholy.

I revel in it! Be it a simple morning shower, or a relaxing bath after a day of labour, or a joyful splash with the friends or family in a backyard pool, or drifting downstream in a dinghy with a line dangling over the side to a baited hook, or watching the glassy surface of the ocean change through a spectrum of mauves, scarlets, oranges and palest lemon hues at sunrise, or best of all, sitting on my favourite surfboard 'Tigger', out the back of the swell at my local beach - gently rising and falling with the passing waves, soaking up the quiet morning ambience and most of all, simply being aware of the all encompassing 'presence' of the water. It lifts me, supports me, refreshes me, calms me, and then, with a rush, it pushes me shoreward with a thrill and an inner yelp of joy.

Jump in, the water’s nice!

Beer

Serendipity – the happy accident – author of so very many of the advances or discoveries we think of as our own when perhaps, at first, we were little more than fortunate bystanders to circumstance.

At least 5,000 years ago a quite extraordinary chain of happy accidents involving grain, water, natural yeasts and glorious warm sunlight combined to produce a thick and pungent porridge in some village storage vessel in the kingdom of Sumer. Rather than tip the contents on the ground in dismay at the waste of so much harvest labour and in resignation to an empty stomach deprived of that day’s bread, some brave soul scraped aside the foamy scum and scooped a handful to their mouth. To their great surprise it had a pleasant toasty sweetness and a strange warming sensation on their tongue. Several greedy mouthfuls later, their hunger satisfied and with a lightheaded glee, they shared their fortune with others in the small community and the drink to become known as beer was born.

My partner and I spent several happy hours last Saturday at The 7^th Annual Australian Beer Festival held at The Rocks in Sydney. I’m pleased we arrived as early in the day as we did (12:30pm) and I suspect if the festival continues its increasing popularity into future, they will need to close a greater portion of the streets surrounding the Australian Hotel to accommodate the large and enthusiastic crowd. With offerings this year from 24 Australian brewers, a good third of the space seemed to be occupied by the display stalls, so by the time we left a few hours later it was a long, slow squeeze past the band and through the jostle of noisy participants to find the exit. Additionally, there was an almost complete absence of seating and inadequate toilet facilities which, combined with the sporadic presence of smokers, made it difficult to actually ‘enjoy’ the beers with any degree of leisure.

The beers themselves however were certainly, on the whole, most enjoyable. The entry price of $15 got you a tasting glass and ten tickets, with additional tickets available at 10 for $10. With each ‘taste’ being about 65ml, it adds up to what you’d expect to pay for a pint of craft beer at the pub anyway – but with the bonus of getting to sample a wide variety of brews without making yourself either poor or sozzled! Besides which, we cheated (as did others we observed) by sharing our glasses to double our sample count to 20. Most of the brewers had more than one style on tap so there could well have been close to 100 alternatives to choose between. Therefore we elected from the outset to preference brewers we’d not seen at our local suppliers or styles with which we were unfamiliar.

A wide spectrum was on offer from a bock, through lagers and pilseners, wheat beers, golden ales and IPAs, to the darker amber or brown ales and porters – though I don’t recall seeing a stout. Twenty beers with different aroma and flavour characteristics are a lot to keep in your head without confusion and I wanted this experience to inform future purchases, so I made notes from the outset in my ever-present notebook (a real one – made of paper). My partner and I would compare impressions and give independent scores out of 10, whilst I attempted with my limited experience or descriptive vocabulary to write something that would help me recall the positives when it came time to select a six-pack at the local bottle shop. We were perhaps being harsh in our judgements since we scored nothing over 8, despite there being some very good beers to savour, whilst we did both score a 2 and even a 1!

The standouts? For us the top three (with an 8/10 from both of us) were:

Endeavour True Vintage Beer – Reserve Pale Ale (Their Reserve Amber Ale is superb too!)

Murray’s Craft Brewing Co – Punch & Judy English-ish Special Bitter (Beware their Grand Cru hybrid Belgian Trippel – it really does pack a punch at 8.8%!)

Balmian Brewing Company – Bock (Clean, dry, toasty, chocolate & cool – brilliant.)

Bottom of the pile? There was one offering from a company that may perhaps need to spend less time surfing and more time refining their brewing technique. It tasted dirty and watery and could only loosely be described as beer. I poured mine out and we both scored it a 1/10. But keep trying guys – you can only improve from here!

Funnily enough, after all that, the thing we both most desired was to sit somewhere quiet and enjoy a nice cool glass of good beer. So we retired to Harts Pub, just around the corner and home of Rocks Brewing, where we had a half-pint each of their pale ale and red ale to share and compare. (The pick of the two for me is the pale.) Unfortunately, like so many pubs, clubs and bars, it was almost impossible to find a seat without a TV screen beaming some idiot game of football at you non-stop, so we decided to move on yet again. We knew it was just a short walk to Sydney’s oldest pub and Australia’s oldest pub brewery – The Lord Nelson. This time we found some comfortable seats in a quiet corner and slowly savoured another half-pint each. I was going to have a Nelson’s Blood (Porter – 4.9%) but they’d just run dry. Bugger! So we went for a Victory Bitter (British Pale Ale – 5.0%) and an Old Admiral (Old Ale – 6.1%) to wash down some sea-salt crisps. Just perfect and a great finish to the afternoon – just a nice walk back to the bus-stop and home in time for dinner … and a nice beer.

So, immerse yourself in the sensible enjoyment of finely crafted amber brews. Relax, chat, savour the aromas and flavours of roasted malts and delicate floral hops, soak up the atmosphere and always keep at least a small part of your senses alert for happy accidents – you just never know what they may lead to.

Walden

I think it is time to introduce some other voices than mine to this journal. It's early days as yet but I still hope that I might be so lucky as to receive submissions from readers for possible inclusion also. In the meantime, I mentioned in my first entry that I'd just read Henry David Thoreau's 'Walden' for the first time and suggested I'd publish an article on that topic. I have decided instead to let Thoreau speak for himself (through the filter of my choice of extracts from his best known work).


There are many, many passages in 'Walden' that I marked as I read, but the two that follow have been chosen particularly for their relevance to the AEON premise. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. They are taken from the Project Gutenberg eBook which requires I include the following brief paragraph:



This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Enjoy ...


'I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only
the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to
teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did
not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish
to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to
live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and
Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad
swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its
lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole
and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or
if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true
account of it in my next excursion.'
From 'Where I Lived, and What I lived For' p.94


'A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is
earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of
his own nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender
eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are
its overhanging brows.

Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in
a calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite
shore-line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, "the
glassy surface of a lake." When you invert your head, it looks like
a thread of finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming
against the distant pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere
from another. You would think that you could walk dry under it to the
opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim over might perch on it.
Indeed, they sometimes dive below this line, as it were by mistake, and
are undeceived. As you look over the pond westward you are obliged to
employ both your hands to defend your eyes against the reflected as well
as the true sun, for they are equally bright; and if, between the two,
you survey its surface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass,
except where the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its
whole extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable
sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have said,
a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the distance a
fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air, and there is one
bright flash where it emerges, and another where it strikes the water;
sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or here and there, perhaps,
is a thistle-down floating on its surface, which the fishes dart at and
so dimple it again. It is like molten glass cooled but not congealed,
and the few motes in it are pure and beautiful like the imperfections in
glass. You may often detect a yet smoother and darker water, separated
from the rest as if by an invisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs,
resting on it. From a hilltop you can see a fish leap in almost any
part; for not a pickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth
surface but it manifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake.
It is wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is
advertised--this piscine murder will out--and from my distant perch I
distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods
in diameter. You can even detect a water-bug (Gyrinus) ceaselessly
progressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for they
furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded by two
diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without rippling it
perceptibly. When the surface is considerably agitated there are no
skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm days, they leave
their havens and adventurously glide forth from the shore by short
impulses till they completely cover it. It is a soothing employment,
on one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun
is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this,
overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are
incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the
reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse there is no
disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away and assuaged,
as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling circles seek the shore
and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on the
pond but it is thus reported in circling dimples, in lines of beauty, as
it were the constant welling up of its fountain, the gentle pulsing of
its life, the heaving of its breast. The thrills of joy and thrills
of pain are undistinguishable. How peaceful the phenomena of the lake!
Again the works of man shine as in the spring. Ay, every leaf and twig
and stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered with
dew in a spring morning. Every motion of an oar or an insect produces a
flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo!'
From 'The Ponds' p.190

Henry David Thoreau, 'Walden', First Published 1854

Simple

Seems to me, the desire for ‘a simple life’ is largely born of the excess and priveledge of the modern developed world. The greater bulk of humanity struggle simply for a life at all – day to day; hand to mouth. It can get no more simple than the constant scrabble for food, shelter, companionship. It seems almost perverse, arrogant, contemptuous, to be among those who – sometimes through little more than the good fortune to be born to it; sometimes through a determined fight against adversity – having managed to surround themselves with the bounties of our consumerist society, profess a desire to rid themselves of the burden of possessions they have acquired and find serenity in frugal living. Yet I count myself amongst this number.

Certainly there are many who don’t share this sentiment. Many who have bought into the mindset of consumption at any price – preferably on credit. But what is it they actually purchase? Gadgets that complete tasks with less effort and greater speed, allowing them more liesure time to spend with other gadgets expressly designed to distract them such that they are not budened with the weight of ‘time passing’ – in a vicious and ever accelerating cycle of consumption-distraction-boredom-discarding-and further consumption. And most of the time wasting paraphernalia is manufactured in third-world sweatshops by those who are frantically struggling to survive. What must they make of it all – the bizzare assortments of plastic gewgaws, cheap and ugly domestic nic-nacs and ever more incomprehensible and miniturised electronic crap? All of which, having been shipped out this month, will come back to their shores with the next and be piled into vast mountains of waste to be picked over and scavenged from by others in similar straights?

So I think I can live with the perversity of desiring less than I could perhaps attain. Maybe, just maybe, by ‘making do’, by ‘going without’, by enjoying the pleasure of simply sitting and allowing ‘time to pass’, by genuinely desiring a more ‘simple life’, by truly believing that ‘less is more’, - maybe I’m actually making a difference? Somehow I suspect it’s not enough of a difference to stop the ugly, fuming juggernaut of contemporary Western society. Not on my own at any rate. But perhaps others might feel the same way?

A good friend recently coined a new turn of phrase. Quite literally ‘turned’ from the staple recitation of my parents’ generation and those before them that lived through the depression era, ‘Waste not, want not’ went the standard advice of my childhood. Keep the crusts and they’ll be handy for making crumbs. Save the newspaper to line the kitchen waste-bin. Wash and save the plastic bags and they’ll serve to take lunches to school. These were the thrifty ways we made our incomes stretch further. But my friend turned the words around and gave them a whole new relevence. ‘Want not, waste not’. Suddenly this is not about thrift – this is about saying no to the marketing behemoth forever berating you to ‘desire’, to ‘consume’, to believe that needless acquisition is a right that comes with no responsibilities attached (and probably with batteries NOT included).

Maybe (before it’s too late and the decision is taken away from us), we can reverse the connotation and put a positive spin on the previously dismissive assertion ‘He’s a bit simple’?

Golden Moments

It seems the right time to publish a pictorial feature, so I've selected a dozen images of a particularly enjoyable activity inspired by one of my favourite artists, Andy Goldsworthy. From viewing many of his images of completed works and documentary footage of him bringing a piece to fruition, it is difficult not to have extraordinary admiration for a man so clearly able to immerse himself in a time and place; so in touch with the elements, materials and forms he finds; so embracing of the ephemeral, that he can bring all of these together so beautifully in his creative endeavours.


My own efforts are clearly derivative and not nearly so graceful but I thank him sincerely for the inspiration to spend many happy hours of physical, mental and emotional occupation, engrossed in crafting transient treasures for others to perhaps discover and enjoy. The following are simply titled with the various locations in New South Wales, Australia where they were assembled and photographed. I hope you enjoy them also. 

Mittagong

Avalon

Mittagong

Warriewood

Warriewood

Avalon

Warriewood

Palm Beach

Palm Beach

Palm Beach

Palm Beach

Warriewood

One Hundred Thousand

Riding to work today on my beautiful Dio, the odometer clicked over (Can you still say 'clicked' when it's a digital LCD?) to 99,000kms - just 1,000kms, or about three weeks of riding, from the big One Hundred Thousand. It's a bit of a fake climax really, since it's not the original instrument cluster and the bike has actually done an additional 7,500kms to what's shown on the read-out, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm absurdly excited about it. Why do we, culturally, get so excited by numbers?

Part of the funny aspect for me with the bike is that the odometer has been designed and manufactured in such a way that it's clear they (the people at Ducati, or Magneti Marelli who make the component) never really expected the bike to do a great deal more distance than mine has. At most it can do twice this distance before the read-out reverts to zero, because the digital display is only set up with the two little vertical strokes to make the figure 1 in that column. I've known that ever since the original instrument cluster got very wet (hence its replacement) and revealed every single element in the display simultaneously. Should I be (or have been - all that time ago) concerned by their assumed very finite limit on the bike's capabilities? Or should I just see it as a funny quirk and a challenge to in fact make or exceed the limit. I think the latter approach is more appealing, which is why I'm so excited I guess.

Maybe it's an insight to the Italian mentality that can be thus assumed to underlie the entire raison d'etre of the Ducati marque - 'We may not take you very far, but we will do so very fast and with great style.' (all said with a wonderful Italian accent) Which is a disservice to Ducati and the wonderful machines they make and clearly only intended as a joke. It's also a disservice to Miguel Galluzzi, the designer of the original Ducati Monster, unveiled to a gob-smacked public in 1992. Because the Monster was not about style at all. It was (and, until the more recent models, still is) all about beautiful, functional, minimal, design - which is a very different animal to style. And the style v's design discussion is one I should maybe have another day.

That's Dio in the picture. I love my Ducati. It's a red and metallic grey, 2003 build, MY02 Monster 620 i.e. It cost $12,750.00, or about twice what I could have paid for a comparable Japanese bike but my long-suffering and supportive partner knew I would never be happy with anything else. We both saw it as a beautiful design classic that, with care and good maintenance, would mature over time much like ourselves and acquire a delightful patina that spoke of the many miles of road travelled and many hours of washing and polishing endured at my hand. And, though he has a few non-original components occasioned by incidents that have seen us both sliding across the tarmac, that's pretty much how he is mellowing into the latter years of his first decade.

But this post isn't about numbers, or design, or dollars - it's actually about why I ride a motorbike. If AEON is indeed about living in the moment (and I'm trying hard to maintain that brief) then motorcycling, especially on a raw, naked bike like the Monster, is certainly up there as a contender for an activity where absolute focus on the 'now' is imperative. Even on my daily commute to work in the city, this is not an activity where you can afford to let your mind wander off topic - indeed, at the end of a busy and sometimes fraught day at the office I find the concentration of the ride home provides a form of enforced 'meditation' that allows me to leave a lot of the stress behind and de-clutter my mind before I rejoin the family for the evening meal and a relaxing night with a beer and a movie.


And on the occasions when I'm out on the highway by myself, or with my partner riding pillion, or perhaps riding alongside my neighbour and his son (Ducati GT750 & MotoMorini 3 1/2), it's all about enjoyment of the moment. This type of riding is not about the destination - it's about the journey. I'm not thinking about whether I'll 'get there on time' or how many kilometres there are still to go - I'm enjoying the sound of the air whistling past my helmet, the crisp note of the engine, the shift of weight as I round a bend, the warm sun on my leathers, the blur of road surface under the front wheel, the sharp focus of my attention to every crest and corner, and the big sly grin that progressively spreads across my face with every passing minute until it threatens to split my head just like the Oral B toothbrush 'flip-top' guy.


And it's not a race. This isn't about going stupid fast and pissing off the other road users or threatening life and limb. This is about a quiet stretch of winding black ribbon draped across the landscape and relishing every deserted straight that gives you the freedom of the cleanest line between bumps or potholes, every hairpin that makes your shadow squirm around on the road under the tyres, every crest that reveals a new vista as yet unexplored. This is about riding just for the sheer pleasure of experiencing the unique symbiosis of man, machine and good old Terra Firma in perfect harmony for this brief span of time. This is about shouting silently in your head 'I am. Here. Now!'

TMAG & MONA

Just back from two days in Hobart on a work junket with some colleagues, visiting TMAG (Tasmanian Museum & Art Gallery) and MONA (Museum of Old & New Art). TMAG is almost entirely closed as they prepare for a major overhaul, rebuild and refurbishment. The Master Plan to reinvigorate the city-block complex of eleven clustered buildings called for an injection of $200 million, of which they look like having just $30 million. Which is a great shame, though they are putting on brave faces and buckling down to do the very best they can with the time and funds available. On top of which they took time out to give us a comprehensive tour of the site and explain all their intentions. It sounds like, despite the limited budget, they are going to effect a significant transformation of the institution and I wish them all the very best with the project.

Meanwhile, one of the gallery spaces that currently remains open is the year-long series of immersive art experiences entitled ‘star/dust’. The current installation ‘The Reading Room’ by Brigita Ozolins (until 16 October 2011) is one of the most restful and inviting environments I’ve had the pleasure to inhabit for some time. There will be those (I suspect) for whom a room filled with books is not an inducement to stay but the very calm and comfort and informality of this gallery, with its deep armchairs, expansive woollen rugs, subdued reading lamps and spilling, cascading, stacks and rivers of books of every description had me wishing I could linger all day. It had the perfect blend of active and passive engagement for the visitors – from simply sitting and dozing (the staff assured me this was not uncommon), to browsing the books and dipping into their content, or sitting back to listen or watch the constant, quiet, evenly paced, projected video footage, huge on the end wall, of numerous people both known and anonymous, reading brief extracts from their favourite publications.

A significant part of the success (I feel) of the space was the comfort you felt as a visitor due to the obvious lack of order of the volumes – many thousands of them – stacked in a great undulating wall around the perimeter of the room and in seemingly random piles dotted about the floor and against the armchairs. Clearly, very clearly, they were not alphabetically sorted, or arranged by Dewey classification, or separated into size or subject categories. Equally clearly, you were permitted to just wander about, picking them up, flicking through, reading, scanning, browsing, and then putting them back down again, most probably somewhere else. Indeed I almost felt I could have selected a couple to take away with me to read on the flight back to Sydney.

But is it art? Well it’s not a library and it’s not a shop. It’s not a private home and nor is it a school. It’s certainly not a business venture or a sports venue. It does invite you to stop, to look, to ponder, to feel, to enjoy, to question, to explore, to react. Perhaps to react with anger, or disbelief, or humour, or frustration. Sounds a lot like art to me. I loved it. Beautiful. Well done Brigita and top marks to the people at TMAG that had the initiative and courage to put it on their calendar. Thank you.

Day two saw us at MONA via its dedicated ferry up the river from Hobart docks. I spent the trip on deck despite the strong wind and spots of rain from the clouds scudding across the sky and periodically blocking Mount Wellington from view behind us. Then up the 99 steps between sandstone wall and rusty steel fence, past the tennis court and enter through the giant sliding door in the wall of distorting mirrors. Clearly, this is not the typical 19^th or even 20^th century model of a museum. Brilliant! However, much is said (especially by MONA itself) about the ‘Museum without labels’ approach they have taken in an attempt to liberate the artworks in the galleries, so it’s a little disappointing that they are so very determined to herd you directly to the distribution point and briefing for their ‘wonderful’ O device. It is of course nothing more than an iPod touch running a dedicated app which gives you access to fanciful or factual information, artists’ or curators’ commentary, professional or popular critiques and a Facebook like ability to ‘Like’ or not the various exhibits as it tracks your location in the museum. As if it wasn’t bad enough that we spent most of the last century being told we needed a professional voice to give us permission to understand or appreciate what we experienced in our interactions with art, now it seems we must entrust our enjoyment and comprehension to the vagaries of popular opinion?

OK, it’s great that someone has thought to question the prevailing paradigm of art galleries’ presentation of information but it seems to me that they’ve done little more than replace one intrusive data delivery system (labels on walls or printed gallery guides) with another that’s just, if not more, intrusive – this one you have to wear around your neck and seemingly forever be fiddling with it to gather the particular output you desire. I say seemingly because, being the wanker I am, I went out of my way to not accept my O and instead, to wander the museum almost at random, unfettered by technology or other voices intruding on my enjoyment of the works and the spaces they occupy. And, thus freed from that constraint, what were my impressions of MONA? Several of the happiest, most interesting and inspiring hours I’ve ever spent in the presence of other peoples creative endeavours.

Creating sonic scapes by caressing suspended pot plants that emit curious and delightful sounds; making graphite rubbings from stones that survived the atomic bomb at Hiroshima; observing the mummified skeletal remains of Pausiris as their coffin is slowly, digitally, excised from view; laying, seemingly floating, above my mirrored doppelganger, in a labyrinthine crypt filled with coded messages and drone-note harmonies; strolling, entranced and with many lingering pauses, past 150 pure white, cast from life, wondrously beautiful and diverse pudenda (not shameful at all!); watching my heartbeat give pulse and rhythm to a string of gloriously warm-red filament incandescent globes; and laughing with glee as I enter a doorway into what I thought was a giant synthetic rock, only to find myself in an infinitely long hotel corridor where the doors are all at once both tantalisingly inviting yet frustratingly locked, despite the ringing phones and barking dogs I can hear behind them and my expectation, my wish, to run along its length and hear a voice say ‘turn left … the other left’.

And the building itself invites play – a cylindrical corridor with booming acoustics, a crazy steel stair to nowhere in particular, vast sandstone walls that simply beg you to caress them and rusted steel balusters that chime like some grand xylophone when you slap them in passing (though I elicited an admonishing stare from the staff as I did this). Red velvet lined corridors that the visitors, like Allenesque spermatozoa, must penetrate to enter the womb of sexually explicit content beyond. Spiral stairs that beg you to race the glass elevator they encircle. Slender bridges, gaping voids, concealed doors and surprising fenestration revealing unexpected vistas.

The juxtapositions of old and new, related and dissimilar, large and small, were also delightfully considered. Spectacular gold and turquoise Egyptian jewellery, plush bench seats that bark, giant stone phalli immersed in water and surrounded by swimming fish, a dying bird falling through a drift of dandelion seed, ancient coins of such obvious weight and texture that you long to fondle them in your trouser pockets and a futuristic spherical vagina that you do indeed have to probe and fondle to elicit a (wonderfully humorous) response.

I know the choice of exhibits and style of presentation will not be to everyone’s taste, but they certainly appealed to me. A very obvious element of numerous of the works on display was their invitation to the visitor to interact (or ‘engage’ in current exhibition jargon) with them in a wide variety of ways from simply sitting or touching, to pressing your body against a photo-scanner or moving about erratically in front of light receptors, completing a rubbing (as mentioned earlier) or shaking your head to find words hidden in a digital stroboscopic projection. It really is (or was for me at least) a giant art playground – and all the better for it. My thanks to David Walsh (owner), Nonda Katsalidis (architect), Adrian Spinks (Operations Manager) and all the other contributors and staff of this wonderful museum (especially the barman who let me taste the Moo Brew 2010 vintage stout – wow!)

Finally, a quotation from a staff member that gives a clear insight into perhaps why this place works so well – ‘He (Walsh) wants you to push his boundaries as much as he pushes yours.’