It's currently 8:10pm on Saturday, 6 June, and I'm sitting in the living room with my mother as she sorts through her knitting needles while I think about what might be worth writing about from the past couple of weeks.
We've got the television on as the West Coast Eagles play Port Adelaide, but the volume is turned right down because neither of us is particularly interested in either team.
It's freezing cold outside, but surprisingly warm inside. Earlier, we had the heater going full blast and it became so hot that I had to turn it off for a while.
A little while ago I signed up to be a front of house volunteer at the Art Gallery of South Australia. The onboarding process has been a slow one, but on Tuesday 26 May a group of us attended an information session that gave us a better idea of what our roles will involve.
I arrived at the Gallery a little before 10:00am for our 10:30am start, and as I walked through Gallery 12, I don't think I have ever felt more at home. Standing before me was a sculpture depicting a genetically engineered primate wet-nursing a human child.
The piece is called Big Mother and was created in 2005 by Patricia Piccinini. Made from silicone, fibreglass, leather and human hair, I took one look at it and knew I had found my people. You can see it below.
The piece reminds me of The New Barbarians by my artist friends Tim Noble and Sue Webster, who I met in Antarctica. Created in 1999 and inspired by a museum diorama of early human ancestors, the work depicts the artists themselves as a prehistoric couple walking side by side. By combining ideas of human evolution with their own relationship, the piece explores love, companionship, mortality and the enduring human desire for connection.
After spending a while marvelling at this piece of creative genius, I stuck my head into a smaller room and was surprised to see Attorney-General Kyam Maher with his entourage.
I follow Mr Maher on Facebook and he seems to have a good sense of humour. He and the people with him looked as though they were engaged in official business, so I quietly turned around and made my way towards the stairs I needed to walk down to reach my destination.
On the way, I came across another piece that caught my eye: Twin-subjecter, created in 2011 by Thomas Hirschhorn. Made from fibreglass mannequins, metal nails, metal screws, a plastic base and timber, it immediately appealed to me. You can see it below.
At 10:30am, I made my way over to the function room where all the Front of House volunteers were participating in an information session. There were probably around thirty of us, and we were all women. Two staff members from the Art Gallery took us through the volunteer role and what our responsibilities would be.
It's something I am genuinely excited about, and seeing Patricia Piccinini's Big Mother only reinforced that feeling. I take great comfort in the fact that our Art Gallery exhibits that kind of conceptual artwork, because that is where my heart lies.
Despite my interest in art, I hadn't been to the Art Gallery in a long time. As part of the information session, we were asked to look around the Gallery and identify different types of artwork. I was surprised and impressed by the variety of works on display, and simply being there made me realise that, even though I am starting incredibly late in the art world, this is what I am supposed to do.
The next day, on Wednesday 27 May, I visited an exhibition at the Kerry Packer Civic Gallery, which is part of The Bob Hawke Prime Ministerial Centre on the City West Campus of Adelaide University. This exhibition was also right up my alley: The Origami Art of Tomoko Fuse.
Tomoko Fuse is one of the world's most influential origami artists and is often referred to as the Queen of Modular Origami. Since discovering origami as a child, she has spent decades pushing the boundaries of paper folding, creating intricate works that blend art, mathematics and architectural design.
One thing I love making is origami boxes, and Tomoko had a whole collection of them on display. You can see some of them below.
There was also a large installation called Orochi and Mukumuku. Orochi refers to a giant snake from Japanese mythology, while Mukumuku refers to the triangular towers that appear to grow out of the ground.
I was particularly drawn to this piece. It demonstrated that Tomoko is a true master of her craft, using the simple medium of folded paper to create something both beautiful and imposing.
I love braille. I think it is beautiful. One day, I would love to visit an exhibition like this with a blind person and describe everything I can see. I don't think braille is artistic in a novelty sense, nor do I mean that in a patronising way. I think it is art because it opens up a world and facilitates communication that might not otherwise be possible.
Below, you can see the braille from both Levels 2 and 3.
My last couple of posts have been all about criminal convictions, quitting jobs and insomnia, and when I look back on them they seem like a whirlpool of madness. Even though it felt as though so much was happening to me at the time, I suspect it wouldn't have seemed like much to an outside observer. Life has simply carried on, with or without me.
I am now fully enrolled and ready to start art school in August. I haven't heard anything further from the Census, I'm waiting for my induction with the offender support organisation, and last week I was unexpectedly offered two job interviews.
The first was with a healthcare staffing organisation in an after-hours rostering role. It appealed to me because the hours could potentially have worked around uni. The job involved taking calls from healthcare providers such as hospitals and nursing homes, receiving requests for staff, and then contacting nurses and carers to try to fill those shifts. Essentially, it was an agency role.
I was genuinely surprised when they called me. On the Seek application, the very first question was whether I had ever been convicted of a crime. There was no opportunity to explain the circumstances, so after ticking "yes" and hearing nothing further, I assumed my conviction had ruled me out.
During our conversation, the woman who called me made a comment along the lines of, "We're here to make money." I can't remember the exact context, but it was while she was describing the responsibilities of the role. I understand that businesses need to make money in order to survive, but I still like the idea that an organisation might take pride in caring for its clients and employees rather than leading with the fact that it exists to make a profit.
After explaining the position, she asked whether I would be available for an interview the following week if they decided to proceed. She put a great deal of emphasis on the word "if", and I came away from the conversation with a distinctly cold feeling.
They did eventually offer me an interview, but I withdrew my application. Partly, I had a bad feeling about the role. It also regularly finished at 11:30pm in the city, which would have meant travelling home alone late at night. More importantly, I realised that right now I simply want to study, spend time with my mother, and focus on my writing and artwork.
At around the same time, I was also offered an interview with an answering service call centre. They provide telephone support for around 250 local organisations, and it sounded exactly like the sort of work I enjoy. Unfortunately, the hours included daytime shifts that would have conflicted with uni, and once again I found myself thinking that perhaps I don't want to work just yet.
For the moment, I don't have to. I have enough money to get by, and there is a certain comfort in knowing that I can still secure interviews after being away from the workforce for so long. It's also reassuring to know that when I genuinely need a job, I may still be able to find one.
Having spent time at both the Art Gallery of South Australia and the Kerry Packer Civic Gallery, as well as having my near brush with employment, I've been thinking a lot about art: what it means to me, the work I have completed, and how I might one day make a living from it.
When I think about what art means to me, I don't think of beautiful paintings or sculptures that sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars. I think of a sculpture depicting a genetically engineered primate wet-nursing a human child. That piece will steal my heart every time because it invites the viewer to think, to see the world through the artist's eyes, and to find a little bit of magic in a world governed by a cruel and merciless God.
I have lived a lifetime of ideas, but I haven't actually made very much. Apart from a couple of thousand paper cranes, there are only two major pieces of conceptual epistolary artwork that I have seen all the way through to completion.
The first was a bound book of oaths collected from chief justices and presidents of supreme courts around the world, which I created for the then Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of South Australia, Chris Kourakis. The second was a book of oaths from speakers and presidents of parliaments around the world, which I created for the Speaker of the South Australian Parliament, Leon Bignell.
Both books held significant personal meaning for me. The book I made for the Chief Justice was especially important because it was the project that gave birth to my fascination with oaths, letters and conceptual artwork. The book for the Speaker was also deeply meaningful because parliament and politics have been part of my life for as long as I can remember.
Neither project was quick. When you take into account researching the recipients, sending the letters, waiting for responses and then having the books professionally bound, each one took a considerable amount of time. But when they were finally finished, I was incredibly happy with the result.
It felt good to send them to the Chief Justice and the Speaker, and I hoped they liked them, but strangely enough I didn't really want any feedback. The satisfaction came from making the work and giving it away.
Leon Bignell's office called me after he received the book and told me that he had described it as beautiful and wanted to take it into his second office to show the staff there. They asked for my postal address because he wanted to send me a thank you letter. I gave it to them, but the letter never arrived. To be honest, I didn't mind. I was happy simply knowing he had the book. Somehow, that was enough.
I felt the same way about the Chief Justice. In fact, I included a note asking him not to contact me because I neither needed nor wanted a response.
I realise that probably sounds unusual, but I think it reflects what I enjoy most about this kind of artwork. There is something special about creating something for another person, sending it out into the world, and never quite knowing what happened afterwards. It feels a little like sharing a secret with a stranger.
I want to create more work like this. I've already identified three people I would like to make epistolary artworks for: one state politician, one federal politician, and a senior member of the South Australian Police who I think does an exceptional job of keeping the public informed.
The feeling I got from creating those books for the Chief Justice and the Speaker was worth more to me than any amount of money. I can't wait to begin these next three projects and eventually send them to their recipients, a process that I imagine will take the better part of a year.
I don't think anyone becomes an artist to make money. I know that isn't why I want to do it. I want to say something, make a statement, send a message, or encourage someone to see the world differently. If I could earn a decent income working in a call centre or on reception somewhere and create meaningful artwork on the side, I would happily do that.
So why don't I?
The answer is that I believe art school, even at my age, has the potential to add something important to both my technical skills and the way I approach the creative process.
My interest in creating pieces for people who hold public positions comes from the fact that I live a fairly solitary life. I spend a lot of time at home, and I am an unapologetic news junkie. I watch the news every day and keep up with local, national and international events because I genuinely like knowing what is going on in the world.
Over time, the judges, politicians and police officers I see on television have become almost like recurring characters in a very serious and consequential story. I watch them making decisions, responding to crises, debating ideas and helping shape the communities we live in. Even though they don't know who I am, I feel as though I know a little about them.
I have always had a soft spot for politicians because I think they often receive a bad rap. They are criticised for their salaries, yet many could probably earn far more money in the private sector. While I am sure there are exceptions, I suspect that many enter politics with the best of intentions. It must be incredibly difficult to navigate factional politics, public criticism and party expectations without occasionally losing sight of the reasons you stood for office in the first place.
The last of my next three projects will focus on a senior South Australian police officer. I have chosen him very deliberately because he is someone I regularly see in the media and, I'm sure, like many people in Adelaide, I find him to be a familiar and reassuring presence. He does an excellent job of keeping the public informed and, in a strange way, helping people feel safe.
I also hope that this particular officer becomes the next Police Commissioner. In my view, he would be an excellent fit for the role when the current commissioner, Grant Stevens, eventually retires.
So with uni, volunteering, my three epistolary projects and my cosy home life, I have more than enough to keep me occupied, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
