Infected

If a tree fall's in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

By the law's of physics, yes; By the doctrines of art, no. Observation makes art. Humanity's ability to declare the object, the act, as something special is what makes us artists. If the act of perceiving something as art makes it art, then the context the surrounding the viewer dictates the meaning. A broken marriage, a passed love one or a global pandemic all change how we hear the tree falling. Context dictates perception and perception dictates meaning.

This work started as a experiment in materialism. Showing off the material as a vessel itself, I took chunky, thick slabs of terracotta and loosely bound them into a form. The porous sponge like walls became a carrier for protozoic organisms. Together they bloomed and blemished my work with green algae, brown molds and invisible bacteria. No longer is this an experiment in materials but a carrier for terracotta-based pathogens. I have to view it like that. Living organisms slowly devour this unfused piece of quartz in a weak bath of oxalic acid. This work, no longer a pot but an infected specimen, context dictates it.

It's weird living in a pandemic. Brief moments of normalcy are punctuated by unsettling instances of our brave new world. The burning smell of chlorine cleaners, the parched sight of alcohol dried hands and the muffled sound of masked breathing whiplash me back into this global event.

Six foot areas of social distancing, un-trusting eyes of strangers, its the small things that get to me.

Things I can't unsee.

Updates I cant ignore

Artworks I can't re-imagine.

Meaning I can't find.

Context I can't dictate.

An event I'm struggling to grip and a paragraph I struggling to end. I needed to write this, I know it's not positive, it's what on my mind. This post is not succinct, nor with a clear message, it's clouded and confused. This has little to do with a terracotta pot, it's a lot to do with me and you. This post is an acknowledgment to the elephant in the room, it may not be what's needed, but context dictates it.

Boneyard

Documenting flora| 3| 03/02/2020


I love the story this landscape tells. A scene of death, destruction and rebirth; this is the story of nine months in this pot. In the center of this vessel we see the archaic ruins of once great Black Nightshade. This shrub had coaxed itself rather quickly into the undertadultlerted soil. Tunneling it's roots further and further the plant dervoured the nutrient dense feast. Soon the black stem grew and it would sport shiny, black berries bursting with a poisonous, glycoalkaloids syrup. Small grasses thrived around the foot of the growing behemoth. Bigger plant's tried to outgrow the nightshade, but would find themselves strangled by the plant's tyrannical roots. The black stemmed monster found itself all-powerful, too poisonous to be touched by mammals or birds and too big to to allow neighbours to compete, this Nightsahde owned this pot. But alas it would be the plant's own success that would be it's downfall. The beast outgrew it surroundings and like a big fish in too small of a pond it starved to death. Slowly rotting, it sagged towards the Earth. It was here, when a summer's heat engulfed the pot. Four days of fourty degrees sucked the vessel of life's fluid. The scene lay as dead as a desert, the once great Nightshade becoming no more than two tortured stems. The sun punished all flora whom dared to set foot in this pot. Nothing could survive, nothing could grow, nothing thrived in this vessel. No relief was in sight...

February would arrived. With February, comes the shortest month and the heaviest rains. A series of downpours that taunt you for thinking this is still summer. With the hail and precipitation, once dry soil came back to life. Micro-bacteria long dormant awoke, together they would gnaw at the rotting skeleton till only the hard cellulose shell was left. Into this boneyard, thistles, milkweeds and dandelions carved out their plots among the dead Nightshade. Using the energy of their deceased, distant cousins the weeds began bloom. The moss now wet, began to swell awakening its sleeping cells. From a barren landscape to a thriving metropolis in only thirty days. A mish-mash of undergrowth now live in the skeleton of a long dead shrub. Together they all compete for the glory to grow, to reproduce, to thrive.


It is the determination of weeds I find compelling. That raw brute strength is inspirational. Whether it is the smallest or cracks or the blandest of soil something will take root. Something will conquer only to overthrown by a more adaptable, sturdy organism. This scene for me isn't a pot infested with weeds but instead a vessel filled with survivors and opportunists. This is a pot that enchants me with its sight and with its story.

Old man yells at plant

Documenting flora| 2 | 03/02/2020




“You son of a gun, don't you think I can see you there? Festering, growing, you dare to live in MY pot? Haven't you read the council regulations, you're simply not allowed to exist.

That cocky attitude you got there is really something. Doing nothing but hogging space, you ought to ashamed of yourself! I toiled that soil. I loaded that nitrogen. I balanced that PH and YOU, you just waltzed in and made yourself at home! All I did was turn my head for five weeks and you had moved your fat ass in! WELL IM HERE TO TELL YOU TO MOVE YOUR FAT ASS OUT! Here's your thirty days notice pal, pack your bags, you are about to be uprooted from your surroundings!

Ooooo, but how I ought to get rid of you?! Chemical defoliants seem tempting. A noxious broth of glyphosate and agent orange should do the trick. I will bleach you to the Napsian wonderland you belong. Ughh, you weeds have always grossed me out. Your crawling vines, barbed leaves and rampageous nature have always given me grief. A sea of thistles, hurghhh, I can feel my stomach churn. A swamp of weed killers, mmmmmm, now that's a soothing scene.
You know Round Up is all natural, that's how you know it's good for you! HA, good for me but not so good for you dumbass!”

The plant ceases to laugh at the man's poor joke.

“Sonchus arvensis! That's what you like to call yourself!? You can fuck off with that latin bullshit, you aint nothing but a milk thistle. A good for nothing milk thistle! I can't wait to have you gone buddy, then maybe I can get some good plants in here, like wheat or cotton. You know, the non-invasive speicies type.
.....I'm starting to get tired of your sight mate. I will point my wretched finger of scorn upon you. I will revel in your destruction. I will rip you and each of your bretheren from MY soil. I will pursue you to ends of this here Earth bud!

I WILL NOT SLEEP TILL RIVERS OF CHLORINE PULSE THROUGH YOUR ROOTS!
I WILL SHOVEL A HOLE SO DEEP I DELIVER YOU TO HADES MYSELF!!
I WILL SCORCH THE EARTH BENEATH YOUR FEET, SO YOU MAY NEVER RETURN!!!

I WILL GET MY POT BACK!!!!

ooof

Phew...

um, sorry please excuse me, one's emotions can easily get heated when one's ego is threatened by a tiny plant.“

Weeds

Documenting flora| 1| 03/02/2020


Weeds, the outlaws of an ordered society. Outcast plants that ought not to be sowed into our pure soil. To be a weed is to be free from human control. We see weeds as leaches, parasites, plants that do not belong. Weeds have been defined as “a plant not appreciated for its beauty or it's use”. Well I'm here to tell you weeds, you are gorgeous! Screw the beauty standards. I'd take a sea of Black Nightshade over a sprawl of Daffodils any day. Why are we so intimidated by an independent plant? The luscious flowers of the South African Milkweed are surely as beautiful as the bulbs we see in the Bunnings isle.

It is it's willfulness to create it's own beauty that makes it a weed. They live their live so resourcefully that they don't need us. Weeds create they own glory, they don't ask for help, they simply get on with the job.


This project saw me dive headfirst into human's most domineering architectural forms, the strong monolithic shapes of brutalism. A brutalist building is a statement of humanities self importance. A monument to say I (A HUMAN) WAS HERE. Inspired by the shape of these concrete sarcophagi I made my own ceramic vessels. I thought it would be funny to take such a human driven form and populate it with the most wild, inhuman flora.

I filled these empty structures with a balanced mix of soil. Rock's and charcoal formed the foundations, allowing water to flow and filter. A mix of manure and soil formed the center, to provide a free buffet to the plants. Atop of this whole charade I placed a coat of sphagnum bryophyta. This thick wooly moss would hold the moisture, like a jumper holds warmth. This perfect concoction of earthly delights were left to sit. I placed the planter lacking plants, in the darkest corner of my Melbourne garden. For nine months both I and the vessels waited. These athropogenic shells quickly became homes to wilder forms. From planning to documentation this project was a fruitful twelve months. Even though I've already snapped the photos, this is merely just the beginning of this project. I can't wait to see the communities that these plants will mutate into in another twelve. It's fun being in the garden, not playing the hand of god but simply documenting as an observer.