Saturday, April 30, 2016

Time to Manus Up, Australia

'Captive' by Pants, 2016

Gomer Pyle, late of Mayberry, North Carolina, invariably responded to the manifest unfairness of the world with a simple,

'What a mean thang. What a mean thang to do.'

Yep, that just about covers most pointless, spiteful injustices. Explain, it doesn't, but we'll get to that.

Last week, the five judges of the Supreme Court of Papua New Guinea unanimously ruled that Australia's asylum-seeker detention centre on Manus Island is illegal and they've ordered an immediate cease and desist. Locking innocent people up and tormenting them is against the law? Who knew? Apparently not the Australian Government. Our national leaders appear to think it's okay as long as you pay some money for it, like trashing the environment or bypassing the taxation system. Elsewhere they think of that as bribery. For us, putting our responsibilities as international citizens on the national credit card makes them  'someone else's problem' - for a while. It's like when you transfer your balances to one of those new cards that offer you 'no interest for two years'. And we know that never ends well.

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, the Spanish contractor that runs both the Manus Island and Nauru Detention Centres, announced that it was pulling out of the tawdry business altogether. Gomer Pyle's superior in the memorable television show of my youth was Sgt. Carter. His response to even the merest hint of ideological dissonance was a bellowing,

'I can't hear you.'

After which, he usually got the reply he sought. Except when he was dealing with Gomer Pyle - an improbable, yet powerful convolution of height, idiocy and goodness.

PNG has offered permanent residency to those of the 850 men currently imprisoned on Manus Island who have been assessed as refugees, if they wish to stay. Unsurprisingly, they don't. Despite our demonstrable inclination to become a nation of Sgt. Carters at the drop-and-give-me-twenty of a hat, these poor souls still desire to live among us. No accounting for taste, but desperate times would appear to call for desperate measures.

Now we find that our government may face up to $1billion worth of claims for wrongful imprisonment. That's in addition to the multiple billions already paid to PNG and Nauru, not to mention the $55million deal with Cambodia that saw five refugees settled in that beleaguered place. Only two of them remain there. You can get a lot of social housing, job training and ESOL for that kind of money. And well, you know, we're not exactly pressed for space.

Now here's the bit I really don't get. Australia has been admonished by the UN whose Special Rapporteur on Torture found that our asylum-seeker policies violate the Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment. Why can't our government just claim that the UN insisted we resettle these people in Australia? That way they can blame the UN for the whole deal. They'd get to brag about how great we are at 'doing the right thing' whilst losing not one jot of credibility with the electorate as we, apparently, expect them to patrol our borders with fanatical devotion.

I must say that was I baffled as to why they insist so needlessly on carrying on like pork chops until I read this interview with the President of the Human Rights Commissioner, Gillian Triggs. She explains what it was like trying to communicate with the finest political minds on offer here,
 
'I was unprepared for dealing with senior political figures with no education whatsoever about international law and about Australia’s remarkable historical record which they are now diminishing. We’ve got senior public servants who will roll their eyes at the idea of a human right. They say, “Look, Gillian, you’re beating a dead horse.” It’s not going to work, because they can’t talk to the minister in terms of human rights.'

Rolling their eyes at the idea of a human right. Let's pause while that sinks in. The commissioner goes on to say,

'Our parliamentarians are usually seriously ill-informed and uneducated. All they know is the world of Canberra and politics and they’ve lost any sense of a rule of law, and curiously enough for Canberra they don’t even understand what democracy is.'

This really does illuminate things for me. The answer is as simple as it has always seemed. They know nothing about democracy and are prepared to squander much of our money and all of our international reputation on demonstrating that. Donald Trump? Don't make me laugh. We've got a whole cabinet full of these little Trumpets right here. They would literally rather spend billions harming refugees than millions helping them.

Yesterday, New Zealand renewed its offer to resettle some of the refugees soon to be displaced by the closure of the Manus Island camp and, once again, it was rejected by our prime minister who read this human act of generosity as a cunning and underhanded attempt to sneak them into our big-island paradise, 'by the back door'. Should these humans become New Zealand citizens, they would be entitled to residency in Australia.

That really is a mean thang, a mean thing to do. And more than a little paranoid.

And now, a refugee has died after setting himself alight. He was driven to this drastic action after a visit from UNHCR officials. For reasons best known to themselves, the officials tactlessly advised the detainees to get used to the idea of being stuck there for at least ten years.

We all need to get a little bit Gomer - I mean gamer - or maybe I mean a mix of both.

Australia - yes, I'm talking to you fellow minions. Let's just get these people here, now. And we can worry about the next 850 next week. In my head I'm hearing Gomer exclaiming,

'Shame, shame, shame on you.' 

And I just know he's right.


Thursday, March 31, 2016

Still talking to the hand

The Hand by Pants
I heard an unfamiliar expression the other day - 'lifestyle refugee'. I gather it refers to someone who has chosen to embark on a particularly severe form of tree-slash-sea change.

'I think they mean you, Pants.'

'Barney, will you shut the fuck up.'

I mean no disrespect to the millions of real refugees who've been forced to trudge across Europe in search of the most basic of human needs, but I have to admit that seeking 'refuge' is not a million miles removed from what we do here at Seat of Pants. To be clear - we are very grateful for the beauty and security of our Larrikin's End hideaway, but we are less pleased with the diet of intellectual empty calories and even obvious and blatant lies on which we are expected to satisfy our still-active minds.

It comes as no surprise to me at all that some young, idealistic refugees from Syria, Libya and Iraq,  having reached safety and had a chance to draw breath, might find themselves horrified to discover that they have risked their lives for a future comprising Coke, McDonald's and Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Perhaps they had some understanding of the post-WW2 social settlement that had, until relatively recently, underpinned the stability and cultural flourishing of Europe and the Anglophone countries for which they strike out with the greatest of hope. Capitalists love to claim credit for our spectacular lifestyle advances since 1945, but higher worker wages, decent housing and access to education and healthcare created the rising tide that lifted all boats. These were not provided by capitalism but fiercely fought for by socialists and grudgingly conceded by business owners left with no choice but to pay some tax.

It's very Australian to suspend compassion towards the desperate fellow humans to whom we've extended our largesse if they display even a hint of ingratitude or non-cooperation. Our outrage is almost always fuelled by incongruity. We simply don't get it if they don't immediately fall in love with our terrible food and menu of cultural options limited to watching other people chase a ball around or splashing about in swirling water. We're constantly being told that anything other than total embrace of our national inanities is a 'threat to our way of life'. I can only imagine the shock once it sinks in that our version of 'the west' really is culturally bankrupt. It's been bad enough for me and I should have known better.

John Gray, writing in Lapham's Quarterly has this to say about the rise of ISIS,

'It is baffling only for those who believe—despite everything that occurred in the twentieth century—that modernization and civilization are advancing hand in hand. In fact, now as in the past some of the most modern movements are among the most barbaric. But to admit this would mean surrendering the ruling political faith, a decayed form of liberalism without which Western leaders and opinion formers would be disoriented and lost. To accept that liberal societies may not be “on the right side of history” would leave their lives drained of significance, while a stoical response—which is ready to fight while being doubtful of ultimate victory—seems to be beyond their powers. With mounting bewilderment and desperation, they cling to the faith that the normal course of history has somehow been temporarily derailed.'

Yep, and those of us who ignore our history are doomed to repeat it. Capitalism is, quite literally, the monster that devoured Cleveland - to quote my hero Maynard G. Krebs. The vacuum of value we're experiencing now is the beginning of its grizzly end. Douglas Rushkoff, whose most recent book is Throwing Rocks at the Google Bus, (and what a great idea that is), said this in recent interview on our ABC Radio National,

'Here in America, many Walmart branches are going out of business because they've bankrupted the communities on which they depended. They put everybody else out of business, they don't pay a living wage, so they've gotten to the point where they don't have customers, they just have poor people living around them. That's not a good long-term business strategy.

'But when you are looking at quarter-over-quarter growth, when you are a CEO who just wants to get another two or three quarters of bonuses out of this and then leave, then that's what you're going to do. It's bankrupting not just the people, it's bankrupting corporate America as well.'

This is what it looks like when a system starts eating itself. We don't want to believe it's happening because the structure appears to have served us so well, and what else is there? Some of us do believe and wonder what we can do in mitigation. Believe me, if there were an honest and serious socialist revolution to join, I'd be there in seconds. I long for that. I actually believe in collectivism. The best working experiences of my life were in collectives. If we could just eliminate the zero-sum-game problem of power corrupting... there's a human advance that's crying out for invention. Any takers from the corporate sector? Nah, didn't think so.

I absolutely get why people who've been raised with a community ethic, as many have in Asia and the Middle East, would be horrified when they see that all we seem to do is consume and compete, whilst waxing lyrical that we do nothing of the sort. I'm less clear on why they think that sexually harassing young girls in the street is the antidote to that. Kant said, 'a sane child put with mad children will go mad.' I suspect that may be true.

The Pants strategy is not in any way a solution to the problems of the world. Even I don't believe that we can stop the monster that devoured Cleveland from eating us all for supper, eventually. I do, however, think that those of us who still want humanity to have half a chance of surviving, can and should use whatever passive weapons we have at our disposal to fend it off for as long as possible. We might not be able to stop but we can stall. I don't shop - even though I can. I've pared down the need for buying to the bare basics, (books, wine, smoked salmon). I grow my own vegetables. I'm in a garden club and now have an allotment as well as my own large patch at home. I use recycled framed boards from charity shops for my paintings. I don't buy clothes - I mend and make do.

I'm as obnoxious as I can get away with when dealing with the few authorities and corporations I can't avoid. The bigger the entity, the more belligerent I become - in the nicest possible way, of course. I make my life as simple as possible. Capitalism hates that. The most potent power a woman has is to withdraw cooperation. I exercise that power. No entreaties to my vanity will ever tempt me to buy creams or pay money to have my hair cut or volunteer my labour to cover for the shortfall in social spending.

Back to John Gray,

'For many in the West, the threat ISIS poses to their view of the world seems a greater disaster than the atrocities ISIS has committed and threatens to repeat. The bafflement with which the West approaches the group is a symptom of the senility of the liberal mind, a condition for which there is no obvious remedy. Perhaps what our culture lacks, in the end, is the ability to understand itself.'  

I agree, and it's absolutely infuriating. It's a sign of addiction when you know what you're doing will kill you but you can't stop. You simply don't believe there's another, better way. Individually, we can challenge that belief. I'm very lucky, I am in a position to opt out and I'm going at it for all I'm (not) worth. The less you have, the less you fear and the less you crave. I've discovered that to be true.

'Barney - you were right! Though I prefer 'lifestyle refusenik', it sounds more radical. Now bring me wine, there's a good chap.'

Chardonnay socialism - now there's an idea.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Through a Glass, Arkley

Primitive Gold, (detail), Howard Arkley, 1982 - Photo by Pants

TarraWarra Museum of Art is an eight-hour round trip by car from Larrikin's End. There's no other way to get there as it's located in the middle of a vineyard. I will make that trip only for something very special. With a few days to spare, I packed some smoked salmon sandwiches and a flask of coffee and headed west for Howard Arkley and Friends. The price of petrol helpfully plummeted to 95c a litre on the day and the Pantibago was eager for a long run down what passes for a motorway in this part of the world. You can't trust the coffee or the sandwiches outside of the city and I'd rather spend $40 from my tight budget on a catalogue than squander it on unpleasant but necessary nourishment. The trip went well and I'm still snacking on the catalogue, so only good decisions there.

I didn't know all that much about Howard Arkley. He rose to fame after I'd abandoned the mother country and he died young, long before I very foolishly decided to give the relationship another go. (How was I to know that the place was about to plunge into a socio-political suicide spiral?) Speaking of which, I often wonder why I'm drawn to the work of self-destructive people. Mark Rothko, Virginia Woolf, Jack Kerouac, Diane Arbus, Brett Whiteley, not to mention Joplin, Morrison, Hendrix and Ian Curtis. When you burn the candle at both ends, it doesn't half light up the room. Standing surrounded by Howard Arkley paintings, I quickly realise that I have another name to add to that list.

As I enter the gallery via vast glass doors, I feel myself smiling in that familiar way that I immediately recognise as wordless joy. It's an instinctive understanding between the eye and the brain where pure information is transferred without resort to a single adjective or metaphor. None are needed. Makes it a bit hard to write about though. I'll try to limit my usage of superlatives, but be warned, I might not be able to get through it without blurting out a 'splendid' at some point.

What I want from a retrospective, more than anything else, is honesty. When an artist has died, and especially when he/she has died young, unexpectedly and within living memory, I want to see instantly that the curator has understood how important it is to convey a sense of immediacy and loss. I need the room to grieve, in a way. I want the tension of a life interrupted, the suggestion that the artist has just stepped out of the room, perhaps uttering the words, 'I may be some time...' This is exactly what I get.  Sensitive and complete. In the white-cube world in which we are compelled to witness, that's no small skill.

This is only the second exhibition I've been to at TarraWarra. The first was Master of Stillness: Jeffrey Smart Paintings 1940-2011. The subtitle flummoxed a few fellow visitors - Smart was still breathing at the time of the exhibition in 2013. But he had completed his very last painting, Labyrinth, which was on display. He had said it was his last. At ninety, he retired. That understanding of a life lived uncompromisingly but tranquilly came across very clearly. After visiting that show, I bemoaned the fact that there was nothing to buy - the catalogue had sold out. That was my only complaint.

The Arkley catalogue is a continuing delight but the essays are like unsalted water crackers minus the spicy dip, which is a pity as the artwork reproductions are quite, well, splendid. Someone like Arkley doesn't easily distill into sterile art-speak. Does anyone worth writing about? One of the great curating innovations of the last decade has been the inclusion of artists' sketches, notebooks, workings-out, correspondence and related artefacts. These tend to be much more illuminating than the white-card pronouncements artsplaining the 'explorations', 'investigations' and, (pause for disdaining grimace), 'interrogations' which supposedly drive the artist's 'oeuvre'.

Years ago, I visited Brett Whiteley's former studio in Sydney. This is what I want, I thought - personality, steps you can retrace, presence. One of the best exhibitions I ever experience was Diane Arbus at the V&A in London in 2005. Her notebooks were a revelation and I nearly burst into tears when I saw the cameras. Give me poignancy any day of the week and twice on Sundays. Fortunately, on display at TarraWarra, were a number of Arkley's 'visual diaries'. He kept notes and drawings in 20c school exercise books - as opposed to the $30 hardcover A3 journals filled with pristine white paper too good for scribbling on that they made us buy in art school (grrr!). Arkley's own sketches and notes offer a connection to the person that crusty old statements like this never could,

'In this installation, the artist playfully and somewhat perversely, elaborated on his longstanding project to explore the interrelationships between high and low culture, abstract painting and everyday decoration, and art and commerce.' (Anthony Fitzpatrick)

Really? So this energetic, spontaneous magpie woke up one morning and mumbled, 'I think I'll spend the day exploring the interrelationships between high and low culture!' Doesn't work does it? There is surprisingly little of substance written about Arkley, given his prominence in a certain reasonably prominent milieu in this country. He produced a stunning picture of Nick Cave which hangs in the National Portrait Gallery and died of a heroin overdose at the age of forty-eight. That's about it in the way of an obit. So off I went in search of a quote from the artist himself and found this,

The colours in the paintings are symbolic – I know they're right – people get them – I mean taxi drivers will come in and they'll understand – it's their street – I've seen people do it, I've heard people do it – 'Oh, that's the house in my street – that's just like Dot's house!' and they'll say, 'Gee, I wonder what it's like inside – I bet it's the same as Dot's house inside!' It's true! This is pleasure, this is I've got it – when people actually really think it's a house in their street! (From a 1994 interview with Leo Edelstein for Journal of Contemporary Art)

He's talking about a series of paintings he made of ordinary suburban houses. It should be noted that Arkley came out with this after Edelstein had asked him a couple of times if he approached his work from an 'anthropological point of view.' I have dug a little deeper and discovered that Arkley had on occasion conformed to pleas for self-explanation, describing himself as a formalist - who knows under what level of duress? His notebooks show him to be a brain-stormer, ideas-miner and compulsive gatherer of ephemera. I prefer the Arkley getting all thrilled at 'that's Dot's house' over the one who supposedly belongs to a movement that,

'...problematises the concept of the new and that refuses to be situated at the end of an aborescent account of history.' (Paul Taylor, 1982)

Aborescent? Well, Arkley did have a thing for succulents, apparently. I was thinking about the film made to accompany the Jeffrey Smart exhibition and something Clive James said in relation to Smart. It's a paraphrase as I can't remember it exactly but he said something like - Australia expects artists to contribute to the national identity project - and that's why Smart got out. According to James, 'he was above all that.' My observation is that there's also an expectation that artists market themselves as a kind of public good. This could have something to do with grant-funding dependency. And then there's that weird thing where Australia got all hung up on post-structuralism, critical theory and metalanguage in the sixties and has never quite wriggled free. Arkley's work has that 'get stuck in and taste everything' quality that I associate with the real era and the actual scene in which he lived - an experience I shared in different locations. I can tell you, we were not sitting in circles asking ourselves 'what would Roland Barthes do?' around the time the Sex Pistols released Never Mind the Bollocks...

Writer Elizabeth Gilbert said in a recent interview, 'all art is basically collage.' It's by no means a new idea but it is one in full and universal bloom. Our contemporary 'authentic selves' are all an amalgam of aspects and influences on a variety of platforms. There's no escape from that. More than ever, the artist's brain is necessarily an internet of things. We're all collagists now, whether we express our desire for rearranging the material world on our bodies with tattoos, in scrapbooks with glitter and bits of coloured paper or in our homes with soft furnishings and fresh flowers. 

Like Arkley, I grew up in a world that was rapidly turning into the one we have now, a world of clashing clutter and plastic excess, with lots of noise and little substance. It's impossible to view this world without seeing too much. There are only two ways of dealing with that and maintaining composure - you can either look away or look beyond. It was and is a fascinating place to filter and reorganise. This is what I love about Arkley's work. In a world where everyone has the opportunity to see the same thing, it's the alteration that defines one's unique vision. Georgia O'Keeffe said, 

'Nothing is less real than realism. Details are confusing. It is only by selection, by elimination, by emphasis, that we get at the real meaning of things.'

If you want the truth, go to the artist and not the critic. The artist offers you a glimpse of what you might see in familiarity if you took another look. Everything is in conflict if you have an active eye and an enquiring mind. There's no point in getting all fidgety about subject matter and angsting over whether or not painting brightly coloured pictures of houses is kitsch or parochial or postmodern or, as Prof Robert Nelson suggests 'gilding the silly'. The subject is irrelevant and has been ever since Marcel Duchamp plonked a urinal down in a New York art gallery and called it Fountain

The impression that Australia is not sure whether it's cool to endorse Arkley or not is hard to avoid. I learned recently that architects of the realm, Lords Foster and Rogers honed their respective design aesthetics from Eagle comics and boxes of Meccano. Popular culture - is there any other kind? Frances Upritchard commissioned friends Ali Smith and Hari Kunzru to write the catalogue essays for her last show. I hope that's a trend that catches on. 

This exhibition really was a joy and on the return journey, I listened to a pile of 70s/80s 'mix tape' CDs that Sis Pants made for me a couple of years ago. The Slits, Subway Sect, X-Ray Spex, Buzzcocks, Penetration, Wire, The Clash, The Adverts, XTC. I smiled all the way to Larrikin's End remembering how much exuberance and energy there was back then. I think my favourite paintings of the day were those comprising the Primitive series, named for a song by The Cramps. Arkley describes the amphetamine-fueled mega-session that produced the first of these in 1981 as 'claustrophobic speed pain.'

Now, that's what I'm talking about - there's your authenticity.