As a regular bystander/walkerby I genuinely enjoy any kind of street art. Street art, public art, graffiti, 'vandalism' * ; Stuff that people make or do, usually for free, for other people to see or interact with, usually for free. Massive concrete canvases completely covered in a plethora (eh? eh?) of colour and shape; tiny spaces on public walls meticulously tended to with ink; sculptures taking up empty patches of footpath; even the glorious simplicity of a snickering street wang (actually these are almost my favourite).
* I'm not talking here about breaking stuff, or intentional destruction of stuff people like to use.
They
aren't always aesthetically pleasing. But neither were some of the
spaces they were put on. They all give varying degrees of delight. They
expect nothing back. There's no pressure to interact, only to observe.
And think what you will.
So from here to gardening. Specifically. geurilla gardening. Phwoarrrr! What better threesome could there be in the world??? Public space, art and gardens! Graffiti gardens! Using the same basic principles of our spray can artists but using shovels and dirt instead. Taking the private out into the open to share. Can't paint or draw? Dig.
The obvious appeal is the garden itself as a shared thing. The slightly less obvious appeal, however is the subtle dissent. Dig up a space WITHOUT PERMISSION and destroy it with er, flowers and plants. Yeah, take that!
It doesn't take a very long web search to find all sorts of exciting people taking on the streets at night with hoodies, hoes and shovels to become geurilla gardeners.
Here's a guy, Steve Wheen from London, who does it in potholes:
http://vimeo.com/41441550
He professed his inspiration came from this guy, Richard Reynolds, also from London, referred to as 'The Godfather of Geurilla Gardening' (nice title, mate):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCy76mePNyo
And these ladies take on the dangerous but essentially dorky mission of 'Seed Bombing' with a spot of Dad's jokes thrown in for good measure:
When I went looking for a Melbourne-centred gang of rootsy rebels I was a bit disappointed to find the scene a little more murky. Stories about councils banning geurilla gardens and good intentions gone sour in the sporadic efforts of a few locals. And in the wikipedia article, even a mention of minor disputes between Melbourne geurilla gardeners over the true purpose of the illegal public garden.
It was heartwarming to finally come across Permablitz - a group that come hang out in your backyard of lawn for a day and help you turn it into a permaculture bonanza.
(The tagline - 'Eating the suburbs, one backyard at a time' Rad). Ok, so backyards aren't really public space. And in terms of breaking the rules, there's not much action. But it's a start at least.
I feel like there's more to be seen about geurilla gardening in Melbourne. And I, for one am all for it.
So, anyone out there know of a good curb side or median strip?
Two weeks before Bon Iver was to play here in Melbourne, I’d accepted the fact that I wouldn’t be going. Tickets had sold out months in advance and I had missed out. The slim chance of getting to go was still there, but I had pushed the thought of it out of my mind, to avoid disappointment.
Four days to go, and my bro messaged to say “……. I got you a bon iver ticket….” (in place of the dots were a bunch of other words that didn’t matter).
I was so excited I boasted. To friends, to Facebook. to my living room, to the dogs (who, unsurprising, wagged furiously and looked very pleased).
Meeting on the night was a hectic few hours. Rushing home from work, catching early trains, fitting in a meeting elsewhere beforehand, wolfing down food while jogging down the street and the night suddenly seemed so short and thinly stretched. When bro and I met up to finally head to the gig, he braced me for some bad news with appropriate pauses and gravity in voice.
The tickets had fallen through.
As we walked on to the park, we optimistically concluded ‘Bah! Who needs to be inside the Myer Music Bowl anyway! Bustling with the crowd? I couldn’t usually see over people’s heads anyway! We would lie on the grass outside the fence, drink wine, eat fancy cheese and hear the band just as well as if inside. Yeah!’
All of the buzz and anticipation from inside the Bowl, spread up and out across the massive park surrounding it (how thoughtful of the band to play an outdoor gig). Little groups of other “non-ticket holders” gathered also on the grass, under trees, on top of blankets, willing to make a different experience of it too. Young hippies had been circling around particular trees early on, they later climbed up the trunks like monkeys and sat among the high branches for a long range look-in.
When the band started, the crowd (inside and out) cheered wildly. The music was loud and spread out. It sounded as if it was coming from the sky itself. We settled in to eat, drink and be aurally entertained. The atmosphere in the park was gentle and easy.
Halfway through the gig we shuffled across the grass a little to get a clearer sound. From the new spot, we could see Gate B and jokingly planned for the best moment to distract and rush the security guards to sneak in. The cheese was getting low.
Bro got up suddenly and ran over to a couple of guys walking from the gate. He’d thought they’d just come out and might have tickets to pass on… No, they said, we were just walking past and wanted to see who’s playing. Despite a few tiny sprinkles of rain, the night was still warm. The band started playing a new song. More wine was poured.
“Those two are leaving!” A couple were just walking out of the gate. Bro ran over and started talking. Hands gesturing and earnest head motioning. Holy shit. I started looking around for my shoes…
I was looking at Charlie Bucket and his golden ticket when bro came back with two tickets for Row B... Row B! That’s one row back from the front of the stage…. He’d offered them some money. They politely refused - she was feeling sick. He offered again. Perhaps the ten dollar cab fare, they suggested? All he had was $50. Profuse thank yous’ and a beaming holder of two tickets. I scrambled up our stuff and probably squealed alot.
In all our excitement, we hadn’t noticed that security had meanwhile been pulling in the barriers and closing Gate B. Padlocked out and with crystal clear Bon Iver as our soundtrack, we started running through the park to the other side of the music bowl, like a couple of kids with the keys to the lolly shop.
Wine mugs clinking in bags and out of breath, we slowed down and pulled ourselves together for the Gate A attendants. I held back, with pretend muteness while bro utilised the Rochford charm to get us in. The tickets were not valid. But we just paid a couple fifty dollars for them! Well, they didn’t get a pass out so without that you can’t get in. We’re not trying to pull a number, would you stretch the rule a tiny bit for this one occasion? No, sorry. Maybe someone could check the empty seats and see that it’s ok? No, sorry. It’s my sister’s birthday present, things went wrong earlier, and… NO, sorry. But I just gave a guy fifty dollars for these tickets as he left… I’m really sorry, but no. A few yellow-vested staff gathered around, waiting for us to cause a scene.
Bon Iver on stage, just a gate away. We turned around. Ah feck it. I started shoving money in bro’s hand. He shoved it back. Ah feck it. Let’s go back to our spot on the grass… With two tickets that won’t get us in…
“Excuse me,” We turned around. A different security guy, this time without yellow vest, “what’s happened here with these tickets?” Bro went through the story again. I put on my best puppy dog eyes…
He spoke in a hushed voice “Look, don’t let on to anyone here, but meet me back over at Gate 2 and we’ll see what we can do.” Then more loudly and deliberate – “ Ok, sorry we couldn’t help!”
Dumbfounded, we turned and walked S..L..O..W..L..Y away from the gate, whispering eagerly “Act normal…. Pretend we’re leaving… I just feel like running…”. Away from their view, we broke into a run, clinking wine mugs, laughing like this was the best part.
Back again at Gate B, watching our surprise security man talk with authority to the gate keepers, the seconds were long. They walked over to us and one said “So sorry, guys for that mix up earlier.” Ah, no worries. It’s all worked out in the end… (An apology? Pff. I wanted to hug them). The padlock came off, the gate was open. And we were inside the Music Bowl for Bon Iver.
Emergency detour to the toilets for a nervous wee, and then we skipped/floated/walked on air closer and closer to the stage. We found our seats and shared our disbelief with nudges and huffs to each other as we sat down. In Row B. The music was gearing up now, strobe lights were flashing, the crowd was hushed in awe, the band was right there in front of us. They played our favourite songs. Three guitars, two drum kits, three keyboards, two saxaphones, 7-part harmonies. All playing on stage metres from where we sat. From wine bottle two we sipped sneakily from our mugs, getting our minds blown by the music on stage.
From a humdrum, difficult week to this. Row B for Bon Iver - those incredible sounds, But all of it too; the bliss of serendipity, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, the lost and found opportunity.
I buzzed all the way home and all the way through my pathetic hangover the next day.
It’s true, friends. When it really needs to, the universe provides.
Ed's note: The lovely sounds of Bon Iver contributed to the soundtrack for this evening's keyboard tapping. Feel welcome to tune in for a few breezy minutes: http://www.boniver.org/
The last several weekends have seen this gardener hiding shamefully from her garden. In its stark abandonment (and moving by the minute) it rebelliously grows with hundreds of spindly bits across the ground. Webs of roots are bandying together, pushing upwards and outwards. Gangs of weeds stand around righteously. Everything that was once looking for a fight has overcome its primary adversary - me.
I make flimsy, self-assuring conclusions in my head using words like "permaculture" and "self-seeding", whilst peering out the backdoor for a minute to decide that it's much too cold to start weeding...
I've come almost to a standstill in the garden. And all that stops me is the cold and the darkness of a Melbourne winter and a creeping threat of eviction. In the absence of long glorious days of sun, I have weakened. Friends, where to now?
This morning I sit with a view out to sparkling green grass, sounds of water dribbling off the bird bath, and flitters of tiny birds dancing with each other in the bushes.
If I was writing a travel brochure, all those over-used, throw away words would be ideal for a 4 paragraph sell: Peace! Tranquility! Quiet! (and one of my all time favourite phrase to hate : "at one with nature". What really comes to mind is something else though.
Since my last post, I've been chewing over the idea of all of this unbelievable goodness, this little world bursting with contentment and sensory pleasure being precisely balanced with a necessary violence and closeness to death and pain that's all part of living in the bush. I'm going to try to explain what I mean here ...
In a recent post, I was struggling with the ethical dilemma of squashing white moth caterpillars who were confidently devouring the broccoli in my city backyard garden. Oh, the horror! Pfff.... Already I find myself scoffing at my weakness of spirit.
Here on the farm, in the same day I bottle-fed a furry, cute lamb, I watched the ram stumble painfully on his front knees to eat because of a mysteriously injured foot.
Outside the house I appreciated the birds sing politely; inside I found myself shrieking in horror at a squealing, struggling mouse stuck in a trap (never mind the scream I let loose when I went to scoop the dog biscuits out of the food box in the dark and narrowly missed TWO mice crawling up my arm as a means of escape. The last glorious moments of those two little opportunists I won't describe here, except to say it involved a cat-like display of play/murder by a small, well-fed jack russell terrier.)
If my dog, the red kelpie, manages to find his way to the neighbour's sheep, he's been threatened with being shot (this is the same dog who melts with a tummy rub and is afraid of the vacuum cleaner).
While attempting to herd the baby chickens back into the chookyard, I got some unrequested "help" from Millie (aforementioned terrier/savage) who decided the best response to free-roaming, panicking chickens was to try to eat one. Bearing witness to that and intervening was a little disturbing for this city-minded idiot. Jerram's recount (he was in the house at the time) was of a cacophony of squawking birds and barking dogs followed closely by a lunatic girlfriend screeching and running around the yard maniacally.
The big handsome rooster has mangled, bulbous claws and legs because of tiny mites burrowing under his skin. We rub cream all over his legs in the hope of killing the parasites before they kill him.
Every day something like this must be dealt with. The balance between what gives us joy and what causes pain is constant. In my Melbourne backyard, I control what I experience. Here I am really at the mercy of what goes on in real life. It's very humbling.
As I consider what dad will have to do when the ram can't walk anymore or when michael the rooster has reached the end of his 'autumn' years, I realise that maybe there is more to be said for being at one with nature.
This week these dirty little hands cleaned up and shipped out to the farmy quiet country of my folks' property. While my mum and dad visit family overseas, our job is to tend to the animals, plants and general upkeep of the house.
Unlike my modest little Melbourne patch, here the gardens are of a standard Peter Cundall would be bloomin over. The vegies look after themselves; the fruit drying rack stands ready for the plenties of figs and tomatoes; instead of indian miner birds and mozzies, tiny wrens and lizards titter around the front yard. The strips of lawn in between the massive garden beds are soft and lush and perfect for midday snoozes and over-sized newspapers.
Beyond the sprawled house yard, there are chooks, bottle-fed baby lamb, dogs with permanent smiles.Daily tasks are not really tasks at all, but fun ways to spend the time.
It's occurred to me as we walked through the wet grass of the top paddocks, that this might cost us a lot of money to stay if Mum and Dad renamed the place something like 'Country Retreat' and we weren't related.
