blast walls and all that does not remind of a camp

But for now, I walked into the slightly mournful light towards Jack’s house, avoiding looking in the place where my house had been.
There’s nothing there, mate, Sheridan said, nothing but the chimneyin the middle of a lawn. I can’t go there.
Jack’s rebuilt house, being constructed in true de Selby fashion, still had no more walls than the previous model. Its one solid wall was blind and windowless, politely turning its back on its neighbour. Jacks’ place faced out towards the estuary, and thus, sitting on the steaming hot tub, I was able to look down to the mangroves, up to the high darkening escarpment, but to have no physcal reminders – if you can discount the silhouettes of dead trees on the clifftops – of all that had been lost in the fire.


Years later JL rebuilt the house. He devised a system of shutters sowe could batten down against the brutal westerly but, being a follower of de Selby, he also, worked to remove any barrier between the room and the world outside. The shutters and the windows all slid back and tucked away as if they were not there. The railing slid down too, so when the building inspector had left  there was no physical or visual separation between inside and outside .
What about mosquitoes? Even as I asked it , I wondered if Jack really understood. He had always calmly coexisted with mosquitoes, tics, leeches. (fifteen years later, by the lantern light out on his deck, I would see Jack and Brigit’ four years old bravely attack his own foreskin with a pair of tweezers.
Well said Jack, it would be criminal to put flywire over that.
Jack, I’m not paying all this money for mozzie bites. … as I lay in bed and looked through the jacaranda to the water while Brigit’s gossamer curtain just …. breathed.
The room was a civilised abstraction of Jack’s camp on Pittwater where , once the tick had been safely removed from the foreskin, we sat feasting on the crabs he and the kids had brought in from their trap.
You always hated the westerly, Jack laughed. S you tell the story of the lamp flying across the street, I’ll tell you the story of the southerly, and we’ll be square. But i think we should do it in the boat and I also think you should what it’s like to catch a kingfish. No book about Sydney is complete without a kingfish.

from Peter carey’s 30 days in Sydney, a wildly distorted account

Bianca Chang

Bianca Chang



dans les plis




veine quand s’amorce l’espace



suspend dans la lumière


looms high




Bianca Chang


à lire : l’article consacré à Bianca Chang

Sydney based designer and paper artist Bianca Chang creates beautiful, intricate and mind-boggling paper sculptures which I recently noticed popping up all over the place. In fact, you might remember that I blogged about Bianca’s work back here. With so much attention and well deserved success already, it is surprising to discover that Bianca started to seriously explore the paper medium fairly recently, having participated in the A4 Paper Festival  about a month ago (check out this great video she prepared for the festival.)


Bianca chang @yellowtrace

de si près je ne vois rien

Fred Williams

des deux versants cela s’explique aisément
par la chaleur
la sensation de limite
la photographie aérienne
et si les pas des fourmis ne se voient pas
et si le long de la ligne une géographie animale
ou du moins biologique
ou ce qui sous-entend


les déboires près de l’étang


et si pour boire il faut s’élancer



en ligne et point sable ou végétal


a distinguer ce qui empiète

et même si ne dispense pas

Fred Williams, yellow landscape 74

de la marche

de la vue

de tordre


de se mettre dans ses pas et de mettre ses pas les rêves tendus sur le fil distendus qui s’observent


quand les muscles tendus l’oeil dans l’orbite s’alimente au réel


Fred-Williams,You Yangs-second series-1968

de près tout semble si différent agglutiné ou séparé matière grimpant ou descendant quand poussent sans plan apparemment arrêté les essences qui pourtant vivent et qu’ils ramassent qui est la soif des vies à vies

dans le rouge de si près je ne vois rien les vivants entretuent les morts du moins il semble


Fred Williams