a FLICKER-

It belongs to our eyes. It’s the information we see through our eyes. It travels in straight lines and bounces off mirrors. It’s developed through a stream of particles. It corresponds to the slits in our eyes. It springs off shadows and open spaces. It’s a radiance of energy. It does not need a medium to travel through, it rebounds from peak to peak. It’s the ultra violet colour energised by rapid movement. It’s scaled by kilometres. We can sense it through our eyes even when it’s pitch black. Our eyes absorb its presence. It runs in circular movements around our eyeballs. It’s deceiving and often lies to you.


A momentary flash of light. It moves back and forward very rapidly. It’s the frames that consist in a film. It’s an unsteady flash of light. The burn and shine with a wavering light. To disappear and appear after short moments. Alternating from light to dark. A quick show of something. Its the movement of light. It’s a light wave. A packet of energy. Its the colour of covering a flashlight with cellophane swatches of every colour. It’s a perfect absorption stronger than a crayon. It can pass through in a scatter. It captures the energy of light. It vibrates yet it’s constructed tightly. It jumps readily from fixation to fixation. It never penetrates yet trickles loosely. It never hits paper therefore we can read text.


A flicker tastes sour darting quickly across the tongue. A flicker makes you giggle as it jumps like a jester. It is as light and tight as a swimming cap. It is the colour of neon lights. It runs across your skin raising all your Goosebumps. It is buoyant and flouncy. It smells like acid and dissolves in a heartbeat. It behaves as up and down as a mood swing. It’s the cord hit by the vocal of a soprano. It’s the pitch hit by Ricky Ponting. It’s the vivid texture of a pixel.” It’s visible now and gone in a second, leaving no train it seems to belong in a another world.”(Anke Jakob) It leaves the fusion of a megapixel. It dances detached and disruptively. It flutters like fireflies. It has a mischievous way of thinking. It can weave and slide its way through any incision. However, it has this ironic distance. It’s ongoing addiction never letting it impede. It’s apparent yet precise.

FAT presents: Design Assembly [Pale Blue Eyes]

(http://fat4.com/conference/
14.02.11)

15 March, 2011

A Critique of,
Pale Blue Eyes Conference:


Is there a balance between the business side and creative side in design industries, and how do we create this balance before business “crushes the soul of design”? Fat presented a group of pragmatic guest speakers at the Pale Blue Eyes conference held at the Toff, who were able to discuss between one other, both the design and business side in national creative industries.

The conference was broken into four ideas, Design, Creative, Media and space. Vanishing Elephant and Carly Hunter introduced the challenges of balancing the creative and business ends when working with a fashion label. Huw Bennett comes from an accounting background so therefore his strengths with his fashion label were mainly with market research. Hunter on the other hand stated that she was in charge of the entire production line of her label. Her method of designing was quite interesting as she stated that she made what she wanted to wear and that she did not look at trends. As a design student myself, we take a very analytical and thorough view in research when producing collections. She appeared to be quite vacuous in her train of thought when she stated her working method as an ‘original’ way in producing collections.
Tin&ed followed with Barrie Barton establishing the fine line between art and design. Tin&ed, (Tin Nguyen and Edward Cutting) captivated everyone’s attention with their creative design process. Quoting Tom Waits and working with clients such as the Australian Bellet, Nike, MTV and many more, I was infatuated. They talked about the lighter, more creative side of designing and encouraged young designers to collaborate together in all different disciplines. They had a quirky, fun charisma with their ideas about marketing and juggling a business along with their design. For example, their story about getting drunk and handing out business cards on the dance floor was random, even though it somehow generated positive business outcomes. They had a humorous spin on the business side of things, yet were able to deliver the goods to clients and seem to have made a good name for themselves with the help of specialists.
Penny Modra, editor of the subcultural guide to Melbourne, ThreeThousand.com.au, is obsessed with the scoop and her readers. She writes a weekly visual arts column for The Age and the Sunday Age. She references the growth of new media in the design industry. As her work with ThreeThousand is based online she has strong ideas about online forums and discusses her antagonism with Twitter and Facebook. She believes they can be useful resources in advertising information however they also can be quite critical and insulting as the forums are open to anyone. She mentions how people can be opinionated with their feedback and quite hurtful in their critiques over the internet. She encourages young designers to get out there and use new media as it can promote upcoming designers.
The conference launched a great range of opinions, advice and topical conversations around design, which would have been valuable to a lot of young designers. I gained insight to what is waiting for me when I enter the industry, and also awareness of decisions one should make when they graduate from university. The speakers definitely depicted an interesting perspective on the Australian design industry.

writing about objects:

OBJECT: HER SOAP

My salty substance is greasy and smooth—
It lathers into a creamy delight,
Compounded like a caramel slice—
It behaves as an organic calico coloured cube—
Its lubricating smell, mesmerises my nostrils—
This oily greasiness, smears onto my fingers,
Behaving like my lipstick,
Leaving an invisible trace.—
When water exchanges contact,
It starts to foam and fizzle—
My hands loose grip, it becomes slippery and slimy,
like a snowboard in contact with ice.—
It’s off on its own tangent now,
Riding along surfaces,
it’s so thick you can cut it with a knife.—
You can leave your nail marks,
As the block sinks into your roots, leaving a saline feeling behind.—
Your hair can get caught under its coat of grease.—
It melts in your mouth,
Casting an oily substance,
On your lips,
However stays at room temperature. –
It feels like the whisking, of vanilla essence and butter in a mixing bowl.—
Butter always leaves
this a greasy remark on your hands –
You can never see butter, but you can feel it.—
As your teeth grind against,
This flaky matter,
It shreds along the increments and dents,
Decaying with friction, like parmesan cheese on a grater.—
It can dissolve away layers of molecules;
Instantly awakening with a fresh flavour of cleanliness.—
It drops with a muffled sound, dressing the underlining outskirts of ointment.—
It sticks to your lips, like a lip balm would to jelly.—
This block tucks away a therapeutic aroma,
It triggers your nerves like petroleum on ice.—
As soon as it hits your skin,
Its translucence slithers down your spine,
However this salty substance,
When in contact with an eye, it can sting as sharp as a stingray,
Aggravating the thigh,
Gripping the veins of your eyeballs,
Leaving you helpless,
Streams of tears begin,
Washing away this oily sheet that surrounds your veins. –
You’re left with nipping bloodshot eyes,
it’s too strong to break in half,
Yet too weak to withstand tears.

OBJECT: THE PEARLS OF YOUNG DEE

I once knew a young girl named Dee—
Hailing from Colchester
Young Dee,
Rode her bike into the sea—
She fell into an army of tiny oysters,
The oysters clasped onto her dress—
She shone like Henry Croft and the Pearlies,
As it rained the oysters swallowed less and less—
Impregnated and carbonated by crystalline saliva
Creating 500 “frozen tears of the gods” (Judith Thurman)
The tiny oysters behaved in their odds
As they spat out,
These jilted clusters like my Nona’s gnocchi.
They were the colour of milky coco puffs,
However the substance was quite rough—
She was in pain from the bite of this jawbreaker,
These little irises of luna crescent’s
Could only be picked up by a girl
A women’s fertility is enhanced by a pearl (John Clarke)
However they jingled like the teeth she kept in her jam jar,
They clattered like dancing heals in a bar—
These lacquer seeds represented a dented life,
It was believed that every wife
Who wore a pearl would be cured of madness,
So Dee strung these pearls into groups of three
They were proven to guarantee
Her ticket to a white ball
Under the sea—
She wore each pearl in her hair,
They looked like Christmas ornaments, everyone stared—
As she swished lavishly from side to side
Her heavy hair would drop tiny stones
Leaving a path of tears behind her
Each pearl would glide
All over her desires
When finally they inspired
Dee to encrust her gowns—
With the finest gems
Arranged like a goodly bird’s eggs,
Girls from all over Colchester
Were ordering young Dee’s lacquer seeds,
Soon these luminous charms
Were discovered by a diver—
Their glamour came to his surprise
Young Dee’s pearls were no survivor,
Something as so rare
That the diver couldn’t dare.
Eliminating all the pearls from the sea,
Dee found it hard to see
That her beloved bourgeoisie—
Would never be the same,
As the diver was playing a whole new game—
And this is the story of young Dee

Language of Emotion

SKIP JAMES-
DEVIL GOT MY WOMEN



I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man
I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man
Aw, nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind
Was nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind

I laid down last night, laid down last night
I laid down last night, tried to take my rest
My mind got to ramblin', like a wild geese
From the west, from the west

The woman I love, woman that I loved
Woman I loved, took her from my best friend
But he got lucky, stoled her back again
And he got lucky, stoled her back again


This song is by Skip James, 1930. When I hear this song I think of a mournful character. Quivering the pain through this rhythm found in his voice. “You don't sing to feel better. You sing 'cause that's a way of understanding life."(August Wilson)