Without Excellence, Then What?

I was delighted to be invited to contribute to Amateur Professional Magazine by artist Vanessa White as part of her exhibition of the same name. She asked me to reflect on this notion of amateur / professional when it comes to making art. My immediate response was to think about the language used by former Federal Minister for the Arts George Brandis in 2015 when he slashed money from the Australia Council and announced the (short lived) National Program for Excellence in the Arts.

Here are the first few paragraphs of the essay, a video that shows the very gorgeous magazine and links to the exhibition details and where you can buy the magazine and read the rest of my essay!

Without Excellence, Then What?

A Meditation on How We Know Whether Art is Good or Not

By Emilie Collyer

The National Program for Excellence in the Arts promised to be a beacon of hope. After all none of us seeks Badness, Hopelessness, Not Very Goodness or Shitness in the Arts. Do we?

Its arrival, heralded by a man who so much understood the important of Branding in the Arts that he had it embedded into his own name (original spelling, unconfirmed, thought to be Brand-arse), brought sighs of relief to Art Makers, Art Producers, Art Presenters and Art Consumers throughout the Land.

Finally. Finally. Someone had heard our cries. For up until this point it was a long acknowledged (if under discussed) truism that Excellence was the key ingredient missing in about 98% of Australia’s artistic output, well over 130% of our arts training institutions and up to 14,755% of our federally funded federal arts federally funded funding bodies ...

To read more, buy the magazine here

To see the magazine in all its glory, check out this video

To see the full exhibition, come here

Fringe Dwellers

I wrote this article about making independent theatre, in response to a great piece Why Art from Alison Croggon in Overland 212 Spring 2013.

Fringe Dwellers is on Overland online.

Is independent practice always a stepping stone to being fully funded and/or incorporated into the mainstream? Is it more of a conscious choice about how and why we want to make work? Or, as Croggon suggests in her article, is it also systemic, connected to the lack of public funds available to do it any other way?

Read it in full here.

Enough with the awkward already

Embarrassing, perplexing, inconvenient, thorny, uncomfortable, disagreeable, bewildering, sticky, tricky, delicate, uneasy, equivocal, disturbing, inopportune, painful, troublesome, trying …

What do these words have in common? They are all synonyms for ‘awkward’. Melbourne Comedy Festival is here and reminds us just how awkwardly overused the word ‘awkward’ has become.

Stand up comedians and comedy writers the world over are doing for 'awkward' what Alanis Morisette did for 'ironic' in the 1990s.

“Saw my grandmother naked – awkward!”

“And then he pulled out a cucumber – awkward!”

“Oh, you ordered the steak – (this is) awkward.”

Enough is enough.

Seek ye out comedians who can get through a whole show without using it. And applaud with loud, whole-hearted passion. Let there be nothing embarrassing about your applause. Let your appreciation be anything but uneasy. Let the comedians know unequivocally how much you value their efforts to be linguistically and descriptively diverse.

Let the bewilderment begin! 

Anti-Expression-Ism

I was recently reading publisher guidelines (for a particular Development Opportunity) about what they are looking for when it comes to writing. Clear, distinct voice - yes. Strong ideas - of course. And then came across the directive from a particular publisher stating that writing for publication is about communication, not self-expression.

What the?

On the one hand, I get it. They don't want confessional writing, cathartic outpourings, personal journals dressed up as narrative.

But really.

Why so scared of self-expression? When executed along with talent and skill isn't that actually what makes inspiring art, great works of literature, lasting pop songs, poems to move and uplift and provoke?

Communication, good lord, sounds like something we must do effectively to put across our point. Like something in a marketing or business writing manual. It is so even handed, so egalitarian, so bland.

I don't want to 'communicate' with my reader or audience. And I don't want to be 'communicated' with. I want to be moved, angered, exalted, banged over the head, reduced to tears or laughter, twisted into a new way of seeing things, or delivered to a delightful place of reverie and contemplation.

And also.

Blanket statements about what writing for publication is or is not seems like a slippery slope, especially for a publisher presumably on the look out for fresh words, exciting writing, unexpected stories and ways of telling them.

If writing for publication is only about communication, and not self-expression, The Metamorphosis would have been a treatise on identity, Angels in America would have been an account of the spread of HIV/AIDS among the gay population of America in the 1990s, The Bell Jar would have been titled Study of a woman experiencing mental illness.

And the world would be a much poorer, more drab and less beautiful place.

All those in favour of self-expression as a perfectly natural part of the artistic and creative process? Say 'I'!

Instant idiocy hold the fries

why do fast and medium food franchises

insist on giving their products wacky names

i find the over alliteration anxiety-provoking

and cannot escape the feeling that uttering words

such as wendy’s whizzer and willy’s wobbler is an obscene

act designed to humiliate us into not questioning

whether that is actually food they are serving or just some kind

of ironic gesture wrapped in plastic with fries on the side

even more disturbing is the earnest enunciation with which

these ridiculous names are uttered in affirmation by pre-pubescent

staff pimples sneers and vacuous glances not withstanding they

follow the pattern and do not seem to question what they are saying

why can’t I just name the items I want in order: those corn chips with tomato

salsa and sour cream with extra jalapeno peppers please why

does it have to be bernie’s burning ring of desire – did I just

miss the gene that makes this fun acceptable or worse still not

even worth commenting on or is everyone else suffering

in silence so desperate for the sugar hit or extra dollop of fat deposits

that they will degrade their mouth to any degree both what goes in

and what comes out of it

a slow humiliation this death by quirk demise by pun changing

our language so that soon we will have no other way to ask for

anything than to add a rhyming cutesy name completely ineffectual

in the transmission of actual desire or communication so that it won’t

be long until we lose the will and wherewithal

to ask for anything at all

yes of course I’ll upgrade that to a meal deal

thank you very much for asking



Let's not forgettery

Watching a program called 'War on Film' with a focus on WW2. Compelling, moving footage of daily life in a war zone.

A young American nurse speaks of being at the Dachau Concentration Camp in 1945, after liberation.

There are many anecdotes and verbatim quotes. One that stands out is so simple, from a German Jew, who has been incarcerated at Dachau. She simply says:

vergessen Sie nicht (do not forget)

I think of Kevin Rudd who, early on his leadership, spoke of a thing called the forgettery. It is a place his family has created for putting difficult times, conflicts, things they want to move on from.

I'm not sure that a forgettery is a such a good idea. Especially if it means forgetting promises made or  wounds that still need healing - at home or as the leader of a country.

I wonder why watching the footage from WW2 had more of an impact on me than the nightly news (where atrocities and tragedies continue around the world).

Perhaps because it was story rather than news bite. People rather than ideology. And those three words that stood out were not a tagline or sub-heading.

vergessen Sie nicht.

Confessions of a festival convert

Festivals can inspire or enervate. How much comedy, jazz, food, wine, fringe, community and mardi gras is too much?

My guilty admission as a writer is that I have always been wary of Writers Festivals.

I know writers who immerse themselves, loving nothing more than devouring the words and company of other writers, being surrounded for a brief time by their own kind, reveling in being out, being social, being away from the chair and the screen and the keyboard.

Whereas I tend to feel a creeping suspicion that I will be overwhelmed with ideas and my cynical streak – usually more or less under control – will spurt out, showing anyone in its path with nasty vitriol and anti-social over-reaction.

But this year, in the spirit of ‘doing things differently’ (to avoid the self help curse that befalls those who always do what they’ve always done) I steeled myself for two sessions of the Melbourne Writers Festival.

I have a few simple words to report in response.

Yes, rooms full of writers and readers can be overwhelming. There is so much information. There are so few opportunities. There are so many things one should have read and so many people one should know. There are so many pitfalls and so many writers of greater talent, success and renown.

But rooms full of writers and readers can also be humbling. And inspiring. And grounding.

A shift in the kaleidoscope turns a new light on what could appear to be a room full of desperate people, waiting for pearls of knowledge to drop and change their lives forever … to see what is actually there: a room full of passionate, caring, interested, ordinary, funny, flawed people – all of whom are willing to give their time (and money in some cases) to care in a public way about ideas and words and life and literature.

And truly great writers can remind truly aspiring writers of some of the really helpful tips to keep you going when you’re down.

Have faith in what you are doing (not necessarily faith in how well you do it).

Write in good faith (don't write what you don't believe in).

Work harder.

Try and do it better.

Revise.

Work harder.

Revise again.

And don’t forget – when in doubt – to work hard.

Is TV killing the comedy star?

The Melbourne International Comedy Festival brings around the usual suspects of international and local comedians. Some testing new material, others trotting out the tried and true. And every year, the smattering of newer (most often younger) comics trying to break into the scene, or cement their place.

A disturbing pattern in recent years for new Australian comics in particular sees posters plastered with the words "As seen on ..." and "As heard on ..."

This is not a problem in itself. It helps the public to know where they might have seen or heard Joe or Bessie or Aaron. And it helps the new comics get bums on seats.

What's disturbing is what the plethora of commercial television and radio appearances is doing to the development of new comedy.

It's blanding it down.

Comics who earned their stripes in the 1980s, 1990s, even much of the 2000s did so by gigging around town, fronting up to pubs and rooms full of demanding and vocal strangers wanting big laughs fast and often.

This caused its own issues of 'pub' comedy but it also gave comics enormous freedom to test material, test their own mettle and see how far they could push the extremes of their comedy before taking it to more mainstream forums.

Now the mainstream forums are where everyone is heading from the get go. Which means comedy that is palatable to network executives, classification parameters and ratings roller coasters. Comedy that is reactive rather than trail blazing. Comedy that - in some ways - has to please more than provoke.

And this is bad for comedy.

Some comics simply entertain and that is lovely. But the truly great comics cause discomfort, analysis and strong emotional reactions in among their laughs. Truly great comics are often ugly, odd misfits who shine in that particular arena BECAUSE it is a place for ugly, odd misfits.

Three words that are light years away from what you have to be to make it on TV.

Be cute rather than caustic.

Quirky rather than queer.

Pretty rather than pissed.

Then you'll get a nice spot on the telly and plenty of other lucrative promotional gigs and your comedy career will blossom and grow.

Sadly it's the state of comedy and the audiences at live shows who miss out as ideas are honed down to tv sized bites that are easy to swallow and quick to forget.

Thank God (no - not for the blue door of banality) - for the comics who still sit firmly OUTSIDE the mainstream. The older, grumpy, weird, awkward folk who still make their living out of penning the words and saying the talk that shocks, confronts or simply - fails to fit the neat commercial mold.

They are the ones who keep comedy, ideas and culture moving ahead, while their marshmallow counterparts take the exposure, the big paying jobs and the glory.

Maybe it's always been that way but it seems each year at the Comedy Festival the scourge of commercial media infiltrates more and more, sapping away intelligent, biting material and inserting silliness, prettiness and perfectly proportioned faces in its place.

Altered State

Victorian number plates tell us we are a State 'On the Move.'

Our Premier proudly tells us we are the country's premier Event State.

We have festivals for everyone

Racing cars that drive round and round

Trains that drive commuters round the bend

And a giant wheel that doesn't go around at all.

There are lots of big things

and lots of busy people

going places

making things happen

making a mark on the world stage

...

I wonder if nicer things grew here when our number plates used to declare gently, with some modesty, and a degree of simplicity

that we were

The Garden State.

Tropfest. Don't worry - it's not art.

If you were worried about the content of Tropfest 2009, these promo words from Jon Polson should have been of comfort:

Don’t worry. These are not arty films about some guy’s poetry

Now I KNOW you're trying to pull a mainstream crowd Jon. And I get that in order for the live telecast to fly you need thousands of screaming fans at the Domain, BUT ...

Is there not room for art in film making?

Is there not a place for poetry?

Wouldn't it be cool if you - as one of the more influential bods in Australia's film industry with a big voice and platform - could maybe NOT contribute to the nation wide suspicion of ART that we have going on in this country?

I don't mean you have to put on a festival filled with ARTy films.

I understand that's not what Tropfest is about.

Tropfest is about short, snappy, easy to consume films that make people giggle, laugh, sigh, cry, whoop, holler and cheer. Nice and loud now for the cameras!

And that's cool. The festival is what it is. It attracts the followers it attracts. But come on, film making is a big, weird and wonderful world.

There’s room for Art and Poetry, Jon. Rather than talk about them as if they are to film making whatsharks are to safety beaches, do like good marine biologists do and acknowledge their inherent beauty and value – as long as they are kept at a safe distance.

So that even if art and poetry remain strange, exotic and dangerous creatures to much of the mainstream public, at least they will start to see connections between:

art and cinema

poetry and story

artists and film makers.

And they’ll accept it because you said it and you and Tropfest are both way cool.

You don't need to feel threatened by Art, Jon. Or scared of a public that is. Instead, take them by the hand and guide them through a small section of uncharted waters.

Surely the world's biggest short film festival can manage that.

Let there be Art.

Gathering a global ego

Gather ... gather ... gather ...

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may?

No.

Gather ye two Golden Globe Awards and Public Quivering Expressions of Celebrity Love.

Gather ye Public Adulation and Industry Adoration for ... doing your job.

A fine job.

An excellent job.

But a job – much like rose petals – that is sweet and ephemeral and surely is its own reward.

How many people beat the masses of hopeful wannabes, the scores of drama school prodigies, to make it to the top of the heap, not only working, year in year out at a job most don’t get a whiff of their entire lives, but working shiny like a star, with fans and contracts and money and roles gathering near and far.

A few special, gifted, precious petals.

And you are one.

Isn’t that enough?

Grateful to be employed. To be loved.

Gather your Wits and Spare us the Histrionics.

Smile. Say thank you.

And not to the Celebrity Men who love you.

To the ordinary men and women who pay you.

Attention, loyalty, admiration, respect ... and your paycheck.

By spending their ordinary money, earned at ordinary labours not necessarily of love, for which there are no awards, no adulation, no ceremony, no red carpet, no air brushing, no fanfare, no tears and no statues.

Thank them.

And please, quietly, with dignity, gather your sophisticated black about you and gather yourself off the stage.