A monster we can see
Walking through FELTspace in May feels like a journey through the apocalypse; dodging
monsters in the front room, finding shelter in a post-apocalyptic hideaway in the back, and
then the shy first encounter with a stranger played out in the window as we walk away.
Three exhibitions, separate but drawing on a single story of destruction, survival and
uncertainty that characterises the world of late.
For over a year now, we have been pursued by a monster we cannot see. A microscopic
virus lurking on the handle of a shopping cart, transferred from friend-to-friend through the
once comforting act of a hug. For me, an ominous sense of dread has hung across all my
interactions outside the home, and this is from the relative safety of Adelaide. Nearly
invisible threats existed before the pandemic. The steady destruction wrought by climate
change, the creeping rise of temperatures drying the Earth. Pressure has mounted for many
years, finally bringing the land to a breaking point in 2019 and 2020 which saw fires, floods
and extreme weather wreak havoc. Capturing this sense of destruction, Tasmanian curator
Victor Medrano brings together four artists to explore the idea of the kaiju, a sub-genre of
Japanese cinema, and the name for the gigantic monsters who populate these worlds.
There’s comfort in the reality of the kaiju, and being able to see and touch that which tears
our lives apart.
In his video work, Tomzilla, artist Tom O’Hern thrashes naked around a cardboard set, flimsy
buildings knocked down easily by the monster; part human, part hairy beast. He has been
woken by the drills in the Great Australian Bite seeking oil, and risking this pristine
environment in the process. There is something comical about this man/monster. Like a
child having a tantrum and destroying their toys, Tomzilla brings about the destruction of a
paper city. Underneath the comedy, there is a sense of the futile, the frustration about not
being able to do anything. Tomzilla seems to be having the temper tantrum we all want to
have, brought on by the helplessness felt by many. With no power to make change, our only
recourse is to vent our emotions through wild movements and grunting ineptitude.
Lou Conboy’s photographs of two fighting kaiju pick up on a sense of futility and abandon.
They pose on a beach, performing their fierceness for the camera, before launching into a
sword fight. The series ends with the two kaiju seemingly interrupting their fight to gaze and
point at a plane as it flies away. Now they are alone, costumes glittering in the sun. No
onlookers, no audience, no one to watch them perform, and no one to be awestruck by
their power. Has the audience tired of their struggle and decided to just leave them to it?
Abandoning them to their own devices and their own eternal back and forth. Whatever they
were fighting for, it now feels obsolete. The world is no longer interested. Their flashy dress
is for nothing they have no one left to show off to. They belong to the old world, kaiju left
behind whether by progress, fabulous technology or a world that considers them outdated,
and is ready for the next big thing.
Robert O’Connor’s wall hanging explores the myth of Santa Clause, reframing the historical
figure as a kaiju. Written across the banner are the saint in various guises; Krampus a
horned, anthropomorphic figure from Alpine folklore, assisting St Nick to scare misbehaving
children; Cernunnos, the horned Celtic god of animals, nature and fertility, or travel,
commerce and bi-directionality. This leads to more recent depictions, the jolly, round face
of the Coca Cola Father Christmas, ruddy cheeked and laughing. O’Conner speaks to the
long history of this figure, a strange man who breaks into our houses, punishing or
rewarding children. Rendered in what appear to be hasty scrawls, this blanket captures the
enduring myth of St Nicholas. He is reminding his audience of the long history of monsters
in cultures across the world, the strange man and beast who crawls in our window at night,
rewarding good and punishing bad children. O’Connor hits on the purpose of these tales, to
scare children into good behaviour.
Moving around the space, Crosswell has hung a collection of what appear to be remnants of
these battles, titled EKUL. Frames, draped in fabric that has been ripped and torn, coated in
concrete. They move between being remnants of images; the way we have constructed our
lives online, the way the media have framed news stories; and the remnants of physical
structures that have made up our world; cities, bridges, sky scrapers; the buildings that have
become a scar on the Earth, replacing nature. All of this artifice has come down, ripped
apart by the kaiju. Whether it’s the physical or the image that is being destroyed, the
destruction is complete. The veneer has been stripped away, and the skeleton is violently
laid bare, exposed in the aftermath.
Making it through the monsters, we emerge in the backroom. The Last Artist has decreased
the size of the gallery, hemming us in, making the space smaller and more claustrophobic.
The walls are constructed from cut-offs, salvaged boards and espalier, hastily patched
together to form walls. Purple lighting invokes a sense of sci fi, emergency lights glowing
darkly. Propped haphazardly on ledges are paintings, impressionist portraits of buildings
recognisable as Adelaide landmarks. Is this the future of FELT, to be converted into a bunker
where the survivors of our current destruction can cower and wait for danger to pass? Like
Conboy’s photographs, the paintings invoke a sense of nostalgia, a longing for the world
‘before’.
Though Grant Parke tells the story of his arrival in Adelaide in his video Come Fly With Me,
installed as part of this May FELTdark showing, it takes on a sense of navigating the world
post-pandemic as we emerge from lockdowns. Two strangers engage in an awkward
encounter on a train, hindered by an unwelcome guest. They are both lonely, one a new
arrival and one widowed, adrift following loss and relocation. Rendered in simple lines that
move and wriggle across the screen, the animation has a sense of being constantly shifting.
Parke expertly captures a sense of nervous energy that comes with a new encounter,
especially one with a stranger.
The story being told in FELTspace in May is one of destruction, followed by renewal and
hope. They are the stories of now, and the future. Perhaps having had this glimpse into the
world to come, we will rethink the decisions being made, or navigate new ways to move
forward.