Super heroes are a dark, twisted lot. The blessing of their powers is also a curse, forever alienating them from the rest of Earth and opening up a world of moral ambiguity unknown to us mere mortals. I never would have thought as much when I was six, playing Superman for hours on end, lost in the dizzy fantasy of being able to fly, do whatever I want and return home to an ice palace.
Two big deals for Joint Hassles: The first is - they'll have to move soon because too many cashed up hippies want to live in Northcote. And that's a Sam Hell of a shame. Goddam hippies. The second is, international super art hipster William Mackinnon has moved back to Melbourne because our city is the best.
Forget to flit about the Art Fair last weekend? Or did you, in fact, flit... did you don your good jeans and was your spirit (and budget) broken by the price of a flat white let alone a Del Kathryn Barton installation?
Well fear not, at this Saturday's TCB fundraiser the price is right. The exhibition is also a celebration of TCB's tenth birthday and is all about the soaking up of sauvignon blanc minus the stink of the cashed-up-bogan.
Mum gave me a Scrabble set for Christmas this year, no it's not like that; I really wanted one. Despite this, the holidays were a difficult time, my worst day was when I used "food" and "at" in the same game, without even a double letter score. "Motif" day, on the other hand, was good, attracting a collective "aaah" from the other players.
Everything seems to be on such a large scale at this time of year - the crowds, the carols, the trees - that we thought it made sense to preview one of the biggest exhibitions in the city, literally.
Credited with ‘transforming’ our suburban landscape, Howard Arkley’s airbrushed snapshots of suburbia are big enough to give the Guernica a run for its money.
Even though it’s been seriously abused over the years (Turner anyone?), Variable Speeds by Melbourne-based artist Mark McCarthy proves that painting is still a rich and expressive medium that, when handled correctly, can be fresh and powerful.
It’s hard to miss 150 oil-on-canvas birds opposite the commission flats on Gertrude Street.
There is something immediately unsatisfying about calling a piece of art abstract expressionist, and perhaps that's the point. You are using the strictures of language to talk about explosive, visceral forces; the role of the critic and writer is to invent ways to avoid talking about it. If we had the luxury of invention, Noël Skrzypczak's work is perhaps better described as 'paint art' than painting itself, and we'd have to use poetics to arrive at satisfactory descriptions.
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