dispatch review

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	<pubDate>Thu, 15 Oct 2026 02:39:01 +0000</pubDate>
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		<title>Information</title>
				
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		<pubDate>Wed, 05 Apr 2023 15:11:56 +0000</pubDate>

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 Information:

Dispatch Review aims to pin down ideas and stir up conversations about art.
We publish art criticism, opinion pieces, and interviews. Reviews are dispatched spontaneously, often weekly.
      
        
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Editors:


Sam Beard is the head editor and co-founder of Dispatch Review. His writing has appeared in Artlink, un Magazine, and Art Collector.


Amelia Birch holds a PhD in the History of Art from the University of Western Australia, where she teaches art history.

Max Vickery is a Marxist historian and critic based in Whadjuk country. A co-founder of Dispatch Review, Vickery provides copy and line editing for texts before publication.


Contributors:

	
Felicity Bean studies art at Murdoch University.

Samuel Beilby is a contemporary artist and researcher. He currently teaches Fine Art at the University of Western Australia.


Angus Bowskill is an artist based in Perth, WA. Their work explores observation, mediation, and redaction through digital media and printmaking techniques.


Kieron Broadhurst is an artist based in Perth, WA. Through a variety of media he investigates the speculative potential of fiction within contemporary art practice.

William Bromage is an editor of Guan Kan Journal and holds a degree in History and Archaeology from the University of Western Australia. His interests lie in Indigenous archaeology, as well as Chinese history and its contemporary art.

Rex Butler teaches Art History in the Faculty of Art Design and Architecture at Monash University and writes on Australian art.


Rainy Colbert is an art critic and bush poet, primarily interested in the Sublime.


Grace Coppola is a graduate of art history and literary studies from UWA, currently completing honours work on literary mimesis and romantic poetry.Anna Daly is a writer and researcher, and the Managing Editor of the Women's Art Register Bulletin. Her interests span Australian visual cultural history, spatiality, and trompe l’oeil painting. Her most recent work includes co-editing Keeping Things Together: 50 Years of the Women's Art Register, published by MUP; and writing 'A Note About Trompe l'Oeil' for Gagosian Quarterly and ‘Mapping the Interior’ for Space and Culture.
Aimee Dodds is a Perth-based arts writer and co-founder of Dispatch Review. She has written for Memo Review, Art Almanac, un Magazine, and Artist Profile Magazine. Dodds has first class joint honours in the History of Art and English and Cultural Studies from the University of Western Australia.

Kye Fisher holds a Bachelor of Arts from the University of Western Australia and currently works within UWA’s research portfolio. Kye has a keen interest in contemporary Chinese art and music.


Nick FitzPatrick is an artist and arts worker. He is primarily interested in images and their relationship to systems of power and knowledge.


Dan Glover is a barista and emerging arts writer, currently studying History of Art and Curatorial Studies at the University of Western Australia.

Soph Grey is an emerging creative, Fine Arts graduate and cafe coworker to fellow writer Dan Glover. Based in Walyalup, her practice revolves around an infatuation with the home.


Sam Harper is an archaeologist and rock art specialist based at CRAR+M,
UWA, living and working on Whadjuk country. She works with communities across
the northwest of Australia.

Tara Heffernan is an art historian and critic. Her work concerns modernism and the avant-gardes, conceptual art and the lineage/s of the New Left.Amy Hickman writes occasionally about sex, gender, deconstruction, and biopolitics. 


Chelsea Hopper is a curator and writer whose research focuses on modern and contemporary photography and populism. She is Art Director of Memo Magazine.


Darren Jorgensen lectures in art history at the University of Western Australia. His most recent book is The Dead C’s Clyma Est Mort.


Stirling Kain is an arts administrator with a BA in History of Art and History. She works with various arts organisations in WA.


Riley Landau is an emerging arts writer currently studying art history and curatorial studies at the University of Western Australia.


Marco Marcon is a creative producer, writer, and academic originally from Italy, currently residing between Perth and Viterbo (Italy). He is the founding director of SPACED, previously known as the International Art Space Kellerberrin, Australia (IASKA). Marcon’s writing is also available via his Substack, Minima Aesthetica (click here to view).


Jonathan W. Marshall is head of postgraduate
studies at the Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts, Edith Cowan
University. Marshall has published in both scholarly and journalistic contexts,
his writings covering Japanese butoh dance, the influence of fin de siècle
neurology on the history of performance, photography, Australian modernist art,
Mark Rothko’s spiritualism, and the work of Georges Didi-Huberman:&#38;nbsp;click here for more.


Siân McIntyre is a researcher and art worker. www.sianmcintyre.com.


Duncan McKay is an artist, arts researcher and arts writer who since 2014 has worked as a public art administrator with local government and State Government organisations. He has a PhD, an MCA, a BFA (Hons.) and is completing a Master in Curatorial Studies.


Ian McLean is an art historian and the former Hugh Ramsay Chair of Australian Art History at the University of Melbourne. His most recent book is Double Nation: A History of Australian Art.


Zali Morgan is an emerging artist, writer and curator, currently working at The Art Gallery of Western Australia as assistant curator of Indigenous Art. She is of Ballardong, Wilman and Whadjuk descent.


Felicity Ostergaard is an editor of Guan Kan Journal and currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Archaeology, with a minor in Curatorial Studies. Her interest in Chinese Contemporary art stems from her own performance art practice as well as modes of displaying site specific interventions.


Annette Peterson is a writer and visual artist with a Master’s in Design and Art from Curtin University and a BA in English Literature from the University of Western Australia. A former journalist, she has been a contributing writer for Artists Chronicle for the past five years.


Jacinta Posik studies Fine Arts and History of Art at the University of Western Australia.


Scott Price is an artist based in Perth/Boorloo. He is interested in the interplay between culture and history in the formation of land and place relations, explored through a multidisciplinary practice.


Diego Ramírez is an artist with dreams, a writer with hopes and a facilitator with beliefs. He is represented by MARS Gallery.


Francis Russell is a former academic and trade union official. He researches contemporary art and alienation, drawing on the legacies of Marxism, Freudian psychoanalysis, and phenomenology.


Nalinie See holds a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Fine Arts and Art History from The University of Western Australia. She currently works as an Art Teacher and as a Sales and Wardrobe Planning Co-worker at IKEA.


Terry Smith is Andrew W. Mellon Professor of Contemporary Art History and Theory in the Department of the History of Art and Architecture at the University of Pittsburgh, and Professor in the Division of Philosophy, Art and Critical Thought at the European Graduate School.


Paul Sutherland is a researcher and educator from Western Australia. His work concerns online visual culture, media philosophy, and post-truth.


Maraya Takoniatis studies and conducts research in Philosophy, Fine Arts, and History of Art at the University of Western Australia.
Matthew Taggart is an arts worker, artist and musician. Their work is experimental in its exploration of future sounds and the human experience.

Leslie Thompson is a freelance arts writer.


Jess van Heerden is an emerging arts writer and visual arts technician. They have a BA in History of Artand Fine Art, with a minor in Curatorial Studies, and are almost finishedtheir Art History Honours.


Ben Yaxley is a writer, arts student, and English teacher living in Boorloo.Patrick Zaia is an Australian artist, writer, and occasional musician. 


Note: any conflicts of interest that may arise between editors and the subject and/or topic of a review will see the affected editors forego any and all participation in the editorial process of the related text.


Designer:
Mia Davis is an arts worker and design student based in Boorloo/Perth. Davis is powered by a love of connecting audiences to art and ideas, with inclusive design being key to her practice.

 
Also see:

&#60;img width="1098" height="382" width_o="1098" height_o="382" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/886cff5c2f47940b2cd9388ba0bafb507421f97666b8540cb85f7231ca6635eb/thesis-eleven.png" data-mid="222846414" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/886cff5c2f47940b2cd9388ba0bafb507421f97666b8540cb85f7231ca6635eb/thesis-eleven.png" /&#62;


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	<item>
		<title>Events</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/Events</link>

		<pubDate>Tue, 07 Nov 2023 04:31:46 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://dispatchreview.info/Events</guid>

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Events:Event
	Time/Date
	Venue/Address

	Ellie Buttrose: Behind the scenes of 'kith and kin'.


	Monday, 10 February, 2025, 6:00 pm - 7:00 pm AWST
	State Library of Western Australia, Great Southern Room, Level 4 25 Francis Street, Perth.


Taring Padi: Organise, Educate, Agitate!


	Saturday, 30 November, 2024, 2:30 pm - 4:30 pm AWST
	

State Library of Western Australia, Great Southern Room, Level 4 25 Francis 

Street, Perth.


The Modern and the Contemporary: A conversation with Rex Butler, Tara Heffernan, Darren Jorgensen and Peter Beilharz.


Saturday, 7 September, 2024, 4:00 pm - 5:00 pm AWST


The Art Gallery of Western Australia, Perth WA.

	Dispatch Review: Artist Talk at the City of Belmont.
	

Thursday, 18 January, 2024, 
5:30pm – 


6:30pm AWST


Ruth Faulkner Library,

Events Room, 213 Wright Street Cloverdale, WA.

	Memo Magazine Launch and Panel Discussion.
	
	Saturday, 2 December, 2023, 4pm – 5pm AWST
	
	
	Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts, Perth Cultural Precinct, WA.

	Artist as Prophet: Intersections of Art and Ritual with Robert Buratti.
	

Friday, 27 October, 2023,


12pm

 – 

12:30pm AWST

	
Hew Roberts Lecture Theatre, School of Design, UWA.

	Dispatch Review Launch Party.
	Saturday, 7 October, 2023,


7pm – 10:00pm AWST


Light Works, 112 Murray St, 
Perth WA.

	Doubled Histories: The Futures of Australian Art with Ian McLean, Terry Smith,

Jessyca Hutchens and Darren Jorgensen.
	Wednesday, 30 August, 2023
6pm

– 7:30pm AWST
	

State Library of Western Australia, Great Southern Room, Level 4 25 Francis Street, Perth WA.


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	<item>
		<title>Reading Group</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/Reading-Group</link>

		<pubDate>Wed, 09 Jul 2025 06:28:49 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://dispatchreview.info/Reading-Group</guid>

		<description>Virtual Reading Group sessions:

Reading
	Date/Time
	Sign-up


Session 10:

The Whitney Biennial Reader. 
	

Tuesday 28 May, 6:00pm AWST. 


Click here
Session 9: 

‘The Health Goths Are Really Feeling Zip Ties RN For Some Reason’ by ﻿James Payne.
	Tuesday, 7 Apr, 2026, 5:30pm AWST. &#38;nbsp;


Click here

Session 8: ‘The Total Art of Stalinism’ by ﻿Boris Groys
	Tuesday, 3 Mar, 2026, 6pm AWST.&#38;nbsp; 
	

Click hereSession 7: ‘The Expediency of Culture’ by George Yúdice.
	Tuesday, 9 Dec, 2025, 6pm AWST. &#38;nbsp;
	

Click hereSession 6: ‘The Painted Word’ by Tom Wolfe.
	Tuesday, 23 Sept, 2025, 6:00pm AWST
	

Click hereSession 5: ‘On the Fetish-Character in Music and the Regression of Listening’ by Theodor W. Adorno.

	Tuesday, 19 Aug, 2025, 6:00pm AWST
	

Click here


Session 4: ‘
The Herd of Independent Minds’ by 
Harold Rosenberg.
	

Tuesday, 15 Jul, 

 2025, 6:00pm AWST
	

Click here


Session 3: 

Theory of the Avant-Garde’&#38;nbsp; by 

Peter Bürger.


Tuesday, 17 Jun, 2025, 6:00pm AWST
	

Click here

Session 2: ‘The Originality of the Avant-Garde’ by 
Rosalind E. Krauss.
	

Tuesday 20 May, 2025, 6:00pm AWST
	

Click here


	Session 1: ‘Avant-Garde and Kitsch’ by Clement Greenberg.


	Tuesday, 22 Apr, 2025, 6:00pm AWST
	

Click here


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	<item>
		<title>Shop</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/Shop</link>

		<pubDate>Sat, 07 Oct 2023 04:37:48 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://dispatchreview.info/Shop</guid>

		<description>Shop:
	&#60;img width="1170" height="1664" width_o="1170" height_o="1664" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/271ce0fb8b7cd86500fd7de86b154a28340614bc94e2a00222b731715fb5c90a/B0105D50-4B99-4B7C-A778-D357CD2E7184.png" data-mid="241394632" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/271ce0fb8b7cd86500fd7de86b154a28340614bc94e2a00222b731715fb5c90a/B0105D50-4B99-4B7C-A778-D357CD2E7184.png" /&#62;


Dispatch Review: 
2023 and 2024 Anthology Bundle
A special deal for the AAANZ Conference 2025!
 Purchase both the 2023 and 2024 Anthology for $50.


&#60;img width="401" height="569" width_o="401" height_o="569" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/16d1e5c9184fd77850a10cae060ed0c6c9ed88940bc3ed0092b678db8b08532a/anth24.png" data-mid="240822942" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/401/i/16d1e5c9184fd77850a10cae060ed0c6c9ed88940bc3ed0092b678db8b08532a/anth24.png" /&#62;


	Dispatch Review: 2024 Anthology
The 2024 Anthology from Dispatch Review is a selection of the best art criticism from the journal's second year of publication. This anthology captures the critical conversations that shaped contemporary art in Boorloo/Perth, Western Australia during 2024. Dispatch Review is a volunteer-run journal, and proceeds from the sale of this publication will support the continuation of future anthologies. Cover design by Scott Burton.
	&#60;img width="978" height="1387" width_o="978" height_o="1387" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2d028b012b93347872eb6032a2ae61238bcb98ee04debdeaa9ad834576f3adc1/455184325_855400656541539_3950715539205821916_n.jpg" data-mid="216937618" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/978/i/2d028b012b93347872eb6032a2ae61238bcb98ee04debdeaa9ad834576f3adc1/455184325_855400656541539_3950715539205821916_n.jpg" /&#62;
	Dispatch Review: 2023 Anthology

The 2023 Anthology from Dispatch Review is a selection of the best art criticism from the journal's first year of publication. Featuring texts by Sam Beard, Amelia Birch, Aimee Dodds, Max Vickery, Samuel Beilby, Tara Heffernan, Darren Jorgensen, Stirling Kain, Ian Mclean, Zali Morgan, Francis Russell, Terry Smith, Maraya Takoniatis, and Jess van Heerden, this anthology captures the critical conversations shaping contemporary art in Boorloo/Perth, Western Australia. Dispatch Review is a volunteer-run journal, and proceeds from the sale of this publication will support the continuation of future anthologies. Cover design by Scott Burton.

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	Wang Qingsong – Catalogue
Wang Qingsong is a leading figure in contemporary Chinese photography.&#38;nbsp;He constructs highly staged photographs that explore the influence of Western consumer culture in China.


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		<title>Articles</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/Articles</link>

		<pubDate>Sun, 25 Jun 2023 17:25:24 +0000</pubDate>

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		<title>There is nothing you need to do here, by Riley Landau</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/There-is-nothing-you-need-to-do-here-by-Riley-Landau</link>

		<pubDate>Thu, 15 Oct 2026 02:39:01 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://dispatchreview.info/There-is-nothing-you-need-to-do-here-by-Riley-Landau</guid>

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There is nothing you need to do here
	by Riley Landau.&#38;nbsp;
	Saturday, 17 October 2026


There is nothing you need to do here, more colloquially known as ‘that wheat
field everyone and their mother is posting on insta,’ has certainly taken Perth
by storm. From the Yagan Square tower, Simone McGurk’s Instagram, and The West
Australian, Wonghan Hills Arts Co. (WHAC) clearly knows how to run a marketing
campaign. Their inaugural show has attained almost Time Rone level popularity,
or at the very least just as much virality. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; The exhibition is simple;
a fair few thousand wheat stalks transposed into an empty office space on Mill Street.
The result is an admittedly stunning and liminal space, where the warm toned wheat
stands in stark contrast against the cool white tones of its corporatised interior.
The wheat field interior is complimented by a somewhat lacklustre artificial soundtrack
of birds, mechanised rumblings and a few other sounds that attempt to transport
the viewer into the wheat field. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; “Weird shit happening in an
office” is not a new genre. It has been plaguing 21st century visual culture for
a long time: from Apple TV’s Severance, A24’s Backrooms and FKA Twigs’&#38;nbsp;Eusexua music video, the office space seems to be ripe for hermeneutic experimentation.
At a time where the average person’s life is spent toiling away in a cubicle, or
god forbid an open concept workspace, it is no wonder that artistic engagements
frequently turn to capturing the odd and alienating atmosphere of an office. Wheat
fields in odd places is also not a particularly new concept, with the most noteworthy
being executed by Agnes Denes, who spent four months in 1982 growing an entire field
in the middle of downtown Manhattan. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Despite its somewhat unoriginal conception,
WHAC has managed to execute it excellently. The space is genuinely enchanting, leaves
a lasting impression and offers its viewers a truly unique visual encounter. &#38;nbsp;But despite this masterful execution, the exhibition
still feels like a letdown. Its biggest issue is the overbearing Instagramisation
of the show. At the end of the day, the wheatfield is nothing but a set piece for
an aesthetic social media post. There’s not necessarily anything wrong with an exhibition
being photographable, but there simply comes a point. On my visit, most visitors
seemed to spend their twenty-minute time slot photographing or being photographed
by their friends. The worst offender was a content shoot for a Christian themed
streetwear brand taking place, closely followed by a mother berating her child,
no older than 12, for not getting the right angles. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Again, there isn’t anything
wrong about wanting to have a cool photo in the wheat field—but it becomes an issue
when the space is reduced to no more than that. I did not feel like I was transported
to a wheat field and yet somehow still shackled into an office, I felt like I’d
accidentally walked into a content shoot and would get yelled at for being in the
back of an otherwise perfect photo. Furthermore, WHAC leans into its virality, plastering
‘tag us’ signs on the outer edge of the show, thus encouraging the viewer to take
out their phones and pose with the wheat. This is complimented by a massive effort
to include the WHAC title or branding wherever possible. When walking into the show,
it felt more like a corporate brand activation than any art show that I’ve encountered
before. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; The bigger issue with this influencer-breeding
ground is that it becomes utterly at odds with what WHAC purports to achieve. If
there is truly “nothing you need to do here,” as the title suggests, then perhaps
more people would spend time in the space meditatively. Asking viewers to check
their phones in on entry would actually utilise the site to push boundaries, fostering
the idle disconnect stressed by the exhibition title and therefore encouraging its
audience to grapple with its supposed curatorial intention. But that would require
WHAC to sacrifice its most sacred metric: virality. At the end of the day, the social
media popularity of this show was not just a means to an end—it was wholly the end
product as intended. Hidden behind the branding, there really was something you
needed to do here: whip out your phone and remember to tag WHAC. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Despite being the most obvious
issue, the brand-focused marketability is not in fact the biggest issue with the
show. The far larger, far greater concern is its betrayal of regional Australia.
Wongan Hills Arts Co. purports dedication “to developing an ecosystem and focal
point for contemporary art, public art and cultural projects in regional Western
Australia.”[1]&#38;nbsp;You would think then, its art would help achieve something for regional communities.
The didactic for the show describes regional towns as holding “extraordinary landscapes,
stories and character” while also observing that they are “places we pass through,
rather than destinations we travel to.”[2] This of course
results in their grand vision to build a cultural destination that draws people
beyond the city and gives people a “new reason to visit.”[3] This didactic
is placed as afterthought on the way in, I did not witness a single visitor read
it. On the same printout, WHAC advertises itself for new partners. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Even if no one reads it, the
goal seems nice enough. Promoting regional art is relatively universally a good
thing to do for the art world. The issue is that the exhibition doesn’t even pretend
to achieve this. People walk in, see a room full of wheat—maybe pay enough attention
to hear the tractor sound—take some pictures and leave. The average visitor walks
out with not a single ounce more of connection to the country than when they walked
in. If I wanted to learn about Wongan Hills, I’d be hard pressed to find a sliver
of any real information in the exhibition. But hey, that totally makes me want to
visit, right?
&#60;img width="1200" height="800" width_o="1200" height_o="800" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/55ba1ce49ed6c5f4880fe4246694833a39e4ad563163fda8d77fbfdcf7390ce9/99c13bd27ed2391a42871ec0636b888b3aa4f6a0.jpg" data-mid="253402960" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/55ba1ce49ed6c5f4880fe4246694833a39e4ad563163fda8d77fbfdcf7390ce9/99c13bd27ed2391a42871ec0636b888b3aa4f6a0.jpg" /&#62;
Image Credit: Courtesy of WHAC.


The biggest betrayal of regional
Australia comes in the most fundamental element of the show yet: it’s wheat. Supposedly,
“There is nothing you need to do here,” which is ironic because wheat is the embodiment
of human labour. Go back to Mesopotamia, or any early civilisation and you will
see that agriculture is the foundation of organised labour. Moreover, talk to any
farmer who actually works with crops. Wheat is labour intensive. Its planting, cultivation
and harvesting results in intensely long workdays, backbreaking physical exertion,
and massive financial gambles. But there’s nothing you need to do here, because
you are not the farmer. You are just the consumer—consuming the exhibition in an
entirely uncritical way, in the same way we eat and cook with the products of what
without so much of a consideration of the labour that produced it. Australia’s regions
are plagued with issues because of the intense labour of agriculture, but WHAC would
have you come in and see wheat as nothing but a cute photo op. Rather than blurring
the space between agricultural and office labour, as you might expect with the spaces
merging, WHAC’s show does nothing except reify the division between agricultural
producer and urban consumer. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; This lacking impetus to go
into any detail about labour is made even funnier by WHAC’s own marketing, which
draws attention to the huge effort it was to transpose individual wheat stalks.
A 7 News feature describes how the set up took a painstaking 29 days of 10-hour
long shifts to install the exhibition, while also drawing attention to the sheer
scale of half a million wheat stems. It finishes on an optimistic statement that
the show is a “timely reminder” of the work of agriculture, dropping Australia’s
export statistics and cutting to an interview with a wheat farmer.[4]&#38;nbsp;The feature left me feeling that we had seen different exhibitions, because any
trace of this labour felt intentionally hidden, save the occasional soundtracked
drone of what might be a tractor. My thirst to learn anything about wheat was left
unquenched by the work. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; For a collective that “believe[s]
culture can change the way people see a place,” WHAC makes no effort to do so.[5] They simply don’t portray Wongan Hills as anything, it’s a convenient name drop
to appear more regional than it actually is. The show is nothing more than an
urban exercise in voyeurism—where the actual labour of agriculture is metastasised
into a trendy liminal office space. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; The comparison to Agnes Denes’&#38;nbsp;Wheatfield—A Confrontation is ripe for obvious criticism. Placing the wheat-works
side by side, the gaping discrepancy in artistic ambition and impact manifests clearly.
Denes’ work was used as a springboard for conversations about wealth inequality
and the environment, and seeking to directly “call attention to our misplaced priorities
and deteriorating human values.”[6]&#38;nbsp;It functioned by “wasting valuable real estate and obstructing the ‘machinery’ by
going against the system, was an effrontery that made it the powerful paradox I
had sought for the calling to account.”[7] It is also
important to situate the work in its broader New York context, where artistic discussion
and critical culture flourished far more than it does in the current arts landscape
of Western Australia. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; This effort to question values
and draw attention to the obstruction of capitalistic machinery are all things you
could say about WHAC’s installation, but they clearly don’t suggest that themselves.
In fact, the curatorial messaging seems to obscure any criticality. Instead, the
exhibition by-line simply states “A field arrives where it shouldn't.”[8]&#38;nbsp;In this, the field functions as an entity in and of itself. By granting the wheat
a pseudo-mystical status devoid of labour and intention— simply appearing in the
office space—WHAC sacrifices any capital to discuss the act of obfuscating the corporate
function of the space. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; This isn’t to say the Denes
is perfect and WHAC is bad. There is a more complicated relationship present. Denes
has faced criticism for the way in which her wheatfield simply served to reify capitalistic
notions of land and failed to acknowledge the question of Indigeneity.[9]&#38;nbsp;These are all criticisms that could broadly be given to There is nothing you
need to do here. But the most obvious difference between the two shows is the
question of what happens to the wheat. Denes’ wheat was harvested and used to feed
NYPD horses (an act not with its own set of problems) and the seeds were distributed
in The International Art Show to End World Hunger. At the very least, the wheat
and labour of Denes’ urban intervention was acknowledged and propagated. What will
the afterlife of WHAC’s first project be? How long will the ephemeral image of an
office filled with wheat linger in our zeitgeist? My gut feeling says it will disappear
rather quickly, living on through the strange archival function of the internet.
You might stalk someone’s feed enough to see a post of them surrounded by wheat,
or see it as the backdrop on a Hinge profile—but that is where it dies. There
is nothing you need to do here, I do not think, will live on in the minds of
its viewers. It would have had to offer something more than mere aesthetics if it
were to do so. The fact that the show is so easily compressed into a series of cute
aesthetic pics is perhaps the greatest evidence in showing the utter shallowness
of the installation. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; At the end of this, There
is nothing you need to do here encapsulates the increasingly shallow landscape
of Perth’s art scene, where our exhibitions are more about branding than anything
meaningfully creative. It sells itself as a transformative encounter with regional
Australia but manifests merely as a fun photo op that puts in some tractor sounds
and didactics to distract from its hollowness. It is a project spiritually aligned
with private equity, appealing to as much of the mass as possible and in doing so,
losing any actual power to do much of anything.


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; But the future isn’t so grim.
This is only the first installation of WHAC, who will undoubtedly be making more
art after the resounding popularity of their first show. In this, they’ve played
to their strengths—creating a visually appealing installation that captures the
market with its on-trend play on an office space. The hope is that they can learn
from this experience, and that their next show will turn that same prowess with
marketing into something that does Wongan Hills, and regional Australia more broadly,
some real justice. 


Footnotes:


[1] See https://whac.net.au/


[2] As noted in the wall text for There is nothing you need
to do here, 2026, exhibition by WHAC (11 September – October 11)


[3] Ibid. 


[4] This interview has been recorded via WHAC’s Instagram
profile (@whac.ltd),
https://www.instagram.com/p/DdWCzybM2izxrBgbaVIf3mECIQNWhEBuRlJOgg0/


[5] Wall text for There is nothing you need to do here. 


[6] Cited in Hessel, Katy. 2022. ‘A Field of Wheat on a $4.5bn
Patch of New York: The Prophetic Eco Art of Agnes Denes’. The Guardian,
July 18.


[7] Ibid. 

[8] See WHAC Events, https://whac.net.au/projects

[9] See, as examples, Husain, Amber, 2025.You’re Missing
the Point of Agnes Denes’s ‘Wheatfield’. March 5. https://artreview.com/youre-missing-the-point-of-agnes-denes-wheatfield-feature-amber-husain/; and Rina, Amelia. 2021. ‘Seeds, Sharing,
Manifestos: On Agnes Denes’s Wheatfield—A Confrontation and “Manifesto”’. Brooklyn
Rail, March. https://brooklynrail.org/2021/03/criticspage/Seeds-Sharing-Manifestos/.


Header images:&#38;nbsp;Courtesy of WHAC.
	

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		<title>All alone in the dark: After Elvira Madigan (1967), Salon dans l’obscurité, by Amy Hickman</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/All-alone-in-the-dark-After-Elvira-Madigan-1967-Salon-dans-l</link>

		<pubDate>Sat, 10 Oct 2026 01:48:42 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

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All alone in the dark: After Elvira Madigan (1967), Salon dans l’obscurité
	by Amy Hickman.&#38;nbsp;
	Saturday, 10 October 2026


It seems somehow completely without irony that Salon dans l’obscurité presents its first show, After Elvira Madigan (1967), a one-night-only display of one unnamed artist’s paintings, exclusively produced from scenes of Bo Widerberg’s impossibly saccharine film about real-life nineteenth-century slackline dancer, Hedvig Jensen, best known as Elvira Madigan. Hedvig’s story is a sort of Nordic Bonnie and Clyde; she runs away with (or is maybe abducted by) married nobleman and cavalry deserter Sixten Sparre, and a couple of months later, he shoots her dead and then kills himself. In the film, this is played as a suicide pact, and she’s delighted to run off with him in the first instance, rather than, as her mother alleged, only doing so because he threatened to kill himself otherwise. Pia Degermark and Thommy Berggren, as Hedvig and Sixten, prance about in the verdant Swedish countryside, catch butterflies, have picnics and engage in petty theft as they learn how to live apart from society, before they eventually run out of money and food, and finally, in desperation, turn to suicide. The film is famously beautiful; every scene could have come from an impressionist painting, not just in content (it’s all boating and wine in the grass) but in its cinematic aesthetics. Supposedly, Widerberg loved Renoir, and many scenes are intentional homages.[1] The paintings that make up the show, then, are also generally impressionistic, and look to be done by the same hand with varying levels of attention and care. One of the most interesting looks rushed compared to the others, but the flat quality of the paint makes Hedvig and Sixten’s faces, in a moment of passion, look totally lifeless, like rubber masks; this makes it, in its own way, one of the most attractive paintings of the bunch. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; The show, as all of Salon dans l’obscurité’s shows promise to be, is one-night-only and anonymous.[2] This means there’s not much in the way of framing; the show has its title and a floor sheet that is more or less a description of the film and its reception. There are also two projections of scenes of the film, one of which seems to be cut together into something like a trailer. In lieu of an artist name or images of the work, all that’s really brought me and presumably anyone else here is the sheer novelty of it, based on the gallery’s call for artists (and, admittedly, a weird personalised email invitation—flattery will get you anywhere, I guess). Their information pack for artists considering submitting an expression of interest is really the exciting part. It reads like a challenge: no name, no biography, no meanings, themes, significance, or really anything else allowed. “Any reference to these will automatically disqualify your application.”[3]&#38;nbsp;To the anticipated horror, or at least derision, of the Perth art scene, it dares to claim that all applications will be judged on the quality of the work. Cue gasps. “According,” that is, “to the subjective taste and biases of the curators.”[4] Crisis averted; of course no one would dare to think that an artwork (well, really, an EOI) could be judged on its objective quality. 
&#60;img width="5289" height="2974" width_o="5289" height_o="2974" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/09969422af532558fb9051aa1317e599a62312b680c1254e0d8e542392173dc5/IMG_2412.png" data-mid="253105861" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/09969422af532558fb9051aa1317e599a62312b680c1254e0d8e542392173dc5/IMG_2412.png" /&#62;Image: Installation view of After Elvira Madigan (1967) at Salon dans l’obscurité, courtesy of the author.

How and why have we come to think like this? Blame the critics. No, wait—blame deconstruction, postmodernism, the university, and the critics. All these, it would seem, have conspired to produce a world of relativism gone wild, where anything means anything. In the face of such a world, apparently, we can only desperately retreat to that last unassailable bastion that can’t be diminished or distorted by its relation to so many competing truths: the personal opinion. Broadly, though, the curators (are there really more than one?) of Salon dans l’obscurité have sniffed out something that does, in fact, piss people off: that art seems to be judged on the basis of a whole range of things that are not, strictly speaking, the art object “itself.” That list of things might include the artist’s own biography, the place or time in which the artwork was made, the place or time in which you are viewing it, its distribution through various media, any movements—aesthetic, political or both—that the artwork or artist can be said to be part of, what the artist says about it, what other people say about it… in other words, context matters. Taking a stand against context, the curators of Salon dans l’obscurité want to know and want you to know as little as possible, and to thereby encounter the artwork in the dark, as it were. &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; The information pack is therefore comprised, for the most part, of a series of prohibitions: the aforementioned ban on naming yourself, but also, “no claims about what your art does or achieves or dismantles or critiques or researches or enquires-into or problematises or any other such thing,” and “no reference to meanings, themes, significance, or contemporary relevance.”[5] There are also the usual instructions—describe the work, add pictures, etc.—accompanied by further baffling prohibitions (“do not explain your work”). It’s not clear that the curators realise how reactionary this all sounds—as in, why can’t we have quality anymore? why does everything need to be about who you are? why can’t we just have pretty paintings of pastoral bliss like we used to?—but I think, on the whole, it would be unfair to assume that they are trying to press some kind of half-baked political agenda. That is, it’s easy enough to recognise that there is a kind of juvenile authoritarianism here, and it doesn’t require us to speculate on their feelings about woke.&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; 
Reading it generously, it seems fair to say that the curators are interested in the idea of the art object itself, and particularly in the idea, or really the question, of whether they can actually facilitate an unmediated experience of the artwork. I also think that it is fair to say that this particular exhibition of works has been delivered as the inaugural one because of the way it complements, by problematising, the posing of that question. Salon dans l’obscurité doesn’t want its artists to distort or diminish the actual presence of the work of art in advance through, for example, the common practice of distributing photos of it on social media. Instead it seems to aim, through the anonymous, unphotographed, one-night-only-event, to stage an encounter with “the here and now of the work of art—its unique existence in the place where it is at this moment,” that one thing that Walter Benjamin says survives “even the most perfect reproduction.”[6]&#38;nbsp;It makes for an interesting twist, then, that the paintings here are essentially reproductions of scenes from a film that itself cinematographically sought to reproduce yet more paintings. The question of the “here and now” of the work, that is, despite all these closures, is as difficult to address here as it would be in the case of, say, its reproduction across social media—as Peter Osborne writes about the analogue photograph, “insofar as the question can be meaningfully addressed,” &#38;nbsp;it can only be said to be “distributed across the sites of its process, which it permeates as an image… albeit in a peculiar ontological state of dependency upon the processes that it transcends.”[7] In other words, this problem isn’t exactly a new one; or if it is, it’s only insofar as digital media has unlocked or brought to the fore a possibility that has lain dormant in much of what we call modernism. Duchamp’s Fountain, arguably the most famous “work” of modernism, is perhaps no work at all, having never been exhibited. Insofar as it can be said to “exist” now, it is only through the reproductions and re-presentations of a fundamentally hidden origin: “even Alfred Stieglitz’s famous photograph of the work is no more than the first in a long and seemingly never ending line of copies, each one at some remove from the thing itself without ever being entirely independent of it.”[8] The Salon’s staging of this show, in this way, certainly makes for an interesting practical experiment in the idea of the “thing itself,” not just insofar as it tries to limit the show’s visibility to its three-hour window and disregard the usual conventions of soliciting an audience in pre- and post-show documentation, but also because it presents us with reproductions and reproductions of reproductions of some fundamentally obscured origin—maybe that’s the unobserved real deaths of Hedvig and Sixten, all alone on Tåsinge. On the other hand, insisting on such a high degree of obfuscation, to the extent that no information about the work makes its way to the public before the show, means that the Salon has nothing much more than its ability to generate gossip to get people out there. 
&#60;img width="1200" height="713" width_o="1200" height_o="713" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/edc089539379a42001805556b9ba23648e83b8367ca812da62a5aed0dcc9e1f4/fcs8brnwqaizkqa.jpeg" data-mid="253105864" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/edc089539379a42001805556b9ba23648e83b8367ca812da62a5aed0dcc9e1f4/fcs8brnwqaizkqa.jpeg" /&#62;Image: Still from Elvira Madigan, directed by Bo Widerberg (Europa Film, 1967).

Above all, there is one particular way in which the content of the show speaks to its framing in a way that, I think, exceeds the artist and curators’ intentions. The tremendous beauty and romance of Elvira Madigan in many ways disguised—although Criterion says only “barely” [9]—its measured critique of ’60s hippie counterculture. Some parallels are obvious, like Sixten’s desertion from the army. The pair’s utopianism, though, is perhaps more easily misinterpreted. That is, Widerberg meant for the film to warn against the dangers of that kind of hippie individualism, but the result was a film so visually charming that it served to romanticise the very thing he sought to steer people away from. Widerberg later said, in no uncertain terms, that he “wanted to prove that their idea was insane, that you can’t cut off relations with the rest of society and get along in the grass, alone.”[10] The sheer atmospherics of the thing ended up letting it be reducible to a sensuous mood study about abstractly doomed lovers. It’s not smuggled into the film; Hedvig insists, for example: “Don’t talk to me about love, Sixten. Can we butter our bread with it?” But it was, for audiences, so easily lost in the dreamy, sensual naturalism of the thing. It’s much easier to see when the film is taken in the context of, for example, Widerberg’s oeuvre; perhaps surprisingly, he followed it with a tennis documentary that covered a Swedish student protest of then-Rhodesia’s racial policies (he recalls it being his first time seeing someone “beaten with a stick,” but also “the power of the students when they came together”), then Ådalen ‘31, the story of a Swedish workers’ strike in which five workers were killed by troops, but which ultimately led to the fall from power of the Conservative government. In other words, movies about collective power, and the importance of being part of a world with others in it. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; If what you’re looking for is some kind of judgement about the quality of the Salon’s first show, “according to the subjective taste and biases” of one critic: it sucks! But a bunch of paintings in a vacuum are, well, just paint. You can’t butter your bread with it. The problem is that all those other things outside of the artwork that always risk diminishing it, and which Salon dans l’obscurité would rather do without—the frame, the gallery, the Instagram post, the textual explanation, the audience, the critics, whatever—are also, in another sense, the sustaining environment for this kind of thing to happen at all. In this light, to do away with context can really be understood only as a deprivation. What I’m trying to suggest, in other words, is that the curators and inaugural artist behind Salon dans l’obscurité’s first show could themselves stand to take a lesson from Elvira Madigan: suffering from the same insanity as Hedvig and Sixten, they think that you can get along in the grass (or indeed the dark), alone. But there’s no chance for life out there, without everything else that stands to sustain and enliven it. 
Footnotes:

1. Peter Cowie, “Bo Widerberg’s New Swedish Cinema: Another Sweden,” Criterion, August 22, 2023. https://www.criterion.com/current/posts/8234-bo-widerberg-s-new-swedish-cinema-another-sweden.

2. The possibility of any future exhibitions remains in question: since the time of writing, Salon dans l’obscurité has announced its closure for the foreseeable future.

3. Salon dans l’obscurité, “Information Pack,” 2, https://drive.google.com/file/d/11FHzMK-8CxrGrTAkpEQGLya_u9HDcSy8/view.

4. Salon dans l’obscurité, “Information Pack,” 2.

5. Salon dans l’obscurité, “Information Pack,” 2. 

6. Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, translated by J. A. Underwood (Penguin, 2008), 5. 

7. Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not at All: Philosophy of Contemporary Art, (Verso, 2013), 124.

8. Robert Briggs and Niall Lucy, “Frame #1: Ones &#38;amp; Zeroes, Light &#38;amp; Shade (Dimensions: 4, Easter Eggs: 3),” Ctrl-Z: New Media Philosophy(1): n.p., https://www.ctrl-z.net.au/articles/issue-1/briggs-lucy-frame/. 

9. Cowie, “Bo Widerberg’s New Swedish Cinema.” 

10. Robert Berkvist, “Where Does a Man Go After ‘Elvira Madigan’?,” New York Times, October 26, 1969, 12.


Header image: Installation view of After Elvira Madigan (1967) at Salon dans l’obscurité, courtesy of the author.
	

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		<title>Hatched Dispatched 2026, by Lilian Brown, Lucy Kilroe, Riley Landau, Cassandra Otterman-Emmett, and Charlotte Newman</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/Hatched-Dispatched-2026-by-Lilian-Brown-Lucy-Kilroe-Riley-Landau</link>

		<pubDate>Thu, 01 Oct 2026 06:09:35 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

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Hatched Dispatched 2026
	by Lilian Brown, Lucy Kilroe, Riley Landau, Cassandra Otterman-Emmett, and Charlotte Newman.
	Monday,&#38;nbsp; 5 October 2026


Late
but undeterred, the tradition of Hatched Dispatched continues. This
year’s iteration of PICA’s National Graduate Show marked a landmark: its 35th
anniversary. Gathering 21 emerging artists graduating from art schools across
Australia, the exhibition offered a cross-section of practices and
preoccuptations, though many works tended towards the grungy—assemblages of
found objects and scraps, leaning into the visceral, gnarled, and gritty. As is
customary for Dispatch, five of our emerging critics attended and responded to
works for which they felt particularly drawn. While these reviews have landed
after the exhibition’s end, consider these responses less a belated addition
and more an archival record of the 2026 selection and the thoughts they
incited. 


— Amelia Birch


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Rebecca Lavery,&#38;nbsp;2007 Britney


In a time when female celebrities are opting for
increasingly private lives, despite—or perhaps in rejection of—the heightened
access afforded by social media, Rebecca Lavery’s artwork 2007 Britney&#38;nbsp;begs us to sit with the human beneath this culture of public spectacle. The
work consists of six oil-painted panels depicting paparazzi footage of pop star
Britney Spears during what would later be characterised publicly as her
“breakdown.” The panels are accompanied by a video that projects images of the
paintings on a continuous loop. The materiality of Lavery’s work—extrapolated
from a very digital scene—forces the viewer to grapple with and reflect on the
nuances the moment was not afforded in 2007. In juxtaposition, Britney’s blurry
figure brings a softness to an otherwise harsh scene. Britney's umbrella is
particularly noticeable within the sequence, as an innocent object turned
weapon, brandished as a last defiant act of agency against a culture of
surveillance. Lavery’s use of oil paint here seems to draw from this,
positioning the umbrella as a sword drawn from classical art history, poised
like a heroic figure striking a final blow to an enemy. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Online meme culture has fed off the “scandal” of Britney’s
high profile public retaliation for years. Lavery co-opts this highly
recognisable visual language, alluding to broader themes of celebrity, gendered
scrutiny, and surveillance. The stop-motion video riffs on these ideas,
speaking to the cyclical behaviour of mockery and criticism the celebrity
culture machine continues to enact specifically on young female starlets,
profiting off their humiliation and subjugation. The jump-cut repetition of the
video speaks to the fast-paced, comical way we often passively receive such
low-brow pop-culture spectacles in our highly memefied, clip-based culture.
Without being able to scroll away, Lavery forces the audience to confront their
complicity and positionality within a misogynistic system that feeds on and
profits off such spectacle. Standing with Lavery’s work, I can’t help but
reflect on recent criticism levied at Chappell Roan for speaking out against
being stalked by paparazzi—a cycle where no woman in the public eye can ever
win. Is it possible to learn from our past mistakes and affect change from
within the belly of the beast?


 — Lilian Brown


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Lilu Hosking, We Gather, We Rise, We Fall 


Lilu
Hosking’s, We Gather, We Rise, We Fall, recalls the moment I learnt that
jellyfish are devoid of hearts and brains. Their unequivocal immersion into an
environment and abstracted pulse seem overwhelmingly unique, in light of their
insentience. Resonating with this same curiosity, Hosking’s installation draws
attention to the human body’s own cadences and ecological relationships.
Composed of organza spires and powered by stepper-motors, the textile vessels
gradually rise and fall to mimic the breath of the onlooker. It is as if our
lungs inflate and deflate before us, yielding an uncanny sense of synchronicity
between the physical body and the artwork. The whirring emissions of an
industrialised pulse facilitate a meditative mood, allowing viewers to
gradually settle into the space. Oscillating vertically, the small anchor
points ripple out and unfold from the centre of each form. Here, the weightless
appearance of the spires and their repetitive flow, overpowers the rigidity of
their motors, until Hosking’s orchestration dissolves into the work's larger,
ecological rhythm. This respects the understated description of work found in
the catalogue. Yet,&#38;nbsp; this heavily depends
on perspective.&#38;nbsp; From above, the
mechanical components of the installation begin to overpower the mysticism that
lingers below. The inclusivity embedded within the title, ‘We’ Gather, ‘We’
Rise, ‘We’ Fall, assures us of this interplay between the body and these
forms, an encounter enriched by the ground floor view. Pulsating routinely, the
airy vessels successfully materialise the complex ways bodies intertwine with
sound in collective environments.&#38;nbsp; 


 — Lucy Kilroe


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Amirah
Rachwani, Ruler of the World, INFANTA, Cotton and Coffee 


Lead
white face of an English royal, two pink monster cans, a frilly dress, a teddy
bear, an Elizabethan demeanor and an iced latte in hand: these are the elements
which compose Amirah Rachwani’s contribution to HATCHED. Three anachronistic
photographic recreations of Elizabethan portraiture: they appropriate, scrape
and plunder the visual treasure trove of the art historical genre to evoke an
image of identity that has been carefully self-curated within Western visual
culture. This style of portraiture is perhaps overdone, after a while it
becomes boring to see the same tired reference to Western art’s so-called
greats. In spite of this, Amira Rachwani’s skillful manipulation of semiotics
and iconography create a series that remains both visually entertaining and
negotiates a complex relationship with Rachwani’s heritage and identity as a
transgender Lebanese Australian woman. Rachwani has deftly placed herself in
conversation with historical Western notions of power all the while managing to
create a uniquely intriguing set of photographs. 


 — Riley Landau &#60;img width="1920" height="1080" width_o="1920" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e83e77a0c4c5c184b126cd27bfd319c8ee617e3a1f6aedcc75d82ca7330dd129/4.jpg" data-mid="252881699" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/e83e77a0c4c5c184b126cd27bfd319c8ee617e3a1f6aedcc75d82ca7330dd129/4.jpg" /&#62;

Tai
Kelly, Umwelt: Talk to the Flowers 


Umwelt,
directly meaning ‘environment’ in German, signifies the ways in which organisms
perceive and organise themselves around the world via their sensory organs. Tai
Kelly’s work, Umwelt: Talk to the Flowers aims to interrogate and expand
the anthropocentric umwelt of homo sapiens. Consisting of semi-permable plastic
membranes and animated flowers, the work reacts and responds to human presence
in space. Humidity and moisture give rise to movement within the fabricated
ecosystem,while the didactic invites viewers to seek solace in the flowers by
speaking their woes to them. This experiment in expanding human relationality
is largely a success, with crowds of spectators whispering their 21st century
troubles to the flowers. Unfortunately, it appears humans (at least those
attending Hatched’s opening) have too many woes to bear—as the flowers are
regularly opened and engaged: overwhelmed by the large presence in space.
Perhaps that’s a positive, a sign our umwelt has successfully expanded. It
might also be true that the poor flowers are sick of hearing our problems. 


 — Riley Landau 


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Lychandra
Anastasia Gieseman, Rev(olutions) / To Loves Ruin


Lychandra
Anastasia Gieseman’s Rev(olutions) / To Loves Ruin is a victim of
attempts to justify its existence. The ready-made car crash is a fairly
attention-grabbing image, made only more shocking by the childlike monotony of
the surrounding installation The Work Don’t Do Itself, and the jarring
movements of the “fractured performers” call to mind the auto-destructive
machines of a far more interesting past. However, far from the radicality of
the suicidal objects of 

Gustav Metzger and Jean Tinguely, this work is one of seemingly
endless explorations of transhumanist-cyberfeminist-queer-embodiment which opts
to tell far more than it shows. Don’t get me wrong; I personally love
transhumanist-cyberfeminist-queer-embodiment, and I see the connections
explained by Gieseman, but the buzzword-laden Mad Libs page on the wall only
soured me to an otherwise evocative work. In a vacuum it could be an homage to
the erotic death-drive of Ballard/Cronenberg’s Crash, a poignant
indictment of the violence inherent in a car-focused society, a comment on the
anthropomorphised treatment of cars, or any number of more distinct and unique
ideas that aren’t accomplished better by other works in the same exhibit. While
it is a very competent recreation of a car crash moments after impact, much
like the car itself, it goes nowhere fast.


 — Cassandra Otterman-Emmett

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Madeleine
Coates, Everything exactly as they left it


Madeleine
Coates’ Everything exactly as they left it depicts a domestic setting
meticulously drawn on plywood board fashioned into a concertina room divider.
The divider screen is a curious choice. The catalogue suggests that it could
allude to the fragmentary way in which memories are recollected. Alternatively,
or perhaps additionally, Coates’ work makes you want to close the screens
around yourself; to enjoy this homely scene without your back to the vast space
of the main gallery. Here, the metaphorical shelter of memories is given
material form by Coates. Upon entering PICA’s main gallery space, Everything
exactly as they left it sits humbly against the left upon-entry wall. One
could easily glance past Coates’ screens, confronted with the other
attention-grabbing, large-scale installation works that dominate the space.
While the lack of an intimate viewing experience may suggest a curatorial
oversight, Coates’ work nonetheless emerges as an artwork that rewards close,
contemplative looking.


 — Charlotte Newman


Image credits:1.&#38;nbsp;Hatched: National Graduate Show 2026, installation view, Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA), 2026. Photo: 
Guy Louden.

2.Hatched: National Graduate Show 2026, installation view, Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA), 2026. Photo: Guy Louden.

3.&#38;nbsp;Tabitha Glanville, gyrr ngayabina-guwal winangaylahna (I amlistening now with different ears)&#38;nbsp;2025, Hatched: NationalGraduate Show 2026, installation view, Perth Instituteof Contemporary Arts (PICA), 2026. Photo: Guy Louden.
4.&#38;nbsp;Lilu Hosking, We Gather, We Rise, We Fall, in Hatched: National Graduate Show 2026, installation view, Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA), 2026. Photo: 
Guy Louden.

5. AmirahRachwani,&#38;nbsp;Cotton and Coffee: I Haven’t Read Any Rousseau Myself and INFANTA&#38;nbsp;in Hatched: National Graduate Show 2026, installation view, Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA), 2026. Photo: 
Guy Louden.6.&#38;nbsp;Tai Kelly, Umwelt: Talk to the Flowers, 2025, Hatched: National Graduate Show 2026, installation view, Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA), 2026. Photo: Guy Louden.
7.&#38;nbsp;Lychandra Anatasia Gieseman, Rev(olution)s 2025, Hatched: National Graduate Show 2026, installation view, Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA),2026. Photo: Guy Louden.
8. Madeleine Coates, Everything exactly as they left it (lounge room, 1993) 2025. Photo: Sam Roberts.

	
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		<title>Felix McNamara’s Atrocities, by Patrick Zaia</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/Felix-McNamara-s-Atrocities-by-Patrick-Zaia</link>

		<pubDate>Thu, 24 Sep 2026 06:08:57 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://dispatchreview.info/Felix-McNamara-s-Atrocities-by-Patrick-Zaia</guid>

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Felix McNamara’s Atrocities 
	by Patrick Zaia.
	Saturday, 26 September 2026


In a pivotal scene from William Faulkner’s novel Requiem for a Nun, an experimental sequel to his notorious potboiler Sanctuary, the character Gavin Stevens cuttingly remarks to an evasive Temple Drake: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Despite issuing from a relatively marginal work in his otherwise remarkable oeuvre, this aphoristic statement vividly encapsulates the central theme underlying Faulkner’s grand, apocalyptic vision: that human consciousness is inexorably shaped by the non-linear passage of time, wherein the spirits of the past hauntingly intermingle and play out within the undulating landscape of the present. As Faulkner’s fiction routinely details, the effect this has on the mechanics of human thought and perception is often disorientating and maddening, resulting in a violently torn, splintered and paranoid subjectivity—what Faulkner himself vividly described as “the human heart in conflict with itself.” Yet within the psychic lacerations that savagely mark his characters, we can glimpse the dark romanticism that brutally throbs at the core of Faulkner’s work: the twisted and ultimately tragic nature of humanity’s enduring search for purpose and transcendence within a cold and fundamentally unstable universe.
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Today, as enlightened liberal subjects who exist in a thoroughly technological and secular environment, we are perhaps poised to dismiss Faulkner’s discomforting insights as archaic or outmoded concerns of a past that no longer applies. But as the course of the 21st century has shown so far, the past does not die, and in the wake of the alienation, confusion and malaise engendered by our current social conditions, the ghosts and myths of eras gone by have reemerged to disrupt and challenge the established order. Indeed, whether we choose to accept or ignore it, we are still entangled in the spectral webs of history.
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Peculiarly, however, contemporary artists and writers appear unwilling or unable to properly address this in an artistic context. Even when an attempt is made to broach the subject, the result is often a disappointingly reductive and cliché-ridden reinforcement of the hollow ideals espoused by major institutions and corporations alike. Felix McNamara’s Atrocities is a notable exception to this.
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Published by Hyperidean Press, Atrocities is a contemporary work of experimental poetry and prose. Taking place between the years 1994 and 2024, Atrocities moves irregularly through the “incoherent rubble” of the so-called end of history, in which “art, faith, and paranoia unite in comedic rebellion against contemporary culture”. The result is a fractured and mosaic-like portrait of our present era, weaving together a turbulent assortment of artists, writers, politicians, murderers, television shows, political thinkers, terrorists, mystics and videogames into a kaleidoscopic, Bosch-like tapestry. As in Faulkner’s work, history is reconceived as a cyclonic mesh of intensities, whirling and spiralling, contracting and expanding, non-linearly across time and space. Like the co-mingling of the high and low, along with the real and the imagined, the past and the present are engaged in a tense and baffling dynamic. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; While seemingly disjointed and confused on the surface, McNamara marshals this motley collection into an array of linkages and dialogues: the art historian Heinrich Wölfflin&#38;nbsp;analyses the opposing animation styles of South Park and Beavis and Butt-Head; Steve Bannon,&#38;nbsp;Antonin Artaud,&#38;nbsp;Pier Paolo Pasolini&#38;nbsp;and&#38;nbsp;Michel Houellebecq&#38;nbsp;engage in conversation over a game of golf;&#38;nbsp;Michael Alig&#38;nbsp;and&#38;nbsp;Varg Vikernes&#38;nbsp;are paired as Pagan Priests;&#38;nbsp;William Blake&#38;nbsp;speaks to both&#38;nbsp;Tucker Carlson&#38;nbsp;and&#38;nbsp;Norm Macdonald; and&#38;nbsp;Mike Kelley,&#38;nbsp;David Lynch&#38;nbsp;and&#38;nbsp;Marvin Heemeyer&#38;nbsp;are interviewed on&#38;nbsp;Oprah. While indubitably comical, these absurd scenarios and couplings unearth a deep sense of rage and disgust at the sterile vacuousness of the contemporary world shared amongst this eccentric crew. Moreover, within the framework of Atrocities, they are emblematic of a rebellious alternative to the bland utilitarianism and meaninglessness of contemporary culture, whether that be through religion, esotericism, violence, aesthetics or art. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; To this point, Atrocities opens with a tortured and despondent view of the 21st century thus far, memorably termed, later in the text,&#38;nbsp;“the tyranny of Fukuyama”. In this section, the poem fiercely describes the depressingly inert and monotonous state of the world, its worthless reduction to a series of flimsy categories and tags, and the coddled, self-interested infants who revel in the crude spectacles left at history’s end: 

“All said before, characteristic –&#38;nbsp;Of dead history, Post- this and that, 
Post-all kinds of twats, miserably, 
Needing to label, everything, 
Needs its brand apparently, needs its
Demarcation, against what, same stuff,
More or less, schizoid toddler lost in time,
Needs rescuing from what, from freedom, 
That thing that was sold to itself as freedom,” 

 The “schizoid toddler” caustically referred to here develops later into the dreaded, greasy face of contemporary technological liberalism: the Nerd. With a biting and punkish sneer, McNamara venomously describes this pathetic figure thus: 

“Man of today, 
Gross little nerd, 
Regardless of belief he betrays always, 
the basis of anything we’d ever call a principle. 
He knows nothing of principle,
Integrity is a word he’s not even the minor of, 
Understanding of, 
For inside him is impasse – 
Amoral oils grease machinery churning envy with pride, 
Nihilism is his slur for anything close to meaning, 
To art, that thing he hates,
Those oils paint no masterworks, 
His culture is sewerage,” 
The Nerd archetype serves as a concentrated expression of a thoroughly nihilistic and philistine culture. Its art is suspect, its eroticism is digitised, its sentimentality a sign of weakness, and its narcissism supreme. Atrocities relays this with a sharpened sense of musicality and rhythm that adds a poisonous, confrontational swagger to its pronouncements; it almost feels as though the poem is spitting these lines at the reader, teeth bared and spoiling for a fight. Yet, while this scathing assessment is undoubtedly accurate and satisfyingly cruel, the angst-stricken tenor of the poem transmogrifies in later sections, blooming into an almost optimistic register. This surprising tonal shift signifies the deeper artistic aspirations of Atrocities and elevates it beyond mere cultural indictment. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; We get a sense of this when the poem introduces the trope of the episcopus vagans into its contents. Loosely translated as ‘wandering bishop’, the term was used pejoratively against bishops who operated independently and without proper institutional appointment from any major religious organisation. Atrocities adopts the episcopus vagans label and applies it to several mercurial intellectual and artistic figures of today. Using poet and artist William Blake as the primary model, Atrocities sees Michel Houellebecq, David Lynch, Norm Macdonald, Mike Kelley, Sarah Kane and Tucker Carlson (to name a few) as modern-day episcopi vagantes, in that they defiantly strayed from the mainstream—along with abandoning its attendant institutions, ideological tenets and political binaries, in the name of some visionary quest for truth, redemption and authenticity. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; In addition to fuelling Atrocities’ bizarre humour, the chaotic diversity of this grouping demonstrates the long-standing nature of this existentialist search and the mutant forms it has taken throughout history. From William Blake’s lone, romantic mysticism to Tucker Carlson’s hyper-mediated political commentary, the underlying impulse animating these subjects remains the same, forged by a visceral feeling of alienation and misalignment. Regardless of how one perceives these figures and their potentially dubious motivations, they all tap into a perennial undercurrent of angst, distrust, and outsiderdom. Moreover, despite their vast differences and contradictory allegiances, the anxieties and insights expressed by this disparate gathering unexpectedly coalesce in a communal desire to cultivate an aesthetic and spiritual consciousness that transcends the staid business-ontology mindset of the contemporary. At one point, Mike Kelley defends the purposelessness of art and its need to be regarded as a separate entity; Tucker Carlson ruminates on the demoralising effect of the office cube and the lack of beauty in contemporary architecture; and David Lynch describes a unified field of pure consciousness which constitutes the wellspring of both mind and matter. By threading these divergent yet interconnected musings together, McNamara underscores Atrocities’ main assertion: that beneath the sterile, corporatised surface of the 21st century, the primeval desire for transcendence through art and aesthetics remains unyielding. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Thankfully, Atrocities never outwardly declares this as its mission. Despite its combativeness, the poem is highly impressionistic and possesses a hypnotic dream-like quality, wherein the pop cultural figures and events revolving throughout the text appear like spectres, mythic beings or psychic projections. The strange, digitised drawings and prints that accompany the poem further enhance its ghostly atmosphere, suggesting by their strained linework and degraded black-and-white colouring a distinctly post-apocalyptic aura. Indeed, this sense of apocalypse and potential rebirth becomes increasingly clear towards the poem’s end. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Via a series of bizarre dialogues and associations centred on the topic of ape violence, the poem unveils the haunting presence of an ape-like demon once banished by William Blake. Beginning with Tucker Carlson recounting his experience of being mauled by an evil spirit, the poem interweaves Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, Ciceronian scholar William McDermott’s essay ‘The Ape in Roman Literature’, and Charla Nash’s interview with Oprah (to name only a few references) to form a transhistorical portrait of this mutable demon. All this terminates in Jeffrey Epstein being dragged down to the fiery pits of Pandemonium by a “demon monkey-rat” which has crawled out of his prison cell toilet. The exact meaning of this remains ambiguous. Is the reemergence of the ape-demon a sign of an impending apocalypse, of inevitable civilisational collapse? Or is this entity the psychic manifestation of a renewed poetic spirit issued from Goethe’s “independent second world” of art, where the morals and considerations of the everyday no longer apply? Or perhaps, more thrillingly, the ape-demon signifies the interpenetration of these two seemingly opposite impulses, constituting what may well be the end of the end of history. 
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; For all its bite and snarl, a twisted breed of optimism squirms within Atrocities’ rippling cascade of associations and citations. While at times disturbing and bewildering, what the poem so vividly portrays is a will to salvage and rebuild a cultural consciousness out of the dying embers of the contemporary, which smoulder and burn with furious, untapped artistic and metaphysical qualities previously thought dead. The effect is mythic and incantatory, without devolving into nostalgia. Whether we like it or not, the webs of history continue to spin, spooling and coiling threads of the past into our knotted present, manifesting an array of mutant recurrences and beguiling fusions across the political, social, religious and artistic spectrum. While some shriek in horror at the monsters this may bear, and shrilly gesture to the lacerations this could inflict, Atrocities reckons with this chaos, locating within it the potential to usher in a revitalised artistic and cultural spirit. &#38;nbsp;


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		<title>Once More with Feeling, by Grace Coppola</title>
				
		<link>https://dispatchreview.info/Once-More-with-Feeling-by-Grace-Coppola</link>

		<pubDate>Thu, 17 Sep 2026 05:58:46 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>dispatch review</dc:creator>

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Once More with Feeling
	by Grace Coppola.&#38;nbsp;
	Saturday, 19 September 2026


Although the living is subject to
the ruin of time, the process of decay is at the same time a process of
crystallisation, that in the depth of the sea, into which sinks and is
dissolved what once was alive, some things  “suffer a sea-change”  and
survive in new crystallised forms and shapes that remain immune to the
elements, as though they waited only for the pearl diver who one day will come
down to them and bring them up into the world of the living — as “thought
fragments,” as something “rich and strange,” and perhaps even as everlasting Urphänomene.


— Hannah Arendt[1]


Set against the backdrop of information overload and endless
technological progress, the group exhibition Once More with Feeling lodged
in _____g.s. in the second half of July. While we are
inundated with proposals for the future of our species, perpetually threatening
the end of our current ways of life, artists Lyndon Blue, Julia Suddenly, Chloe
Spiers-Atherden, and Alex Last respond by staging rituals of remembrance for
our once most essential and humble human attachments. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; The Promethean dreams of tech
oligarchs are being realised by the pervasive, unconsensual gleaning of our
personal data, along with mining the corpuses of all knowledge producers who
ever lived, in order to train their proprietary LLMs. AI companies desire most
to be the first to achieve artificial general intelligence, an AI model whose
learning and knowledge capabilities equal or surpass humans’ own.[2]What may be achieved regardless are AI driven information systems with near
perfect knowledge of our desires, tastes, whereabouts, social and political
affiliations, by their awesome powers (supplemented by underpaid data workers[3])
of surveillance, prediction, and ultimately imitation and automation. In 2024,
Oracle cofounder Larry Ellison claimed that “citizens will be on their best
behaviour because we are constantly recording and reporting everything that’s
going on.” The use of these models consolidates AI as panopticon, but the
collected data of our lives may also be folded into select advanced models,
reducing noisy diversity and marginality in translation to the terms of a
centralised system. Models become company black boxes that may eventually
“[rule] over us without giving us anything but nominal control over our own
lives.”[4]


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Investment in AI continues,
despite hundreds of billions in losses[5], by sheer
faith that revolutions in productivity are forthcoming. The development of AI
did not respond to any urgent need or desire conveyed by the public; the advent
of AI opened a new market and investment flooded in expectation of profit, over
the heads of a global populace[6].
Hapless we are and, to extend the technofeudalist metaphor, subjected to rivers
of digital excrement forfeited by these systems, like medieval peasants doused
in the street. Gemma Weston’s Witnessing at _____g.s. in February
reckoned with the rivulets of junk converging on our online content streams,
where linear sequencing does little to distemper the erratic flow of sloppy and
brutal content. AI threatens, if not to outmode us, then to continue to fundamentally
infiltrate our work and our lives, whether it succeeds as promised or
ultimately implodes.[7]


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; There are also, in a thin
gravitational ring 36,000km above the equator called the geostationary orbit,
global military and commercial telecommunications satellites that, insulated
from orbital decay, will outlive us.[8] Yet the
obsolescence which Once More with Feeling minds
is much closer at hand. It takes intra- and intergenerational change as
its frame of reference—the Nokia phones which Lyndon Blue arranges and Chloe
Spiers-Atherden and Alex Last’s Waldemar piano, as well as a recorded
conversation with its previous owners, index a rate of technological
advancement which rapidly renders even the most novel and beloved inventions
outmoded. In contrast, the cosmic register of Iain Dean’s exhibition Tongue
against teeth[9],
which ran concurrently with Once More with Feeling at the AVA Gallery,
embraced a much wider extent in its meditation on human obsolescence in the
long distant future. Stairs leading to an obstructive canvas of ambiguous
offering; Dean’s works both divulged disillusionment and embraced it as a mode
wrought by reckoning with earth’s fate, heat death in the collapse of the sun.[10]


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Instead, Once More with
Feeling reckons with the effects on human life of the uncertainty and
unpredictability of progress, of the perpetual slipping of the rug out from
under us. The works assembled argue that human familiarity, intimacy with, or
attachments to objects prevail parallel to progress, which supersedes us and
renders objects unusable without our consultation. In effect, how can we tend
ourselves, know ourselves, if extensions of ourselves are constantly being
upgraded? Where our bonds with others are mediated by an antique, what happens
to this matrix of relations when the essential object is forsaken? 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Among the found objects,
keepsakes and curiosities shown in Once More with Feeling, were
twenty-six Nokia phones. Dredged up from the sands of time, deep in junk 

drawers,
like palm-sized pearls of more bulk and brick than tech today, screens still
iridescent, they were first reappraised by a renewed proximity to people, by
recognition. Some gallery patrons spent time finding the model they owned from
the twenty-one lined end-to-end on the windowsill, marking certain periods in
their lives, “I used to have this one!” 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Five phones, arranged
séance-stellate on a concrete-block, were reanimated by the power of a chiptune
version of “Don’t Give Up.” The song played on loop with the scratchy sonic
timbre of a very old incessant birthday card, an infirm phone moaning under the
surprise new stress put on its speakers. Nevertheless, Peter Gabriel’s tune
played triumphantly, a bardic entreaty directed at any listener to gather
persistence of will, constancy, and memory, as if the Nokia’s miraculous
survival should be a testament to our own capacity to persevere. Four other
phones played elegiac accompaniment to Gabriel; a pad synth track, a quietly
chiming field recording, and gently humming vocal synth drone, had their moment
during five-minute silences in the main track. This soundscape was idyllic,
light and diaphanous, evoking retreat and regeneration as much as Elysium, the
other side of triumph, where these objects will ultimately retire forever.&#38;nbsp; 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; These outmoded objects carry
firsthand experience of the path to obsolescence and almost appear aware of the
marvel of their reanimation in the show. As much as their recontextualisation
from communications devices to art objects within the gallery space gestures at
possible new functions in an alternative future, the novelty of their
reanimation inevitably underlines the permanence of their obsolete status.
Similarly, as much as Spiers-Atherden and Last’s simulacrum of their antiquated
Waldemar piano, reproducing its unique, out-of-tune keys on a MIDI keyboard,
demonstrates the capacities of new technology to reanimate old mediums, the
transposition of its sound anticipates the deterioration of a still-functioning
object, a funeral march before the death, a bleak homage that foregrounds
impending obsolescence. The decay of this object will entail, too, the decay of
social bonds, the unravelling of ties to specialised piano movers, tuners, and
teachers, to be superseded by something unknown.


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Once More with Feeling could
be viewed as a chamber carved out from within the surge of tunnel-vision
progress. We are not far from the Anglican chapel of my schooldays—a
Waldemar/MIDI piano for an organ, 8-bit hymns, litany from a YOTO box, cake for
Eucharist, candles, altars. Patrons are invited to light the sausage-fat
candles of Suddenly’s “Sunday Service,” to smell the grease collected from
Bunnings’ cultural mainstay, to heed “Don’t Give Up,” to put on headphones and
become privy to conversations recorded on the YOTO, and to play the MIDI,
encouraging renewed attention to materiality and sensations felt in the present
moment. At the same time, consider the gallery space itself insulating against
the profane vicissitudes of change and chance rampaging in the outside world; only the cool, divine light of the sun can soak the room.[11] The
objects within this shelter invoke a closed system of values antithetical to
the imperative for progress, resisting overdetermination by a hierarchical
progress narrative. Such a conceptualisation would see, and reduce, these
objects to evolutionary stages preceding an ultimate culmination of
technological perfection. In Once More with Feeling, rather, the
sacramental posture of these objects converges with their sentimental value and
seeming capacity of these commodities to, in Benjamin’s words, “nestle”
into our hands and houses,[12]&#38;nbsp;and they’re wholly recast as facets and precious extensions of the human soul.
Though this use of objects is rhetorical and far short of implying or positing
a machine ethics, Once More with Feeling prompts contemplation on what
it means to know thyself when our perimeters, our human limits and
limitations, are constantly in flux and uncertain. 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Once More with Feeling is
timely, and on par with fellow artists’ anxieties regarding digital mediums,
obsolescence, uncertainty, and progress—about which themes further exhibitions
are certain to follow. Weston at _____g.s. and Dean at AVA Gallery but also,
currently showing, Bill’s PC presents Nihaal Faizal at AGWA, wherein
Faizal documents the difficulties of informal, personal preservation when both
memory and medium are fragile and fickle, when digital technologies fizzle, and
the disposal of digital artefacts (blogs, YouTube videos) to which we are most
attached can be random and capricious. It includes a durational playlist of
“liked” videos, an engagement with a platform that is far in excess of
Weston’s precise temporal bounds, to stand not as an extended documentary
project, but a living, growing extension of the treasure-house of memory.
Faizal’s playlist has a capacity for endless expansion (you can add to it
yourself), conceptually rivalling Dean’s meditation on stellar annihilation—5.1
billion videos on YouTube, 6 billion years until the sun dies. Such expansion
is limited only by humans’ somatic capacity to interact with the platform’s
interface, and our own curatorial and media proclivities. What if his digital
archive was suddenly lost? How could it be reanimated, what form could such an
encore take, how futile would these efforts be? 


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; A final note to emphasise is that
we feel the sea-changes of progress collectively, and despite any estrangement
from one another that online presence produces - each man his own agora - Once
More with Feeling stresses commonality and communion, ensuing from a
re-attention to hardware, objects, and medium itself, against a fascination
with content. As the capacities of technology continue to expand, in imitation
of our minds, and as we lend more of our lives and ourselves to these machines,
a re-familiarisation with these devices sleekly designed to invisibly recede
from our attention may offer a pathway back into the world and towards one
another.


Footnotes:

1. Hannah Arendt, Men in Dark Times. 1970:
205–206.


2. ChatGPT’s newest model, GPT-6 Astra, was released to
the general public on September 4th to mixed reception. ChatGPT president Greg
Brockman and Nvidia CEO Jensen Huang claimed the release as an inaugural moment
for AGI, others have used the term “proto-AGI.” Gary Marcus, while accepting
that the model is an advance, reproves the view that it represents AGI. See
Gary Marcus, "Sad to See Jensen Huang Claim That AGI Has Arrived, with No
Evidence and No Definitions," Marcus on AI (blog), 7 September
2026, https://garymarcus.substack.com/p/sad-to-see-jensen-huang-claim-that. 


3. Antonio Casilli, "Behind Every Algorithm: The
Unseen Workers Powering AI," Polytechnique Insights, June 17, 2026, https://www.polytechnique-insights.com/en/columns/digital/ai-the-invisible-yet-very-real-work-of-data-workers/. 


4. Mikael Brunila, "Taking AI into the
Tunnels," e-flux journal, February 2025, https://www.e-flux.com/journal/151/652643/taking-ai-into-the-tunnels. 


5. See "Is AI Profitable?" https://isaiprofitable.com/. 


6. Dylan Riley, "Blind Guesses," New Left
Review, September 4, 2026, https://newleftreview.org/sidecar/posts/blind-guesses. 


7. Cédric Durand, "After AI," New Left
Review, January 15, 2026, https://newleftreview.org/sidecar/posts/after-ai. 


8. Trevor Paglen, "Some Sketches on Vertical
Geographies," e-flux journal, October 2016, https://www.e-flux.com/architecture/superhumanity/68726/some-sketches-on-vertical-geographies. 


9. See Iain Dean, Tongue against Teeth,
exhibition floorsheet (A–V–A Gallery, 2026), https://a-v-a.gallery/media/pages/program/iain-dean2/0e07e0fcd1-1784691847/2026-roomsheets-id-digital.pdf. 


10. Research published earlier this year from the
University of Leuven suggests Earth may not in fact be engulfed by the sun.
(Hooray!) See M. Esseldeurs, S. Mathis, and L. Decin, "The Fate of Earth
during the Sun's Giant Phases: New Constraints from Ab Initio Tidal Modelling
and AGB Mass Loss," Astronomy &#38;amp; Astrophysics 710 (June 2026):
L26, https://doi.org/10.1051/0004-6361/202660576. 


11.&#38;nbsp;Brian O'Doherty, "Inside the White Cube: Notes on
the Gallery Space, Part I," Artforum 14, no. 7 (March 1976), https://www.artforum.com/features/inside-the-white-cube-notes-on-the-gallery-space-part-i-214843/. 


12. Walter Benjamin, Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet
in the Era of High Capitalism, trans. Harry Zohn, 55.
Images courtesy of _____g.s. 


Photography by Wayne
Lim, @waaaaayne_


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