Zurich Part 2 - Kunsthaus - 26th June

I am in the cafe courtyard at Kunsthaus in Zurich, Switzerland. I have just visited the gallery and I am enjoying a glass of bitter lemon and listening to loud machinery operating in a nearby street. There are fig trees in the courtyard, a mural, and a sculpture. The ground is covered in loose gravel and the silver metal chairs have blue and white striped cushions on them.

I am not alone in the courtyard. An older man, with white hair and a bald spot, sits at the next table sipping coffee and reading a book. Two women have just entered the courtyard; mother and daughter possibly. One carries a tray with two cups. As they sit, both slip off their shoes and giggle with relief. One, the younger, is putting a fresh corn pad on her left foot.

I know how they feel. My feet and lower legs are also suffering from walking around this large gallery, and standing before it's many fine works.

Kunsthaus is an impressive gallery that strikes a nice balance between works of old masters, and a comprehensive collection of contemporary art.

The first exhibition I viewed featured works by German photographer Thomas Struth. I knew nothing about his work, and to be honest, I entered the exhibition on the basis that his surname is an Australian colloquial exclamation. I found massive prints, rich in colour and detail, on stark white walls in substantial exhibition spaces. His works were grouped by theme; architecture, machinery, landscape, street scenes, family portraits, and interestingly, photos of art gallery visitors reacting to art. I liked the fact that seemingly ordinary subjects became objects of interest and beauty once in the lens of Struth's camera.



From there I entered the wing housing the permanent collection, with something akin to dread. I have realised something about myself recently. The works of the old masters no longer interest me the way they once did. I was initially surprised by this discovery, but I understand it. These ancient works don't have any relevance to my contemporary life and views, and they provoke nothing more than boredom.

As I entered the first room, already mentally rolling my eyes, I heard a voice call out. I couldn't see anyone, although the voice sounded close. I then noticed a piece of carpet had been torn roughly away, to reveal a screen in the floor, smaller than the palm of my hand. A naked woman, being devoured by flames was beseeching, holding her arms up, begging to be rescued. "Get me out of here," I imagined her calling. (She spoke Swiss-German). I could relate. Get me out of here indeed. I scooted through the rooms filled with works by fusty old masters and found the contemporary collection.

Some of it I hated, and some of it I loved. At the very least it provoked a reaction other than boredom. And I broke a rule - despite possessing what I like to think of as a free and easy attitude, I am actually a stickler for rules. The rule I broke? I touched some of the scupltures. There's something about 3d works. They're so textural they're almost begging to be touched. And I really did need to satisfy my curiosity about the work titled "Silent Grey Horse" just to establish if it was made from genuine horse hide. It was.

I did spend some time with the Impressionists too. Monet, Chagall, Van Gogh, and admired the works of Picasso and Dali within the Kunsthaus collection.

The last exhibition I visited was by Albanian video artist Adrian Paci. After the exquisite intensity of discovering the work of French video artist Sylvie Blocher (refer earlier blog) I had high hopes for Paci's exhibition Motion Picture(s). Those hopes were quickly dashed though. Kunsthaus promoted the works as "addressing topics like migration, globalization and cultural identity and uses compelling images to demonstrate the effects of exile, war and social upheaval on the human subject."

Paci is apparently an internationally renowned artist. Maybe so. On the basis of what I saw at Kunsthaus, I'd have to say that I just don't get it. Stop motion scenes of a wedding? Yawn. A giant yarn reel on it's side in the middle of a room? WTF? Only the tawdry, amateurish portrayal of a porn peddler in an Albanian village raised any interest, and that was mild at best.

I guess that's the thing about art - one person's art is another person's great big waste of time. Love it or loathe it, I celebrate the fact that we're free to create it, and people are free (with the exception of admission fees) to see it.

First impressions of Zurich

It's a Friday night, the World Cup is in full swing with countries being eliminated to determine the make up of the finals, and I am in Zurich Switzerland wondering what the hell I'm doing here.

My impressions may be coloured by the fact that I've had very little sleep this week. Not more than 3 hours a night since Monday. Add to that about 30 hours of travelling on various aircraft and waiting in airport lounges around the world. First Melbourne, then Singapore, then London.

So, Zurich seems to be a mix of ancient buildings, shiny fashionable young people (where are all the old people?) and clocks; lots of clocks.

I'm staying at the Zic Zac Rock Hotel in Marktgasse. Each of the rooms is supposedly themed on a famous rock act. I am in the U2 room. The only attmept at a theme is the guitar patterned carpet (which is consistent throughout the building) and three prints of U2 album covers; Under A Blood Red Sky, Rattle and Hum, and Pop. The bed is comfortable (I took a 5 hour nap this evening), and the staff are friendly in a no-nonense kind of way.

I'm in a room overlooking a square, and a number of bars. In the square there is a gay bar, 3 nightclubs (2 catering to gay patrons), a wine bar, a take-away food place, a clothing shop, a retro clothing and accessories shop, and a fantastic place called the "Condomeria" which is actually a shop selling gloriously coloured sex aids, that seems to be run by a dowdy middle aged woman.

The street (or gasse) is cobble-stoned, and it was amusing to watch women in very high heels trying to walk along the street. That's one thing I have noticed - everyone here wears fantastic shoes. I saw a man in shiny silver loafers! And the women's shoes are evenly split between gorgeous decorative ballet flats and sky high stilettos and wedge heeled shoes.

The language is Swiss German (something I'm not familiar with) and not a lot of English. Communication has been fun since I arrived. I have managed to get my message across; albeit with a sleep deprived jetlagged brain.

Upon arrival at Zurich airport I caught an interairport train that appeared to go to "Heidi" and passed through passport control with a smile and a wink. My plan to take the train into the city was abandoned as I suddenly felt my aloneness and general unpreparedness acutely; I took a cab to Marktgasse.

I checked in to Zic Zac, plugged in an adaptor so I could charge my iPhone, and almost electrocuted myself. The plug box fell off the wall, a spark flew from the box, and the adaptor I'd been given was blackened. In the process, I blew all of the fuses in the room so none of the lights or plugs worked. Awesome.

I took a stroll around the place, without the aid of a map. The streets were filled with predominantly young folk, dressed in stylish casual clothing reflecting the warm summer climate.

I had trouble locating a supermarket at first, but found a small one below ground level (Migros) and then a bigger one near the main train station, called Coop.

I bought toothpaste called Candida (It's just wrong, isn't it?), a packet of chips, Evian water and a punnet of blackberries.

Back at the hotel I discovered they do not have Wifi, and was directed to go to either Starbucks for 15 mins internet access, or a bar called Wings that provides unlimited internet access. I chose Wings. An airline themed bar with a substantial cocktail list and retired airplane seats. They also had a big screen TV inside and out of the bar, which was screening World Cup matches. I sank a very strong gin and tonic, exchanged messages on Facebook, and sent long soppy emails home.

I headed back to Zic Zac and lay on the bed, sleeping for about 5 hours, despite the noise outside my open windows; occasionally waking to the sound of vuvazelas. I woke properly at about 11pm and wandered outside in search of sustenance. Food service seemed to be suspended due to the late hour, but I managed to consume enough wine to hopefully ensure a sound night's sleep.

I went to the Barrique Wine Bar, conveniently located underneath my room. I had trouble conveying my order to the staff, and had to stop them pouring red wine rather than white. Not rose, blanc! That piece of confusion appeared to cost me an extra franc when my change arrived, and the first drink was much smaller than the ones that followed. I quickly learned to say "Danke" rather than "Thank you" or "Merci" and was rewarded with ever-increasing amounts in the glass.

It's now just past midnight. I'm back in my room at Zic Zac, eating blackberries and waiting for the noise outside to die down so I can sleep again. The iPod is really coming in handy in that regard, as I can drown out some of the sound with my music - except the vuvazelas. Their sound penetrates everything.

Animal Kingdom

With my tummy full of yummy Tia Amo antipasto, I strolled over to the Nova with a mate to see the hot new Australian film Animal Kingdom. And I say hot, not in a gushy, girly, American celebrity kind of way, I mean red hot in that it's getting great reviews all over the place. So it won't surprise you to find another one here.

The magnificently orchestrated pace of this film keeps your body thrumming with tension from beginning to end. I knew not what to expect when I walked in, having read somewhere it was somehow linked to the story of known underworld figures in Melbourne, but I could tell from the reviews that this was no Underbelly.

There's no glorifying or romantacising criminal life here. This is a brutal, and one suspects realistic, portrayal of the both the bonds that tie families, and the consequences of living outside the law. These characters are not brilliant criminal masterminds, they're all fairly damaged human beings.

Writer/Director David Michod doesn't let the audience relax for a moment, keeping us taut and expecting the worst, and yet still catching us out with surprising plot developments. This is an unpleasant, uncomfortable movie for the viewer, balanced by outstanding performances from a stellar cast. Jacki Weaver's portrayal of matriarch Janine Cody chilled my marrow; in one scene with the equally brilliant Guy Pearce, you can see the character's cold madness distinctly in Weaver's eyes.

Ben Mendelsohn's character Pope seems innocuous at first, although the level of attention paid to him by the police gives you some indication that this is one bad dude. Bad doesn't seem like a strong enough word to apply to Pope, as we watch him casually and dispassionately dispose of those his paranoid mind believes are in his way.

Newcomer James Frecheville is compelling in the role of "J". A pretty non-descript looking fellow, he has surprisingly little dialogue for a lead character, yet still managed to be mesmerising on screen. The changes his character goes through are internally devestating, but externally subtle. But they're there nonetheless; he stands taller, and more open faced in the film's final sequence, no longer the bowed, slack-jawed, mumbling youth we meet in the opening scene. In fact there's a good deal of restraint and subtlety throughout the film; two of its many strengths.

Just like at a live performance, I do like to try and gauge the audience reaction at the cinema. At the afternoon session of Animal Kingdom at the Nova, people around me were tittering in the right places, gasping and shifting uncomfortably in their seats. One woman close to me uttered the word "fucker" contemptuously, during one scene. If that sounds like your kind of film, get along and see Animal Kingdom. But be prepared to be disturbed.

There's been far too much doom and gloom on this blog of late; time to rectify that.

I started this blog by writing about the Labour Day public holiday and the history of its predecessor, the Eight Hour Day.

In Australia we're about to head in to one of my favourite public holidays, the Queen’s Birthday long weekend. We're a week and a half into Winter and the damp air is settling into my bones, and filling my chest and sinus with fluid. Outdoor activities are limited, and we cheer when the sun makes a brief appearance in the middle of the day. It's a time for jackets and jumpers, hot drinks, stodgy food and snuggling. And time for heaters and slippers, hats and gloves, and marathon movie sessions.

The Queen’s Birthday long weekend marks the start of the ski season in the southern states, another reminder that months of bitter cold await us before the warm Spring air touches our skin again.

I, and many others I suspect, treasure this long weekend because it is our last public holiday for five months. The thought of going so long without a paid day off, usually attached to a weekend, is so unappealing that I want every minute of this long weekend to be 120 seconds long. I want to wring every drop of downtime out of it, to sustain me over the coming long, dark winter days. I want to wrap myself in blankets, read books, watch DVDs, eat hot chips and cuddle the dogs. Most importantly, I want more than anything else to sleep. To not be woken by an alarm, to not wake up when it’s still dark, to wake up when my body decides it’s ready to be active (in a lazy kind of way). This will be some kind of bliss.

What ever you decide to do over this long weekend, enjoy it. It’s a long while until the next one rolls around.

At some point over the weekend, I highly recommend you take a look at this article by Michael Leunig, drawing parallels between Winter and ageing. It's a beautifully written piece, titled The Warm Heart in Winter http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/the-warm-heart-in-winter-20100528-wl26.html

In praise of denial

Over the years I have learned that usually the best way for me to address (and get over) issues, concerns, hurt and anger is to confront the source of the problem head on. No matter how daunting the prospect of a difficult conversation has been, I always felt better having said (or yelled) my piece and by having listened and reacted to the response, and adjusting my view of the situation if warranted.

Recently I have had a couple of nasty experiences, too intensely personal to detail on this blog, that have angered, disappointed, hurt and distressed me. Instead of launching straight into confrontation mode I decided to take the time to think things through, and consider all of my options.

Denial was one course of action I considered, but didn’t take up immediately. It didn’t feel right – it didn’t feel like something I could easily do.

So I took an approach of considered confrontation instead. In relation to the first nasty experience, that approach wasn’t entirely satisfying, and in fact raised more questions than it answered. The matter is now in the hands of others, and while I wait for some kind of outcome I have decided the best thing to do is continue on my merry way, denying that anything bad happened or that anything is troubling me, until I’m asked to demonstrate otherwise. I feel much lighter for having made this decision.

Score 1 for denial.

I took a different tack with the second nasty experience, because it felt like there was much more at stake. It started with a stunned but polite exchange followed by a strategic withdrawal into hurt silence, progressed to seeking wise counsel, and ended with a calm expression of my anger and the reasons for it, and a willingness to listen and believe. All good right? Only it wasn’t really the end. But it is in my mind. Why? Because I am consciously choosing to ignore, or deny, coming events. For now at least.

Call it pretence, repression, avoidance, or denial. Say it will all rise up again to bite me on the arse when I least expect it. Claim it will all end in tears. Tell me I’m weak, or stupid. You're probably right on all counts, but I don’t care.

I am consciously and deliberately choosing to embrace denial in my pursuit of fun, and maybe even happiness. And so far it’s working. God help me.