A quick trip to Sydney to catch the Biennale before uni starts again. Cockatoo Island was fantastic, its dilapidated walls and forgotten industrial infrastructure made it feel like Australia’s own Alcatraz. The art works were not to be ignored – theatrical. Designed to impress on us yet even more politically approved social outcries, each artwork spoke of either the environment, consumerism, sexual equality or multiculturalism. The delivery was unique and intriguing, but for me the substance was lacking in originality and honesty. Is today’s artist really a spokesmen for the mute, or is he/she yet another politically correct “tweeter” looking for followers?
Either way, I found myself attracted mainly to the decaying buildings around this island maze. Part of me wanted to find a secret spot, preferably somewhere high up, like an abandoned crane. This is where I would call home. To survive I would live off fish, oysters and the occasional seagull. It wasn’t until a good friend from Brisbane arrived to join me that I came to my senses. After a beer or two, at the Island’s own Asahi bar, I realised just how hard it is to catch a seagull.