Tuesday, February 23, 2010


Its also where all the debris washes up, the tidal flotsam, the litter against the edge of the fence.
I like the idea of flotsam and litter, allows a bit of wrongness, a bit of edgeiness into the discussion.
The edges of  piers are always fascinating, the possibilities of jumping, the edges of different materials touching, colliding, interacting...rust and rot...the stain of time and weather.

1 comment:

Colleen DaRosa said...

I love the old wharves around the inner Sydney harbour and Heather evokes those memories:
Docklands' creaking wharves – timbers silvered by salt caked sea and sun. Giant tree trunks felled and planted again dead in the depths creating squealing platforms to launch from edge to edge. Great carcasses rust along side the shimmer and tinkle of yachts and shiny faces baked. You can feel the rank smell of burbling mud, alive with crusty hermits, when the edge shifts in time with the ebbs and flows of the great ocean's moon walk.