Barely sustained almost-notes crack electrically through the signal path and mither conversations for attention. Some grunts thrum forward, warnings of false starts and tested switches, nearly ready for whatever unplanned or not is supposed to happen.

Pay attention. Facing forwards. Falling forward in conversation, emphatically driving the point home though I’ve lost the reason why I was talking about this in the first place. But, “Gggrgrrrummmm…”, and necks turn - soft marbles on taut rubber bands - pivot to tune their curious ear; clock the beautiful mess mounted on the wall, think of historical references but don’t say anything; hand paused grammatically while the interruption stirs again.

“No, that wasn’t a meant sound, I don’t think…?”

Halted elbows slowly rotate from rest, adding value to the phrase not quite in reach. Wine creeps

across the conversation, increases the volume, metered though not noted, on time. Cordoned-off

walls and plinths and screens draw eyes downcast to measure feet to artwork ratio and trigger

silence. Back away, even, and double check you’re not spitting huffy meanings all over the place.

Give it some space. Hot Pink singes my retina enough while staring, and I can see the shape

transcribed in full again when I move my eyes to the blank white wall.

“Yeah, no, I love his stuff. Did you see his last show?”

Glasses slurp forth in often had convictions as to who’s been making what and why is it that sound gets reframed as art in galleries these days? “I’m not sure,” I add. We are glad that there’s someone peeking over the tall paling fences of form classification. “Eeeeh,” the clump of people nod, and lean in to kiss the ears of those who’ve recently strolled in. Nick talks again of cross-programming as a way of agitating cultural cliques. “Don’t new ideas come from this?” Sydney’s venues, galleries, and artists want as much community support as possible, though he didn’t mean that meant one shouldn’t critique. What were we trying to miss out on before that, anyway?

Tongues lash the rooves of mouths inadequately articulating interests, with grace, mismangled by the craving to sound sharp, dropping the want to ask why. Soft and nicely rounded non-comments bear blank (speech) bubbles cited by daily administrative hardship (“Sigh!”). At the tops of ears an attenuated whistle kicks the room against their hands, eyes frown, “Gaaaaaaawwwwww” and suck the air in through whet teeth and cheeks, hissing backwards with tightened molars.

Someone sounds as though they’d like to announce something but it’s muffled by the chatter-swamp. Nobler faces nod and smile downwardly in appreciation; unsure what’s ahead in the night, but it’s over there, probably. The squawk of a man heralding the proper beginning of something asks us to face forward. “It’s definitely more complicated than that,” she says. The argument continues slowly with interruptions, unfounded but more interesting than a book, over the crowded static heads who faced forward and the giddy leather jackets turning necks to check something they can see’s not stepped on.

“Wwrrrrrrrrrrrrr…,” and the face heats, words cupped cleanly short. Guts clench in provocation, necks stretch, eyes search.

Monika Brooks

February 2015

installation images by Docqment