01. BRIEF
02. PHOTO SURVEY
03. WIP
04. PROPOSAL
EPHEMERA
WORKS BY:ANNIKA DILLON
ALEXANDRA KHOMENKO
JENNIFER J PAPAIKONOMOU
A truck steps over gravel road, breaking stillness of the morning fog. Nothing has stirred for a long time now. Standing on an edge that meets crumbled rock, stacks of pipes, metal, and rubbish to the right, you can see that the clearing has been abandoned. 5 months? 12 months? It’s unclear. A hum and a cough of petrol, and the key cuts the engine. Final day for clearing construction rubble up. The foggy field edge warms at the tips of grass. You can see the growth. The grass stands back upright in the sun and stretches tall around the asphalt’s edge, claiming back the territory. A gentle line approaches on the left from the field beyond, its momentum finishing when it feels the change in ground. Where the clean urban edge meets living soil. It is unsure of where to end. Restricted Area? the sign next to the field is tilted at an angle. It will fall soon. The return of a bristlebird draws the man out of his front door. Strange? He has watched the construction site stop. Beyond the site his eyes fall over the fresh Line that has caused the quiet. Was that there before? Was it always there? He leaves his front lawn, keys stuffed roughly into his pocket and wool hat tucked under arm. I must investigate these fields, he thinks to himself.
Air currents wash up ash and soil around the rocky basins, tracing grainy lines over the lagoon where the clan meet. They converse at length gesturing over endless pastures, eyes rushing between the cultivated wetland basins. There. They’ll take the Songlines pathway after midday. Shade from the scarred red gum tree spooling over the ring of flattened grass draws people out of the field, some carrying freshly singed fire sticks. You can see her, she has a conical basket around her neck, her child exploring red dirt at her feet. A man nudges her, tell them that the fencing has started, his eyes persist, they’ve rolled over the tubular fields! He knows the future is uncertain. The hum of birds riding wind currents, hunting out seeds draw him back to calm. But she notices the air is shifting. It is harsh, it moves faster above where the kangaroos graze. They chew spear grasses, turning their heads to the change. They move away from fields of blue and yellow. A Line, defined, moves with the herd, leaving behind the warmth of morning’s activities. The flattening of fields takes over, the churning of ground disturbs the air. Nature becomes submissive and the line disperses the ground.
The arms of the shed are hung over native plants and dry ground, white peaks held down volcanic rock. If you wait, you’ll see the hum of people coming in and out of the shed. It’s curious; what is beneath? Come and see, collect your produce from the surrounding tent, there’s wildflowers, exchange stories. It reminds the woman of her childhood living in the country. It reminds the man of weekend trail walks with his grandfather as a boy. You can sit on the edge of the roadside, and observe it draw people in from the Line, the folds in the shelter tucking people in from the sting of incoming rain. People collect herbs rich soil, plant fertilizer capsules and water thousands of seedlings. They meticulously move through the fields on bikes pulling large bags of soil. Walk over the basalt rock and follow the uneven ground until it loses edge and becomes soft from spear grasses, blue devil wildflowers, and everlasting daisies. The Line will take you to explore, the man says to the woman, what’s been here all along.
Air currents wash up ash and soil around the rocky basins, tracing grainy lines over the lagoon where the clan meet. They converse at length gesturing over endless pastures, eyes rushing between the cultivated wetland basins. There. They’ll take the Songlines pathway after midday. Shade from the scarred red gum tree spooling over the ring of flattened grass draws people out of the field, some carrying freshly singed fire sticks. You can see her, she has a conical basket around her neck, her child exploring red dirt at her feet. A man nudges her, tell them that the fencing has started, his eyes persist, they’ve rolled over the tubular fields! He knows the future is uncertain. The hum of birds riding wind currents, hunting out seeds draw him back to calm. But she notices the air is shifting. It is harsh, it moves faster above where the kangaroos graze. They chew spear grasses, turning their heads to the change. They move away from fields of blue and yellow. A Line, defined, moves with the herd, leaving behind the warmth of morning’s activities. The flattening of fields takes over, the churning of ground disturbs the air. Nature becomes submissive and the line disperses the ground.
The arms of the shed are hung over native plants and dry ground, white peaks held down volcanic rock. If you wait, you’ll see the hum of people coming in and out of the shed. It’s curious; what is beneath? Come and see, collect your produce from the surrounding tent, there’s wildflowers, exchange stories. It reminds the woman of her childhood living in the country. It reminds the man of weekend trail walks with his grandfather as a boy. You can sit on the edge of the roadside, and observe it draw people in from the Line, the folds in the shelter tucking people in from the sting of incoming rain. People collect herbs rich soil, plant fertilizer capsules and water thousands of seedlings. They meticulously move through the fields on bikes pulling large bags of soil. Walk over the basalt rock and follow the uneven ground until it loses edge and becomes soft from spear grasses, blue devil wildflowers, and everlasting daisies. The Line will take you to explore, the man says to the woman, what’s been here all along.