Ron Mueck at the GoMA

Last weekend, KG brought my friend PS and I to Brisbane for a day. PS had flown in from Malaysia to spend a couple of days with us and I thought it would be nice for her to experience as much of Queensland as one could within 4 days.

The Ron Mueck exhibition at the Gallery of Modern Art had come highly recommended. Whilst waiting for KG, who was in line for the tickets, I came across this amusing piece near the entrance.

Too Much Sushi II by Niki Hastings-McFall. This will look extremely familiar to anyone who's ever been a student in Australia. I always wondered what to do with the packets.

Ron Mueck is a Melbourne-born, London-based artist who is most well-known for his lifelike fibreglass sculptures. Surprsingly, photography (though not flash photography) was permitted.

Dead Dad. This was the piece that shot him to fame. Mueck made this after his father passed away. It's also the only sculpture using his own hair.


A girl. The picture quality doesn't do this justice. The lashes are fine and sparse, the little hair on her scalp plastered.


Look at the detail on the toes.


I have no idea what the name of this piece is, but it's just perfect. Like the details on the ribs, the stray grays in the hair, the awkward, self conscious expression on his face...





This isn't a real hand, but look at the hairs, the veins and there's even sun spots so faint that the camera didn't pick it up. And the goosebumps on the skin of the buttocks. Amazing stuff.


Woman with sticks. One of the nicest things about the exhibition was how the sculpted pieces resembled real, normal people. With the current obssession on perfection, it was an actual relief to see some dimples (not just on the face), wrinkles and love handles.


In bed.


Wonder what she's thinking about?


Two women. This makes me think of famished, fearful Eastern Europe back in the day.


Old woman in bed. This is only a little one, but the detail once again, was wonderful. If you looked carefully enough, she even has teeth.


Man in boat.


Still life. A familiar scene at your local chicken rice stall.


No, it's not a real chicken. But feathers are used.


Pool time. I wonder if it was deliberately set crucifix-style?


I checked. His eyes are half open under those sunnies.


Mask II. This is a self portrait, which is hollow.


Even the five o' clock shadow consists of painstakingly embedded 'hairs' which are a fair bit thicker than your average foliage.


Not sure what this one is called. Perhaps a political message against violence in Africa?

It was strangely intimate, looking at these non-people people, mostly nude or in resting positions, often looking vulnerable. I once read Courtney Love's biography by Poppy Z Brite. After Kurt Cobain shot himself, she had casts made out of his hands. I suppose if I had the resources, I'd love to have some sculptures of people I love done, just to remember them by.

Camping in Springbrook

KG, LD and I set off to Sringbrook to experience 3D2N of camping. Unfortunately, camping in the mountains during winter comes with near freezing temperatures. Winter on the Gold Coast is pretty tolerable really, but the (slightly) increased altitude made for an extra drop of 3C. Thankfully, KG had the sense to bring along every warm item in the house, although this did render our 2 man tent somewhat claustrophobic.

Whilst we were both rugged up in multiple layers. Sergeant LD happily waltzed around in a tee and cargos, boasting of week-long treks through the Tasmanian jungles and going 5 days without showers.

Having no appropriate outdoorsy gear, I was suited up like an aerobics instructor with kid-sized Nikes on my feet (adult sizes start at 6, which are too big).

The day grew dark swiftly. We lugged our edibles to the kitchen, where clean electric pans were available for public use.

Sausages from the Ferry Rd Markets for dinner

After an uncomfortably freezing night (granted KG let me have possession of the hot water bottle) of tossing and turning and one quick visit to the lavatory (read: bushes), we awoke to a frosty morning.

View of the Purlingbrook Falls from above

The goal was to complete a 6km trek to the bottom of the falls. Sergeant LD, with his experience of the extremes, had deliberately chosen an easier route for us amateurs.

The cool morning gave way to rising temperatures and soon I was shedding off some of my 3 layers. The spray from the fall was very soothing.

Note the two faint rainbows


A view from under the moderate gush - Queensland hasn't been receiving much rain of the late

An impressive clump of fungi

At the bottom, we nibbled on our snacks and drank from the stream. The water was surprisingly crisp and sweet. Having grown up in a country where 'river' meant opaque, almost solid-looking brown liquid (with pink, filled garbage bags bobbing around on top), I was very impressed.

Jan: We drank from the river.

Ma: Aiyoh, afterwards diarrhea how?

Jan: This isn't Klang river, Ma.

Sergeant LD walked at a brisk pace, forcing us ducklings to huff and puff after him.

Tobacco plant

There are no shower facilities on the campgrounds (not to mention the stuff that comes out of the pipes is freezing), so I washed my hair in a most uncivilized manner. It was either that, or look like a greasy-haired Korean female ghost for the next 24 hours.

Lunch was at a quaint little restaurant nearby. I forget the name as usual, but the pie (all three of us had the same, thanks to the pie seed I planted in everyone's heads) was pretty decent, as was their sticky date pudding, which KG gracefully planted on the carpet. The staff were nice enough to replace it. Incidentally, pies means dog in Polish. A little trivia never hurt anyone.

This shimmering mass is actually a tangle of dewey human hair, found on our campgrounds as we packed up to leave the next day

Hollowed tree

Moss, up close and personal

Food, music and spiderettes

I currently have a blind pimple the size of a grapefruit (okay, I exaggerate - maybe a pea, but a LARGE pea) right beside my left eye, which unlike zits around the hairline and jawline, is completely impossible to miss, like a well-endowed lady's chest, but less flattering.

Tiramisu, which apparently, isn't actually Italian.


The new pontoon by the Brisbane River, which bobs along with the waves and ripples.


Before anyone calls me juvenile, I'd like to point out it wasn't me who noticed this first.


KG and I spent Thursday night at the Judith Wright Centre for Contemporary Arts in Fortitude Valley. There were 2 artistes performing 40 minute sessions each. The first was Jon Rose, who gave a very energetic violin performance, aided by his Mac. The music was very Stanley Kubrick-esque, accompanied by lots of arm flailing and discorded sounds. Mr Rose, whom I somehow perceived as a Tortured Genius (Tortured: the music; Genius: how does one make that many sounds with such a simple instrument?), explained that the bow was fitted with a device which produced the mentioned sounds, depending on the movement.

"Why was I flailing my arm around like a deranged person? Oh that's art."

After Mr Rose, then came Chris Abrahams of The Necks (whose music is more random than that of Sigur Ros). KG and I, having experienced his music before, anticipated the unanticipated-able. Sure enough, he spent most of the 40 minutes tinkling the same note. KG snickered quietly through the performance, at the unfittingly solemnity of the occasion, whilst I giggled at the man sitting in front of us, whose head gently dipped towards his left shoulder again and again, as he fought to remain conscious in the lulling and repetitve tune.

Lakes cafe+bar at Varsity Central. My driving instructor had once told me of this fabled place, which I stumbled upon whilst hunting for my interview venue. Very lovely atmosphere, decent (though not outstanding) food.


Creepy lump at the leopard tree in our garden, when gently blown at...

... unfolds into a hundred baby spiders.

Cultural Learnings of Japan for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Australia

Last weekend, KG and I headed to Mikado Restaurant in Surfers Paradise for a sumo-related charity event. We were slightly late, having initially gone to the wrong venue.

Now like any good Malaysian, I've had my fill of Japanese cuisine, read my manga and watched my Sailormoon anime (people under the age of 23, just ignore me). Heck I even took Japanese language classes at school briefly.

However, an actual formal (the formality is to debatable, with a few men turning up in cargo shorts) event with Japanese people is a different thing altogether. For one thing, we stuck out like sore thumbs, having turned up 3 minutes later than the stated starting time. Everyone else was de-shoed and neatly seated, as we scurried to the empty mats.

The Mistress of Ceremonies, had been a sumo sports commentator on NHK for 15 years, so her explanations of the formal traditions and Japanese sumo culture were largely lost on me. I surmise that:

a) Sumos are fat (I never said this was going to be enlightening)
b) They start at 15, and usually retire at 35 and it's hard to get in by 28
c) They bestow upon the odd non-Japanese wrestler Japanese names
d) Their habitats (for lack of a better word) are known as 'stables' (this is where KG and I started making jokes about cattle prods)
e) They wear aprons over their thongs loin cloths.
f) One of the aprons was embroidered with a Samsung logo.
g) Wait a minute, isn't Samsung Korean?
h) I keep mistaking the Korean flag as Japanese

They had this group playing the ceremonial drums; the performance is usually pre-match. Very rousing stuff. I can totally see how their practice sessions would set the neighbourhood's canine population off (on a somewhat related note, I live with a man who displays his level of maturity by repeatedly rewinding to the annoying beeping bit in 2001: A Space Odyssey in a successful bid to annoy our neighbour's dog).

Appetisers. "Egguprantu", the nice lady sitting on my right offered by way of explanation, upon observing my skeptical expression whilst prodding the mystery blue stuff.

The chankonabe, which was explained to us, to be very nutritious and essential to the sumo's girth (read: fattening).

Japanese man: (animated Japanese speech, accompanied with lots of nose pinching)

Japanese woman: Soup! Soup!

Me: ... um, okay. Thank you.

KG: Did he say his nose is going to fall off?

The mochi at the end was unexpectedly unpalatable. KG and I frantically thought of ploys to avoid this delicacy without offending our affable Japanese neighbours. I succeeded by dumping it in a random bowl when unnoticed; KG bravely swallowed away.

I utilised my miniscule Japanese vocabulary to my best: itadakimasu, oishii, atsui, obaachan wa nihonjin (how does one say, Well, we're not sure, but she was adopted during the WWII and she doesn't really look Chinese plus my mother and I constantly get mistaken as Japanese, I mean, you first started speaking to me in Japanese too?).

The friendly couple graciously accepted my bastardised offerings and spent the entire time speaking to us fluently in Nihongo, whilst we nodded away cluelessly. What I did not say: gohan (because my rice was missing; I very nearly asked for goku, the spiky-haired main character of Dragonball) and kitsune (I wanted to compliment the lady on her dress, but I wasn't sure if it meant fox or beautiful).

Montblanc cake. Apparently topped with meronnu, but tasted suspiciously like azuki beans.

KG bought and distributed AUD20 of raffle tickets, which produced a sumo shopping bag (larger than the standard fare, of course) and a SUMO SAKE (14.5% alcohol, 35 standard drinks) for me.

I really wanted the umeshu. Oh well.

Post event KG and I -totally overdressed, by the way- had tea on the balcony of Hard Rock Cafe, huddled under my skimpy blue ombre shawl, watching the Gold Coast lights.