1610
England 1610 , my great great great great great great grandmother Gloriana made a living as a card girl at the local jousting matches . She was madly in love with her horse, Althalos.
Her job entailed parading up and down the circuit before each joust carrying a placard made of woven silk paper displaying the next contestants names. She enjoyed this job immensely and took great pride in it and all the social obligations that came with it.
Her father disapproved of this profession and sent her from the family castle to live in the stables. This is where she bonded with Althalos and spent many nights stroking his tail and speaking of counties she wished to visit.
One day whilst walking in the woods she was startled by a fox which proceeded to tell her of a murder that had taken place the night before deep in the woods near the lake. Scared, but also intrigued she made her way through the valley and came upon the lake. The lake was vast and the mist that enveloped it made it difficult to see. Gloriana silently sat at the edge and pondered her life.
Feeling a deep sorrow well up inside her heart, she fell to her knees and began drinking the water from the lake. Gloriana swallowed as much as she could , filling up her soul with the sweet liquid until she felt there was no more room left in her bottomless stomach. Suddenly she sat back on her knees and screamed `All my life has been spent entertaining others !`.
It was then she decided to stop being a card girl and become a nun. Just as this moment occurred the fox lept out from the bushes and tore her throat out, spilling her crimson blood across the lakes' edge. She died peacefully almost surrendering herself to her fate, knowing she was now at one with her god.
This was no ordinary fox, as he gathered all the spirits of the woods and lake to make her whole again, but this time she was to be known as Sara.
She rose from the edge of the lake resplendent in her new body and gowns and set forth into the mountains, never to be seen again.
Her job entailed parading up and down the circuit before each joust carrying a placard made of woven silk paper displaying the next contestants names. She enjoyed this job immensely and took great pride in it and all the social obligations that came with it.
Her father disapproved of this profession and sent her from the family castle to live in the stables. This is where she bonded with Althalos and spent many nights stroking his tail and speaking of counties she wished to visit.
One day whilst walking in the woods she was startled by a fox which proceeded to tell her of a murder that had taken place the night before deep in the woods near the lake. Scared, but also intrigued she made her way through the valley and came upon the lake. The lake was vast and the mist that enveloped it made it difficult to see. Gloriana silently sat at the edge and pondered her life.
Feeling a deep sorrow well up inside her heart, she fell to her knees and began drinking the water from the lake. Gloriana swallowed as much as she could , filling up her soul with the sweet liquid until she felt there was no more room left in her bottomless stomach. Suddenly she sat back on her knees and screamed `All my life has been spent entertaining others !`.
It was then she decided to stop being a card girl and become a nun. Just as this moment occurred the fox lept out from the bushes and tore her throat out, spilling her crimson blood across the lakes' edge. She died peacefully almost surrendering herself to her fate, knowing she was now at one with her god.
This was no ordinary fox, as he gathered all the spirits of the woods and lake to make her whole again, but this time she was to be known as Sara.
She rose from the edge of the lake resplendent in her new body and gowns and set forth into the mountains, never to be seen again.
1985
My mothers' house resembles a large ski lodge. Perched high on a terraced english garden , set deep in the Australian bushland, it is an odd mix. Typical though for the period it was built.
Her bathroom is falling apart, tiles crack and fall to the floor, a testament to her marriage to my charming but irresponsible father. Bottles of hope clutter the vanity shelves dusted with face powder. Eyelash crimps I have never seen used. Even the mirror sports a bruise.
Being sixteen, my skin is pure white without a blemish or scar. Still seeing red, the location of the fault is discovered....its my nose. Methodically , I powder. Just enough to look natural.
You see, I must be perfect, soft , fragile and deathly.
We drive to the train station and no words are spoken. My mother is concerned for my well being but knows there is no stopping me and my new found self. No cars pass us , it feels like 4am , however it's only 10pm. Driving through the suburb, we pass various styles of homes. Georgian mansions, American homesteads, bungalows and modernist cubes each with manicured lawns acting like no-go zones that are threatened by the hostile bush.
The train is coming so I dash out of the car , up the ramp and on to the platform where several other aliens wait, some smoking cigarettes, chatting amongst themselves or standing alone at the end of the platform looking sullen and pained.
`Red rattlers` are old single level trains. Quite beautiful and romantic. Still smelling of tobacco and used newspapers. The seats are large, ensconced in green leather, the state rail emblem tattooed to their hides.
The doors aren't automatic but heavy, they slide back with bold determination. You can ride with your legs dangling out if you wish, but it's not advisable. The story of the school boy who lost his arm on the Harbour Bridge is still urban myth.
I sit alone, close to the window. The cold July air caressing my face through the clear glass. Hoping to glimpse the sight of the city as we round the bend near Wollstonecraft. Knowing that people are still awake there. Mixing drinks in high-rise apartments, laughing, dancing and deciding when to head down to Oxford Street or The Strand Arcade where Stranded nightclub lives and breathes the ultimate fashion , the most fantastic men and ladies, and those in between.
Her bathroom is falling apart, tiles crack and fall to the floor, a testament to her marriage to my charming but irresponsible father. Bottles of hope clutter the vanity shelves dusted with face powder. Eyelash crimps I have never seen used. Even the mirror sports a bruise.
Being sixteen, my skin is pure white without a blemish or scar. Still seeing red, the location of the fault is discovered....its my nose. Methodically , I powder. Just enough to look natural.
You see, I must be perfect, soft , fragile and deathly.
We drive to the train station and no words are spoken. My mother is concerned for my well being but knows there is no stopping me and my new found self. No cars pass us , it feels like 4am , however it's only 10pm. Driving through the suburb, we pass various styles of homes. Georgian mansions, American homesteads, bungalows and modernist cubes each with manicured lawns acting like no-go zones that are threatened by the hostile bush.
The train is coming so I dash out of the car , up the ramp and on to the platform where several other aliens wait, some smoking cigarettes, chatting amongst themselves or standing alone at the end of the platform looking sullen and pained.
`Red rattlers` are old single level trains. Quite beautiful and romantic. Still smelling of tobacco and used newspapers. The seats are large, ensconced in green leather, the state rail emblem tattooed to their hides.
The doors aren't automatic but heavy, they slide back with bold determination. You can ride with your legs dangling out if you wish, but it's not advisable. The story of the school boy who lost his arm on the Harbour Bridge is still urban myth.
I sit alone, close to the window. The cold July air caressing my face through the clear glass. Hoping to glimpse the sight of the city as we round the bend near Wollstonecraft. Knowing that people are still awake there. Mixing drinks in high-rise apartments, laughing, dancing and deciding when to head down to Oxford Street or The Strand Arcade where Stranded nightclub lives and breathes the ultimate fashion , the most fantastic men and ladies, and those in between.
1987
Josquin: Missa Pange Lingua - 1. Kyrie.
That was the piece of music I played Paul on what was to be our last night together, although I did not know this important fact at the time. I had been DJ-ing at The Hip Hop club late and it was my birthday. We hadn't seen each other for a while, due to him being a real shit to me weeks earlier. Suddenly his beautiful face was beaming at me over the barrier that separated the punters and the booth. He seemed happy but his eyes betrayed the drugs he was consuming.
Having waited for hours for me to finish, it was only natural we should go back to mine.
In bed, with the Josquin piece playing, candles lit , after sex.
`Want to talk to you` came up from the noise of the room. However it was me that didn't want to talk. He was a strange boy, and thinking it another one of his dreams, I feigned sleepiness , kissing him on the neck, trying to keep myself from falling into another one of his traps.
I can't remember when we both finally slept but it was late. The night still pulsating all around us, I must have dreamt of happier days with this beautiful child, a long way from home.
Needing to be at work on time for once, the best thing was not to rouse him in the morning. I left silently, leaving him a note to meet me that night at Meltdown to keep celebrating my birthday.
That morning, Paul dressed in my clothing, went to work, left work
and threw himself under a train.
That was the piece of music I played Paul on what was to be our last night together, although I did not know this important fact at the time. I had been DJ-ing at The Hip Hop club late and it was my birthday. We hadn't seen each other for a while, due to him being a real shit to me weeks earlier. Suddenly his beautiful face was beaming at me over the barrier that separated the punters and the booth. He seemed happy but his eyes betrayed the drugs he was consuming.
Having waited for hours for me to finish, it was only natural we should go back to mine.
In bed, with the Josquin piece playing, candles lit , after sex.
`Want to talk to you` came up from the noise of the room. However it was me that didn't want to talk. He was a strange boy, and thinking it another one of his dreams, I feigned sleepiness , kissing him on the neck, trying to keep myself from falling into another one of his traps.
I can't remember when we both finally slept but it was late. The night still pulsating all around us, I must have dreamt of happier days with this beautiful child, a long way from home.
Needing to be at work on time for once, the best thing was not to rouse him in the morning. I left silently, leaving him a note to meet me that night at Meltdown to keep celebrating my birthday.
That morning, Paul dressed in my clothing, went to work, left work
and threw himself under a train.
1997
Saturday night would be a perfect routine only punctuated by the occasional mishap in preparation, which was meticulous.
Eating light and early, I would climb into bed setting the alarm for 4am. My stomach was all butterflies, my head always excited, now even more so.
However, sleep came.
Awaking to the alarm was never a problem. mostly I would wake before it rang. Jumping out of bed, my stereo was alive.
After showering, it was costume, quick check of everything and downtown in a speeding cab with the windows down.
The Arena was located at the Palladium Nightclub on 14th street. A cavernous theatre, now decked out in new millennium aspirations of monitors, lights, sculpture and shear noise. It was if the whole building was a machine, a music machine. the sound would be dropped, pumped and pushed out of every possible place. You felt disconnected from adult life and back in the playground.
Dealers were conspicuous by wearing a huge X medallion around there necks. girls from New Jersey accepted academy awards from homeless drag queens wearing stolen Gianni Versace clothing. Being in fashion as he was murdered that year.
`Don't have too much, remember Miami ` blurts Donald, my friend as we break the law in one of the many toilets of the club. Later that evening I would hold him up as we chatted to my new boyfriend Terry.
Ketamine is a drug that 20 minutes after snorting you become anesthetized slightly. Everyday things and technology becomes god like and imprinted with DNA feelings of great importance.
The Arena became a kind of Temple slash Universe. An image of a shark chasing L.L Cool J through an underwater city became prophetic.The lights were looking at you, and the music revealing hidden secrets that only you are receptive too. It was if reality and all its invisible dimensions were revealed.
The down side was a sense of weightlessness burdened by vertigo and being in constant slow motion.
One could be lost in the toilet for hours.
Especially if its mirrored.
Eating light and early, I would climb into bed setting the alarm for 4am. My stomach was all butterflies, my head always excited, now even more so.
However, sleep came.
Awaking to the alarm was never a problem. mostly I would wake before it rang. Jumping out of bed, my stereo was alive.
After showering, it was costume, quick check of everything and downtown in a speeding cab with the windows down.
The Arena was located at the Palladium Nightclub on 14th street. A cavernous theatre, now decked out in new millennium aspirations of monitors, lights, sculpture and shear noise. It was if the whole building was a machine, a music machine. the sound would be dropped, pumped and pushed out of every possible place. You felt disconnected from adult life and back in the playground.
Dealers were conspicuous by wearing a huge X medallion around there necks. girls from New Jersey accepted academy awards from homeless drag queens wearing stolen Gianni Versace clothing. Being in fashion as he was murdered that year.
`Don't have too much, remember Miami ` blurts Donald, my friend as we break the law in one of the many toilets of the club. Later that evening I would hold him up as we chatted to my new boyfriend Terry.
Ketamine is a drug that 20 minutes after snorting you become anesthetized slightly. Everyday things and technology becomes god like and imprinted with DNA feelings of great importance.
The Arena became a kind of Temple slash Universe. An image of a shark chasing L.L Cool J through an underwater city became prophetic.The lights were looking at you, and the music revealing hidden secrets that only you are receptive too. It was if reality and all its invisible dimensions were revealed.
The down side was a sense of weightlessness burdened by vertigo and being in constant slow motion.
One could be lost in the toilet for hours.
Especially if its mirrored.
2029
It's late, my house awakes. the Shadow is playing music. Conducting to it, my body is immersed in information. I dance before the image, still warm from dinner.
By the door are clothes with no more use.
Looking out over the city, drinking from the glass, the light dims slightly as another wave of electricity passes above. I no longer notice it.
Enough money to leave the city and live outside.
Still, doubts about my health.
The orchestra has stopped, I have ceased conducting. Looking through the image looped, the audience is now restless, muttering to their partners ` what's going on ` ?
Embarrassed, coughing continuing my dance all the time feeling absurd.
1971
Gum trees tall and imposing , stood over the street. I was always looking out the back window of the car. Someone new to visit , someone to look at. A mist fills the valley, its cold.
I guess its my first memory, looking up at the therapist. Following her finger, from side to side. Each time rewarded with a smile. My smile back to her was filled with love and seeking approval `good boy` she would say. my mother was not within earshot to celebrate my victory.
My parents named me ` Emperor Hirohito ` as my hair was black and my eyes crossed.
Antiquity
Untitled paintings and drawings ` Legion Thornleigh ` circa 2001-2003 Most of these paintings were done whilst I lived in Williamsburg Brooklyn with a Brazilian by the name of Aturo Machado, a photographer, straight and very unaware of his beauty . He spoke to me of deserts in Brazil, deserts that were inhabited by strange cities and people.
I was new to painting and imagined these `deserts` and the cities that dwelled deep within and fantasied about what life would be lead there.
Our apartment was the top floor of an old defunct bakery, the bottom floor was our italian-american landlord and his son. The old store front was being used as a ` club ` for older italian - american men gathered to discuss I don't know what..
They had 2 ferocious and literally rabid dogs that would chase you up the stairs if you were unfortunate to have been caught heading up the stairs at the same time as their `walk` (3 minutes in the backyard to relieve themselves)... it was terrifying and made me feel that our place was indeed an oasis where good food, wine and thoughts were swapped, admist the chaos and absolute noise of Brooklyn.
Often I would put my music on loud so as not to hear the rabble and make these works, perched on the end of my futon. Splattering paint on the floor and charcoal, but it didn't matter.
These works are the result.
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