Skip to main content

Talking about art is like dancing about architecture


Back to an arty farty black and white photograph today. Here are the Silos that I have featured previously, only from a different angle, and at a different time of day (this was Thursday morning). I like how both the light, and the contrast achieved by choosing black and white show the cracks in the render of the building. Hopefully it will cost the tenants a bomb to fix it. That said, given their likely links to the big end of town, I expect that they will find some way to weasel out of paying for it themselves!

Bitter, moi?

I know that they are luxury apartments, but part of me likes to think of these things as nuclear missile silos. That only happens when I am wistful for the certainties of the Cold War. It is an odd thing to miss, I grant you, but from Tasmania, the old Soviet Union seemed terribly exciting.

Comments

Meead said…
Thanks for your nice photo and controversial notes! I should recommend Sara, the second author of my blog who is an architecture student, to view this post of you.
blackie said…
There's something a bit sci-fi about them I reckon. They need to be surrounded by Metropolis-style monorails and weird flying cars.
Julie said…
Spoken like a true trainee-mainlander!
Pat said…
Really? Luxury apartments?
Amusing blog.
Kris McCracken said…
Meead, me? Controversial? Never! ;)

Blackie, we need a monorail in Hobart badly. A co-monorail/cable car to Mount Wellington.

Julie, I have had numerous opportunities to become a mainlander, but I am far too proud a Tasmanian to sell out to the north island. I’m not leaving unless I get a post to Nuremberg, Prague, Budapest or Sofia!

PS, I never knew that silos could be made into apartments either, until they did them here!

Popular posts from this blog

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...