Additional Info
Here, there, and here again
Here, there, and here again is a group exhibition of new ceramic objects by artists Cura Wei, Goosullae Kim, Janice Wu, Pauline Meade and Thannie Phan (gốm maker).
The works are made in response to time. The makers all have slow, highly involved, methodical practices, informed by the repeated exercise of paying close and constant attention to the small, inconsequential questions that the work elicits and attempting to resolve them, one after the other.
For “Here, there, and here again”, the artists have crafted pourers, vases and sculptures that signify a library of their collected experiences. The vessels are finite containers of intimate memories, using clay as the primary medium, formed with traditional techniques and guided by contemporary surface treatments.
Story from the artist
I am one year old. I have just woken from a deep sleep and realise I am alone. I don’t yet have the words to express the fear and loneliness I feel, but the panic is deafening.
I am three. I am sitting next to my mother on the plane. I have no inclination as to where we are going, and I am oblivious to where we are. I sense my mother’s trepidation, so I give her an embrace.
I am five years old. It is my first day at school and I can’t comprehend what my teacher is saying to me. I am unable to tell her and I feel claustrophobic. I think she feels the same, but I am uncertain because I don’t understand.
I am eight. My parents have taken my older sisters and me on a holiday. I am elated; I haven’t stopped smiling for days. My parents are joyful and my sisters want to play with me. This must be what true happiness feels like. I am certain of this.
I am eleven years old. I receive a phone call from my father. He tells me I am moving overseas in two weeks. I laugh, my father is funny. He tells me he can’t wait for me to see my new school. I realise he is being sincere and a scorching heat falls over my head.
I am fifteen. My first love has just told me he no longer cares for me. As I stare at his note, my face burns and my vision blurs. It feels like a bear is sitting on my chest and the weight is unbearable.
I am sixteen. I sit beside my sister’s bed as she sleeps. I stare blankly at the fluorescent lights above me as my mother cries silently next to me. I am bored and confused and completely unaware. I want us all to go home.
I am eighteen. I am at the airport and I have been waiting to leave this prison for seven years. My father has his arms around my mother while they wave at me through the terminal gates with tears in their eyes. I wave back, not crying but also not knowing the regret I will feel years later.
I am twenty-one. I look at myself sadly in the mirror as I try on a pair of jeans that no longer fit. The boy I have been dating for three years comes up and wraps his arms around me. He gives me a kiss on the head and tells me how cute I look. I have never felt so safe and loved.
I am thirty years old. I have just finished traversing the rugged Tasmanian landscape. I ache, everywhere. I am covered in sweat and grime. My stomach is empty and I am chilled to the bone. I am exhausted but I feel so alive and content.
I am thirty-one. I am in a van in the middle of nowhere. My husband is driving us through rivers that run to a distant destination but there is no reception and we are lost. I should be concerned but I’m not, because he is with me.
I am thirty four. I sit across the table from my parents as we share our last meal together. I am leaving for the airport again. These moments are always poignant, and it gets harder every time. I notice the additional lines on their faces since the last time I saw them, and I finally understand all of the lessons they have taught me over the years.