Posts Tagged ‘My Writing’

The Indigenous Voice

— Posted on by Sean Batchelor

Designers have long asserted the influence of their craft on a social and political level. It can be demonstrated (from Jazz, to Nazism) where a visual aesthetic has offered more than a colour scheme throughout the course of history and where the tone of communication has galvanised a message. In this new era, we as professional image makers and thinkers in Australia should be asking what is broken, and what can we do to fix it? What can designers offer to the betterment of Australian life?

One such area of great importance is white understanding and acceptance of indigenous culture. The huge difficulty that has faced Aboriginal people is in communication. Plainly, there is a disconnection in language both spoken (heard) and unspoken (seen). This being the result of a violent and guilty past which is tolerated by most westerners with embarrassed forgetfulness and by Aboriginal people with anger and sorrow.

Western designers and artists working in Australia have, in the past, drawn from Aboriginal motifs in proclamation of our independence and individuality from Britain. It plays well for our global identity. However, the presentation of Aboriginal Culture in this way is perhaps just as damaging, given the ongoing national struggle to fully accept and respect the original owners of our country. The plagiarism of indigenous motifs and symbols in this way is simplistic and disrespectful.

Designers today should in all cases present the true sense of what being Australian means, in politically focused messages and – more importantly – in the everyday visual media. It is necessary for this to have within it, an understanding of Aboriginal culture and language. Australian design, fashion, hospitality, entertainment and especially big business should all be open to the recognition of this cultural asset as part of the make up of their visual identity. The result of this would be a collaborative achievement and Australia would benefit for the shared experience, with reconciliation as a natural progression.

Scratchy – A short temper.

— Posted on by Sean

 

OLD STORY

This is a short story that wrote quite a while ago for a free flyer type zine thing for DUL. Thank you Eloise for fixing it.

It was still summer, but it was not hot. I was sitting at a bus stop, alone with my head down, feet placed symmetrically, pointing directly forward. I imagined a landmark, the farthest distance I could conceive and attempted to draw a line between the tips of my shoes and that place. I envisioned my mashed toes overlapping in my tight shoes. What if all of my toes were as long as the illusory line? Delving their way through the crummy, begrimed strip of shops across the road from me and the bus stop, and on throughout the suburbs.

It wasn’t long before an old man’s shadow startled me and prompted me to migrate to a standing position against a nearby wall. When I took my post I noticed that we would have both comfortably fit on the bench but felt strange about returning to my seat.

Soon enough two young children sat down: A brother and sister who looked stupid and unhealthy. The girl was giggling to herself and the boy was staring at her trying to smile along.
The girl immediately opened a sticky taped plastic bag and clumsily extracted a shiny foiled scratchy. She then popped open a leather change purse, startling herself at the snap of the clasp as it burst open. After selecting the shiniest coin in her possession she held both items in front of her eyes and breathed out forcefully, sinking into a zone of total enclosure. Tentatively she carved the first stroke of dull metallic ink from the face of the supple scratchy.

She coughed loudly and whispered something to herself before turning to her brother with such force that she almost head butted him, as she screeched “a million! Man, oh shit a million! Oh my god! I mean Gosh! Shit!” she was now standing and pacing in jagged directions around the immediate vicinity.  She was breathing heavily and pausing every so often to confirm what was indicated on the first cell 3 x 3 grid. She began doing little hops and stamps that made her knees buckle slightly and I could see the colour in her face was thickening.

After forcing herself to sit down, and almost missing the bench altogether she told her brother to “Shut up okay”, even though he hadn’t said anything. She then redrew the coin and after composing her shaking hands up she began tearing back the silver coating to reveal the next number. Before she had finished scratching she was wetting her pants and sweating profusely. She coughed up the words “A MILLION” and stood but immediately fell to her rough knees. I thought I should do something but she scared me and she seemed to be having a good time. She managed to climb to her feet, but she spun backwards and smacked her head against the bus timetable. Causing her to start bleeding, but none of this stopped the desperate grin than was cemented across her entire face. She was on the ground now and slowly pulled the bent cardboard in front of her.

She was dusty and bleeding, her breathing was irregular and she reminded me of a soldier. I was nervous. I felt like I knew what was going to happen next.

Pulling softly at first and then with increasing violence, she ripped open the next number. It was then that she released the most forceful of her episodes.

‘AAARRRRGGGGHHHH! Huff…Huff… AAAHHHHRRRRRG Huff.’

She withdrew from the ground slamming her head on the underside of the bench. Opening her previous head wound further and sending a thin splurt of blood shooting across the pavement. Her brother had his feet up on the bench clearly nervous. She began spitting indirectly and punching herself in the face. She scratched at the exma on her knees and began ripping matted clumps of blood soaked hair from her scalp. She bit her palms and was frothing feverishly at the mouth, stopping at intervals to let loose a painful cries that sent her body to the ground eventually causing her to collapse and begin rolling involuntarily every which way. Her body would arc into a bridge before slamming flat against the ground with deep thuds that I felt from my distance. She was still holding the scratchy and quickly rushed through the next few chances, each one causing her to convulse and finally projectile vomit into her filthy hands, soaking the cruel paper gamble in acidic bloody liquid. She launched herself to her knees and thrust her grazed hands at her brother ripping him off his seat and slamming his large head into the cement. He began crying and kicking, eventually making contact with her gut, sending her onto her side and into the gutter. She was still weeping with a passion that would convince the most sadistic of persecutors to extend a comforting hand. As she crawled demonically out of the gutter, now covered in the dead foliage and miscellaneous rubbish she was muttering hateful verses to herself through cold tears that left rivers of red skin through the layer of dirt that now covered her face. She sat on the floor with the top of her spinal column uncomfortably rested on the edge of the bench and began ripping the scratchy into tiny particles. The cheerful mockery of the original ticket was now completely destroyed.

I had been waiting for more than 15 minutes and I felt the need to distance myself from the situation so I decided to walk to the next bus stop.