nativity as nonsense

Ladies and gerunds, I bring you (courtesy of my intrepid sister Clare) the culmination of 2000 years of history, culture, philosophy, spirituality, craft and taste… nativity scenes from around the world. Check out particularly the rubber-ducky nativity, the zombie nativity and the bacon-and-sausage nativity. And a merry and thoughtful Christmas to you all…

http://whyismarko.com/2011/27-worst-nativity-sets-the-annual-growing-list/

openly feminist art, you might say – and by a man

Artist Jamie McCartney of Brighton Body Casting has created a remarkable sculpture work called The Great Wall of Vagina. My fine London friend James directed my attention to it. Don’t know about you but I found it fascinating, epic and moving. The pure white of the plaster makes it surprisingly unconfronting (you’d really have to be misogynist – or at least gynophobic – to dislike it) – and yet it’s still immensely powerful.

Bravo Jamie McCartney. You gotta respect a man who drives a custom pink East German Trabant.

onstage tonight

Remiss of me, I know, but I haven’t blogged advance notice of tonight’s gig at the Supper Club, upstairs on Taylor Square, Oxford St. It’s a chic little bar hosting a night put together by A Velvet Affair – a mixed bill of burlesque and cabaret. Expect a number of scantily-clad lovelies half my age, a gentleman who rejoices in the moniker Tall Paul, and yours truly, singing Julia Lee and Nina Simone classics and climbing over the tables.

It starts ridiculously early at 7pm – don’t be late.

five songs tonight, glebe excelsior

Tonight, a little gig for the diehard fans and a random night’s crowd… 5 songs from the yet-to-be-recorded album Eug and I wrote – brilliant songs which (except for The Race) rarely see the light of day. All that’s about to change, as guitarist Andy Vegas and I rebuild them into something I can perform, eventually with a full band – but tonight is the gentle first showing of just what we’ve had time to put together since we met a couple of weeks ago. Glebe Excelsior, 8.45pm. Come and have a drink with us.

loveday at peats ridge 09

And so, a New Year, and we’re ringin’ in the changes. At midnight I was standing backstage at the Trash Temple, Peats Ridge Festival – kissing a few friends and a stranger or two before heading onstage for the dramatically ritualised lopping-off of my dreadlocks. P performed this with due ceremony and a certain brutal panache, severing each dread at the scalp with a Leatherman knife. The crowd responded with appropriate cries and groans. The $2 confetti bomb refused to explode until a drugged-up punter, sweating cobs and wearing an expression of determined joy, grabbed it as we threw it down in disgust, and beat it into submission, whereupon it yielded up its contents all over the floor. (Lesson #1: don’t orchestrate a climax with cheap fireworks without buying several and testing their workings beforehand.)

My gigs would have been even more of a fizzer than the confetti bomb, if not for some careful diplomacy (an art I’m learning rather slowly and now and then painfully) and the sheer force of my own will. There was some kind of miscommunication between the man running the stage I was supposed to be on and the man who organised with him for my appearance there, such that it turned out nothing had been formalised and I didn’t actually have a slot on the program. From three gigs over three nights, I was down to potentially none, but although they couldn’t shift the program for the first night, they had no trouble fitting me in the other two. So I took the first night off, which I was in fact glad of, because I’d arrived at Peats Ridge rather frayed and really needed another day before getting up in front of a crowd with a new arrangement of the (Sofarama) set.

But the gig on the 30th was a blast, and went down a treat. The stage – the teen activities area by day became the Renegade stage after hours, hosting cabaret and performance art – was very conducive, a low covered platform with good lighting and a smoke machine, and an enclosed and camouflage-netted audience space in front of it, so I could prowl and lounge and dance and flirt to my heart’s content. The number of people in the space varied from a dozen or so up to maybe 40 or 50 at one point, including those who clustered round the entrance but elected not to come in where they might be accosted by an alarming individual empowered with a microphone while wearing nothing but a top hat, a sequined g-string and a lot of bodypaint. Pussies.

But after that there was more drama. I was done by 9.30, but sometime after midnight when that same stage had been turned into a quiet little arthouse cinema, management got a nutty bee in its bonnet and tried to close them down (despite the Chai Temple pumping much louder next door). Reasoning with the offending executive produced only anger, and negotiation turned to aggravated dispute, and before you could say ‘bullshit power trip’ the following night’s festivities had been curtailed by a 10.30pm shutdown – on New Year’s Eve. Mean-spirited and vindictive, I thought, especially since it meant that several performers would now not fit on the program at all, and would lose their opportunity to perform through no fault of their own. Having already done one show, I could hardly claim priority, but I figured I could find another stage to perform on. Which I did.

So on New Year’s Eve around 9pm, I did the show from an open-sided caravan called Lolo, a gorgeous little retro lounge space with rows of padded sacks on the grass for audience seating, and completely open to the passing trade, much of which I collected as I went. At one point I guess there were a dozen people sprawled on the sacks and maybe another 50 standing around behind. Again, I noticed that if I went out among them, some would leave immediately – Lesson #2: the people who put themselves at your mercy on the front seats are fair game; those who stand back only want to watch others being teased, grabbed, climbed over, etc – come too near and they often flee altogether. This particular space was essentially for glorified busking, with a largely transient audience – not ideal but not too bad, considering they’d managed to give me a gig on NYE with about two hours’ notice, and I’m essentially just trying to attract as much attention as possible. Which I duly did.

(Lesson #3: what’s the point of repeating ‘I am Loveday!’ to a passing crowd if your web presence isn’t in proper order? Better than not performing at all, sure, but a website and some decent recordings are priorities for the first half of this year.)

After the gig I packed up and took everything back to camp, wondering what to do about the midnight hair ritual, which had been planned with a different supporting cast on the Renegade stage, which would now be dark. I was camped in one of the finer enclaves, with the people that got me the gig. My Kombi’s awning fronted onto a marquee under a pirate flag by day, and a light display that rivalled an all-night kebab stop by night. These people are professionals, old hands at festival tech and catering, travelling and camping in fine style with three children under seven. (Quote of the festival goes to the elegant English mother: “Even on mornings when I feel like a beer, I always drink a pint of coffee first, to line the stomach.”) They went in early, chose their favourite camping spot and kept a base in the festival area itself with friends from Melbourne, who were sleeping in their converted fire truck beside a huge swinging cocoon made of wire and alpaca wool. But my friends had other friends with other sideshows and stages, and apparently the Trash Temple was the perfect spot for dreadlock amputation. Marty G, Wokka, Vashti and company welcomed us, and the deed was done.

I admit, I didn’t see much of the festival itself. I arrived physically 24 hours later than I intended and mentally about 48 hours later. I was lucky I didn’t have a show to do that first night, because I was scrambling to recover from the night before, or rather the 24 hours before, which had included a rather fraught and taxing emotional journey (hell, let’s say it was a trip – my own ridiculous little derailing roller-coaster) and a fair bit of equally taxing fun – well-intentioned but not altogether successful distraction. So I arrived late and shredded, for this gig that meant so much to me – worrying myself, which isn’t good. But the inevitable Peats Ridge cock-up worked in my favour, and I gained a day’s preparation. Cock-up #1, that is – cock-up #2 worked against me. When the Renegade stage was closed down I spent most of the last afternoon of 2009 trying to organise an alternative venue – but I guess I can chalk that one up to the positive, in the end. Still, altogether, between my emotional state, the gigs, the complications, and the grievously painful condition of my hip, I was left with little time or energy for exploring the shops, sampling the food or catching other acts. When I wasn’t preparing for or doing a gig, I needed the sanctuary of camp, and the cheerful bustle of loved friends.

Thanks to Bruce, Gill, P, Herbie and Dorian, and especially to Jess Watson Miller, who created two gorgeous and completely different body art designs, the second under very tight time constraints, out of the brilliance of her imagination and the goodness of her heart. And thanks also to the three Mitchell Minxes, for being so much fun. A head cold is a small price to pay for the many pleasures of their exuberant company.

she do da mash/she do da monster mash

I am singing this weekend in front of a festival-size crowd for the first time. I’m in the chill zone at Monster Mash – a 45 minute set ending with a strip to tiny shorts and halter, more-or-less ironic self-flagellation with blood-soaked cat, and a bit of stagediving… leading up to the finale in fuck-off big boots and khaki chocolate-soldier jacket.

Should be a hoot ;)

Jaqi by Terry Biggenden

FERNS 1 by Terry Biggenden

Originally uploaded by Illuminata

I’m just faffing around on the pooter, and one thing I was overdue to do (I think I’m overdue to do pretty much everything I do by the time I actually do it; it’s some kind of galactic time conspiracy; Douglas Adams would understand) was to update my blog address in my Flickr account details. I haven’t blogged a picture from my Flickr photo site since I moved to WordPress, and that’s far too long. So here’s a pic from my latest photo shoot.

An accomplished fine art photographer, Terry saw images of me by Peter Crowfoot on another photo-sharing site, and asked Peter to put us in touch. Terry was looking for someone to make a day trip with him to the abandoned maltworks at Mittagong, a couple of hours out of Sydney. I was up for it. We got some beautiful images that day – several different spots around the site, and enough unexplored to make another trip not out of the question. If you want to see more, the link to Flickr is in the left column, down low.

There’s a colour version of this shot too, which some viewers (howdy, James) prefer, though I like the restrained classicism of the sepia. The sunlight on the ferns does glow rather gloriously in the colour version, I have to admit. There are more images still to come from this very successful shoot, as Terry processes them. But I’ll try and ornament my blog with pictures that aren’t always of me without my clothes, if only to save my father’s feelings :)

the Original Cynics emerge (more or less) fully formed

So, it happened last night, in front of a small, eccentrically-dressed crowd, upstairs at the Friend In Hand. It was a private party, Vee Malnar‘s birthday bash – an annual event on the boho calendar, at which she and all her crazy friends (yours truly included) get on the mic and/or their instruments for a few numbers. I know Vee through Justin, who plays in her band.

So we did our four numbers, and I think I can modestly say we were the buzz of the night (woohoo!), and somewhere in the middle I introduced the duo of myself and Justin as two of the Original Cynics, a loose collective of artists across many fields who together believe in, well, very little other than the importance of certain freedoms. “My name is Jaqi Loveday Pascoe and this is Mr Justin Credible…”

Thing is, I didn’t actually consult with any of my various collaborators before naming them as a collective. Hope they all still want to collaborate. Hope they like their name.

The original Cynics were a philosophical movement in ancient Greece, lasting from about the time of Socrates right into the 5th century CE and influencing the early Christians. Around 350BCE they were led by Crates of Thebes, and soon also by his wife, Hipparchia of Maroneia. (Yes, I’ve blogged about them before, when announcing the renaming of my Kombi.) These were seriously cool people, with grandly sensible beliefs. Look ‘em up in Wikipedia via the links above. And then let me know below if you are happy to consider yourself – or would like to be considered – One of Us. Bear in mind, of course, that we aren’t simply blind followers of an archaic philosophical dictum: I chose the name because a) I like the confusion of meanings around the term ‘cynic’, b) I love the pun on original sin, a primitive and dangerous doctrine that should be subverted whenever possible, and c) I share with the Cynics (and, I think, most of my friends) scepticism, honesty, a contempt for wealth and its wilful ignorances, and a good Greek respect for rational inquiry. And, it was said, “they make a cult of shamelessness, not as being beneath modesty, but as superior to it…”

rock’n'roll hipparkia

Blissed out for the new year by four days, three nights in the Kombi amid carnival tents and music, high wooded hills and cowpat-studded grassy fields, with a wholesome brown, tannin-scented creek to swim in.

The Kombi has been undergoing a slow evolution of identity since the transition of ownership from Drew to me in October the year before last. Drew was adamant on Jonah’s lack of gender, which unfortunately, in the twisted little human minds we all possess, tends to imply masculine (somehow we think gender is ultimately all about the womb – without one, gender is irrelevant and we’re all, ahem, men). Slowly though, the Kombi is becoming a discernibly feminine space – and no, I haven’t suddenly gone all chintz and frills. But there is a crocheted afghan made by my great grandmother, and a hand-sewn patchwork quilt from further back in the family. There is a pretty blue sarong to cover the doorway, the tins in the kitchen shelves are changing, you get the idea. The Kombi, in this time of transition, has gone by the name Jezebel (a favourite old tag of mine), but this name’s sticking power rather depended on a colour change – a powder-blue Jezebel doesn’t really gel for me. I’d planned a respray in wine-red, but I’ve decided against, for the moment. It’s expensive to do it well, and the present colour is the original, which counts for something valuewise among enthusiasts.

And now, after another good and happy outing – and this one so tranquil and yet so stimulating – my holiday darling has finally found her name: Hipparkia. Hip? Oh definitely. Park – well, der… and yeah. Or rather yah… :)

And yes, of course there is a legendary female role model involved – you can look her up in Wikipedia under the more conventional Latin spelling Hipparchia. She was a Cynic philosopher from the Greek golden age of philosophy, and an altogether remarkable woman.

adventures in role-playing

Phew. Christmas is finally over. My family gathers on the 27th and, since the death of my mother two years ago, I seem to have fallen into the role of matriarch (it hardly becomes me) – that is, it falls to me to cook the turkey, organise the rest of the family’s contributions and effectively host the event, though not at my place, since Granny could never get up the stairs. This year I took half my goddamn kitchen to the ‘games room’ of Granny’s nursing home. I’m tempted to reflect further on the event, but it would take time to tease it all out – the delicate dynamics of assembling a bunch of people with precious little in common except blood, frustration, and the best of intentions – and I’m busy packing.

Tomorrow I’m off to the idyllic Glenworth Valley for the Peats Ridge Festival, where I shall be Mistress of the Boudoir for Kamikaze Couture – the dress-up tent. It is my job to have an absolute ball… actually it’s my job to ensure that everyone who comes in has a ball and leaves feeling like a million dollars. My employer called it ‘essentially an interactive performance’ – I can’t see it being anything but fun. To add to the joy I managed to wangle Eug a job as a stagehand, so when NYE midnight comes around I’ll have beloved company – and of course a few thousand likeminded revellers. Jezebel the Kombi is shipshape for camping, we are well-stocked with yummy Christmas leftovers – just gotta grab a sarong for the daytime and some glitter lashes for the night, and we’re off to wonderland :)