Slavs and Tatars' 'Mirrors for Princes' at the Institute of Modern Art

Words: Saskia Edwards

Images: Jonathan Rae

When you walk into the ‘Mirrors for Princes’ exhibition by the art collective Slavs and Tatars you’re surrounded by a cacophony of voices. There are six different languages marbling together, including the Aboriginal language Yuggera. They’re coming from mirrored speakers dispersed around a luxuriously carpeted room. In fact, the voices are reading the Kutadgu Bilig, written in the 11th century by a Turkic author. It’s a part of medieval literature and a form called ‘mirrors for princes’. Apparently, they can best be described as self-help books for incoming royals. But the texts still raise issues relevant today - including the separation of church and state.

The second part of the exhibition is a dark surreal room with evocative luminous sculptures: glass tongues, long blonde hair, combs. It’s meant to be a comment on the concern around grooming expressed in the ‘mirrors for princes’. And it does create an unsettling feeling of intimacy and fetishisation.

The Slavs and Tatars collective is interesting in itself. They fuse together world cultures, particularly European and Asian areas. They started out nearly a decade ago. Since then, they’ve produced exhibitions, books and lecture performances everywhere from MoMA to the Pompidou. 

Enough talk, take a look:

Craig Walsh’s Embedded exhibition at the IMA

Words: Saskia Edwards

Images: Jonathan Rae
Original Artwork: Craig Walsh

Mining plays a significant part in Australian history. But the general population often forgets its deeply rooted effects on immigration, the economy and government. As curator Robert Leonard notes, “despite mining’s dominance, most Australians distance themselves from it; they see it as happening, literally and metaphorically, over there”.

Craig Walsh attempts to address Australians’ views of mining in Embedded and the apparent disconnection and confusion.

The space is filled with 21 industrial bins overflowing with iron ore coated in neon yellow paint, reminiscent of high-visibility uniforms. It’s true as Leonard identifies that “not many of us even know what iron ore looks like”. This idea is representative of Australians’ detachment from mining despite its huge importance to the nation.

The exhibition stems from Craig’s works commissioned by Rio Tinto and time with the Murujuga Aboriginal Corporation. His works are laced with the paradoxical relationship Aborigines hold with mining where it has fostered education, health services and employment, but also been a source of conflict and land disputes.

“There is a popular, idealised image of Aboriginal people as noble savages, as people who have coexisted with the landscape for eons and who have a deep spiritual connection with it,” Leonard says.

“However, now that Indigenous people have a stake in economic development – now that they can participate in it and reap its benefits – this presumption is becoming untenable.

“We are witnessing the emergence of… the ‘economic Aborigine’.”

Around the space are portraits of traditional custodians projected onto rock formations. They’re overlooking the giant mounds of raw iron ore. It again presents the idea of the interwoven nature of resources and indigenous population. The portraits seem to suggest the native people’s intrinsic links to the land. But the works don’t resolve the potential for mining to be positive or detrimental for them.

In the end the exhibition demonstrates the conundrums of mining: disempowering while supportive, distanced while deeply involved, dirty while enriching.

The IMA Brisbane's Playtime Exhibition

Images: Jonathan Rae

Words: Saskia Edwards

It has been said that a happy childhood is the worst preparation for life. And perhaps that’s true. Childhood can be traumatic. Just ask anyone who mistook Animal Farm for a kid’s cartoon. But the fear and angst can often be a necessary part of development.

When you enter the IMA’s Playtime exhibition there’s a distinct warning that it’s not for children. While many of the artworks may ostensibly seem infantile, they’re laced with poignant and sometimes distressing meanings – abandonment, abuse and violence.

On entry are Jenny Watson’s innocent paintings. But directly opposing this are the graphic and vulgar illustrations by Peter Robinson. The contrast serves to highlight a point: perhaps only through a child-like guise can we truly see that the world often isn’t the picturesque illusion of our childhood.