Wakeup 12: “That distinct truck reversing noise”

Even though we’re heading towards the end of What Lies Beneath, there are still some corkers to come. This one is by Matt Korvin, one of the students who visited the Steelworks (and, incidentally, a very promising young competition surfer).

You can listen or download Matt’s wake up call here…

Like many of the students, Matt augmented his field recordings at the steelworks with others that were more personally meaningful. He writes:

My piece was originally inspired by industrial trucks operating across the road from my house. Each morning I would wake up to that distinct truck reversing noise…. Beep beep beep.

I think we all know that noise Matt – it can be disturbing first thing in the morning. I guess one of the issues we’ve not yet broached in this project is that industrial noises do, often begin to emanate before many of us wake up. You know, how “tradies hours” begin at the crack of dawn…

I’m not sure why, but many of the young artists whose work is featured in What Lies Beneath like to picture themselves in idyllic settings. Matt is in this category – here he is taunting us as he heads down for a dip at one of the Illawarra’s gorgeous beaches:


One Response

  1. I’ve long toyed with the idea of starting a school of cosmic realism. Kirsten Dunst will be my exemplary student. We won’t have a motto, just a basic stick structure to hold hands and huddle under when Melancholia hits, and the obligation to experience the end-times as the beautiful weather event that they are. The only requirement for admission is to answer one question: Does the fact that everyone will die at the same time make you feel better or worse about dying, and what are the aesthetic implications of this? I realise that it’s going to be difficult to distinguish our school from a host of other long-established and more reputable institutions, and that accounts for why we’ve struggled to get beyond the speculative phase. But now the apocalypse is really here it’s far too late to be initiating complicated bureaucracies, and that will be our competitive advantage, to have started a school when there was no time for it. Securing a bourgeois premises with a golf course will be easy since most one percenters have chosen suicide with pills in the stables, although for us cosmic realists this kind of ending is a really bad dad joke. Our strength derives from the extra-sensory yet deeply sensual intuition that the question of significance has to be a cosmic question if it is to mean anything at all. You’re boss will be the best man at your wedding, in fact you’ll still be working, harangued by an underling all night long for a tag line. Later you’ll fuck this boy on the eighteenth green and he’ll propose a rival business venture. The nearer the fly-by planet gets the more fashionable our brand of cosmic realism becomes. Clearly, if your brand is on people’s mind as the apocalypse arrives, you win.

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