Brief 60: Let's Get Musical // Giveaway

Brief 60: Let's Get Musical
Deadline: Sunday, 20th October 2013
Music: Wishery by Nick Bertke (Pogo)

Whether you're playing a musical instrument or decks are more your thing, if you're awesome at karaoke or just in the shower- or none of the above at all and just think the above is pretty damn inspiring - it's time to get musical!

NEWS: Sparkapolooza is holding a giveaway! This time around, when you submit your creative response, you will get a chance to win Play: The NYLON Book of Music to add to your coffee table. You will automatically enter the draw as soon as we have receive your submission. A winner will be announced at the end of this brief.

Email your work to sparkapolooza [at] gmail [dot] com, upload to our Facebook page or tag #sparkapolooza on Twitter or Instagram. 

What else are you waiting for?

Brief 50: Shoes

Brief 50: Shoes

Deadline: Monday 9th July 2012

Image by: Peony Yip

Red shoes or blue suede?  It's undeniable shoes have been the the focus of many creative endeavors. What's your take?

On the subject of Wheel of Fortune in Vietnam by Tabitha Carvan

Televisions in Vietnamese homes are always on, so the television was on when I had lunch with my friend’s family.

It was showing the Vietnamese version of Wheel of Fortune. The game has an added difficulty in Vietnamese, as tones must be guessed as well as letters. My friend told us that sometimes the letters are all revealed but still the contestants can’t work out the phrase, because an identically-spelled word in Vietnamese can have six different meanings, depending on its tone. I felt vindicated for finding the language so difficult.

The contestants, surprisingly, sang between rounds. Apparently the Vietnamese Wheel of Fortune has a performance section where you can show off your “special talents”. My friend said the talent is usually always singing.

Nathan mentioned that his Auntie Roz went on Wheel of Fortune in Australia. I had heard this story before, how she was robbed of victory by supposedly mispronouncing Gwyneth Paltrow’s name. Ridiculous! It’s not like she could have meant somebody else.

My friend asked Nathan if his Auntie Roz sang when she was on the show, but we explained that no, in the Australian version you don’t get to show your special talents.

“Is that the only difference?” she asked.

We watched the show, and ate. Her mother had cooked a fish on a charcoal burner that was out on the front steps, near the motorbike ramp. The motorbikes themselves were parked in the same room as us, a kind of combined garage-dining.

Her father was finding it difficult to eat, and couldn’t use chopsticks, because he’d lost his thumb in a factory accident. The hospital had tried to rebuild him a new thumb out of flesh taken from his arm, but it looked more like one of those homemade stress balls, a balloon filled with rice.

There was a glass cabinet with an unopened bottle of whiskey – not for drinking, just for show – which you see in almost every Vietnamese home, and a clock, branded “Money”, or at least that’s what it said in the middle of the dial.

I realised I was wearing two left plastic house slippers.

The Vietnamese Wheel of Fortune continued. The female assistant touched the letters to change them, another woman displayed the prizes on stage.

“Yes” I said. “Everything else is the same.”

Brief 47: The Wheel of Fortune

Brief 47: The Wheel of Fortune

Deadline: Monday, 2 April 2012

Image created by: Jordan Clarke

The Wheel of Fortune, or Rota Fortunae, is a concept in medieval and ancient philosophy referring to the capricious nature of Fate. This wheel belongs to the goddess Fortuna. In the modern days, the Wheel of Fortune is also a game on television and at casinos. One concept, different ways of interpretations. We're also inspired by Kay Starr's music. What's your take on the brief? 

Shadow Play by Tracey Sargent

There is an old house that crookedly stands on the corner of two intersecting streets. Back when a family first called her home, she must have been a highlight of the suburb. With freshly painted gables, sparkling windows and a garden neatly trimmed; she would have charmed all who laid eyes upon her.

Now though, instead of gleaming with pride, she recedes into the background. Her paint is worn and peeling, those bright shining windows have dulled beneath years of dirt, and that once tidy garden has hungrily reclaimed its natural territory. Neighbouring houses turn their gaze away in embarrassment.

From outside she looks not just old and tired, but abandoned - like all hope has long since been lost. All is still and quiet, and it seems that no life remains, and yet .... there is that wild garden which grows unchecked. The trees that stand to her front have spread their branches both up and out, obscuring the ground floor almost entirely from view. A vine once used to visually soften the hard edges of the attached carport, has stretched sinewy limbs across every available surface, covering the front stairs and verandah with an imperfect, yet ever changing mask. The shrubs that once formed a precisely trimmed hedge along the fence, now cascade beyond the property boundary and on to the footpath below, like slowly crashing waves on an ocean of green.

With a subtle change of focus, it does appear that abundant life is to be found here, but its movements are slow and inelegant. It is only on the stormiest of days, when the dark clouds hang heavy and low in the sky, and the wind roars through the streets, that these green inhabitants display their true energy and inherent grace. As such rain-threatened days draw to a close and the street lights begin to flicker and hum, these botanical dancers are enticed to the stage.

Under steady gaze of artificial light, the rain and wind collaborate to push and pull the leaves and branches of this urban wilderness in accordance with some unknown rhythm and unheard beat. The steps are fluid and natural, and each plant knows them well. The performance is intoxicating, soon luring other players to join the stage. Moving in unison and growing steadily stronger, dark shadow twins throw themselves up against the surface of the house, in mirrored and silent homage to the green performers.

This house, she lives. Even if one day the green ultimately overcomes her, life will continue on - ready and waiting for the next act to begin.

Brief 46: Throwing Shapes

Brief 46: Throwing Shapes

Deadline: Wednesday 14th March 2012

Photo shot by: Justin Ridler

Each month when we put up a brief we try to walk the line between two meanings. We're inspired by dance, colour, movement and of course, shapes. Which way will you go? 

Betrayal in Boganville By Tracey Sargent

Like he did every Saturday, the man started his day with a breakfast of bacon and eggs, and the company of the weekend newspaper. After a quick look through the main news items, he turned his attention to his two favourite sections. Firstly to ‘Sport’, where he learned the coach of his footy team (league of course) had resigned, ‘and about bloody time too’, he said to no one in particular. He then poured over the results of the games he’d missed because they hadn’t been televised on normal TV - ‘those Pay TV big-wigs are just money-hungry mongrels’, he’d say if anyone asked him what he thought of that arrangement.

Closing the sport pages, he moved over to the ‘Motoring’ section, a place he really liked to spend some time. Making himself a cuppa, he was ready to settle in. In his opinion, this section had everything you could ever hope for - excellent research (reviews of new car models), inspiration (a showcase of the latest luxury releases), personality (interviews with sporting legends), hard-hitting features (this week it was the top 10 most fuel-efficient cars), and national interest stories (how the Australian motoring industry stacked up globally). As his dad used to always say, there was ‘something for everyone’.

With the sweet, oily fragrance of fried fat still hanging heavy in the air, he left his dirty plate behind and wandered over to the window to look outside. You couldn’t trust those weather guys on TV - those galahs never knew what was going on. The only way to see what the weather was like was to look for yourself. It was a bit cloudy out there, but it should be right. Well it had to be, didn’t it? It was car-washing day.

Wearing his favourite pair of old khaki ruggers, and with feet as bare as his chest, he was ready to battle with dirt, oil and grease. Armed in one hand with a suds filled bucket and sponge, and in the other his high pressure hose was poised to strike - this was a war he had won before and would win again. The subject of all this attention was his black Series II VE Holden Commodore SV6, or ‘the other woman’ as she was also known. Not that there was a woman for the car to have stolen his heart away from, but still the name stood.

He hosed the car down first and then got busy with the sponge and the suds. Starting on the roof and working his way towards that slightly boxy nose, he was consumed by the task at hand. If he’d been paying attention, he would have noticed the clouds above his head had transformed from light shadowy grey, to heavy, black and menacing. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.

After a quick rinse, the car was ready to be dried off. As sweat beaded on his brow, his left arm worked hard to remove every last drop of water. He paused from time-to-time, but only for a moment, to wring the collected water out of his chamois. If he’d been paying attention, he might have been concerned about the kids playing in the street with cans of silly string and glitter spray - a messy combination to remove from any clean surface. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.

Now that the car had been wiped dry, it was time to polish. This was the best bit, it was a slow process but one that was ultimately rewarding. As the chalky white polish was buffed away, a brilliantly glossy finish was gradually revealed.

Finally, a good hour and a half after he started, he was finished. A job well done. Standing back to admire his handiwork, he finally noticed the gathering storm and the children wildly dashing about. ‘Right then’, he said as he fixed upon a solution - moving his car up out of the driveway and under the car port. Putting away his bucket and sponge until next weekend, he headed back indoors where a cool drink beckoned. If he’d been paying attention, he would have noticed a muddy dog chase a cat into his front yard. The cat jumped to safety, but the dog, distracted by her reflection on the surface of that glossy car, became aware of her dirty appearance and proceeded to shake herself clean. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.

Lines of Nature By Tracey Sargent

The corners of the market square were delineated by the presence of four different, yet equally important stores. A bakery, newsagent, fruit shop, and delicatessen.

They sat within the right angle of each corner, facing off against each other in a retail tug-of-war for customers. The cafe where I worked was located just two doors down from the bakery, a nice location from which to lure the passing shopper.

Here amongst the bricks, stairs, windows and doors - this is where life really happened. It provided the perfect setting for one of old Jack’s favourite pastimes - people watching. I could see him out there now, sitting under the shade of an awning with eyes half closed. While it often looked as if he was sleeping, he was really quite alert - soaking up all the hustle and bustle of the town. Like a lizard who holds itself perfectly still at the approach of a predator, those passing by paid old Jack no attention; he blended in so seamlessly. Perhaps it was because his clothes and the squashed brown hat which sat upon his head were as old-fashioned as the facade of the building he sat in front of. He had found the perfect camouflage.

Every Saturday he appeared there. I knew, because I worked at the cafe six days a week, and it was only on the Saturday that I’d see him. He’d stroll over to his spot just after lunch and pass the remaining hours until sunset, in comfortably reclined fashion. When he walked past the cafe in the evening, he’d always tip his hat to me like an old-fashioned cowboy. I’d stop sweeping the verandah for a moment and watch him leave. ‘Evening ma'am’, he’d say and I’d smile.

This had been the ritual for about six months, until one Saturday my curiousity got the better of me. I waited until I saw Jack appear, before I took my lunch break and wandered across the square.

‘Hi Jack’, I said.

‘Ma’am’, he said.

‘I was just wondering ... I see you here every Saturday, but where do you go every other afternoon?’

With a smile he adjusted his hat, like he’d been waiting for me to ask him that very question. ‘Out there’, he said pointing to the distant line of trees just visible over the peak of buildings, ‘beyond the square’.

‘So you come here to soak up some life before you head back to the quiet of nature?’

‘No ma’am. I come here to remember true beauty’, he said.

‘True beauty? You mean you’re a student of architecture? Or are you an old romantic with a special woman in mind?’

‘Nope. Neither could be truly said of me ... I come here to remember the world can be an ugly built-up place, filled with structure, tough rules, and hard edges. Out there amongst the trees, well that is where true beauty lies. There’s no such thing as a straight line in nature’.

‘Hmmm, and here I was thinking you enjoyed the city Jack ... Well, I’d better let you get back to it’, I said.

‘Much obliged ma’am’, he said as he let his hat fall back over his eyes and he relaxed back into his chair. Returning to work for the remainder of my shift, I kept thinking about what Jack had said. I’d spent most of my life in this town, and rarely ventured elsewhere.

Before too long the sun had pulled this particular day to a close, and Jack was walking by with his usual, ‘evening ma’am’. After I locked the cafe door behind me half-an-hour later, I suddenly knew just what I wanted ... actually no, what I needed to do. At the bottom of the cafe stairs instead of turning right towards home and my front door, I turned left and headed for the trees.

Brief 42: All You Can Eat

Brief 41: All You Can Eat

Due date: Saturday 13th August 2010

Image via: Jeremy Brooks

Brief 31: A Dream Within A Dream

Brief 31: A Dream Within A Dream

Due date: Tuesday 1st February 2011

Image via Silent River

The Essence of Air

By Meeka Sage

This excerpt is from the short story, "The Balloon Man's Dictionary", which I'm writing as part of a challenge from a friend and colleague, and experiment in making fragmentary images into narrative. It is entirely experimental, and I would love some feedback.

By Hila Shachar

Memorialise: Lee
Lee Miller decides that memory is like a hallucination with photographic borders. Her fingers click at mechanical buttons that seek to intercept memory before it disappears.

A camera is not simply a mechanical object, but a memory box filled with locks of hair, lost buttons, mildew and paper cuts.

The day she sat in Hitler’s bathtub she considered how this would look in a photograph years later, frozen in time.

An old woman flicks through a magazine with this very image and captures her breath like a photograph. She suddenly becomes swollen with history, a telltale sign of her impending death.

She too remembers the war, but not through Hitler’s bathtub, or through the visual. It is an assault of the senses in the dark: sweat, stale bread, acrid milk, explosive skies and the texture of blood. What they don’t tell you is that memory is all-encompassing, and how little these photographs penetrate what was, and what is made from it.

When the war ended, she dreamt in subtitles, and could not bear to look at photographs. The smell of freshly made jam, clean laundry and soap became imprints upon the process of memorialisation.

A photograph should convey the smell of rotting bodies, she thought. And of fire. And the agony of numbers stamped upon flesh. It should not be a hallucination, but a tremendous enclosure within defined boundaries of the past.

She wants to forget, and to remember. She admires Lee and her clever camera, and mocks her attempts at capturing history. Above all, she despises her cool blonde hair.

Memorialise: An irretrievable smell and sound. To honour and mock memory. To create a box of light in which horror becomes hallucination. Lee Miller in Hitler’s bathtub, the lost precision of numbers on a forearm.