Graffiti and signage

Where to start? In this densely built-up environment, there is visual communication, in the form of writing or pictures, everywhere. Recently I read the book: “Characters: Cultural stories revealed through typography” by Stephen Banham, who I believe is also a Brunswick resident. (There is a great article on the book and part of an interview at this link to TheDesign Files blog.) Reading Banham’s book and admiring the photographs reinforced my view that it is not only what is written, but how it is written, that is fascinating and revelatory.

Often, the revelations are just in the eye of the beholder. Where one finds a scribble, a sign. What one has been thinking about, what one is looking for. Here are some examples:

Bohemian Brunswick: of course it did not take me long to discover this piece of commissioned graffiti art in a laneway along Sydney Road.

Lygon Street bookshops

“What can one do with old encyclopedias?” I asked Paul, proprietor of the Red Wheelbarrow bookshop. He confirmed my fears that they go to pulp. It seems such a waste: all that stored carbon in the paper and all that accumulated knowledge and information in the contents. Not to mention the historical snapshot that some of the writing styles and biases capture. In the end, an old set of Britannica became the stumps that ensured that my furniture stored in the garage of my old house did not get waterlogged when water came through the garage after a heavy downpour. Their sheer physical bulk was their only remaining use.

Break from Brunswick: Hobart

I grew up in Tasmania, on the North West Coast, in a small town called Penguin. Then we moved to Hobart, where I attended Hobart Matriculation College for one year and then went to University of Tasmania in 1972. I completed a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in German and Political Science and then did an Honours year in German. Then I left.
Re-visiting Hobart is like exploring past times, both my own and those of the island.

Glew Street recycling

I happened to have my camera when I came across this most recent example of Brunswick style recycling. The grand old armchair had clearly seen better days. There were alarming bulges in the seat, and the wood, although solid, was battered. The attached sign read: “Free to good home. Speculation for accumulation. Invest a few dollars and then resell at a profit.” Obviously, the message had resonated: a young man was already loading it into his truck, with help from the former owner. “It went like that”, said the older man, clicking his fingers.

Lygon Street East Brunswick shopping precinct: Gelobar

Amarena, Anguria, Malaga, Torrone, Fragola, Lampone…. These are not exotic destinations, but just some of the flavours of the icecream available at the Gelobar on Lygon Street. I like to call in there when I go for a walk, and just get a kiddy cone for $2. I still haven’t worked my way through even half of the varieties. On a hot day, there are queues waiting to buy the delicious gelati, and the tables on the sidewalk and in the cool interior are packed. In the colder months, the beautifully crafted cakes are probably more popular. They are a feast for the eyes as well as the tastebuds. Their website is also a feast.

Nicholson Street

It is Christmas Day Mass in Our Lady Help of Christians church on Nicholson Street. This church celebrated its centenary earlier in 2011, and its story is very interesting and you can read about it on their website. The most striking feature of the church is certainly the golden statue on top of the church tower, of Our Lady holding her child. She faces East, towards the sunrise and looks down over busy Nicholson Street, which, along with Sydney Road, is one of the grand routes leading into the city of Melbourne.

I have a recollection of being told that my father lived in a room of a house somewhere on Nicholson Street. That was in 1948, when he and my mother arrived in Australia from Czechoslovakia as displaced persons. After a short time in the Bathurst migrant reception centre, they were brought to Melbourne to work off their 2 year bond to the Chifley government which had opened its doors to this wave of Europe’s “tired”, its “huddled masses”.

Brunswick Road

A man is fixing up his house. The dimensions of the dwelling seem to be about three metres across and from what I can see of the roof line, not much more deep. It is almost like an oversized cubby house. He is stripping paint on the front porch, and the wooden plank juts out over the pavement. The front door is less than a metre away from the black bitumen of the footpath. Not far away, however, behind the row of houses that front onto Brunswick road, there is a large slate roof, and two tall palm trees. I have not been able to find an alley way which leads to this house. I am curious about what it looks like. It must be one of the oldest dwellings around here, and all the other jumble of buildings have grown up around it.

The laneways between Brunswick Road and the linear park which forms the southern boundary of the City of Moreland, exist in a dimension of their own. Unlike the long back lanes of Carlton, where the view is channelled onto the city skyscrapers in the distance, these small lanes lead you past a series of gates, doors and fences in unexpected twists and turns. A morning glory creeper covers an old chimney. A fig tree breaks through palings and a passionfruit vine trails over a wall. Walking down the bluestone cobbles, turning the corner, I get the same feeling as in the medieval alleys of Prague. Except that all of a sudden you come across a weatherboard house that, were it in the Australian bush, would scream “rural poverty”. But it is probably worth a small fortune.