Compartment

Compartment: Group exhibition at Goodspace Galley, Chippendale, 5th June 2024.

Each artist was assigned a unique wooden drawer, sourced by the curator Leigh Russell. The drawers were found on the side of roads, discarded as undesirables. The objective was for each artist to transform their drawer into an artistic installation.

Statement

My discarded drawer is a personal assemblage, which has been methodically deconstructed, inscribed with a textual piece examining memory, trauma, and unresolved childhood grief, and then reassembled incorrectly, disrupting its original function and form. This deliberate misalignment mirrors the fragmented and unreliable nature of memory—particularly those formed in childhood amidst emotional turmoil.

Scattered at the base are symbolic remnants; a bill bottle belonging to my late grandfather, pills, coins and medallions, a hair clip belonging to my late grandmother, and pieces of the drawer unable to be reconstructed. The assemblage of these items intends to explore the residue of medicalisation and fragmentation of memory. The visible distress in the drawer’s structure, with its warped alignment and splintered edges, acts as a visual metaphor for psychological dissonance and emotional misplacement.

This piece challenges viewers to consider the architecture of memory and the pain of retrospection. By inscribing the drawer from the inside out, the artist invites an intimate inspection, almost as if peering into a mind mid-recollection, caught between clarity and confusion.

Deconstructed and reconstructed wooden drawer, carved text, found objects (pills, nails, coins, pen nib, string)

Inscribed Excerpt

My mother and fathers’ recollection of me as a child varies from my own. I cannot remember much of what it was to be young. What I can recall is being angry. The fond memories I do have are simply fleeting glimpses of nostalgia. I mostly remember the trouble I got into, the embarrassment and the shame of being a confused child unsure of what was right from wrong. I was never punished harshly, however the punishment I did endure lingers in my mind, like hot flashes, keeping me up at night.

The trouble truly began around the age ten when I became conscious of the permanence of death. My first panic episode was as I realised the anger I had felt towards my grandfather prior to his passing when I was seven. The rage I felt towards him was irrational, I loved him, but he had been sick for a long time, this was the root of my resentment. I felt guilty for resenting him which induced this panic, I cried for hours in my bed, rocking back and forth, hyperventilating.

I learnt to enjoy this feeling as I could finally release the pent-up rage and hatred I had for myself. And so, I encouraged it, I let it in and every month I would lay there thinking of my grandfather until panic grew inside me. It was cruel to be so harsh on myself at a young age, only now I can see the lasting repercussions this had on me.

I drift between knowing and the unknown consistently. I’m unable to grasp what is real, what has happened and what was merely a dream. Many ‘memories’ I have of my childhood turned out to be dreams, only learning this when speaking to my mother and father. This has created uncertainty within myself, am I an untrustworthy narrator?