DCR 50th Anniversary
1 - 3 November 2024
Thursday we stack the Rollo with our glazed chickens. I love the little in-between moments at DCR, of sitting next to Sam on the bench under the Happily Ever After sign, idly chatting, the afternoon sunlight catching the red bricks of the kiln, the smell of Sam’s beer, watching Lauire wadding up the pots and passing them to Paul, stacking everything tight against the back wall on old kiln shelves - because who knows what glazes we used last night in the frenzy of smearing, dipping, dripping, slipping whatever we could find onto the surviving chickens, the ones that either didn’t perish upon impact with a hurtling grapefruit or fell in the lake, off the side of the raft. So much goodness to this day. I walk back to Callum and Riyah’s place in the near complete darkness under the stars, the wind running its fingers through my hair.
Friday evening is the opening of the Nottapotta exhibition curated by Karl. Everyone is gathered in the courtyard by the Gallery, more people arriving, the sunlight warm. It’s a reunion. I see fellow Brickell Brac’ers Thom, Holly, Nic, Steve, Sarah, Suzi, Callum and Riya, Riccardo, Laurie, Paul, Sam, Karl and Lisa, and fifty years worth of people connected to Driving Creek in some way, past and present. We are all part of the history of Driving Creek, all of us who come through the residency for however long or short, or who come and lend a hand, fire a kiln, make or glaze some pots, paint, write, play. There’s Don Belcher, who Karl invited when he saw him outside the Four Square earlier and who has three of his paintings in the exhibition. Don says to Riyah, referencing Barry’s wrertings painted across all walls with golden clay, Looks like the ramblings of a madman. Riyah: I guess it kind of is. Yeah, says Don, I guess it kind of is.
Someone says Barry would have grumbled having all these people here but would have been secretly pleased. All these people and their stories dating all the way back to the beginning.
Saturday, Paul has brought his jaffle irons, hearty breakfast jaffles cooked in the Phoenix fire box for everyone. Many Barry and Driving stories are told by Barry’s old friends and acquaintances, gathered under the big marquee that has been erected in the courtyard. On Saturday afternoon, Peter Lange tells the story of visiting Driving Creek and finding Barry in the middle of firing a wood kiln. Cone eight is nearly down, says Barry. What have you got in there, asks Peter. Oh, there’s nothing in there, says Barry. Gales of laughter. Someone describes Barry as deliciously eccentric and it’s an eccentric kind of day. Ronald and Sam are firing the phoenix downstairs. I’m upstairs feeding the Rollo with John Gisborne, taking over from Henry who lit the kiln at 6am with John. I have the smell of smoke in my nostrils and the taste of jaffle charcoal edge stuck in my teeth. It’s good isn’t it, says John. He means firing the wood kiln and I can only smile in agreement, it is so good. Addictive.
And today, relaxed. We have plenty of time before the midnight crescendo. While we stoke, I listen to the quiet conversations of potters up on the bank. Elena tells of firing her wood kiln close to midnight and the kiln shed catching on fire and alternating hosing and stoking, firing solo. Crazy potters.
By late afternoon, the Phoenix is nearly at cone 10, while the Rollo stoking seems to somehow slow the rising temperature down. Laurie, finished with his chairman speeches, finally let loose and whirling in a blaze of profanities, takes the lead in an attempt to speed things up.
Later now and the flame from the Rollo chimney is coming straight after a mysterious right side smokiness. The chickens are hatching and running loose in there. The Brickell Band kicks in like a potato grater on your soul, but settles into something resembling a real band with Seraphine on keys, Lisa on drums and Karl on guitar, Ronald on the violin, and Steve and Nic on vocals and other musicians rotating at varying stages throughout the night. People come and go, sit and watch, stand and talk. John Gisborne is stoking again. Up on the bank Paul says, I’m technically still in charge of that mess down there, indicating the roaring, orifice-flame-bursting Rollo, and reclines back into the grass. Later still he rakes out the coal from under the firebox with the knees of his pants smoking, arms blistering. The firing continues late into the night, way past midnight, until 4am with only the OG diehards left to see it to the end.
Sunday morning Karl talks in the gallery about not the thing but how. Walking through the Nottapotaa exhibition, I’m thinking fuck, Barry was free. In his life, in his art, his writing. I see a page where he writes, "Why is writing so difficult?" Yet in his lifetime he wrote so much and published many works, exploring his ideas and truths on paper. There’s a Barry quote on the wall of the exhibition that reads: There’s a gentle whisper that I can hear. It tells me to go go go & go until you cark it. He did just that.
Monday morning we get a text from Karl: The show is open!! He has opened the kiln and arranged all the chickens in the coop. He sends pictures of the chickens and delight bubbles up in me and escapes as laughter, as I flick through the images. Surprise, wonder, and full-tilt joy. They have come out amazing, these things with all their how inside them.
