Interview with
FLICK
SPRING ISSUE #08 WRITER
Flick is a multidisciplinary artist based in Naarm/Melbourne who looks to create and collaborate on new works that embrace spectacle as political movement, that are bold and experimental, and that think specifically about the impact of process as art. Flick’s written repertoire has appeared on stages in Melbourne, Sydney, and Los Angeles, and developed and programmed by the likes of ATYP, Nightingale Content, Theatre Works, Melbourne & Adelaide Fringe, Queerspace Arts, and more. You’ll find out more by visiting their website: flickflickcity.net.
Connect with Flick on Instagram @flickflickcity.
THE WORLD IS MUSIC
Kookaburras punctuate the air with shrill laughter as the baseline of the river gurgles faithfully. Insects riff with the foliage in a quiet symphony of understated grandeur. But the sounds are just one thing, one part of the world. The land itself is music.
Ripples in the water are visual melodies, ebbing and flowing in a dance with the wind. Look up and the trees are in on the movement, swaying in a graceful effort that says I am here.
The dirt, the mud, faithful audience, waiting wistfully and quietly to be transformed by a gust or wave. They are all snug in the embrace of land. Root systems, waterways, banks, hills, waterfalls. Laughter, riffs, beating, melodies, dancing, and moments of waiting.
You’d be forgiven, for just a moment, for thinking the song had ended. Thinking we may have played out the verses and repeated the chorus with the backup barrage of birds. The screeches and calls of entities of flight and land. Pause. A pregnant pause. Maybe a breath. You’d be forgiven for thinking the song
had ended.
But a splash and a buzz pull the music to crescendo as the creatures of the water, as if waiting for this silent cue, leap between air and liquid. A drum solo, perhaps, or maybe the lyrics fish sing the only way they know how.
This performance needs no sheet music, no. It has existed in splendid symphony through a time and space beyond comprehension. And it isn’t over now, not in the time that you live to hear it.
Smaller birds continue to decorate the air with high-pitched sound waves. Beetles, bugs, flying insects thrive. Alone these are noises that perhaps could be picked apart and replicated. But together they are an inimitable hum, their reality bringing forth some secret thing that cannot be explained.
Browns, greens, and blues never looked more colourful. In a picture so detailed that a day must be a minute here. For a place forged from time constant and incomprehensible, it is unruly and naive to try and hear and see in the realm finite.
This place is a heartbeat. A complex and intelligent universe of life forms that exist in unity.
Roots jut out from the bank, implying a system so strong and established you can only grow wiser in its presence. A cobweb floats in the wind, so delicate and strong. You could stare long enough and understand the multiplicity of the universe. What does it mean to exist here? Breathe this air? Walk this riverbank? Also a living thing?
The kookaburra laughs at you, for you will never know in the way you want to. Only stand barefoot in the dirt and let the sound of life swallow you.
Tell us a little about how this piece came to be. Did it start with an image, a voice, a concept, a dilemma or something else?
I wrote “The World Is Music” while on Yorta Yorta Country in so-called Australia. While staying there I spent long periods of time near waterways in the bushland, as well as hearing from Yorta Yorta people about their history as artists, and as the caretakers of the land. Whilst sound has always been a big part of my writing process, I had previously regarded nature as a majoritively visual experience for me. It was about snapshot views; I’d mountain climb for the photo up top or bushwalk for a moment with the picturesque before heading home. The time spent on Yorta Yorta Country and my interactions there inspired this nature-based work and also my reflection on how spending time outside is inherently a multiplicitous sensorial and connective experience.
Do you find writing therapeutic?
The beginnings of my writing were certainly therapeutic, although I think I’m probably quite common in that respect. My first experiences writing anything remotely creative were through journaling. At first recounting things that had happened, and then as I got older reflecting on things that were happening. Writing has always been my way of making sense of the world around me. Now there’s a clear split between the continuing habit of writing for myself, and writing something that will hopefully be shared. Whilst these areas diverge in focus, they both attempt to make permanent thoughts and ideas. If not therapeutic, there’s at least something enriching about making real, through pen and paper, something that would otherwise remain either haunting or fleeting.
How often do you read?
I try to read every day, typically across a range of genres and styles. My vocation is language. Not only that, our very society and culture is made and legitimised through the written word. Whether we interact with it or not, our lives are unequivocally affected by it. With that in mind, I’m compelled to read voraciously, read critically, read often.
What are common traps for aspiring writers?
Waiting to write when inspiration strikes. Whilst there are times where you feel that white heat organically, waiting for it will almost always result in a large pile of abandoned beginnings. Logistically speaking, it’s fairly easy to delegitimize your own writing practice amongst the other demands in life so it’s important to make writing time a priority. You can do that by making it a habit you proactively and stringently carve out time for.
Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?
My writing will naturally be an amalgamation of everything I’ve ever read. My practice aligns with originality insofar as I actively consider the question of Why this, why now? when embarking on larger projects. A few years ago a tutor asked the creative class I was in to note what art we liked to make, and then what we liked to consume. Then she asked us to interrogate if there was a difference and why. That has really stayed with me and has always been a helpful metric when I’m editing. Would I even want to read this? Because if I wouldn’t read it, why would I expect anyone else to? That’s the closest I get to trying to “deliver to readers what they want.”
What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?
I’ve invested a lot in making my home writing space as comfortable and cozy as possible. Great chair, soft lighting, temperature control, nearby snacks. . . . The comfier I am, the longer I’ll sit there, and the more I get done!