An Exercise In Seduction
A watch quietly beeped, announcing the arrival of five A.M. yet the slumped man it was attached to didn’t seem to notice, his glazed stare still fixed on an indeterminate point a few tables over. “Ten of clubs” the dealer called as the last card was turned. At this the man jerked out of his preoccupation. “Fuck” he murmured, glancing down, he watched as the last of this earnings were shovelled into the expectant clutches of the besuited person, opposite. Slowly rising from the card table he trudged his way towards the illuminated exit. Wandering through the halls of the casino, he became consumed by is own thoughts, not focusing on where his feet were transporting him. A blast of wintery air suddenly cut across his face; he must have reached the footpath.
King street bridge now stretched before him into the misty distance, illuminated by the soft pools of light cast by the sodium street lamps, high above. He started forwards. It had been ten years since he had migrated to Australia, enticed by the seemingly endless possibilities of the lucky country. So like the miners before him, he had been sold on the promise of a land full of prosperity and boundless riches. The belief that if you worked that little bit harder, that little bit better, and that little bit longer, you too could have it all.
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But here he was, wandering across a deserted bridge at five A.M., having spent that last of his pitiful income in a desperate attempt to achieve the unobtainable fantasy. A cycle of belief, failure and disillusion that had repeated over ten long years, the Great Australian Dream taunting him with the idea he never was going to achieve. And yet, no matter how disenchanted, he will always return and find himself sitting at a table in the casino, thinking “this time... this time I will win”.
Suddenly a brown mass materialised out of the gloom, he had reached the other side the the bridge. A gargantuan, fortress-like, edifice of col- umns, arches, and polychrome brickwork now sat before him. He was taken aback, it had been years since he had traveled this particular route.
He approached the curving colonnade on the corner of the site, its magnanimous nature drawing him closer.
He touched the bricks, smooth as can be with their pointing crisp and uniform. He had never wanted to like Victorian architecture, a needlessly excessive style, the promise of wealth to everyone, that few ac- tually achieved. Dragging his fingers across columns, pilasters, rusticated banding, and blank stretches of wall he continued along the impenetrable facade growing, as much as he wanted to deny it, ever more inthralled by the buildings carefully curated image.
He noticed a door ajar, and a sliver of glowing light shining across the pavement. He glanced around, checking for passersby, but the streets where deserted as ever. Reaching out he grabbed hold of the elaborate brass handle, and, unable to resist, slipped inside.
He found himself standing at the end of a vast entrance hall carved of brown stone. A barrel vaulted ceiling capped the room three stories above, and glittering chandeliers, too many to count, cascaded down, infusing the room with an alluring warmth.
The empty reception desks, sat in the centre of the hall, where encompassed by golden lettering proclaiming “Welcome to the Melbourne Immigration Museum”.
He moved to the other side of the foyer, drawn towards the largest door, and across the threshold into a long compressed loggia, that appeared hewn out of a solid block of earth. To his left he noticed a courtyard that opened onto the river, populated with the labour of many sculptors glinting softly in a steadily lightening sky.
He then entered a small round vestibule, much more cramped than those rooms he had just expe- rienced, dimly lit by wall sconces, it was almost meditative. One massive double door, out of pro- portion to everything else, stood across from him, blocking his path; above it a message inscribed in a brass panel read “The Rotunda”. He resent- ed the opulence, the grandiosity, and the chauvin- ism of it all, he new exactly what games the build- ing was playing, but at the same time he could help but be captivated by its drama, and promise.
Then, abruptly, he heaved the oak doors apart, and the world seemed to stop.
He put one hand on each brass handle. This was crazy, he should stop; the architecture clearly craved his infatuation, but he didn’t want to give it. Or did he?
He stood still for what felt like eternity, mesmer- ised by the scene that had met his eyes, an immense circular, domed room, of perfect proportions, lay out before him, awash with the glow of a sun just risen. The light pouring in from clearstory win- dows far out of reach. The empty furniture, scat- tered across the flagged stone floor, invited him in to sit and bask in the joy of the architecture. Selecting a chaise longe he walked over and re- clined upon it. He had no money, no prospects, and no real future, just the endless monotony of daily life to accompany him to the grave; but, as he drifted off, eyes lazily fixed on the brown and gilt ceiling above, somehow, incredibly, it was alright. Next time, next time he will win.
Written Explanation
This little novelette you have just listened to describes a dialogue between two characters: an impoverished immigrant, and an opulent building, this opulent building, christened An Exercise In: Belief, Trust, and Seduction.
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This new design sort to incorporate the idea of brown, and the museums given subject of immigration. Through a search of history, and the desire to find a common thread between these polemics, Victoria’s own gilded age was pushed forward as this projects catalyst. It was the scene of Australia’s largest, immigration lead, population increase, and fittingly a period where brown was very much in vogue, with the streets awash with an architecture clothed in earthtoned polychrome brickwork, and painted iron lace.
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It was this brown architecture that had enticed the miners of years past, with a promise that if they applied themselves, a home like this could one day could be theirs. A private palace of self-made luxury, who could say no? But as the wheel turns, slowly crushing the great unwashed; the established top, are left reclining in those house used to temp the others suffocating beneath; basking in the glory of Melbourne.
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The Victorian age has long since died and its rulers with it, but its brown buildings linger on, still managing to harbour the same effect. That promise of wealth, you know won’t come, yet still can’t help but believe. This building before you is a commentary on this dialogue, it is simultaneously an aspiration to some and architectural taunt to others. This building isn’t really interested in the banalities of museum programming, they are there if you want to look, but like a cat to a laser pointer it craves the big, the bombastic, and the absurd. It wants people to dream about it, lust for its architecture, and become a zealot for its cause. An Exercise In: Belief, Trust, and Seduction isn’t supposed to be kind or realistic, it is an idea, an object of desire; pure fantasy for the masses, and it is up to them whether to believe in its architectural promise, that they too, could, one day, live in a palace like this.
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So how about you, my audience, will you trust it?