The idea of a non-place is equal parts complex and astounding. How do these places exist? What makes a place a non-place?

Is it a place that is uninhabited by human life? Is it a place that no longer serves a purpose in our industrious world? It is shameful how little credit and attention we give these spaces and it the amount of potential these spaces offer is sadly staggering.

 

I pondered these ideas as I walked through the Box Hill Brickworks. Since deserted, it has become home to the destitute and derelict; it’s rusted cogs pay homage to a once well-oiled empire. I admit I did not have a fertile concept in my mind when I decided on my non-place – it was not until I saw the grotesquely gorgeous structure of a hollow space that an idea began to germinate.

 

Upon first glance it was all decay, the rubble of ruin was set in stone and the shimmering shards of broken glass lay glittering amongst the rough. There was death in forms of animals and the pests plagued the remnants with their corrosion. The empty cans and bottles and rooms all echoed the finality of a once bustling place.

 

I focused on the demise at first, the sad remnants of a once breathing space; and when I focussed on such a notion – it was easier to uncover those that did not fit in with this non-place. The brickworks had come alive. Not in the sense that it was a breathing thing, but it’s personality and it’s potential shone through it’s many cracks and crevasses. From where the place had died, other life had thrived – I began to see the structure less as a ruin and more as a sanctuary.

 

Along the haggard walls, vines were bursting with life and the artificial colours of graffiti culture only made the natural hues of greens and reds and yellows more outstanding. When the breeze blew through it’s bones, the building was resuscitated – leaves danced, gates sang, and ropes and wires danced – casting shadows across the rooms, summoning the spectral sentinels of a ghostly space.

 

The sounds were comforting. The constant dripping of water drops were a whimsical reminder of the ecosystems within this shell. I heard the echoes of my feet, and the pipes and paint cans and the rooms no longer felt empty. The space had become activated and my interrogation followed in pursuit.

 

I decided to create a dichotomy, made manifest through film and sound – to contrast the death, decay and human interference against the relentless grip that nature has on the world. I captured both sides of this space and looked through both sides of the mirror. I recorded the sounds I created within the space and the sounds that existed both prior and after my disturbance. The readings on reflection and reflexivity helped me realise that my reflection is part of my discovery on being able to notice; such as ideas veiled behind tall walls of insecurity.

From Here to There from Rob Corica on Vimeo.