Baby: arts@work’s reviews

The reviewers are: Stephenie Cahalan, Anica Boulanger-Mashberg, Kylie Eastley, Mark Cutler and Gai Anderson.

Title: Baby Where? Inside here!
Show name: Baby, where are the fine things you promised me?
Company Name:
Venue: Glenorchy, Hobart, Burnie, Penguin, Burnie, Ulverstone, Devonport, Evandale, Launceston
Dates: 27 March – 5 April
Reviewer: Mark Cutler
Word count: 453

This is one for the whole family, from toddlers to grannies. New Zealand installation artist Stephen Bain has created/recreated a whimsical reflection on both his own childhood and a comment on our obsession with the quarter acre block and “dream house”. And he’s done it in such a clever and humorous way.

Back at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, the first kit-set houses began springing up in New Zealand. Between 1890 and 1910, these replica Victorian cottages became the norm for a population that was hell bent on settling down to domestic bliss. Bain himself grew up in one of these houses, four of them in fact over his lifetime. So how did he respond? Well, by building a mini cottage eight and a half times smaller than the originals of course, and taking it with him to where ever he, or anyone else wants. Oh, and did I mention he exists inside the tiny house? Not all the time mind you, no human back is capable of such extended distortion. However he does stay inside the house for a couple of hours at a time, playing a baby, baby grand piano, making tea and talking to inquisitive children and other astonished onlookers.

The doll’s cottage, which took Bain three weeks to construct, is painted with a federation red roof, cream exterior and dark green trim. The sort of colour scheme we have seen thousands of times. Inside it is adorned with notes that have been posted to the artist from the letterbox outside. He has a small stove for tea making and that is about it. Kids adored it and why not. It’s not everyday you get to see a doll’s house with a real person inside, much less one who will talk to you. Don’t be afraid to find a spot on the astro-turf surround, lie down and take a peek.

My only quibble is that Bain should completely embrace his statement. The sight of real sized tea cups and the dreaded plastic water bottles inside the cottage cut the reality, especially when set against the miniature furnishings. He bothered with a tiny packet of sultanas, so Stephen … take it all the way!

Baby, where are all the fine things you promised me? is the sort of festival offering that will both delight and provoke. What does it all mean? you could almost hear some punters ask. Nothing is the short answer, just delight in the event and if you want something more meaningful … well perhaps you should talk to the artist himself, he’s certainly up for a chat. It will be touring the state from Hobart to Penguin so you won’t have far to travel.

Mark Cutler is a Hobart based writer/performer

…

Anica Boulanger-Mashberg
Forget anything you think you know about street theatre. Or installation works. Or architecture. Or performance. Or even festival content. Baby has nothing to do with any of these things. And everything to do with them. It is a puzzling, charming interactive experience, entirely open to your own participation and interpretation.

Stephen Bain has constructed a scale model of a house in which he once lived – a very specific kind of late eighteenth/early nineteenth century New Zealand kit-home. The scale model is about the size of a very generous doll’s house, or, as Bain says, just large enough for him to sit comfortably inside. And sit inside he does, for hours at a time. And, yes, he seems remarkably comfortable.

When I visited the house, it was on the footpath in Salamanca Place, set at a jaunty angle on a square of bright green astroturf. A full-sized letterbox beside the ‘lawn’ holds a tiny page of information about the house, and a notepad for visitors to leave messages. Or, if you prefer, you can get down on your hands and knees and have a good chat with the resident himself. He’s very friendly. Go on, have a look. Get right down, lie on your stomach on the lawn, peek in through the window. He’s playing the piano right now (yes, a real one – but it’s only little) but in a moment when he finishes, he’ll have a chat with you. About anything you like. And look, the kettle’s nearly boiled – he’ll pass you a cup of tea through the window if you want one.

A fascinating element of this work is observing the way this space, this inanimate object filled with a theatre-maker, affects its watchers. Children are intrigued, and quick to bend down and ask Bain odd questions, or gleefully declare that they’ve figured out how he got in there. Adults are more hesitant, standing back, considering. It is rather marvellous to watch a well-dressed businessperson overcoming their self-consciousness and prostrating themselves in the middle of the footpath. And it makes you forget about the philosophical questions of art: this experience is simply what you make it.

What is most interesting about Baby is its lack of artifice: when you lie down and chat with Bain, he is utterly casual. He isn’t delivering rehearsed lines, or even steering people’s questions. Similarly, the house isn’t furnished inside, or decorated to scale. He’s got a small camp stove, a radio, some snacks, and various useful things, and the back wall of the house is papered with notes people have left in his letterbox. The title of the work is perhaps the only performative element, and it is up to you whether or not to ask him about it. You might just as easily chat to him about the weather. Both conversations would be an equally valid way to experience this work.

You can follow Baby’s journey online at wherearethefinethings.blogspot.com.

And for the record, that was the tastiest and most whimsical cup of tea I’ve ever had.

Anica Boulanger-Mashberg is a Hobart-based performer and writer.

…

Gai Anderson
I grew up in the burbs: the neat quarter-acre block, fluorescent green lawn trimmed with precision; sensible identical houses all in rows, dunny down the back, marching over the hills like an army of soldier ants. So the miniature red corrugated iron-roofed, Federation weatherboard house complete with bright green astroturf and white letter box, that I come upon in Salamanca Place, takes me straight back to my childhood.

I’m straight down on my knees on the grass, staring in at artist and house owner, the
full-sized Stephen Bain, who is tinkling away on his toy piano, knees bent up, head touching the ceiling. As he offers me tea, I notice the internal walls are covered with notes posted into his letter box by visitors and passers-by. The back wall is kept for some that are obscene, but mostly they are very friendly, even eloquent, like the occupant himself.

Bain is a performing artist from New Zealand who built this house himself. It’s a copy of his childhood home in New Zealand. It’s the only house he’s ever likely to own, he says, the closest he will get to the working-class utopian dream, but he’s glad he built it. Bain’s installation was intended as a short performance piece, maybe for a few weeks: two years later he is still travelling with the show. During that time, he says he has become less shy and had hundreds of intimate conversations with strangers lying on the lawn and chatting through the home’s tiny little windows.

Bain is travelling around Tasmanian with the house to a variety of places over the festival’s ten days to plonk himself down in your neighbourhood for a few hours. So if you get a chance, go and have a chat.

Gai Anderson is a performer and playwright based in Hobart.

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Kylie E. Eastley
Not often do you see men and women with their bums in the air on Salamanca Square, Hobart. But without fear or apprehension hundreds will be seen like this peering into the temporary world of New Zealand artist Stephen Bain.

This installation, and performance piece, is positioned where latte drinkers, tourists and the hip congregate to see and be seen. A perfect place for a scale model of an iconic Victorian house.

With red roof, verandah and even a letter box for messages to be posted by visitors, this work draws people in to get on the ground and look through the small wooden windows.

A crowd gathers around the house and then there is a whisper…’There’s someone in there’. And sure enough, within the walls of this familiar weather board house, is Bain. He appears relaxed, chatting to visitors who crouch, sit and lie on the artificial grass surrounding the property.

There is fantastic interaction between the artist and visitors who share cups of tea and chat about their favourite houses, art and the messages that are plastered onto the internal walls and ceiling. Bain appears comfortable in the space. Shelves collect memorabilia, and household items such as board games add to the sense of childhood and nostalgia.

There is surprise and happiness on the faces of passers-by and curious onlookers. Small children try to climb onto or into the house while others chatter with Bain.

For Bain the work is about the desire for people to own their own quarter-acre block and have a home. This was his impetus for creating the house which is a scale model of a rental property he used to live in.

‘It will be the closest I get to owning a house’, Bain confides.

The space inside the house is cramped with Bain half lying but able to make tea, play his music: tuning in SBS and giving an impromptu performance on his tiny piano.

This work seems to tap into our reminiscence of home, family and safety, drawing us into a place that is familiar and inviting. We are happy to lie close to this artist, a thin wall separating, and talk quite intimately with a stranger.

This installation works on a number of levels. There is humour, a sense of ridiculousness and a familiarity that relaxes people. It connects with our sense of home, make-believe and childhood. Women in skirts and blokes join small, giggling children to see what’s inside and have a chat.

Coupled with this perhaps is the commentary on the ‘great Aussie and New Zealand dream’ of home ownership, and what denotes a home? Is it the bricks and mortar or is it the relationship and conversation between individuals?

So drop in (on your knees or stomach) to visit the house when it comes to your community to see the finer things and share a cup of tea with one of New Zealand’s great exports.

Kylie E. Eastley is a freelance arts consultant and producer based in Hobart, Tasmania.

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Stephenie Cahalan
Stephen Bain once rented a neat little Victorian weatherboard, complete with an outside toilet. admittedly with an outside toilet, but that was why the rent was cheap. After moving out, and doubting whether he would ever own a home, Bain built a scale model of his favorite rental, just big enough for him to sit up and enjoy a cup of tea in.

Bain’s background is in the New Zealand theatre. He built the model in three weeks for his installation piece, thinking there might be a few weeks work to be had: sitting in his house, making tea, playing his toy piano and chatting to curious passers-by. Two years later he is still touring festivals, spending four hours at a time crouched in his sweet piece of the great ‘Australian’ dream.

The house nestles nicely on a quarter-acre block (to scale) of astroturf. Unlike most urban dwellers, Stephen is pleased to have peeping toms peeking through his windows, and asking nosy questions, which is lucky as the house is parked right in the middle of the main drag at Salamanca, and in daily-changing locations throughout the festival. Adults and children alike get down on their hands and knees. Children have offered autumn leaves. The walls are lined with letters posted by ‘visitors’ in the letterbox outside the house. Bain’s website (wherearethefinethings.blogspot.com) features the photos he has taken of people peering in.

‘Look who’s Mr Popular?’, one little boy declared. ‘It’s what you’ve got to do’, was the reply from inside. It is exactly this kind of conversation that Stephen is prompting; about home ownership, who can achieve it, suburban utopias (both living and lost) and the longing for a room of one’s own.

Stephenie Cahalan is a Hobart-based writer and editor.

This review is part of arts@work’s Critical Acclaim program, designed to increase critical analysis of the arts