The world feels somehow smaller right now. It may be the monotony of my walls at home, or that I feel like people are a lot closer, despite being far away. I am surrounded by both the mundane and the extraordinary. The familiar and the strange.
Yesterday I had a pang for something lost. Something really simple. The ability to take my pencil and notebook to a local cafe, sit in a window, drink coffee, and people watch as I write. In 2019 I completed a mini-fieldwork project. My site a small pocket of an inner-Melbourne suburb called Yarraville. This pocket, a tiny part of the world, not unlike the tiny-ness we are all experiencing right now. And yet within this tiny place I find an entirely unexpected technicolor coat of imaginings. This was my submission on completion. I hope it makes you feel like you were there with me.
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On a 100m x 15m pocket of land in the Melbourne suburb of Yarraville is ‘The Ballarat Street Park’. Book-ended by bollards, what was once a thoroughfare for cars is now a place for feet. The moveable grass benches, artistic sculpted trees and a carpet of fake grass are cocooned by surrounding eateries and boutique retailers. High above the bluestone gutters, resplendent in Hollywood glamour, sits the art deco Sun Theatre; proudly watching over all below. This is my field site.
4:30pm Thursday. Teens sit in circles on the grass. Their school uniforms wheels of color. Carers watch children play; their clothes mimicking one another. As the sun dims, the fairy lights nestled in the man-made trees begin to sparkle and people retreat into their homes. Locals.
6:00pm Thursday. The iconic sun atop the movie theatre lights up the night sky. I smell my destination before I see it, as popcorn wafts from the theatre foyer and snakes around the surrounding streets. In the queue I am enveloped by the hum of conversation. I see many a bearded man and suits that say: ‘I came from work’. In sync with the trees, fairy lights adorn the theatre and surrounding retailers. I buy my ticket and ask if I can take a photo, explaining my project. ‘Cool!’ says Audrey, ‘Do you know Davey? ‘No’ I respond, my outsider status exposed. ‘He has mental health issues and he kind of works here. He is this place’. A person as a place.
I join the slow climb up the majestic stairs to find my seat. Everything I see nods to a time long gone. An elderly man makes his way up the steps. ‘This must be me’ he says, sitting beside me. The lights dim as the scalloped drapes slowly rise and the music to 2001: A Space Odyssey begins. Intermission ends and people weave back to their seats: wine glasses refilled, popcorn replenished. The elderly man leans toward me: ‘I first saw this film in 1968’. John tells me that he regularly travels to the Sun Theatre from Werribee. ‘It’s a quick trip down the freeway’ he says. He likes to see the classics on the big screen. He comes alone because his wife has no interest in film.
8:am Tuesday. I hear the click-clack of heels and turn to see a woman rushing towards the station. Head down. Headphones in. Simultaneously connected and disconnected. She seems familiar with this place yet ignorant of it. I find the theatre closed but The Corner Shop is awake, just. It has sleep in its eyes and bed hair. Or maybe that’s the barista. I take a seat at the window. People sit alone, peering into laptops. The spluttering of the coffee machine interrupts a quiet stillness. I hear a muffled horn and the slowing beat of a distant train pulling into the station. A man sprints past. A child hurries behind; his parka half on, and half off as he fights a backpack much bigger than him.
I am surrounded by the distinctive pattern of Gorman clothes and Apple Macs. A woman glances at my pencil and paper; odd tools in this place — apart from two friends chatting nearby, I am the only person not bent into a laptop. The friends talk about Japan. They have been before and they plan to go again.
As the café fills, and gets louder, I wander outside to photograph a woman painted on a brick wall. Beside her is written “Michelle. My Belle. These are words that go together well. My Michelle”. ‘She passed away in 2017’ a voice behind me says; ‘She was one character; but we all loved her’. Michelle reminds me of Davey. A person as a place. (I return in 2022 to find Michelle’s image erased — the brick wall now blank).
1:00pm Sunday. The winter sun appears as I walk towards the park. The lack of available carparks suggests far away people are joining those who live close enough to walk, or cycle. I hear a mix of languages, and see hijabs; saris. People meander about like tourists admiring architecture. Children spill out from the theatre to play on the grass, parents in tow. A man sets up a tripod to take photos. The Corner Shop is crowded with laptopless people.
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The iconic sun atop the The Sun Theatre, Michelle painted on the wall, the bluestone gutters and the man-made sculpted trees — all reminders that ‘narratives of places are not just told with words; they can be told and heard with senses other than speech and hearing’ (Rodman 1992). Despite their absence, Michelle and Davey were particularly vocal. Michelle, who apparently threw chairs around the park on occasion and Davey, who “works” with all the retailers as and when he chooses, were central to the conversations I had with locals. To be a local was to know them both. This tapestry of meanings woven into a nostalgic canvass, brought threads of multiple perspectives together to constitute place.
This big, tiny place.
Image: Sean Benesh on Unsplash
Ref: Rodman, M., 1992, ‘Empowering Place: Multilocality and Multivocality’ American Anthropologist, Vol. 94, No. 3, pp.640-656