Bus Exhibits,
Bus Publishes,
Bus Listens,
Bus Projects

Bus Projects is currently closed.

We will reopen in our new space at the Collingwood Arts Precinct in March with our first round of exhibitions, a solo show by Moorina Bonini, a curated exhibition by Bianca Winata with Yaya Sung and Eugenia Lim, alongside the ‘Housewarming’ event series. Click through to our current website here.

We look forward to welcoming you to our new gallery in 2020!

Bus Projects acknowledges the traditional custodians of the land on which we operate: the Wurundjeri people and Elders past and present of the Kulin nations.

Bus Projects is supported by the Victorian Government through Creative Victoria and by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body. Bus Projects' 2017–19 Program is supported by the City of Yarra. Identity, Public Office

Bus Proj–
   ects

Text:

Angela Louise Powell and Katie Eva Ryan
"Implicit/Explicit"
Text by Anna Dunnill
2017

Your skin is made of brass. I polish you once a year, the day before Easter, after the death but before the resurrection. I rub cleaning fluid into your surface with an old shirt, worn too thin to mend, wadded into a mass. I am wiping out the marks of fingers, the slow build-up of time. Once a year this skin is unrippled.

Your skin is made of wood. I take a square of yellow sandpaper and ca-
ress you in circles, roughing you into smooth. You shed your outer layer, and are lighter. I rub linseed oil into your pores. I carry you down to the river and set you rocking. I push you away. You drift out, uncertain, carried by the tide. The river laps at your edges.

Your skin is made of cloth. I run a hot iron over, crackle and hiss, never paus- ing too long for fear of scorches. I press your creases out. For a moment you are blank and perfect. I fold you up. I put you in a drawer. You are silent in the dark, pressed in on all sides.

Your skin is made of wax. I crown you with a flame. Beads of sweat begin to glisten. They grow, they merge, your head is a pool. From the top down you become liquid, you slither and slump into gnarled roots. I let you trickle over my fingers and turn opaque and crack. You are a new shape. You forget what you used to be.

Your skin is made of light. When it touches my skin we both glow rosy. I move right through you.

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