a tiny thought on Rone at MARS
I find myself on the unkempt and shabby premises of an abandoned house. Before my eyes, a vision in dusty overalls and a worn cap ascends a rickety ladder, paintbrush and spray can in hand, adding the last touches of colour to a portrait of a melancholy beauty trapped within a faded wall. I am standing on a piece of charming, albeit torn, floral wallpaper with dainty little roses flickering in the sunshine. The dappled rays of light nonchalantly creep in from the fractured remnants of the louvre to my left, dancing through motes of dust and settling on the wallpaper beneath my feet. The vestige of an opulent piano of yore sits forlornly to the right, its ivory keys peeking from beneath a shroud of broken glass and shreds of music sheets. The painter mutters as he works, a one-sided conversation with those very spirits that undoubtedly have come before me. Where am I? The painter mentions the fringes of Melbourne — the town I’ve never been.
Melbourne, the town-I-never-been. In fact, today, I haven’t ventured a step beyond Moscow. Neither have I crossed this closed-up bluish grid that commands my movements, permitting entry here but forbidding it there.
The place where I am doesn’t exist.
Although the experience is not new to me — my child delights in such digital larks, and my past virtual encounters have left me far from innocent — this time it somehow feels different.
Currently, the MARS Centre of Contemporary Art holds a virtual gallery showcasing the work of Rone, a celebrated street artist born Tyrone Wright, whose schtick is painting on buildings slated for demolition. As he evolves beyond creating solely on wretched constructions, I find this particular aspect of his artistry more enthralling. Others might question, however, the rationale behind such ephemeral masterpieces. After all, what’s the point of spending so much effort on a creation destined for imminent destruction? Rone’s answer seems both awfully simplistic and deeply philosophical — creating beauty amidst decay. What is it, then, a splash of vainglorious vibrancy against the urban ruin? Or a powerful reminder of our own impermanence before the march of time? What Rone seems to be saying is — why not create beauty before we all crumble into dust?
Pixelated facsimiles will have to suffice for now: While the MARS Centre offers a taste of Rone’s genius, the VR ultimately deprives it of its full nourishment. I may never know Melbourne, just as I may never stand before a towering, crumbling structure and crane my neck to glimpse one of Rone’s colossal maidens in person.
But at least now I know what to expect should I ever set foot on the land down under — a massive mural scaling the side of some condemned edifice, rising through the shattered concrete, and crowned by the fallen pieces of crumbling ceiling.
