Three or four good, accidental meetings with the artist Philippe Vranjes over these number of weeks. Philippe had been recovering from a bad cold and hadn’t been able to make a time in the first little while; after which the man might have intuited the shared preference for the accidental. All smooth and well as usual at the get-togethers. It had been an unusual first meeting with Philippe, or acquaintance in fact, twelve or thirteen years ago. Faisal at the d’Afrique café in Nicholson Street had mentioned the hospitalisation of one of his regulars, the quiet tall White guy with that look about him. The man had no one in the country, Faisal reported; he was unwell; he ought to be visited. It was a kind of appeal, on humanitarian grounds. No meeting of eye, much less words exchanged with Philippe at the time. French-Algerian, Faisal informed. At Western General he could not be found; he had been discharged it seemed. Understandably, Philippe was rather startled at the matter when he was informed some weeks later, but didn’t say too much; not even really offering thanks for the solicitude. Fruit had been bought for the invalid. Philippe talked art in a way that was convincing and compelling. He seemed older than his fifty years (at the first meeting he had been short of forty). Philippe would be turning fifty in a few weeks in the middle of a lagoon in the SW wilderness of Tasmania. For the past couple of years he had been exploring the Grampians and from there went down into the bottom of the continent, where the roar of the Southern Ocean crashed onto the beaches along the coast. A fortnight’s trek would begin in early November. The lagoon was two days out of a place called Cockle Creek, a strange settlement populated with a few hundred people whose descendants went back to the whalers settled there a hundred and fifty plus years ago. A protected heritage area, largely unexplored, where these descendants were allowed to remain in their great tents and various shelters. Building was prohibited in the area. Gathering firewood was permitted this folk, fishing rights and hunting too it may have been. Southern Cross flags were flown at the township, the local men sporting big bushy beards. Many of the landmarks through the area carried French names from early explorers. Philippe had ventured there three or four times, read numerous trekking and walking accounts. Philippe was meticulous in his preparations—precisely 20kg pack, food for two weeks with appropriate nutritional requirements, emergency satellite tracking. A Ranger inspected visitors and checked their packs. In the event of any kind of mishap a helicopter would be needed for rescue. The first part of the lagoon Philippe had investigated some months previously and the dense forest on the Eastern side was entered a few dozen metres. Within that dark thicket only smallest shreds of sky had been visible. There was a great deal of rain in the area; drenchings were common and sun for drying apparel rare. The Why? was impossible to answer for Philippe, understandably. A strong compulsion drove the man and the talk beforehand was a little beside the point. There might possibly be some indefinable artistic outcome from the upcoming venture. Earlier trekking posts on Philippe’s Instagram had won a few hundred followers. As with some other encounters with personally important artists and writers, the talk with Philippe had preceded exposure to the work—work that had subsequently been found strong. It was another rather unusual, happy accident of the same kind as with other artists. Looking at Philippe’s Instagram portfolio with him over lunch at our African cafe, the strength of the images was no surprise. Striking, intriguing pictures these that raised questions and challenges. In the remote locales of forests and creeks Philippe sometimes donned colourful clothing of his own manufacture; striking and elaborate cross-dressing kind of apparel. Like traditional people the world over in such territories responding to their habitat, Philippe agreed. The body of preliminary work sighted on Instagram strongly persuades belatedly signing up to that platform. Philippe was estranged from his Bosnian father, whose family name referenced a large Southern Serbian town. It was another point of contact with Philippe.
A small sample of the photos provided by Philippe:
https://www.instagram.com/philippevranjes/?hl=en
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