Ray Hughes Gallery, Surry Hills

The following photographic series documents some of the silent silhouettes surrounding the Ray Hughes Gallery on Devonshire St, Surry Hills.

I've posted about these before [Nostalgia] [Sightings pt. III], although some were partially destroyed by graffiti writers.

These works illustrate the themes of spirituality, death, sexuality, social commune, life stages and several others. 

This angel is catching a package from heaven. A fading crowd leaps for what this angel will get. They do not have wings, they are stopped by under-evolved bodies. The angel's cock hangs from his robe and excitedly sprays holy semen on the crowd, like DJ Steve Aoki pours Grey Goose into ravers' mouths, symbolising mass fellatio. If only his 2c mashups were as exciting.

According to this piece, all we get in life is God's leftovers.

Another angel flies across the gallery wall holding a torch. What does the torch symbolise?

Possible options:

'Liberty burns bright here'

or

 'The Olympics is about to begin, bitches'?

We may never know.

What we do know is the absence of cock in this piece. This upsets us.

This figure is probably doing one of two things; either he is hanging himself to escape the torturous life that being hollow entails, or he is moonwalking through a doorway.

A Peeping Tom pokes his head around a corner where homeless people sleep. What's he looking for? It's probably in the vein of why you've come to this blog. The irony here is that Tom doesn't know we're watching him in the act. Peeping Tom + us watching him = life imitating art.

Dear artist,

You confuse me. Does this painting depict the ecstatic joy one feels after a sex change? Are you toying with my feelings? Is gender an illusion we fight, or did another artist cum over and deface this with a brush and a tin of irony? Fucking tell me. Should I be proud of the time I wore a bra and danced in front of a mirror when I was ripped off my tits last year? Feel so confused. Need someone to love/hold/fuck me.

Love always,

Omar

This silhouette fell off the roof/from the window of the gallery. Pedestrians look with confused expressions as they walk past - they see the inversion of their gravity-anchored steps in this piece.

"You asshole. You walked right over me. I'm laying here on the ground and you did nothing to help. Yeah, is that an iPhone? Listen, exit that fucking Safari browser and call an ambulance. No, I don't give a shit. Who cares if you're enabling multitasking? Just press the home button. God damn. Take my Nexus One, it'll get the job done. Oh shit, there we go. My left fucking knee is dislocated. HELP ME ALREADY. Here take my phone. What? You can't use it because it's a white outline with an invisible screen? Forget it. No, don't touch me. Get the hell outta here. Go back to Bourke Street Bakery and have your fucking pork and fennel sausage roll, with a glass of milk. Don't forget to chain your fixie to a pole. You'll be in line for a while."

This piece signifies life's teeth-gnashing struggle. Struggle and tension make daily drudgery interesting. It gives the lower-middle/working classes something to fight for. In the context of this series, is struggle the small part of a larger discourse or is it experienced only by the lonely, for themselves?

Who knows. I mean that as a statement/phrase/clause, not a question/inquiry/oppugn.

There doesn't seem to be a 'closing statement' in this series. It says so much, but answers little.

Does this series 'fuck open' the gallery-viewer dialogue?

Does it say more to you than any artwork you've ever seen?

Should the Labor Government ask voters for 'feedback' before it replaces the Prime Minister? Is Australia technically a dictatorship now?

Does street art make more sense than gallery art because you can decide what it means for yourself?