Rural Utopias Residency: Ana Tiquia in Esperance #1
Ana Tiquia is currently working with the community of Esperance. This residency forms part of one of Spaced’s current programs, Rural Utopias.
Ana Tiquia is a transdisciplinary artist, cultural producer, curator, and future strategist. Integrating participatory art, design and futures practice, Ana creates public interventions: works that invite audiences into dialogue with ‘the future’. Her practice is one of inclusion that aims to ‘future’ with other humans, creatures, and things – to generate diverse, plural, and transformative future imaginaries. Ana has a deep commitment to the role of arts practice in relation to future inquiry, imagining, and social-ecological change. Her projects explore energy and material futures, futures of work and labour and the power dynamics encoded in algorithmic systems
Here, Ana shares an update:
Space-time / Place-time: Distance is the space between two points, but not necessarily two people.
What is Kepa Kurl / Esperance? How does one begin to 'know' place? What data exists on place, and how can one 'parse' it lacking any immediate, embodied, and situated experience? Months before I arrive, producer Katie Witt sends me a beautifully wrapped 'care package' in the mail, containing copies of local monthly magazine Esperance Tide, the local weekly paper The Express, maps, guides, brochures. On the other side of the continent, on a laptop in Naarm / Melbourne I read about a pink lake which is no longer pink, shark attacks, a colony of Gilbert's Potoroos and the humans and mycelium who care for them.
Now I'm here, I hear other stories. When I meet people and mention that I'm researching for a project with the broad theme of rural utopias, the frequent response has been "we have one right here!" or "you've come to the right place". People tell me I've arrived in the "best place on Earth". I see the appeal. At the last census, Esperance had a population of 12,000 – “not too big, not too small” as people tell me. It is a coastal town surrounded by white sand beaches and bright, turquoise water; remote, yet connected to the world through a material flow of minerals and grains that pass through its port, and an increasingly global audience who admire its beaches and natural beauty through social media. Here, at Cannery Arts Centre, I only have to cross the road to feel the freshness of the wind upon my face, see clear waters lap at the sea wall, and watch cormorants and crabs scramble upon the rocks. 'Warm data', to borrow from the language and framework of Nora Bateson.
Esperance is eight hours drive from Perth, the world's most remote city. For my journey, space-time is shrunk a little as I fly into town via a small Rex aircraft instead. An hour and a half flight from Perth Airport, we glide above a gradated, smudged and chiaroscuro landscape wrought by winding water bodies and forest systems that yields to right-angled, monochromatic parcels of farmland. Esperance's distance from a major city and remoteness appears to be part of its appeal; in conversations with people it's often framed as desirable. In conversation, I am struck by the intentionality behind people's decision to live here. Moments after arriving, I hear accounts from people who came for a holiday from Sydney, Perth, Kalgoorlie, and decided to move permanently. A common story is the cyclical one: the person who grew up here, moved away to a big city for university study or work, and returned later to bring new knowledge and skills back to their community; often to bring up their own children here as well.
Distance and remoteness can provide sanctuary for others. In my first week here, Katie and I speak with a few people working on the frontline in community crisis support. One person reflects on the remoteness of Esperance, and that they've observed that many come here to “run away”, or “flee” hardship, challenge, or violence elsewhere. Distance can also provide escape from 'the long arm of government and the law'. One person tells me they feel a strong streak of defiance runs through the town's culture – people don't like being told what to do, especially from State or Federal government who are seen as imposing their will from major cities elsewhere. In this account, remoteness is equated with 'freedom'; a libertarian ideal of freedom as 'freedom from' rules, norms impressed upon by the State, administered remotely.
Others cite different reasons for valuing distance. A number of people tell me how they feel the distance and remoteness of Esperance creates a 'close-knit', more self-reliant community. Here, distance is discussed as shrinking the space between community members while growing the space between other towns and settlements. Distance, in this sense, seems to be more about strengthening the responsibilities and relationships between those who are here, developing a strength of community that might not be found in a more populous town or city. I ask one person, a local who grew up here, if they can define 'community'. They pause at length before telling me that they can't see 'community' as a separate, stand-alone concept. They are community, and community is Esperance. All are entangled, there is no space between.
Pace of relations: slowness - speed - fullness – busyness
I've come here curious to learn what has changed, and what is changing. To ask how people here are sensing, anticipating, registering, and enacting change; what are considered 'good futures' for community and place. I am keen to learn what existing practices of 'doing' and 'making' desired futures are being utilised. Over the first two weeks I spend my time going out into the community, meeting with and having conversations with people, going for walks and visiting people's homes and places of work. We drive out to visit one of Esperance's expansive farms. I ask people how they are experiencing time.
In 1979 Skylab, the first United States space station broke up upon re-entry into the Earth's atmosphere. Skylab debris was scattered all over Esperance and the region, placing the town in an international media spotlight. Lynda Horn, Cultural officer and Skylab researcher at the Museum of Esperance notes the change in speed of news and how we consume it between then, and now. She reflects how news today is instantaneous, literally at our fingertips whereas in 1979 people had to travel for days to arrive in Esperance and report on Skylab. Changes in communications technology have shrunk space and time between Esperance and the rest of the world.
Some changes happen slowly, many things persist over time. Time can also be seen as a part of place. I go for a walk on Country with Aunty Annie Dabb and Wanika Close, who run Dabungool Cultural Experiences, a First Nations owned and led cultural touring company. On a walk around Lake Monjingup, we visit a zamia palm, whose age is between 900-1000 years old. Zamia palms grow slowly, with seeds that can take up to a century to germinate. We we laugh about it needing to 'lie down' because it is so old. I think about the changes this palm would have experienced here over time, in place.
I speak with Erica Austen who coordinates the Shire's Volunteer Resource Centre. Erica speaks about “slow care,” how volunteering enables people to perform the labour of care “off the clock”. She explains how aged care volunteers can “take the time'” to really slow down, speak with, and engage aged care residents; to care for them in a way that paid workers often can't. Our conversation makes me wonder whether slowness is integral to care, and 'care-full' practices.
The theme of 'fullness' and 'busyness' emerges and re-emerges over these first weeks. Many people I encounter tell me how busy life feels, how time is experienced as speeding up. I have a conversation with someone who talks about the difference between 'busyness' and 'fullness'. Busyness, we decide, has a distinctly strained feel to it – a flurry of activity that contributes to degrees of exhaustion, an extractive mode; whereas 'fullness' denotes abundance – activity that nourishes, gives back, sustains and even grows energy.
As a lifelong city dweller I've always loved the anonymity that one can slip in and out of in big cities, in fact I thought I thrived on it. Esperance begins to challenge my assumptions about what I 'thrive' on, as I find myself enjoying the everyday conversations and chats with a growing number of familiar faces in town and around the Cannery. I begin to recognise that my own sense of 'busyness' doesn't have much of a home here. I find my sense of priorities shifting; my 'to-do' list, however urgent, sits at odds with what I see practiced here: the 'real work' of relating, checking-in and taking time for others. I speak about community to someone who jokes that when figuring out when they'll do a shop at Woolies, they have to factor in whether they have time to stop and chat as they go! A trip to the shops here isn't a transactional experience, but a community gathering and re-making relations on the day-to-day.
Future making
How are people making 'good futures' in community, how are people caring for the future?
In these first weeks I meet so many people who care for the future of their community through volunteer work. In my first week, I join Katie at a weekend cemetery clean-up, organised by a community cemetery care group in partnership with the Shire of Esperance. The Esperance cemetery appears well loved and tended to, even before the clean up begins. I speak to those who have arrived to volunteer. Several have family members buried here, others consider their own mortality and wonder who might tend to their graves in the future, as they tend to the graves of others in the present. I was struck by a conversation with a volunteer who had returned to Esperance after several years away. As she tended to her grandmother's plot, she reflected upon the parallels between her life and that of her grandmother. Here in Esperance, cemetery care, and tending to the graves of one's ancestors could be understood as a 'future-making' activity.
I witness many more familiar forms of 'future making' over these first weeks. As soon as I arrive,
Katie takes me to the Esperance Agricultural Show; explained to me as the event of the year here. Here I am fast introduced to a world of "most beautiful cabbage", “best sourdough loaf”, and prizewinning Devonshire Tea spreads, the prized Rotary Club fish burger, excited kids and fairground rides, and an watch an impressive fireworks display with Katie and her family. At the Ag Show, Esperance puts its best on display. I return the next morning to explore the show in more depth. Gigantic combine harvesters (or 'headers', as I learn to call them) featured in display, on the main stage was a high-energy shear-off competition, and in the newest pavilion at the show grounds: the trade show.
The trade show is full of 'official' future plans and agendas. Here, Southern Ports, one of the corporations who manage berths at the Esperance Port, were putting forward a future masterplan with a proposal for expansion. Jars of mineral and plant matter were displayed at their stall representing the material flows in and out of the Esperance port. Outflows represented by: spodumine, iron ore, wheat, canola, barley; inflows represented by sulphur, fertiliser. Fortescue Future Industries presented Andrew Forrest's agenda and vision to transform Esperance and the West Nullarbor region into a wind-powered hydrogen production hub, largely to generate energy for export. The Parks and Wildlife service were present, gathering community feedback and comment on the proposed South Coast Marine Park, which is intended to put protections around marine and coastal areas within and surrounding Esperance. The Shire of Esperance had several masterplans and community consultations underway, including for the development of a new cultural precinct for James Street in the town centre. I spoke with LEAF – the local grassroots environmental organisation about their activities, which involved developing a strategic plan to 2023. A trip to the trade show clearly demonstrated that Esperance is 'doing futures' in the form of visioning, and producing masterplans and strategic plans.
Several large proposals and future plans for Esperance are currently being slated – each with the promise or possibility for significant transformation; each offering benefits to different communities across different scales. While these major plans and visions may be compatible to a degree, it strikes me that some of them may imply competing or conflicting ideas of what a future Esperance might represent, whom it might be for, and who might benefit from these proposed changes.
Representing corporate, state, and local government visions the trade stalls also make something else patently clear to me. While visions and masterplans are 'top-down' approaches to 'doing futures', none of these plans will go ahead without support from community. Community perception, understanding and energy for a project here is central to its success. Each of the proposed projects were represented by community engagement managers, and each were consulting and seeking feedback and input. These proposals signal big choices the wider community will need to decide upon and shape. The question for me after the trip to the trade show was, what kind of future do communities here want, what do they see as 'good futures' for community and place? What changes do communities feel are necessary to enable a 'good future' here?
Optimism, abundance, and growth
There is a sense of optimism and possibility in conversations I have with people here when discussing the future of their community. One of the strongest impressions I receive is that people not only have pride in their town, but a deep and genuine sense that Esperance is going from strength to strength. The story I hear in Esperance is not a narrative of decline, it's one of growth. Increased affluence from successful decades of farming the region, luck, weather, environmental factors, recent history are all sighted as reasons for positivity. Several people I speak with want to see the town develop and grow to sustain and improve access to key services such as specialist healthcare and education. In conversations, I hear excitement about growth prospects for Fortescue's proposed hydrogen hub, for increased tourism to the region, for what a marine park might bring, for burgeoning small businesses. But when you value your remoteness, isolation, and space, how much growth is desirable, how much growth is enough?
I'm curious about whether there's a 'goldilocks threshold' for growth here. One person cites a population of 20,000 as their idea of a 'good future' for the town. I find myself thinking about the idea of the 'rural idyll' – and how the definition of an idyll is always prefaced as 'unsustainable' or subject to change, periodised and possibly short-lived. I'm not sure if this is an example of a negativity bias on the societal level, or a collective anxiety around the inevitable change or potential loss of whatever we consider “good”. Idyllic is how I would describe what I've experienced of Esperance so far, and how I see it reflected in conversations with others.
If I were to describe a feeling-sense of my experience here so far it would be a warm, rounded sense of generous abundance. Although the ever-changeable weather has brought cold winds and rain to town, it has felt to me all warm tones and soft edges. I am grateful to have received much time, care, company and conversation, invitations into people's homes and places of work, and to have had much personal insight, knowledge and skills shared with me. I have been nourished by home-cooked meals, leafy greens and herbs from the Forage community garden at the Cannery, from the ample rain which has flowed into the water tank, and from the market gardens of local growers. Ben, a dedicated Cannery volunteer brings me containers of delicious vegan dhal and lentil 'bolognaise'. I open the door of my residency flat one Sunday afternoon to a vase of freshly picked flowers – brought to me by Sarsby, an artist and one of the Cannery staff.
After these first weeks I can barely say I 'know' Esperance. But I feel lucky to be the beneficiary of the connection, abundance, good-will, and optimism that I've seen in the way people relate to each other, to their community and to place.
