Inspiration and photography: Caroline Dorin
This…is how I have always imagined it should be.
Wanted it to be.
The behemoth that the MCG is as a private and bespoke performance art venue. Its scale simultaneously magnified, yet distilled into a crucible for a supine form’s languid view. The roar of the 100,000 plus trapped below in the cauldron as he lies in the sun, head propped by the crocked elbow, a trail of discarded clothing tracing the path to the edge of the roof. And you can leave your socks on…
The earth splatters off their feet like chunks of dark chocolate. Their dirt-stained shoes and legs pumping, they glide into view; lungs straining against the prim white garments encasing their heaving chests, faces contorted with effort. Right at the edge of the cinder track, the milieu is startlingly bucolic. Green grass, heather and bramble adorned countryside stretches into the distance behind the dainty ladies and distinguished looking gentlemen lining the ropes. Grey clouds complete the picture, as if rendered meticulously by an artist’s brush than by nature. The runners advance languidly and loom larger, a pulsating symphony of strained muscles, limbs and torsos in cinematic slow motion. And oh, the music….