Al Stark is an artist rolling around in muck, at the base of the spiring Melbourne art mountain. Each year he scratches into his journey walls another progression of visual ramblings, and on its floors leaves a cacophony of desperate d.i.y, no-fi trinkets and over-compensated souvenirs: totems of psychological and spiritual garbage, made from the flotsam and jetsam of consumer self loathing.

He leaves residue, rather than creating product. Art Career choice?... hmmm, not so sure maybe a life sentence of throwing junk down his own void more like waiting for the faint sound of an impact that is never going to happen.