A review of all of us [girls] have been dead for so long by Linda Wallace media artist, and director of Machine Hunger.

I liked the way she held a cigarette, asked for a light and then refused to take it.
I liked the way she made faces all the time, macabre takes on the social, people at a party, people talking to themselves, really – that is what she was so brilliantly able to show, these talking people, talking to themselves, on and on, the lack of communication that goes on all the time. The inability to communicate, the subsequent loss and alienation. I think it was the attention to detail in the facial gestures which really surprised me, so familiar and yet so…..emptied out.

The intensity, the weirdness of her performance, the power she had over the audience, it was uncanny. Her very presence.

I liked the sequence of ‘I just didn’t want to repeat it’ and the dialogue about the last Tasmanian _Truganinni – to whom happened all manner of unspeakable horrors, most of which I had no idea of. I also liked the way that I was in Amsterdam and so was she and here she was talking about the terrible things that happened in Tasmania which to this day are still not able to be spoken clearly – for fear of becoming what one well known recently re-elected person has called ‘the black armband view of history’. She was telling stories , stories that most would prefer forgotten, those most who indeed have a very significant vested interest in them being forgotten, and as quickly as possible.

At another level I liked the way she kept manually on stage going over to laptop and setting various things off. A kind of deconstructionist tactic.

I also liked the request for the images that people had on them, as if they could help her (the performer) remember something. People offered up all sorts of images, and there they lay, lonely, bereft on the stage, a kind of exposure which seemed to be of no help at all.

In the end, at the end of the performance these images became part of the scene, the world that she had moved through that night, the writing on the walls, the detritus of the world strewn about her, as she span herself around and around, spinning some kind of complex web, extending her space immeasurably.