Jonathan McBurnie, Drawings, and the Idea of Masculinity Crisis (an Interview with an Aussie Cult Hero), by Sahara Shrestha.

Originally published on Impose Magazine Online.

In an interview he did of himself, Aussie artist, Jonathan McBurnie, says that the concept of violence plays a crucial role in his works, and although a lot of his drawings consist of reappearances of masculine, heroic personalities, and comic book figures like Batman in action, he isn’t just speaking of physical violence. Mcburnie is interested in the kind of violence that “better penetrates your consciousness and your sub-consciousness.” The heroic figures are not alone; they co-exist with western cowboys, film personalities, pop icons, porn stars, and all of the array of characters have different stories going on within walls like that of a gallery’s where you’d least expect to see them, especially together, or outside in landscapes scenarios. Sometimes the characters overlap each other through Mcburnie’s drawing style. However, the artist points out how the superheroes tend to stand out with viewers, “dynamism is in its blood.”

Regarding the use of heroic figures in pop culture, including antiheroes that commit “acts of heroism,” Mcburnie himself wonders whether it is indicative of humanity’s desire and belief that the actions of the individual can bring change to the status quo, or of the opposite, where the figure acts as a potent reminder of how people are in so many ways “powerless to put any such change into effect” most of the time. Perhaps this is the “masculinity crisis” (a phrase he uses in one of his drawings) that he investigates.

A lot of your pieces include people engaging in what would be considered “inappropriate behavior” inside of galleries and museums amidst art hanging on the wall. You even have a full separate collection devoted to and titled “Sexual Encounters Inside a Gallery Space”. I’m curious as to how this idea for the series came about and why you like your characters hanging out at galleries so much.

This series started I think, through some collages I made using the exhibition publication of an artist who shall remain nameless. I make collage as a composition for drawing rather than sketch out the drawing first. Anyway, he makes these big, highly rendered paintings of really kitsch, opulent furniture and such objects, and they sell for hefty sums of money. So I started making collages of people having sex on these opulent tables and couches, kind of the underdog who doesn’t sell getting his own back. And it grew from there. The gallery scenes were a logical step, because the gallery can be such a sacred space, so sanctified which, I understand. But for me there has always been a bit of an appeal in subverting that really serious view of the art world. We can take it so seriously but a lot of great art is not actually like that.

And would you also say it has something to do with how certain things are more acceptable as art but not so much if it’s outside the boundaries of a picture frame?

Oh, for sure. Although, living in Australia, politics have gotten really conservative here, really kneejerk, and art is really being judged here right now. I like to subvert these sort of things, poke fun, but it is a pretty humorless political environment. They don’t really understand that art has a function outside of making things that are ‘nice’ to look at.

You’ve been drawing since as far back as you can remember, and your dad is an artist. Did you also go to art school or anything like that?

Yes, I am actually in the fourth year of my PhD. So, almost there!

While talking to Noir Notebook about the role of drawing in contemporary art you explain how it is no longer secondary to art forms like painting and sculpture after the industrial revolution brought photography, lithography, offset printing, and more so now, now that the digital age has really “cemented it as a dominant paradigm.” Is there anything you’d like to add to this?

Actually, it is pleasing to me that I still agree with what I said there! I suppose what I mean by that is that drawing has been incorporated into so many aspects of life now—design, architecture, graffito, tattoos, fashion, film—that I refer to this as metadrawing. Metadrawing is the principles of the drawing discipline applied to other areas. We have drawing programs now, yet we still draw, because there is a tactile or erotic enjoyment to that. It is just the same as painting’s continued life over a century after the invention of photography. I don’t think we can help it.

A lot of your works are mostly black and white but I noticed you’re coloring some of them, like the “Be proud of your art collection”, which looks neat. What type of materials and technique are you using for coloring?

That drawing is from a new set of work that I am developing right now. I have always struggled with color, my sense of which was fried at an early age, I think—too many comics. So I have historically avoided using it. Last year I did a residency in France and I was really blown away with the differences in the colors of that part of the world. At that time of the year the light was very pink and purple even. Very different when compared to Australia, which has quite a harsh, white light. So I did a lot of landscapes over there, a lot of watercolors, and it really stirred a desire to get some color into my work just to see what would happen. So the work you mention is from a series in which I am working with a restricted palette of watercolor washes. I mixed these up using a faded 1950’s Donald Duck comic as the color template, so the colors themselves have gone acidic and a little weird. I have been enjoying it immensely.

Looks like you also like Basquiat.

Yes I do. I don’t think he was the most consistent artist around, but he was a restless painter, he just went for it. I can really relate to that. I think he gets obscured by debates that revolve around his massive popularity in his lifetime, rather than the works themselves. He has also had a pretty substantial reach beyond the grave. I see a lot of people trying to do what he did and failing. Arguments of talent and commerce aside, he was a hard worker.

The collection “This looks too much like art” is kind of funny. What do you really mean by that, though? And what was your process like in completing that series from thinking “I’m going to write this on a bunch of images” to obtaining the pictures to, selecting them, writing on them?

I started these as an attempt to get myself laughing at bad art. I go to a lot of art exhibitions and see what is going on, and I am sure you know when it gets to a point where you start seeing patterns and trends emerge. People influence each other. But I was also seeing a more worrying trend where artists were just sort of handpicking things they liked from magazines and emulating them, and not with any kind of critical eye. It was upsetting me, I was getting way too mad about it and I realized, ‘what am I doing, this is so ridiculous,’ so I started the text works. They are very quickly made, very light-hearted, which lets me be a bit whacky. It is also a jab at myself really, for when I get too heavy, too serious, which I can do sometimes.



Jonathan McBurnie’s Precipice

Originally published in the catalogue for the exhibition Precipice by Blindside, Melbourne, 2011.

Artists today are relentless in their quest to articulate and explore ever-shifting modes of subjectivity. Central to this investigation is the body. Its pervasive regulation, in our time, has seen the body emerge as a key problematic in socio-cultural, political and economic mores. In art practice, as it is in any other field, the body struggles against the tyranny of mediatisation, surveillance, institutionalisation, and medicalisation to name but a few. It is in this last category however, that has had profound impact on artist Jonathan McBurnie’s practice. If the body, they say, is a battleground, then McBurnie has fought and won his fair share of battles. Surviving a year-long encounter with leukaemia and its aggressive treatment, McBurnie remains philosophical about his experiences, yet the threat of all-that-could-have-been remains in his recent body of work, Precipice.

Looking to Susan Sontag’s publication Illness as Metaphor, McBurnie found affinity in her discussion of the body as territory. In this he saw a clear nexus linking the body to site, or in his own context, to the Australian landscape. The desire to understand his practice within the great Australian tradition of landscape has inspired his current fascination with Australian history and literature, citing Robert Hughes The Fatal Shore as containing some of the most captivating and gruesome accounts of our colonialist history. In the same way that Hughes accumulates his account of colonisation through various sources, so too does McBurnie who provides an account of the colonisation of his own body by hostile cells. However, it may be unwise to seek recognisable Australian landmarks in McBurnie’s work. There are no antipodean clichés to be found in these landscapes; the artist preferring a post-atomic mise-en-scène that metaphorically portrays a traumatised body. And rather than Hughes’ narrative of history, McBurnie provides a narrative of his own life, collapsing past, present and future into allegorical assemblages that invoke psychological dimensions associated with suffering.

There is no denying that McBurnie’s unique narratives eschew schemata. His hand migrates as easily across the paper as he does from genre to genre. The confluence of space and plane is pushed to the limit within his work and it is with fluid precision that he demonstrates his mastery of bricolage. McBurnie’s characters – his ‘cells’ – are inspired by those in graphic novels, comics, art and historical reference and popular culture. Looking over his previous practice, one can establish a biological imperative at play in McBurnie’s tendency toward obsessive drawing. It is this very obsession that guided him through his own illness, and has remained a constant companion to the present day.

Whether as alter-ego, alibi or enemy, McBurnie inhabits multiple characters that blur his own identity, finding refuge in the surrogates who trawl his landscapes. He apprehends the state of chaos within and recasts himself sometimes as superhero, other times as anti-hero or villain in order to save the day. When the artist is asked to choose who he identifies with, he states that they are all, at once, “me and not me”. It is in this ambiguity that the artist finds great freedom, seeing it as a distancing mechanism achieved in order to cope with his experience of chemotherapy. This is evident when looking at Nothing is sacred to me, everything is sacred to me. In this work, the ‘body’ is out of control, multiple forces are in a battle of wills, and McBurnie takes on an agnostic position so to save himself from disappointment of defeat. One might recognise Tintoretto’s epic 1565 Crucifixion painting, but rather than aiming for iconoclasm, McBurnie recontextualises its figures with those he has long worshipped through comics, graphic novels and art history. Of course, the question remains, who or what is being sacrificed and for what purpose?

In works like We have to move on now and Leave the dead for the beasts to return to the earth, we see survivors make do, wandering like fugitives through the ruins of a conflict which now seems distant and unreal. They’ve struggled against metastasis, and the effects are seen metaphorically wearing the landscape of McBurnie’s sublimated body. However, despite the source of inspiration for these works, they are not without humour. Anyone having the pleasure of conversation with the artist soon realises that this is not a tortured man; in fact, McBurnie has the all-clear from the medics. Indeed this gallows humour, which renders Helmut Newton nudes emerging from a crumbling ruin, suggests a sense of perversion that can be deciphered through personal encounter or, if the artist is absent, in the work itself.

Having been released from the grip of illness, it is reasonable to ask whether McBurnie will represent his landscape-body of the future as utopian and full of possibility. One can only wonder whether he is ready to take the leap of faith necessary to leave behind him the destruction of his past. Reaching his own threshold, McBurnie, more than anyone, understands the sublime position of standing at the precipice of one’s own limits.

-Dr Laini Burton


Queensland College of Art


Batman’s Bad Passport- Australia as the End of Days

Originally published in the catalogue for the exhibition I am Not Batman, at the Salamanca Art Space, Hobart, 2010.

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.

-Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor

Jonathan McBurnie is an artist whose bad passport is well worn. Although he now resides almost entirely in the Kingdom of the Well, that ‘other’ place is still vividly recalled in his art practice. Revealed as a multi-layered, overlapping, monochrome world, McBurnie’s inks hold testament to darker kingdoms of the mind. I Am Not Batman is a series of drawings creating passage through the narrative of the artists life- a life in which sickness and health are merely one duality in a multitude of lived possibilities. These possibilities are proposed through the symbolism of art icons, religious saviours, atomic mushroom clouds and comic book references engaged in a losing battle against a sprawling and engulfing landscape. McBurnie utilises the landscape format in this series to consider the impending realisation of mortality as an inevitable consequence of growing up. This is the artists story, his question to us- How do our childhood dreams become demystified over the course of our lives but refuse to disappear completely? How do we cope with the dismally daily nature of our spectacular dreams? What comes next?

Susan Sontag’s Illness as Metaphor, a text which McBurnie cites as influential in his considerations of this particular series of work, often finds itself contextualised in relation to his personal battle with Leukaemia. Sontag’s rereading of popular literature and culture through the lens of society’s preoccupation with sickness helps give meaning to the fragmentation, the incompleteness of McBurnie’s superheroes. The use of white-out, the refusal to complete the body, the repeated re-attempting of lines struggling to constitute a convincing form all self-consciously operate to reveal the materiality of the paper surface. This revelation seems to act as proof of the ‘fakeness’ of the superhero as the idealised immortal. But that isn’t all these decisions suggest. For those of us who have never had to claim our bad passport, I Am Not Batman resonates with an unexpected familiarity. Considering the work purely as cartography of the body in alternating states of health and sickness fails to describe everything we are seeing. The broad horizons, the desolate landscapes, the occasional crop of cane, the shrubs, the vast and unchanging skies- this is not a purely metaphoric landscape, this is somewhere real. These works are site-specific. They are undeniably Australian.

McBurnie recalls such scenes from photographs and memories of childhood places in Townsville- his lived interpretation of a physical landscape. In this way we find that sickness becomes merely one chapter of McBurnie’s Australian story as other scenarios and living creatures creep in to represent different personal realms. Ned Kelly, Picasso’s minotaur, Superman and Batman, Vogue models, skeletons sporting Basquiat’s crown and even Jesus converse, battle and embrace each other through deformed bodies. They have not realised, as we the viewer realise, that they are re-enacting daily events of the artist’s life and are consequently pulled down to his affected, impressionable, merely human level of which there is no closure. Childhood is a period where we are obsessed with superheroes as we like to imagine the same capabilities within ourselves. As McBurnie travels further and further away from the immortality of childhood, so does he from the confidence in the superhuman persona which this time reveres. The details of particular characters become faded, obscured against an ever-expanding horizon line. They are implicated in another, larger catastrophe through their contextualisation within the sublime desolation of the North Queensland landscape.

The use of the Australian landscape as a place of sickness and psychiatric mania can therefore be seen to propose a picture-perfect site for apocalypse in which all life forms, real and imaginary, are implicated. In this way the Australian landscape does not just bind up the artist’s biography but our collective mortality as we become increasingly aware of the realities of global destruction. Australia begins to embody both the internal and external, the iconically national mixed with the creative license of sublime memory- both a personal and global coming of age.

I Am Not Batman can be seen to negotiate the experiences of childhood, place and sickness as they become compromised by adulthood. Unlike McBurnie’s past works, the characters who fill this series have struggled in vain against their landscapes, against the impending reality where age and mortality stake their claim. The fights, the sex, the moments of hardship, reflection and epiphany seem insignificant in relation to the rolling excess of the North Queensland landscape. Townsville becomes not just McBurnie’s bad passport, but everyone’s as unrelenting environmental devastation pushes us closer towards global collapse.

-Carmen Ansaldo


Preservative 220

Originally published in the book Self-Service, Griffith University, 2009.

I killed a kraken in a wading pool today

and buried it in my back yard.

I ate the stomach of the thing and gleaned

an underwater history of consumption

and a life of hiding in the dark.

The bullet that killed it,

I ate it.

The spear that killed it, I ate it too.

The hook that caught it, I ate it.

Now I’m full of sulphur dioxide because

I ate the shitty bottle of red wine

that was also in the guts of the thing.

I’ll be farting all night.

There is enough time to get to the toilet and kill again.

First paralysis, then death.

Shatter the first, second, third vertebrae, death is immediate.

Eat the hand and then the stomach muscles.

Gorge on the grot and parasites rampant in my own foulness.

Make yourself your own meal.

I am the kraken.

I am my favourite food on which to gnaw, to learn, to watch.

I am my favourite thing,

to make as a meal for myself

and for others.


-Christian Flynn



Originally published in the catalogue for the exhibition Framing Infinity, curated by Ross Woodrow, published by Griffith University and the Gympie Regional Gallery

This body of work attempts to challenge the problems inherent in the tranferral of comic book dynamism from book to wall. This transformation is particularly challenging in terms of structure, and movement, and keeping true to the conventions of both mediums, as well as keeping personal statement a prominent concern. Drawing’s history as a form complimentary or preparatory in nature to, say, Painting (with a capital ‘P’) is well-documented. Drawing as a respected medium unto itself, however, is a more recent progression. This idea of drawing-as-medium is linked to developments in modernist and postmodernist philosophies, the diversification of gallery conventions, as well as reactions to developments of reproductive technologies such as lithography, offset printing and digital technologies. These same technologies were instrumental in the birth and evolution of the comic book medium. The primary problems that arise in the exchange of ideas between book and wall do not arise from the drawings themselves, but the context of the drawings themselves, but the context of the drawings. This body of work attempts to reconcile the page and the wall through use of the conventions of both sources. Particularly challenging is the channelling of energy between the mediums. Original comic book pages are shrunk by approximately a third in reproduction, tightening and refining the aesthetic, so obviously there will be a tension when these images are again enlarged in size, far larger than their original form. Such tensions must be noted, if proper consideration of the act of transferral itself is to be observed. Comic book panel and grid structures offer an adaptable format for walls of differing dimensions. Mark-making and gesture are valued over the detachment of mechanical reproduction. The use of correction fluid directly references the development of original comic art that reproductions are printed from, as well as offering a convenient physical anchor to the gestures of action painting. Cultural icons such as Superman or Ned Kelly appear not as cool pop culture grabs, but as ciphers for sincere personal statements.

-Jonathan McBurnie


Jonathan McBurnie : Collapse and Mutate

Originally published in the catalogue for the exhibition Recent Drawings, by Flipbook Gallery, Brisbane, 2008.

At his exhibitions, I’ve noticed it’s common for people to corner Jonathan McBurnie, usually when they’re swaying happily under the influence of function wine. “So, Jonathan,” they’ll say. “Tell me, darling. What’s your art about?” Hey: perhaps you’re at such an exhibition right now and want to ask exactly the same thing. So in the spirit of spoiling surprises, I can already tell you McBurnie already has two stock responses to that question, prepared and ready to go. If you catch him on a good day, he’ll tell you his art tends to touch upon the usual suspects: love, hate, sex, death. “It’s not very cool,” he’ll add by way of modest disclaimer, “not very hip, but there it is.” If he’s a little tired, or feeling particularly inarticulate, he’ll provide you with a more practical response: “Just listen to Bat Out of Hell, Bat Out of Hell II and Bat Out of Hell III, back-to-back. That’s what my art is about.”

While this makes sense (the first time I ever met him, McBurnie was wearing a Meatloaf shirt-the man clearly plays a large role in his life), there are perhaps other, more understandable influences at work here too: the grotesque comic-book comedy of Raymond Pettibon; the costumed superhero spectacles of Jack Kirby; the mournful monochromatic lives depicted by William Kentridge; the demented psychadelia of Gary Panter. If there’s one thing those artists have in common, it’s their representations of transformation. Or perhaps mutation is a better word for it. Either way, it’s one particular motif you’ll also notice McBurnie tends to revisit in his work-that breed of mutation seen in adventure comics and science fiction movies. Between his paintings and illustrations, limbless, half-formed and injured minotaurs make love, while masked superheroes-those ultimate impenetrable bodies-are transparent enough for us to see their vulnerable organs: hearts, genitals, guts. Elsewhere, Ned Kelly is a woman and Superman is a midget, crashing through a bathroom window on a tampon-shaped bomb.

In her 1978 essay volume Illness as Metaphor, Susan Sontag also wrote about mutants and mutations. Sontag was particularly interested in those old-school sci-fi freak-outs, the kind of films that made young American teenagers squeal from cars at their local drive-ins: Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Blob, The Thing. For Sontag, there were strong parallels in her mind between those science fiction depictions of mutation and-of all things-cancer. Those were the movies which analogised cancer most vividly for her; films that reflected an increasingly dominant idea of cancer as an invasion where alien cells-stronger, superior, sinister-took over the body altogether. Mutant cells, in other words. “Cancer,” Sontag wrote, “could be described as triumphant mutation, and mutation is now mainly an image for cancer.”

Maybe it’s too convenient to acknowledge those parallels between mutations and cancer, and align it with McBurnie’s works. But still, when I look over his art, I’m often reminded that his first ever art exhibition took place in 2003, only months after he was first diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia, a quick-moving, violently-sprouting form of cancer where malignant, immature white blood cells reproduce themselves in the bone marrow, crowding up all the available space, before moving elsewhere and onwards-usually to organs. It’s unpleasant, noxious, shitty stuff. In those months of chemotherapy, and the ones that followed, McBurnie somehow worked prolifically from his hospital bed with ideas for his next exhibition, filling a total of 50 journals before the end of his treatment some months later.

McBurnie’s mutations mightn’t even always be obvious, but you can usually find an idea of it somewhere. Even if there aren’t any beasts or superheroes, his landscapes are often clouded by brewing storms, those in-between moments between calm and catastrophe. Elsewhere, drawing upon comic book motifs, he draws links between what he calls “the parallels between the comic book’s constant sense or impending cataclysm, the fire and brimstone of Catholic art and the real life total environmental collapse we now face”.

By the time you read this, collapse will be a suitable word to describe what’s going on out there. Weirdly, it also feels like the end-of-world dangers we face right now are actually self-imposed: bushfires fuelled by arson and climate change; bad mortgage-generated economic collapse; flattening earthquakes triggered off by bad dam-building processes. It’s unambiguously horrible stuff, but perhaps there’s also something actually something bleakly funny about discovering the end of the world is approaching, and there’s no one out there to blame but us. For all of McBurnie’s apocalyptic scenarios, there’s still humour. Like Major Kong riding the bomb in Dr Strangelove, or every zombie film you’ve ever seen, there’s usually something to laugh about when things are on the brink of ending. Judging by his artwork, you get the sense that McBurnie-someone who’s had to look at finality, and the idea of endings, closely-sees the humour more than anyone else, and has a chuckle to himself.

-Benjamin Law