On the cover of this book is an iris, pushed into paper. The original was cut out of paper by the artist Wendy Wong, in 1990. When she cut this flower, she was living in California; a year later, Wong moved to Melbourne. She brought her tools, and some paper, and would create, sporadically, for a few years. But, soon, she had two children, and there never seemed enough time to create. To work, she needs vast and emptied time, Wong explains, a full day to think through her work. Good things take time. So after a while, she packed it all up. Her small studio was turned into her daughter’s bedroom. At some point, everything was carefully packed into boxes; this iris has been sitting in a backyard shed, in suburban Australia, for the past thirty years.
What do we make, store, leave for others to find? Memory is a strange thing, and stranger still, as time has taken a different texture, in these past two years of the pandemic. This book, filled with art, writing and conversations, excavates memory and queries the archive.
During stage four lockdown, I call Wong, to ask if we can print some of her papercuts. She laughs at me, and over a few weeks, I ask her to go retrieve some of her pieces from her shed. Finally, she sends some pictures through. I marvel at these quiet scenes, the artistry of the lines. My life is the way it is because my mother put her work aside, and I am indebted to her for this. This collection of work—essays, poems, fictions, art—circles around histories and memories for the simple reason that Liminal is only here because of those who came before. Good work is not completed alone. I think good work is created for, and with, others. So, here we are.
— Leah Jing McIntosh, Melbourne 2021
