IT WAS THE SOUND of a chainsaw that attracted me. Looking out, I watched as the loggers felled the tall Norfolk Island pine in the backyard next door.
Ever since I have lived here in Sydney’s coastal Eastern Suburbs the tree has been a presence. It’s high, narrow symmetrical shape has been a part of the outlook to the south, one of a number of trees that include eucalypts, a liquid amber, a jacaranda and a large lillipilly. Now it is gone and the outlook is open and unfamiliar. To the mind the tree is still there and at the same time is conspicuous by its absence in the way you expect to see the familiar but find something, something not quite identifiable, to be missing. It’s is a sign of change and time’s passing here in this little enclave.
But this is how it is in the city where buildings as well as trees come and go. A city is something that is being constantly rebuilt. Now that tree exists only in memory and in the pixels on the photographs I made before the arrival of the men with a chainsaw.