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Regardless of one's increasing years, skywriting still evokes the same fascination and wonder as fireworks. Like all forays into the sky, skywriting represents a triumph of science where the sky's expanse is fleetingly occupied and defied; that space between heaven and earth is momentarily filled. According to Susan Stew art, "that most typical gigantic world is the sky-a vast, undifferentiated space marked only by the constant movement of clouds with their amorphous forms."1 Skywriting would hold significantly altered appeal if it was permanent, monumental rather than spectacular.
In Australia, as the country endured its longest known period of drought, the sky might be regarded as unrelentingly blue. Against this backdrop, clouds bring hope and the possibility of a fecund regeneration. What we wouldn't give for the power to make rain. On 24 November, 1995, the word 'could'—an anagram of cloud—was written in the sky above Brisbane. Prior to the event, artist, Sally Cox asked 647 people to donate one dollar each to help pay for the work. She had originally scheduled it for 14 November. However, incessant rains which heralded the end of the drought caused the project to be postponed. The thought that these rains were caused by nuclear testing in the South Pacific crossed my mind. Maybe we do have the power to make rain. Clouds—such as mushroom clouds—can also have much more sinister meanings. I took cold comfort in the knowledge that the first three letters of 'could' mean ass in French, echoing not only Duchamp, but also Paul Keating's deprecatory remark that "Australia is the ass-end of the world". This timely setting posits a reminder that disasters are both 'natural' and 'technological' and that the