I have visited Sydney on numerous occasions, as is common for many Australians. My travels to the city have largely been for professional purposes, primarily attending conferences. In earlier years, I would often confine myself to the sterile interiors of hotel rooms, sustaining myself on provisions purchased from nearby supermarkets, venturing little into the urban sprawl beyond.
However, my perspective on cities such as Sydney and Melbourne—so often dismissed as soulless concrete jungles—began to shift a few years ago. I came to appreciate them not merely as landscapes of steel and stone, but as living theatres of culture. I developed a fondness for photographing their architecture, their people, and the fleeting moments that give life to the metropolis.
On a recent visit during the Vivid Sydney festival, I made a point to attend Luna Park—an iconic amusement park that dates back to 1935, nestled at the foot of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. This historic park, with its whimsical Art Deco facade and famous smiling face entrance, has long been a fixture of Sydney’s shoreline. Though it had often been closed during my previous visits, its gates were open on weekend evenings for the duration of the festival. Encouraged by the opportunity, I purchased my ticket in advance and resolved to explore its grounds.
Regrettably, my experience at the entrance was far from pleasant. The staff tasked with managing entry proved disorganised, and their conduct was discourteous and inattentive. The queue stretched the entire length of the wharf, winding beside the harbour. Upon finally entering the park, I found myself captivated not by the amusements, but by the sight of young performers dressed in resplendent carnival fashion—evocative of an era I have only seen through the lens of old cinema. There was a glamour to their attire that delighted me as a photographer and observer of human expression.
I chose to forgo the rides, many of which appeared both uninspiring and, frankly, of questionable safety. However, my visit took an unfortunate turn when I was abruptly approached by security personnel demanding a wrist identification band—an item I had not received at the gate, despite possessing a valid ticket with barcode. Their accusatory tone and my subsequent escort to the front gate to rectify the error left me feeling humiliated and unjustly treated. It was a sobering reminder of how poorly systems of order and hospitality can sometimes serve paying guests.
Despite this, a moment of joy emerged as I passed through a corridor ominously referred to as the "clown lane." The clowns—grotesque in design, with a macabre charm—might have unsettled others, but I found the absurdity delightful. I laughed aloud as I snapped photographs, grateful for having brought my 14mm f/1.8 lens, which allowed me to capture vivid images even in low light.
Joel, for his part, does not share my enthusiasm for such spectacles (he decided not to come from Melbourne), and so I ventured to Luna Park alone. In hindsight, while the experience was marred by poor management, it nonetheless offered a glimpse into the layered strangeness and splendour of Sydney’s cultural life—a city more nuanced than its concrete shell might suggest.
Sony A7RV
FE 14mm f1.8 GM
Linking Treasure Tuesday
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