The first thing you notice is the smell. Warm and earthy; a vague stench of decaying flora that slices through the chill. Somehow it permeates every corner of this space – the cavernous Mac 02 in Hobart, Tasmania, a warehouse turned theatre now turfed with a sprawling patchwork of grass.
In the centre lies the miasma’s culprit: a flesh-coloured pond ringed with its own miniature garden. There are proteas, kangaroo paws, gerberas. At this moment there is also a naked penis, yo-yoing wildly among the flowers.
