Let’s begin with a photograph from the Royal Melbourne Zoo archive. Entitled ‘A display showing an exact representation of an Aboriginal people’s encampment in the Bushland exhibit’ (1888; photographer unknown), it shows a family in a bark hut. A woman gathers her two children to her; one huddles behind, his (her?) cheek nestling into her curls, the other sits at her side. A man sits slightly apart, his blurred hands at work. Although it’s sunny, they’re all wrapped up in animal skins. On the far right of the picture a dog stands sentry, its tail and ears raised.
There are two more huts in the background, both inhabited by blurry figures. They all look this way, at us.
It’s 10.45 am on a Friday in Royal Park, Melbourne. A line of traffic makes dashboard-thumping progress around Elliott Avenue, the main route connecting the Eastern Freeway and CityLink. The road separates the park’s main grassed dome to the south and the sporting infrastructure, golf course and zoo to the north.
Out on the dome are the dog walkers: singly, in twos and threes. Joggers take a turn around the main path, while the Royal Children’s Hospital sprawls on the horizon beyond. A trio—woman, man and child—cut across the field hand in hand. They stop to play a round of rock, paper, scissors, then continue away towards the University of Melbourne. Mudlarks gather in the space behind them. They dip, dive, touch the ground, alight again and swirl away, like black and white prayer flags caught in the wind.
Hailed by Premier Denis Napthine as ‘the vital missing link’, the East West Link was officially approved in June 2014. On the telly, animations show a series of zingy lines scooting across Melbourne’s northern suburbs, effortlessly cutting through congestion. If construction proceeds, the tunnel will pass directly beneath Royal Park, with an entrance in Ross Straw field on the park’s western boundary. From here, a network of raised on/off ramps, designed to connect into CityLink, will obliterate existing playing fields and cruise across the Trin warren Tam-boore Wetlands. Linking Melbourne Authority’s own Comprehensive Impact Statement puts it this way: ‘Existing landscape values would be changed permanently’.
The park has been tinkered with continually since Governor La Trobe established it in the 1840s. Structures have been built then torn down, edges shifted to make way for the infrastructural demands of a city on the move.
‘It’s that classic case of things being imposed on people in the northern suburbs of Melbourne by governments voted in by people in the south-eastern suburbs,’
says Tom Nicholson, a prolific Melbourne-based artist with a long connection to Royal Park. Nicholson collaborated with author and academic Tony Birch to produce Camp Pell Lecture, which showed at ArtSpace, Sydney in 2010. The work incorporated archival imagery and five lectures (read simultaneously) to explore some of Royal Park’s lesser known histories: the zoo’s Native Encampment, the establishment of the wartime military camp, Camp Pell, which was later used as an emergency housing site until 1956, and the departure of Burke and Wills from the park on their ill-fated expedition.
The collaboration has sparked a number of spin-off works for the pair, fuelled by their shared fascination with the park. ‘I love all the ways that no-one can really covet it or control it … it’s a little bit wild’ says Tony Birch.
I love the park too. Ever since details of the proposed road were released I’ve come back to walk the line—the line of the tunnel and off-ramps as they would intersect with it. I record field notes, describe encounters both ordinary and bizarre. I make endless lists of birds. Why? To save the park? To commemorate it? To mourn its loss? What does Royal Park stand for? It’s this grappling that brought me back to Birch and Nicholson’s work: I want to see the park through their eyes, to be provoked into engagement with unanswerable questions.
‘See, the thing you’ve got to know about Tom Nicholson is he looks like a puppy but he’s not. Once a Stalinist always a Stalinist. I mean the only thing missing from Royal Park for Tom is a gulag,’ teases Tony Birch, spreading his hands on his desk.
We are in his office at the University of Melbourne. A large 1954 map of Port Phillip Bay is tacked to the wall. Scrawled across the surface in large blue capitals are the words ABORIGINAL LAND: ‘ALWAYS WAS AND ALWAYS WILL BE’. Beneath this are portraits of each of his five kids. Most are close-ups; they appear to be in the room, watching, laughing, cheering their father on. Birch is in full performance mode. I can’t quite decide if he talks like a boxer or a beat poet. He speaks quickly, gaze directed somewhere over my left shoulder. When he wants to ensure I’m keeping up (I’m not) he looks at me directly. Like now.
‘When you’re doing work with Tom you’re like one of his little foot soldiers. He’s got this very loveable way of being a Stalinist.’
It was Birch who introduced me to Nicholson and his work, during one of Birch’s creative-writing classes at the University of Melbourne in 2010. He brought Nicholson in as a guest presenter and I remembered his unassuming way of describing quietly subversive artworks and complex ideas.
The pair’s collaborative relationship began when they met at a conference in Santiago, Chile, in 2006, and discovered a shared interest in Royal Park and Camp Pell in particular.
‘Camp Pell’s one of those places that was seared in the folklore of this city; it was regarded as quite a notorious place, but with little evidence [of what went on there]’, says Birch. His connection to Camp Pell is also personal; several of his relatives lived there when it was an emergency housing centre. He lists his other associations with Royal Park: a few relatives did time at Turana Juvenile Detention Centre and his father was an inmate of the Royal Park Psychiatric hospital before it was developed into the Commonwealth Games Athletes Village in 2006.
‘I remember going down to the village after it had opened, going down to the same building where my father had been certified and it was sort of a bit odd’, Birch says. The historian in him is drawn to the traces of the past in the park: a row of out-of-place fire hydrants, the white sentry gates on Bren Drive; artefacts from Camp Pell. His work contains an impulse to draw out the histories behind such vestiges of the forgotten past and make them more tangible. ‘Anything I dwell on for a length of time I find a real desire to articulate in some form of writing practice … It’s my response to how I am feeling but also my response to the people I am collaborating with.’
His 200-word prose poem ‘The Ngamajet’ (2010), written in response to Nicholson’s photograph ‘Nardoo flag (red wedge)’ (2010), encapsulates this desire, describing his experience of the park: ‘… a crazed dog barked at a shadow past, cockatoos lifted / their wings to meet the close of day. We listened as the ground began to beat a welcome …’ Finally, he pays tribute to the collaboration itself, where Nicholson appears as ‘a swirling apparition briefer and greater than time’.
We discuss Camp Pell Lecture. Birch describes finding the exhibition ‘entirely underwhelming’, which is not a criticism, he assures me—the project achieved all the pair set out to do—but for Birch ‘the real engagement with Royal Park was in the walking round there, taking photos, talking’.
Discussing that disconnect between the process and the resulting exhibition, Birch remarked, ‘Once you formulate it with language you—you haven’t ruined it but it’s become something else, it’s become secondary. Nothing that we did would come near the importance of what someone might feel about Royal Park when they’re walking around. And it could be a kid, it could be a homeless guy.’ This, for Birch is what makes ‘a truly democratic space. One where people get to engage with it in both an individual and communal way, but one which—well, it remains unrecorded.’
Birch, a runner, considers the relationship between movement and creativity. ‘It’s one of those great places. I run around Princes Park as well but I never come home thinking about a poem,’ he says.
When you go for a run, there are certain places that have this really poetic impact on you. And it’s not necessarily the best vistas. You can’t really put a finger on it. But there is something about a particular place and shape and noises that has a quite direct affect between yourself and the place. It’s not mediated by any sort of logic. I think that Royal Park has the ability to do that.
But here lies the problem.
You can’t go to government and say ‘we need this place because people have this subjective experience that we’ll never be able to articulate’. You’ve got to articulate something quite concrete. So you talk about the need for open space and kids breathing lead fumes into their bodies …
Tom Nicholson’s warehouse studio in Melbourne’s inner north doubles as his personal archive. It is crammed with research material for his work: archive boxes piled high, countless rolls of paper, books everywhere. By contrast, his drawing space is pared back and minimalist. Several massive charcoal drawings in process are stuck to the wall; works for his solo exhibition at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Cartoons for Joseph Selleny (2014).
Nicholson leads the way to his office, where an old timber desk sits among filing cabinets and bookshelves, a couple of wonky office chairs pulled up around it. We begin by discussing Drawings and Correspondence (2010), which explored former zoo director Albert Le Souef’s ethnological display at the Royal Melbourne Zoo in the 1880s. The work (a series of charcoal drawings and take-away artist book with fold-out poster) began during Nicholson’s time as a creative fellow at the State Library of Victoria, researching Royal Park. He came across an etching, The Native Encampment (1882), which sparked his curiosity:
Just seeing the picture … and being at first mystified about what it was … thinking it might have been a kind of improvised living situation where dispossessed people had camped out in the park. But then beginning to realise that actually what I was looking at was a zoological display.
Le Souef created the display in 1882, reportedly bringing in bark huts (mia mias) from Coranderrk near Healesville. Initially the display was unpopulated but in 1888 Le Souef arranged for Aboriginal residents of Coranderrk to ‘inhabit’ the camp during the Centennial International Exhibition.
The artist book is a slim volume of printed emails from Nicholson to undisclosed recipients. It performs two functions, to document the process of his research and act as an artwork itself; an email-based version of Gustave Courbet’s allegorical painting The Artist’s Studio (1854–55). The idea was to populate his studio with all the people who have contributed to the work. ‘In a way it … runs against the classical myth of the artist as an isolated figure,’ he says.
The letters in Drawings and Correspondence are intriguing, albeit one-sided (we are not privileged with responses from any of the recipients). They include a note to William Barak, long dead. Nicholson’s letter to Barak appears early in Drawings and Correspondence, affording a glimpse into the artist’s head:
I saw your work yesterday in at the NGV … I often find myself wondering about your compulsion to make these pictures. I am trying to think of a less dry word than ‘necessary’, but they seem necessary. They look like images that needed to be drawn…
He goes on to ask Barak if he can recognise any faces from the 1888 photograph of the Native Encampment, attached to the email. ‘I am curious to hear what you think,’ he writes.
Nicholson grew up in North Melbourne, making daily treks through the park on his way to school at University High and tennis practice at Royal Park Tennis Club. The park ‘was always present for me, I always found it to be spatially very beautiful and quite a mysterious space,’ he says. It was the imaginary presence of Camp Pell that sparked his interest on a creative level. Nicholson recalls conversations—‘odds and ends scattered through the years’—building up over time, eventually transforming a ‘vague interest’ into an ‘impetus towards making the work’.
The catalyst came when Nicholson and Birch met at the conference in Santiago. ‘All of the interests in those different, interwoven narratives at Royal Park came together through the collaboration with Tony,’ says Nicholson. As I flick through the lectures I can imagine the drifts of their conversations, imagine how the collaboration fuelled the work. Nicholson describes their conversations as ‘massively, in a totally wonderful way, out of proportion to one work’, noting the influence of Birch as mentor and interlocutor. ‘He was the most important person for me in terms of feeding a sense that I could and should make work about certain histories.’
While Birch had commented that I’d be surprised to discover who had written which lecture, I’m not: their voices are distinct. There is Birch, assertive and sharp; he dances about the page, sparring with dominant truths. And there is Nicholson, pondering an ever-expanding network of collective imagination.
I’m cheating though. Camp Pell Lecture was never intended to be read through, line-by-line, lecture-by-lecture. In what Birch describes as ‘[Tom’s] subversive Stalinist torture of the art community’, the performance of the work, read simultaneously, meant the narratives could barely be deciphered. It was for Nicholson the most elusive of all the works arising from his engagement with Royal Park. ‘It was almost impossible to grasp at any point,’ he says of its three-hour-long performance cycle.
Distinctive for its absences and openness (‘with trees that don’t shade you from the sky’, as Nicholson describes it), Royal Park is at times impossible to pin down.
‘Because of our immense capacity for memory, when you’re in one space or one landscape you’re also always conjuring associations with other landscapes, which is part of the richness of how we encounter the landscape and how we read it,’ remarks Nicholson.
He identifies a plethora of associations, from the zoo and the way animals were exchanged around the British Empire. ‘[In] that funny little space with all those horrible cages you have a kind of expression of this network of imperial connection around the world,’ or the military encampment at Camp Pell serving as ‘a kind of portal or gathering point in relation to the whole Pacific conflict’. Perhaps most famously there’s the fact that Royal Park marks the departure point of Burke and Wills’ expedition in 1860. ‘You are always somehow aware of this incredibly long walk that they then undertook.’
The role of memory in conjuring associations with other places and histories is a recurrent theme in Nicholson’s work. He describes his desire to link spaces as a way to stay connected to the rest of the world, an act that for him, has an implicit moral dimension. ‘It’s partly to do with trying to conceive of ourselves not as an island, but always in relationship to others,’ he says, in reference to poet John Mateer’s description of Australia as an archipelago:
I think the archipelago is a very beautiful model because it’s about a whole lot of islands which are in relationship to one another. If you think of Australia as an archipelago —Melbourne is one island and Brisbane is another—then it stands to reason that the relationship between Melbourne and Brisbane is as important as the relationship of Brisbane to Kupang, or whatever. So it sets up a more porous relationship between different parts of the world.
Nicholson’s work is multilayered, it engages with the traditions of visual art as well as with broader political and historical milieus:
For me there’s an aesthetic interest in what it is to encounter the world where you’re constantly reproducing images inside yourself that enable you to see the landscape before you but also a whole series of other images that precede that encounter. But there’s also a kind of implicit political dimension to that as well. That we don’t ever see ourselves as a fortress but there’s a kind of rich interdependence that we have with other people.
I visit the Trin Warren Tam-Bore wetlands, located at the north-western flank of Royal Park, adjacent to Ross Straw Field. The wetlands were created as part of the development deal for the Commonwealth Games Athletes Village in 2006 (subsequently developed as Parkville Gardens residential estate). This place is a manufactured idyll serving as stormwater treatment plant, garden and habitat for wildlife.
Light rain is falling and the air is saturated with the smell of lemon-scented eucalyptus. Birdsong dominates; Fire-tail finches play in the salt bush, there are dusky moor hens and mudlarks grazing on grassy embankments. Bellbirds are chiming up at the zoo and swallows scoot across the water above the waterfowl: pacific black ducks, chestnut teals, a wood duck and a couple of cormorants.
On the other side of the road lies Moonee Ponds Creek. Denton Corker Marshall’s Melbourne Gateway, that line of red sticks and giant yellow beam marking the start of the Tullamarine Freeway, pokes up above the embankment. The Gateway, which was commissioned by the Kennett government and opened in 2000, features a seventy-metre-long, semi-erect yellow beam on one side of the road, and a line of thin red blades on the other. It’s the kind of roadside sculpture architects call iconic, and others love to conjure rude nicknames for. The sculpture is bedded down in the largely concreted Moonee Ponds Creek beneath the elevated road, in a shadowy place still accessible to the public.
In 2010 Tony Birch wrote an essay for Artlink magazine about the Gateway, about what happens underneath the flashy, attention-grabbing beams, about the people who have adopted the place, use it however they want to. He’d speculated about what the sculpture meant, concluding that it didn’t really matter; people would find their own relationship with it.
‘Really … people use any space in a very subjective way, regardless of what planners determine. So regardless of whether [the Gateway] is supposed to be a zipper unzipping Melbourne or unzipping Jeff Kennett’s penis, who knows. It doesn’t matter,’ he said.
Speaking of the essay, Birch recalls:
I think my line was ‘down here it’s fucked and it’s beautiful’, that’s true, I actually love the … it sounds weird, it’s hard to understand this in relation to environmental concerns, because it’s dry now that pond and the next time it rains it’s just going to fill up with shit again. But I love that … It’s like an urban archaeological dig.
Birch has spent a lot of time at the creek, taking photographs, writing poems. One entitled ‘Traces’ (2002) and another, ‘At the Creek’ (2004), were ‘… based on kids I’d seen sniffing glue underneath Flemington Road’; they’re all intriguing metaphors for society writ large, the way that ‘those subterranean spaces are used very differently’ when compared to what goes on at the surface, where life is more tightly controlled.
I think about this at the wetland, with the birds, the gardens, eucalypts with branches laden with rain and rainbow lorikeets all before me. The designs released in September 2014 promised an expanded wetland system, complete with bicycle paths, boardwalks, an education centre, water-themed playground and BBQ facilities. Artists’ impressions depict a thriving scene: blurred figures stroll along a sun-drenched boardwalk while contented waterfowl dabble in the water. The huge concrete pylons and raised roadway frame the scene, with long stretches of concrete ‘camouflaged’ by scattered plantings of mature trees. The drawings blithely ignore the Comprehensive Impact Statement’s findings: ‘The wetlands would be affected by increased road noise, reduced natural and passive open space values, reduced visual amenity as a natural setting, reduced natural light and reduced viability of vegetation including aquatic planting.’
In 2006, when debate raged around developing the Royal Melbourne Psychiatric hospital site as part of the Commonwealth Games Athletes Village, a woman from one of the protest groups approached Birch to write something demonstrating the park’s significance as a pristine pre-contact site. He said no. ‘I couldn’t access that anyway, but also there was this dodgy strategy that we could show that Royal Park was one of the last great Aboriginal sites in Melbourne … I didn’t think it made any sense.’
Birch points out the difference between this and the case against the development of Point Nepean National Park, in Portsea. This was a successful campaign spearheaded by Kate Baillieu and one that he supported:
[Baillieu] was able to say with authority that not only did that place have resonance for Aboriginal people as an Aboriginal site, both prior to European settlement and in an ongoing way, but for Aboriginal people who’d been transported through the quarantine station from Tasmania as an ongoing history.
It is this ongoing history for Aboriginal people that is vital, according to Birch:
I’m not saying Royal Park isn’t important to Wurundjeri people, but it’s quite dubious to couch it in the way that people wanted us to couch it. I remember I said, ‘Well maybe you should write about the incarceration of Aboriginal people at the zoo.’ I can’t remember who the woman was but she said, ‘Oh but that’s not talking about the natural environment.’ She wanted to talk about blackfellas with boomerangs.
These are the questions that persist: Why Royal Park, why does it matter? If it’s a place whose history is one of constant state-endorsed incursion, and if so many of its stories are brutal, then isn’t the East West Link just one more inevitable brutality?
I had framed it this way to Nicholson during our first meeting. ‘It’s a place to be unsettled and there are not many—or even any—places left in Melbourne where you can experience that. And each time you take another chunk out of it you lose a little more of this quality,’ he had said.
I recount this to Birch, accidentally swapping the word unsettled with uneasy. ‘Oh well, Tom’s a coward,’ he shrugs. He turns sideways, leaves one hand on the desk. ‘Some people feel uneasy about the fact that there’s been quite brutal histories there.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I think that was what he was referring to.’
‘Yeah well, I don’t agree. Get over it,’ he laughs. ‘No it’s interesting. I mean I love Tom like a son. But I’ve had this discussion with a lot of people like Tom. And ethically I understand it. And I understand it intellectually.’ Birch lists the kinds of sites that prompt such a reaction; places with histories of oppression and violence towards Aboriginal people and institutionalised violence towards people in state care:
What I say to those people—and most of those people live around the inner city of Melbourne—I say ‘I can take you to Fitzroy and I can take you to that house, that house and that house and I can tell you that woman in that house was beaten by her husband every night.’ What are they going to do? Move out of their terraces?
He continues, ‘It’s probably because I understand violence in a different way. It doesn’t haunt me.’ Birch notes the importance of documenting such histories without becoming stuck in a personal malaise, and recalls Renato Rosaldo’s essay ‘Imperialist Nostalgia’ (1989). ‘It’s basically about those who kill the indigene then mourn for that loss. And I think it’s a bit of a luxury … which I just don’t have much time for. My sense is that you can’t coopt someone else’s suffering.’
Listening to Birch, I realise that I’ve accidently misinterpreted Nicholson’s comments and I struggle to get a word in, to get us back on track.
‘I think we’ll have to raise that with Tom—’
‘Good. Don’t worry about that.’
‘No, because I think that, I don’t think he meant it in that kind of self-conscious way—’
‘I’ve been trying to toughen him up for years.’
Weeks later, in Nicholson’s studio, I relay the conversation and ask him to elaborate on what he meant by the importance of being unsettled. To the sounds of a nearby construction site he describes how the process of living tends to erase what’s gone before. In Australia this erasure has particular significance, it’s inscribed legally into our fabric:
It was necessary from the very beginning of the city to efface the living that preceded it. Particularly in Melbourne in the way that the grid functioned; the speed of the genocidal invasion that happened here … [means that] places where there are perforations … are quite important.
It connects indirectly to the role of art, and how it can bring about an ‘unsettling of our resignation towards the world’, he says. He summons art historian T.J. Clarke, who wrote that ‘one kind of corrective to dogma is looking itself, pursued long enough’.
Nicholson issues a rousing call against what he sees as a pervasive blindness in contemporary society:
We think that it’s easy, just in the course of living, that we know and we cease to see. So the unsettling of that sense of resignation and a kind of prompting us to look again and look more slowly or differently is a kind of important thing that art does but also that sites can do, like the park.
It is this aspect of Nicholson’s approach that Birch finds most appealing; that he doesn’t get hung up on the past; rather, he uses it as a touching-off point for bigger conversations: ‘What Tom does, I think is very different because he is driven by artistic practice, ethical practice and for want of a better word, political belief. So I think he sees his art as needing to have an impact beyond aesthetics or anything else.’
Back in the studio, Nicholson ponders the concept of imperialist nostalgia and mourning, identifying a connecting thread to some of the impetus behind Drawings and Correspondence. ‘My own protagonist in that, Albert Le Souef, is involved in a weird nostalgia for Aboriginal people at the very same moment that he’s perpetrating one of the main mechanisms of a genocidal program.’ It strikes Nicholson as a ‘weird rehearsal of mourning at the same time that there’s a perpetuation of the logic of the invasion’. It’s a warning he carries with him while he works:
I think whenever I’m ratting around in archives I feel like it’s something to be conscious of, that you’re not becoming another Le Souef. Or to have Albert Le Souef standing next to you, so that you’re also up front about the possible links between him and you. His attitude is connected to mourning. I find there are lots of modes in Australia of emotionalising that history which deny one’s own place or implication in it.
I had asked Birch whether the East West Link matters, or whether the park might be adopted in its new guise, like Moonee Ponds Creek, becoming both fucked and beautiful. He responded:
It does matter. And it matters in several ways. The park doesn’t exist in isolation from the rest of the city so therefore if you take the phrase … the lungs of the city, I mean it has real meaning. The more you reduce that open space the less capacity for people to share in it.
You know that’s just a simplistic argument. I think everything needs to be discussed not only with the overall state of the park itself but the relationship between the park and the city and the park and the state. So if we’re concerned about environmental issues, well the environmental impact of the park—it matters to the whole city.
A few weeks later I take another walk through Royal Park, walk through the manicured Australian Native Garden and head across the field towards Bren Drive.
A woman is standing out there with an arthritic Staffordshire bull terrier at her feet. She’s wearing a brilliant purple tunic, black tights. Her shoes are hot pink as is her oversized vinyl handbag. She’s gyrating slowly, hips turning sensuous circles. She reaches her hands up behind her head, stretches from one side to the other, points rocket arms skywards and bends from side to side once more. As I approach, the recorded voice guiding her moves becomes audible. We exchange hellos over our shoulders and I continue on. Out in the middle it’s crickets, the occasional bird cry. Traffic is a muffled presence here. The sky is stormy; colours are saturated. A couple of magpies cock their heads at me as I pass.
At the time of writing, the shadow of the East West Link hovers over Royal Park. It is difficult to predict how the battle will play out. Victorians go to the polls in November 2014, and the fate of the road (and the park) hinges on the result. In signing the contracts, the government also agreed to a kill-clause, promising compensation payouts of up to $1 billion to the contractors should the project fail. Should Labor win the election, opposition leader Daniel Andrews has promised to ditch the project altogether.
It is difficult to measure the role that Royal Park has in these debates. Just as finding the ‘centre’ of the physical park is difficult, finding the centre of what it means to us culturally, psychically and emotionally, remains an elusive task. ‘Part of what is mentally distorted in our culture is that we have very minimal means of describing and naming the importance of those places,’ says Nicholson, ‘the things that are valued, are things that are able to be quantified in our society. It’s very hard to name [Royal Park] in a way that gives it its proper value.’
I come back to T.J. Clarke, who said, ‘There is the world we know, but how do we know it and where are we in it?’ In an increasingly noisy world, Royal Park affords us this rare opportunity, a chance for uncertainty, a chance to stand still and ponder.
This story first appeared in Meanjin, Vol. 73 No. 4
Tony Birch, ‘Traces’, Antithesis, no. 1, 2002.
Tony Birch, ‘At the Creek’, Postcolonial Studies, no. 1, 2004.
Tony Birch, Shadowboxing, Scribe, Melbourne, 2006.
Tony Birch, ‘The arse-end of public art’, Artlink, no. 2, 2010, pp. 18–20.
T.J. Clarke, The Sight of Death: An Experiment in Art Writing, Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 2006.
Linking Melbourne Authority, Comprehensive Impact Statement, 2013, accessed at <http://www.linkingmelbourne.vic.gov.au/east-west-link/project-approval-process/comprehensive-impact-statement>.
Tom Nicholson, Drawings and Correspondence, 2nd edn, Surpllus, Melbourne.