Deus - The House of Simple Pleasures

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The 300 page hardbound picture book of Deus Ex Machina the Temple of Enthusiasm. Designed and illustrated by Carby Tuckwell. Photography by Carby Tuckwell, Dustin Humphrey and Chris Searl. © 2010 DEUS EX MACHINA PUBLISHINGISBN 978-0-646-53503-6

Text of Deus - The House of Simple Pleasures

  • T H E H O U S E O F S I M P L E P L E A S U R E S

  • Designed and illustrated by Carby TuckwellPublished by Deus Ex Machina Photography by Carby Tuckwell except where notedPrinted by Mr Oh and Junny at AlsoDoMinie, Singapore

    First edition published 2010 2000 copies

    2010 DEUS EX MACHINA PUBLISHINGISBN 978-0-646-53503-6

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy or any storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher and the author.

    Design, illustration, motorcycle design, custom lettering and logotypes by Deus Ex Machina Motorcycles Pty Ltd 2004-2010. Deus Ex Machina name and logomark are registered trademarks of Deus Ex Machina Motorcycles Pty Ltd. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners. All rights reserved.

    Additional PhotographyEXPLODED GRIEVOUS by Andy BakerPIERRE THE CHEF by Chris Searl LOVERSLAND by Dustin Humphrey

    Deus Ex Machina Motorcycles Pty Ltd98-104 Parramatta Road Camperdown Sydney NSW 2050

  • The extravagance in which my surplus emotion expressed itself lay on the road. So long as roads were tarred blue and straight; not hedged; and empty and dry, so long I was rich. Nightly Id run up from the hangar, upon the last stroke of work, spurring my tired feet to be nimble...[My] bikelived in a garage-hut...Its tyres never wanted air, its engine had a habit of starting at second kick: a good habit, for only by frantic plunges upon the starting pedal could my puny weight force the engine over the seven atmospheres of its compression.

    Boanerges first glad roar at being alive again nightly jarred the huts of Cadet College into life. `There he goes again, the noisy bugger. It is part of an airmans profession to be knowing with engines; and a thoroughbred engine is our undying satisfaction. The camp wore the virtue of my Brough like a flower in its cap.

    Boa is a top-gear machine, as sweet in that as most single-cylinders in middle. I chug lordlily past the guard-room and through the speed limit at no more than sixteen. Round the bend, past the farm, and the way straightens. Now for it. The engines final development is fifty-two horsepower. A miracle that all this docile strength waits behind one tiny lever for the pleasure of my hand.

    Another bend: and I have the honour of one of Englands straightest and fastest roads. The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me. Soon my speed snapped it, and I heard only the cry of the wind which my battering head split and fended aside. The cry rose with my speed to a shriek: while the airs coldness streamed like two jets of iced water into my dissolving eyes. I screwed them to slits, and focused my sight two hundred yards ahead of me on the empty mosaic of the tars gravelled undulations.

    A glance at the speedometer: seventy-eight. Boanerges is warming up. I pull the throttle right open, on the top of the slope, and we swoop flying across the dip, and up-down up-down the switchback beyond; the weighty machine launching itself like a projectile with a whirr of wheels into the air at the take-off of each rise, to land lurchingly with such a snatch of the driving chain as jerks my spine like a rictus.

    The next mile of road was rough. I braced my feet into the rests, thrust with my arms, and clenched my knees on the tank till its rubber grips goggled under my thighs. Over the first pot-hole Boanerges screamed in surprise, its mud-guard bottoming with a yawp upon the tyre. Through the plunges of the next ten seconds I clung on, wedging my gloved hand in the throttle lever so that no bump should close it and spoil our speed. Then the bicycle wrenched sideways into three long ruts: it swayed dizzily, wagging its tail for thirty awful yards. Out came the clutch, the engine raced freely: Boa checked and straightened his head with a shake, as a Brough should.

    The bad ground was passed and on the new road our flight became birdlike. My head was blown out with air so that my ears had failed and we seemed to whirl soundlessly between the sun-gilt stubble fields.

    ...A skittish motor-bike with a touch of blood in it is better than all the riding animals on earth, because of its logical extension of our faculties, and the hint, the provocation, to excess conferred by its honeyed untiring smoothness. Because Boa loves me, he gives me five more miles of speed than a stranger would get from him.

    T.E. LawrenceTHE MINT Part III: THE ROAD

    I spend most of my time not dying.Thats what living is for.I climb on a motorcycle.I climb on a cloud and rain. I climb on a woman I love.I repeat my themes.

    Frederick SeidelOOGA-BOOGA

  • C O P Y R I G H T 2 0 0 8 D E U S E X M A C H I N A M O T O R C Y C L E S P T Y L T D 9 8 - 1 0 4 PA R R A M AT TA R O A D C A M P E R D O W N 2 0 5 0


    Deus ex Machina (god from the machine) roared into Australias cultural consciousness in 2006, with some neatly customised motorcycles and a quaint notion that doing something is more fun than just owning something.

    Deus (day-us) didnt set out only to sell custom parts and hand-built motorcycles, but to celebrate a culture of creativity. The Deus ex Machina showroom/cafe/headquarters in Sydney immediately became a shrine to run-what-you-brung resourcefulness and street-honest industrial art.

    The Deus philosophy recalls an era before the various pursuits of fun motorcycles, surfing, cycling, whatever split into exclusive, fundamentalist factions. All come together under the Deus roof, where theres simply respect for the authenticity and enjoyment of the machine.

    Since opening the doors at the Camperdown Temple of Enthusiasm Deus has spread its own flavour of internally combustible postmodernism around the globe. The way forward is one down, four up.



    Special thanks to Frederick Seidel for kindly allowing us to use his inspired words.


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