TOUCH THIS EARTH LIGHTLY; GLENN MURCUTT IN HIS OWN WORDS.

By Philip Drew. Sydney: Duffy & Snellgrove. 1999. A$35

This is a book that should probably never have been written. Not least because it wasn't so much written as spoken. Apart from the author's occasional interrogatory appearance and one or two paragraphs from the subject's mum, Touch this Earth Lightly is comprised almost exclusively of transcripts from the 1982 interviews for Drew's first Murcutt monograph, Leaves of Iron (1985). Its curious failure to distinguish between written and spoken language, compounded by publication of essentially private exchanges, makes you feel both gauche and voyeuristic, just for being there. On both counts Touch this Earth Lightly is an embarrassing read.

Unlike the signal spareness of his works, Murcutt is anyway inclined to garrulousness in conversation -- a characteristic as excruciating on the page as it may be endearing in the flesh. Add to this the 17-year gap between the private delivery of Murcutt's words and their public appearance, and it all starts to read like a recipe for author-subject feuding.

Not that this was Drew's intention. Far from it. Having donated his 40-odd hours of audio-tape to the State library, Drew felt, he says, morally bound to 'tell the full story'. In particular this included descriptions of the violent and exploitative background to Murcutt's childhood. Drew argues even now that such inclusions would not only throw sympathetic light on Murcutt-the-character but also help explain Murcutt's adult obsession with all things natural, as over-compensation for the sins of a still-dominant father.

Murcutt says he was 'really burnt' by the exercise, and is understandably reluctant to cooperate in future literary exploits. 'It creates too much pain', he says. 'I'll just do my work.' This indirect disservice to architecture begs the larger question as to the value of the entire, ad hominem vogue of which Touch this Earth Lightly is a part. Given that Murcutt's status as an architectural celeb rests solely on his work -- as opposed to his eccentric childhood, marital relationships, whatever -- what precisely is the value of a book that pays only passing heed to the buildings but focuses obsessively on the man and his psyche?

In fact Murcutt, who had approved the book in principle but had not seen the text until days before printing, managed to expunge some of its most off-the-record moments -- technicolour tales of his father's exploits in pre-war New Guinea, for instance, and vehement criticisms of early-80s Post-Modernism as it was then beginning to flower around Australia. This probably saved him from the courts, but has not entirely saved the book from an air of prurience.

Biography hinks would no doubt argue that personal analysis illuminates the work. Indeed, this could very well be the case, had Drew's decision to allow Murcutt to 'speak directly' to his audience not deprived the book of all analytical content. It is ironic, in view of the bitterness it has generated, that Touch this Earth Lightly arose from Drew's heartfelt admiration for both the man and his work. If Drew had used the opportunity to expound his theory of Murcutt's conceptual sources, rather than simply presenting the raw transcripts, it would almost certainly have improved the book, if not the relationship.