She photographs because she wants to hold still what is fleeting – an angle, a pose, an age, a smile, a moment in time – before it dissolves, fades, evaporates into reality.
But what she doesn’t photograph matters too.
She didn’t photograph the sky turning red from a hundred bushfires, or the water lapping at the laundry door. She didn’t photograph the washing line, snaking down the backyard, heavy under the weight of the weekly wash, or the heat from the wood stove in the kitchen. She didn’t photograph the hospital bracelet crumpled in the bottom of the bag, or the small fist clutching a handful of her mother’s hair.
She didn’t photograph the look exchanged before the first word of bad news, or the sigh that followed.
She didn’t photograph the relief in the hospital corridor after the surgeon said it went well, the ordinary dinners that kept them alive through ‘that’ time, the thousand mornings where nothing “happened” except that she woke up, or her fumbling attempts at dancing that looked more like jelly caught on a string.
Sometimes she wants proof that it really happened the way she thinks it did. That the sky really was pea soup green, that the drummer really did smile at her.
Maybe it’s better this way. No evidence, no proof. A series of memories, more absurd and exaggerated each time she recalls them – never sure which details are real and which are imagined.
I was working from home. Tradies were here installing a new airconditioning system after the old one stopped working some weeks before.
I was writing a proposal, finding the right words to use so we could meet the ‘superior’ criterion. Working out what our methodology would be, wording the bid so that it communicated clearly what we would do and how we would do it. Trying to make sure it wasn’t too academic; that it was real, concrete, do-able.
The electrician had poked his head into my home office earlier and told me there was a strong gas smell out near the gas meter. I think there might be a leak. I went round to check and sure enough, the smell was strong. He told me who to call. I called and within 10 minutes a man was at the door to see if there was a leak. There was. Ten minutes later it was fixed. No payment necessary.
I didn’t stop for lunch because the dealine was today. Tuesday, April 29.
1:49pm. My phone rings. It is my youngest daughter, her voice full of shock and pain and grief. Mummy, I need you.
I’m on my way.
I call Ben, her big brother. Go to Emma. He leaves immediately.
I call my husband.
I’ll come straight home.
I book a flight.
I ring my boss. I have to go to Tasmania. I don’t know when I’ll be back.
Go. Be with your family.
One of the tradies explains how to use the new aircon panel. I look at him blankly.
I make tea, pack, shake.
During the seven hours between her phone call and when I finally reach her house, I had not thought of a single solitary thing to say. My work requires me to find the right words. But not this time. Nothing has prepared me for this.
I’m so sorry for your loss doesn’t seem adequate. I say it anyway.
Tea?
The days go by in a blur of slowness and disbelief and mundanity. Boxes of sandwiches, little cakes, sausage rolls and pies are dropped off. My granddaughter smothers one of the little pies in tomato sauce, only to discover some time later that it was an apple pie. I thought it tasted weird. It was good to see her laugh.
Bags (and bags) of groceries arrive from Emma’s older sister. The kids go through them, oh, I love Fruit Loops … these are my favourite biscuits … popcorn! There’s also practical things: toilet paper, shampoo, body wash, little packets of tissues. I thought they’d come in handy at the funeral.
Visitors drop by with care baskets, grocery vouchers, soup, more sandwiches. We graze mindlessly, for days.
Ben drops in. They sit, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking. I wash the dishes and fold the washing, not knowing what else to do.
Arrangements are made. Questions are asked. How will I go back to normal? How will I cope? What if I can’t do this?
We wear green nail polish and tuck the little packets of tissues into our pockets.
So many people. So much family. So many tears and grief and incomprehension. Why? When he had so much family and people who loved him … why?
It’s not a useful question.
Emma approaches the microphone and speaks about the spontaneous trips they’d go on to pan for gold, to fish, to go into the bush and cut wood. She speaks of silliness and fun. Of their loud and messy family. Of his big soft heart.
She’s brave. No, she’s more than that. She’s strong.
It broke my heart.
More than six men take their own life in Australia every day.
Every day.
It’s been called a silent epidemic … and I’m not convinced anyone has any real answers. I certainly don’t.
But I will say this: Parents of boys, please (please) allow them to feel and express their emotions. Emotions are human not gendered. They’re for feeling and communicating not for suppressing. Don’t ever tell your son not to cry, or not to be a sook, or not to show fear or vulnerability or sadness or joy or delight.
Emotions aren’t a sign of weakness.
They’re a sign of being human.
The title of this post comes from Les Murray’s poem An absolutely ordinary rainbow.
It’s a poem that reminds us of what’s at stake when men are denied emotional expression. The weeping man breaks a taboo, not just by crying, but by doing so in public, without apology. It was an unsettling image because, back when it was written (in 1969), we weren’t used to seeing male vulnerability treated with reverence instead of ridicule.
Are we now? What has happened in the years since to allow men to unmask, to express emotion openly, unashamedly and without explanation?
Adding the date to the title might suggest that there’s significance to this date.
There isn’t. Not to me, anyway. There is to all the people who are having a birthday today – for them I imagine it’s quite a significant day. But there’s no significance for me.
And now I’m beginning to sound like I’m protesting too much, but I’m really just trying to work out why I added the date to the title. When I did it, mere moments ago, I had a reason, then I got distracted because I realised, when I typed the word ‘birthday’, that I’d missed my friend Airdre’s birthday two weeks ago and so had to write to her a very belated birthday wish, and now I’ve come back here and the reason for adding the date has slipped through the (increasingly) porous parts of my mind that holds reasons for doing things.
Very convoluted way of saying “I wrote the date and now can’t remember why”.
I could, of course, just delete the date and all of this nonsense and start again, but I’m not inclined to.
In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s Friday and that means it’s time for a Friday Feels post.
You know the drill. Three questions and an F-word.
What made me happy this week? Not only normal happy, but the kind of happy that makes you do the weird little happy gesture with your hands that you try to keep to yourself because when other people see it they stick a label on you. That kind of happy. Let me tell you the story.
We were one minute and 17 seconds into our journey to Tumut last Thursday when I asked Tim to turn around. I’d seen a man building something out the front of someone’s place, and I needed to speak to him. Tim duly turned around and I went and spoke to the man. I didn’t know the man, but soon discovered his name and number, and arranged for him to visit me on Wednesday, my working from home day.
Kyle, for that is the man’s name, arrived on Wednesday and is the cause of my happy gesture. He came to give me a quote on some work I want done on the house, and he brought his six-month old daughter with him. He handed the baby to me while he was measuring up and talking tradie talk, so I got to hold said baby and talk to her and bring up some wind I saw she had trapped, and let her play with my hair (well, she was going to play with it whether I said she could or not – it’s just one of those baby things).
It was lovely. It’s been way too long since I’ve held a baby and she was an absolute delight. I hope I get to do it again.
What else made me happy? I’m glad you asked. Yesterday was a hot day. Clear blue sky, broken air con at work, very noisy fan pushing hot air around. Hot. I got home, put our working air con on, found my bathers and headed to the pool. We’d had the cover on the pool for a few days (maybe a week) and of course, the heater’s been on (apparently, in this part of the world you only put your pool heater on in the summer – never in the winter), so I was expecting it to be warm. Or warm-ish at the very least.
It was only 35C warm-ish!
It was blissful. Maybe a tad too warm, if I’m being really honest, but I did not mind at all. I swam laps (five strokes up and five and a half strokes back), floated, swam lengths under water, and floated some more. It was a fabulous day for my first swim of the season. The sun was very low in the sky when I dragged myself out, and there was a distinct chill in the air (I think the outside temperature had gone down to 25C by that stage), but I didn’t mind at all. I was, in fact, very happy.
Anything else? Now that you mention it is, there is. Funerals are not generally things that make people happy – unless you see them as a celebration of someone’s life and can distance yourself from the fact that that person will no longer be in your life (except as memories). And even then, they don’t really bring a sense of happiness. But they do provide opportunities for families to come together. I have four cousins on my mother’s side, and while I see each of them individually from time to time, it isn’t often that we get together. Usually only at funerals as it turns out. Friday last week I got to spend some time with three of my cousins on my Mum’s side and it was lovely to share memories of our shared grandparents and trips we’d done and look back on photos when we were all a lot younger and decide not to re-create the ones where I, as a 12 year old, was holding my cousin Michael, who was then a baby and is now, quite obviously not.
So, not “happy” happy, but it’s always great to connect.
My F-word for the week is the same as my sister’s as it turns out: festive. I, however, did not dress as an elf and embody the notion of festive as she did. But we did put up the Christmas tree and that gives the house quite a festive feel.
Note the West Country-inspired bauble from Dottie Wombat
Only two more Fridays between now and Christmas, meaning only three between now and 2025.
For me, Fridays arrive like a reward at the end of a busy week. I work for a company that values its employees in more than just words. It instituted a 4-day work week some time ago and I’m here for it. My Fridays bring a sense of relief at the end of a week full of writing and editing and doing all the other things one does in a busy consulting firm. They act as a little pause between work and the official start of the weekend. I appreciate the slower pace of my Fridays, the opportunity to write a Friday Feels post, and the chance to then switch my brain off for a while.
Yet, each one brings with it a subtle reminder: time is moving quickly. Since I’ve been writing Friday Feels posts Fridays seem to arrive faster and faster, not because they actually do of course, but because I’m marking the time, taking notice of it.
This Friday, November 29, 2024, is a particularly poignant day to be marking time.
My parents were married on this day in 1958 – 66 years ago. Debbie and I were eating breakfast at Mum’s dining table this morning when Mum pointed to the crystal bowl in the centre of the table, “that’s been in the family 66 years today”. It was a wedding gift that she’s carried with her all these years, through all the different houses and states she’s lived in.
The crystal bowl hasn’t aged in the way the rest of us have, but it serves as a reminder of the passing of time. Dad’s passing in 2018 meant that they didn’t quite make their 60th wedding anniversary, but the date is firmly fixed in our minds anyway.
The date will also have other significance for us now. Today, November 29, 2024 we celebrate the life of my uncle, Mum’s younger (only) brother who passed away last week. We’ll gather today, family and friends, to share stories and memories of Uncle Roy. We’ll laugh and cry and comfort each other as we say farewell.
So that’s my Friday Feels for another week. Not the usual format, but it’s not a usual Friday.
Mum and Dad’s wedding day – November 29, 1958My baptism in June 1962. Uncle Roy, my godfather, is at the back Roy Frederick Humphries, 1941-2024
I know. I don’t know where the year has gone either. One minute you’re waking up on New Year’s Day and then next minute it’s November.
It’s one of the good things about writing blog posts – or keeping a diary; you can go back and see that the year hasn’t whizzed by in a flash, and that you have actually done things throughout the year, and March did happen, as did a whole pile of other things. The same could be said of your life though, which is one reason for cramming a lot in: there’s lots to ruminate over, reflect on and remember, and when you do that, you feel the length of months and years and time spreads out, expands, slows down a tad.
But that’s enough philosophising for now. Onto the regular three Friday questions and an F-word.
The questions are:
What made me happy this week?
What town did I most enjoy this week?
Who came back to Australia this week?
And my F-word? Future
But first to the questions.
What made me happy this week? I was at the International terminal earlier in the week, and it was so lovely to watch the interactions between those arriving and those who were anxiously waiting for them. The grandfather beaming at the sight of his tiny granddaughter; the mother weeping at the sight of her grown son; the sons, daughters, grandchildren, second cousins twice removed who each had a bunch of flowers and excitedly presented them to the family patriach as he tried to embrace every crying member of his family at once; the pregnant, exhausted mother, her trolley piled high with bags and car seats, watching carefully as her eldest pushed the soon-to-be middle child in a stroller, looking for a familiar face in the crowd to relieve her of some of her burdens; the young couple meeting, perhaps for the first time (he had a bunch of flowers in what could have been a pre-arranged signal), posing for photos at all points of the arrivals hall. It really was a Love Actually moment, and that made me happy.
2. What town did I most enjoy this week? Weird question Sharon! I know, but it was a lovely day on Sunday and we went to Kyneton and decided to wander along Piper Street. Kyneton is a strange town in a way. It seems to have three distinct shopping areas, with Piper Street being the most interesting. The buildings are old, the shops are diverse, the cafes are interesting, and the people are lovely. I was told at least four times that the dress I was wearing was some variation of “lovely”. (Just for context, I think it’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever owned.) We had a lovely lunch at Home Grown on Piper – Tim said it was the best Reuben he’s ever had. And then we wandered, and bought things, and chatted with people in shops, and spent ages and $$ in The Stockroom. It was really delightful.
3. Who came back to Australia this week? Very specific question Sharon! I know, but apart from all the other people who came (back) to Australia this week, the one I know best is Mum. She’s been away for about 6 weeks, cruising on rivers in Portugal, visiting Salamanca in Spain, spending some time in London, a little village near Colchester, and catching up with family in the west country (think Bristol, Cheddar, Bath). I hope when I’m 86 I’ll still be travelling the world like that.
Mum arriving back in Australia
My F-word for the week? Future. More specifically, THE future. I’ve just finished reading Tim Winton’s latest release, titled Juice, and it’s a sobering look at the future. It’s not a happy book it has to be said, but it sure does make you think. This is a book set far into the future – Winton said in an interview that it’s about 300 years into the future – and it’s a warning that if we don’t do something now, we’ll be leaving future generations in a world of pain.
One bit really got me: The main character – I don’t think we know his name – is telling stories of his early years, when he was 16 years old. His world is full of ash and heat so unbearable they have to cover themselves completely and live way underground in the summers. Think a Mad Max kind of landscape. He meets some people who show him images and videos from our time – from now, our present, what they call “the Dirty World”. He says, “We believed that the world was the way it was. That it did what it did. In the way it always would. Because that’s how things were. This idea that our travails were the result of others’ actions had never occured to me. … To be told that my trials were not random accidents but deliberate acts undertaken with the knowledge of their consquences? … It was infuriating to the point of derangement.”
Deliberate acts – the burning of coal and gas to generate juice so that the oligarchs maintain their power.
Now that’s a sobering thought.
If you’re into apocalytic fiction that has more than a tinge of reality, then this is a fabulous read. I finished it very early one morning through the week and cried myself back to sleep.
That’s it for me for another Friday. I’ll see you next week.
Oh hang on. I need to do my three questions and my F-word. We’ll get to my excitement in a sec.
The three regular questions I respond to each Friday are:
What am I proud of this week?
What am I excited about?
Where are the flowers?
My F-word is favourite.
What am I proud of this week? I went shopping. In a shop. Not only that, the shop was in a shopping centre. There were lots of shops and heaps more people. And I spent well over an hour there and bought things, of the clothes variety. Now, that might not seem like a big deal for many people and not a source of pride, but for me, it was. Some time ago, can’t say exactly when, but in the last few years, I’d developed a level of anxiety that meant being in shops caused unpleasant physical and emotional distress. I can’t say why it caused this distress – something about feeling trapped is as close as I can get to it – but it was real, if invisible to others. I can go to cafes, and I can work in an office, but there is something about a supermarket, a department store, IKEA, a clothes shop, that causes me to feel severely uncomfortable. That caused me to feel severely uncomfortable (although just writing about it now is doing terrible things to my insides).
Telling myself to put my big girl pants on hadn’t helped – there is no shaming yourself out of anxiety – instead, I had psyched myself up in the days preceding the shopping trip (I didn’t tell Tim in case I couldn’t go through with it), and told myself there was nothing to fear, that I wasn’t going to be trapped, and that no one was going to hurt me. I practised a week before by going to the supermarket and despite having some wobbles I managed to do my first proper grocery shop in a very long time.
So with my mantra ringing in my ears – no one is going to hurt you, there is nothing to fear, you won’t get trapped – I went shopping. Apparently, I still balled my hands into fists when I entered a shop, but enter it I did. I didn’t raise my balled fists in a defensive gesture when people came towards me as had become my unconscious habit, and so looked less like someone about to hurt others, and no one hurt me.
If you’ve ever had anxiety, you’ll know it really is something to be proud of.
What am I excited about? Chase is coming to visit this afternoon!! For those who aren’t in the know, Chase is my youngest son (second youngest child). He lives in Queensland and we don’t get to see him very often. Well, to be more correct, he lived in Queensland, until this week. He’s now moved to Victoria, and he’s coming to visit. What his move means is that once he’s found a house, the rest of his family will be moving down too, and that means, for the first time in 10 years I’ll have one of my children and two of my grandchildren living in the same state as me. It’s very exciting. I’d made up the guest room bed before breakfast, done a shopping list, and am psyching myself up so that later this morning I’ll be able to go to the supermarket to buy things to cook a meal for my boy. Awww!!
Where are the flowers? Last week I suggested that I might take some photos of flowers on the weekend and share them with you in this week’s post. I didn’t take any photos of flowers, but I did take another photo for my black glove series. Of a dragon fruit. It was gross. But photographically interesting.
Thanks as always to Tim for donning the black gloves
And my F-word? Favourite. Guess who’s my current favourite?
Hahahaha.
Trick question! Mothers don’t have favourites.
That’s it from me for another week. I’m off to the shops!
Fridays seem to come around much more quickly since I’ve started blogging regularly.
It’s time for another three questions and an F-word.
This week’s F-word is fragility, but before I get to that, I’ll respond to the three regular questions.
What made me happy this week?
What was I most proud of this week?
How did it feel to see a particular something in real life for the first time?
I’m going to answer all three questions at the same time, because they all have the same answer.
This. This is what made me happy this week. The publication of this book.
It won’t come as any surprise to those who read this blog on a regular or semi-regular basis to know that I’ve been excited for some time to see this book in real life.
Well, last night I got the opportunity to do just that. Last night, October 3, 2024, the book was launched by the Royal Historical Society of Victoria. It was a packed house – standing room only – with loads of people eager to view and buy the book.
In case you don’t know, the story of my (very minor) involvement goes like this:
I was retired briefly in 2022 and part of 2023 and decided to join U3A (University of the Third Age). I joined two groups – a photography group with U3A Hawthorn, and a book club with U3A Deepdene. Both were interesting and educational and great for meeting new people and hearing new ideas and perspectives.
The U3A Hawthorn group were invited by Richard Broome, president of the RHSV, to contribute images of Melbourne’s lanes to the society primarily for the purpose of creating a second edition of Weston Bates’s book published in 1994, titled Essential but unplanned: The story of Melbourne’s lanes. Sixteen members of the group eagerly scoured the city’s laneways looking for just the right angle and light and spark of interest. All up, we produced 3000 images.
Of those 3000 images, one of mine was chosen to be on the front cover of the book.
Seeing my photo on the cover made me very happy.
I am super proud that one of my images was chosen to be on the cover.
It feels great to be able to flick through the book, read about the fascinating history of Melbourne’s lanes, and see the fabulous images selected from the 3000 images that were contributed. The ones not used will be held by the RHSV in their collection to be used at any time someone is doing research on the city.
It was a great project to be involved with. It was also really great to catch up with others from U3A Hawthorn’s photography group.
And so to my F-word for the week: fragility
While I’ve been feeling happy and proud, there’s also been an undercurrent of deep sadness in our household this week. When a family member is desperately ill, you’re reminded of the fragility of life.
I’m not going to get deep and meaningful here or look for quotes on life’s fragility – but at the moment it’s looming large in my heart and that’s why it’s my F-word this week.
This won’t be of any interest to others, but I’m going to blog about it anyway so that I remember this feeling of having my mind just slightly blown.
There are two threads to this story, and I’ll start with the more recent one. The two threads lead to a connection.
In July 2021, while I was working at Deakin University, a new staff member joined our team. I was instantly drawn to her – she was warm and down to earth and just the right person for the role we had.
Airdre, for that is her name, joined our team remotely – we were still in the throes of COVID lockdowns – from Lismore in northern NSW. We finally met in person in Melbourne in December 2021, a month after I’d been made redundant and days after Airdre finished her 6-month contract.
We got on like the proverbial house on fire.
In early January 2023, my mother and I visited Airdre in her beautiful home in Lismore, on our way north to Queensland.
Since then, Airdre has moved to Melbourne and we’ve co-authored a book together, titled Enacting a Pedagogy of Kindness to be published later this year (I thought a little plug wouldn’t go astray).
That was thread one. Thread two is a tiny bit more convoluted. Bear with me.
Some members of the family have been engaged in a photography challenge that’s been going for a few years now. We have a weekly theme, take photos that align (tangentially in some cases) with the theme, post them to our Facebook group and then we catch up over Zoom for a chat each Sunday night. The active members of the group are spread across three states of Australia, with others joining sporadically from other states and the UK.
Our theme last week was ‘flat’. I had taken a photo a few years ago of Pittaway St, in Kangaroo Flat (near Bendigo) and so posted that image. It’s not often I see a street sign with my name on it and I remember being quite chuffed at its existence.
I had done a search some time ago for the Pittaway of Kangaroo Flat the street was named after and had discovered a William Pittaway, convict, sentenced to 14 years in Van Diemen’s Land for sacrilege (he stole some church silverware and was caught pawning it). He obviously moved to Victoria after he’d served his sentence, as many Van Diemonians (as they were called) did, and his wife and children joined him here to live out their lives peacefully.
Turns out he’s not related to us.
Well, not that we know of.
Anyway …
On Sunday night, after our weekly family catch-up, I thought I’d find him again so that I could be sure about the story.
I didn’t find the same information, but went down a rabbit hole and came across cemetery lists of Pittaways around the country. One of them was Alice Pittaway (nee Duroux) who is buried in Lismore. I knew that Alice was my great-grandmother and that she had died aged 47 in 1933. She’d gone out one morning to water the garden, had felt unwell, gone inside and had died before medical attention could be summoned.
I dug out Alice’s obituary and noticed the address of the house she’d lived in. I did a search on Google Maps, but there was no such street in Lismore, so I rang Mum and asked to her confirm the details. Mum is into family history and I knew she’d know.
She did. She also told me that my aunt, Lyn (Dad’s youngest sister) had visited the house in Lismore in 2013. This morning, Mum sent me one of the photos Lyn had sent her.
Standing on the stairs was Colin, Lyn’s husband … and on the verandah … was Airdre!
Airdre, my friend and colleague, the one I’d visited in Lismore, had lived for 20 years in the same house my great-grandmother (and my great-grandfather and my grandfather and his brothers and sisters) had lived in all those years before.
Two different threads … leading to a one slightly mind-blowing connection.
I sent the photo to Airdre this morning, and she was suitably (and appropriately) confused. How did I have a photo of her from 2013 when I only met her in 2021? Who was the man on the stairs? What?
What??
I’m glad I wasn’t the only one whose mind was blown.
In April 2021, which seems like years ago, I went to Tumut in NSW. My youngest son and his two children were visiting my mother and as I hadn’t seen them for over a year, I thought I’d make the five hour drive north.
I thought I’d be back in Tumut within a month – Mum’s birthday is in June and I thought I’d at least go up to sing her a tuneless but enthusiastic happy birthday.
Alas, it was not to be. 2021, in case your memory doesn’t stretch back that far, was in a time we still considered to be ‘during the pandemic’. In 2022, with COVID deaths higher than they’ve been since the start of the pandemic – a seeming-decade ago in 2020 – we are considered to be living in ‘post-COVID’ times.
2021 was not a good year. We still had active COVID mitigation strategies in place – lockdown being one of them. I can’t remember all the lockdowns, but lockdown was one reason I couldn’t return to Tumut. There were, of course, others.
As we are now living in ‘post-pandemic’ times, travel is unrestricted. I had planned to head to Tasmania in late April, a place I hadn’t visited since early January 2021, but a car crash put paid to that plan. No one was hurt in said crash, apart from the car, but it meant no Tassie trip for me just yet 😦
While Tim has finished his treatment, been jabbed with the COVID vaccine for the 4th time, and had his flu shot, he is still not sufficiently recovered to travel long distances. I, however, felt it was safe for me to leave the state.
Yes, dear reader, I got out.
Mothers Day was as good a time as any for me to head five and a half hours north to see my mother. And my sister and brother, and uncle, and niece, and great neice and nephews.
I stayed in Tumba with my sister because Tumba is a town where things happen. The Snowy Valleys Sculpture Trail is one of those happening things.
Saturday morning was cold. Icily cold. The thermometer inched towards 8C during the day, and then, having hit it, rapidly fell to near zero. You can imagine how cold it was as we headed out the door around 10am, rugged up beautifully. Deb made sure her gloves matched her beanie, channelling the spirit of our grandmother, who used to do the same in the 1950s and 60s (but never with a beanie). Nan would have been very proud of her.
Our first stop was at Forage (rhymes with porridge) for a hot chocolate and a wander around the market.
Forage in Tumbarumba
Mum arrived, the hood of her coat giving the impression she was off to the Arctic, and we wandered down to the creek which was looking decidedly autumnal, to engage with the sculptures.
Mum ditched Deb and I to have lunch with some of Deb’s friends, so I attended a workshop facilitated by Japanese sculptor Keizo Ushio who uses the mobius strip extensively in his sculptures. We made mobius strips with paper and then attempted to carve a bagel – I’d love to see how he does it using stone. You can see Keizo’s sculpture at Tooma if you’re in the area (we didn’t get down there, but I’m very keen to see it).
Sculptor Phil Spelman then led a tour of the Tumba sculptures and we learnt a lot along the way.
Together we are strong – sculpture by Danish artist Keld Moseholm
Together we are strong is a work gifted by the Denmark-based Denmark, New Zealand and Australian Friendship Society.
Pipe and fittings … many cubes – by WA artist Jennifer Cochrane
Jennifer Cochrane works with cubes. They fascinate her. Picture a cube rolling and you’ll see the movement and energy in this work.
Habitat – a sculpture by Marcus Tatton
Marcus Tatton is a New Zealander living in Tasmania, where chimneys dot the landscape. When a house burns down, they are generally the only thing that remain standing. This has inspired Marcus’s work.
Arrowhead Dark Night Shine – Takahiro Hirata
I think this is one of my favourites. This is a piece of granite which is second only to diamonds in terms of its hardness. Takahiro Hirato, a Japanese sculptor, has hand carved and polished this arrowhead. It’s a truly gorgeous piece. The arrowhead sits on a basalt plinth.
Lumina Folds – by NSW artist Philip Spelman
This work by Phil Spelman certainly generated lots of discussion. It’s an abstract work with as many interpretations as people on the tour with us. Some see an ant, others see a bike, I see someone praying … that’s the beauty of abstract work. It doesn’t have to have just one meaning.
There are other sculptures in the area and I’m hoping to get to see them all eventually.
Off to Tumut on Sunday afternoon for a fabulous Mothers Day lunch with my brother and his family. There was so much food they came back for dinner. I must add they they provided all the food … Mum and I just had to turn up!
Later in the afternoon I caught the end of this beautiful sunset.
Tumut sunset
Monday morning and a quick visit from some kangaroos before I headed home.
It was great to catch up with family again after such a terrible year … let’s hope I can get back there within the next one.
It is now Saturday July 4, 2020. Week 17 of my diary of a distancer posts, although I didn’t write entries for weeks 11-16.
They were tough weeks and I felt there was nothing much to communicate. Life rolled on for me; work was work; birthdays were celebrated – at a distance. Well, at a distance from me. Not being able to travel to Tasmania for the three June birthdays was tough, as was not being able to travel to NSW for my mother’s birthday.
I admit to falling into a hole I’m only now climbing out of.
It was tough in other ways too. Protests were held around the world – people protesting about being locked-in, others protesting about police brutality in the wake of the death of George Floyd at the hands of police, still others protesting about racial inequality more broadly. Dissent and civil disobedience followed … and arguments flew from all sides.
One argument went this way:
Other arguments went in very different directions but I refuse to give them any space by repeating them here.
So things have been happening in some parts of the globe that affect other parts. We are, after all, living on the one planet and the ripple effects of our actions and our beliefs don’t stop at our national – or state – borders.
It’s a bit like our bodies – something happens in one area which then impacts other areas and as the ripples move around and across and through your body it feels like it’s never going to end. That there’s always going to be pain. One area subsides just for another area to flare up. The physical starts to play with the mental and the emotional and back again. And it’s ongoing and thus distressing.
Just like the current situation with coronavirus. It goes quiet, and then flares up in another hotel room/suburb/region/country. There’s no end in sight. It’s ongoing and that adds to the distress.
After a period of relative quiet, COVID-19 has re-emerged in Victoria, and so Victorians are now not welcome in other states. Except if you’re part of an AFL team. Then you can go to Queensland to ensure the season continues, but ordinary Victorians cannot enter unless they’re willing to be fined or sentenced to gaol time.
Such is life. Money talks. Sport is important, it would seem, for national well-being.
Or something.
Not so The Arts it would seem. The Arts, as a sector, has been hit particularly hard by the lockdown. But there’s no other state to go to as a way of surviving – unless we’re talking a state of unemployment or sheer determined survival. Many people have turned to TV and movies for solace in this time yet many of them deny the importance of the arts to the economic or social or cultural or intellectual fabric of our society.
Luke McGregor – Australian comedian – made an argument for the role of the arts in national well-being on The Weekly with Charlie Pickering last week.
‘We don’t need the arts to survive … but they give us a reason to‘ – Luke McGregor
In many cases, the arts gives us the means to survive as well. I’m don’t mean in terms of financial support, but I mean in terms of an outlet for our creativity, for communicating, for seeing differently, for noticing, for making connections between ideas and perspectives and views and beliefs and values and thoughts and actions. And more.
And an outlet for connection with others.
Without an outlet for creative expression some of us may not have survived as well as we have through this on-going, never-ending (it seems) saga of COVID-19. While personal ‘creative expression’ might not have much to do with The Arts, I for one acknowledge the essential role the arts plays in my life.
I listen to music. I read books. I view works others have painted or photographed or sculpted or designed. I watch movies that started with an idea and grew over time, involving many (many) others in their production. People who have made artistic choices about sounds and movements and locations and backgrounds and lighting and music and no music and points of view and camera angles.
I watch and listen to others performing – dance, music, singing – and I am in awe of their determination and talent and desire for creative expression.
All of the people who make things, who produce things, design, craft and tinker and even those who, like me, play at the edges of creative endeavour … The Arts is there as a means and a reason to survive. They add something to the lives of those who spectate. They add much more to those of us who engage. They enrich us in ways simple spectating cannot do.
Click the image for more information about why The Arts matter
We are not a family of artists it has to be said, but many of us do like the creative outlet photography provides, and so I was thrilled that 15 family members contributed to our latest photography challenge: Ordinary Objects.
Our first challenge was the Alphabet of Isolation.
Cover design: Tim Moss
Our second was Images by the Dozen – a project in which we took images of the numbers 1-12 without using the actual numbers.
I designed this cover
The Ordinary Objects project required us to photograph 10 ordinary objects:
Something you eat
Something you eat with
Something you cook with
Something you see with
Something you put on your feet
Something you wash with
Something you wear
Something you drink from
Something you find in the garden
Something (not someone) you love
Fifteen family members, ranging in age from 4-81 and across four generations, contributed. We live across four states of Australia with one family member in the UK. As with our other projects we’d get together on a Sunday night and share our images. Yet another magazine to add to our collections as a physical memento of our creative decisions and expression.
I designed this cover too
Our next project is Variations on a Theme. Six images, all of the same theme/idea of each individual’s choice, but with variations.
My theme is abandonment. It’s meant I’ve taken photos of a type I wouldn’t normally take – I’m usually quite conceptual, but this time I wanted to try something different and so have expanded my photographic range slightly.
Here’s one of the first images I took for this project. Mind you, I’ve since adandoned this image as I went in a slightly different direction … but that’s the way it goes!
Abandoned as the urban sprawl creeps closer
Another image we drove miles to shoot, was also one I reluctantly abandoned as the church didn’t feel abandoned enough. I particularly love the Australian feel of this scene, with the gorgeous gum trees surrounding the church.
I was after something that looked a little more abandoned
We finalise our Variations on a Theme project next week and I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone’s come up with.
Connections through creativity.
What’s kept you connected with others through these anything-but-ordinary times?
Musings from the cold 