FUGITIVE PIECES

This is my studio – full of blank canvases. I’ve had a six-month hiatus from painting which I probably needed but now I need to paint more than ever. I have been preparing these canvases for the past few months… itching to slash through all that purity.

I’ve started working in design again and while I love the engagement of the office environment, it will suck my soul right out of me if I am not vigilant. This sounds very dramatic I know, however, I am exhausted when I get home and my ‘portal’ to the office from my home computer blinks at me at all hours of my home life… I have to draw a line. Mmmm, I can draw a line...

On days in the studio when I feel the muses circling, I pick up old novels and pick a chapter to read, wondering where the goddesses will lead me.

I reached for this one the other day and was so moved by this section I thought I’d include it in this post. It comes from the novel Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels, the voice is of a young man who has escaped the utter devastation of war, if only physically.

 “One evening I walked up Grace Street, a summer tunnel of long shadows, the breeze from the lake a cool finger slipping gently under my damp shirt, the tumult of the market left blocks behind. In the new coolness, and new quiet, a thread of memory clung to a thought. Suddenly an overheard word fastened on to a melody; a song of my mother’s that was always accompanied by the sound brush bristles pulling through Bella’s hair, my mother’s arm drawing with the beat. The words stumbled out of my mouth, a whisper, then louder, until I was mumbling whatever I remembered. “What good is the mazurka, my heart is not carefree; what good’s the girl from Vurka, if she does not love me…” “Black cherries are gathered, the green are left on the tree…” All the way through to the opening verses of “Come to me, Philosopher” and “How does the Czar Drink his tea?”

I looked around. The houses were dark, the street safely empty. I raised my voice. “Foolish one, don’t be so dense, don’t you have any common sense? Smoke is taller than a house, a cat is faster than a mouse…”

Up Grace, along Henderson, up Manning to Harbord I whimpered; my spirit shape finally in familiar clothes and, with abandon, flinging its arms to the stars.

But the street wasn’t as empty as I thought. Startled, I saw that the blackness was perforated with dozens of faces. A forest of eyes, of Italian and Portuguese and Greek ears; whole families sitting silently on lawn chairs and front steps. On dark verandas, a huge invisible audience, cooling down from their small, hot houses, the lights kept off to keep away the bugs.

There was nothing for it but to raise my foreign song and feel understood.”

The truth is that I could have opened that book at any page and found a similarly beautiful section. It’s just that this passage is about connection: that connection, elusive and momentary that I seek. That moment that I feel whole. I think, maybe, we all long for it but I am not knowledgeable enough to make that assumption. I wonder if the power of memory lies in the fact that there, safely catalogued in the past, those moments are sitting ducks - easy to isolate, and own. In the flux of daily life it is much more difficult.

Odyssey

From my perch on top of the dunes, I watched the clouds contrive to trap the light. Their strategy was clear... divide and conquer. Half went to designing a parapet, a great wall of scallops, thick and profound, while the other half launched as a fine organza across the sky. Irresistible to touch, the clever clouds named their device Rapture and set it. And the light fell for it. Caressing the vapours and falling through the weave, the lustre found its end on the billows below. The ocean had no issue on this particular day having laboured through the dark to trap the night sky... and in mock submission brought tray after tray of soft foam littered with stars to offer the shore. I have witnessed a victory for the sky and the sea - a formidable collaboration.

In The Odyssey, Homer tells a tale about the Gates of Ivory and the Gates of Horn: portals through which our dreams stream and present themselves to us as truths (whether they are true or not). The very notion of a gate implies a separation between ourselves and our thoughts and memories, as though our dreams exist independently of us.

This is an ancient tale. What we seek is always just out of reach yet we are certain that when we find it we will recognise it immediately, as home. Perhaps this is because we possessed it once, and knew it intimately and have lost it.

I am drawn to this story and wonder whether this separation and loss and longing to be united/reunited with a realm of dreams, is like a quest to come home. For home, what longing is keener? I navigate to apprehend something I may never know... a destination that can only be reached across the landscape of a life. The world is full of comedies and tragedies, of odes and elegies, of promises and endings, of beauty and light; all terrain to be traversed in the odyssey.

And like the light, I am seeking. And like the ocean, I am hunting. And like the clouds, I make my plans. I am compelled to express this, and when words fall short, I need a good ship... and some paint.

This is my artist statement from my last show at Charles Hewitt Gallery. The stunning gallery in the heart of Darlinghurst is the latest victim of tough times and will be closing its doors after decades of dedication to the arts in Sydney. I will miss having Charles and Larry about in the traditional gallery setting... although they are not clearing out completely - just morphing into the 21C with online galleries and pop up shows.

Here are some pics of my show at the gallery in November (about bloody time blogger).

From top to bottom:

The Charles Hewitt Gallery, Opening night 'Odyssey', Me, Wendy Littlewood (who's extraordinary dedication to teaching set me firmly on this path) and dear friends, fellow artist, the talented Lucia Hennessy, Petra Timmerman the photographer extraordinaire with Julie Morin, gifted designer 'inky'.

And last but not least, the tirelessly supportive, patient, loving and kind, man of much faith, Tim.