La La Land have produced some of my cards. You can look at them here - along with the work of lots of other artists. I really like the illustrations of Flossy P and she has a lovely website too.
Though my blog has been rather quiet lately, I have been very focussed in my studio creating a series of works on paper. I was inspired by the Freehand show at Heide I wrote about a few weeks ago. To me, drawings have this particular personal quality...as though the time the artist has spent on the work is embedded there in the imagery. It's as though, because there is more immediacy, more gesture, than process, there is an honesty - something raw or vulnerable...Does that make any sense to anyone? Perhaps not. I do seem to be having a fair bit of trouble expressing myself lately. (Though after a couple of wines I am pretty good.) The more work I create, the more I realise I prefer drawing over anything else - the immediacy of it, the quietness, the constant troubleshooting, the ever-present risk of ruining everything (particularly when using ink as I have been.)
In the absence of a big scanner or a super duper camera, I took some rough pics of some of the stuff I've been working on. These are all pegged up around my studio, just percolating a little more.
(This one is a pencil drawing surrounded by stitching, which isn't my favourite past-time but once the idea was set in my mind, there was no talking myself out of it. The stitching is freehand too and I like the kind of wonky, organic shape I came up with.)
Hmmmm....feeling a little melancholy. Gloomy, even though the sun is, well, spectacular out there.
I had this dream about an old friend. Each time I think about it I feel this swoop in my heart. The dream itself was ridiculous. Friend attacks me. In self-defence, and with some supernatural strength, I swing him by the ankles so that his head hits a piece of wooden furniture. Have I hurt him? Is he dead? I decide to hide him in my guitar case, at which point he becomes my guitar, slotting perfectly into the velvet casing. I close the lid, snap shut the locks and set the case aside. But I can't forget he is in there. I try to do other things but keep looking at the case. Panic sets in. What have I done? Is he dead? I loved him once. He is dear to me. What have I done? I slowly open the case and inside is my guitar. Is it him at all? I am not sure until I hear a sniffling sound. He is still, it seems, in the form of my guitar. On the fretboard I notice a pair of weeping eyes, like a couple of stickers. I start to cry, sob. I am so sorry! I can't believe I hurt you so badly! Can you forgive me? The guitar asks for water and I rush to get some from the kitchen tap. But, how do you give a guitar water? What have I done?
This dream has been following me around all week. I know it is ridiculous, especially the little stuck-on eyes. But I feel sick with sadness about it.
The sub-conscious is a very unpredictable place.
A thought not attached to anything else written here:
Sometimes there is no-one to blame but a strange set of circumstances, a few nights of drinking, and a whole lot of fear inside two well-meaning heads and hearts.
On a nicer note:
On Friday morning as I was about to get into the shower, a rather nasty-looking spider crawled out from under the bath mat. I put a cup over it, slid some paper underneath and took it out into the backyard. After tossing it into the garden bed, I suddenly realised I was stark naked outside on a cold morning. It really kickstarted my day. It had been decades since I had been naked out of doors! Hopefully one of those sunrise hot air balloons wasn't floating above at the time. I certainly didn't hear that breathy roar they let out as more gas is added to the flame.
Georgia and Martin have somehow grown zucchinis the size of small children. Proof below:
Meanwhile, my sprouts and broccolini are being nibbled by caterpillars the colour of spearmint gum. I spent a good 45 minutes today carefully picking them from the underside of the leaves. It seems I will never grow vegetables of the size shown above. Hopefully that prize marrow doesn't taste like a waterlogged length of wood.
What else? I feel reluctant to leave the calm safety of blog-writing to get changed and head out for dinner. This week my alcohol consumption has been higher than usual. A couple of red wines last night had me asleep on the tram and then dancing in the kitchen and missing a gig I had been on the door to see. Very disappointing and I hope my rock n roll osteopath finds it in his heart to put me on the door again sometime.
At the North Fitzroy Star on Thursday, I talked Coffs Harbour versus Melbourne as places to live. John and Em talked of the convenience of Melbourne, the people, places to go out etc. But hang on, I said, didn't you just tell me about the whales that pass by your place in Coffs a few times a year? Whales? Grass is always greener and all that. I know, boring.
Hmmm...now I am seriously late for tea. I'm looking very ordinary and there is some work to be done, certainly in the hair department. Forecast - dull with a high likelihood of extreme frizz.
ciao
0 comments:
Post a Comment