Arts/Craft Photo Project 2010

Pascale Zufferey

2011-01-16T21:48:00.000-08:00

It’s not easy to step out of the car at Nightcliff foreshore and turn your back on it. The tide is well on its way out, exposing the ancient sea beds to the clear blue sky. A gentle breeze encourages the coconut palms to wave to a distant storm as if to beckon it to set a cooling shower onto the baking sands. I’ve photographed this scene many times and it always presents a different set of hues and tones; a perfect place for an artist to live and work.

Which is the very reason I am here. Just for the record, I raise the Nikon for a couple of shots, as a salutation more than for artistic grounds and head for the sanctuary that is Pascale’s studio. As I look up, Pascale appears on the balcony and calls; a warning I think. I have the distinct feeling of looking down the bow of the Titanic as it blunders towards me with Kate Winslet (Pascale) facing into the icy wind. Any minute Leonardo de Caprio (aka Bruce, Pascale’s partner) will appear with a reassuring smile, just before they run me (the iceberg) down. I really must do something about this vivid imagination.

As I enter Pascale and Bruce’s home my eyes scan the premises for signs of artistic life. As usual, there is little evidence of such, bar one seemingly incomplete work resting on an easel adjacent to the window leading to the balcony. Pascale must have sensed my prying and questioning eyes.

‘I’m still working on that’ she states. She expresses her frustrations at not getting it ‘right’. This is promptly followed by a discourse in procrastination seemingly brought about by a recent trip to Italy and resulting in a creative urge flooded by too many good ideas.

‘I don’t really know where to start. And the colours are amazing. It’s hard to get it just right’. I question her on knowing when she knows its done. She skirts around an answer I one day hope to understand.

We move to the balcony and I prompt for some background material. I had always thought Pascale’s name would look good at the bottom of a masterpiece. It’s European origin may well fit with that. The urge to paint seemed to have appeared at an early age. Some refinement of her skills during school in the NT brought her to make the choice to become an art teacher. But as fate, and the NT Department of Education would have it, Pascale began a teaching career prematurely and in an area deemed more fitting by the administrators. Art teaching would need to go on the backburner for a while. After all, who can argue with fate or the beaurocrats?

But art has always been an important part of Pascale’s life and a translation of her dreams wasn’t going to restrict her. She has continued to hone her skills and express herself with a brush and canvas. In the typical manner of the suburban artist, Pascale directed me to ‘The Gallery’. On our way to what I expected would be a well lit expanse of white walls covered with illuminating images of a creative life, Pascale points out a few ‘tasters’. A portrait of a young indigenous child stares at me with disturbing intuitiveness. I hesitate and feel an urge to move to see if the stare follows me. I can look at those eyes and know this child. It is a very realistic portrait but built into it is another layer of intimacy that bares the hallmark of a strong relationship between the subject and the artist. This is something many artists strive for. Pascale has certainly achieved it here.

‘The rest are in here’ she calls, and I follow eagerly.

As usual, my hopes are dashed. There is no vast expanse of light and space to flaunt her work. Typically, labours of love and devotion are stacked against the wall, piled on desks and buried in cupboards. Her working studio is also typically the ‘spare room’ overlooking the car park of an adjacent block of flats. With the wonders of the Arafura Sea at her doorstep I wonder why she chooses to work under such conditions.

‘I do paint out there,’ she replies to my concerned inquiry. ‘I don’t paint on location though’ and I can understand why. ‘Getting it right’ under a tropical sun could prove to be an onerous task.

Pascale shuffles through her canvasses like a deck of cards and I catch a glimpse of portraits and landscapes that beckon more than a cursory glance. She has exhibited and commissioned works but her efforts have far outweighed her sales. This is not a critique of her work but an appraisal of her industry. There is enough work here to keep a gallery stocked for some time.

‘I do give a lot of my work away’, and I wonder what room would be left if she hadn’t.

Many of her portraits have a personal history attached. Bringing up her children in remote communities gives her a connection to the subjects that is reflected in her style and composition. Her emotional connection becomes the viewer’s link to another place through her paintings. It’s worth the time to stare.

There’s not a strong motivation to market her work but Pascale does see painting as an important part of who she is.

‘I get a bit prickly if I haven’t painted for a few days. It has a very calming effect on me’ she reflects. Bruce has moved into view and I note a look of discerning agreement on his face.

‘Bruce is incredibly supportive with what I do,’ she adds. Stroking Bruce’s ego is well placed and he accords a Cheshire grin. Us blokes need that from time to time.

‘I have my toys,’ Bruce declares while fondling what appears to be a depth finder from a boat. I have a feeling there is a good deal of sharing of time and space in this relationship.

Pascale, in spite of her lack of experience and nervousness in talking about herself and her art, has expressed quite clearly how her skills and talent as an artist are entwined in her life. She has articulated in a wordless way, a love of her children, Bruce, her community and the landscape in the same way she blends her art, actions and words; as if they were all part of the same. There is no separation of one from the other. The very fact that she presents her work in the same way she would show an album of family photo’s or talk of her experiences demonstrates the ‘wholeness’ of Pascale.

To some extent this is what I have been looking for, I think. My search hasn’t been about the art or the artist; its been about the people. The art is just one way people, like Pascale, express who they are. It’s the bonus people get when they have learnt the skills and find the next level that art can offer. In addition, its the bonus we as observers acquire when we view such work. Incorporated into the pigments and canvas is a life of experiences honed by feelings and thoughts. If we could all have the skills of expression Pascale has we would probably be better for it. But for the time being I can just bathe in the light of her work and hope that some of this talent will rub off.

Thanks Pascale

A'Mhara Russell

2011-01-08T20:48:00.001-08:00

It’s not every day I get the chance to eat art.

When I received the call from a friend to interview A’Mhara and taste her cupcakes, I was somewhat skeptical. After all, although my understanding of art and its genres is limited, few references indicated ‘cupcakes’ as a possible means of creative expression.

But who am I to say? After all, there is not rule that says you can’t eat your art. Why, there have been many times when I’ve had to eat my words, and I do use those verbal ingredients as a means of releasing my creative spirit from time to time. Apparently their bitterness isn’t always to everyone’s liking, as I have discovered.

So, I ignored the possible bias of my informative friend towards this seemingly loose connection between cooking and creativity and headed once more into the inner reaches of Darwin suburbia.

I have known A’Mhara for some time but only on a second level of acquaintance, sufficient for me to nod in passing but not one that would give me any essence of who she is. So I found myself approaching our time together with eagerness and anticipation. What struck me immediately upon our meeting was her strong presence and a command of the situation at hand. There was a directness about her manner and movement that put me immediately at ease. It is as though all has been taken care of and all I need do is to sit back and enjoy the ride. Combined with this was a voice and manner of conversation that did not falter. I was reminded of a news reader on SBS or a damn fine teacher bringing eager young minded to order. A well places smile sprung to life and I swear the room got a whole lot lighter.

And she began.

I watched and listened as the attentive child. A’Mhara seemed less conscious of her actions than I did. The kitchen is was organized, with everything within easy reach. She moved effortlessly between utensils hanging like tendrils from the ceiling to bowls and ingredients placed along the work bench. At the same time, AMhara provided me with a running commentary on the contents, actions and a bit of history thrown in. I couldn’t see her feet from where I was sitting but I imagined them dancing across the tiles as dexterously and efficiently as Ginger Rogers in the arms of Fred Astaire. She spoke of an interest in cooking that went back a long time. There was a strong suggestion of the influences of her mother, but in an energetic sense more than a creative one. Standing still isn’t an option in this household. Engagement is the lifestyle. Connection with the world is strongly inked with what one does and how much effort is put into it: a ‘Rest when you’re dead’ philosophy.

At twenty-something A’Mhara is well defined. She is in a career of choice working in a place of choice and doing what she chooses. It shows. She spoke as affectionately of her work as a librarian as she does of her passion for cooking. I wondered if there is a similarity, a transfer of skill set than links the two occupations. Is a recipe akin to a reference? Is baking synonymous to cataloguing books?

As the conversation continued I became aware of changes. The flurry of activity had waned momentarily and an irresistable odour eminated from the kitchen. I checked to see if I’m not salivating in any obvious way. After all, I didn’t want to seem too eager for this session to finish. One might think I only came here for the food. Before I could say ‘pass the plate,’ a tray of hot cupcakes appeared before me, perfectly rounded and browned; just as they would be in a Nigela Lawson cook book. For a moment I was taken back to the Saturday afternoons in the inner city suburbs when, as a young boy, I would be the first to feel the heat from a freshly baked cake as my mother drew it from the oven. Then juggle that first piece of steaming sponge on my tongue until it was cool enough to consume. So this is art, is it not? Emotions like this are not evoked by ordinary things. It requires a very special talent to get it right.

A’Mhara has been making cupcakes for a year or so in any serious nature. She expressed some surprise that others would value her skills and want to buy her art. Personally, I thought she underestimated her skills, but don’t most artists? Her web site was established during the year to get her message out there and even without the necessary olfactory stimulation, she has had a good response. Orders are coming in and her repertoire is expanding. She sees the future need to move from her mother’s kitchen but at the moment she is content to allow the magnitude of her industry to be guided by her current time and space.

The cupcakes had cooled sufficiently for the icing, a masterpiece in itself that was prepared beforehand, just as they do in the TV programs. This magic of marsh mellow and colour sat delicately on top and the object become a sculpture, only to be surpassed in beauty by the very next move.

‘Try one’ A’Mhara beckonned, as if I needed any prompting. As my teeth sunk into the freshness and my lips became covered with the sweetness I wondered how Rembrandt felt when someone took a bite out of ‘Nightwatch’. If A’Mhara had any attachment to her work she had better get over it real quick because I’m going in for a second dip.

‘Take one home for Christine’ she offered.

‘Sure, she’d love one’ I lied. This is one piece of art Christine will never lay her eyes on. ‘Only one?’ I thought. I wouldn’t like the rest to get stale. Still, I didn’t want to appear greedy and I could always buy some.

As I left A’Mhara to the remaining dozen, I reminded myself of my own prejudices and how they have changed. My narrow view of art with it’s traditional limitations is slowly being demolished. No longer is art perceived as an object produced by aging artisans in airy attics to be sold at high prices or grace the walls of our galleries. A’Mhara has pointed out quite clearly that art can be expressed in the most edible forms, prepared with precision for even the most ordinary sole like mine and express the artists feelings and passion about the seemingly mundane parts of every day life.

Thanks for that, A’Mhara.

PS

A’Mhara managed to feed the soles of quite a few people at the Christmas Craft Extravaganza in December. There are about three hundred art lovers out there who couldn’t possibly look at a cupcake in the same old way again. Two gentlemen passed me on one occasion, artwork in mouth, drawing straws on who would return to A'Mhara's stall to make the first marriage proposal.

Tracey Polglase

2010-12-31T18:36:00.000-08:00

Tracey greeted me at the gate of her Nightcliff apartment. I know this area well. I worked across the road for nearly ten years. A tall person could probably get a glimpse of the ocean from here. The demography is that of young couples with no children and good jobs: DINK’s. Tracey’s appearance and my diminutive knowledge of her history seem to fit the demographic. She’s certainly young, by my standards at least. There is no evidence of children (she looks far too calm and relaxed). My records indicate nursing as the chosen profession, and, I should add, a disturbingly attractive one at that, with a penetrating stare and reassuring smile that, I can only imagine, would place the patients at Recovery somewhat at ease knowing Tracey would be the first person they saw after awakening from some troublesome surgery.

She ushered me through the door into a neatly arranged apartment (more evidence of no children). Something recognisable was emanating from the stereo across from a smartly furnished living area. There seemed little evidence of any artwork but I wasn’t concerned. My experience with artists over the months prepared me for the most imaginative ways of hiding the consequences of their talent.

We chatted for a while on matters Polglase. The faint Kiwi accent gave rise to some conversational geography and the nursing background presented itself with talk around hospitals and careers. Tracey has some academic training to accompany her art as well. Unlike most, she enjoyed and values her formal art training. It seems to sit well with her orderly nature, perhaps.

It was time for the tour. We started in the hallway. I’m not sure how I missed them, but directly opposite the entry door hung two significant works of art that, from a distance, looked very much like something you would find splattered on the tiled wall of the local abattoir. What I realised, on closer inspection, is that you don’t actually notice the big picture; something akin to losing sight of the forest because of the trees. Tracey noticed my curiosity as I step in for a closer look and began her explanation of these curious works.

‘The red represents blood and the words are meds used at the hospital’. One word triggers a memory of another place and the image is immediately intensified.

I was tempted to step back to get it all in context but remained transfixed on the detail. Some of the words I could identify with; others were a complete mystery but each had the effect of knitting the image together as an orb spider gives strength and structure to its web. A cold shiver ran across the back of my neck.

‘This one is about my mother when she was ill’, Tracey explained, as only she could understand. The prevalence of blue left no doubt about the impact of her mother’s illness. I am always moved by the strength of imagery when a personal, emotional factor is involved. I am getting the impression that this is what art is meant to do and Tracey has certainly succeeded with this powerful piece.

‘The rest are back here’ and Tracey ushered me into ‘The Gallery’. If artists working from home had the luxury of endless, well lit walls I’m sure they would display their work in the best possible light. Unfortunately, Tracey falls into the same caste as the rest of us. This leaves the scrutiny of her work to looking over the spare bed at a dozen or so canvases stacked against a wall or rifling through a wardrobe in an attempt to get a glimpse of an alluring sketch. There is an advantage to this method of display, of course. One can view a great deal without having to walk very far.

Tracey’s style is varied. I’m no expert, as you have all gathered, so don’t assume I know what I am talking about, but it seems the difference between groups of canvasses is quite significant. Those hanging in the hall have a structure I can identify with. The story is evident in the content and context. The swirls of colour I see before me n another place are as different as I can imagine. As I scan the room I am aware of being watched. Sir Edmund Hillary peers out from a corner of the room, cold and grey as I’m sure he was on numerous occasions. The likeness is striking.

I wonder if Tracey is still finding her way, her artistic voice, as she stretches her imagination and skills into these different genres. Then again, she may have found her voice; she just sings in different keys.

Tracey takes me through a number of albums displaying photographs of her work. There are many examples of the hospital environment in an almost monochrome style that would be more to a photographer’s compositional approach than a painter’s. Tracey divulges that she uses the camera to record much of what she wants to paint. Her skills as a photographer would do her in good stead in my world. I am reminded of Diane Arbus’s reflection on her need to photograph ordinary things as if we were seeing them for the first time. The paraphernalia of hospital life is certainly ordinary. Yet these images are giving me an extra-ordinary view of a very mundane world.

As I move back into the intense, mid-afternoon, tropical sunlight I remind myself of what it is I’m looking for. There is a reason why Tracey expresses herself in her art. At one level it is to find a way of expressing the feelings and emotions she has about her experiences. At another level there is the need for verification from herself and others that what she paints is how it is for her. Reality is everywhere but interpretation and insight are personal and often abstract. Tracey has learnt the skills to show us her interpretation and insight of a very real world in a very real way. And I’m grateful for that.

Thanks Tracey

.....and just two more things.......

Tracey entered a painting in the Senior Territorial Portrait competition. In keeping with her medical background, she has chosen to portray the very anaesthetist who rendered me unconscious before I succumbed to the surgeon’s apparatus. Since my recollection of the event was somewhat clouded, I can appreciate the lifelike figure on canvas – just in case I meet him in the street. Tracey’s painting didn’t win any awards but the subject purchased the portrait. I assume it was because he liked the painting, not because he didn’t want any of his victims to recognise him.

...and...

Tracey and her close friend, Tash Willmett dusted off their canvases for a showing at the Craft Extravaganza held at Marrara Stadium in December. I do believe that for sixteen hours over that weekend, the Centre of the Universe was shifted to the four-by-four metre space these two artists occupied.

Anna Reynolds

2010-12-05T20:15:00.001-08:00

I’m exhausted.

I’m trying to convince myself that it has nothing to do with my age and everything to do with the heat, the drive to Batchelor and back, the abuse I have received from a foul mouthed parrot, the unpleasant growling from a dog of unknown breed and the rapid-fire conversation from Anna Reynolds. Let’s just say it’s not the sort of pace I could maintain for any length of time. I’m looking forward to a granny nap.

I enjoyed the drive to Batchelor although I did wonder, once I had arrived, why anyone would go there unless they had a specific reason. It never strikes me to be the sort of place you would go just because it’s there.

Directions to Anna’s place were somewhat convoluted. I had written them down hurriedly and somewhere between passing the speed sign and locating Anna there was a comment about finding the town centre. This was a challenge in itself since the conception of a town centre is yet to be achieved in this small community. It seems a garage, three public phones, and a general store suffice. I know Batchelor has a history but I wonder if that is all it has. A group of school children wandered aimlessly across the road, paying no heed to my presence and looking as though they had lost something. Civilisation, I suspect.

I approached Anna’s house with caution. I had been warned of wild animals lurking. The gate was secured and unwelcoming. The fence was high enough to contain most animals that had come to mind. I called into the wilderness beyond. Someone or something called back with a scratchy ‘hello’ as if they were clearing their throat from a bad case of bronchitis. I called again. The scratchy voice told me to bugger off or some such. I was about to do just that when a more serene voice called from within the house.

‘Come in. My dog won’t bite’ and I am immediately reminded of a scene from The Pink Panther. I entered cautiously; the dog and I keeping a respectful distance.

Anna lives in her art. Literally. Her small piece of suburbia in this less than vast metropolis is a creative work in progress. As we meandered through the undergrowth Anna acknowledged each crevice, construction and cranny as a curator might when explaining an exhibition. Although there are a number of distinct areas with specific purpose such as the chook yard, the shed, the outdoor shower and the ‘guest room’, each place migrates into the next as paints of different colours unite to form a single image on a canvas. It is as though the space is growing from the inside and the parameters are providing infinite room to move.

Anna demonstrated great pride in her outdoor achievements. It’s a welcoming place where people can wander, sit for a while, or stay forever. We chose a loose plank in a shady spot to chat. Anna had recently received news of an Artist’s in Residency in New York for which she had applied. This seems part of a plan which will hopefully establish Anna as a legitimate, full-time, working artist. Her family history is a strong basis for her ambitions. There is a long line of artists that have provided Anna with an ancestry to link with. I gather a sense of self-recognition in her conversation as she relates her plans to me. It is as though, in the process of identifying her own ambitions as an artist, she has recognised in herself the ability to do this. She shakes off credibility as if it was raindrops in a passing shower yet recognises the importance of being ‘known’ as an artist. The accolades, awards and rewards are part of that, and so is the paperwork. Yet, either may not have seemed that important in the past. At 41 Anna now knows what she wants to be when she grows up and the time seems appropriate to do something about it. After all, artists need to eat.

Anna’ preferred working medium is her surroundings and all that encompasses. Nothing is safe. Everything has a place in her extra-ordinary mind. It is as though she is rearranging the planet to her own liking. There are boxes of trinkets and trivia scattered everywhere but Anna isn’t collecting or hoarding. She is simply waiting for an idea to formulate which will place the items in their rightful aesthetic position. It’s not good enough that a stone might be guided by gravity or a leave by the wind. Some minor adjustments from Anna will make it just that much better. I am reminded of Ansell Adams comments about photography when he suggested that ‘dodging and burning was the photographer’s way of improving on God’s work’. I get the impression the same philosophy may play a significant part in Anna’s actions. And when you look at her work you get the feeling she is probably right.

I am most familiar with Anna’s digital work. Her manipulation of photographic images is profound. From a distance they hardly appear as what we usually understand as photography. But a close inspection reveals a dimension that is mesmerising. Again, it is the essence of ‘gather and re-arrange’, evident in her garden, that predominates in her images. Fragments of images digitally stuck together and arranged to form images from images. Every detail relates to every other detail. The anatomy of the final product is what makes the whole work so well. Yet you don’t notice the detail until you take a very close look.

But that’s not all. Anna showed me a ‘book’ she had created. If there was another word for it I would use it but for the time being it’s a book in the sense it has pages – of a sort. And once again there is the ‘many parts make the whole’ philosophy. To appreciate what Anna creates in all her work there are two perspectives you must take. The first is to get back far enough to view the whole thing. Here you can appreciate the form as you might when wondering through a gallery. Then you need to get close because it is here the art reveals itself. If the object in question was a living thing we would be witnessing the environmental dependency and relationships between cells. Anna’s work reveals a beauty that is very much dependent on how the individual parts relate to one another. Photographs, cloth, beads, lace, fur, paint, ink, words, are arranged in the Anna Reynolds manner.

And where does this all come from? Well, let me reveal the real reason why I am so tired. I simply could not keep up with the thought processes Anna revealed in her conversation. If you adhere to the idea that the brain has a creative side (the right side, so it seems) then Anna’s right side took over the left side some time back. She operates on the creative level with both hemispheres blazing. I’m even convinced she uses a lot more than the 20% the rest of us are supposedly using. Is it any wonder the dog growls and the parrot swear? It is their way of avoiding being swept up in the artistic process and incorporated into a mural or mosaic.

At this point I recorded a few images. Anna ignored the click of the shutter. She had progressed to a new level. There was no room for an intruder. For a moment I watched in amazement. Her hands move from object to object as she spoke to ..... herself, maybe, about her art and it’s ‘function’. For Anna her art appears to be an opportunity to give physical structure to her ideas. Her words describe what she sees but not what I see. I see a person with incredible creative energy. The greatest expression of Anna’s art is herself. The rest is a bonus.

At that point I became aware of my own vulnerability. Would I become a decoration for the balcony or a component in the next sculpture if I lingered? The dog growled suspiciously and the parrot wished me a less than fond farewell. Anna was anxious to get back to her garden.

I’m looking forward to a good lie down.

Thanks Anna.

The Tao of Carole Bann

2010-11-09T18:03:00.000-08:00

It’s hot. The rain has dissipated for the moment and left behind the stifling humidity, heat and a swarm of mosquitoes that is all part of The Build-Up we almost didn’t get. I’m blaming it on Global Warming only because it seems topical. I’m also lost. I should not rely on old maps. This road didn’t exist last week. Whoops! There it is. Number 98. ‘BANN’, the sign says. How did I miss that? I can’t see the trees for the forest. The gate is open. No dogs? All is quiet and seemingly deserted. And new. I step from the car and wait. Still nothing. Should I call? I don’t want to disturb the …….

‘Hello’

Carole’s voice surprises me. Firstly, it’s distinctly Midlands; Leicester to be precise. And after more than 30 years in Australia her inflection is still pronounced; as true as a builder’s plumb line, somewhere between Brummie and a BMW owner from Audley Edge. I could well be listening to an episode of The Bill. In addition to the brogue, her greeting rings like a bell bird in the bush or a single drop of rain falling onto a tin roof. I am immediately at ease. The heat has gone. The mozzies have taken refuge in the forest. The humidity has dropped. I search for inner angst and it’s vanished. How did she do that?

She reminds me of someone but I’m not sure who. She has the presence of possibly reminding everyone she meets of someone’s sister. I’d like to guess at Carole’s age but I won’t. Not only would it be indiscrete but downright impossible. I have a feeling that sometime during the afternoon I will calculate it from the chronology she reveals and I will be surprised, in much the same way one would be surprised at the age of a Wollemi Pine after counting the growth rings.

We sit under the pergola and chat. We leave the art alone and cover exploits not conceived, children, childhood, houses and family. The two Russells (husband and dog) have disappeared into the shed. There is an attitude perceived during this conversation that reveals an almost complacent approach to life and Carole’s journey through it. It is as though life just ‘is’ and Carole is simply part of it, moving along with it like a stick in a stream. There is a timeless approach to events. ‘When’ seems almost irrelevant. The fact that it ‘is’ seems enough. During our conversation she, not once, mentioned what might happen. As Pooh Bear would suggest, the most exciting thing that will happen all day is happening right now.

It’s time to discuss art. Carole doesn’t recall a time when she couldn’t draw or didn’t draw. She does admit there was a time when she believed everyone did what she did and was surprised to find that wasn’t the case. She is self-taught but it is more (or less) than that. Her development has been at her own discretion, discovery and determination, barely influenced by the actions and ideas of others. Some things work; others don’t. Carole admits to some improvement along the way but is not sure how it comes about. It is as though I have just asked a fish how it learnt to swim.

‘I went to Jasmine’s class once. I sat in the corner and sketched. She liked my work. We chatted.’ I can only wonder where that conversation might have led. What does an orchid say to a rose? ‘Like your work.’

‘I just know where the lines go’ she discloses, as if I can comprehend that. I can grasp the concept of breathing and even walking but a pencil and I have an understanding that doesn’t include the sort of acumen shown in Carole’s illustrations.

She opens a sketch book at a kookaburra that almost leaps from the page. I move closer, and with each millimetre, become aware that these minute lines, the shading, the shape and texture created by her hand, every mark has purpose and place. I recall seeing da Vinci’s sketches in the Queen’s Gallery many years ago and thinking the same thing. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not comparing Leonardo’s drawings with Carole’s. I wouldn’t dare. It’s the process that demonstrates a parallel. The pencil and the paper are there and it is Carole’s task to ‘be’ Carole: guide the graphite in its journey. As Pooh also says: ‘I eat honey because that’s what it is for’. Michelangelo was reputed to have suggested that his task was to find the figure that already exists in the marble. Maybe that is what Carole does. Why can’t we all see the kookaburra in the sketch pad?

Carole has an observant eye for detail (apparently to the chagrin of her husband, Russell).

‘I like drawing and painting trees. They are all different.’ She reflects. There is evidence of her observational prowess scattered throughout her studio. But the detail is not something you or I would notice. If I were to see naked women in a tree trunk or only 3 emu’s in a painting clearly marked ‘5 Emus’, others might deem me a little strange and possibly dangerous. For Carole, it all seems quite fitting.

‘Not everyone notices,’ I add, enjoying the image of a rather appealing and well endowed gum tree.

‘I don’t hear accents and I frighten the children when I sing,’ Carole admits, as if to diminish the skills she has. And once again I hear Pooh Bear admitting he can only be what he is. For any of us, that should be enough.

I’m curious to know if Carole experiences the inner space other artists talk about; that personal cosmos when the art is the thing and nothing else matters. She does, but seemingly for different reasons. Hers may well be a remnant of an escape mechanism learnt early in her life, as we do when, as a child, we hide under the blankets late at night and engross ourselves in a good book to shield us from the Boogie Man. We all have our own ‘Boogie Men’ and sometimes they can seem ever so distant yet none-the-less eminent in their influence. As with other artists, the idea of complete control in the process of art, as sub-conscious as it is, can keep us in the present, far out of harm’s way and hidden from view by the ‘blanket’ with which we cover our world. As a psychologist once said to me: ‘No harm in that’.

But none of this is really that important to Carole.

‘I don’t ask myself questions like that because I don’t have any answers.’ And it may well be that the answers are irrelevant or unnecessary. Honey tastes good even when you don’t know where it comes from.

Carole admits also that her business side is lacking somewhat. This may be an artefact of her capacity to stay in the present. We discuss some options for expansion such as a web site or blog but, although she shows interest, there is a distinct impression that drawing and painting is a lot more fun and the ‘other stuff’ is best left to someone else. To paraphrase the story of someone much more profound than I: ‘Russell builds, Tom takes pictures, Carole just is.’

As I leave this peaceful place, I can see the evening storms building in the South, pushing tempered air ahead of the deep bank of cumulo-nimbus. The trees bend against the breeze and a cloud of dust lifts from the verge outside Number 98. I hesitate for a moment to observe. All seems a little clearer. There are textures I haven’t notices before. Colours seem available with a little more clarity. Shapes fit with silhouettes. I feel like I need to draw….. something.

‘Anyone can draw,’ I hear Carole say. ‘I can teach you’.

Maybe one day, I suppose. Just at the moment I’m happy being ……

Thanks Carole.

David Silva

2010-11-09T17:21:00.000-08:00

At last. Someone I can understand. Besides being a bloke, which does help somewhat in our empathy for what we are, David is a photographer. I must admit there is some nervousness and apprehension in my steps as I head towards his gallery in the old Chinatown building in Cavanagh Street. If I were honest with myself I would freely state that my uneasiness is all to do with being a bloke, a troublesome task at the best of times. Our instinct is to see all other blokes as potential threats to our ego, which, if measured in degree, would be only marginally smaller than the volume of the known universe. Burdened with this incredible handicap and about to meet someone who has the potential to know more than I do, is it any wonder I’m feeling the heat. Or maybe it’s just the weather. It is October, after all.

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust as I enter the well worn building. Little has changed here since it received a shaking during the war, then a thumping during Cyclone Tracey. A coat of paint doesn’t hide the scars. Determination keeps the bricks together, I’m sure. There is an ancestral sense of the air and light belonging to a forgotten time, when the only protection from the harshness of the tropics was not to mention it in conversation.

As I walk towards the two figures at the far end of the space, I become distinctly aware of the images on the walls around me. There is something vaguely familiar and mysteriously alien about the expansive, panoramic images. I have the nebulous sensation that I should be walking through them to get a better view.

I stop before a broad seascape. I can’t quite work out what it is I’m seeing. It’s as though the world has been run over by a large truck and I’m looking at the road-kill spread across the wall; everything is in the right place but it shouldn’t be this flat. I allow my visual cortex time to adjust. It’s not often one can witness the field of view turned inside out.

David and his wife, Sue, greet me warmly. They have set up ‘office’ at the far end of the gallery. These days a photographer’s space fits more or less into a suitcase. I feel a loss with that but one must move with the times. The contrast between the old and the new has not escaped me and I wonder if David’s choice of venue for such high tech art is not as a consequence of lessons learnt in photographic composition.

David’s background as a photographer goes back a long way. He reminisces fondly on his father’s abilities as a keen and competent amateur photographer whose images he still treasures. There are many accurate recollections of learning the processes as a teenager, sweating away over the laundry sink or converted closet. David hands me a camera, a Kodak Brownie Starlight, the first he could call his own, and still in working order, I might add. We share some common ground here and David produces a string of old cameras, all in perfect condition, that bring the hairs on my arms to attention. These are items he obviously treasures but for what reason I am unsure. Sentiment, I assume. Sue, his wife, reveals later, that David doesn’t dispose of much. Maybe these relics are his snapshots of the past just like the images from his father’s well preserved negatives.

There is a sense, in listening to David talk of his career in photography that the camera and the image are of less importance than the need to earn a living. As a young man, trained as a teacher, and finding himself in the far reaches of the Top End, the option for earning a living in a career of choice that tasted worse than it looked, needed to be addressed. Using his already established skills as a processor and printer of photographs, he slowly transformed his passtime into something that has done him well for the past twenty five years.

He admits that, in the early days he was more of a processor and printer than a taker of pictures. Opportunity and timing allowed him the grace to move with the times as technology steamrolled its way into the twenty-first century. A good business gene, of dubious origin, has been dominant in many of the decisions he has made. As David talks of many of his ventures into the commerce of photography, I have a sense of a man willing to learn. This accessing of knowledge is as much of an acceptance of a challenge as it might be of necessity. And once acquired, this newfound expertise will be neatly filed away until the time for its recall will present itself. He talks of his experiences as a labourer on the building site of the old Beauforte Hotel in the ‘80s where every day was a learning experience and he was the eager student sponging up the skills and knowledge that he knew innately would ‘come in handy’ somewhere down the track. Maybe that trait is also revealed in his inability to dispose of an old camera. I wonder if he is tempted to take photographs with them. I certainly am.

But all this has been business. David enjoys his work, but it is work, after all. A client gives him a brief, he determines how the brief will be fulfilled, he carries out the shoot, then ends the process with the images and the invoice. Even in his description of the work flow he refers to the photographs as the ‘CD with the files’, hardly the sign of a person who has an attachment to the finished product. David enjoys his work and the challenge it brings, but it is work, and over the last 25 years he admits there has been little or no time to do otherwise.

So where is the ‘art’ I am looking for? David could be the plumber who has just fixed my leaking sink or the painter who has just given my living room two coats of Dulux Wash and Wear in Polar White. There are no signs of ‘the other place’ artists talk of, or the need for expression, or seeking answers to the unresolved, or even to find a better life or any life or the meaning of life. We even joke momentarily of his propensity to hang onto both his ears.

As in all of us, it seems, and David no less, there is the germ that lurks; the beginnings of the creative process that, I am beginning to realize, is waiting patiently for the nutrients that will enable it to multiply and take on a life of its own. Somewhere, that bug lay sulking beneath a pool of human endeavor that can devour us if we allow it: enterprise, commerce, business and a mortgage, raise the kids and invest for the future; the need to succeed in a world that allows us to meet and greet then ask the question: ‘and what do you do?’, then measuring the answer against the dimensions of accomplishment that we believe are productive and useful – for others.

But what of the need to satisfy ourselves? Is it OK to do something that feels good and makes others feel good just by the mere existence of a creative process? David has tested that. He had an idea. Initially it may have had a business aspect to it but that was not clear. As the process unfolded it provided food for the creative bug to grow. The embryo is nourished and the concepts develop. At the end is what I see before me: images of Darwin that I can only suggest you view for yourself. I’m scrambling through the Thesaurus to find appropriate adjectives. ‘Wow’ isn’t listed but it will do for the time being.

David describes, briefly and loosely, the scenario from scene to canvas and beyond. Every step is, to a lay person, a technical nightmare; sophisticated cameras and equipment, complex software, hours of manipulation of often hundreds of images to achieve his vision. I pretend to understand it all with a less than confident nod of the head. An analogy comes to mind: I drive my Corolla with confidence; David drives F1’s for McLaren.

Some might consider that all this technology detracts from the art. I think not. David has significant technical expertise and some impressive hardware at his disposal; that is unmistakable. But as I watch David move from image to image while talking to a prospective buyer I see the sparkle in his eye that I have seen before. This is not ‘work’. There is no ‘contract’ involved apart from the one David has with himself. There is a relationship quite unique that exists between David and these images. It’s about achievement, satisfaction in a task completed, praise from others, the development of an idea into something physical.

Then there is the other thing: the indescribable entity that brings us to do this intangible concept in a tangible way. It’s the soft grey line that blurs the reality of ‘this is mine’ and ‘this is me’. As a result of this body of work I am persuaded to believe David thinks differently of himself. It is yet another aspect of the ‘art of art’ that can go unnoticed by the viewer. Who of you would know what went before as you view these spectacular landscapes? Who of you would lay claim to knowing David from his images?

Then again, it may not be necessary. David’s images give immense pleasure to those who view them. There may even be an added bonus for those who purchase a canvas and hang it in their own space. I have had the additional pleasure of watching and listening to David talk about his work. There is a sense of pride and achievement that can only be understood when you see the glint in the photographer’s eye.

I hope David doesn’t take so long for his next artistic venture. I want to be around to enjoy it.

Thanks David

Ken Burridge

2010-10-27T20:29:00.000-07:00

Before the Camera.

They have said it before while looking through the lens; Avedon and Karsch.

It’s in the light, to capture the heart of the subject.

Know the person and the truth. Reflect opinion, frame the soul.

Let the photograph speak both ways: for the subject and his artist.

‘I’m Ken. Come in.’ Unpretentious appearance, bare feet, shirtless, baggy shorts,

Aging, drawing deeply on a cigarette.

Surrounded by the past with artefacts arranged like a young man’s hair.

Telling Ken’s story. Cues and clues to landscapes eroded by time.

Wearing it all like well worn slippers.

What can I gather through this window? Let the light reveal

The tangerine and magenta glow of pre-dawn flows close behind.

Revealing detail in the deep blue shadow of the evening.

A God of some sort uncovered. Religion deeply imbedded with family and culture

Then ravaged by pompous bigotry. Spoilt like milk in the Sun.

His language says it all. Cursing the cursed. Scowling at the Bishops and Popes

Hypocrites, one and all. Less said; more meant.

‘I’m Gay, you know. It’s in my work’

As if preparing me for something or testing me.

The path for lack of deference clearly marked.

Can I see that far? Or want to? My camera is insensitive to that.

No setting for gender preference. Just ISO and white balance.

But his art isn’t! I’m yet to see.

Now I see. A gentle approach with affection I cannot understand but can perceive.

It’s in the subjects and the diligence of care for their humanness.

Remnants of the Old World. Youthful figures doing their dues

While the artist watches and places the lines where he cares.

Strength in single colour, black line, defined by the space they fill.

Understanding what the artist wants me to see. Then seeing more of him.

We move through distance and occasion

When teaching was the thing that guided and gilded.

‘A good life’ he shares, with some excess in waste and want.

Now gentler with his approach, watched by cancer’s gaze

Sharing between a lover’s heart and the practitioner’s part.

Gaining strength from friends who know and understand.

The art is just that: art and nothing more. A way of doing.

Not seeing beneath the surface but see the façade

On which a life well lived is drawn.

Procrastinate on superficial insight.

Leave behind the dimensions created from the assembly of thought and action.

The sculptures eye has more than one dimension.

He knows what stands behind the brilliance of the Moon.

Drawing heavily once more on another cigarette.

‘Click!’

One photograph complete which tells the story

Of a moment that took a lifetime to prepare.

Thanks Ken.

Jasmine Jan

2010-10-27T19:44:00.000-07:00

If Jasmine Jan could sing (and there is no indication that she can’t) she would be a rising rock star. She has all the attributes that are required to aspire to such heights. She is young (ish), energetic, and enthusiastic about her craft. Her oriental ancestry adds to the mystery and exotic nature of her persona. She lives in a castle (some poetic licence taken here) surrounded (almost) by a moat in tropical Paradise among the flora and fauna of the NT. Even her name has the three syllabic rhyme and rhythm of a teenage chant that could well be heard chorused at Woodstock or Wembley Stadium.

We can be eternally grateful that Jasmine doesn’t sing for her supper. She paints and draws instead. But she does this with the finesse, deftness and dexterity of an Eric Clapton or Biance. And her work has the same public appeal as a Michael Buble ballad. Darwin’s music world may have its Jessica but the art world has its Jasmine.

I’ve packed my lunch and set the GPS for the drive to Jasmine’s sub-continent somewhere on the outskirts of Darwin. I know Jasmine’s work. Who doesn’t? If this is the first time you have heard of Jasmine Jan, I understand. You have probably been held captive in a prison in Iran for the past ten years. Welcome home.

I should state quite clearly at this point that I like Jasmine’s paintings. Unlike other artists I have visited over the past months, I don’t have to pre-empt my partiality to the artists work. I’m already committed. In some ways I am at an advantage because I can concentrate more on the artist although I’m still looking forward to the visual pleasure her work provides.

The GPS is indicating proximity to my destination, although I am discovering that highly sophisticated electronic devices are being surpassed by something a little more whimsical: a Wallaby greets me with a polite salute as I approach the driveway, a Frilled Neck Lizard directs me down the appropriate track, two horses are strategically placed to add artistic interest to the enveloping forest and the road ends abruptly at the edge of a billabong on which Egrets and Ibis poise for a photo opportunity. If I didn’t know better, I could suggest this was a set-up. Knowing Jasmine, I believe this just ‘happens’.

Jasmine and the dog greet me. The dog barks and I pat it hesitantly. I’m not yet convinced dogs have the intellect to know me as the friendly and harmless person I am. Jasmine and I manoeuvre through the cordialities required for the interview to begin. I have a list of questions I want to ask and I dig deep into my pockets in search of the scrap of paper on which they are written. But Jasmine has started talking already. Her garrulous and articulate nature resolves all issues around extracting information from what I have been led to believe is a shy and reserved person. I’m not convinced and Jasmine volunteers the information freely. I look for a pause to direct the conversation but decide to allow her a free reign. I’m sure we will get to cover everything before the morning is out. Any sign of reservedness is veiled with an apparent gregarious nature as she talks freely about her work and her background.

A mixture of science, drawing, the love of birds and conservation mingle with her expressions of art. As a scientific illustrator and zookeeper, Jasmine finds art a way of expressing her feelings for the wildlife she cares for and loves so much. There is accuracy and beauty in her work that is apparent but there is a strong motivation to ensure that correctness and composition blend aesthetically. She emphasises that her animals must reflect their very essence but still look good. The backdrop to her wildlife is equally truthful, if not in detail, certainly in colour.

I see Jasmine as a ‘commercial’ artist in the sense she produces a very likable product that has broad appeal. She agrees. She considers that facet of her work fortunate but not purposeful. Jasmine relates a story that confirmed with her, some time back, that her artistic integrity is firmly intact and cannot be jeopardised. In discussing the possibilities for a commission with a client, she was taken down a path that went against the grain just a bit. Content, colour and composition didn’t meet Jasmine’s criteria but for the sake of a sale, she agreed, until dragon flies where mentioned, at which point, the line in the sand was drawn. Jasmine completed the painting (without dragon flies) but reflected the anger with herself for having completed it against her own better judgement. She immediately returned home and painted the whole thing again; the way she would want it. Some weeks later the original client saw the second painting and bought it anyway. This is the point at which all artists would give rise to a resounding and supportive: ‘So, there!!’

Our conversation wanders through her history as a painter and illustrator until I ask her why she paints. There is a moment of silence and I lose eye contact for the first time in well over an hour. What I discover in the conversation that followed, is an aspect of Jasmine’s art that is far more than a superficial expression or even a deeper manifestation of her feeling for the organisms she paints. This is as much a part of her as her right arm. There is no separating Jasmine from what she does. She cannot comprehend the possibility of not painting. She reveals that painting may be the very reason why she continues to draw breath. I’m not familiar with that level of tenacity and I wonder if there has been a tenancy in the past that has brought Jasmine to this resolve.

Jasmine has ambition. Painting and an involvement in conservation is a significant part of her future. For those ambitions to be fulfilled she needs to ‘sell’ her product and, to a large extent, herself. As I have already indicated, selling herself is less of a task than she might imagine. Selling her work is even less so. Jasmine draws a crowd. Admittedly, it’s the supportive family which leads the pack. She has incredible respect for her followers and suggests that the support provided by her family is largely responsible for her popularity. I think her talent may play a prominent role but I’m also thinking I might hire the family for my next gig.

Jasmine works at her exposure. She admits that about seventy percent of her time is devoted to the commercial aspects of her work. She understands that being a fine artist isn’t necessarily enough. You can’t eat your own paintings. Exhibitions, galleries, publications and postcards are all part of the sell. This is not an ethical question to be responded to. Jasmine knows what she wants and is driven. I listen with intent. I can learn a lot here. We all could.

At the end of the discussion I wonder the ‘palace’, enjoying the paintings on the wall accompanied by a living commentary. I can’t help noticing how appealing the composition of each piece is. It is as though, along with the accuracy of representation, everything seems in the ‘right’ place. There is a dynamic about each image that enables me to linger and enjoy. A fleeting glance doesn’t seem possible. I also notice a sense of well-being coming over me. It’s the same sensation I get when I read a book with a nice ending or have just completed a good meal. No wonder Jasmine’s work has such public appeal. It makes you feel good.

I want to hold onto that feeling for a while. I take a last, long look at the egrets and cockatoos and head back home. The subjects for Jasmine’s palette watch me from the paperbarks lining the billabong at the edge of the forest. There’s enough inspiration to keep Jasmine busy for some time. Foundations for a gallery are in progress, inspired by the view and a competitive streak. There are many reasons for me to return. And I still have my list. The Wallaby sees me through the forest and I give a nod to the Frilled Neck to close the gate behind me. The GPS screams into action and I’m on my way, wondering if a shower of tourists will disturb the tranquillity too much.

Thanks Jasmine

Lyn Temby Revisited

2010-10-06T23:35:00.000-07:00

‘Change is constant: improvement is optional’

As I head towards my next destination and continuing interviews with Lyn Temby I am reminded of the changes we experience in our lives and the effect those changes have on who we are,what we do, our self-perception and how others perceive us. I often wonder if I could identify a point in time and an event that led me to the place I am right now, feeling pretty damn good about life in general and heading for an exhibition of Lyn’s work in the Supreme Court Foyer in Darwin. Can I identify a single decision that took me on a collision course with destiny, as it were? Is life that structured? Do we have ‘9/11’ events in our lives that alters the very essence of who we are and what we do? Up to now I thought not. It’s not that simple. Like grass growing, life is subtle. It moves upon us and with us as slowly as the warming of a winter’s day. We change with the coming and going of the day like the sand beneath a shifting tide. We expect it but we don’t heed to it. We open one door and step through, knowing that what waits for us on the other side is as we expect. And if it’s not, we move on, knowing the next door will take us to where we are heading; wherever that is.

But, what if, one day you opened the door and there was nothing there. What if the world as you knew it or wanted it to be, was gone. What if the event you have just experienced created so much change that what followed was totally unrecognisable, not only in the physical sense but in the understanding and belief of your own self. The very essence of what you are has dissipated into the wind like smoke from a campfire. Before you lies something that is totally unrecognisable, beyond your control and your life as you want it to be is no longer within your grasp.

For most of us, such a change might seem unlikely. We are believers in our own invulnerability. We deem that we are in control and such an event is beyond us. That’s something that happens to someone else; front line news, script material for a drama, a plot for a novel, a story one might tell about some else.

Yet every minute of every day such things happen. We turn a corner with purpose and life greets us with indifference. In most cases there are small things that annoy us enough to notice but we carry on blissfully unaware. You forget an appointment or someone forgets one with you. Your credit card doesn’t read in the EFPOS machine at the checkout. You miss the bus. Not life changing? Maybe; maybe not.

Occasionally there are big events that shake us to the very core. For a moment we get lost in our way through life. You lose your job or someone in the family dies. Life changing? Most of us would say yes. Yet these things happen to people and they still have a ‘life’ after wards. Maybe the life is not quite what you expected but most of us would, standing on the outside, recognise it as such, none-the-less.

Is that new life different to what it might have been? Only if we knew what the ‘old’ life was going to be like. And we don’t. It’s only what we want it to have been. We want to stay in the job we like. We want to continue living with our loved ones. We want continued good health. We certainly don’t want some yobbo running up our rear end at speed and shaking our brain to bits. We take faith in believing that nothing will change; the Sun will rise tomorrow, I will be the same person I was yesterday and so will you. Our circumstances may alter but we are still the same person. Everything changes but nothing changes.

But, as they say, shit happens. As a result of Lyn’s ‘shit’ happening, her life changed considerably and along with that, so did she. Then we might say: ‘What now?’

Some of us might question our own input into such events. Blame and guilt seem to come hand in hand with catastrophic events. Peculiarly, if the event is beneficial, or seen in a favourable light, we often take credit for it or bless the Gods for its arrival. A small win on the horses is always seen as a good thing although it is arguably life changing. Re-uniting with a long lost sister, in my case, was certainly an event I cherish. I’m still waiting for the Lotto win. But just as I would need to buy a ticket before that can happen, events in our lives do require some input from each of us. My sister found my phone number on a web site but it was my actions (unintentional to that outcome) of putting my phone number there which enabled the event to occur. And it was my actions that created the web site in the first place.

On the other hand, if the event produces unpleasant results, we seek to find a perpetrator ouside our own persona in the hope we can place blame. Even in the simplest of actions we can hear someone say: ’I bought the winning ticket’ but ‘they sold me a dud ticket’. How peculiar is that?

So, how far back do we go before we identify the ‘beginning’; the first action that brings us to this point? And is there any value in doing that?

When Lyn talks of her accident, she often refers to her action of deciding to stop as the light turned amber. If the light had been green, would her life be different now, and how different? And what other actions preceded this point in time that might have changed things – or prevented the change that was about to occur. Or was that out of her control? And above all, what would Lyn’s life be like if she had decided to keep moving back then on the 19th of December 2000?

As I get closer to my destination, a voice on the radio comes to my consciousness. There is a strong Scottish accent telling me about some new ideas in Brain Theory; appropriate under the circumstances. There is evidence, he says, that the reason we have a brain in the first place is to enable us to move. How ironic, I think. It might seem that all our brain functions; thinking, feeling, cognition, is all part of a plan to keep us moving. That movement, or kinethetics, is the reason why we are and why we do what we do.

Now, I don’t know if this is the case but there might well be something in it. Watching Lyn’s development and transformation over the past months and listening to her tell her story many times may well put some credence to the idea that ‘we are because we move’, as the Scotsman says. She has certainly done that. The very idea that her therapy, the movement of mosaic creation, has brought her to this point, may be proof enough for any theory. It's certainly strong anecdotal evidence in my book. It seems that her brain needed a reason for its very existence. Battered and bruised as it was, it had lost its ability to recognise its own purpose for existing. As a result of this oblivion, Lyn fell into deep depression. And when this happens, the body doesn’t want to move. There is little or no motivation to do anything. Often sleep is the solution. The brain turns off and the body accompanies it. Kinethetics comes to a halt.

Lyn often expresses some of those thought that dominated her thinking while she rehabilitated. Getting out of bed had been a struggle. Movement was often clumsy and uncoordinated. She speaks of staring at the labels in the Supermarket as if her brain couldn't quite find a reason to move on. But in the process of her mosaics, came a reason for moving: she found it in cutting and grouting. Now that may seem a bit bizarre for most of us to get our head around. But for Lyn and her brain, there was value in this repetitive, painstaking, ritualistic, almost obsessive action. It was as though Lyn had found a pathway among those damaged neurones and synapses to find a reason to move. With that movement came a new learning. And along with the new learning, came an expression of what her new life could be and would be. She could communicate her very existence through her movement and the results of that movement; her mosaics. In addition to that, there was a reward. People communicated back. She could, once more, share her very existence with the world around her. Before her brain injury, people knew Lyn. She was a normal, predictable, human being. It's what we like in people. After the injury, she became unpredictable; not only for herself but for others. To some extent, Lyn became someone else and the battle between old and new began.

But as the therapy set in and she learnt to deal with new pathways and new skills, a ‘new’ Lyn emerged. Sure, it looks the same and still has some of the old characteristics, but there is some new stuff. People started to notice. They liked what they saw. Lyn started to like what she saw. Her unpredictable life was once again taking on a normalsy that she possessed once before and so much desired again. It’s what we all strive for: love for our self and love from others. There are also times when her brain hasn’t quite figured out the right pathway. She forgets a word or says something that doesn’t quite fit. There might also be moments when she falls back into that darker time when the brain loses its motivation to move her. I haven’t witnessed any of that but she reassures me it’s there. So does Johnno.

And speaking of John, her partner. He fell in love with the new Lyn, not the old one. He’s got a rather interesting package, where fragments of the old Lyn persist and a flood of new Lyn is continuously washing over him. Lucky bugger! He may well be part of the therapy and part of the outcome. Lyn mentions from time to time that her beloved Johnno didn’t know the ‘old’ Lyn. That doesn’t seem to be important to John. He’s OK with the current one.

There is no doubt that Lyn’s life was changed by that moment ten years ago as she watched the lights turn amber and she decided to stop. It was such a simple action; something that we all do every day. But in addition to that, someone else’s decision not to stop resulted in a conflict of actions. In our efforts to prevent such a conflict of actions we take precautions; traffic lights, laws, education, even the odd prayer if you are so inclined. In spite of our attempts to alleviate the foreseeable, such things do happen. We step in puddles, forget our wallet, miss the bus, get sick, lose our jobs, relatives and friends, get old and die. Just as one breathe follows another, we are not always ‘in control’ and if believe we are, the outcome isn’t always the one we desire or expect.

Stepping into Lyn’s limelight is easy. There is a soft glow that follows her. Sometimes it’s the bright incandescence of a TV spotlight, other times it’s the warm hue of the reflections from her mosaics. Tonight its brightened just a bit by some severe bling Lyn has chosen to wear at her exhibition opening. John is looking well scrubbed also. Her work looks different to the cramped spaces it occupied in her own home and the orderliness of the presentation provides a different perspective to the outdoor arrangement held at the recent Open Garden display.

As I watch her move from person to person I wonder who she might have been in the past. She greets old friends and new with her champagne presence and killer smile. Hendo is fully impressed. She reflects in her own work and each reflection is different. Her reflection blends with other reflections. It is as though the story is being completed and the final touches are being put in place.

Maybe the new Lyn is the old Lyn but with a few modifications. The change that has been bought about may not have been so subtle and it may have been a tough one (it hurt all the way, Lyn says) but maybe this was always going to be. If life’s prescription was already written for Lyn and she knew what the future would bring, she may have been in a hurry to get here. What we see before us and the person I have got to know over the past months is worth knowing. And I think Lyn would agree, right now.

Once again, Thanks Lyn

Alison Dowell

2010-10-05T18:45:00.000-07:00

As I leave the grandkids behind and head towards Rapid Creek and Alison Dowell I contemplate how abstract the world of art can be. I don’t mean abstract in its imagery but how conceptual and intangible the ideas in art can seem. Artistry and its practice seems so removed from ordinary life; as distant as a holiday in Barbados or even a small win in Lotto; you know, enough for me to retire and live a life to which I could become accustomed. But what if art wasn’t so foreign to us? What if it was part of our lives like shopping and cleaning our teeth? We could live in a world where art had the same status as reading and doing sums or using a mobile phone. Imagine a world where every part of our very existence was infused with art, either complete or in the making. And the very presence was as sublime as the ebbing of the tide or as robust as a tropical thunderstorm. Imagine living in a gallery with all the artistic detritus scattered around you like the shrapnel from an IED. And it was normal.

Alison lives in such a world.

As I approach Number 9, buried deep among the courts and circuits of suburban Rapid Creek, there is evidence of Alison’s art leaking from the opened front gates, which gape in a beckoning way, tempting me to enter. I’m hesitant. There is no sign of life. A cluster of chairs is haphazardly arranged in a loose group to my left as if the party has finished and everyone has departed. Out of the corner of my right eye I catch a glimpse of what appears to be a dog perched atop a table, ready to pounce. Its lifeless eyes follow me towards the house. A shark fin disappears behind a pile of boxes. There is a scratching noise behind me and I turn to see a glass eye from an overhanging crocodile peering down from a resting place. Is it guarding a clutch of eggs, I ask myself? I pass by an easel on my way to a distant light and find myself face to face with a disagreeable camp dog looking forlornly at nothing, as they do.

Art and its flotsam is everywhere. Jars of brushes bristle in the dim light, some overhanging tapestry dangles lifelessly in the stifling heat of the tropical afternoon, strange forms stand in clusters like school children in a playground, images and shapes fill every corner. There is barely space for me to move. I step lightly through a myriad of pathways and reach the stairway leading to the overhead verandah. There is still no sign of human inhabitants. A lizard scurries for safety. I wonder if there is room under the rocky refuge for the both of us in case that dog comes to life. Silence. The hand on my watch has stopped moving, I swear. I wait for the next tick.

‘Hello. You must be Tom’. I bring my composure to something resembling confident.

Alison, at 51 (as she reveals later), carries herself well. Her youthfulness has lingered in her manner and voice; her appearance defies chronological classification. I’d be flattering in my guess at her age. We sit, and quickly launch into some introductory conversation. I am pleasantly surprised at her interest in what I do. There is always comfort in talking about oneself. It’s a subject in which we are all expert. Before I get carried away I remind myself of my reason for being here.

Alison’s London accent adds a touch of allure to the conversation that follows. Her education in science adds another layer. But what intrigues me most is Alison’s milieu. As she discusses her art I am aware that she is searching for objects that can add to her conversation as I might search for words in a thesaurus. She points and prods as a painter might construct a canvas. Her hands caress fragments of her surroundings as if she were searching for shapes that would fit into the mosaic of our discourse. Much of these fragments are from other artists, splinters from someone else’s life. Other pieces are collections waiting for an opportunity to fall into a thought process and become a component of the creative practice. There are completed works as well as works in progress, although I find it hard to tell the difference. It’s not to say they look unfinished; just a possibility that they are able to be added to, as one would add to a diary or a library of interesting books.

Alison describes briefly how she might work: selecting objects at arm’s length to satisfy a concept’s fruition; a piece of string or some driftwood, even some wire or a shopping bag. Alison disposes of nothing and utilizes everything. Every component of her surroundings will have some artistic purpose somewhere in the future, if it hasn’t already. And no medium remains untouched. This is the teacher in her. There is evidence of pottery, glass, mosaic, sculpture, and, of course, painting. Alison chats freely and I listen intently. She has strong views on how art should be perceived and even stronger views on how it should be taught. Discipline is evident in her tuitionary style. Skill is her grounding. Expression is important but boundaries need to be set for that expression to be fulfilled. Proficiency is achievable through persistence. She describes how much she enjoys teaching young children; with their undisciplined style, as long as that mode fits within the parameters she sets. She waves a finger at an imaginary child, but smiles gently to soften her demeanor. Never the less, I pay attention for fear of a reprimand. An image of my grade 3 teacher surfaces. There is no room to argue with a shaking finger.

I start taking some pictures, aware of the time passing. There is a brief silence and she turns away momentarily. I sense some awkwardness but it passes. She reveals that this is not a space she opens to public scrutiny. She is a well known artist but people know her for her paintings. Only close friends are privy to her work place. I am made conscious of how private such a place can be. I have feelings associated with the thought of reading someone’s diary or going through their drawers. My sensitivities need to be in place; not easy for someone who is prone to snooping through people’s lives and splattering them over the internet. I remind myself: this is a privilege that needs to be respected.

Alison has a business side as well. She makes ‘a tidy sum’ on her greeting cards. Her scientific training comes to the fore as she describes the research that went into producing and distributing her range of cards. If you spent a week in Darwin you would be hard pressed not to come across her colourful creations on a greeting card rack somewhere along the tourist trail. I am also informed that each and every one of us will buy at least three cards a year, not all from Alison, although there is a strong move tochange that. Apparently someone else is buying my share. Besides, I only have two friends. One of them lives with me and the other might misconstrue my intentions if I sent him a card. Never-the-less, Alison is ensuring that I buy hers if I ever change my mind. And that won’t be my loss.

There is more conversation around the teaching and she shows me the ‘tool kit’ for her next workshop. I am reminded of my thought as I drove here. This is a world of art. Nothing escapes the creative process. In this seemingly haphazard array of boxes and bindings, there is art waiting to happen. There are many projects ‘on the go’ and the material of Alison’s world appears to creep from its temporary resting place to its rightful position in among the textile that makes up her life, guided by her gentle hand, careful and considered eye and inspired by her thoughts, feelings and experiences. There is nothing here that indicates a separate world of domesticity or commercialism. This is truly a world of art and it belongs to Alison Dowell.

Thanks Alison for sharing it with me.

Jenny Fraser

2010-09-27T02:07:00.000-07:00

Jenny Fraser

The hammering on the front door was reminiscent of someone bringing bad news; a warrant perhaps, or a death in the family. As I hurried down the corridor I could see a dark figure silhouetted against the street light. There was a familiarity about the stance that I wanted to deny. The door rattled into life once again, more persistent this time. This was more than bad news. I opened the door before it fell off its hinges.

‘Tom. It’s late. What are ………..’ There was no point in finishing my question. Tom Dinning was already halfway down the hallway and heading for the kitchen. I checked outside to see if the police were in hot pursuit. The street was quite with the exception of two dogs arguing over the intensity of their bark. By the time I got to the kitchen the fridge was open and Tom was helping himself to the orange juice.

‘Want something to drink?’ I asked, emphasising sarcasm in my manner and voice, all of which was ignored.

‘I’ve got a problem’.

You’ve got a problem, I thought. Its 10 o’clock, I’m heading for bed, I have a madman in my house and you tell me you have a problem. Still, it could be worse, although the logic of that eluded me at the moment.

Tom took another swig from the orange juice bottle and returned it to the fridge. I made a mental note to throw out the rest in the morning.

‘I’ve just finished an interview with Jenny Fraser.’ Tom’s voice was trembling. His eyes were red and wet; he was as agitated as an alarm clock at six am. He was in no condition to respond to a sensible question like ‘Who’s Jenny Fraser?’ but I asked anyway.

‘Who’s Jenny Fraser?’

‘You really should get out more and mix with the right people. Your circle of friends and associates is very limited.’

I just love how Tom can turn a simple answer into an indelible insult. I allowed my self-esteem to lower itself to ground level before responding?

‘Sorry, I should know’ seemed apologetic enough. I must discuss that with my therapist.

‘Jenny is 39; last Wednesday in fact’

I hope he knows more or I will be no more informed than I was during dinner.

‘She’s ….. an artist, I think. That’s the problem. I can’t figure this one out. She contacted me for an interview so I thought she was some doily maker from Humpty Doo. Then I googled her and discovered she was someone really important. She’s done some serious stuff. But I can’t quite make much sense out of it. It’s not the sort of art you hang on your living room wall to impress your relatives and friend, not unless your relatives and friends are Che Guevara or Andy Warhol. And she’s black. I don’t mean black black. I mean culturally and politically and family and a bit genetically. It’s the sort of black a blind man can see. It’s not in the name; it’s in the context. She even apologises in a Jenny Fraser sort of way for being a bit white or not black enough. ‘Recessive genes’ she says. And has she got some genes!! Scottish and Italian got a mention as well.’

‘Does this bother you?’ I asked, hoping we could get to a point and I could go to bed.

“Well, I’m supposed to write about her and I’m stuck. I don’t quite know what to write about. We had a look at a video clip she did with Shelley Morris’.

I was about to ask who Jenny Morris was but there was insufficient space in the conversation.

‘It was part of a PhD project she is doing. She was kidnapped by her old man when she was four, you know. Lee Kenny played the part of the father. I taught him. Nice kid back then. A bit hostile but no more than most fifteen year olds.’

There was a chance Tom was heading for a long diatribe on the psycho-social profiles of past students. I sensed a time to bring him back to the topic in hand. I avoided glancing at the clock for fear of retaliation.

‘Tell me about her art’

‘Who’s art?’ See what I mean. If it’s not about Tom it’s not worth talking about. His wife, Christine did warn me.

‘Jenny Fraser you……’ I took a deep breath and counted.

‘Oh, yes. Jenny Fraser. Well, it’s…. different. It’s political. Her art has a message. Some of it even reads like a comic book. It’s in-your-face kind of stuff. If you wonder through a gallery on a Sunday afternoon looking for tranquillity, Jenny Fraser’s stuff would slap you in the face and bring you back from your peaceful existence into the ‘real’ world’: Jenny Fraser’s real world.; something akin to frontline news on Sky Channel. That’s if you haven’t fallen over it. Some of her stuff sort of sticks out a bit. ‘Installations’ she calls it.’

‘What would you call it?’ I asked inquisitively. Jenny Fraser was beginning to sound like someone I wanted to know, especially since she had agitated Tom so much. Anyone who puts him into an uncomfortable place is OK with me.

‘Art with lumps’ he responded crassly. And this was the person who took it upon himself to write about artists.

‘Is her stuff any good?’ Not that I value Tom’s opinion. I was more interested in annoying him enough that he might leave.

‘I think so.’ There was a doubting hesitation in Tom’s voice. ‘You know my taste; Rembrandt and Turner with a smudge of Monet. Composition and colour for me. Something to match the curtains. But Jenny Fraser’s stuff doesn’t match the curtains. In fact it wouldn’t match anything I have. Yet I am hauntingly attracted to it. When we look at a painting or photograph or sculpture we start with a fleeting glance. If something catches your eye you go in for a second look. You might linger for a few seconds, make some bland comment about the detail or brush strokes, then move on; cultural experience done. But with Jenny Fraser’s stuff you can’t escape the first glance. There is too much to see. You have to linger. Then, when you leave you take a bit with you. Thoughts and ideas and questions and sometimes a little bit of anger or frustration or fear or …….’

Tom stopped talking for a moment. I made a concerted effort to look at the clock and be noticed. My actions were wasted.

‘What I can’t figure out is the contradiction. Jenny Fraser is not an ‘in your face’ kind of person. She’s inconspicuous in a nice sort of way; like a daisy in a field of poppies or a cello in an orchestra: you don’t notice until you take notice. Then you discover how nice it is … she is. So, how can someone like that produce stuff that is more akin to whitewashed posters on an alley fence or road kill. Then I discovered how. We went into the house and on the wall is a Jasmine Jan painting with all its soft aesthetic lines and vibrant colours. ‘I like Torres Strait Island Pigeon’s’ she tells me.’

Tom was smiling for the first time since he had tried to demolish my front door. It was the sort of smile one might have when you find ten dollars in you shorts or get the better of the boss. I let his smile linger and waited for him to continue.

‘It’s a bit like discovering your parents have sex. Uncomfortable at first but once you get used to it you find comfort in knowing they are normal. Jenny Fraser is as normal as I am.’

I doubt it, I thought.

‘ She is an artist; an artist with a passion to tell a story, to wake us up, to let us know we can’t live in a glass house all our lives and not see what’s outside. She also uses her art to discover what she can do, to validate her ideas, to find out about ….. about herself, probably. She uses all sorts of things to express herself. From the T-shirt she was wearing to the flickering images on the living room wall there is a cacophony of imagery, yet a harmony in its themes. She spoke quietly and softly in a poetic tone yet her voice is commanding and authoritative. Her writing is touched with humour and satire but bites hard into our perceptions of the world.’

‘So, what’s your problem?’ I asked.

‘Mmm. I don’t think I have one any more. Thanks for that. I was a bit uncomfortable talking with Jenny Fraser today. Like chatting with royalty. But thanks to you I know exactly what I need to write.’ You’re a great help. See ya.’ And at that point Tom disappeared up the hallway and out the front door. I looked at the clock. That late. Time for bed.

Unfortunately the rest of the night was spent wrestling with the sheets. A visit from Tom Dinning is as good as any remedy for a good night’s sleep. The problem I found myself facing was, as a result of my ‘input’ tonight, as minimal as it was, I seemed to have put myself into the unenviable position of having Tom return. That is not a place into which I would stay voluntarily. My thought wondered, for the first time in twenty years, of moving South.

Imbi Davidson

2010-09-26T00:16:00.000-07:00

Charles Darwin University is not the sort of place I would expect to find an artist. Art and academia seem as distant from each other as Antarctica and aardvarks. Even in the dictionary they are held apart by words like ‘arrogance’ and ‘archaic’. After locating a car park I could afford somewhere among the mangroves of Rapid Creek, I make my way to Orange 11 Room 1.24a. The universities system of navigation has been designed by a Phd student studying abstract mathematics and its relationship to mental stability in the visiting public. I pass numerous zombie-like creatures searching for colours and numbers that have no obvious relationship to any location system. An elderly woman sits crying in the courtyard between ‘red’ and ‘blue’. She is whispering the word ‘green’ over and over to herself in a desperate and distance voice. Best not to interfere, I think, for fear of shifting the bell curve.

‘How can art exist here?’ I ask myself? How can freedom of expression and creativity coincide with such formality and rigor? I hope I am about to find out as I stumble upon room 1.24a. In the continuing effort to remain abstruse, there is no indication as to the contents bar a picture of a regal looking woman tacked precariously to the door. I look either way into the prison-like corridor for a sign of life. My IQ diminishes with every breathe. A door slams behind me and I am alone; a solitary spaceman on a distant, hostile planet. Desperation mixed with a modicum of courage and anticipation entice me to open the door. On entering, I am immediately transformed into a different world; the diffused light from a distant window engulfs me and a soft, alluring voice, the Loralie of the open seas, becons me to enter. If I were dead, and there is no evidence to the contrary, I might well have arrived in Heaven and now being irretrievably drawn to the light at the end of the tunnel.

Signs of the creative process are everywhere. Abstractions splashed across the walls, fragments of thoughts transposed into something concrete, impressions of life, the ‘tools of trade’ for the artists, chaos among order, a disordered refuge among the logic of supposition. I have found my art and my artist. Home at last.

Imbi appears from the light as my eyes adjust to the imagery. A young woman (I guess at 30) with a strong confidence in her manner and voice. She sweeps some papers from a chair and offers me a seat. The room is dimly lit. All is still but everything moves. Flash-backs of my father walking me through musky museums surface in my frontal lobe. Creatures on the walls follow my every move. There is order here but it is well disguised. All things connected but the threads are loose and convoluted.

‘I work here and at home’ she says as we enter into conversation. 'I can’t use oils here. The smell gets into the air-conditioning and …..’ A twist on the ‘academia stifling art’ theme, I think. We launch into a discussion of the anomalies between her work and her chosen surroundings as though it is necessary to clear the air before any further discussion can ensue.

‘I’m a hypocrite, really,’ she admits embarrassingly, ‘but it provides me with the means to do what I want to do and be what I want to be – an artist. Art helps me to make sense of the world’.

Imbi explains the connection between her art and her place of work. She is part way onto a Masters Degree, which provides her with space, a meager stipend and a schedule, which she admits is ‘not one of her things’. Her undisciplined nature is somewhat evident in her work. ‘Scratchy’ she calls it. In return, the university expects a ‘plan’, purpose, research and a submission to the critical review of her peers and mentors; a process which she finds uncomfortable, to say the least.

She, like many of the artists I have spoken to, has no ‘vision’ of what will appear on her canvas. Her actions are as a result of some convoluted thought processes guided by her memories, feelings, culture, observations and thoughts about the world around her. It’s her way of finding answers to indescribable questions. Beauty is not a criteria for her work, she emphasizes, although I find beauty inherent in what she does. There is a painting of what appears to be a seascape above her head that flows and floats like a cloud, tempering the mood and answering a question I have not yet resolved or even asked.

‘Some days I just paint in blue’ she adds. I’m conscious that she might be reading my mind. ‘Its instinctive’ but we agree that this may not be the case. The learning process can be subtle and the results of that learning may manifest in different ways; like the sense of painting instinctively.

Her love of her children, plants and gardening is strongly expressed. She is experimenting with plant representation using a technique that is best described as brutal. Taking a hammer to a leaf seems a bit extreme but the results are quite fascinating. Imbi described the process but I become more interested in the results. It must show. The excitement in her voice wanes and her explanation becomes disjointed. Maybe the camera is distracting. But I sense there is more to it than that. It might well be that the process is not clearly defined or it may even be insignificant. The process is as seemingly disjointed as the mental processes she engages while painting. As I have discovered in many others, creativity has no formula, no prescription. As Imbi says,’ its what I am’. And once again, I am intrigued by the relationship between art and academia. How can one person or even a group of people, with any sort of intent, make a critical judgement on the creativity of another person. I know there are many answers to that question and I am yet to find them. My search continues.

‘Let’s go to the Gallery. There are some things you might be interested in’.

The Gallery is where Imbi has recently ‘run the gauntlet’ of her assessors. This inquisition is to justify her continuation with her Masters Degree. She has my vote.

Ansel Adams said ‘There is always two people in a photograph: the photographer and the viewer’. The same certainly holds true for paintings as well. Imbi’s art encloses the space around me like a soft blanket. It is unmistakably her work. Even after such a short time I would recognise her work anywhere. This work is truely ‘her’. It is as though she is dismantling instead of constructing; creating her images by rummaging through a complexity of thoughts and ideas with a brush in her hand. As a photographer I am reminded of the concept of 'looking behind'; when looking for the image look behind to see what is revealed. Imbi is 'looking behind' in that same sense. There are no distinguishable figures or recognizable images here but its alive with shape, form, colour and texture. As I move around the images hanging before me I am conscious of three things: Imbi is talking non-stop about her work in that unsure, disjointed uncertain manner that is evident in her painting, I am absorbed in the presence of it all, and the art has become the connection, the link, the interface between the two people Adams refers to.

So this is what art is all about.

My task is over. I have found what I came looking for. I am one step closer to finding the answer to all things. In her search to find her own answers, Imbi has provided me with my own.

Thanks Imbi.

DEEVYA DESAI

2010-08-24T00:10:00.000-07:00

What do a lawyer and an artist have in common?

This may sound like the opening line of a bad joke but in this particular case there is a more serious motive because that is the very question I ask myself as I head to inner city Darwin for an appointment with Deevya Desai.

Deevya is, in fact, both artist and lawyer and I am intrigued by the possibilities. Although my perception of artists has changed over the past months, my estimation of lawyers still wavers. Still, I approach my task with an open mind – almost.

A young woman answers to my knock and I am almost tempted to ask if her mother is home. But Deevya is expecting me and her greeting saves me from a forthcoming faux pas.

Deevya’s appearance is deceptive. Her slight stature may well be mistaken for something less that she is. But the instant she begins to speak you know you are dealing with a force to be reckoned with. There is a confidence and precision in her voice that, I thought, may serve her well at the bench. ‘I’m interested in business law, actually. I don’t have strong ambitions to ‘climb the ladder’ at the moment.’ My curiosity gets the better of me.

‘How do a lawyer and an artist occupy the same space?’ I ask.

‘Law is quite creative. There are many paths to follow.Fitting that to the needs of the client can be very creative.’ There is a note of jurisprudence in her manner that convinces me not to present an opposing argument.

For Deevya, the art came first. She has a head start on most, having first been introduced to drawing by her mother at the age of four. Her creativity was encouraged by her parents, her time in Venuatu and other exotic places and her ability to gain extra grades for well illustrated assignments at school. I wonder if her teachers realised they were being duped. Probably not.
Her approach to her art is quite rigorous. She considers herself self-taught although she has attended the odd workshop and her mother seemed to have influenced her considerably. Deevya practices. She sees developing her skills as a draughts-person is a pre-requisite to furthering her artistic ability and creativity. ‘I need to be able to control the strokes’ and she points to a Rodin portrait she is ‘copying’; for practice, I must add. ‘If you look here you can see I haven’t quite got the control I need to……’ and I agree for fear of showing my ignorance. The evidence is there, apparently, and I am not in a position to argue.

Her home is devoid of the usual clutter of the artist except for the easel in the corner of the room holding her ‘practice’.

‘I like things in their place, and I work alone. Peace and quiet is essential.' There are a few of her paintings hanging and we discuss each one as we pass. ‘I would much prefer to have other artists' work in my home’. William Turner and Sam Wade are mentioned. I hope lawyers are paid well. Maybe divorse law would be a better option. There is a strong emotional content in each of her pieces displayed. ‘I get my ideas from the things I see. As I paint I endeavour to present how I felt at the time I saw the subject.’ Her emotional content is somewhat esoteric but it seems unnecessary for the viewer to gain that perspective. Deevya neither cherishes her completed works nor concerns herself with how others see it. She is content with the journey. As I have discovered, she is not alone in her thinking.

Her journey to this point has been short but rich. There is a youthfulness about her work and her subjects that is vibrant and unmistakable. Her strong use of warm colours emphasizes that vigour. Her search for precision in her craft and her career seem to go hand in hand. The lawyer and the artist can, in fact, occupy the same space at the same time without the need for a punch line.

I vaguely remember being twenty something and, realizing life was ahead of me, pondering the future. I ask the question of Deevya: ‘If all things were equal, what would you do now?’

‘Travel’. Of course.

‘And where would you go first?’ She ponders for a moment.

‘Melbourne’. And all my hopes for the future of humankind are dashed. Deevya sees my disappointment and tries a recovery gesture. ‘Then Europe,’ but it sounds more like a question than a destination. Still, she is young. She may know a great deal about art and law but a quick lesson in geography would not go astray.

It may seem a strong judgment to make, but as I leave Deevya to her craft, I feel like I have just viewed a painting that is ‘a work in progress’. There is a quality about her work that needs a softer edge; an aging process that comes with discovering and knowing oneself. It’s about the knowledge we look back with when we reach the other end of our life and say to ourselves: ‘I wish I knew then what I know now’. But that’s what it’s all about, after all. Doing what we love most and learning as we go.

Deevya has the enviable task of doing what I can’t do again: grow old. I have only had the good fortune of seeing what she can do now. I can only imagine what she is capable of doing in the next fifty years. Someone else will have that pleasure and I have no doubt it will be worth waiting for.

Thanks Deevya.

Tom Dinning (revisited)

2010-08-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

I usually hang up on anyone who calls me between 5 and 6 in the evening. I'm not driven to complete a 30 minute survey from a teenager named Amit calling from a Moombi call centre. It may have been fate that led me to ignore that urge when the mobile rattled in my pocket.
'Yes' I mumbled impatiently. The responding voice was vaguely familiar.
'It's me. We need to talk'. The screen on the mobile read 'Tom Dinning'. I thought of hanging up anyway but there was a sense of urgency about his voice that puzzled me. My curiosity was aroused and there was little chance of deflating it beyond believing this was a prank call. I checked my diary, hoping for the next vacancy to appear sometime toward the end of the next decade. Unfortunately I had a cancellation.
'Saturday at 2 OK?'
'Right' and the phone went dead.
Christine called from the living room. 'Who was that?'
'I'm not sure. I'll tell you on Sunday'.
The rest of the week isn't worth mentioning.

Tom grabbed me by the shirt sleeve before I had finished ringing the doorbell and dragged me into the garage through the house entry.

'Take a look at this'. The pitch of his voice was two octaves higher than I recall from our last conversation. I wasn't sure if I should resist his prompting for fear of finding a corpse in the boot of the Corolla or rush to see oil gushing from a well he had drilled in his garage floor. There was neither the smell of rotting flesh nor bitumen. Instead, I found Tom standing beside what appeared to be a discarded door from a medicine cabinet, hinge still attached, and painted with a peculiar figure not dissimilar to an illustration from The Roswell Files.
Tom stood besides the object and smiled.
'Well, what do you think?'
I remained silent. I needed time to identify what I was looking at, clarify my thoughts and estimate what damage I would inflict if I got it wrong. Tom's demeanor seemed somewhat unstable and I was feeling trapped as a cat might feel caught between a savage dog and a swim.

'It's me!' Tom's voice went to the third octave. I looked hard. Was he referring to himself or something else. Then it became clear as he gestured towards the 'door'. The painted figure wasn't an extra-terrestrial but the slight and distorted figure of a man holding a camera; a Nikon, I assume. I leaned forward for a closer look. I was drawn to the eyes. They appeared sad.

Then I became aware that the image was split down the middle by a crack in the boards onto which the image had been painted. On one side of the division, the right side of the face appeared young and alert, with the eye wide open as if in amazement. The other side, the left side of the face, appeared drawn and tired but with an essence of aging wisdom. The entire face was green, yet, through this distortion of colour I could see a resemblance to the man who stood before me.
'I've never had my portrait painted before', Tom quirped. I noted a quiver in his voice. I pretended not to notice as Tom wiped a tear from his cheek. He was struggling to compose himself so I focussed on the image before me, ignoring Tom's uncomfortableness with exposing his weaker side. This wasn't the man I met a month ago. Something had changed. Tom had changed. I plucked up the courage to pry.
'Who did this?' My question sounded somewhat inquisitional so I added: 'It's great'.
'Great. That's an understatement. It's bloody amazing'.
'So, why is it in the garage?' I asked.
'I can't have two of us in the same house'. With that, Tom walked back into the hallway and out of sight. I was left alone with the man with the green face. What did he mean - 'two of us'? It's just a painting. Then I started to feel a bit uncomfortable. I was alone with this strange and haunting image in a dimly lit garage and I felt less than alone. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead and stung my eye. The image moved beyond my vision. I felt like a lone surfer in dark waters. It was time to seek safety in numbers. I hastened into the house, glancing momentarily behind to check their wasn't a fin following me.
'So how's the project going?' I asked. It seemed appropriate to leave the 'green man' in the garage for the time being, at least in the metaphoric sense, . A cold drink would ease the dryness in my throat but I knew I wouldn't be offered one. Irrespective of any superficial change I might have noticed with Tom, his all consuming self-centredness was still firmly intact.
'Not what I expected' was his somewhat distant reply. I was about to direct the conversation with some poignant questioning but Tom pre-empted my inquiry and launched into a dialogue that may well have been ruminating in his thoughts for some time.
'I started this [project] with the idea of finding a birthday present for Christine and look where it's got me; crying like a baby over a painted dunny door. How can anyone do that? How is it possible for someone to create something from nothing but their thoughts and a few boards nailed together? Not only that, [Larry] managed to take a part of me - more than a part of me -and rip it from me as a butcher cuts out a liver or a heart. Then he slaps it in front of me as if to say 'this is what you are really like'. And it's not just him. Those other artists out there; the one's I've met, and more. They all do the same thing. They have this strange and uncanny ability to take ordinary stuff; clay, paint, glass, even junk, and turn it into things that affect people like this. Look at me. I'm a f---ing mess. I'll never recover from this. Never....'
I detected a sense of desperation in his voice accompanied with a lingering sound of hope in the word 'never', the word trailing off into transpareny.
For a moment Tom hesitated and drew a deep, soleful breathe. Then silence. There was something going on here and I was about to probe.
'So you don't like what you see?'
'Like? I'm like a kid in a lolly shop. Imagine eating a handful of chocolate frogs one day and a cluster of jelly snakes the next. Then, just when you think you've died and gone to Kid Heaven, someone gives you 3 Mars Bars and a Snickers. My sensations are saturated. I've seen mosaics that sing, paintings that stur the sole and glass that shines like the galaxies. And if that isn't enough it is fed to me by people as fascinating as any you would meet in a long march. This is sensational overdose. And I'm addicted.'
A calmness fell over Tom like a shroud at a funeral. He was still and thoughtful, with an expression on his face that would quell a riot. I sniffed the air for any aromatics.
He continued as if I wasn't there.
'How can I do that? How can I have that affect on people? What do I need? What is it they have that allows that to happen? These are the people we live next door to. They have jobs and families and gardens to attend and plumbing that leaks and washing that doesn't dry in the wet. They get headaches and sleep too much or too little and run out of money and 'retire' - from what, I do not know. Some of them even read the NT News. How ordinary can you get? Yet they extract something from their thinking and train their body to express those thoughts in some concrete way. But it's not like you are looking at a patch of lawn or a bucket of broth. This is stuff that stirs our sole. It moves us to smile or laugh out loud or cry or get angry or change our attitude. Get that? They can change the way we think. How cool is that? And I get to meet them and talk with them and write about them and photograph them. And I get my portrait painted. And I ask myself: what can I do in return.' Tom paused once more. He was shaking noticeably. I thought of asking for that drink but somehow it didn't seem timely.
'Then I get a phone call from one of these people and I am told that what I write makes her feel good when she's low. Me. My words and photo's. I'm not sure I want that much responsibility. That's a dangerous tool in the hands of a manic like me.'
'But your an artist, aren't you? Isn't that what artists do? Create things that affect people in some way?' I could see Tom was somewhat troubled by what he had discovered on his journey to find a gift for Christine. Simple actions sometimes have monumental consequences.
'I just take pictures and write about people. Not much in that. Anyone can do that. I leave it to others to determine what they will from it. I do it for myself. It keeps me busy so I don't have to think about the crap stuff. It's not rocket science. I could even teach you how to do it'
This conversation was leading no-where. The last time I used a camera I finished up with 3 pictures of my feet and a libel action from the subject.
'So, where to now?', pushing the conversation in another direction.
'I've started this and I'll finish it. The list is long and there is more to discover. There is a reason for all this and I'm determined to find it. The one thing I have discovered is that it's not about the art. A very famous photographer once said 'I'm not really interested in photography. Once the picture is taken I'm finished with it. I'm more interested in what goes before'. I've heard that from a number of artists. It seems like the old cliche of the journey being more important than the destination might hold some ground here.'
I'd heard this line of thought before as well. At last Tom had struck on something that interested me. Maybe it was fate that brought me to answer the phone. Maybe Tom wasn't that self-centred, arrogant no-it-all I believed him to be. Maybe there was a heart in there after all and this project of his was resusitating it. Well, maybe not.
'You can leave now. I have stuff to do' and he shuffled me out the door with the same determination with which I was welcomed.

I stood in the driveway and contemplated my next move. Through the glass pane on the front door I could see Tom enter the garage from the house. A moment later her re-surfaced, carrying his portrait. I watched his shadowy figure dissolve into the hallway. It was time to leave the two of them to get to know each other. Three can be a crowd at times.

'

DANIELA EUGSTER

2010-08-15T00:04:00.000-07:00

I’m greeted at the gate of Number 3 by a young, curly-headed boy, who looks me up and down with a measure of curiosity and contempt. Foolishly I start up a conversation which is brought to an abrupt end with a curt ‘She’s upstairs’. I am always amazed at the way children can sum up a situation so quickly and determine with such precision, their interest, or lack thereof, in the matters at hand.

Upstairs reveals more children, deeply engrossed in lunch and dialogue. I am once again ignored and begin to wonder if I haven’t stumbled upon a chapter from Harry Potter and the ……. Any moment I expect to be turned into an owl. I scan the horizon for signs of an adult. ‘Hello, you must be Tom’. At last, I thought, someone over 1.2 metres tall.

After the usual shuffle for familiar ground Daniela and I strike on our common interest: photography. The great thing about talking with another photographer is there is no necessity to talk about cameras. Daniela has had formal training in photography at Charles Darwin University as part of her Degree in Visual Arts. She talks fondly of her time in the darkroom and shows me the results of her labour. ‘The children became my subjects’ and that is a good choice. The images are warm and relaxed as only someone with an emotional attachment with the subject can demonstrate. Children, her children, dancing, running, playing on swings; stuff that memories are made of and worthy subjects for artistic expression. Each photograph requires more than a casual glance. Each tells a story of a family sharing in the process of learning a craft. I like that.

‘My other interest is in sewing, knitting and crocheting’ says Daniela. She pat’s her sewing machine as if to waken it, or comfort it like one would a pet. I expect it to greet me. ‘ Fibre art’ and we chuckle over the terminology. Daniela is ‘mature’ enough to remember when these skills were taught to daughters as a matter of course by their mothers. ‘It was even part of the curriculum at school’, she reflects. Not quite politically correct these days. ‘Nor is there much interest’ she adds, nodding towards the group at the table who had moved from food to cards. ‘Can I play with the X-Box, Mum?’ This is the Age of the New and knitting doesn’t seem that exciting any more.

But Daniela knits with a difference. Fishing nets, wire and discarded materials are her twine. We flick through pages of her work. I am struck by the connection she makes with the love of her children, her photography and her other art. Each photograph displays elaborate and stunning garments crafted by Daniela, elegantly modelled by her children and photographed with that same emotional connection. There is a new level of understanding about the purpose of art I am finding here. Daniela entwines her art, family and craft as intricately as she does her garment. It’s that ‘know the art: know the artist’ thing again.

‘I have a few things downstairs you might be interested in’. I follow cautiously, watching for more children to appear. Daniela has already informed me of the source of her materials. Working at the hospital as an anesthetist (which is a lot easier to write than say) she collects the detritus of the surgical ward. ‘Not body part?’ I inquire, seeking reassurance for my very weak stomach. ‘No, just anything that is usually thrown out. Scissors, tweezers, tubing, packaging. Everything is throw-away these days’. Daniela shows me a picture of a surgical ward with an operation in full swing. I feign interest for the sake of the conversation. My stomach does three turns to the left and stays there. Daniela also reveals she is a Tip Trojan. The things people do for art. I wonder if she knows Larry. Maybe they have fought over the same piece of refuse. Still, it’s better than road rage, I guess.

We enter a well secured room beneath the house. ‘This is my work room’. Daniela leaves me pondering the precision storage and disappears into the next room; the laundry, I assume. I’m left to investigate. There are body parts here. A plaster cast of a torso in the third trimester, a back possibly, and arm or a head. I look for an escape route. There is some evidence of another adult, her husband perhaps. I hope he is still intact. There is nothing to indicate otherwise.

There is a call from the next room. ‘I really should dust these off occasionally’ and from behind a collection of boxes and tools, comes a piece of Daniela’s artwork. It’s unmistakably a dress. The bodice is constructed of knitted wire with a string of surgical scissors decorating the neckline. The skirt is made from narrow plastic tubes. There are tweezers around the waist and a variety of other surgical gear interwoven into this piece of magic. Maybe I am at Azkaban. ‘Don’t look too closely at the pictures in the tubes. They are bits of photographs from …..’ but it’s all too late. I recognize something from an old biology text I used to avoid during my study. Lunch is not tasting all that well a second time around. I hide my anguish behind my camera and shoot off a few frames. Maybe it will all look better in the morning. I doubt it.

So what brings Daniela to create such magnificent and elaborate pieces of art from someone else’s flotsam and jetsom and then bury them behind the washing machine. Her house is full of ‘other people’s’ art. Only a single item of her own work sits inconspicuously in the corner of the living room. Daniela brushes a cobweb from a dress made from, what appears to be, discarded packaging. ‘I really must dust it more often’ she repeats. Daniela reveals she would much prefer to fill her home with other people’s art and has no place for her own once it is finished. The enjoyment is, it seems, in the process, not the product.

Daniela had dabbled in most media. Painting (‘not my thing’, apparently), glass (‘it has possibilities’), an unfinished doll (‘you’re not taking a picture of that?’. Too late). There is some experimenting so that one day it can all come together. I’d like to see that. I don’t doubt Daniela’s capacity to bring it off.

Once again I find that mystifying link between the art and the artist is eluding me. The thread (excuse the pun) that Daniela exposes and is common with others is the relationship between family and art. I wonder if this is through necessity or purpose. Daniela hints at the need for more time to create her art and how the family influences that. Although she suggests that there are occasions when she might, in the eyes of some, take just a little too long to complete the creative process she is immensly grateful for their unfailing support during her emergence as an artist. And there is the need for approval, not only for the product but for the effort, especially from those close at hand. But families are like that. Gratitude, acceptance and praise doesn't necessarily need to be said to be heard.
It’s a complex business; family and art. And because art is such a subjective thing with little or no apparent intrinsic value to the observer unless they ‘like’ it, it is hard to justify the time and effort. As if one needs to.

What I see in Daniela as with all of the artists to this point in the project is the pleasure they get from doing what they do. And why would we deny that of anyone?

I wish I could wear dresses. Then again ……..

Thanks Daniela.

LARRY OWENS

2010-08-07T23:17:00.000-07:00

When men meet for the first time there is a tendency to search for common ground; some action or event that will allow conversation to flow easily. Men do not generally converse comfortably with each other until some feathers have been fluffed or some provocative stance has been demonstrated.

Larry and I had already found that ground. We launch into a more than superficial discussion on surfing. There is an immediate and comfortable familiarity that surfers demonstrate when they share their experiences. It’s as though surfing allows one to know that the other understands: about everything. I know of no other recreational activity that does that.

Larry has a strong hand shake and an equally strong presence. There is a polished ruggedness that might, at first, be misleading. For when he speaks, Larry demonstrates a more calm, relaxed and softer persona that puts me at ease. He is thoughtful about the questions and responds with an openness that is refreshing and informative. Occasionally he hesitates. He reveals later that he is challenged by the questions. I can also reveal that I am equally challenged by the answers.

He confesses that he is somewhat nervous about revealing himself and expressed some initial concern about the questioning. ‘It’s not something I’ve done before’, which I find strange an alluring from a man who paints. After all, isn’t painting about self-expression?

Larry talks about his paintings. They are mostly portraits, self-portraits, family portraits, a landscape he is unhappy with, a politically satirical piece, all stacked roughly against the wall as one might store garden tools. ‘This is my mother, and my son. That’s Felicity (his partner). That’s me. I do a lot of self-portraits’.

Larry’s portraits do need some defining. One would be hard pressed to see any family resemblance. But that’s not his point. ‘I paint emotions’ he confers. ‘Dark emotions mostly’. Fear and disappointment are cited. ‘It’s my release’. He’s not sure where the images come from. He describes his technique: spontaneous and rapid, working the colours as if he is waiting and watching for something to appear. When a barely recognizable image or form does reveal itself he quickly identifies it with a few strong strokes of the brush. I have seen other contemporary artists work this way but it’s usually after many years of practice. It is as if Larry, at fifty nine has rediscovered the primitive and unrestricted style of a child. As an adult he uses it to express and reveal a part of him that he may very well feel uncomfortable about expressing in any other way.

‘I think I know too much’ I hear him say. He’s looking elsewhere and I feel like an observer, watching him have a conversation with himself; possibly asking more than stating. ‘The more I paint the better I get but it seems to take me away from that’, and he points towards his completed works. I‘ve witnessed this before. The phenomenon is hard to avoid in forty years of teaching. Learning something new and being a bit nervous about the effect that new knowledge or skill will have on the way one does things can be scary. ‘Where to from here?’ I provocated, wanting him to see that it’s OK to be irresolute about the future. He talks with himself for a moment. ‘All I know is I’ll be doing this for the rest of my life’ he says with a degree of confidence and determination. He looks away and once again speaks more to himself than me. ‘It defines who I am’ and he reflects on the past when that may not have been within his own comprehension. And there lies the essence of what we do and why we do it.

Larry’s art is as much a part of him as his skin. It moves with him, it sags when he sags, he scratches when it itches, he worries a bit when it’s not quite right. ‘It’s not perfect’ he admits ‘but it’s me’. Just as it is necessary to talk with Larry to know him, it is useful to talk with him about his work. There is always a part of the story you may miss if you don’t, like not reading the caption on a cartoon.

As I leave number 87 I feel like a salesman who has been sold his own goods. I came here to find out about Larry and I find I know just a little more of myself. I know I’ll be back. I want to see what Larry does with his newly acquired skills. I want to see the completed canvas of Larry Owens.

Thanks Larry.

Linda Codgen

2010-08-03T04:10:00.000-07:00

My old man used to say: 'cutting a tree down and making something splendid from the wood is improving on the tree'. He wasn't much of a conservationist but he was a fine craftsman and although the tree has long gone, someone is still enjoying the beauty of his furniture.

As I drive along the dusty, guttered road to Gunbalanya, my notice is drawn to the clusters of Pandanas that tangle themselves along the escarpment. They're not much of a tree; a grass really, a poorly designed mop, but there are people here who turn these scraggling, prickly, twisted figures into things of beauty, form and function.

Linda is one of those people. In this community, its hard to find any female over the age of five who isn't involved in some way in the process of weaving. This is an art form that has a history, a social context and a function.

It's history dates back further than I care to contemplate. Linda says he family have always weaved. And when she says family you had better believe it goes back quite away in this country. The social context revolves around the way the weaving is done.

The whole family is involved. Linda, her sisters, cousins and nieces collect the leaves from the pandanas in what I can only describe as a 'family outing'. The stripping and shredding of the leaves is carried out by anyone who can manage. I've had a go. I'm sticking to photography for good reason. Linda's 6 year old niece does it with ease and finesse.
The dieing involves everyone (and a buchetful of soaking roots). I am amazed at the colours produced from what all starts off as a brown sludge in a bucket; yellow, red, brown, green and purple. They contrast beautifully against the natural earthy softness of the undied threads. My recall of natural, plant based indicators from an almost forgotten chemistry lesson is as cloudy as the concoction in the bucket.
Linda is responsible for the weaving and design.

From a skein of pandanas straw neatly held in a calico bag comes the magic. It all seems to start with a nucleus of nothing; as though a single thought is the point from which the strands and threads will glide and turn into a mat, then a cup, a bowl, handles will appear out of know-where and finally a piece of art, or a bag to carry the shopping.

She hands me a finished product. A small, soft carry which seems too delicate for any utilitarian purpose. But this panadas is tough; like the country from which it grows. All that has gone; caressed away by hands carrying a thousand lifetimes of skill.
'Give this to Christine' she tells me, her smile reveals more than her pearly white teeth. Giving is what Linda does. You only need to see her with her family to know that. She returns to her weaving. My mother used to knit like that; you know, do it without looking. As a kid I was amazed. I'm a kid again and I'm delighting in my amazement.

I'm asking myself how closely linked craft and art and the utilitarian necessity of objects can be. The lines between each are blurred. For all the intensely intellectual conversation we can have about art and its purpose, Linda is expressing herself in the simplest and most profound way. Her art is not just an expression of herself but an expression of her family and community. And her ownership of that art is as fragile as the time it takes to give it to me to pass onto someone I love. You can't get better than that.

Thanks Linda.
And from Christine as well.

Natasha Willmett

2010-08-02T04:32:00.000-07:00

A few flights of stairs is always in order, especially when I'm carrying a kit of cameras. It reminds me of how fit I used to think I was. I play my usual mind game and imagine what sort of person will answer the door. I'm growing accustomed to my disappointments

Natasha greets me warmly and ushers me in. I'm immediately flooded with a wash of brilliant colours. Once again I sense a strong connection between the artists and her work. Natasha wears her art like a debutante's bouquet. The walls are covered with images that have the same impact as a spring garden on a sunny day and Natasha moves through her garden with ease. There seems only just enough space for the conventional shackles of modern life.

I find myself being once again reminded of those days long ago when my old man would drag me through the galleries. I would stare in amazement at the paintings on the wall. 'How do they do that?', I would ask. 'It's comes from inside their head' he would reply and we would move on to a Streeton or a Bunny. 'Close your mouth before you swallow a fly' he would add.
I check now to see if my mouth is open.

I literally trip over her studio. The moral here is that if you are distracted at eye level you had better know what's at your feet. Natasha's studio is now at my feet. 'I like sitting on the floor when I work' she comments after noticing my look of surprise. A work in progress rests on an easel. Tubes of paint and brushes are neatly arranged at the perimeter of a blue tarpaulin. 'I decided not to tidy up' she adds. Natasha's perception of 'untidy' is obviously far from mine.

Natasha (she signs her work 'Tash') makes no bones about being at the 'beginnings' of her craft. She always knew she had a creative side, that was somehow denied her by others. Only recently have all the factors come together to fully express that creativity; accepting a challenge and working under pressure has been among those factors.

She's an experimenter, a simple and important ingredient in the creative process. There is a character that runs through all her work; strong, vibrant, colourful, in spite of her experimenting with style and subject. She is her own worst critic, which is not unusual for any artist, but she is not afraid to display her work to herself. There is some nervousness about displaying work to others, but the idea of a complete stranger having one of her paintings in their house pleases her. 'They'll pass my painting every day, see it, and enjoy it' she says and she looks off into a distant place; possibly where we all live sometimes.
I take a stab at her age and miss by a few years. I find age targets are difficult to define. We agree on what is appropriate and move on. The only thing I can divulge here is that out birthdays are 4 days apart. The distance between our birth dates will be revealed only under threat of death.

We discuss the seedy side of art: selling one's work. Natasha is somewhat apologetic about asking for money. 'When I'm famous or dead' is her response when I suggest a higher price for a canvas just sold. Yet she dreams of a time when she can paint for a living. 'Just a dream' she ponders and looks to that distant place again.

She reveals the presence of the 'artists eye', a peculiar developmental obsession that takes possesion of an emerging artist whereby they see everything around them in a new artistic light, where form and colour become part of what they see; where they start to take notice of the world. They see instead of just look. 'How do you transfer that image you 'see' to the canvas?' I ask. 'I start with colours and shapes. I don't always know what the end product will look like. I find commissions difficult because I'm expected to paint towards a final product.'
As I leave I make a mental note to come back in a year or so. I'm interested in seeing where Natasha will take her art. One thing is for sure; her art is firmly imbedded in her persona. You can guarentee that if you have one of Natasha's paintings hanging in your home, she will be no further away than a pleasant thought.

Thanks Natasha.

ERIC NUNN

2010-07-19T02:10:00.000-07:00

In spite of my ability to get in touch with my feminine side when the need arises, I do admire a man with a shed. This admiration doesn’t, in any way, deny the existence or diminish the importance of a woman and her shed. But there is, in my mind, a special relationship that exists between a man, his tools and the place he keeps them.

So, as I head towards Eric Nunn’s shed, buried deep in the heart of Darwin suburbia, my heart races in anticipation. This is a place where stone is cut and silver is ‘smithed’ to produce outstanding contemporary jewellery. I can only imagine it’s presence. Turning into the required street as directed, I wonder how a shed of the dimensions I have envisaged for Eric’s craft, can fit among the blocks of freshly painted units that fill the court. Maybe he has a space in the basement, I ponder hopefully. The sounds of grinders and polishers ring in my memory. My recall of working with gemstones is warmly accompanied with images of my father filling his shed with the paraphernalia of lapidary.

As I step from the elevator I desperately grasp for some sign of shed detritus; dust, shards of rock, grinding tools and cutting implements, a bar fridge and a scratchy radio tuned to the footy. Nothing. Eric ushers me in and all hopes are dashed. Once again my preconceived ideas of what an artist does and how they might work are shattered.

We sit on the balcony overlooking the harbor and discuss Eric’s background. His quiet and friendly manner bespoke my disappointment. He reassures me that he does have a ‘shed’ but it is someone else’s. A large part of his ‘heavy work’, stone cutting and the like, is done at ‘the club’. I envisage large quarry stones milled with blades of diamond imbedded steel.

Eric’s interest in creating jewellery from stone and metal has been with him for many years. He is self taught. In fact, I detect a reluctance to be influenced by someone else’s knowledge. He’s not clear on where his ideas for design come from. Rarely is he influenced by the usual suspects; nature, romance, and a resolve to rid the world of its woes. He looks over to the ocean and I expect an idea to formulate. He’s happy to sip his coffee.

Eric ushers me into his shed. The bottom literally falls from my world.

There is a small side table nestled in the corner of the room. It has a vise clamped to one edge. A devise looking somewhat similar to a dentist's drill is clamped in position. That’s it? Eric opens a small cardboard box and spreads the contents before me; a collection of plastic bags containing chips of brilliantly coloured rock. Blues and greens that mirror the depths of the Earth from which they came.

He pulls from one bag, a necklace with pieces of Lapis Lazuli (don’t you just love that name – something from Merlin’s caldron maybe) imbedded in silver. ‘I had this idea many years back and sketched it’ He opens an old exercise book and shows me the original concept, drawn with precision on yellowing pages. ‘It’s evolved a bit since I re-visited it’. I envisage this exquisite piece against a slender young neck. Eric seems not to care too much about who would wear it.

After admiring the necklace I browse through the sketches. ‘The book is about 4o years old’ he adds casually. I feel like I am reading Eric’s thoughts from the past decades. How does all this happen? Where does it come from?

I grab my camera and stare through the viewfinder. Nothing fits. Eric seemed enigmatic against the backdrop of his craft. His jewellery seems so distant from what he appears to be; like a radio announcer we might meet and be surprised because our perceptions don't fit with the reality. I am reminded of what Lyn Temby had described so well in one of her works. There are many parts to what we are. There is the part we know of ourselves, first and foremost. Then there is the lesser part others see of us, mixed with perceptions, fragmented but ordered. Next is the part we expose to others; the bits we are content with others knowing, clearly defined and controlled. And finally, there is the part of us that even we have difficulty coming to grips with, a jumble of thoughts and processes we are constantly making sense of. I sense that art is a way of exposing part of ourself to the world in a different way. 'You can't see it in me, so here it is in another form. There's more to me than you know and I'll try and describe it the best way I can'. It may well be the reason why we are often surprised by what we see. Its more than we expect. And surprisingly, it's the bit we often value above all things - of ourselves and of others.

Today I got more than I expected. If that’s the sort of thing Eric can produce there is one hell of a bloke in there (in spite of the size of his shed) and my camera could never do it justice.

But I do try!

Eric has an exhibition opening at Territory Craft Gallery on the 23rd of July. I’ll be more than interested in looking for the human responses.

Thanks Eric.

LYN TEMBY

2010-07-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

If I appear to have my mouth agape with amazement it’s because I do. Never again will I commit myself to believing someone else’s preconceived ideas about an art form. Mosaics have, I had been told, a somewhat diminished position on the art scale; something akin to flower arranging and macramé. But from the moment I entered Lyn’s home I knew I was in for a quick rethink.

Lyn had already begun the guided tour, possibly even before I had arrived. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet’ she explained, as she began describing every detail and meaning behind the strikingly vivid mosaic murals covering most of the interior walls of this neat and welcoming home. My brain was unable to maintain the same pace as the commentary, so I managed to keep my ears peeled to Lyn’s expose of one representation while my eyes scanned another, three places back.

I became decidedly conscious of my face being permanently fixed in a broad grin. There is a cathedral sense about the way one views Lyn’s work. You keep looking up and there is more to be seen at every glance. This place had a good feeling. Yet the stories behind each mosaic were somewhat gloomy; a pictorial interpretation of less pleasant parts of Lyn’s life. She spoke of depression, medication and a lack of control of a part of her life that, in her words, transformed her into another person. It would seem that Lyn has taken those anxious bits of her melancholic mind and displayed them for the world to see; but with a difference. She has transformed them into something quite beautiful. Mirrors predominate. The fact that these works reflect one’ self has not gone unnoticed. I find myself becoming part of the art as I stand before it; a broken and fragmented reflection of what I appear to be. Yet, strangely enough, I don’t notice. Not once did I have the very human urge to check my appearance. How out of character.

Lyn began her journey into the world of mosaics as therapy for a significant brain injury, the result of a car accident some years back. Oliver Sacks would love to talk to Lyn. Somewhere within her battered brain was an ability to create beautiful works of art; it just needed a place, some tools, a medium and time (and apparently a good shake). After 4 years Lyn is just as amazed at what she can do as I am. She calls it art but with some reservation. ‘It must be. I’ve exhibited’ she says excitedly. She has needed to learn a great deal, and not just about the craft. Recognition of her own ability has been an ordeal. Her bravado, audacity and cavalier attitude to what ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ be done in the art world have been her comrades. She is ‘out there’ in every sense of the phrase.

Beyond the art and introspection Lyn makes sense of her world. ‘I get it’ her partner, John, replies when questioned on his opinion. Lyn shares with me the meaning behind a ‘work in progress’. I get it too, but you don’t have to get it to appreciate her work. If nothing else, she has amazing endurance and patience. ‘Shopping is hell’, John quips. Maybe Lyn’s endurance is matched by John’s tolerance.

We chat in the cool and comforting oasis of her garden. John has been with us through the tour. He is a quite man and admits to knowing little about what Lyn does as an art form. ‘I know what I like’ he retorts after some teasing from Lyn. He wriggles uncomfortably when I question him on his relationship with Lyn. But I have all the answers I need. The only other man I know who looks at a woman like that is me when I look at Christine. He’s in the right place.

Lyn is at ease in front of the lens. She has glossed up the lips in anticipation. ‘Make me look thinner’ she jokes. I look through the viewfinder and wonder what the ‘other’ Lyn was like. Somehow it is not longer relevant. This one is doing just fine. I am reminded once again of that concept of the art and the person being inseparable. This is proof positive.

As I leave I find myself still smiling. I have a feeling it won’t wear off for a while.

Thanks Lyn

TOM DINNING

2010-07-08T23:28:00.000-07:00

It’s not an easy thing to talk to this man. Tom has little time for discussing himself. His head is usually full of other people’s stuff. Still, there is a moments grace when his wife, Christine, calls and tells me his diary is free. ‘Tell him you were just passing. Feed his ego. He likes people to show interest in what he is doing.’
We all have egos, none bigger than my own. What’s his button to press? I ask myself. It seems like he’s been in everything but a bath. I found a reference in my research to a comment from his report card back in ’62. ‘Not real bright. Would make a good tradesman – a plumber perhaps’. ‘Artistically incompetent’ was his art teachers summation back in ’65. Ken Reinhardt; that name rings a bell. Pop-artist from the ‘60’s. He ought to know.
Still, my instincts have to be played out. I gingerly knock on the door. I don’t like appearing unannounced. I have had the dogs set to me more than once. A shortish, rough shaven man wearing a Billabong T-shirt and baggy shorts partly covering the hairiest legs I have seen for some time confronts me. I get straight to the point: ‘I’m here to interview you for …’ ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Where do you want me to start?’ I don’t recall reading anything about modesty in his old school reports.

There is evidence of some artistic activity. Some photographs on the walls, a few nice pieces of woodwork, and some stunning watercolours. ‘They’re Christine’s. She’s the arty one’. I question him on his current endeavours but he avoids the topic. He speaks of history and the complexity of the human psych. He seems to have an opinion on everything. I push a little further on the photography. ‘I have pictures in my head and I need to see them hanging on a wall. Photography is the fastest way of getting them there.’ I glance more than once at a framed photograph above his head. There is a haunting, almost surreal view of a billabong from a seemingly dangerous angle. Strange pictures inside his head, I think. Tom flicks the screen on the computer into action and a series of slides come and go. I wonder if I am safe with a man who has this sort of stuff going through his brain.

‘Photography is not the thing’ he says. I think he’s speaking to me but he appears to speak to something or someone else; to himself maybe. ‘Art is not the thing either’ he adds. I’m listening. His voice is directed elsewhere but I listen. ‘Don't get me wrong. I like shiny new cameras. The man with the most toys wins. Right?' A rhetorical question no doubt, judging from the array of lenses on display in his study. 'It’s about people and who they are. We do stuff. We think about it and then we do stuff. We think funny and we laugh. We think sad and we cry. We think angry and we strike out; sometimes. What if others could see, touch, hear, smell, and taste how we feel? What if they could take it home and hang it on the wall or wear it or eat it? If we think that then we ‘do’. That’s art. Simple. We all connect our feelings to what we do. If we make something from that we can let others see our feelings. My old man made furniture. We slept in it, ate off it, kept our belongings in it; we loved his furniture. He loved us. He made that stuff for us. That’s art.

I take pictures. I want people to know I have feelings just like them. I want them to see it. I don’t always succeed. My old man didn’t always succeed either. But he gave it his best shot in the only way he knew. I put him up there with Monet and Da Vinci. Not for the quality of the product but for the feelings that went into it. All these people I talk to are ‘doing’; making things from their feelings so that we can share. Some are really good at it; they have great skills. Others are learning but the effort is still there. The feelings are just as strong and that’s what counts. We put a price on a painting or a vase. That’s a good thing because it enables and encourages. But what price do we put on someone’s feelings? You tell me’.

Me? Was he asking me? He surely goes on when he starts. There’s a picture of two young children, possibly grand-children, on the table beside me. I see what Tom means. You don’t need a book to tell you what feelings Tom was experiencing when this shot was taken.

I shuffle for my camera, remembering what Tom had just said. Capture my feelings. Click! Is that all there is to it? I look at the display panel on the back of the camera. Mmm. I see what Tom means by ‘some are good at it …. some are learning’. Not art yet. Just a picture.

I want to ask a question but Tom is looking at his watch and gesturing to the front door. Just one question; make it a good one. ‘Can people learn to be an artist or is it innate for some?’ Tom hesitates, then looks at his watch again. ‘I’m not sure. Ask me just before I die. But we are not born plumbers either.’ His hand guides me through the door and back to the heat of the tropical Sun. I’m not sure what I have achieved here; something to think about, maybe. I make a note on my iPod to call again. There is more to be unearthed but I’m not quite ready for more of the same. My head is spinning. After that I need to see my therapist – or do lunch.

Kate Fernyhough and Jim Schofield

2010-07-08T05:46:00.000-07:00

Artists who carry out their craft do so in idealic circumstances. They have the peace and tranquility they need to be at their creative best. There is ample time and space for them to practice their skills. Nothing can distract them from their task. Life is bliss.
Not.
Kate Fernyhough and Jim Schofield live with their three children in suburban Darwin. They are as far from the ideal of the artist’s life as one could get. Yet, within their suburban space is a naturally creative flow that works. Kate shares her painting space with the children. Jim shares his guitar making space with …. well, no-one actually. How does that work? Admittedly Jim has room for no more than a cockroach in his four-by-four shed; the outflow from his work spilling haphazardly into the garden beyond. Kate’s space is larger but trebles as a play and meeting place.

Kate and I chat about her art in her shared space. There is the occasional interruption from the demands of her twins. They, too show signs of following in their parent’s footsteps.

The table before me is scattered with cards printed by the children, ready for the next craft show.

A few of Kate’s paintings adorn one wall; small portrait-like images in strikingly bold colours in a style I have seen on numerous occasions. I ask Kate about the ‘style’ concept, hoping the conversation will lead me somewhere. What I know about art could fit on the tip of an oily brush. A cold look from disapproving eyes leaves me searching for a new conversational path. So much for my artistic perception.

She describes her rejection of the formal education in art she received in the UK for her personal philosophy: ‘art for real people’. She is almost apologetic in her efforts to praise or sell her work. My crass commercial thoughts are hard to hold back. We joke about the life of the artist. The phone rings and a child’s voice calls for immediate attention. I make my way to the shed thinking Kate could alter her phrasing to ‘real art from real people’.

Jim is self taught. He had been imbedded in wood since his youth. There is mahogany in his muscles and hot horse glue in his veins. He is firm in his beliefs and confident with his knowledge and skills. From the depths of timber and chisels he draws out a mandolin. He is critical of his own work. Second best is not an option here. He provides a rendition of an unfamiliar tune on the mandolin. This is where his craft is complete; hearing the sound this instrument makes is the gift he gives us. It’s a bonus. Few crafts go beyond the visual. Jim covers all the bases.

We talk of wood and glues and what works for his craft. He lets me inspect the surface of a guitar neck for flaws. If I were one of the children, I would be playing in this shed, I thought to myself. Best not to express that out loud I also think, least it be taken in the wrong vein.

Unseasonal rain brings me back to the here and now. As I leave this family of artists I contemplate their separate and collective futures. Living the artist’s life is real enough for them. It’s much like yours and mine. Idealism doesn’t raise children in the suburbs of Darwin but these kids are in good hands.

Thanks Kate and Jim.

Carolyn Bursa

2010-07-08T05:37:00.000-07:00

I often measure my driving distance by the number of tracks I listen to on the CD player in the car. As I pull into Carolyn’s driveway I notice I have been through seven tracks of Dave Brubeck; more than most journeys this week. I should have packed lunch.

After coming to some mutual understanding with the dogs I am ushered to the kitchen of this very welcoming home. Carolyn prepares tea and, without hesitation, launches into a reprimand on the value of higher education for artists. I am reminded of Mark Twain’s reflection: ‘I never let a good education get in the way of my thirst for knowledge’.

Before I go any further, please let me digress.

Blend or mash dates, walnuts and raw beetroot. Form a small ball with the mix and embed a chocolate chip in the centre of the ball. Roll the ball in sesame seeds. Eat the entirety. Then have a second while no-one is looking. You may have tyo fight the dogs off as well.

Carolyn is a teacher. She may lead you to believe she has retired from teaching. She may believe it herself but there is still a great deal of ‘teacher’ to come out in the wash. I listen attentively, as one should. She is well versed in her arguments and delivers them with pinpoint accuracy. I am enthralled and captivated. We wander through the house filled with her art (and others). A haphazard orderliness is evident. She displays her work with a strong sense of pride. I’m content to look and absorb both her knowledge and her skill as an artist. Telling Carolyn that I think her paintings are good seems a bit patronizing from one so ignorant. But they are good!

We cross the lawn to a cluster of trees beside a pond. The dogs move in for the kill on the left-over’s of morning tea. Have you ever noticed how Blue Healers smile when they get their own way? We pass through the overhanging folage and aother world is revealed. Carolyn’s studio is purpose built. Carolyn needs to keep this place a secret. She could lose friends if the word got out.

There is more evidence in the ‘teacher’ in her.

Small sketches and successions of drawings; signs of a plan. I am getting an inkling of how she works and how she conseptualises her paintings. There is a strong feeling of the ‘artists eye’: a combination of vision, creativity, skill, knowledge and endeavour, built around a good plan.

I am amazed at the number of paintings she has ‘on the go’ but for someone who works in this manner, I can see how it might be done; something like juggling the activities of twenty-five kids in a language class.

I remind myself that there is another life beyond paradise.

Carolyn sits comfortably for the photographs. As I focus on her with the backdrop of one of her unfinished works, I begin to see where all this is leading me. I have puzzled with the idea all my working life with the dogma that we should separate what we do from what we are and the notion of finding within us the ‘real’ self. Seeing Carolyn (and all the artists I have spoken to) against the backdrop of her work affirms my conviction that what we do is what we are. Artists often claim they give of themselves when they work. They know what they are. With art it’s re-assuring because it’s valued. Too bad not all of what we do is as good as what I have seen today?

I wish I could paint!!

Now look what you’ve done.

Thanks Carolyn.

ANDREA McKEY

2010-07-05T16:10:00.000-07:00

Have you ever passes someone in the street and wonder what they 'do'. Paul Theroux spoke of his compulsion for giving strangers a 'life' beyond that fleeting moment when he crossed their path. To his knowledge, of all the thousands of people he met in his journeys he only once got it right.

Some years back I had the good fortune to meet, in person, such a 'stranger'. We had crossed paths many times in our walks along the foreshore at Nightcliff and only ever made brief eye contact as we pushed our bodies to a thinner place. I had received a request by phone to design a box for a piece of kiln-fired glass. 'Yes' was my prompt reply, knowing full-well I would be Googling before the night was over to find out 'what' and 'how'. 'I'll bring it around tonight'. There was an accent among the eloquent voice that refused to be identified.

'Oh, it's you', we stated in unison as we faced one another. And there began a collaborative and personal friendship with Andrea I will take to my grave.

Over the next 5 years we designed over one hundred boxes utilising kiln-fired glass and Australian timbers. The boxes have been put aside and yet we still find ourselves working together.

I now have the pleasure of photographing her beautiful and very useable glass art. Oh, and one other thing. This project is as a result of Andrea's bright ideas. Thanks Andrea. Yeah, right!

Andrea fills every crook and cranny of her life with her craft. Surprisingly, her workspace occupies a small corner under her house (kiln excluded). There is nothing superfluous about the space she uses. It is filled with the tools of the trade and no more.
Andrea also lives her art. She wears it, eats from it, hangs it on the wall and leaves it seemingly discarded in the most unlikely places. It colours her life as the blue sky colours the day. It shines from her as the Moon on a darkened sea. This is not the person I gave a life to all those years back when we passed as strangers. The reality is far more gracious than any story I could dream up. This is a person who gives life to all those who secure her glass as their own.

Andrea is somewhat of a ferocious worker. She seems to exhibit at a moments notice and she is a regular at the craft shows. At this very moment she is trapsing the world on a Churchill Fellowship seeking new ways to work with glass. Let me assure those who come across her as strangers: take heed; Andrea can teach you many things. So, pay attention.

NATALIE JENKINS

2010-07-04T22:36:00.000-07:00

Stalking exhibitions has become a compulsion of late. In this instance I have been asked to ‘open’ the exhibition; a focus on glass by eight artists. Not that I hold any position of importance in the eyes of the art/craft fraternity (or any other fraternity, for that matter); far from it. I can only see this as ‘payback’ of some type. Never-the-less I take my task seriously and say very little. After all, the patrons attendee's are here to view things of beauty; and that definitely leaves me out.

Glass has a fluid beauty that distinguishes it from other media. As if in chorus, glass has a sense of cold and heat at the same time. It appears delicate, yet exhibits considerable strength. In the hands of an artist, glass can become almost anything we desire. It can be utilitarian or aesthetic or both. We can drink from it, eat off it, see the world through it, reflect on it, wear it, and above all, admire its beauty as a result of manipulation in the hands of a fine artist.
Darwin has its fair share of glass artisans. Natalie Jenkins, in the brief time since she has taken up this craft, has shown herself to be as skilled and imaginative as any. I can only describe her recent work as hypnotic.
Natalie and I chat loosely on her background (NT through and through, I might add) and other relevant subjects as I wrestle with the lights and backdrop. I need to capture the singular beauty of her work in isolation to do it any justice at all. Then, unexpectedly, I find myself alone (as I often do when indulging in conversation).

I use my time wisely with the ‘jellyfish twins’. Already I am in a state of severe anxiety for fear of snapping off a tentacle. My relationship with such fragile objects is usually short-lived.
Natalie returns. People never cease to surprise me and Natalie has not been a disappointment. She is able to transform the most mundane into a thing of beauty with her bare hands yet the mention of a camera sends her running for a mirror. She flusters over the condition of her T-shirt and apologizes profusely for not having been more prepared.
Is the nature of us humans to believe that we can separate what we do from what we are? I could say to Natalie that she could wear a potato sack and groom herself with the left-overs from last night’s meal and I wouldn’t notice. Anyone who can produce this kind of stuff doesn’t need me, my camera or any mirror to tell them how much beauty they possess.

And now I am once more stunned by another human reaction. Natalie forgets about me and the camera and plays with her ‘jellyfish’.

For a full ten minutes I stop breathing and click away as she juggles glass tentacles. She demonstrates what we all do when we ‘know’ our craft; the object becomes part of her; another appendage, as it were. I confidently make a few adjustments to the camera as Natalie continues her dance with her transparent Scychozoa. Once again I am hypnotized by the scene through the viewfinder.

We discuss mutual friends, mentors and the meaning of life. Natalie talks confidently of her future. I have no doubt we will be seeing a lot more of Natalie and her glass.

Thanks Natalie.

KIT McNEILL

2010-07-01T04:12:00.000-07:00

I enter Kit's home with a modicum of trepidation and it's not because of the less than warm welcome from her dog. As I pass through the entry all I can see ahead is blue sky and the turquoise expanse of Darwin Harbour. Once I establish my land legs, so to speak, and realize I am seeing Cullen Bay from a less than emblematical perspective, it occurs to me that this is the ideal place for an artist to work; under the expanse of the clear tropical skies. How romantic, I think.

Unfortunately any sign of romantic parady is soon divorced from my thoughts as I am escorted away from this picturesque scene. Kit's studio is a pokey and congested room at the back of her home where the view offers a glimpse of the passing traffic below and little else. Nudging elbows with books and brushes allows for sitting space - just.

There is an almost overpowering smell of turpentine flavoured with linseed. Nothing in this well used space has escaped the splattering of a burnt umbra or ultramarine. I have the claustrophobic feeling of being completely engulfed by Kit’s ‘shed’.
All this may seem a little strange from a photographer’s point of view where light and panoramic inspiration is a 'tool of the trade' so to speak. But Kit takes her work seriously and the distractions of jostling yachts and colourful bunting in the marina are only to be appreciated outside working hours.
Kit is a painter. It's her chosen profession. Let me make it quite clear. Kit is not retired. She has a real job - she is an artist. Anyone who takes her lightly will find themselves on the receiving end of a more than brutal look of disapproval and contempt; something akin to what a nurse might give to a lingering relative at the bedside of a patient. A possible relic of a past life, perhaps.
Some eight or so years back Kit was given a box of charcoals and some drawing paper. It would be hard to imagine that such a gesture would be so decisive in the formulation of Kit’s future path.

Now, as Kit explains the process that brings one of her works of art (one of a series of ten paintings on historic sites in and around Darwin) to its conclusion, I listen attentively to a person who has come to terms with who she is and what she will do with her life. In our short time together I learnt of texture and technique, palettes and paint, brushes, board and what Kit calls ‘The Artist’s Eye’. This is common ground and, without further discussion we can comprehend the commonality of all artists.

Beyond the technique there is, within us all, an ability to find the ‘art’ in our line of sight. This ability goes by many names: talent, creativity, vision, but I especially like Kit’s terminology: ‘The Artist’s Eye’.

Kit describes how she is able to use it in a discriminatory manner to select what is needed of a landscape to ‘make’ the picture. I recall Gary Collins and Serena Kuhl both implying this way of seeing was innately necessary for the artist to achieve his/her goal. Worth investigating further? I think so.

Kit displays a genuineness in front of the camera that encourages me to find the person inside. I find it hard to separate her from her work so I allow the backdrop of paintings to engulf her. My concern as I leave, encouraged by a growl from her dog, is that I have done Kit justice. Has my ‘photographer’s eye’ mirrored what I have found in this unlikely place? If I haven’t it will give me a good reason to return. There is more to learn here as Kit merges her life with her art.

Thanks Kit

GARY COLLINS

2010-06-27T23:43:00.000-07:00

If there is a better way to spend a morning besides having a chat and a cup of tea with artist Gary Collins then you had best keep it to yourself. I wasn't offering much in return but the bonus for Gary was that it kept him from his beloved housework. Still, it beats working for a living.

Gary lives beneath the undergrowth of suburbia with his wife, Jeanette, and two dogs of which one is fostered (and may well become croc fodder if Gary had his way). For the most part Gary spends his time painting landscapes and loading palm fronds onto the trailer. His landscapes have a touch of the surreal about them. Mystical creatures (female mostly, I am lead to believe) dance in and out of the canvas with such subtlty that it's hard to distinguish where the trees and rivers start and the kianpraty-like damsels end.

The studio is unusually poorly lit for what I would have expected. There is little room to move and there is a sense that this man's 'shed' is his own domain. He moves though the thicket of paintings and brushes without effort as he willingly shares his craft with me. You don't need a close inspection to realise the detail Gary includes in his work. His brushes are fine and delicate which is reflected in the brushstrokes that make up his art work.

He works close to his canvas. He knows where everything is. He is well versed in navigating his visual world.

One might be inspired by his abilities as I certainly am. There is also considerable admiration for a person who has had Macular Degeneration since his teens. What inspires me most from my observations is not so much the fact that Gary can produce such beautiful art with or without such restricted vision but his dogged determination to do so. This is clearly a person driven by his own resolve to achieve the extra-ordinary under extra-ordinary conditions. It seems what us mere mortals might consider impossible is simply a task worth conquering.

He's a bit camera shy so we joke through a few frames. He seems pained by the idea of having his photograph taken so I remind him of the times when he painted portraits. He smiles knowingly and for an instant there is the essence of what I want. CLICK!

We throw around some ideas on solving the problems of the world and I leave him to his house cleaning. I've got what I came for. I have a feeling I got a bit more than I bargained for; an old maxim about a man with no shoes comes to mind.

Thanks Gary.

WORKSHOP

2010-06-27T03:42:00.000-07:00

pottery workshop, Territory Craft, 2010.

One feature of the artist's life is the workshop.

Among other things, it enables the artist to teach their craft; to pass on their skills or draw out the skills of others.
Workshops can take many forms. Probably the most common is the hands-on class where students will follow a set of instructions from the artist and make something.
Oh, if it was as simple as that!
Then there is the 'watch me do it' class where the artist will demonstrate their skills and we will all rush home to our shed, kitchen, laundary, back yard, living room floor and make something.
If it was that easy!

Then there is the outing. 'Follow me and I will show you how easy it is to do'.
So, how come mine doesn't turn out like yours?
And so on.

Then there are those who can mould their students as they would a fine piece of

pottery or a delicate piece of jewellery. The artist who is also a teacher uses the same skills to extract the best from their students as they use to extract the best from their clay, camera or canvas. Watching an artist teach is akin to watching them create. It's a beautiful thing to behold.

I've seen a few in my time. None is better than Cecily. But she does have an advantage over some. As a teacher of many years before she became a 'potter?' she had already honed her teaching skills. Taking on pottery in her 'later' years seemed to come naturally but for those who have followed her work we know it's been a hard, persistant, frustrating but satisfying journey that, for her, doesn't have an end; just a never ending path of discovery.

And that is how she approaches her students.

Watching the students draw on her knowledge as they teach their own eyes and hands to do what they need to do is quite hypnotic.

I wonder what goes through their heads as they see changes in their own skills and feel the change withing themselves that grabs all of us at some point. Then they, too, become the teacher and the artist becomes the student.

THE EXHIBITIONIST

2010-06-12T21:51:00.000-07:00

I have just returned from an exhibition opening at Territory Craft Gallery. Jasmin Jan, Andrea McKey and Cecily Willis are as inspiring as ever.

As I watched the crowds of well wishers and potential purchasers milling around the paintings, pottery and glass (and a few around the olives and cheese) I wondered what this was all about.

Where does the 'exhibition' sit with the ethics and ethos of the artist? Is it a commercial venture to help pay the bills and feed the starving children? Is it that the artist needs the public acclaim for their craft to be validated? Or is this mearly a social event where we can enjoy the pleasures of the company of others in an atmosphere of creativity?

As an artist who has exhibited from time to time in different media, I see exhibitions as hard work, setting me to a deadline I don't like to adhere to and generating a mental state of anguish that I could have well done without. Yet I continue to exhibit. So much for my masochistic tendencies.

But what of Jasmin, Andrea and Cecily. These artists are well known and respected members of the art community in Darwin (and elsewhere). Why do they and others like them exhibit? I can find any number of places where their art is presented and for sale. Do they really need to put themselves through the paces an exhibition demands.

There are some artists who choose never to exhibit in this sense. I'm reminded of the stories around Picasso who refused to even exhibit one of his paintings while he was alive. His sister used to sneak into his studio and steal the paintings for galleries to exhibit. Yet his own house was filled with his own piantings. It seems as if Pablo was content with his own appraisel and beconned input from no-one. There are a number of photographers who have resisted the path to 'exhibitionism' as well.

But many do. Hopefully, over the next 12 months I can get an incling of why.

Don't get me wrong: I love exhibitions. Other peoples. Maybe you can share with me, your thoughts on exhibitions and their function for you as an artist.

2010-06-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

ART v’s CRAFT

I’m about to say something that will surely create some debate.
For the sake of brevity I will, from this point on, refer to all those people who become part of this project because of their skills in the field of choise as ‘artists’. What they produce will be referred to as ‘art’. The skills they have and the processes they use is their ‘craft’.
I am not endeavouring to re-define these terms, only to use them in a consistent and well defined manner. My usage may not fit with everyone, but as this project unfolds it will become more evident and apparent as to my reasoning and motives.
Please bear with me.

Arts/Craft Photo Project 2010 by Tom Dinning

2010-05-30T22:38:00.000-07:00

The main objective of the Art/Craft Project 2010 is to gather information on the artists and crafts people of Darwin and its surrounds and to present that information in a variety of forms including a book showcasing a selection of the artists/crafts people and their art/craft, a web site exhibiting a more extensive selection and a physical exhibition combining the work of the artist/crafts people with the images collected during the projects progress.

About this blog.

I make no promises. This blog will be a collection of my daily activities and thoughts as the contents of this project evolve. I will post photographs and content for you and I both to reflect on. Feel free to comment. This project is about people so be constructive and considerate in your comments. If you have the urge to say something offensive, write to your local member of parliament.
About this project.
There are a few things in this project that are well defined and there are just as many that are yet to be. One of the reasons for establishing this blog is to allow all the people who become part of the project to have an input and make a contribution to the final outcome.
The ideas that went together to result in the establishment of this project came from a variety of sources and over a period of time. Since ideas continue to flow and time continues to pass, it can be assumed that the concepts that drive the project are still ‘ a work in progress’. Why, even the title is, at this stage, a tag more than a name. At least I have a folder name for my hard drive into which I can file everything.
But there are some things that are clear. Well, somewhat clear; something akin to purchasing the latest iphone and knowing that it can make calls but how that is achieved is yet to be determined. And like the dreaded iphone, there are some functions that will be revealed in the fullness of time and there are some applications that will remain a total mystery.
There are 3 major outcomes I expect to achieve at some time over the next 12 months, none of which is a priority. Each outcome is as important as the rest. They are meant to inter-twine with, complement and harmonise with eah other into a total concept

The Book.

Most people like books. Someone once said ‘ If you want to read a good book, write it yourself’, so I am, hopefully. Time will tell. Someone else said ‘To take a good photograph you need to be in the right place at the right time.’ So, to help me write the best book I possibly can, I am starting with ‘the right place and time’, translated metaphorically into ‘nice people doing great work’. Since the original idea came from a way of expressing myself photographically in a meaningful way, the book will contain lots of photographs with commentary and a reference section providing data on the artists/ crafts people who volunteer their time and self.

The web site.

This will be an expanded version of the book but with greater scope and lots of links to other sites. The great thing about a web site is that it can be updated at any time.

The Exhibition.

Since this project had its origins as a photography project I will endeavour to present the best of the images collected over the course of the project as an exhibition. I can also envisage those who contribute to the book and website to present their own work as part of the exhibition.

Some of the skeptics out there might be a bit nervous about participating. Let me assure you, no image or content will be published without considerable scrutiny by you and me. Now, I can’t help how you look and I will do my best to find your best side but ultimately it will be up to nature and the camera to decide; although, Photoshop can do wonderful things.
As to the cost, I am bearing any costs involved. As the project unfolds, images will be for sale. Some of you might find them of some use for your own promotional work.