Exploring the world through the Arts is very important to me. The impact that the arts have on provoking thinking, inciting change, creating movement is beyond measure. However, on a deeper level it changes me and helps me to reflect on life in a deeper and more meaningful Way. This blog aims to share those reflections with others. I want to share my appreciation of art and also share the thoughts that it raises in me.

Monday, 21 December 2015

Golden Fractures




Pottery was never a skill that I was able to work with when I studied Art. No matter how much I tried to mould the clay, smooth it or manipulate it, I could never achieve what I wanted. In the end I gave up and stuck to other art mediums that I managed to achieve more satisfaction. I always admired the different sculptures that I would stand in awe and marvel at when I visited the Galleries with a desire to improve my own artistic ability. I would look at the negative and positive space of Moore's "Helmet" and as I moved through the gallery the perfect sculpting of the human forms created by Bertram Mackennal using bronze left me awe. There was such beauty in all of these sculptures and everything captured perfectly.

The strange thing about art is that it aims to capture so many different things. It will capture the perfection of creation while reflecting its devastation. While one artist shows great accomplishment in replicating life in it's truest form, another artist shows great accomplishment by divulging the inner vulgarity of human frailty in abstract. Perfection in art cannot be defined as it is as boundless as the universe. 

It is a mistake for us to try and achieve perfection. If we endeavour to achieve perfection we will only be met with continued disappointment and anxiety. I have often fallen for this perfection trap. I want to be the perfect human being. I want to be perfect as a wife, mother, friend, daughter and in my job. I want to be perfect in my cooking (hence why I rarely cook), perfect in my painting, perfect in my teaching, perfect in my housekeeping, perfect in anything I take on. It is perhaps for this reason of seeking perfection that I have really failed to master any areas of interest. The reason being that if I can't achieve perfection then why on earth should I try at all! Why put any effort into something that if I don't achieve perfection or anything less than perfection would be considered a failure on my part?  

It has taken me many years to train myself out of this thinking. In fact it has taken cracks appearing in my life and the failure to prevent them for me to understand that these cracks are part of life, these cracks are necessary in life. An ancient Japanese Art form called Wabi Sabi acknowledged the beauty of imperfection. In fact such imperfections were desirable in pieces of ceramics. Wabi Sabi centres around the idea that things are incomplete, transient and imperfect. In this lies great beauty. That in what is broken, rotting, wearing or incomplete tells a stunning narrative. It tells a story of beauty and vulnerability. It is a true reflection of what life is. It shows that life is continually transient and moveable. Nothing in this world is withstanding. There is beauty in this. I truly believe that it is important that we embrace our brokenness. We need to acknowledge how time has weathered us and worn us. We need to be open that as we move through life we will make mistakes and that perfection is not a reality that can ever be achieved. In my brokenness I can now see that I have become a stronger person, I have become wiser, I have become more compassionate as my brokenness humbles me to see the brokenness in others and the need they have for understanding. I have had to become less critical of the world around me and more introspective. 

As I approach Christmas I often hear conversations with others about their upcoming family events. We often joke about a day with relatives being draining, painful or exhausting. I hear stories from people about the one relative that they tolerate, or the relative they are trying to extend the hand of peace towards but are unsure of how others in the family may view it. We look at other people's families and wonder why can't my family be like that for Christmas? Instead of looking like a perfectly moulded bronze sculpture, our family is like a pile of clay that has been on the pottery wheel spun out of control. Our families are versions of Wabi Sabi and we need to be conscious that perfection does not exist in any family.  

As much as I would like to say that I have achieved a higher state of being and am accepting of all things in acknowledgement of its perfect imperfections, I cannot and nor do I ask that anyone else do so. In fact part of our human imperfection is that our imperfections clash and can be volatile when put with another imperfection. This brings me to another Japanese art form called "kintsugi". Kintsugi is the art of filling in the cracks or remoulding or shaping part of a broken piece of pottery with gold or silver mixed with a resin. It does not hide the cracks or mask them, it completes the form; making it beautiful. 

Many people will try and fill the cracks with their own understanding of gold and silver resin. However, for me there is only one thing that can fill my brokenness with gold and that is the love that I have received from God. There are times when I try to fill it with my little addictions. Things that help me to cope such as chocolate, coffee, shopping, escape through watching a television series or getting  a massage. But these things only provide a temporary fix, it is a mediocre fix compared to what the gold resin does in Kintsugi. Only the love of God is perfect enough to bring perfection to the cracks. And it this love that I have received that then I can see the people in my life that God has placed around me that also helps to fill in those cracks and love me despite the imperfections. 

Friday, 13 November 2015

Counting the Layers


It's our challenges and obstacles that give us layers of depth and make us interesting. Are they fun when they happen? No. But they are what make us unique. And that's what I know for sure... I think.

This has been another one of my favourite artworks. It is an art work of great beauty and depth. In the true form of Jackson Pollack, he intertwined think layers of paint of different kinds and colours. Amidst the layer of paint are shards of glass, that from a distance cannot be viewed but up close protrude from the entangled hues. This is a painting that was greatly misunderstood when it was introduced to the Australian Public in 1973. However, it is an artwork that many have come to just accept without any appreciation, that many have come to recognise as symbolic of Australia's move into the 20th Century of Art appreciation and that many from the outset celebrated it's uniqueness recognising the genius work of Pollack.

Up close to this painting you can see how the dominant blue poles protect, shape and restrict the explosive mess of colour that is pulled in multiple directions underneath them. The blue poles stand strong with slight movement extending from them in similar directions showing a flow, a sense of symmetry and compliance with the direction of the artwork. However, when you look below these 'blue poles" you see the multiple directions of the oil and aluminium based paint. You can see that tubes of colour have been used to create density on the canvas, there is depth and as you allow your eyes to seep deeper into the intoxicating swirls and lines of the artwork you enter an endless map where neither beginning or end can be found as one colour is manipulated to fall under the protrusion of another colour. This was a deliberate technique that Pollack experimented with in his artworks. He was not only interested in the standard placement of the paint in any traditional form, but wanted to see how the paint could be manipulated without the intrusion of the artists brush. The canvas would be laid flat on the floor and the paint placed in layers, then he would lift the canvas, tilting it and manipulating its physical direction to allow the paint to feel the gravitational pull and weight of the other layers of paint, experimenting with the viscosity of the paints to achieve random directions underneath he sturdy blue poles. This experimentation also include the placement of glass shards to see how the paint would move around the sharp obstacle depending on the tilt. The result, paint that has moved over the shards; while other colours were separated by the glass and then reunited at the bottom after a momentary separation.

This artwork is a perfect description of the human heart, soul and mind and it's interaction with the world around us both physically, mentally, socially, emotionally and spiritually. We are all these beautiful layers of bursting colour and depending on the situations we find ourselves often determines whether we are strong enough to move over obstacles or we allow ourselves growth through separation, through tearing, being moulded and shaped into something new, the changing of paths and directions. Regardless of how we are shaped and changed in moments of obstacles, the glass is still sharp, it's edges still cut and wound us. This is to be expected in a world where we are twisted and tilted in the face of a change. It is going to hurt. We are going to want to surrender to hopelessness and loss. We are going to shut ourselves off to the world and others, and remain in our own paradigm pretending that there is nothing wrong. Change hurts. Change is effort. Change is inevitable. But with the ever developing layers of who we are, we have been made to be malleable, ductile, supple, adaptable and workable. Although we have been made to be all of these things, we do not need to sacrifice who we are. We have been made to be an explosion of God's colour, he has designed us with strengths and vulnerabilities that are precious. He designed every cell of who we are. Pollack subjected the paint to obstacles and stresses, the paint due to its diversity and resilience was able to withstand where required. God has blessed us with the same pliability and resilience as the paint, he wants us to be vulnerable to show his grace and his strength and he wants us to be strong to show that we stand in faith. His rod and staff like blue poles will always guide us, protect us and contain us when need be. We must not be afraid that in this ever changing world that we are going to change, that in this ever-changing world we will go through moments of hopelessness and in this ever-changing world we are going to move through obstacles with explosive colour. Our layers are many, they have made us who we are and at different times in our life these layers will change and grow to continue to allow us to adapt and change while withstand the change that we feel we must stand firm against.

"Blue Poles" -Jackson Pollack

Monday, 13 July 2015

Sadness

Some days are just bad days, that's all. You have to experience sadness to know happiness, and I remind myself that not every day is going to be a good day, that's just the way it is!

I recently took my children to see the Movie Inside Out. It must be said that when it comes to cartoons, Pixar/Disney writers really know what they are doing. They don't just produce movies that entertain and throw children through heroic main characters that fit the mould of successful or desirable. Don't get me wrong, I have a strong affection for Disney Princesses etc. However, my favourite movies are the ones that teach my children an abstract concept about reality that helps them to understand life that little bit more. I also love how it helps me to explain these abstract concepts a little more clearly to my children.

To be honest, after Winnie the Pooh (although based on a novel), Brother Bear, Toy Story trilogy, Up, Brave, A bugs Life... Inside Out is one of my favourite. It is perhaps up there with my favourite because of how it dissects the mind and explains the way in which cognitive theory works. Through my experience of different psychologists this is the therapy that I have found most helpful. It works on identifying the thought, then understanding the emotion that comes with the thought and that then determines a response. Inside Out explains this perfectly. We see the event happen, the characters move in quickly with their correct emotion as they direct the mind with an appropriate reaction. 

However, Sadness seems to struggle to find her place within the beginning teenage years. Joy strains and bullies her way around the mind, trying to make sure that Joy is the dominant emotion. How often have we ourselves thought that happiness has to be the main emotion we feel and if it isn't then we are obviously an unsuccessful person. Joy tries to keep everything together. Sadness just keeps getting in the way. As Sadness and Joy come to conflict it all then falls apart. 

It is later in the movie when Joy rewinds one of the memories that she realises that emotions do not need to exist in isolation of the other. That in fact, on many occasions Joy could only be experienced through the an event that needed Sadness. What a beautiful dichotomy. Hope often has deeper meaning when we feel despair. When we find ourselves in moments of Sadness or others in moments in sadness, our immediate reaction is to try and find joy rather than experiencing the special moment of sadness. Sadness allows us to be vulnerable, it allows us to show we care, that we hurt... that we are human. Sadness has a most perfect place in our minds and our lives as it is an emotion that we learn from, that we grow from and that we often appreciate and experience joy from. We shouldn't fear sadness or shy away from it. But embrace it and allow others to experience it with us. 

My daughter had the opportunity to chose one of the characters from Inside Out to bring home as a plush toy. She straight away went to Joy, she was excited about Joy. I don't often like to interfere with my children's choices when they have been told that they can chose, however, I did want my four year old to consider her choice. I asked her to look at Sadness. She put Joy back on the shelf and looked at Sadness. She straight away grabbed Sadness and said "Sadness needs me more, she needs me to give  her hugs".

I was proud that my daughter understood an appropriate way of dealing with Sadness. That Sadness wasn't to be isolated and pushed aside, that she was to be nurtured and given human empathy, sympathy and love. It is in moments of Sadness that we can find and appreciate moments of Joy. I was proud that my child chose Sadness, I was even prouder that for the whole day she did not let Sadness go and made sure that at all times Sadness was cared for. Sadness was cuddled, spoken to gently, introduced to everyone we met, and was tucked into bed to keep her warm. 

From Sadness we can experience some of our greatest moments of Joy, and sometimes we need to acknowledge sadness in order to appreciate the moments of Joy. 

Tuesday, 23 June 2015

In Your Head

Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.
The darkest part of the human body. From it comes rushing something much more toxic than chemicals, neurons connecting messages to basic automated movement or muscle memory. From this dark part comes the depths of deception, the depths of basic instincts, the war between wants and needs, the battle between rational and irrational, the conflict between identity and the losing of ones self. From the depths of darkness comes the rushing of thoughts. 


Thoughts! Ego! Cognitive! Imagination! Conscious! The subconscious and the unconscious. Too and fro they move between left and right, temporal and frontal, frontal and cerebellum. Thoughts go racing backwards and forwards trying to keep up with the memory pathways and then disappearing with atrophy as one part of the mind is no longer used, and therefor must be discarded to out energy into newer roads.

There is one part that continues to plague, that is often suppressed, hidden. A Pandora's Box. Memory is that growth, although hidden; it is what underpins our response, our reactions, our pain, and our joy. It directs our emotions. It subconsciously controls us. Every interaction we enjoy, tolerate or avoid is dictated by memory. It remembers hurt, not the physical pain, but the reaction that is the emotion that came from the hurt. This builds or dissipates within the darkness. It is either forgotten or allowed to fester beneath the surface until memory is awakened. All it needs is a threat, a smell, vision, sound something that ignites it. Then the emotions of that original experience come rushing forth like a tsunami. It sends you into a downward spiral of disintegration, you revert back to fight or flight. You battle the irrational nature of such feelings, such emotions. It doesn't seem to match the experience. It seems like an over reaction, yet the emotion's so real as memory sets in. It tries to warn you that to move forward with this experience, with this potential threat, could leave you in the same turmoil of when you first experienced the emotion. Your thoughts, sifting through the imagined and reality, plague you. You strive to find truth within your mind, yet there is no truth that exists there, it is fact distorted by perspective, by personal experience, by emotions, by your unique genetic makeup and your unique chemical balance. 

For many of us, exiting this state of mind is simple. We can control the thoughts that then control the emotion thus controlling the reaction. However, for many of us experiencing heightened stress, anxiety and depression it is exhausting. Our physical, emotional, mental and social rationale cannot be worked through simply. It is a continual grappling of truth. It is a continual doubt of ourselves. It is increased paranoia where we cannot see anything right about ourselves. For those who view it from the outside without any understanding it is misunderstood as selfish, self observed, weakness, inability to cope, a need to be stronger, a need to be better, a need to suck it up. But from the inside... all energy is used, we are sucked dry by the internal workings of our brain that never stops, that over analyses, that continues to feel discord between ourselves and those around us. The impact of this on ourselves and those around us is life changing. We need people who understand, we need people who are forgiving, we need people that understand the need for us to have positive affirmation constantly, we need people who won't tire of us, we need people who can just sit in silence and allow our brain to be but understand how much we need their presence.

Unfortunately, often we do not see the damage we do; we do not see our own failings in broken relationships. For those of us who do see it, we once again add more to the inner scream. We suppress the need to express our true emotions, and with the need to preserve the friendships and interactions we have, to protect them from the inner workings of mind, we must hide, avoid, medicate, self talk, exercise, pray, rest our way through moments of scream. We must be aware of our impact on those around us, we must be aware that despite our search for truth amongst the paranoia that we are greatly loved and we need to continue to try and be our better selves for those who love us. For our inner scream is not an excuse, but a reason for why we respond the way we do. We must not sit and blame but do whatever we can to be the ruler of the scream. To be the ones that dictates it rather than allowing it to control us. 

The scream is not my God. It will not control me. It will not be my truth. It will not wreck my relationships. I will not allow it. 


Scream 
Edvard Munch (1893)

Thursday, 9 April 2015

The Ones Left

War does not determine who is right - only who is left.

Silence is interrupted with wails of pain. Some stand alone, wringing their hands incessantly, a nervous stress sign. We see others clinging to loved ones, clinging to hope that the news is wrong, that events are not real, that it was a dream. We see pictures and photos and news reports showing the ones that have been left. They are left to consider whether the life lost should ever have been lost.

Is it all vanity? Can we ever put a value on life?

 Patriotic dribble is verbalised by government officials, clergy, defence spokesman. For King and country. For peace. For freedom. For evil to be suppressed. For good to prosper.

Deep down we know in many cases of war, conflict, death, that there is one left standing and as a direct result there is also one left behind. If we are on the 'right' side we celebrate when it is "us" left ahead in the never ending game. However, when it is "our" own that must come back in the dreaded wooden box, we curse the animals, the immoral enemy for what they have done.

My experience of war is minimal and can never even touch on the horrors that are left behind and endured, by those who are fighting, the civilians who are caught in the middle and the ones left. The ones who are left to rebuild their homes physically and those who are left to rebuild their lives emotionally. Peace has always come at a cost. Freedom is not free, but comes at a sacrifice.

My children are at an age where they now ask me about the conflicts around the world, the war. They talk about the events as though they are fiction from a distant land...and I think with naivety how lucky I am to be able to tuck them in at night with a sense of security and in some ways living in my own deluded fantasy that these events are in some distant land.

However, there is a part of me, a small part or me, that is reminded to not take this freedom for granted. It is only for a time that freedom can exist. That peace can exist. Did the mothers in 1913 think they'd be farewelling their sons in 1914? From the Olympic games being held in Berlin in 1936 realise that most of Europe would become part of the Third reich by 1942. Did we expect to send our boys to compulsory military service in Vietnam? Then we have have the continued conflict in Africa, Timor, Iraq and anywhere else in the world. Did a mother give birth moments ago and think "I shall be giving my child up for war in 18 years?".

It is but for a time that peace can exist, and I must not forget that although I walk through my life with a routine that is not plagued with war, hatred, pain; it does not mean that it will never be at my doorstep. I will always be grateful for those who actively seek peace, seek righteousness, seek justice, seek integrity, seek truth, seek freedom. All abstract concepts that I believe are used to try and make this world a better place. Also, I remember the ones who are left who must live in fear for the loved ones who actively go out to ensure that human rights are maintained or restored, I remember what they are giving up or have given up. I acknowledge their sacrifice, the sacrifice of the ones left.

The Mothers by Kathe Kollwitz




Thursday, 12 March 2015

Strength Beyond the Softness

A woman is like a tea bag - you can't tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.


I often find that I am always trying to balance myself between needing to be this soft woman, nurturer, comforter. I've always claimed that you get more bees with honey than you do vinegar. However, I find there are times where I have to put on this tough exterior and show strength. I cannot fail, I must not fail. To fail brings criticism. But then to be strong also brings criticism. You become accused of being too tough, of not being understanding. 

It is a constant inner battle that think many women can relate to. One one hand people want to see the soft and gentle female and in lots of way she is attractive because of her calm and soothing nature. On the other hand we are told that we are irrational, or we cry too easily or we have to talk about our feelings too much, therefore I feel we are forced into being these cold hearted women that are strong, stone, rocks. 

I like being both. I believe there is strength in both. I do not want to be a woman who is walked all over or doesn't speak her mind. I also don't want to be that woman who everyone is scared of because she speaks her mind 'alllll' the time and doesn't consider the impact of her words on others. I also don't want to be that woman who, in order to show her strength, emasculates the men around her. 

So how do I find this balance? I find it in the women who surround me and the main man in my life who puts up with me. I am surrounded by so many strong women. When needed, these women can become terminators (watch out Arnie). They will go to all extents to protect their loved ones, to defend what is right despite being ridiculed for standing up for right. They are women who are smart and show their smarts, they are not ashamed of who they are and they are admirable in the way they work with others, lead others and support others. As well as being a terminator one minute they are Florence Nightingale the next, they are the nurturer taking the problems of those around them before even considering their own needs. They work endlessly for the needs of others, to the point where you can see they are worn out, they have little left to give, yet they find the smallest of strength for the next problem or person that comes in need of them. These women model me the balance that I need to find in my own life.

Then there is the main man in my life...my husband. He allows me to be the woman I am and he helps me to be better than I am. With his gentleness he give me the opportunity to be strong without feeling weak in himself, he also, with loving words, continues to encourage me to pursue my passions and the goals I have. But there is also this other side to him. With the same gentleness he takes away my burdens by caring for me. By recognising when I reaching the point of having nothing left to give and he comforts me. He does not criticise me for being this strong woman one moment and being this weak needy woman the next. His love helps me to feel strong and soft. We need to also appreciate men in our lives that bring out the best in us. We need to be careful not to push them away in our determined times of independence, but allow ourselves to work with them in partnership drawing their strength and gentleness as well.

The woman in this artwork painted by Da Vinci shows both strength and softness. The tones show how organic she is, how natural her form is and yet there is also this firmness in her features, her hair is not perfect and falls dishevelled around her face. She shows calm and strength. There is also a sense that she is weary and tired. Within her face there is such beauty even though she perhaps doesn't feel it. Da Vinci captures her essence beautifully. 

We need to remember that we do not need to chose between being a strong woman or a soft gentle woman, that in fact God has blessed the female sex with both characteristics. He has made her strong, steadfast and determined. He has done this because she is needed in those moments to be the continued strength that drives others and spurs others on. He has also made her soft, vulnerable, irrational, emotional...as this is also needed to show the world how to 'feel'. But in all that she is compassionate, comforter and gentle, because he has also made her to be the one who will comfort those in need of comfort and gentle so others can feel that they are loved. God has made woman beautifully and in her he has laid his image...and given any temperature she will show the right temperament as needed for that situation. 

La Scapiliata 
Leonardo Da Vinci

Thursday, 5 March 2015

Battle on All Fronts


It grows, clinging and climbing its way not just into flesh but mind, body, soul. The claws dig deep, attempting to bring down the human spirit, the will to live, the need for a promise to see beyond the month, year or decade. The word 'options' gets passed quickly almost without feeling as though it is a speech that has become too common. It has lost meaning, as options are the only thing that seems left. No option guaranteeing full success and all options coming with their risk.

The flesh is cut, poison is pumped into the body. Poison needed to defeat poison. Many are met with different results as treatment becomes a routine that seeps beyond the surgery. Waiting room artworks are gazed at and glassed over, blocking the landscapes from the ones who need hope most. No longer are parks entertained with delight, but with possible regret of memories that will never be made, memories that will feel the absence of life, memories that could have been.

At first company surrounds, prayers are offered up, meals are made, children babysat and partners supported with words of encouragement. But as the weeks progress bit by bit loneliness creeps in. Prayers are offered up for another community member battling the poison in another form receiving the  other 'option'.

It takes over at different speeds. At times, it allows farewells to be given, plans to be made and at other times, it strikes like a thief. For some it fades and allows healing to take place, but deep down there is always the fear. Regardless of routines and tests to make sure the poison is kept away, there is fear of return.

It is a battle. The front line moving backwards and forwards in a tug-of-war for victory. There are survivors, casualties... a disease that has far too many left at the front line never to return.

We then come to mourn together those who have fallen and hold onto the photos, the picture in mind, replaying them over and over again to ensure they are never forgotten.  Always embedded on our hearts, a scar leaving mixed memories of a life lived and the last moments when they are but a ghost of their true self.




Thursday, 26 February 2015

Looking back and Looking Forward

We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.

Over the last few weeks there has been a great reminder to me about loss of loved ones. One of the greatest loss I have experienced was that of my Nanna. I was in the second trimester of having my second child. I received a phone call as I arrived home from work. The voice was urgent seeking my identity and asking me to head to my Nan's home because she had collapsed. Her screen door was locked and I brought all keys possible to get into her house but not that key. About two minutes later the ambulance arrived and managed to get the screen door open. My biggest regret is that I moved out of the way to allow the ambulance officers space to do their job. Nanna was talking to them even bossing me around to get her purse as she was put into the ambulance. My biggest regret in that busyness was that I didn't hug or touch her for that one last time. The one last time that I never knew I would never have again. 

The months that followed were filled with mixed emotion. Being pregnant did not help as the hormones also dictated my emotions at uncontrollable times. I immediately sought help as I knew I would be susceptible to post natal depression after such a loss. Many people did not understand why this loss of Nanna impacted me the way it did. She was old, she was unwell with her body a ticking time bomb as it kept at bay two aneurysms just waiting for the right moment to explode. Plus death was part of life, why would I be so upset by a death that was expected? What many people did not understand was that my Nanna was more than just a Nanna, daily I could see her in me. I could see her wilfulness, determination, stubbornness, regal airs and much of our time was spent together arguing with each other because we were so much alike. However, with every argument there was love. My Nanna would make me Italian spaghetti and stewed apples when I was sick. Even when she was no longer the one called to look after me on sick days she would still make these dishes and bring them to me. Her care never stopped. Even when I suffered terrible morning sickness with my daughter she sat next me showing me the bright rainbow bear she had bought for the unborn child. Now this bear is but a grey tone of its original colours as it lays in the arms of my daughter every night during her sleep.

Memory is in many ways a blessing, but it is also wrought with pain, suffering and a need to be forgotten. I have always had a good memory of which I have often said is a blessing and a curse. Time does not heal in my case for a long time, because memory will often persist with its pain. Salvador Dali's artwork is perhaps one of the most recognised surrealist pieces of art. The artwork touches on the barrenness of memory, how it can be impervious to time. Time continues to pass and yet memory can withstand. 

It would be easy for me to indulge my memory and allow it to control my future. However, that is the beauty of dreams. Within the style of surrealism was the openness to representing the dream like state of our minds. I have the choice to allow my memory and past to determine my future, to allow it to put aside my dreams. But I do not do this. I will not allow my memories to dictate to me my dreams. I allow my dreams to be a vision of what is not yet seen and only written and seen by God. I will always treasure particular memories and try to forget the ones that have no business to plague my future. But I am a dreamer, an optimist, I will not predict whether the glass is half full or empty. For I truly believe it is always full. It just may not be filled with what I expect or could ever dream. 

The Persistence of Memory
Salvador Dali (1931)

Thursday, 19 February 2015

Each One a Child


For those who’ve come across the seas 
We’ve boundless plains to share; 
With courage let us all combine
To Advance Australia Fair.



Alright, I'm going political this week. Well to some it may seem political, to me it just seems human. I have found myself in many debates over the last fifteen years. Perhaps going as far back as Year 9 at school. I remember debating with classmates that Australia is a country that has grown in its ideologies of  freedom, democracy and a nation that has been built on being a refuge for those who needed new starts. In Year 9 I witnessed the emergence of the One Nation party. Of course my knowledge of what this party was about was limited and really my head was filled with the one liners that the media decided to put on repeat. However, the general message was "we don't want immigrants". I remember hearing my classmates argue this and I found it quite disturbing how many felt the same as the One Nation supposed political agenda. It made me sad. In my naivety I just thought that anyone who decided to migrate to Australia would be welcomed, I thought that being a nation that had sent men and women overseas to fight for the injustices of the world that we would be a nation who would allow those subjected to such injustices to resettle here. But I became very aware, that this was not the case. But I had to laugh at my class mates eruption at immigrants taking Australian jobs when I remember the surnames of these classmates. Many of them were of an immigrant background. But then to be VERY politically correct, unless you can trace your ancestors to being in Australia prior to 1788 we are all first, second, third, fourth etc generation immigrants. 

But my disillusion in my country did not cease when I went to university. I thought being amongst a thinking culture I may be amongst people more aware of the logic that we are generally all sons and daughters of immigrants, but then the term "Illegal" immigrant started to be thrown about. The media, government, political parties were now twisting previous statements about immigration to speak with more clarity and accuracy. Where immigration was okay but not illegal immigration. Well of course no country is happy with illegal immigration. Then came the term "queue" jumping illegal immigrants who should go through the right processes. Tell me what these "correct" processes are when you have children to protect and if you tried the "correct" processes you would be a red target at the airport leaving a country that wanted you dead, in gaol or used to capture an associate. 

Then the phrasing morphed again to create further fear in the Australian Public,  asylum seekers, became refugees, became illegal immigrants. In one statement the Australian Government at the time, avoided all responsibility of their UN agreement to recognise asylum seekers and provide refugee status for them. I remember in 2001 watching images on television of children in a sea of water next to a boat (if you could call it that). Straight away we were told by government reports that mothers had thrown their children in the water to force the Australian Border patrol to rescue them from the boat rather than turn them away. I was mortified that a mother would do this. Words such as cruel, barbaric, monstrous came to my mind. These people did not deserve to live if they had thrown their children in the water. I was ashamed of myself when I realised I had become victim to government propaganda. I had been played, I had allowed my fears to win over my heart, logic and reason. I was not a mother at the time, but I remember my own mother becoming enraged at the Australian publics "stupidity" to believe such propaganda. 

This Art work is a depiction of the SIEV X drowning of 400 asylum seekers. A boat of children, women and men trying to make a new life for themselves away from persecution, war torn countries, dictatorships etc and all they found was the depths of the ocean. This is not the first boat for it to happen to and nor has it been the last. 

Once again Australian Government Propaganda has been at work in foreign countries, where posters and billboards are depicted telling anyone who is even thinking of being smuggled into Australia that they will not make it. That's right, the land of bountiful plains is not for you. We are fooled once again. We continue to call them Illegal Immigrants coming by boat. But now...more fear has struck our nation and the word is once again morphing as we hear people now calling them terrorists. Soon the original term asylum seeker will be but a small line in a record book no one ever has access to. In upcoming elections both state and federal we will not hear about those forgotten children who share a grave in the ocean, we will now hear governments promise us about how they will "Stop the Boats" and this time instead of using the word "Illegal Immigrant" we will hear the word "Terrorist". Please do not think that I am trying to trivialise terrorism. I just think as intelligent beings that we need to stop allowing the media and government to define it and that we need to see it for what it is. As a public of voters and people who but for no other reason were given the "luck" of being in Australia, we need to not value the lives of others less, but value their lives more. For we have the opportunity that they don't to live in a country free from religious persecution, where governments are elected by the people, where children are taught to be free thinkers and receive an education. Of course we are country that still has people who need help and assistance, no we are not perfect. But we owe it to this country on which we have benefitted from to share our resources, land and hope with those who have experienced very little.

Now to a BIG issue that has weighed on my heart. Children in detention. In years to come we are going to be ashamed that we even did such a thing as a nation. But come the next state election and federal election this issue will once again be swept under the carpet. The reason being is that it does not directly impact us and in fact for many of us it would be nice not to be reminded of such distressing things in our world. But we have a choice to make it an issue. We need to challenge politicians and the media to bring this issue front and centre. We need to make sure that no child is left in detention. No it is not as appealing as government benefits, tax relief, paid maternity leave, GST, work choices, unions etc. But I believe that this is an issue that we will end up paying for in the future if we don't do something about it now. Write to your local members expressing your disgust, do not let the media dictate what you should think and be aware of the propaganda that will permeate all aspects of the media. 

Remember the forgotten children, the children of now and the children we know are still yet to come, but may join those in the past in depths of the ocean if we sit and say nothing. Each one a child deserving a better life. Jesus told his disciples to let the children come to him, that no one was to hinder them, for the Kingdom of God belonged to them. He didn't just mean the children already living in Australia, he meant all children. 

Each One a Mother, or a Child by Kate Durham 

Thursday, 12 February 2015

Beauty is Pain


“As coal pressured into pearls by our weighty existence. Beauty that arose out of pain.” 
― Suzanne CollinsCatching Fire

If only we would listen to people when it really mattered. Why is it that I would always seek the approval from those around me that had no investment in who I was or who I could be? We doubt the words spoken from love and honesty and we continue to feel the need to pursue more and gain more. I speak of the abstract idea of beauty. When I was young I would look in the mirror endlessly and would struggle to see anything beautiful. I would read countless girl magazines to try and get a grasp on how to be more stunning and desireable. On one page of the magazine would be a highly feminist article encouraging young girls to be themselves and to appreciate the beauty from within. While adjacent to the page was an advertisement pushing the need for beauty to be worked on and only achieved through products.

This idea is nothing new and it is perhaps something that we all have struggles with in our teens, even the Audrey Hepburns of the world. But my insecurities about my appearance only worsened as acne raided my skin, my social group at school were all pursued by boys, and I was the one left on the bench struggling to even see how any boy would even want to talk to someone as unattractive as me. The insecurities travelled deep and I became this moody teenager, ugly on the outside and on the inside. I was a smart girl and very conscientious, qualities that were only valued by some teachers, as many teachers still gave undivided attention to the 'beautiful people'. Eventually you could have made me part of the Abnegation faction, I didn't want to look in mirrors and hated going to the hairdressers as I would have to face myself and some stunning hairdresser cutting my hair.

I am definitely not as insecure now as I was in my teens. I do not feel ugly like I did then. I still worry about my appearance and sometimes even think that my husband must be crazy to have wanted to marry me because there were definitely much prettier girls out there. But, I have learnt that I must change my outlook for the sake of my girls. I remember the words my Dad would say to me, telling me I was beautiful. I remember thinking he just says that because he is my Dad. But now I realise the truth of what he meant. My beauty existed from the person God was moulding me to be. Every Day I grew to be more confident, strong and determined. As much as what being a teen hurt and was painful I realise now that I am better for it. I see more beauty in myself than I ever did, because I have lived.

It was important for me to hear my parents compliment me, because it taught me how I needed to encourage my own children. I often have to remember, that every time I agonise over my appearance wishing for more beauty that my two daughters are also standing there watching me model dissatisfaction in how God made me. My son sees that women are never satisfied. Do I want my girls to grow with this same feeling of insecurities I did merely because they see me constantly analyse my imperfections? I want them to see me as a pearl that the sea has moulded and grown, that has been through change and reactions to finally be something of value.

The Painting The Sea Hath its Pearls reminds me that I need to be less aware of my physical appearance and more interested in the delights of the world around me. Perhaps it is because the girl walks along the beach delighting in the pearls of the ocean she has found. The girl is a Pearl herself, so beautiful and rare, she is her own person, not indulging in the reflection of the water but in what the world can offer. I don't want to waste time always considering my looks, indulging in my vanity, I need to set aside vanity and look at the beauty the world brings in my children, husband, friends, nature, the beach, love and everything else. But most of all I need to allow myself to be satisfied with what a mirror can never see. I need to be satisfied with me. The soul and spirit of who I am. I need to be satisfied with the qualities that have come over time, through hardship and trials and I need to value who I am.

My daughter caught me one day eyeing my appearance in the mirror. She looked up at me and smiled. I was wearing a long skirt (nothing special or fashionable) and her eyes lit up. She told me with absolute conviction "Mum, you look like a princess" I am a pearl to my daughters, I am a pearl to my husband, family and friends and I am beginning to find the pearl that they see inside of me.

The Sea Hath its Pearls (1897)
William Henry Margetson

Thursday, 5 February 2015

By Any Other Name


“I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.” 
― L.M. MontgomeryAnne of Green Gables

I love roses!! Perhaps it may be a bit of a predictable flower for a woman to like, but I do love them. I love the way their petals gently unfold from a tight bulb into a full spread of overlapping clusters of colour and scent. Roses smell like sweet bits of heaven. The scent is all consuming. But, along with the rose also comes the warnings of pain and hurt. The rose extends from a leafy stem that is dappled with thorns. It resists the human touch while seeming so attractive. The flower is delightful while what lies beneath is sharp and uninviting. It is only when it is too late that you realise that you have reached out to the long stem and gently grasped a thorn into the palm of your hand that the truth of the rose is realised. The rose is something to be admired, soft to touch and magical to smell. But it is at a distance that it wants to be appreciated, stopping anyone from coming too close to take hold of it, to remove it from the plant, the place of its sustenance, the source of its life.

Is this what I am like in my friendships and relationships with people? Do I only allow people to see the surface of who I am. Do I put up a scented front, where I try to be perfect, beautiful, successful? Do I pretend to be who I am around others? Because if they looked below the exterior they would see the thorny me. When I was growing up I did not make friends easily, I found it hard to allow people to see who I really was because like the rose I knew it would not be attractive, not because people didn't try to get to know me, but because I could often be this thorny person. I was often too honest, too blunt, I wanted friends to be loyal and despite my thorniness I wanted them to continue to hold onto me.

It took me time to learn that I need to soften who I was. I needed take down the fake exterior and also  remove the thorns that would often force people away. But along the way there were those who stuck around. Real friends. People who for some reason wanted to still be my friend even though I could fail at being a good friend. With the love from friendship that developed with special people over the years I naturally began to soften. I found that my friends changed me, I began to be who I really am. I stopped building a fake facade, pretending to be sweet, but I also stopped growing the thorns that would later push friends away once the rose disappeared or had seen its time through.

The Rose by Thea Proctor depicts two friends sharing in the scent a fresh pink bloom. They share in the delights of its smell and beauty. The artwork shows a beautiful perspective where we look from behind one woman to the face of the other woman. Yet neither woman engages with the artist. Their focus is completely in the smell of the rose and the intimacy of friendship with each other. This painting reminds me of the hope and strength and reliance I have in my friendships. My friends have changed me for the better. I am a better person because of those friends who didn't care about the thorned exterior.

Don't give up on those people who after the newness of friendship wears off become these thistles. They are still a rose, they still smell sweet, they just need someone to believe in them, to believe that they are a worthwhile person to befriend. Value your friendships, value what your friends give up for you, value the reliance your friends have on you, value the moments of silence when nothing needs be said, value the moments shared over coffee, walking to the beach, having half conversations with children interrupting you, the times you cry together and the times where you need to be the shoulder that they cry on, value the times where your friend chose you to call, value the times. Just value the times that you get to spend together, even when you are doing nothing all. Find value in sharing the sweet scent of friendship.

Wednesday, 28 January 2015

Sounds of Silence



People talking without speaking
People listening without hearing
People writing songs that voices never share
and no one dared
Disturb the sounds of silence

Sounds of Silence by Paul Simon (1964)

This picture was one that I grew up with. It hung in my parents room and I was often lost in the tone and composition of the picture. It is from PIcasso's blue period and was composed when he was mourning the loss of a dear friend. This painting does not remind me of the loss of friends but rather the loss of myself.

Loneliness is an interesting concept to consider, normally it would be viewed as being alone or lacking any company. This of course is something that as a mother I often wish for. I often wonder what the different forms of loneliness can be that are experienced beyond just a simple physical definition. 

Last year I visited New York City. At first it is a city that deceives you with its lights, busyness, chatter, noise, street shops and people trying to sell you things from all directions. It was easy to spot the tourists, their eyes were dazed in wonder at the sights around them. But looking deeper into the crowd there were the faces that focused on their destination, there were the homeless that wondered what seemed aimlessly and in Central Park amidst the couples snuggling on the luscious green grass were the people sitting by themselves on the bench feeding pigeons. In a city of so many people it would be easy to begin to feel lonely, although you are constantly surrounded by people there can also be a sense of isolation. Silence in the noise.

Isolation is a very lonely place to be. One form of isolation that I have personally experienced is that of Anxiety. I have always been an anxious person, however, it has become harder as I have gained more responsibility in my life. In my anxiety I have often found myself walking a double edged sword. On one side I crave human company that will help me feel like I am significant, not just another face in the crowd. However, on the other side I can often allow my anxiety to create barriers with people. I want to crawl up and be left alone. In moments of anxiety I feel isolated and excluded. Loneliness seeps into my thoughts and creates a perpetual feeling of hopelessness. 

I love this painting. It is of course sad and the turned back of the woman to the viewer shows a definite separation between the artist and the subject. However, this was a very common pose of models when studying forms in art schools. Subject matter so simple is given so much depth in Picasso's choice of colour and the boldness of outline that defines the space of the subject. The subject has no reference point and is suspended within her own isolation. 

This artwork reminds me of the calm that comes during moments of hopelessness. Anxiety will always be something that I have to manage, it will never cease to plague my mind, however, there is always the calm that comes as my husband comforts me, as my friends send messages to check on me, as I make the choice to immerse myself in the joys of life, as I pray for God to comfort and alleviate my mind and also when I walk along the beach. 

Loneliness is something we will all feel at some point, whether it be in childhood, teenage years, work life, marriage, singleness, separation and old age. As we walk the double edged sword in these moments, we also have the power to choose to reach out and ask for that help we so desperately need. 

Thursday, 22 January 2015

She's a Full-On Monet


Tai: Do you think she's pretty? 
Cher: No, she's a full-on Monet. 
Tai: What's a monet? 
Cher: It's like a painting, see? From far away, it's OK, but up close, it's a big old mess.

Clueless (1995)

Who would have thought that such words of wisdom would exit the mouth of a teenage cult film of the 90's. The words of the film touch closer on reality than perhaps first perceived. In my love of art I have visited many art galleries and stood close to paintings similar to a Monet. For me there is much beauty at a distance and close up. The close up is not a big old mess, but rather a reflection on reality. Beauty found in chaos. 

At a distance we look into the lives of everyone around us. We see what others have or how others live and easily think that what we have boring, dull, wearisome in comparison. There is a part of us that wishes we could have the life we do not have. From a distance we are deceived, chaos forming a picture of perfection that really does not reflect the close-up. Up close we can begin to see the strokes that are erratic, leading in many directions. We can see the cracks that slowly appear in something that has been withstanding time. What we see up close is reality. It is not neat, it is messy. There is merely a slight outline of the possibilities that may come, however, the brush strokes and colours mix with an appearance of independence. Our lives are only somewhat controlled by our own decisions, most often our decisions are dictated by the chaos that surrounds us. 

I am a full-on Monet. From a distance many would not see the inner workings of my mind, nor do I let many, people would begin to see the cracks, the insecurities, the scars, the ups and downs, the slight wrinkles that have come with age. I am a big old mess. But there is beauty amongst the mess. There are many colours merging together, and although they don't always form a clear close up, from a distance they form who I am.

The Blue Waterlilies is an artwork that reminds me to refrain from judgement. To avoid coveting the lives of others. Everyone is living out a Monet artwork. There is beauty up close and at a distance, we just need to be open to seeing it for what it really is...A big old mess. But a beautiful old mess.