No truer words 'Don't give up your day job' or as in my case, retire, until... Well, I retired anyway. In my retirement I bit the bullet! I finally confronted my fears and decided to make use of a gift certificate from a friend. It was no ordinary gift certificate for it required that I undertake two art lessons. My immediate thought that my friend was obviously just as crazy as me. What was she thinking? I had no artistic skill of which I was aware. Hence, the many months between the gifting and the redeeming. What an experience! My first introduction to the lesson was a gathering of fellow art students over coffee and morning tea. No issues with the experience at that point. However, this was followed by a group movement session where music played and we danced. Next, the donning of aprons, a selection of materials and a tall easel stood before me. Charcoal was not a medium of choice for I knew of its dusty qualities. My teacher started me with charcoal. I was confronted by an A1 sized, sheet of chart paper. I dearly desired to create something that would make both my friend and I proud. Within minutes I had filled the sheet with black lines, swirls and circles. A second and third sheet soon followed and I was surely on my way to becoming a 5 minute wonder.
The second lesson was much more adventurous where I opted to experiment with paint. I discovered that painting outside allows one to be in touch with the elements but soon realised that the wind dried the materials too quickly for me to build the textures that I sought to incorporate in to my work. Still unfinished I took it home where I added black, oil pastels to highlight the dominant features of the visual text. Then, I remembered an app on my Ipad! Lightbulb moment! PhotoBooth! So much fun capturing the originals and applying the Photo Booth functions to each. X-ray, light tunnel, stretch, twirl, thermal, kaleidoscope and squeeze provided whimsical images of the originals. This led me to the question what constitutes a work of art? Photo Booth images are they works of art or simply outcomes of a camera lens design function?
Is one justified in claiming each as an artwork in its own right or is it failing to acknowledge the camera as the master artist when applying Photo Booth?
The additional dimensions provided by Photo Booth presented very different texts from the originals. In fact, I believe that the thermal images were perhaps my favourite. Since the two lessons I have created other works of art and seek to expand on my very limited skills.
I have a box of implements where I store a potato masher, brushes, charcoal, cardboard off cuts, pencils, paints, a roller, sponges, a screen of florist netting and much more. I may never be a real artist nor will I be able to answer the poignant questions about what constitutes art or if I should have retired. What I will achieve is satisfaction that I have framed my completed works and they are proudly displayed in my home and for the first time not on the back of the toilet door. Thank you to my 'crazy' friend and my husband for his patience.
The wind sprung up suddenly, as if powered by a switch. The apartment lights dimmed and faded to darkness. I glanced at the clock. It was just before five. Despite the early hour winter's gloom descended like a shroud covering the room. Emergency lighting illuminated only a tiny circle of the ceiling above the door.
No sense of urgency yet. Surely, it was just a tripped fuse. Gianluca snuggled in to his blanket, oblivious to the scene unfolding across the village.
Small, red flames flickered in the firebox stationed in the centre of the lounge room. I shivered. Unvoiced thoughts considered the possibility of a long afternoon without power. The infant wrapped in his blanket was now totally reliant on that firebox for an unknown period of time.
I gathered firewood methodically from the stack, outside the front doors. Two, huge piles of the sweet, raw timber soon lined either side of the hearth. A type of insurance before darkness fell completely. At the very least if the blackout persisted a well stoked fire would ensure some degree of warmth.
Kirstie showered and dressed knowing well the challenges of running a restaurant without power. It was to be a special night where some guests had scheduled birthday celebrations whilst others booked and determined to enjoy the beginning of a long weekend.
Hasty conversations with Kirstie suggested that the emergency lighting had recently been serviced so three hours should have been sufficient for linesmen intervention and the village to be rebooted. Despite that assurance I had an overwhelming sense of foreboding and nodded my understanding trying to ignore my misgivings.
Wrapped in a blue duffel, coat she bade farewell. She was going to see what she could do to help out in the restaurant.
The absence of power made restaurant service especially interesting. Gas stoves supported food preparation. Chef had donned his headlamp. He resembled a miner from years gone by. The image jarred for it made no sense. What an unusual figure he presented dressed in his apron, long black pants, the whitest of coats and his headlamp. Comical, but obviously professional; Michael, not daunted to cook for thirty plus guests by lamplight and emergency lighting.
Candles dotted the restaurant. An atmosphere most pleasing to the guests who'd assembled prior to dinner. Warming themselves by the log fire with glasses of wine in hand they shared convivial banter unperturbed by the blackout.
Back in the apartment the wind seemed to be blowing more vigorously. Perhaps it was just my imagination? Somewhere a draft delivered cold blasts of air to the feet. Sadly, insufficient light to fully explore likely entry points. Certainly, the cold fingers of wind stretching for my feet demanded my attention. Surely the French doors to the balcony were the culprit for the room was cooler by their junction with the floor.
Large, beige cushions festooned the lounge. not seeking or awaiting approval they were plucked and jammed at the foot of the framed doors hopefully thwarting the icy claws persisting against their fibre.
The infant wrapped and snuggled for now would have needs later that would require forethought and planning, should the power not arrive on this coldest of nights.
A kitchen bench doubled as a change table for it was closest to the small glimmer of emergency lighting. Nappies and wipes sorted. The ingenious new, bottle-like feeding bag superior to other types but tricky to assemble in the poor light.
Only one candle graced the apartment so best not to light that until absolutely necessary. Fortunately, I made a call close to the three hour mark and lit the candle. A candle designed more for its fragrant properties rather than emergency lighting. Shadows cast by the firelight danced eerily on the walls as the tiny circle of overhead light vanished.
Sometime later, the front doors signalled Kirstie's return with my dinner. Her arrival warned of snow flurries. Snow flurries excited me rather than concerned me and for a short time I forgot my earlier misgivings.
In the candlelight I ate a delicious dinner of salmon and ratatouille. A welcome diversion. Dim lighting made for a romantic dinner for one. I was pleased that my mood and spirits had lifted despite the wind whipping gusts of freezing air at the windows.
Gianluca slept on, unaware of the snow outside. This was his first winter and his first snow experience. At seven weeks too young to appreciate the magic unfolding outside.
Quietly, sitting alone by the fire, I willed it to still be snowing when we woke tomorrow. Outside it was blacker than black making the snow flurries invisible except to the touch. Skin noted the silent flakes as they drifted on the wind.
Time for bed. Ipad screen the only lighting source back to my room. The old school's corridor in the scholar's loft apartments seemed longer than usual and strange in
the blackness. Key entry most difficult in the dark. Sense of touch as my fingers sought the lock's metal jaws. Its form unrecognisable; just memory guiding its passage to gain access.
Success. The key turned confidently in its cylinder.
Memory suggested a few steps to the staircase. Tentative, blind sweeps with my out stretched arm located the handrail to my bedroom upstairs. A smooth handrail gripped in one hand and on the other a finger poised on a small white screen directed each footfall. The last steps rushed as my foot located the bed's quilt. That huge bed calling the evening's slumber. A slumber in deep folds of warmth beckoned.
A slumber that was soon interrupted, for a storm that had been developing for hours brought thunder, more wind and snow. Thunder rumbled deeply from the mountains surrounding the village and travelled in shock waves in and about every building. Wind lashed the conifers. I peered through the glass, straining to see and trusting Mother Nature to vent this night. I urged thoughts of sleep, to drown out the ever present gale circling the village.
Not to be disappointed I awoke to a gentle rapping on my door. I had finally slept soundly and comfortably for several hours beneath the warmest bed linen for the room's electric heater no hero in a blackout.
What to wear? Every layer of clothing for my bed linen was abandoned for the day's activities.
No power yet. A persistent blackout indeed. Morning shower none. Coffee desired but that morning ritual required some minor changes. A saucepan filled and installed on the hearth for the sole purpose for delivering steaming water for that morning moment and the aroma of fresh coffee.
A watched pot never boils so I had time to survey the grounds and the results of the night's storm. Little snow remained on the ground. Snowy footprints marked my steps from the apartment to the fence line. Fascinated to see those shapes had harshly ground the gentle flakes beneath the soles of my shoes. I wondered how long they'd remain telling others that I had ventured beyond the apartment's doors. Totally unaware of the momentary reprieve and the impending snow showers that were to be chased by blue skies throughout the morning into the afternoon.
Picturesque vistas towards scholars and the camping area awed my vision.Trees robust in every limb revealed dusting's of powdery snow. Unconcerned trees that had weathered harsher winters than this provided a modicum of shelter from snow now falling. This snow was different for its determined efforts to claw back the white blanket. A blanket that looked at risk of melting a few, brief moments ago.
Rapid changes in the sky hurled large flakes down to the earth where I stood watching. No longer gentle Mother Nature marked the occasion with sustained snow showers topping roofs, pathways and even fountains with its freezing breath. Buildings and distant cottages appeared to delight in the snowy brilliance.
A vengeful dusting obliterated my earlier footsteps. Had I inadvertently angered Mother Nature? Once more the snow boasted a perfect unscathed carpet. Its soft powder not revealing early morning trekkers. Pristine once again.
Greener pastures greeted the traveller as they crossed the countryside. Travellers who followed the well worn journeys of many others. Large dinosaur-like skeletons controlled the greening of paddocks. Those dinosaur skeletons rolled across the earth to deliver much needed water to nourish the parched ground so unlike that we had seen earlier on the western plains. Robust, steel, skeletons towered over their domains.
Then, finally, a sign with printed blue, iconic symbols indicated that The Great Ocean Road stretched ahead.
Tourists flocked to signed vantage points. Hostile waves each with white crests pounded the shoreline. Cliffs were silently being re shaped as people stood at viewing platforms. Some cliffs were rough and jagged like shattered glass shards. Others stood smooth and straight as if carved by a master craftsman. Delicate sediments succumbed to the will of the incessant waves. Only time revealed the relentless invasion of the coast. Rusty red hues weakened and gradually fell to their knees before such might.
Tourists cameras clicked rapidly. Cameras captured images of the tortured headlands and islands. None considered that history would only remember them in photographs snapped years ago by nameless tourists. Each lens created memories of colossal landmarks. Landmarks that inspired awe. Natural beauty not mimicked in photo shopped computer screens.
Each car park led to new vistas. Sea, water, waves and coastline reached beyond the horizon.
Pudding, what an unfortunate name for a dog? She was a Christmas gift. There was much debate about a name with only one dissenter to the unflattering Pudding. All others argued that Pudding seemed to suit the festive occasion. Pudding is playful and friendly. At times she must be reminded that she is not human. In the past she loved to ride a skateboard at the beach near Merewether with her owner, Chris. Recently Chris had to move interstate so now she lives in a more rural setting. To be certain Pudding misses her weekly cafe visits to Derby Street where all passers-by stopped and chatted to her. Her adoring public must wonder where she is and what she is doing. Sometimes one knows when they have to leave the limelight behind and enjoy the wide open spaces of an acreage. One particular advantage of the more rural lifestyle is that the burial of bones is much easier with less concrete under foot or perhaps more correctly, under paw.
Just another fine excuse to come together with friends for dinner. The Murder Mystery theme encouraged creative dress decisions and cemented the relationships of those invited to test their skills of deduction. Each character was provided with a scripted and brief analysis of their role as the evening progressed. The only rule was that no one could lie. However, as with rules, there was always an exception and that was that the murderer was permitted to lie during the final act. I am pleased to report that while I was not the murderer I did know 'who done it.
Stephen and I were watching the movie, A Trip To Italy last weekend. The movie prompted us to book a table at our local and favourite Trattoria, Lillino's. A quick call to Valentina had secured us a table for dinner. Having had no lunch, the images of the meals showcased in the movie had fostered a hunger for traditional Italian cooking. Later, over a dinner of shared plates, each piled with steaming pasta we agreed that we needed to do some home cooking, Italian style. When we arrived home hurried invitations were emailed to friends inviting them to join us in creating some pasta dishes of our own. Dishes that would allow us to reminisce about our travels.
Jeni, Alain, Stephen and I measured flour, rolled dough and cranked handles on a pasta machine before hanging our efforts out to dry. On a side note, the handle of the pasta machine had the unnerving habit of falling out of its socket and clanging to the floor. It was more a product design fault rather than issues due to its inexperienced operators.
A previously gifted pasta dryer was extremely helpful in drying the strips of pasta. In the past, when we had made pasta we had no fabulous plastic tower, complete with lifter and it was hung on clothes hangers about the kitchen. The completed cuisine was particularly tasty. The best fun was in the meal's creation and in the making of happy memories.
The empty wine bottle fell into the recycling bin, along with the torn pizza packet. I looked skyward as the bottle struck another at the bottom of the bin. It chimed, like only glass can.
I was so disappointed. This is not what I wanted. Rain tapped gently on the tiles. I could already hear water flowing into the tank at the side of the house. The gravel and brown earth barely wet but obviously enough rain to make its way from the tiles to the newly painted gutters and then into the tank's thirsty mouth.
I wanted a storm. A storm with torrents of rain heralded by thunder claps that rattled windows and shook foundations. There was something about lightning bolts that cracked and shattered the night sky with their silver fingers of crazed light that tantalised. Lightning tongues that licked the earth I willed to come.
I wanted to raise the blinds to the tops of the windows and look out through the dark, waiting for the rumble to be followed by an eerie light show that would momentarily illuminate the neighbour's yards. The need to see the waters rushing across the grass, then across the road drains at the bottom of the hill. Drains that could not be seen for they were so troubled with weeds.
To stand and wait for each explosion of colour to bring relief from the blackened sky. For rooftops and trees to shine where wet rain had drenched their features. To see the neighbour's storm water creating jets like burst water mains pouring onto the lawn.
Instead I lazed briefly on the lounge, restless for the storm to bring closure to my day. Feeling unsettled I roamed the hallway looking into every room. Searching for something to challenge my interest to bring about a break in my weather.
In the first room the treadmill stood silent in one corner. No feet had walked its panels for months or maybe even years. Opposite it a sofa couch designed to provide respite for the exercise enthusiast. Bright cushions punctuated it's grey fabric. Soft furnishings to entice and to stimulate energetic participation in walking to nowhere had not met their target. Foliage of every hue outside the windows suggested the inside merged with the inner world, framed by this room.
A second room had its agenda firmly designed for sleep. Black, iron, bars welded to an arc at one end was festooned with no fewer than six pillows. Each precisely placed and plumped for restful slumber. Tall bedside lamps with velvety, green shades sat on each side of the bed. Small metal and wood framed tables with glass tops allowed me to see through to the carpet underneath.
My walk had not yet injected inspiration and nor did the final bedroom from this hallway. This hallway was no substitute for the storm I sought to rid myself of a nightfall malaise.
With tempered steps I returned to the lounge. I soon drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow I knew that I would wake with promise.
Today is my tomorrow. It brought me to lunch at a local restaurant in the vineyard, just a short drive from home, along the highway to Lovedale. Lovedale, the area where tourists first meet the rows of trellises. Some vines still clinging to bunches of grapes long past picking schedules. Now waiting to wither, dry and fall back to earth from whence they grew. Others had proudly offered their bounty before summer storms rendered them useless. Roses bloomed at the beginning of each row. Their job to alert the vigneron to possible disease. The same roses had not been able to prevent the hail that harassed the delicate grapes into submission one summer afternoon.
Matthew and I seeking a light lunch turned into the drive of a once favourite restaurant and parked with ease. We were a little early for the Sydney visitors to be crowding for tables so it was a quiet and relaxed dining experience. Choices there were many. Today's fare a mixed platter of smoked duck breast, chutney, chicken terrine, thinly sliced, air dried beef, pistachio salami, smoked cheddar, rocket salad with a side dish of Cajun potatoes. Our wine was a local Chardonnay that supported the variety of flavours in a most pleasing manner.
Conversation over lunch noted the success of casual dining and the creation of platters when entertaining. No banging of pots in the kitchen, stirring mixing or plating when platters had been prepped before the arrival of guests. Mental note to self to do this again soon with a group of friends where we could all sit and enjoy banter without the intrusion of watching over a hot stove.
Across the table I watched Matthew as he made his selections from the platter. As a couple this platter worked well for it allowed each of us to partake of preferred options without due conflict. Shared meals where another cooked was a pleasure. Matthew savoured the variety that a charcuterie platter offered. Terrines, one of his personal favourites.
While I sat and typed I yearned that in writing this I could find a perspective that resolved thoughts and secured them whence there could be no return. To put them in a vault where no key or the biggest storm would open the box of memories.
No truer words 'Don't give up your day job' or as in my case, retire, until... Well, I retired anyway. In my retirement I bit the bullet! I finally confronted my fears and decided to make use of a gift certificate from a friend. It was no ordinary gift certificate for it required that I undertake two art lessons. My immediate thought that my friend was obviously just as crazy as me. What was she thinking? I had no artistic skill of which I was aware. Hence, the many months between the gifting and the redeeming. What an experience! My first introduction to the lesson was a gathering of fellow art students over coffee and morning tea. No issues with the experience at that point. However, this was followed by a group movement session where music played and we danced. Next, the donning of aprons, a selection of materials and a tall easel stood before me. Charcoal was not a medium of choice for I knew of its dusty qualities. My teacher started me with charcoal. I was confronted by an A1 sized, sheet of chart paper. I dearly desired to create something that would make both my friend and I proud. Within minutes I had filled the sheet with black lines, swirls and circles. A second and third sheet soon followed and I was surely on my way to becoming a 5 minute wonder. 
The second lesson was much more adventurous where I opted to experiment with paint. I discovered that painting outside allows one to be in touch with the elements but soon realised that the wind dried the materials too quickly for me to build the textures that I sought to incorporate in to my work. Still unfinished I took it home where I added black, oil pastels to highlight the dominant features of the visual text. Then, I remembered an app on my Ipad! Lightbulb moment! PhotoBooth! So much fun capturing the originals and applying the Photo Booth functions to each. X-ray, light tunnel, stretch, twirl, thermal, kaleidoscope and squeeze provided whimsical images of the originals. This led me to the question what constitutes a work of art? Photo Booth images are they works of art or simply outcomes of a camera lens design function?
Is one justified in claiming each as an artwork in its own right or is it failing to acknowledge the camera as the master artist when applying Photo Booth? 
The additional dimensions provided by Photo Booth presented very different texts from the originals. In fact, I believe that the thermal images were perhaps my favourite. Since the two lessons I have created other works of art and seek to expand on my very limited skills.
