I’ve been thinking about how uniquely artists see the world. And before I go any further, I recently realised how often I use the phrase ‘I’ve been thinking ….’ Do most of us have oft-used phrases unique to ourselves. And what do these phrases say about us? Plenty I would imagine. I know I am a thinker.
So, I’ve been thinking ….. about how painters see their subject matter. From my experience, as a painter years ago, I saw the world in shapes of light and shadow. And sometimes there were tones, in between and around. Am I generalising, or maybe just talking about me?
And what about photographers? There are a myriad of ways they see the world. I am drawn to the work of Alex Frayne – a South Australian photographer. Reminiscent of the works of Edward Hopper and Jeffrey Smart – painters, Alex can create moods of loneliness, stillness, isolation. I am intrigued to think of how he finds these scenes. How long does he have to wait for the picture to be right – for there to be a lull in traffic, and a pause of pedestrians, so that there is an empty street, or maybe one with a very ordinary looking person in just the right place to create the atmosphere he wants. In these photographs it’s as if the planet is almost devoid of human life.
Hopper’s and Smart’s paintings offer us the same atmosphere – this sense of loneliness and melancholy, mystery. Their sharply defined industrial and urban landscapes take us into this strange world – their way of seeing it.
I have just finished reading Alain de Botton’s ‘The Course of Love.’ This is a wonderful work of fiction about a relationship between two people – from first meeting, falling in love, courting, onto marriage and co-habitation. It tells of how the nature of a relationship changes with domesticity, juggling home duties around two full time careers, and how drastically it changes again with the arrival of babies. All through the intriguing story, de Botton philosophises about each stage. So on every page there is a paragraph of analysing what is happening to this couple – looking at their childhoods, their lives, losses, hurts before they met each other. I have always been interested in human behaviour and so I found this book hard to put down. But what I want to say also is that some writers (or good writers) see the tiny details of life all around them.
An excerpt from Alain de Botton’s book to give an example –
‘Rabih first sees the girl by the water slide. She is about a year younger than him, with chestnut hair, cut short like a boy’s, olive skin and slender limbs. She is wearing a striped sailor top, blue shorts and a pair of lemon-yellow flip-flops.’ (Not just yellow, but lemon-yellow! How vivid does this make the picture?). ‘There’s a thin leather band around her right wrist. She glances over at him, pulls what may be a half-hearted smile and rearranges herself on her deck-chair. For the next few hours, she looks pensively out to sea, listening to her Walkman and, at intervals, biting her nails. …………………………….. He has never felt anything remotely like this before. The sensation overwhelms him from the first. ………………………… Over the coming days, he observes her from a distance around the hotel: at breakfast in a white dress with a floral hem, fetching yoghurt and a peach from the buffet ……………..’
What fabulous observations. He has noticed these sorts of things in the world to be able to weave them into his story.
My daughter pointed out to me recently that I have been creative in blocks, or phases of my life. I know that the strongest and most consistent has been writing. I’ve had my painting block, my singing/song-writing block, my photography block. It may be a ‘been there, done that’ philosophy, or just making room and time for that which I am most passionate about. Photography is still there in smaller ways.
I am delighted to have learned that one of our Barossa artists is hoping to establish a poets’ huddle. The first gathering has been organised for the 9th of July, and I have been invited to read. I am looking forward to being with fellow poets again. It’s been a long time, and at times one tends to cry out – ‘Is there anybody out there?’ But the truth is, I have allowed myself to be solitary in the way of poetry, and only now, having had someone else with the drive to organise something, can I look forward to being in the presence of others. I do have a close friend who is a poet. Our poetry is very different from one another’s, and when we were younger we used to get together and share our work on a regular basis. Rita will be reading at the gathering as well.
I now have to choose what poems to share. A lot of poetry is obscure and abstract. I will be looking for something that people won’t have to work too hard at. I think for performance poetry it’s better to choose something easily grasped in the moment. To have the luxury of reading a poem, one has time to comprehend the meaning of it.
So I have been going through my files and found this one. I wonder if it would be suitable to read on the day.
RACHEL’S WATCH
Look at Rachel now
Sidling into new bright colours
constant sandals
treading polished floors of galleries and halls
Sad glazed eyes discern the metal folds
in robes of old bronze men
and under spells of ancient art they wander off
like grazing cows in spring
Look at Rachel turning
A solitude surrounds her
keeping charlatans away
and autumns
creatures baring sharp cold teeth
and lies
Tortured soul flies high
to each sun’s new horizon
zooming in on dialogues of lovers lifting daydreams
onto mountains marked by seasons
See her torn soul skimming paradise
and zooming in to issue fervent warning
Look at Rachel’s pacing
restless pacing tracing footsteps
into solid independence
wearing raincoats rugs
and memory’s warm raiment
Look at Rachel probing pools of stagnant inspiration
drowning
almost drowning
grief’s dark waters freezing dreams
and a poet’s stranded rhythms
erasing every trace of pure perpetuation
Rachel stumbles homeward
weary body spilling logic
like a steamboat shedding jetsam
into sorrow’s sea
Glimpse of destination’s wide beam
Land ho
Lowered topsail
but ebb of tide exposing reef of weeping souls too late
No way round them
Rachel’s barque submerging
Golden cargo drifting surely just beyond her reach
Ridge of rife souls calls her crew
like mothers bringing children in for sleep
Rachel watches mornings mad with birdsong
laughing into valley’s bowels still dark with fading night
Voices run in relay
relay
relay
and soon return with prophecies
and sunlight softly filling gaps
and hollows gouged with grief
Voices
Two
now three and rising
in perimeters of space as wide as wishing
urge her on to chorus strength
and then abandon Rachel’s morning
leaving Rachel’s sounds to fill a valley’s age old yearning
Artists, songwriters, poets are sometimes asked ‘What is this work about?’ I’d say let the work speak for itself. Enjoy its rhythms, innuendos, shapes, colours. Make of them what you will. They say art is often born of pain, and so understandably guarded in the psyche of its creator.
Well dear readers, that’s it for today. The day is growing dark and even colder. I must rug up, go down to check on my dear little silkie hens and rooster, fill the wheelbarow with firewood for the evening, then perhaps pour myself a glass of good Barossa Shiraz.
Warmly,
Sue
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