An Abundance of Artists

This post has been nearly two weeks in anticipation... I kept trying to draw a line underneath the narrative and write "The End", but instead we kept welcoming new artists through the door. Artists who have joined us instantly, artists who are still developing a portfolio, artists who are searching for a new home, Artists-in-Residence who have come and gone and even Mister James Rodoreda, watercolourist who didn't believe he was an artist until we hung three of his paintings in the Gallery yesterday morning. James' sidekick Rosie certainly agrees with us that James has absolutely earned his place here in the East End Gallery.

So, what makes an artist? In our Gallery, we believe that every sort of artist makes the world go round. So we have poets, writers, performance artists, card-makers, photographers, textile artists, glass artists, wood sculptors, ceramic sculptors, metal sculptors, plaster sculptors, woodwork craftspeople, drawing artists, oils, acrylic and watercolour painters, pencil artists, pastel artists, potters, quilters, teeshirt artists, jewellery creators, a leadlight artist, soap and bath tea makers, silk artists, felt artists, a scary skulls (!) artist, young artists (aged twelve and fourteen) and last but not least my beloved Michael, for whom the East End Gallery started as a dream to have somewhere to create and display his found metal artwork stories.

We took a day off this week and trundled down the Great Southern Highway to Pingelly, where friend and artist (of course) Di Mainwaring is working hard towards opening her own studio. We were blown away by the depth of her talents across a variety of media and as a bonus, she fed us lunch at their gorgeous little cottage that has also been transformed by their efforts. I was flabbergasted by the improvement of her previously nervous nelly, Brynn the Border Collie, who is now far and away better behaved than Stella! Di is looking for artists to join her, so if you are interested, drop by her developing masterpiece of her studio next door to the cafe on Pingelly's main drag.

The last few Artists Playdays have bordered on the riotous. Yesterday was no different with four artists gathered around the table all delightedly labouring away of their projects of choice. What a fantastic concept that we thought up. We were joined by brank spanking new Artist-in-Resident Michele Scott and later still by Greg and Macca. We all adjourned to our courtyard and rocked on into the night. Dogs Stella, Rosie, Pip and Macca were pretty well behaved as the conversation flowed and the laughter rang out. Dinner was a non-event after everybody left. We just fell into bed.

We continue to marvel at our life here in Heavenly Beverley. We have a tribe of fabulous friends, a Gallery packed with over a hundred innovative artists and their art pieces and a town that continues to astonish visitors who have never been here.

And after this year's COVID restrictions, we would like to thank each and every one of our guests in the Gallery and those who support us online.

Perhaps I should have called this post an Overflowing of Artists!

No photo of Antonio Rodrigues yet!

Arlene Puddy

Kenneth Irwin

Verena Marmion

Celeste Mouritzen

Denese Borlini with alfoil and coffee filter paper dog...

Latest Artist-in-Residence Michele Scott

Michael with "Discarded Dreams 2"

Di Mainwaring (right) with best buddy Mandy

Brynn

Images of Di's works -

Artists' Playdays -

The Gallery and Giftshop 20 November 2020

Jan with Rosie.

They're A Weird Mob...

Attempting to be a "social commentator", I am sincerely hoping not to put my foot in my mouth by writing this post.  Because the world seems to have been consumed by the US election (and I have been following this subject with keen interest), I thought I might add my two cents worth. Maybe my observations won't even rate that highly (!), so I am happy to stand corrected. For more understanding of this situation, I would really welcome feedback from the readers of this blog, preferably those with American connections. 

"They're a Weird Mob" was actually an Australian novel set in the post-war period. Our hero, Nino, was an Italian journo dispatched to the Antipodes to write about Australians and their way of life for an Italian audience who might wish to emigrate. He quickly discovered that there was a vast chasm between his knowledge of both the people and the Australian form of English and his reality. I can't help feeling that my understanding of Americans might be as discombobulated as Nino's of Australians.

My view of Americans and the election process has been coloured by access to reliable media coverage. I have tried to engage with the non-partisan press, but that avenue has sometimes been very difficult to navigate. As a result, I started reading those commentators who might be considered on the fringe. Sites such as Medium and WTFJHT (What The F*#k Just Happened Today) have become must-reads to stay informed. CNN and the Observer have been other sources I have explored, along with the Guardian, New Daily and Australia's Independent Media Network (AIMN). Lastly, the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) has been my constant companion as I have tried to muddle my way through the maze of an election that takes up most of an entire year.

The broad character of some Americans that I have witnessed may point them towards a self-fulfilling prophecy of chaotic separatism. Americans seem to be passionately partisan in their thinking, rigid in their views, with the sense of individual rights overriding their decisions. Their patriotism and nationalism (even within their own state boundaries) don't add to communal pride that is constructive for all. 

The universality of affordable health care, education and housing keep being A Bridge Too Far. The debate about gun control polarises the country. Public health messages through the COVID19 disaster are taken as an affront by some and an attack on their human rights. Their lack of knowledge about the rest of the world is mystifying. Are they not interested in becoming people of the world? My opinion about America is of a country that marches to the beat of a different drum but is hesitant to compare itself to other countries objectively in case they are faced with different, awkward and uncomfortable questions about themselves.

The United States? Make America Great Again? Or We Are America? As long as the American Average Joe (no reference to Mister Biden) has a pathological fear of any idea that has a sniff of "Socialism", I can't see how either of these slogans can heal this country. 

Please give me some positive hope that democracy can somehow be resurrected in the (Dis) United States.

Is this how Americans feel?

Is this how some Americans think?

Anybody there?

Can somebody save American democracy?

*sigh*

Excellent advice to us all...

 

Comedic Catastrophes and Other Disasters

Most of the time, Michael and I do not consider ourselves to be completely gaga. Mildly, maybe. Total insanity - not quite yet. However, this assumption was put to the test earlier this week. Monday was a blissful and quiet day at home, no stress, no structure, nirvana after a very busy weekend. We took every advantage of the relaxation as we were facing an early start to the Big Smoke on Tuesday. Michael had another rendezvous with the radiographer, followed by a review with the Boy Wonder of his hand and wrist.

Amazingly, we were out of Station House by eight-thirty. Both of us had woken with a dose of Failure to Launch. I had needed a very long soak in the shower to become somewhat compos mentis. Michael, concerned that his brain left the building, had checked and double-checked which documents he needed to take - the X-ray referral was top of that list. Supposedly armed with all we needed, we were suitably smug as we arrived at the Perth medical centre a tad early. That was the high point of the day.

As I was exiting the car after parking, Michael informed me of a slight issue of concern. He couldn't find his referral. He was sure he had it, somewhere. So we proceeded to look, everywhere. In the car, in my bag, in his pockets. Under the car. No joy. Not a major problem. We were due to see the surgeon Ben Kimberley later in the morning so we were confident we could secure another referral for the pesky X-ray.

That was when the trouble began. The radiology clinic rang Ben's rooms upstairs to source another referral. Ben was not there. Michael then conceded he had not checked every nook and cranny inside the car, so I sent him off with a flea in his ear to properly survey that interior. I travelled two floors upstairs to work out what the hell was going on.

Ben's rooms were empty, except for faithful staffer Anne. I was more than a little unnerved. Confused, Anne explained that Ben was not there. And that she had rung Michael three weeks previously to change the appointment to the following day. The penny dropped. Michael had forgotten to tell me or write down the new appointment, so we had just wasted half a tank of fuel and nearly four hours of travel time for no reason. As a result, we would have to repeat the trip on the following day.

I was livid with disbelief. In my best school ma'am voice, I interrogated Michael about the changed appointment. His face firstly registered blankness, followed by a dawning horror at the awfulness of the situation. He admitted to some faint recollection of a phone call, which he'd promptly delegated to his other ear on its way to the Fifth Dimension.

Naturally, I couldn't stay angry with Michael for very long. Misery was written all over his person. After a fortification of lunch, we decided to organise some brass plaques for Michael's sculptures from a company he hadn't visited for nearly twenty years. Shannon, the proprietor, remembered Michael after a bit of a jog of his memory. They spent a much more cheerful half an hour catching up on the preceding years.

And so we repeated the process all over again yesterday. Off to the Big Smoke. The X-rays were delivered without a hitch. The Boy Wonder, running late, was cautiously pleased with Michael's progress, but still recommended a CATscan to check the murky depths of his wrist.

We stopped at the Midland radiologists to book Michael's CATscan. I was delighted to give them the referral, so Michael couldn't misplace that document. On returning home, we tossed up the choices of taking the dogs for a walk or retiring for an afternoon nap.

Our bed won the contest. And Michael has not been able to find the original referral. I think it has just vanished into Cloud Cuckoo Land along with all those odd socks and random Tupperware lids.

Until next time...

Not...

This is what I felt like saying...

Due to a brain malfunction...

Anybody in command?

How I felt after Tuesday morning's chaos...

And by Wednesday morning, we were back to our unpunctual selves...

We finally saw the Boy Wonder...

And resolved to breathe deeply...

Have a glass of vino...

And accept the conclusion!

A Most Uncomfortable Metaphor...

 As the relentless humidity built in intensity, so did my frenetic activity. I had burnt my bridges, moved across the country to a different climate, different vegetation, different house, different people. So, I was determined to make this radical change work. 

The house I'd bought was low and nondescript, brick and tile. Perched on the high side of the road, I considered flooding a low risk. A sloping front garden to the relatively busy road, a large rambling back yard with a folder clothesline. The previous owner had been a smoker, so I'd painted the children's bedroom's in the final days before moving in. The kitchen benchtop and stove was replaced, ceiling fans added. My parents had bought me new furniture, so any twinge of uncertainty was shooed away by the realisation of how lucky I was. They'd also talked me into trading in my reliable and familiar car for a new and pristine car. As my life was supposed to become...

I was working, Alex was in school, Vanessa was starting a chef's apprenticeship at a pizzeria. All of these enterprises were vaguely unsatisfactory. But once again, I had to look on the bright side, find the silver lining. So, I kept dancing as fast as I could, striving for the perfect outcome. And as the oppressive heat rose, cracks began to appear in my carefully choreographed performance.

The storm eventually broke one afternoon on 1 December 2005. The deluge of rain was a continual drumming, the lightning raw and savage, the thunder ear-splitting. The raindrops were not a gentle splish splosh, rather a wallop of water streaming in an almost solid curtain from the sky to the ground. As I watched, the wall at the neighbouring property acted like the edge of the Niagara Falls, a heavy cascade that was swiftly drenching my brick-paved verandah. I watched the water rise, wondering how I would keep the flow out of the house if it breached the base of the sliding door. Wading through the ankle-deep water outside the door, all my dreams of order and peace seemed to be disappearing beneath the surface.

That afternoon storm dumped two hundred and fifty millilitres of rain over a three hour period. That afternoon also coincided with my realisation that I'd made an awful mistake.

Looking out to that infamous verandah

Yep...

Needed more protection that this...

Actual photograph from that afternoon...

Submarine required...

Seaplane required...