Month: April 2016

There is so much about the world we know about and if we didn’t, we certainly have resources to find out.  But how often do we reflect on what lies within?  How do we explore that unknown terrain?  At what point in childhood did we hear a voice that said certain doors will remain closed and inaccessible?  Somewhere in memory, I have retained this because I often feel, I’m incapable.

As a child I had a burning desire to be an airline stewardess (terminology of the day) or a surgeon.  I was not a beauty queen but my lofty and incompatible ambitions resembled those heard from the most ‘beautiful’ women in the world.  My ambitions were crushed when I was told (in that era), women could not be surgeons.  So I focused on joining the airline only to be dissuaded by my mother because I did not meet the subjectivity of glamour associated with the profession.  Decades later I was on a plane with a frightened child behind me who was travelling alone.  Hearing her squealing in fear at take off, I reached over and held her hand.  I asked the crew if she could sit with me and spent the whole flight drawing with her.  I have never enjoyed a six year old’s company more than I did that day.  We engaged in a game of guess my drawing.  As I disembarked the crew thanked me warmly.  They asked me if I was a teacher or nurse.  I am neither.  When I told them my profession, one of the ladies said, “Oh! that’s what I wanted to do at university but found out I could not get the grades I needed”.  I smiled and told her, she was doing what I wanted to do, decades earlier.  She was tall, slender, beautiful, charming.  I am not.  Yet, we had both found what lies within.

I’ve always regretted not having the skills to be a painter.  I woke this morning and realised it is an odd regret.  I really don’t know if I can paint, or not.  I’ve never tried.  But, I have the urge to pick up a paintbrush, swirl it through colour and apply it to canvas.  I usually feel this way when I am in the north of the State.  Yet, I know from experience, painting what you find there, is an audacious act.  Even for skilled and talented artists.  They never capture the true vibrancy of colours.  When they come close to it, their attempt looks garish.  Almost cheap.  The canvas you pick up randomly at market stalls. But I have found some with talent who paint the still life of gorges, wildlife, birdlife, and portraits of people who live here.  Perhaps, they too have come to realise, sunrise and sunset is best left to Nature to put on her canvas.

Indigenous artists take a different approach.  They do ‘dot’ painting.  It is abstract.  It is interpretive, for artist and art lover.  But then, isn’t art interpretive?  Finding meaning.  Finding connection.  Between artist and subject.  Between artist and viewer.  Like my little companion on the flight.  She did not draw a tree.  She drew a Christmas tree.  One with coloured baubles and stars that didn’t shine, except in her words.  And, presents, big presents under the tree.  People are creative spirits.  We seek to connect.  We seek to dream.  It is in human nature to do this.  It is survival.  Whatever the choice of medium.

Photography is instinctive and interpretive as well.  I have a visceral response to almost everything I see on Cable Beach, Broome.  The russet pindan cliffs are a perfect backdrop to the sea.  They ignite at sunset.  The early morning sun rises behind them and highlights a colour palette in the rocky outcrops.  It takes your breath away.  The iconic camels languidly walking back home with keeper, blend in and yet, distinctive too.  For an unattractive creature with asymmetrical features and cranky disposition, they certainly have a sexy, slow rhythmic walk!  They are mesmerising to watch.

I’m planning a few days of rest up north in the coming weeks.  I need to be in a natural art gallery again.

For now, I’m headed back on the road.  Until we meet again …

As always,

a dawn bird

I’m in Busselton, just a short 45 minute drive further south from Bunbury.  It takes me an hour and twenty minutes due to road works.  I have carried the misery of gridlocked city traffic with me to the country.  I work the day steadily.  By four pm the stress of early delay catches up with me.  A long monotonous trip home is shelved and I decide to make this place home for a night.

On a previous trip I succumbed to the seduction of Geographe Bay, and return to it.  My heart skips a beat.  It is blue as his eye when I get to its shore.  Soon, I, along with a seagull, watch it turn from sedate as silver to brashy show time at sunset.

I wake before the sun, dress in the dark, work for an hour and leave my room hurriedly.  I am not the first one at the Bay, now serene as a nun, amid the cacophony of raucous Little Corellas.  Three workers in high viz clothing are a vivid splash against the grey sombre.  A carer and an elderly lady in a wheelchair are there too, talking in hushed tones.  They have been here for a while.  A half eaten plate of home made sandwiches sits on the stone wall before them.  A father, power walking his infant in a stroller, leaves the mother home to catch up on sleep.  An experience I know well from years ago and a time of my life that brings with it mixed emotion.  I am still uncertain whether the end of a long relationship was meant to be punitive.  But I do know, like a seagull, I walk away from the memory of it, head held high.

I have come to visit royalty of this region, the Busselton Jetty.  The 1.8 km jetty, the longest in the Southern Hemisphere, is a good walk at any time.  It curves lightly, like a genteel arm, across the shoulder of the Bay.  Like me, another photographer packs away gear and leaves reluctantly.

I decide to treat myself to breakfast at The Goose on the shores of the Bay.  It is perfect!  I share the moment instinctively with a friend thousands of km away.  I find equilibrium again.  The incongruity of timeless Motown beats in the background is just an added bonus.  Fascinated by their simplicity, which some regard as blandness, I watch seagulls.  They are a constant reminder to me, ordinary can be perfect, and, especially when silhouetted against the most glamorous of backgrounds.  Yes, despite all odds, I am happy.  When my earthly journey ends, I want my children to know I am still travelling, and as before, chasing sunrises, sunsets and seagulls.

The South West of this State nurtures me.  I have been convinced for years, if my vital signs were checked just past Windich Bridge, they would read within the normal range.  I love the lifestyle of fresh produce, less reliance on super markets, beaches (although you can find them anywhere along the coast of WA, they seem more accessible regionally), and diversity of birdlife.  It is an easier pace.  I also know should I leave the city, I will never return.  Ambivalent it may be, but I have a relationship with Perth.  It has been home for over forty years.  Walking away is a major decision.  But, I have walked away before, holding the hands of little children, and with the crushing weight of love in my heart.

I started my business with the phrase leave the ordinary behind.  Perhaps I need to give serious thought to applying it to other areas of my life.  I offer a silent toast to this option sipping the last drops in the mason jug, aptly, or perhaps, prophetically named, ‘Happiness’ (beetroot, orange and lemon).

For now, there’s more travel, more photographs, more words to come … until then,

As always,

a dawn bird