she
taping people from her village
The Peloponnese in an agrarian past
collecting voices that will disappear forever
then standing on this edifice
to look backwards
and then deeper, into the 18th century
now like a roaring train, a novel
the history of Greece, so tragic
she says
another she
doing genealogical research
first the family
the migrations, then back
back to the island
becomes
becomes a whole history
Ithaca
the Venetians
the Turks
the Byzantines
very different, she said
we had war
in one of her windows
the mandarin tree stands
in the centre of a brick paved yard
on another window
the lace curtain
shields the lemon tree
180° of glass
the vlita, the horta in the garden
this beautiful peaceful space
In another window
Skype video
I see them
doing genealogical research
and he also doing genealogical research
and the search on our name
a Byzantine tangle
a clan under the radar
maybe secret Turks or secret Jews
escaping the Inquisition
they had records, you know
the Venetians
so Ithaca is a different matter
I hold up the page of the book
to the Skype camera
this proves there were Couani’s on Kastellorizo
a page from this old book
strangely printed in landscape orientation
with the list of boat owners – Κουανης
and he
on video Skype
an English life
reaching back to France, Egypt, Africa
finishing an autobiography
I sit in her living room
a window opens
I see him
Sky
the fairy story effect
the magic of childhood
Sydney in a snow dome
possible because of its
bowl-shaped geography
ringed with mountains
girt by sea
its foamy cliffs
the sublime
people
miniature
the sky
so vast
the clouds so high
and puffy in the southern sky
the higher one, gleaming white in the sunlight
whiter than white is
is it so big
or are we so small?
showers coming and going
humid, then a shower
from above
the land is full of water and sunlight
a shower falling on one small area
shadows and sunlight
Reminiscent of Blackheath in The Blue Mountains and its fabulous summer alpine climate, air constantly washed clean by afternoon thunderstorms, sublime mountain vistas. The 19th century children’s novel, Heidi, set in alpine country. The snowy white bread rolls wrapped in crisp cloth and Heidi’s little gingham swag with her belongings in it. Heidi, so lucky to be an orphan.
people swim in the rain
raindrops cool on their skin
in the pale aqua water
The fact that it’s aqua because of the chlorine feels irrelevant, especially on sunny days. It’s not unlike the colour of the water around the Mediterranean islands. The pool, in the park just next to Broadway.
Broadway, Sydney’s busiest intersection, just erase the traffic and the noise and you’re left with a perfect landscape. I’m dreaming of turf being laid over Broadway like they did on the Harbour Bridge for a day, except permanently.
a flock of corellas
with their pretty call
circling
and doubling back
Broadway is like a bowl or part of a bowl that empties into the harbour at Blackwattle Bay.
Sublime, the depth
of the harbour
a mirror of the mountains
valleys that continue
downwards
but now, into murky depths
Is childhood magical? What is the temperature of the sublime? How we loved Caspar David Friedrich in the early 70’s! Before we were ravaged by Conceptual Art, that is. That’s when many of us stopped painting, when painting died for us, replaced by the minimal gestures of others, requiring no effort and almost no thought. Somnambulist Art. Work they did between hangovers.
The whispering quiet of the
valleys from the cliff tops
transcendent, individuating
rupture in disguise
the sublime thing
I could have gone that way
with feminist representations
some did
that’s where I was wanting to go
drawing female figures falling into chasms
so much like
classic Romantic images
it was men who dissuaded me
but 10 years later
similar images were
visible
in the art galleries
Vivienne Shark LeWitt etc
but then with the
imprimatur
of some art world bureaucrat
incommensurability
that was the problem
between them and us
I met people who understood why you’d want to rail against the parochialism of your peers
Australian Art
it’s a joke
and in Australian minds
it’s all happening elsewhere
distance creates the sublime
not that there aren’t fabulous artists here
but don’t tell me they’re Australian
So my work became
what was possible
maybe constraints help us
to map the unknown
aesthetic unboundedness
rupture
I made small drawings using pencil and aquarelle. Some like an abstract Reg Mombassa, some hyper-real. Learnt the Chinese method of watercolour painting. Wrapped up in teaching art to people who didn’t want to be artists. I took a holiday from history.
thinking
Communism, Utopia
group projects
where every offering
is valued
and adds
another element to the lexicon
The haunting
the bamboo pen
the ink well
vintage glass thing
with its pressed pattern
and three wells
the paper ready
the concertina book
carried around for weeks
where the practice drawing
will occur
also
the sketchbook
the real thing
started
cover done
title chosen
first poem
printed on tracing paper
and glued in
with spray adhesive
photos of all the objects
taken and uploaded to ipad
there
accessible
waiting
all the preparation done
the pen haunts me
I think and dream about
picking it up
I can feel the sensation
of moving the bamboo
across the paper
think about it constantly
imagine the black ink
sitting in the ink well
and about two other colours
as yet unchosen
I mentally scan the box of inks
think about the beautiful
senegal yellow
thick and glowing
everything is ready
and yet
the series consists of drawings
of objects from my parents’ houses
both parents now gone
so objects are not objects
it is essential to choose the colours
at least for the first drawing
the amber cigarette case
and think
is this a gestural exercise
or will each drawing
take on some complexity
become a painted image
become watercolour
water
always there
at the ready
to sooth
now that we’re really alone
