The Life Model and Her Barber

The Life Model and her Barber

The Life Model and the Bar

This piece was begun in a life drawing class, hosted in an artshop in Benalla. The owner of the artshop was a gorgeous, effervescent, bohemian woman. She dripped flare and sensuous confidence. There had been a male model organised to join the other two women posing but he’d reneged at the last minute…it was at this stage the lifemodel dragged in her husband.

He ran the barber shop next door. Tall with kind eyes and a slightly sad droopy face and a severe haircut and a slow awkward movements, he was a typical country man of few words and from what I could see a deep deep admiration of his wife.

As the lifemodel busied and bustled the barber into nudity and then poses, Julie, a neighbour and the woman I had driven 2 hours with to do this explained how The Barber had had a car crash two years ago and suffered massive head injuries. he posed…we drew… I saw nerves and determinantion.

 

Then he and his wife began posing for us together and I was touched by the ease and respect and the intimacy of their touch.

I tried to capture and represent those observations in this piece.

 

I am thrilled that this piece is heading to America, into the sweet arms of Jennifer.

She tweets as @jkstills and is lovely, witty tweeter. I recommend her timeline

 

The Life Model and her Barber
The Life Model and her Barber

THE CHURN

The Clamour and Guilt

 I wrote this piece 5yrs ago, and whilst the artist hasn’t changed her slap dashed typo and run ways, she certainly survives…
THE CHURN

I am endlessly twitching art into tight spaces- it copes- it survives and in some ever learning and growing way thrives in the dark damp tight places.

Like moss and butcher boys and worms.

The art does, but, I am not sure the artist does.

The mother does- her goal is fortified by all those bigger things that the wonderfully dense archetype arouses and for all the history and future of reasons, she copes.

And not without her fair share of hiccups and tolerances:
The friend.
The artist, (squeezed between fetching lunch, between a squeal, between a glance at a newspaper  (between piggy backs and a miniature train track being invaded by play dough aliens) between an appointment in a broken car, between a broken cup and a grazed knee and a cold coffee) rushes into blogs and comps and public attempts and regrets her lack of research, the spelling mistakes, the typos and endless missing bits.
Guilt ebbs the churning mess of everything else untill she picks up the pen and pours and draws and leans and dozes into the paper and
Thinks
Thank Fuck
It boils down to this
She breathes

A flood

march 2012 690

A flood

churns, rips, overwhelms.

Under the pulse of a false tide,

one that froths at the edges.

A drunk man

churns, rips, threatens.

Under the pulse of a false tide,

one that froths at the edges.

It,

smothers life’s detail

making the world invisible.

He,

smothers his wife’s detail

to make her fear visible.

Meanings and goodbyes

inks and pens
2014

I have been reticent to discuss “The Meanings” in my works…

Often the works are fluid, stream of conscious pieces, responding to mood and tugging at only the edge of meaning…

Sometimes they are as ambiguous as can be to allow the viewer to bring their subjectivity to the fore

Sometimes… I just drew…colours and shapes I thought would work on the page

Sometimes the meaning is too private to share with you, chuckles…yes, I have some boundaries

Mostly, I like to leave ample space for the viewer to have their own experience, their own meaning.

Maybe I want to avoid being dictatorial, telling my viewer they are wrong… or maybe,

I lack the confidence to say THIS…it is THIS.

I don’t know.

Some people enjoy the ambiguous space

Others crave a solid meaning, a story perhaps.

Neither is right…or wrong….they just are viewpoints and valid

But, I decided a little while ago that as pieces sold…traveled to homes… I would try to document the work.

 

This piece is called the Feed the Birds

It is a simple little drawing that grew from my long love of the song:

And the idea that feeding birds is a simple act of love

And kindness

This is a piece that honours Simple Acts of Love,

This is a piece that honours Kindness

Simply.

And now it heads to Switzerland which is immensely exciting.

Hello, again

Collar large

Life was busy

Life still is, but now…this week I seem to be coping.

I have learnt to not stretch my expectations of coping beyond a week and that even that can be a long stretch

I have had hospital visits, doctors and medicines and psychiatrists and diagnosis and confusion and

Ups and downs and ups and downs and up and downs and ups and downs and ups and downs and

And I have learnt that recovery is not some smooth clean and clear road… no…

It is a road that has experienced a storm, it is littered with torn trees and gouged surfaces

It is smothered in rock and potholes and debris and tree trunks and maybe road kill

And they must be navigated, clambered and dodged.

And on a road so busy, so full of obstacle, one’s bound to trip and fall on occasion.

So, recovery is rubbing those skun knees and getting up again…like every cliche and fake Marilyn Munroe Quote.

 

SHE IS TWEETING AGAIN

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So I am quite obviously not here as often as I was….

I’d apologise but I am not really sorry.

The energy I put here is now directed at Twitter

It’s immediacy, instantaneous and ability to connect directly with people has served my better then any other web platform.

With three kids and some rather changed circumstances (a marriage breakdown)

Twitter has been a surprising comfort (addiction) where I have churned, purged, drawn, show, cried, joked and started to sell work.

It isn’t a medium for everyone. One needs to be either comfortable just watching or MORE SO one needs to develop the courage to shout into a void as there is not a bevvy of friends, family and nostalgia to meet you as there is on other platforms.

Anyway it is where I am these days and where new work is shown

How my children found the warrior in me

My Son
This is my story, my little one amongst the many. It is not unique because every mother carries her own tale, and this is just mine.

 

 I wear the scars of my children.

 

 I realised this five days ago as I lay mostly immobile, and fitted with tubes, stroking the hair of Samson James- cut into this world the morning before. I was feeling good; blissful and light but a little guilty. Guilty that I hadn’t felt this good when his brother Leo Peter had been cut into the world two years ago. Back then I had felt detached, uncomfortable and hurting as my body reacted in shock to the surgery; throbbed with the pain of a half-finished, abscessing root canal and struggled with tiredness.

 

Aware of the need to not attach and feed negative emotions; I pocketed the guilt. I let it drift to the corner of my mind and focussed instead on the beauty of my new limpet child until memory caught up with me.

 

I remembered two years ago, I remembered being amongst the crisp white sheets, amongst the pain and the mild, drug induced detachment stroking  in wonder and curiosity the pale head of Leo but feeling guilty. Guilty that I hadn’t been able to be hold Maxwell  William when he was a day old.  Instead he had been in the sterile, life-protecting, transparent confines of a humidity crib three hours away. As the memories coalesced, so did the realisations that guilt was a common factor in my births and that each child’s coming carried a scar.

 

There was the trauma of Maxwell’s emergency ceaser.  Of seeing a blue child hoisted into the world, of the four long minutes that he didn’t breathe. There was the precious relief and the beauty of his alert twitching self when he decided  he was here to stay. The tender delight of our first cuddle and the tearful, trusting goodbye as he was taken to Melbourne to be cared for and the next day and night: the longest in my life.  I slept with a photo of him held tight in my fist: now a mother with no child next to me to touch- to prove it. No child to hug and validate the first thin pink scar across the bottom of my abdomen.

 

My second pink scar bore Leo to the world via an elective ceaser, the procedure full of fear and nausea. My first week of being Leo’s  mother was tainted by the distaste, shock  and reeling recovery of the operation. The realisation of what my body had to endure without adrenalin to buffet the experience. There was the toothache as a root shriveled and died with a distractingly sharp pain that this breast feeding mum could barely medicate against. And then there was the jaundice and the decision to flush it from my son’s vulnerable body with hourly feeds. Every hour. On the hour: all day and all night.

 

The last, not yet pink, gash belongs to Samson. Samson, whose surgical birth felt fine, smooth even, despite its mild complications but whose in utero journey had caused me and my loved ones the torment that was the depression. He will be my last scar.

However to say that these scars have hurt me would be a lie for as you all know they’ve left me anything but empty handed. However it’s not just the blessing of their little lives in mine I wish to celebrate. It is that thanks to my children I found the warrior in me. Before they were born I never knew I had the strength to walk one day after my insides had been sliced apart to prove that I was fit enough to be reunited with my child. I didn’t know that I could rouse and rise through the thick of tired pain to give my child the means and the strength to flush the poisonous bilirubin from his system. Before their birth I did not know that I could wake each day when my brain demanded I be flattened by the world and had turned into my enemy hating and wanting to hurt the flesh I traveled in. I didn’t know that the will to preserve another outweighed the will to preserve myself and how I could channel that will to recovery. Until my children were born I didn’t know how strong I was: I don’t think any mother or any parent does.

The melody

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I  adored The Jungle Book

Baloo was my hero.

I would pray to Baloo and Aslan when I was lonely.

I adore this song. It’s Melody.

When I pump the water for my house I often sing….

I will go and fetch the water, till the day that I am grown

But it also represented to me everything that felt sad and wrong to me.

It was also everything I didn’t want.

It is where I began to grasp the adult notion of bitter sweet.

Because who would want to give up a friend like Baloo

for pretty eyes and domesticity?

Mogli, it seems.

THAT vs THIS.

wpid-PicsArt_1367621354930.jpg

when i compare that

to thisme better

I celebrate quietly.

Tentatively

Because the thick gloom of then is fading

Into that intangible place where the memory of dream goes.

And as, when I was deppressed my fingers couldn’t feel reality.

Now they struggle to describe the depth of exhaustion, the numbness, the hollowness

That was.

The one that lead me so close to a point… to point I struggle to admit too.

To a point that is now wrapped in some distant incomprehensible shape.

Incomprehensible in the same way that the millions of years between us and the dinosaurs is incomprehensible

Indescribable in the same way that the vastness between us and pluto is indescribable

So, I try to describe it before the dream fades

I try to tell others:

Get help. Sing out and be proud

Because extricating your self from the tricky tendrils of a brain misbehaving, of a brain that want’s to convince you that you are gutless, weak and spineleess. That you cannot do this thing called life and doing that in a society that sometimes unwittingly, ignorantly concurs.

That takes guts baby, be proud.

And there is help and support and this which describes it all better then I could

On your knees

dewdrops

When searching for intricacies to share with my kids

Or to photograph for some illusion of posterit,

I found these:dew drops

Dewdrops suspended late into the day

On the threads of web spun under

pine debris.

This is every reason to get down on one’s knees for life.

 

 

 

 

 

Mushrooms

shrooms3 13piccy

I first read Sylvia Plath’s poem: Mushrooms

In a Thursday morning literature class

Sometime in year 10.

It stayed with me through recess

Through lunch

Through period 3 and 4 .

And 5 and 6.

It stayed.

In that chilly Autaumn my teenage mind wondered about

Fragility and strength.

The futility of determination.

Its beauty, regardless.

Then on the walk to the after school life drawing class,

Through severe and cobbled blue stone lane to the studio a block from the school.

I saw the mushrooms.

Saw them squeeze through invisible cracks in 100 year old roads.

They had found and exploited a slither of a path.

They had risen,

Crowned.

I bent.

Bent to peer

Bent to touch their soft fronds.

Bent to break them with a small tap of my finger
image

whilst on the subject of mushrooms

check out Jasmine Jean’s Art 

mushrooms jasmines mushies

Sleep deprivation

ameliadraws:

One of my favourite bloggers sharing my work…Yay. It is funny but when i drew this 5 years ago it did get much of a response. I was one of the only mothers to young chilluns i new. and my elders, well their memories had softened the edgy, constant, twitching, pain that was sleep deprivation. To any enduring it…man i get you i feel you. And thanks to my sketchbook. I won’t forget x

Originally posted on blue milk:

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From the very clever and expressive, Amelia Carson.

View original

clingwrap9

My relationship with ideas

Mirrors

My relationship with cling wrap.

I am forever trying to stretch too small a square

over too big a bowl.

And when I have, finally, achieved that neat, tight encompassing skin.

I must poke a hole in it.

 

Yes both cling, cloy, tangle and frustrate

And I seem as incapable of smoothing out either, of making ideas or cling wrap stick

With out getting some stuck in my teeth.

 

Stories that hone Sadness.

PicsArt_1371554777686

Maybe I was a Morbid child

Maybe I was honest

An explorer

Normal

Maybe.

But I know am not the only one to remember Ping?

To remember Sadako and the thousand cranes?

The Little Match Girl, The Happy Prince

I gathered this in honor of the stories that made me weep.

Weep for the tragedy, the folly, the compassion.

Thank you Hans. Thank you Oscar.

When daunted – do something different

mealsforblog

Take a wee look at: When daunted – do something different.

I am reblogging this mostly because I love that Lily Mae wrote: We all need validation, so please don’t give me the ‘artists are narcissist’ spiel – because that’s just bullshit

Many artists, (myself, Hazel Dooney, Lily Mae and everyone who ever made a self portrait) use the self to create art.

So what?

It is bad because….?

I have seen artists be criticised and even dismissed as being to self obsessed. Critique the artist yes and the work they produce. But based on the idea that they used the self? That I do not understand.

The self is the most intimate experience any artist and any human will have. Of course it should be explored.

Both to poke and explore the notion of what is self  and to use it as a focal point for a grander human narrative.

It is look at this human experience that I am sharing with you.

Do you recognise it?

Do you respond.

Did it provoke.

Of course some artists are narcissists. You know cause artists are human, so there is bound to be some cross over. But currently the western world is obsessed with the labeling things narcissistic and personally much of it reaks of generational pooh poohing.

They are narcissists cause they take selfies.. blah blah blah.

Again so what?

To my mind it seems perfectly reasonably to be infinitely interested in the face that you are most intimately connected with however get the least opportunity to observe.

And it is a very long bow from selfie to selfish. Which is, of course, the underlying implication of any accusation of narcissism.

Look as Lily Mae pointed out artists get very little validation.

We are often have to explain, justify and defend the work, the time, the lifestyle, the choice…the point.

This takes a level of determination that requires a strong sense of self.

Regularly enough, one has to do this is the face of mental illness,  the needs of others and financial stresses. It can suck.

It takes ego, but that ego isn’t necessarily excessive.

And would you expect someone to push through all that without a strong ego?

To expose themselves, their inner self with out a strong ego?

Seriously?

Get fucked.

Anyhow, that was an unexpected rant.

Here is what I did make today.

But be warned…. contains selfies: http://amelia-artist-poet.tumblr.com/

On galleries.

blue

Several years ago I took my work to a prominent Melbourne gallerist to hopefully organise a show.
Now, I am dubious of some of this guy’s practices…they seem a cynical way to make money but perhaps his gallery survives on cynical ways that make money.
Anyway.
The gentleman gave my work a good hard critiquing. It was solid & hurtful &, for the most part, true…ish.

I had talent, a perspective but no finesse.

I had to study, he said.
I was a mother living in the country, I said, thank you but that wouldn’t happen due to logistics and my cynicism to ART schools.
I attempted confidence as I said my goodbye, collected my pram, my toddler and walked down a fashionable Melbourne street crying.

At my last exhibition 2 other Melbourne gallerists came to look at my work and expressed an interest in exhibiting it. It seemed to excite one of them. The other was less keen.

The asked me to contact them.
I did.                                                                                                                                  6 times.                                                                                                                             They never returned my calls or my emails, the final of which said that their lack of response, (considering they sought me out), was rude and unprofessional and it was going to be my pleasure to have nothing to do with them.
Add these experiences to my belief that galleries are of limited support to artists.     That many who run them are drowning in pretension.                                                That the system is obviously flawed and fumbling in the new internet defined world. And that an artist should focus on cultivating relationships with people who are intrigued and curious about your work;  people who enjoy and support it.              Rather then the brick wall of rejection (oft described by fashion). Confirmed that I have no want to be part of a traditional gallery system.

One that refers to it’s artists as being part of stable.                                                     One that screws both the buyer and artist with exorbitant commissions.                         One that controls when and where an artist can exhibit.                                            One that oft tries to control what the artist should produce and explore                        … yup, I had come this far without that.

On my own.

I am lucky to be surrounded by support, enthusiasm, encouragement, buyers and opportunities.
But I lack any critical feedback. Nothing since that fella two children back.             And I still think about his words because they are all I have.
I stalk twitter and the net looking to grow.
I draw
I paint
I write
I create
I hope
Hope I am doing something right
Hope I am getting better
Cause I
Really
Really
Want this.IMG_0004

Tension

celcea


Tension is about the teeth

about discipline and sleep

I have 22 fillings

Counting.

Loneliness is about the distance

between shallow distractions.

I have 10 fans

Counting.

Obsession is about the mouse

clicking spangled jewels into patterns.

I have 96 000 points

Counting.

Avoidance is about the bed

clenching time within sheets.

I have three hours

Counting.

Passion is about the substitutes

foot massages and a glass of water

We have ten years

Counting.

Patience is about the belly

involuntarily moving.

I am 36 weeks

Counting.

Poetic

PicsArt_1363431263404

So I’m interested in Digital Poetry, yes.

Have you seen
Google Poetic?
I gotta say, and

(I feel sheepish as I do)

It’s my favourite form of contemporary poetry:

tumblr_mjnjra5YqL1rjggr6o1_500 tumblr_mjqdbr8IYj1rjggr6o1_500 tumblr_mjmh7w2iK41rjggr6o1_500
irreverent,
accidental,
opportunistic,
accessible,
uncanny,
uncomfortable,
and at times,
heart wrenchingly telling.

It also begs a swag
of somewhat uncomfortable
googly questions…

Did anyone anticipate the influence

the reliance

the power

of a search engine?

But

I’ll contemplate those questions another day.
I already know one answer will be
“Meh, so I’m a product of times”

And another will just be
“Meh.”

So, in the thinking of google.
l finally searched the words
Digital
Poetry

I found Jason Nelson

My instinct is to sneer at any discipline that claims it is THE future.
But this form is
A future.
And

That is exciting.

My favourite of Nelson’s strange poetic/art immersion is
GAME.gamesite1

His works are witty fun, surreal, cerebral adventures

That I strongly recommend you check out

Modern Conceptual Art in your living room

But

They don’t hit the poetic mark for me.

They lack subtlety.

Are they are too noisy and crowded for meaning?
Too engrossed in their medium?
Too Obvious?

not sure …

I enjoy poetry that skewers

the heart
the eye
and
the mind

Personally.

Anything less can be appreciated

admired
and
respected

but not loved.

still what a fucken AWESOME start Mr Nelson.

And the possibilities my friends.

That is exciting.

On Cussing

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I am a swearer.

Love it.
Love the fucking shit out of it.

I have been loving it, according to this old diary since I was nine:

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‘Lilly poked Lewis in the eye. Bugger’

Lilly was two, Lewis a baby.

I,

I was testing my words.
Tasting them.

Bugger still is a favorite.

And might be as close as  I get to nationalism…

When, as a teenager that Toyota ad came out,

I felt quietly vindicated

Vindicated in my right to swear.
The fight I fought, absent mindedly, despite

detentions,

groundings,

lectures,

and,

on one parentally desperate moment:

mouthfuls of soap

I wasn’t a rebel, just couldn’t see the fuss

Still can’t:
Neither can Stephen Fucking Fry.

So you know bloody vindi-freaking-cated

The Laundry, the children, the art

son

Still slowly learning and building ideas

They pile on top of each other

on top of me.

As if they were the unfolded laundry and I

the couch being buried underneath.

Though ideas are a lot more fun to contemplate then the afore mentioned pile.

Pile seems too small and sturdy a word for the monstrosity of cloth ….

So

 I focus on the other stuff

the learning of  new things

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All the duty  I can muster

All the obligation

Is absorbed by my family and the bureaucracy of life.

No due dates. No commitments. No regularity. No expectation.

Art and I need whim if we intend to function.

My art, a lot of art, is twofold.

There is the joy and solace of making.

And the fear and delight of sharing.

Both folds mature my practice.

Both folds nurture.

This is the rationalisation of AMELIA GATHERS

A hub to collate, gather, show and experiment

with as much boldness and energy as I have spare

 

Space

spaceboggle

This is the best of everything that is mindboggling

and if like usb

you get a kick from being boggled do check out Minute Physics and Brain Pickings

Space,  drawn her in paintshop by 4 yr old Max,max space3

has really put on a show for us the last 12 months or so,

Or rather ticked some boxes-

On the checklist of milestones.

Minor moments humans considered important.

Little happenings in that immense expanse

IMMENSE

EXPANSE

There was the transit of Venus .

A full solar eclipse could be seen from the top bits of Australia;

The partial version from the road outside my house

Through a  neon green square on a welding mask

On my birthday. 2012 1190

Twas a birthday to eclipse all others (ok you can hate me for that)

Curiosity landed on Mars

Ebb and Flow, low on fuel

were crashed into the Moon.

and Voyager is crossing an edge of something, somewhere.

Which could be a metaphor, but isn’t.

Oh,

And then there was the end of the world

resolutions and wheelbarrows of shit

New yr 2

 

My internet connection is woeful.

Typing to you is trying.

Kids are trying.

With a clenched brow

And a

Knitted jaw

And a baby chewing at my breast

I am trying to relax.

And it’s like pushing a leaking wheelbarrow of shit uphill.

Which is why with nerves,

And no polish I bring you this:

Me in the  school park trying to collect pine cones and my thoughts.

Whilst mothering (they’re the yelly bits):

Mary Somerville

big mary

“I rose early and made such arrangement with regard to my children and family affairs that I had time to write afterwards not however, without many interruptions.”

Mary Somerville (26 December 1780 – 28 November 1872)

See women, juggling since the 18th century: no wonder the work life balance conversation gets dull.

Though Mary wasn’t your average 18th century woman. She wasn’t your average anybody. She was beyond bright with a beautiful, precise, clear and concise way of articulating, of writing, of thought.

She was a Scottish mathematician and scientist, not allowed to attend university, who translated some of the densest math’s into plain speak.  So clear and precise was her language, and translation’s that they are still readily referenced today.

Here’s a bit from Aussie science writer Margaret Wertheim, she can fill you in (click on the text for full article)

“Without formal training Somerville could not become a major force in physics, nonetheless she made an invaluable contribution to the field. Although England had once been the undisputed leader in physics, by the early nineteenth century it had dropped behind. During the eighteenth century the baton had passed to France, where the seminal scientific achievements of the age was the monumental book by Pierre Simon Laplace on the motions of the planets and stars. Laplace’s work on celestial mechanics had proved once and for all that the heavens were ruled by Newton’s laws, and that no divine intervention was necessary to keep the celestial orbs gliding along their paths. Yet in spite of its importance, this work had not been translated into English, thus British science lagged behind.

Somerville took it upon herself to rectify this omission, and spent years painstakingly translating Laplace’s legendarily difficult tome. To the basic text she added copious notes, explanations, and mathematical derivations to assist the reader. Once finished her book became a standard text for advanced students at Cambridge University. Yet while her book was taught there, as a woman she was not permitted in the university’s lecture halls, either as a student or a teacher. Like the scientific societies, the universities remained male-only clubs.”

 

I first heard of Mary earlier this year. I heard that quote and I raced for a pen, for a scrap of paper, to outrun memory and the sure to vanish quickly: quiet.

To scribble  down the quote.

Because, Mary and I, separated by hemispheres, by 200 years, by brains, by climate

By so very much.

We shared the painful truth of that quote.

“I rose early and made such arrangement with regard to my children and family affairs that I had time to write afterwards not however, without many interruptions.”

To read more about Mary, try this article and try the book

Seduced By Logic by Robyin Arianrhod

http://digital.nls.uk/jma/who/somerville/index.html
http://digital.nls.uk/jma/who/somerville/index.html

Well that is nice

cover-large1

Yay for this

This is the cover of the next issue of Bide Magazine and I’m lucky to have my art gracing the virtual cover of some real quality writing.

I subscribed for the year on the Autumn issue and it was a lovely treat of sound, thoughtful, sometimes haunting writing. At ten bucks for 4 issues it is a steal.

So go on: go support some ground roots Aussie lit and jump on the e-publishing bandwagon.

http://bidemagazine.com.au/

Do it!!

And in case I get distracted do have a lovely holiday season xxx

Been a while

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It’s been over a month since my last post…

Ever since

We packed the back of my car for a family trip to Canberra.

(One day ahead of schedule! All neat and beautiful!)

When in one beautifully packed, slow motion, staccato, glass crackling,

suspended moment I backed into a gum tree.

After

One tail light, seven dints in a silver commodore and a text that read “the pile of glass under your gum tree, near your shed, is my back windscreen”

.

IMG-20121102-09311-1

 

After that we drove to Canberra

Ever since then

Ever since we got back from staying in a cottage in a paddock with friends and roos, two large eagles and a giant swing in a giant tree.

Since we got back from eating, drinking, arguing, laughing, confiding, looking at art, and eating cheese.

Ever since we navigated the statuesque strangeness that is Canberra

All cities are strange when your a visitor. But there is something especially strange about the way that the Canberran roads seem unable to be direct and straightforward or stick to the point seems very fitting for the political home of our politicians.

We drove home.

IMG-20121104-09351-1

And then I broke my toeIMG-20121112-09497-12

 

and delivered my son to a party a week early and collected bruises on hips, elbows, shins and forehead as I ping ponged about the world….

Ever since the litany of little mistakes piling up like the washing on my couch should’ve warned me that I was tired.

That I needed rest, despite my mood being buoyant,

Because there was no warning when it was buoyancy sunk.

It happened suddenly

And all the things I wanted to write about:

About learning to paint, about modern day hieroglyphics, about the portraits of the queen, about war and art and official Australian military artists, About language, About sunshine, swimming and giant swings …

All that got choked.

I didn’t and couldn’t write. I painted, drew, slept, cried and yelled. And mothered and drove and opened the blog and shut the blog. And tried to read and played mindless computer games

I was lucky enough to get a mention here: The Mother’s Artist Network by the crew at the gorgeous BIG KIDS MAGAZINE

To be amongst all those powerfully creative juggling woman was fluttering but it couldn’t push me to write…. I just shrunk a bit more and smiled a bit wider

Oh and I got quoted in this great article (for the record I’m Amelia Carson and Amelia Clarkson. hang in there for the last line. You’ll hear a distant echo of me sighing fuck yeah. Madeleine also writes here Shit on my Hands is a great blog with a broader emphasis then some other “mummy bligs”. Yes I hate the term too.

So that kept me going when I didn’t write

And I distracted my self with Cracked’s After Hours thinking of my siblings and wishing animation appeared when we spoke.

And we went swimming.

And I got proud of my cousin and blocked on twitter cause of this:

So it’s not all bad

Shards in my pocket

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(an excerpt from my diary 12 months ago)

Last night I broke my favourite plate.

From the eye of my rage filled storm.

I let it fly

It was the full stop to my frustration

A shattered relief

1920′ porcelain struck against his grandfather’s table.

As I swept up the hand painted fragment karma looked at me

sideways,

through eyelashes-

so she did not see my smile,

my satisfaction.

It was so easy,

so simple,

so sweet.

I carry the shards in my pocket

Relief reminding

That high above the fog

A blue sky is waiting

A repost From Blue Milk, so apt

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ameliadraws:

This is so apt. It under writes so much of my approach to expressing motherhood and i bet it resonates with so so many mothers xxxx

Originally posted on blue milk:

My latest article is up at Daily Life and also Essential Baby:

By sharing private and difficult moments as mothers we create a more complete picture of the reality of motherhood – it ultimately frees us all. The ugly complaints, if told wisely, can be witness to the stamina of this extraordinary relationship. But the fear in us in disclosing is palpable – that we might be frauds and that our secret moments exclude us from being good mothers. For an instant, you are unsettlingly close to the truly dysfunctional mother, and you see the dangerously fragile state that she must teeter in, and how damaging she is to her children.

View original

What I Hate about Art

dogface

This is a quote highjacked from the Art News Blog

It is about a 2010 exhibition of Anthony Lister’s

I love Anthony’s raw, visceral, familiar, disturbing, abstracted art

LOVE IT, love it, love it

This quote says nothing, at least nothing that is understandable.

(I’ve highlighted the worst sentence, just so we are on the same page)

From the Lyons Wier Gallery blog here..
“Known in the Low Brow movement for his intriguing, playful hybrid of street art, expressionism, and cubism all manifested in non-traditional media such as spray paint; Lister’s new body of work shows the tongue-in-cheek frivolity of his earlier pieces developing (or decaying) into a more mature and disturbing direction. The deformities and un-done aesthetic resolve of Lister’s work provides viewers with a concretization of contemporary societies’ psyche – or, as the artist himself states, “making the obvious more, well, obvious”.”

For Fucks Sakes.

One of the reasons I quit my painting degree was that I could not stand the wank

When did art get highjacked?

When did society get told that art only belonged to one section and not another?

When did it get wrapped in a language I think half the people who speak it don’t even understand?

When did people with eyes and ears and hearts say I don’t like art-

Because they weren’t allowed to participate-

Because art didn’t like their sort?

This is why street art is so popular: it is accessible and no one is telling you how to digest it.

This is one of the reasons I love printmaking

It is affordable, inherently unelitist

And why I adore Kathe Kollwitz:

Her work was for everyone:

Beauty and passion for the people.

Grow up art world,

You elitist pack of wankers.

Your need to justify your existence with

unintelligible bullshit

Is one of the reasons the gallery system will die.

Domestic Honesty is a Reaction

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I briefly posted yesterday about my shifting tumblr account

It’s the current coalescence of many ideas

Of my diaries

Of my art

Of my being an artist

Of bravery

I read Karen’s beautifully titled Blogging as Theatre of Intimacy

Nirrmi’s The Road is Home

I reacted.
I cerebrally chewed through Hazel Dooney’s

Blog

her tumblr,

her tweets

I reacted.

I thought about pretty

I reacted.

Because

I grew up being fed ideals of domesticity

Through television and magazines

Then it belonged over there

Before it had been democratised

So that everyone fashioned their semblance of domestic fantasy

So that perfection was saturation

I reacted

with, I hope,

Domestic Honesty

Tumblring Flattering Choices

this is me

I’ve had a tumblr account for a while now, not knowing what to do with it…

Tonight I loaded her up

Armed with gumption,

Thousands of photos and:

The desire to encompass

To avoid cliche but not to deny it

To avoid flattery but not to deny it

To avoid stereotype but not to deny it

To witness

To poke

To say this is, and

To surprise, perhaps, if I am lucky.

Just to not be dull.

Please tell me if it’s dull

honestly

Do.

The best thing I’ve read on trolls and trolling (editing)

trolls

Please Go Read This

Leo Traynor has shared a wonderful story…wonderful not in the sense of roses but in the sense of reality and the like:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/sep/26/day-confronted-troll

Editors Note (20th Dec 2-12):

This was the point I realised I wanted the freedom to edit, revise and fiddle

With the blog.

With this object.

This

is not an archive

it’s a rolling stone

a gathering….

And other cliche’s.