A Cold Wind

You win some, you lose some.

Why do I feel no joy at a half win? Ideas offered on a plate, twisted and used
as bullets in an assassination.

Progress, bloody progress. To gain something, always seems to mean loss of
something special, unique.

The worship of the motor vehicle goes on.

I feel gutted and my writhing corpse left out to dry. Not to worry, the birds of
death will pick it clean, the bones, bare bones will be white and sanitized, all will
be tarred over in time.

Civilisation, as transitory as a landscape reworked and rebuilt by an army of ants.

The beating heart was not valued, and without care, died. The smug lords, drunk
and arrogant on power and greed, bare their fangs.

I hope their comeuppance is brutal, and with much suffering, so finally their eyes
are opened, and made aware of the damage they must pay for.

Yet it will come too late, the behemoth is booked, awaiting it's grim task. It will
be efficient.

One day ...

Easter eggs and bird life.

What a morning, up before the birds to deliver one daughter to station for Dragonskin camp. (Scouts)
Fed my Chinese silky bantams, looked in the nesting boxes to discover the teeniest, tiniest egg ever, so cute!
It's Good Friday, so it's an early Easter egg. Must be the tiniest young hen Minmi.
Not long after, on way to dropping second daughter to station for a holiday stay at the beach with her boy.
Unfortunately, on the way was about to pick up a young Rainbow Lorikeet off the road, it was hopping along, not flying, when this car came out of nowhere and went over it. Luckily between the wheels. It was still alive so I went to two Vets, finding one open early on Good Friday. Hope it is OK. What a stressful start to the day, up at 5.45am, and it's still only 10am. I love Rainbow Lorikeets, I used to be a Foster Carer and Rescuer for WIRES, and rehabilitated and released 100's in a massive flight aviary. That's why I just can't turn the other way.

One Day

One day, I will write a children's book
One day, I will illustrate that book
One day, I will be famous
One day, I will work out how
One day, I will have a sell out show
One day, I will know all I need to know
One day, is now, so how? What to show?
Do I know?

Studio Blues

Down with the Flu. Going to miss a deadline on one Art Show, not too disappointed as it was going to only run 5 days. Now once well must concentrate on next one. Logistics of photos for application, progress shots needed, and final one. Maybe fine points still finalised after that to buy more time? I thought I left Publishing and Graphic Design to lose those pesky deadlines? They are though, a motivator to the procrastinator. Lots of other opportunities. The archaeological dig in the Studio is unearthing many gems, lots of usable papers, interesting equipment, long lost photos and art and design ideas. I've had a long interval of being kind of busy with child-rearing, now they are 21 and 2x 16 (twins). A thread of artistic pursuits through this period, to keep some semblance of continuity with the art world, including visiting art shows, art teaching and tutoring. One year I even dropped everything and did my first solo art show. I also had 6 months at a heavenly rural studio, a heritage slab barn, complete with paddocks and horses and geese. I never gave up on the idea that one day...

Writing About Art

Vincent And The Crows                                      

Monique selected the garish, and shiny refrigerator magnet of Van Gogh’s ‘Bedroom At Arles’. It depicted the iconic, yellow and rush chair, narrow bed and floorboards in receding perspective.

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Slamming shut his edge worn  bible, Vincent then gathered his new tools in trade.

The failed ministry was a past chapter to him now, fresh fields to explore.

The sunshine warmed his scrawny and bony frame, flickers of black hovered in his periphery. As the chatter of café drinkers was left behind in the square, he sauntered off, with an increasingly confident swagger.

He hummed to himself, it dulled the cawing crows, helped to clear his confused and weary mind.

Passion and obsession, his two new companions, perched on each shoulder, spurring him on. Black strokes, dashes, dots. A vibrant circus of activity, spread over the  whole coarse paper sheet. The ingredients of his handiwork, fashioned crop fields, fences, houses and distant mountains.

In the sky, the obligatory blackbirds, animated the cloud whirling atmosphere.

Progress had been made, this was a substantial work, on its own merits, but also as a preliminary for a full colour painting.

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In the blue and gold flames of the flickering lamplight, shadows toyed with his vision and imagination, dancing and leaping up the walls of his meagre room.

He put out the light, and crawled under the threadbare counterpane.  Pictures whirled in his head, and the whine of an accordion player in the restaurant below, helped to deflect the gnawing hunger.

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Yellow, not enough yellow. The simple wooden chair was stroked in a coat of yolky yellow, bright as the countryside sunshine. It lifted his mood, put his signature on the interior.

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Months later, Vincent tried to take his life in the very field he painted. He lay on the hot ground, a pistol flung from his hand. Buzzing and burning in his head. The crows circling. Some would call him a madman, others a genius.

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At Christy’s Auction House ‘Cornfield At Arles’ sold for 6.5 million.

                                                                                                  Michelle Mabbott 1/7/10