Michael Keane writes...

The Boat, sideways

2012-01-27T16:39:00.000-08:00

The sun is out at last in Hobart and the weather is saying Summer. The sea is still a bit nippy for a swim, or maybe I'm getting old and feel the cold more. Driving up the east coast of Tasmania, we pass innumerable caravans, mobile homes and boats in tow. People are trying to grab as much sun as possible. Consequently, the city and shops are quieter than usual. Who wants to go shopping if one doesn't have to? It is also the season for the cruise boats - those enormous floating cities that park themselves at the quayside and disgorge a throng of dazed individuals who wander the streets in aimless fashion, not knowing what they are doing or even where they are. "Someone said this place is called Hobart,' one was heard to remark. The City Council has some misguided notion that these visitors will greatly enhance the Tasmanian economy with their spending, but I have yet to hear a seconder from the city retailers. At any rate, the boats generally appear early in the morning and are off again at nightfall so there's not a lot of time to spend those dollars. Their visits are so frequent at this time of the year it seems as if the same ship is parked permanently at the wharf. Perhaps that's the reason why the image of the "Costa Concordia" is so shocking.

I know we have moved on since the disaster first became headlines, but because of our connection here in Hobart with the cruise industry, I found the commentary below from "The New York Review of Books" blog particularly revealing.

Italy's Schettino Complex (by Ingrid D. Rowland)

There seems to be a nearly universal agreementthat the Costa Concordia, the gigantic cruise ship that lies wrecked at an 80degree angle just off the Tuscan island of Giglio, somehow embodies the veryessence of Italy, despite the fact that Aristotle would have recognized itsstory as a perfect Greek tragedy: a man, no better or worse than most of us,makes a mistake and thereby unleashes a cataclysm, and we look on the resultantdisaster with a cathartic mix of pity and fear. But the hubris of captain FrancescoSchettino (now under house arrest) has struck many Italians as a distinctivelyhome-grown kind of hubris, and catharsis is not a sensation that anyone canfeel when so many souls are still unaccounted for.

Pity and fear, on the other hand, are availablein superabundance. Massimo Gramellini, a columnist for La Stampa, confessed,“I’m not so much afraid of the Schettino in you as I am of the Schettino inme.” But there are other national stereotypes in play too: the 25-year-oldMoldavian woman who dined with the officers and then joined them on the bridgeas the disaster unfolded—and thus perfectly fits the role of the “ragazzadell’Est disposta a tutto,” the Eastern European girl who will do anything toget ahead in Italy. Or the hundred Russians on the ship, who somehow managed toget on the lifeboats before everyone else and once landed began brandishingfistfuls of cash to the islanders of Giglio.

Captain Schettino’s decision to ignore thecruise’s prescribed route and steer his floating behemoth close to shore wasonly the beginning of the tragedy of the Concordia; the charges pending againsthim include refusal to acknowledge the extent of the disaster or give the orderto evacuate (so that his crew’s decision to launch the lifeboats was technicallymutinous). Furthermore, the captain left the ship long before the lastpassenger, whereas subordinates like chief purser Manrico Giampedroni stayedaboard. Giampedroni, indeed, rescued passengers until a flying refrigeratorbroke his leg, and then waited thirty-six hours for his own rescue. Otherrescuers included a Filipino cook who, like all the low-level employees of theCosta Concordia, lost his job in the shipwreck and received a small tip fromthe company for his humanitarian efforts. To be fair, Chief Purser Giampedroni,the tireless rescuers, and the citizens of the island of Giglio, who took infour thousand unexpected guests, also hewed to a recognizable Italian type,people who experience duty not as dour compulsion but as a beacon of inspiration.

It is increasingly clear, however, thatCaptain Schettino provides a convenient scapegoat for what may be villainy ofan entirely different order: the ruthless capitalist calculus of the cruiseindustry. It now seems that the decision to approach the coast for a “bow” andthe delayed evacuation order may have originated in the Genoese offices ofCosta Cruises, where questions like the assignment of legal and monetaryliability seem to have mattered as much as the lives of three thousandlow-cost, low-season tourists. (Not to mention stowaways—so many stowaways,secret guests, and undocumented workers that the port authorities no longertake any of their own statistics about the numbers of dead and missing asdefinite.) Furthermore, the daredevil maneuver that ended on the rocks ofGiglio has been more of a tradition among these massive luxury ships than anycruise operator would like to admit. (Costa, like many other cruise lines, isnow a subsidiary of the giant Carnival Corporation). And how about those Russiansin their lifeboats? Does anyone really imagine that evacuation of the Concordiawas any less laced with class—or at least monetary—distinctions than theevacuation of the Titanic?

It is hard to know who we, who coach from thesidelines, might really turn out to be if we should ever run up on the shoals:one of the passengers who snatched other people’s life vests, stepped on littlekids, and escaped early, or one of those who turned back to save one moreperson more helpless than themselves and never escaped at all, like the missingmusician, age 25, who let a woman with a baby take his place on a lifeboat. Itis so easy to judge a a situation that most of us cannot imagine.

And of course there are larger questionscrowding the surface of these troubled waters. Old salts are shocked by theidea of a captain who abandoned his ship. Ostensibly, the timeless, immutablelaw of the sea is the cement that binds an international crew like thethousand-plus who worked on the Costa Concordia, the law that bound even theimmortal cads of Greek myth to keep faith with their crews. Wily Odysseus,perfidious Jason, and fickle Theseus would no sooner have abandoned their longships than paragons of naval responsibility like Horatio Hornblower, JackAubrey, and Giocante Casabianca, the twelve-year-old boy who “stood on theburning deck” in Felicia Hemans’ famous poem of 1826, and really did stand firmaboard his father’s ship, L’Orient, as Lord Nelson’s navy pounded away atNapoleon’s fleet in the Egyptian bay of Abou Qir in 1798; English sailorsnoticed the boy on the wounded vessel just before a cannon ball hit L’Orient’spowder magazine and the entire ship exploded. The third officer of the Italianocean liner Andrea Doria, sunk in a collision in 1956, still remembers that thecaptain of that vessel, desperate with shame, had to be convinced not to sinktogether with his ship; many of his predecessors, not to mention young GiocanteCasabianca, did just that.

Has something changed in seafaring? Has itbecome self-centered like everything else in the contemporary world, or is thefact that these colossal floating pleasure palaces are barely conceivable asships and hence no longer obey the law of the sea? (Since when did a ship havesuch landlubberly fixtures as unanchored furniture, refrigerators, and dishesthat fly around and hit people?) Or was Captain Schettino’s behavior the resultof shock rather than cowardice? His exchange with the captain of the port ofLivorno, Gregorio De Falco, suggests a person in total paralysis, and it is nowbecoming increasingly apparent that he had good reason to be paralyzed; CostaCruises was calling more of the shots than we know. These are people, afterall, who could still repeat, mantralike, “We sell dreams,” a week after the dreamof the Costa Concordia had turned into a nightmare (and were still sellingtickets for its future cruises). This is the company that is now saying thatcaptains have too much power on its ships—a clear indication, in the languageof disinformation, that captains like Francesco Schettino are already answeringto someone else, like the mysterious blonde Costa lawyer who appeared in Gigliothe morning after the disaster and scolded Schettino for talking to the police(and disappeared along with the red plastic bag that the captain was carryingwhen they were photographed together from behind). For the moment, Schettinohas returned to his native Sorrento, the city just south of Naples that isnamed for the Sirens, mermaids who lured ancient sailors to their deaths withtheir captivating song, tempting them to come so close that their ships crashedinto the sea cliffs.

And a few dozen meters off the coast ofGiglio, the beached giant, slit open by its contact with a needle-sharp graniteshoal, reminds people of a dying whale—this is one of the places where beachedwhales do occasionally come to die. With dire news about the Italian economy,and the added tidbit about a Moldovan dancer on the bridge of the Concordia, itwas almost inevitable that people update the ancient Greek image of the ship ofstate by imagining Captain Berlusconi, amid his lady friends, steering thevessel of Italy with merry bravado onto the rocks of bankruptcy and thendenying that anything has happened even as the shipwrecked nation lists,half-submerged, on the edge of a precipice.

Most Italians, however, are ready to tellanother story. Because of the Concordia disaster, a long standoff between thecruise operators and the city of Venice may finally end with the creation of alaw forbidding the presence of these mountainous vessels in the Venetianlagoon, where they wreak havoc with smaller traffic, with the sea bottom, andwith the finite, delicate city into which their thousands of passengers descendin devastating hordes. And a similar standoff may end with a law that willfinally protect Italy’s vulnerable marine reserves—like the reserve of Giglio,now under dire threat from the carcass of the Concordia—from incursions bysupersized ships with their supersized cargoes of pollutants. Then this tragedywould produce a genuine catharsis—the word, after all, means cleanup.

Chinese Proverbs

2012-01-24T17:49:00.000-08:00

It would be an ideal world if soldiersdidn’t carry the air of the army, scholars didn’t have the air of bookishdogmatism, mountain recluses did not have the smell of mists and clouds, andmonks did not smell of incense and the alter.

A private garden should have a section ofrustic wildness – if it merely dazzles by its sumptuousness, the vulgarity ofit is suffocating.

All people are in financial troublesometime in their lives. The failure to realize the meaning of poverty mustalso be considered a fault of the wealthy and successful. Moreover, there areheroes among the poor - the right thing to do is to open your eyes and broadenyour chest.

Those who do not study in youth regret iton occasions when knowledge is of use – some who talk freely when they aredrunk regret it when they are sober – some who do not give themselves a littlerest in the days of their health regret it when they are confined to bed.

Who does not have self-respect invitesdisgrace – who is not on the lookout against himself courts disaster – who isnot satisfied with himself will grow – who is not sure of his own correctnesswill learn many things.

There are four rules for living in themountains: let there be no formation in the trees, no arrangement of rocks, nosumptuousness in the living house, and no contrivance in the human heart.

To stay up in the mountains is a finething, but the slightest attachment turns it into a market – the appreciationof old paintings is a refined hobby, but the slightest greed of possession turnsone into a merchant – wine and poetry provide occasions of pleasure, but theslightest loss of freedom turns them into hell – generous hospitality is amagnanimous habit, but when one is surrounded by common fellows, it is againlike entering a sea of distress.

If a man can keep ten thousand volumes ofrare books, have them bound in precious brocade, and perfumed with rareincense, while he himself lives in a mud house with a screen of reed, paperwindows and mud walls, and lives all his life in simple cotton dress, that onemight be called an extraordinary person on this earth.

The sun and the moon shoot past like abullet in our floating life – only sleep affords a little extension to our spanof life. Business affairs fly about like thick dust to belabor our lives – onlysleep affords a little reprieve. As for seeing novel things in our sleep –travelling abroad and being able to walk without legs and fly without wings -they provide us with a little fairyland.

Do some planting when it’s drizzling withrain – close the gate and tend the flowers in idleness – take up a pen andleisurely check up mistakes in old editions – draw spring water and try severalpots of the season’s tea.

When the rain is over and the air is cool,when your affairs are few and your mind is at ease, you listen to the lingeringnotes of some neighbour’s flute chasing after the clear clouds and the recedingrain, and every note seems to drop and sink into your soul.

Poverty is not a disgrace: disgrace lies inpoverty without ambition. Old age is no cause for regret: regret that one isold, having lived in vain.

Floating down the stream in spring in asmqll boat, even the most conventional spirit feels emancipated. Listening tothe rain at night over a lone wine cup, even the most stout-hearted will feeltouched.

Such is the power of literature: it speaksof joy and makes one dance – it speaks of sorrow and makes one weep – it speaksof retirement and makes one detached - it speaks of love and makes one tender –it speaks of danger and makes one shiver – it speaks of pent-up anger and makesone cautious – it speaks of indignation and makes one lay one’s hand on thesword – it speaks of incitement to action and makes one throw down the pen – itspeaks of the high and makes one soar up to the clouds – it speaks of the lowand makes one roll down the rocks. It shakes our heart and dazzles our eyes –but this has nothing to do with stylistic embellishments.

Ideas for the Future

2012-01-23T00:49:00.000-08:00

We all have mad ideas from time to time. Some of us arebrave enough – or stupid enough – to articulate such ideas. Sometimes peoplesay “Yes – I thought about that, too” – sometimes they don’t – more often youare laughed at, and told to come back to earth. Here are some scientific ideas for thefuture I dreamed up – some I believe are already under investigation:

A method by which wave energy can be instantly convertedinto kinetic energy.

Small, lightweight batteries which store enormous quantitiesof energy.

A diagnostic machine in every home which measures thebody’s vital signs, e.g. heart rate, blood count, etc. so that irregularitiescan be monitored and potentially dangerous health problems diagnosed before itstoo late.

Spaceships several kilometres long.

Discovering new dimensions which override time. (This idea was used in the film "Contact")

Finding a way of containing radio-activity, not using lead.

Building a huge dome over a town - e.g. in Central Australia - so that it maintains its own comfortable climatewithin despite high temperatures outside – a man-made eco system.

A translator so people speaking different languages cancommunicate in real-time. Even a translator so you can talk directly to animals andthey can talk back to you.

A new way to overcome gravity without the use of wings,rotors or gas.

...and you no doubt can add several of your own.

What's That Accent?

2012-01-20T21:08:00.000-08:00

Sitting, chatting one evening at Roger’s nephew’splace in

France

. Loïc, his nephew,had recently married, and he and his charming wife, Renée, had invited us - mymother, Roger, my wife, and myself - to see their new apartment. The newly-weds both camefrom the south of

France

, near Marseilles, and Roger, as far asI know, came from Paris. My mother wasAustralian. It was a mixed conversation – half in French, half in English.Suddenly, Roger turned to me, and in a low voice said: “You hear that, Michael?The accent? You can tell they are from the south.” He was referring of courseto Loïc and Renée’s accent, but this remark took me aback somewhat because, as it was,I was flat out trying to keep up with the French part of the conversation, letalone trying to differentiate between a southern and a northern inflection. Yet, I felt rather pleased heconsidered I should be so proficient in his native tongue. Afterwards, I lostmost of what Loïc and Renée were saying in French because I only listened tothe way they said it. But, yes, there was a difference. The southern accent ismore “drawly”, the words a trifle more slurred compared to Parisian speech. Mymother used to say Parisians spoke with more of a guttural edge. She herselfnever lost her English accent. She told me that the French rarely accepted“outsiders” as being part of their culture, so I guess she made every effort tostress her foreign association.

There’s been a lot of talk recently about racismin

Australia

. In the early days,

Australia

had what was known asa “white

Australia

policy”. LargelyAnglo-Saxon at that time, but certainly not large in population,

Australia

was afraid of beingoverrun by the “yellow hordes” from the East. We clung to the idea of an

England

in the South.Fortunately, that attitude changed over time. Firstly, we began to take moreand more immigrants from Europe, greatly enriching our culture, and atlast we are accepting people from Asia. Regrettably, racismhas once again come to the fore, and we are hearing more and more reports ofattacks on ethnic minorities. People from other countries come to

Australia

for economic reasonsand to escape persecution, but authorities now ask: are theyassimilating? There is no doubt that assimilation is difficult for new-comers.A strange country, strange customs, loneliness – they naturally band togetherwith their own countrymen. And the “older” Australians – Anglo-SaxonAustralians – are slow to accept “foreigners” or, as they used to be called:“New Australians”. According to one politician, the way to breach this divideis to ensure that all newly arrived immigrants learn to speak English fluently.That would certainly help, especially as many often don’t take the trouble tolearn – preferring to remain in their ghetto environment.

In the US every morning, Curtis Silwa addresseshis fellow New Yorkers on his radio show in a brogue that is one part Bronx andtwo-parts Brooklyn, pronouncing coffee as “cawfee”, murderers as “moideruhs”,Long Island as “Lawn Gyland”, etc. “My voice is about as thick and heavy as youcan get,” he says. But he fears for the safety of his accent. The old voice of New York is fading. Theoriginal accent was forged from Irish, Dutch, Italian and Yiddish dialects atbreakneck speed. “They talk very loud, very fast and altogether,” wrote JohnAdams of New Yorkers in 1774. “Pretty soon it looks like there won’t be anyoneleft,” Silwa says. “But, guess what?” That ain’t never gonna happen. It’s gonnamake people like me speak even more extensively so you can hear the Brooklyn.”

Even Australian English is going through achange. Back in the 1930’s, many Australians were desperate to sound as Englishas possible – until they travelled to England and were immediately identifiedas visiting “colonials” much to their annoyance and disappointment. Now, therole model has shifted to

America

, and words like“gotten” and “buck” for dollar are infiltrating our day-to-day conversation. Incontrast, was talking to a real Australian bushman the other day. Could havelistened to him for hours. Here was the real Australian accent.

Harriet, the honeybee.

2012-01-18T17:45:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting here surveying the scene on thedeck of our cottage beside the river. I’ve finished my cryptic crossword, andnow I’m just watching tiny ripples appear now and again where fish are swimmingto the surface. Swallows chase one another just above the water, and overhead,gulls glide the currents. All around, heat insects throb with the sun. A littleskink appears, runs along the decking, and then disappears down a crack.Charlie, the dog, lying under the table, takes no notice of the lizard. He’s moreinterested in movements on the lavender bush in a pot nearby. It’s a honeybee. Hewatches as she goes from one flower to the next, nuzzling each bloom in turn.Now fully laden, she returns home. But she’ll be back. I’ve seen her before,working away all by herself. A poem of no consequence pops into my head:

Harriet is a honeybee.

She buzzes round the flowers.

She likes her job enormously

And works for hours and hours.

She gathers pollen by the sack

(The busiest bee alive!)

and takes her booty back

for process at the Hive.

Sitting on the deck today,

I see her on the lavender,

All alone, she toils away -

No-one else is helping her.

“Aren’t you sad?” I have to ask,

“Working all alone?”

“Not when busy with my task.

I’d hate to be a drone!”

Comics (Boarding House Days)

2012-01-16T17:26:00.000-08:00

Corto Maltese

The periods between the finish of school and lining up fordinner, and between the end of homework and lights-out, were the best times forboarders. When we were little tykes, we’d play Cowboys and Indians. Later on,when short pants were “on their last legs” (what a momentous day it was when wesported our first pair of long strides), we would build model aeroplanes, cultivate radishes in the back paddock, and read “National Geographic” magazines in thelibrary. We also managed to further (although that’s debateable) our meagresex education by looking up “filthy” words in the large Oxford and Webster dictionarieson the library shelves. At night, we’d sit up in bed and read comics. Onceread, they would be passed on to someone else. Any new comics were receivedwith much joy. We loved our heroes: Batman, Captain Marvel, Mandrake, DickTracey, Tom Mix, and Mighty Mouse. Now, in this age of block-buster movies, TVand computer games, many of these famous names have been resurrected – plusothers that we didn’t know about then, such as “Tin Tin” by the Belgian GeorgesRemi alias Hergé, and “Corto Maltese” by the Italian Hugo Pratt. I’d love tosee Corto Maltese given the same film treatment as Tin Tin.

More Boarding House Days

2012-01-15T21:13:00.000-08:00

Having been woken by the first bell from a cold night’ssleep on cold, steel beds, and inadequate blankets, we grab a towel and flydown the dark stairs to snatch a quick shower before the water turns frigid.Someone who’s job it is to light the old heater has once again forgotten hisduty. He’ll be in trouble later. We quickly dry ourselves, get dressed, andhead out the door before the “older boys” who like to sleep longer discoverthat we’ve taken all the hot water – or the little available. But we know fromthe past they don’t forgive or forget. Later we will be punished. But for now, ourduty is to stand in a line outside the dining room and await inspection by thehouse master, Mr Trewin, or, as I call him, Hitler. When Hitler finallyarrives, he surveys our motley crew from a distance with a scowl and proceedsto stalk backwards and forwards along the line checking that each boy hasprepared himself correctly for the day ahead. If he detects a slovenly tie, aloose shoe-lace or a twisted collar, he dispatches the culprit to the dormitoryto attend to the discrepancy. Having weeded out the unworthy, the rest of usare allowed to shuffle into the dining-room and stand behind a chair. Hitlercomes in, rattles off grace, and we take our seats. Invariably, porridge isserved – or what masquerades as porridge – a glutenous paste, lumpy andunappetising. We try to mask the taste with milk and loads of sugar. Each of usis allowed one glass of milk and we become expert at making it last to the endof the meal. Having somehow eaten the porridge, we are allowed one slice oftoast, often cold, often hard, and guaranteed to put one off scorched bread forever – although I have to admit that I still like toast – probably I am provingto myself that toast can be palatable after all. To accompany the toast, thereis butter in the form of small balls, plus a choice of golden syrup or plumjam. Never anything else. More exotic additions such as marmalade and honey areunheard of – mainly because they are unavailable in bulk. We like the butterballs because when Hitler is distracted, we use our knives to flick them up tothe ceiling where they stay stuck for several days before descending onto theunwary heads of diners. Hitler counts the number of butter balls on the ceilingfrom time to time and becomes very angry when there is a marked increase in theirnumbers.

Dinner in the evening follows much the same pattern exceptthat porridge is replaced by overcooked roast beef, dry lambs fry, and soapyshepherds’ pie. It is essential that every morsel is consumed. Woe be he wholeaves any food on his plate. After dinner, we file into an adjacent commonroom for prayers conducted by our far from pious housemaster. There is areading from the Bible, prayers, and finally the dreaded inquisition. As thelast amen completes the ecclesiastical matters, everyone awaits the impendingdoom ahead. Hitler begins his speech innocuously – somewhat like his namesake –then launches into a tirade of abuse directed toward the boy or boys who havebeen caught disobeying the rules of the boarding house. To add flavour to hisrant, he includes lashings of sarcasm, encouraging the other boys to laugh atthe misfortunes of the condemned. Punishment is then pronounced. Fortunately itis not to be “drawn and quartered”. Generally it’s an additional two or threehours “prep”. “Prep” comes after prayers when we do our homework in anotherclassroom presided over once again by our housemaster. Usually, we stay therefor about an hour or so, then proceed to bed. Hitler leaves at the same time.The “criminals” though must stay on until they are excused. One night, no-onecame to let them go and they spent the night sleeping on the floor.

In Prague

2012-01-12T20:53:00.000-08:00

Another of Yannis Kondos’ intriguing poems.I have no idea what it’s all about, but then is that essential? The images areso vivid, and I like the interlocking motifs. Both this poem and the one before it wereprinted (in different format) in "The London Magazine" April/May 1996.

One of these days

I’ll pick up my spectacles

and go to Kafka’s house

here in Athens.

I found it years ago.

It’s now a casino.

I slip inside unnoticed,

wearing black.

I go toward the tables and

pretend to be watching the games,

with my arms folded.

No-one pays me any attention.

I stumble into the darkness

looking for Kafka’s room.

I can’t see where I’m going because

there’s been a power-cut.

At last

I make out the glass with his milk.

A candle burns.

A prayer is heard.

At that very moment,

dream’s smoke takes over my brain,

and my spectacles break.

I’m left high and dry

in the same house –

the same poem.

You dart out from behind the door.

You bite me, kiss me, tug at my clothes.

The dry patches on the skin

start to come off under water.

“I came by train today.”

You were crying,

your hair full of earth from the latestdeath.

I could see the veins glimmering in thedark,

the body drenched all over.

Days later,

it was raining.

Others played cards.

Moss surrounded the house.

And years later,

I bent down,

picked up the glass,

and put it back in its place.

Graffiti

2012-01-11T21:26:00.000-08:00

It doesn’t take long in Hobart before anynewly painted surface – be it a fence, a wall, or the side of a building – is“tagged”, that is, covered in graffiti. It’s a form of vandalism I really hate.These taggers feel compelled to go round defacing someone else’s property justfor kicks. Or is it boredom? Or is it resentment? Are they bitter becausesomeone else has more than they have, or try to keep what they have lookingnice? In Paris, there is a special unit to remove graffiti (see image).

Then we are told that tagging is a form ofself-expression. Every writer has his – I say “his” because it’s more amale-dominated activity – own unique tag. No doubt relying on old saying “Ifyou can’t beat them join them”, the Hobart authorities, as in Melbourne andSydney, have now allowed the taggers to use certain areas however and wheneverthey like, in the hope that it will stop the senseless damage. Taggers are thenknown as graffiti artists. And I’ve got to admit that some of these graffitiartists are very good at what they do. Even the highly respected FoundationCartier recently devoted a special exhibition to this form of art called “BornIn The Streets”. My sister who lives in Paris sent me the catalogue. I wasparticularly interested in one of the Brazilian artists: Vitche, and have included two of his “paintings”. His story reads:

Vitchégrew up in Sao Paulo in an area of factories, “dirty and ugly”, ashe described it. He started painting on the walls of the city in order to helpchange its view and take away this impression of being “locked up with noair”.

Concernedabout the planet, he has always found his inspiration in nature, trying toinclude it in the urban surroundings: “People lost the connection withnature, it is important to make them realize the importance of nature.”

Theartist goes to the forest to get some energy and is now thinking about thepossibility of realizing a land art project in the Amazonia.

Hisart is also connected to his travels (Peru, Pasques Island) as well as tostories of other times and myths around Polynesia, the Aztecs, the BrazilianIndians, or the playful symbolism of the circus. All those themes are carefullymixed to compose complex stylistic characters in black, red and white tones.

The musical dimension is also very present in his work throughinstruments, probably because he never draws, paints or sculpts withoutlistening music.

The Translation of Reality (David Hockney)

2012-01-10T23:39:00.000-08:00

Amazon

2012-01-09T21:05:00.000-08:00

I have re-assembled this poem by Yannis Kondos translated from the Greek into English. Gritty images.

It was noon following the battle.

All of us were dead tired, and began takingoff our helmets and breastplates.

In front, the enemy had retreated behindthe hill.

Overhead, the sun burned the iron, ourskin, and our loneliness.

The wounded were groaning, the horsesbreathing their last.

Ambulances sped this way and that, a redcross on their bonnets.

I was thirsty.

I took the flask but there was sand in it.

I pick some blades of grass to cool mylips.

I undo my boots.

(The tenses, history, and our lives wereall mixed up).

Without caring, I go behind a rock tourinate.

As I watch the curve of yellow liquid,

suddenly in front of me was the Amazon -

dark-skinned, with one breast exposed,

the other cut off leaving skin pink as thedawn.

With golden greaves on her long legs,

she smelt of death.

She called out in Greek: “Stay right whereyou are!”

I froze and tried to do up my fly.

For a moment I took her to be an angel,

standing there – tall, with the sun behindher,

but soon learnt the sad truth.

She raised her sword, and with a yell

brought it down on me –

cleaving my body in two,

then slung me on her back

like a slaughtered lamb.

Since then, I’ve been living with her –

making things out of wood and string.

My mother keeps running to the Red Crossand prisioner-of-war camps

with a yellowing photograph.

Bizarre Book Titles

2012-01-08T21:10:00.000-08:00

Here are some of my favorites - they are actual books that have been published (the year in brackets). Often surrealism reveals hidden truths!

The Memoir of the Late Honorable JusticeOnoocool Chunder Mookerjee (1873)

Correct Mispronunciations of Some SouthCarolina Names (1984)

How to Write While You Sleep (1985)

What is a Cow? And Other Questions ThatMight Occur to You When Walking the Thames Path (2000)

The Longevity of Starved Cockroaches (1957)

The Urine Dance of the Zuni Indians of NewMexico (1885)

The Benefit of Farting Explain’d (1722)

How To Be Plump (1878)

The Inheritance of Hairy Ear Rims (1961)

How to Pick Up Women in Discos (1981)

The Madam as Entrepreneur: CareerManagement in House Prostitution (1979)

Squid Jiggling from Small Boats (1989)

Frolic and Fun with Egg-Shells (1903)

How to Eat a Peanut (1900)

Ice Cream for Small Plants (1937)

How to Cook Roadkill: Gourmet Cooking(1987)

How to Cook Husbands (1899)

How to Survive Snack Attacks Naturally(1979)

Life and Laughter ‘midst the Cannibals(1926) – relates to a story of a sailor visiting the Solomon Islands whoavoided being eaten by cannibals but whose false teeth fell overboard and inattempting to retrieve them, was eaten by a shark.

The Time Registering Closet. A new systemwhereby much valuable time of employees is saved. (1892)

How to Make an Atomic Bomb in your own Kitchen(1951)

Gunrunning for Fun and Profit (1986)

The “Walking Stick” Method of Self-Defence(1926)

Hand Grenade Throwing as a College Sport(1918)

The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum (1901)

Taking Life Imprisionment Seriously (2002)

Snoring as a Fine Art, and Twelve OtherEssays (1958)

The Ups and Downs

2012-01-07T18:01:00.000-08:00

Call me a traditionalist if you like, but I like the oldlifts (elevators) despite their idiosyncrasies. I’m not a lover of thosehigh-tech wonders that whip you up to the heavens in a matter of seconds. In mybook “Views From the Balcony”, I write about the lift in my mother’s apartmentin Paris (now my sister’s). It’s a temperamental contraption subject to stopsand starts. Sometimes, though, it decides not to work at all, and the residentsof the building are obliged to use the stairs until the repairman finallyarrives to fix it. This was particularly inconvenient for my mother, going onninety, the last time it happened, because no way could she climb the stairs tothe eighth floor, and was therefore unable to get out and about. For almostthree weeks she was confined to her apartment. She would have missed her weeklytrip to the market on Place Monge, just as the stall-holders would have missedher smile and conversation. Fortunately, my sister lived nearby and was able tosupply her with bread from the local boulangerie, meat, and the odd bottle ofplonk – most important. I mention in my book how, on one occasion, afterpressing the button for the eighth floor, the lift took me instead up to thepenthouse on the ninth – a somewhat disquietening experience as I described.Then there was that time I waited a nerve-wracking half hour for the lift totake me down to ground level for a flight back to Australia.One of the residents had decided that was the right afternoon to load the lift up withalmost the entire stock of plants from a garden nursery, and then transportthem up to his apartment. It looked as if he wanted to create some sort ofjungle. For some reason – and I can’t remember what it was now – maybe I hadtoo much luggage – I couldn’t use the stairway. Just made the plane.

In Melbourne,Joan McQueen is the matriarch of elevators. She has been at the controls ofLift No.1 in the Nicholas Buildingin Swanston Street since1977. “Over thirty years in a box,” she says. She estimates that she’s worked atotal of 53,760 hours running her tiny lift up and down the nine floors.Surprisingly for the size of the building, there are three elevators: Joan’s No1, an automatic one, and No 3 operated by Dimitri Bradas. The management were alittle disturbed recently when Dimitri bought a stuffed bird at the Coburgtrash-and-treasure market and installed it in his lift. Following that, headded red velvet curtains to give it “the loungey look”. ''It's mainly the bourgeoisie who giveus a hard time,'' Dimitri says. ''Because of who they are, they feel they needto dish it out. It's about respect, we're providing a service. We entertainthem, we provide information. I'm getting ready to deal with someone at themoment. Joan just ignores it, but I just tell them: if they are rude,obnoxious, arrogant, they're not allowed in my lift.''

The pair stand their ground with management, too. ''They use you, love,''says Joan. ''They'd have us working 80 hours a week if they could. When Istarted here I used to let out the rooms in the building, give all the prices -the manager taught me to do all that. Do they remember that? No!''

But don't get the wrong idea. The elevator twins love their work (''thebest lift-attendant job ever,'' says Dimitri) and they run a friendly service.''We chat with people like they're mates,'' says Joan, ''and we don't soundlike those sour voices in automated lifts.''

Joan gotstuck in the Nicholas Building's automatic lift just last week. ''Wouldn'thappen in mine,'' she says. ''My lift has always worked. It's the way you treatit.''

Home Duties

2012-01-06T18:13:00.000-08:00

My dear Auntie Bella - bless her heart –never worked for a living. She was provided for by adequate though not abundantfunds from her brother, Gordon. In the early part of the Twentieth Century, itwas not uncommon nor unusual for a woman to exist without employment. Nowadays,if asked “What do you do?” and you answer “Nothing”, people look at youstrangely. Perhaps you might get away with the classification “Home Duties”.Not that Bella was unoccupied. A good part of her early life was devoted tonursing other people. First, it was her father, and then it was her Uncle Jameswho sounded like a most disagreeable character. She often said that she neverliked Uncle James, but felt it was “her duty” to look after him when he wassick and dying.

After moving from Launceston in Tasmania toMelbourne, she became friendly with a Mrs Lemmon who lived nearby. Mrs Lemmonwas an elderly widow who had been left “comfortably off” by her late husband. Ithink Bella was rather in awe of her friend, especially as Mrs Lemmon hadtravelled the world and mixed with “polite society, something Bella had notexperienced coming from a small place like Launceston. On her travels, MrsLemmon had collected many “valuable pieces” (ornaments, china and otherkeepsakes) which Bella greatly admired. If any became chipped or broken, MrsLemmon would “donate” them to my aunt who would be only too pleased to havethem “touched-up” or repaired with small brass rivets.

Towards the end of Mrs Lemmon’s life, Bellaonce again acted as nurse, although, to me, it sounded more like “nurse-maid”.She was expected to be at the dying woman’s bedside night and day, pandering toher every “beck and call”. I asked her later why she had allowed herself to beused in such a manner. She replied: “Because she taught me such a lot.”

It was soon after Mrs Lemmon’s death thatBella set off on her own voyages of discovery. No doubt, she was influenced byher late friend’s tales of overseas adventure, but also by the realization thatnow she could do things she wanted to do. It was a time of relative peaceimmediately before the Great War. People still travelled abroad in the grandmanner, taking their time by sea, visiting exotic ports, enjoying the pleasuresof life aboard. Travellers kept diaries to record day-to-day events, andautograph albums for their fellow passengers to sign and add pithy sayings,amusing quotes, or even personal works of art.

We are lucky to own Auntie Bella’s twoautograph albums she took with her on her trips abroad. They are fascinatingbooks, particularly as a window on an era long past. Some of the paintings inside are remarkable,and I’ve attached here three of these.

Grandfather

2012-01-05T21:51:00.000-08:00

Where are you now, Grandfather? I hopewherever you are, your owners are looking after you. I hope they are keepingyou wound-up each week - not in a vigorous manner– but with a slow, steadyturning of the handle so that the metal weights gradually rise from the bottomof your long case to just beneath your face. I hope they keep your cogsregularly oiled, your timing adjusted, and your moon-dial correctly alignedwith its celestial counterpart. I hope they keep your white enamel face clean,and polish your mahogany and oak panels. You left us in the Sotheby sale onMonday 8^th May 1995. That seems a long time ago, but we stillremember you, and how you occupied pride of place in our various homes. Youcame with us to each new address. In fact, when contemplating a move, we wouldask ourselves: “Will Grandfather fit in?” This meant measuring the distancebetween floor and ceiling in the proposed dwelling to see if there was enoughroom. Very often this would influence our buying decision. And there you wouldstand once again, majestically, lord of the household, your rhythmic tick-tockand hourly chime measuring the day and night. It was almost as if you were commandingtime, not recording it. To you, time was a capricious element – sometimesrushing ahead, sometimes lagging behind – and it was your job to keep it inline. You were the steadying influence. When awake during the night, yoursteady beat would comfort us, and your hourly chimes would tell us all waswell.

But then came that fateful day when we hadto part. Maybe our family had grown up – maybe it was the end of an era – maybewe both needed to start a new life – maybe we felt it was now our turn to keepcontrol of time. But we did know it was a matter of circumstance rather thanthe measuring tape this time. You were listed in the Sotheby catalogue as aGeorge III Longcase English clock circa 1820 made by Jas Powell, Worcester. Impressive,no doubt, but how impersonal. To us you will always be “Grandfather”. I hopeyou live forever.

The sound of music

2012-01-04T23:51:00.000-08:00

Talking with my friend, John, today. Johnis a most accomplished gentleman – a man of many parts. Not only is he asurgeon and a professor of medicine but was recently president of theAustralian Computer Society. His latest interest is recording organ music inchurches. His colleague restores the organs. We discussed how surroundingsinfluence the quality and sound of music. Made me think of an LP record I’dbought years ago from Peter at Thomas’ (see my post 7/12/11 “A Record BestSeller”) called “Paul Horn – Inside the Great Pyramid.” Peter was like that. Hehad a nose for what might interest me, and this LP certainly did. What everhappened to it, I don’t know – probably lost in one our numerous moves. Butthanks to the Great God Google, I have re-found it. Listening again was atotally eerie experience. Paul Horn has somehow captures the essence of thatvast interior space. The notes evoke deep and somewhat disturbing mysteries. Paul Horn wrote:

“Before leaving (for Egypt), I received acall from a man named Ben Pietschfrom Santa Rosa, California. He introduced himself by saying he was apyramidologist. He had lectured and written many articles on the Great Pyramid,including an unpublished book, Voices in Stone, which he later sent me -a fascinating work. He had heard via the grapevine that I was going to Egypt toplay my flute inside the Great Pyramid. He loved the idea and said that sonicvibrations constituted an integral part of the structure. In fact, he said,every room has a basic vibration to it; if we found it and identified with it,we would become attuned to that particular space. I had never heard that theorybefore, but it made sense to me.

Withinthese chambers lived the spirits of kings and queens and their servants, peoplewho had walked and talked upon the earth thousands of years ago. I wanted to bein touch with them, not with my personal self. So, although my intention wasnot as innocent, I still kept the music pure through improvisation, which isthe true expression of the living moment.

Myjob was to open myself as much as possible to the vibratory influencespermeating these rooms and to respond to them as intuitively and deeply andhonestly as I possibly could. By transcending preconceptions and personal egotrips and then improvising music in response to the environment, I could bringto the album an experience that would be psychologically clean and spirituallyinnocent.

Ibecame totally absorbed in the music. I gave myself up to the eons ofvibrations and ghostly choirs present in the chamber, letting the music flowthrough me with a life of its own.”

Pessoa

2012-01-03T22:16:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, I found a book “onspecial” (marked-down price) at Fullers Bookshop. It was the selected work ofone, Fernando Pessoa. Until then, I’d never heard of Pessoa but it turns out hewas a famous Portuguese writer in the early part of the twentieth Century. Hewas – possibly still is - the four most famous Portuguese poets. Four – becausehe used four different names or “heteronyms” - each with his own distinctivestyle and attitude to life. His most famous work is “The Book of Disquiet” andit often is because he says it as it is rather than disguising the facts. Somemay say it’s depressing. I say its refreshing. Here is one of his poems:

Escorted by regrets and self-reproach

I walked among my few trees

alone like a symbol

under the useless shadows

and faint russle of leaves.

After the last rains left the sky for earth

Making the sky clear

And the earth a damp mirror,

The brilliant clarity of life returned

With a freshness in our hearts.

As a tribute to and in the spirit of Pessoa, I wrote thefollowing based on the above (I'm not entirely happy with the last verse which sounds a trifle pedestrian):

I walked amid the trees of shame,

branches heavy with regret

A shadow of forsaken fame

Hopes piled high with debt.

Leaves whispered as I past

“There goes a man,” they said,

Thinks he’s on his last,

and tomorrow will be dead.”

“A lonely man, his eyes are black

With useless times gone past.”

That gloomy glade will call them back -

those woes to ever last.

But clouds and rain are dreary mates

Who can’t abide the light,

When sun appears, their power abates

And they are gone from sight.

My heart will sing.

My life’s restored.

The earth will ring

a bright new chord.

Maria, Then and Now

2011-12-31T18:29:00.000-08:00

The other day, took the half-hour’s boat trip from Triabunna to Maria Island. It was a perfect day - the sun was shining, hardly a cloud in the sky and the sea uncharacteristically calm. I say that because Mercury Passage has claimed many a ship in the past. Without warning, I’m told, that stretch of water can whip itself into a frenzy. On the way, pass the Triabunna Wood Chip mill, once a thriving export business but now closed down. The idle machinery stands as a testament to Jan Cameron’s environmental agenda.

Tie-up at the Maria Island jetty, leave the boat and set off to explore the Darlington settlement. Walk past the giant cement silos, quietly eroding away in the salt air, reminders of another operation which closed in the 1930s. Nothing to do with the environment this time. Simply, the economics of supply. Nowadays, it would be impossible to start a cement works on Maria Island, even though it might work with improvements in transportation. When the cement works closed, over two hundred people lost their jobs and had to leave the island to find employment elsewhere. The same will happen in Triabunna without its woodchip mill unless someone can come up with a viable alternative.

With no industry, Darlington became a ghost-town. Ghosts do live in Darlington. Maybe “live” is the wrong word. Perhaps “exist” is better, but that too might be inappropriate. In Darlington, they are the spirits of convicts shipped out like cattle to the island from the other side of world and then locked up in tiny cells. They are the images of great dreams briefly realized and then dashed to the ground. One lonely little ghost called Diego roams the hill where his grave faces that great expanse of coastline. Diego was the son of Diego Bernacchi. He was only four years old when he died.The Bernacchi house stands

nearby. Inside, the walls are crumbling, the doors and

floor boards are gone, and barely nothing remains of that once elegant family. Outside, a troupe of butterflies dance around the still-standing chimneys, and remnants of the kitchen garden. Nearby, a pair of Cape Barren geese nose about in the grass. Behind the Bernacchi house are the sparse remains of the Grand Hotel. As the brochure says: “A good imagination is needed to envision all this among today’s ruins.” Along the road, come across what was the Manager’s house. Two imposing gate posts speak of the one-time important dwelling. The birds and bush creatures seem to be asking: “Did anybody live here?” Long abandoned brick kilns peep through the gums. Rusting machinery, broken bricks, old photographs all compete with the silence.

But to most families who’ve come here to camp or overnight in the penitentiary buildings, history is a minor consideration. They are here to have fun. With no cars on the roads, the children are free to cycle wherever they want to, or swim in the transparent waters, or dive off the jetty. Everywhere, trails lead off to unique vistas. It truly is a beautiful island.

Ladybird

2011-12-27T22:02:00.000-08:00

I was sitting, reading this afternoon beside the river which runs past our cottage. The tide was running out quietly and all was peaceful, except for the occasional water-skier or dinghy with fishing folk heading upstream. Swallows skimmed the surface of the water, and a kookaburra sat in a tree nearby scanning the bushland for a potential meal – hopefully not a snake. It’s the season for snakes so it’s prudent to keep a lookout. We certainly don’t want our dog to find one because he’s a curious little fellow and might be bitten. Charlie – that’s his name - was lying on the deck eyeing off the kookaburra. Both dog and bird lay claim to the area around the cottage and are very suspicious of one another. As I continued reading, a tiny red and white insect began a journey across my page. It was a ladybird. I tried to divert her path onto my finger but she was having none of that. As soon as possible she returned to her original trajectory, and then, coming to the edge of the paper, she crawled down onto the table and up onto a piece of driftwood. It had been a long time since I’d seen a ladybird. A few years ago, there were any number of them, but then they all seemed to disappear. Later, I did a bit of googling and discovered that, officially, ladybirds are coccinellids, but every culture seems to have its own particular name for them. They are often associated with the Virgin Mary which I thought was particularly significant for this Christmas time of the year. They are considered lucky and help the gardener by eating aphids. In certain climatic conditions, however, their numbers increase dramatically and they become a pest. Farmers, though, are loathe to kill them, and instead smoke them out. Hence the nursery-rhyme:

Ladybird, ladybird fly away home.

Your house is on fire and your children are gone.

(The adult insects would fly away from the smoke but their offspring as grubs would die).

They say that if you recite this rhyme when you see a ladybird, your wishes will come true. Hope so.

The novel I’m reading involves domestic violence and I was intrigued to learn –google again - that the Dutch use the ladybird as the symbol for their association: Foundation Against Senseless Violence.

My ladybird didn’t seem anxious to fly away. I was quite happy for her to stay as long as she liked, but the breeze had got up and I needed to go inside where it was a bit warmer.

My True Love Gave to Me – A Partridge in a Pear Tree

2011-12-24T14:57:00.000-08:00

While the Twelve Days of Christmas is a very popular song, some of the lover's choices of gifts for his beloved seem odd to many people today and the gift of a partridge in a pear is one of the seemingly odd choices.

While both partridges and pears were common in England during the period when this popular Christmas carol emerged one wonders why a gift of a partridge in a pear tree?

A partridge is not a small bird that can be easily placed in a cage in the kitchen. And, with the exception of dwarf pear trees which existed but may or may not have been common in the areas where this song originated, we are talking about a good-sized tree which makes for a rather large and bulky gift.

Like other songs and art in general, the gifts in this song could have been chosen for symbolic reasons or possibly because they fit into the rhyme of the song.

In Medieval and Tudor England, when this carol developed, the twelve days of Christmas were a time of partying and feasting by the upper classes and the partridge is a game bird that would have been a popular main course at one of the feasts.

Since Christmas Day, December 25th, is the first of the 12 Days of Christmas (and the Eve of the Epiphany on January 5th the twelfth day) the pear tree with a partridge in it is given to the beloved on Christmas Day itself. It could be that partridge was a popular dish on Christmas day in that era.

In fact, the first seven stanzas of the song involve different types of birds that would have been served during the feasts.

Similarly, the pear was a common fruit which would have been available for the feasts. Thus, the song could easily be about the feasts during the English Twelfth Night Celebrations.

Why a Partridge in a Pear Tree?

Three theories have been advanced regarding the origin of this stanza, which, like the other stanzas, could have originally been a part of another song or rhyme.

One theory is that the partridge symbolizes Christ and the pear tree the cross. This fits with the hypothesis that the song was originally a mnemonic used by English Catholics to secretly teach the faith to their children during the period when the Catholic faith was illegal in England.

A second theory, is that the English word for partridge may have come from the Greek word Perdix which was the name of one of the kings in Greek mythology. This king, along with the Goddess Athena had sacred links to the pear tree in some parts of Eurasia.

According to legend, when King Perdix was cast from a tower into the ocean, he emerged as a bird and was carried to heaven by by the goddess Athena. Thus, Athena represents the pear tree carrying the bird, Perdix, to heaven. Following the introduction of Christianity, the partridge was sometimes used as a symbol for Christ and, in this light, it makes sense having it as a part of a Christmas carol.

Others have pointed out that the French word for partridge is perdix (same Greek origin but, more than likely, the word came from Greek to French then to English rather directly from Greek to English). This is the basis for the third theory which is based on the fact that, in French, the word perdix is pronounced as pear dree.

Since the monarchy in England traces its origins from William I, Duke of Normandy in France. Duke William, also known as William the Conqueror, defeated the Saxon King Harold at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and became King of England and the founder of the Norman Dynasty in England.

In the centuries that followed, French was the language of the nobility while Anglo Saxon remained the language of the common people. In time the two languages merged into what we now know as the English language.

The song itself has strong French connections and it is quite possible that some early versions had a pear tree as the gift and others a partridge.

Because the names for both were so close in the two languages, the partridge ended up in the pear tree.

As will be seen later in the Hubs dealing with the fourth and fifth verses of the carol, the partridge in a pear tree is not the only gift in which the form of the gift or word describing the gift have changed.

Wise Quotes for the New Year

2011-12-23T19:03:00.000-08:00

I've developed a new philosophy . . . I only dread one day at a time. - Charlie Brown, Peanuts

To some extend it's a universal situation (feeling confused and out of date as to what technology can actually do now). There are probably 15-year-olds right now who don't suffer from that. ... By the time they're 16, they're slightly behind the curve. - William Gibson

Do not pursue what is illusory - property and position: all that is gained at the expense of your nerves decade after decade and can be confiscated in one fell night. Live with a steady superiority over life - don't be afraid of misfortune, and do not yearn after happiness; it is after all, all the same: the bitter doesn't last forever, and the sweet never fills the cup to overflowing. -- Alexander Solzhenitsyn

It's good to have money and the things that money can buy, but it's good, too, to check up once in a while and make sure that you haven't lost the things that money can't buy. ~George Horace Lorimer

If you can solve your problem, then what is the need of worrying? If you cannot solve it, then what is the use of worrying? - Shantideva

For a successful technology, reality must take precedence over public relations, for Nature cannot be fooled. - Richard Feynman

I've developed some special talents because I work with men. One is selective hearing. - Amber Martorelli, animator

What can I do? I am a figment of your imagination. - Gusteau, Ratatouille

Why do writers write? Because it isn't there. - Thomas Berger

As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality. - Albert Einstein

Complete nudity in itself is not erotic. It becomes so only when preceded by or contrasted to a state of dress. In this limited context then, all clothes become somewhat immoral, if we define immorality as inciting sexual interest. Habitual nakedness may indeed be capable of elevating man to a higher mental plane - Lucy Irvine

The only real prison is fear, and the only real freedom is freedom from fear. - Aung San Suu Kyi

Do not fear to be eccentric in opinion, for every opinion now accepted was once eccentric. - Bertrand Russell

I think on-stage nudity is disgusting, shameful and damaging to all things American. But if I were 22 with a great body, it would be artistic, tasteful, patriotic and a progressive religious experience. - Shelley Winters

There's something therapeutic about nudity. Clothing is one of the external things about a character. Take away the Gucci or Levi's and we're all the same - Kevin Bacon

If there is a significant difference between theory and practice, then the theory is wrong or incomplete - Eolake Stobblehouse

Whoever ceases to be a student has never been a student. - George Iles

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. - Edgar Allan Poe

Living in a vacuum sucks. - Adrienne E. Gusoff

We are an impossibility in an impossible universe. - Ray Bradbury

The power to bring me out of solitude - or to push me back into it - had never belonged to another person. It was mine and only mine. - Martha Beck

May I never miss a sunset or a rainbow because I am looking down. - Sara June Parker

I'd rather be a failure at something I love than a success at something I hate. - George Burns

My body is naked now & it was born naked. No matter how I dress up or undress' I'm naked. The hours of the early morning find me naked & I find the hours & the morning just as naked as they find me... The best & juiciest of humanly truths are our naked truths. Our fittest honesty is our naked honesty... This is what I call being truthfully democratic. - Woodrow (Woody) Guthrie

Finding God's most glorious work to be Woman, that all human beauty had been concentrated in her, I resolved to dedicate myself to painting . . . God's most glorious work, more finely than ever had been done. - William Etty

Woman's nudity is wiser than the philosopher's teachings. - Max Ernst

Modern Art is what happens when painters stop looking at girls and persuade themselves that they have a better idea. - John Ciardi

The Greeks perfected the nude in order that man might feel like a god, and in a sense this is still its function, for although we no longer suppose that God is like a beautiful man, we still feel close to divinity in those flashes of self-identification when, through our own bodies, we seem to be aware of a universal order. -- Kenneth Clark

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and Jill a rich widow. -- Evan Esar

After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say "I want to see the manager." -- William S. Burroughs

No human thing is of serious importance. -- Plato

Man's naked form... belongs to no particular moment in history; it is eternal, and can be looked upon with joy by the people of all ages. -- Auguste Rodin

"The wise man is astonished by everything."
-- André Gide

It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. -- Aristotle

There is nothing in all the world more beautiful or significant of the laws of the universe than the nude human body. -- Robert Henri

I still need more healthy rest in order to work at my best. My health is the main capital I have and I want to administer it intelligently. -- Ernest Hemingway

The position of the artist is humble. He is essentially a channel. -- Piet Mondrian

Good manners will open doors that the best education cannot. -- Clarence Thomas

I have unbounded admiration for the nude. I worship it like a god. - Auguste Rodin

Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger. -- Franklin P. Jones

Beware the pull on your heartstrings -- it's often the pursestrings that are actually being reached for. -- Barbara Mikkelson

The quantity of civilization is measured by the quality of imagination. -- Victor Hugo

You toy with my heart like it's a toy heart. - Lisa Simpson

Do not fall prey to the false belief that mastery and domination are synonymous with manliness. -- Kent Nerburn

Wonder is what sets us apart from other life forms. No other species wonders about the meaning of existence or the complexity of the universe or themselves. -- Herbert W. Boyer

Why am I soft in the middle
the rest of my life is so hard
- Paul Simon, You Can Call Me Al

All human situations have their inconveniences. We feel those of the present but neither see nor feel those of the future; and hence we often make troublesome changes... -- Benjamin Franklin

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing. -- Agatha Christie

We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves. -- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. -- W. Somerset Maugham

Well-timed silence hath more eloquence than speech. -- Martin Fraquhar Tupper

In the old days a man who saved money was a miser; nowadays he's a wonder. ~Author Unknown

October: This is one of the peculiarly dangerous months to speculate in stocks in. The others are July, January, September, April, November, May, March, June, December, August and February. ~Mark Twain

This planet has - or rather had - a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy. ~Douglas Adams

Taking joy in living is a woman's best cosmetic. ~Rosalind Russell

I am opposed to millionaires, but it would be dangerous to offer me the position. ~Mark Twain

Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love. -- Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown in "Peanuts"

The future is here. It's just not widely distributed yet. -- William Gibson

The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone. ~Johann von Goethe

As we grow old, the beauty steals inward. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Plainness has its peculiar temptations quite as much as beauty. ~George Eliot

Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it. ~Confucius

We ascribe beauty to that which is simple; which has no superfluous parts; which exactly answers its end; which stands related to all things; which is the mean of many extremes. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Inflation hasn't ruined everything. A dime can still be used as a screwdriver.

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income. ~Errol Flynn

There is a very easy way to return from a casino with a small fortune: go there with a large one. ~Jack Yelton

Truth is the most valuable thing we have. Let us economize it. - Mark Twain

The safe way to double your money is to fold it over once and put it in your pocket. ~Frank Hubbard

Beauty comes as much from the mind as from the eye. ~Grey Livingston

To live is to dance, to dance is to live. - Peanuts, Snoopy

"My parents are always saying to me: 'go to college, Bruce, get a little something for yourself'. What they never understood is that I want Everything." - Bruce Springsteen

This is my depressed stance. When you're depressed, it makes a lot of difference how you stand. The worst thing you can do is straighten up and hold your head high because then you'll start to feel better. If you're going to get any joy out of being depressed, you've got to stand like this. - Peanuts, Charlie Brown

No problem is so big or so complicated that it can't be run away from! Peanuts, Linus Van Pelt

Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything that is beautiful; for beauty is God's handwriting - a wayside sacrament. Welcome it in every fair face, in every fair sky, in every fair flower, and thank God for it as a cup of blessing. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

There is a road from the eye to the heart that does not go through the intellect. ~Gilbert Keith Chesterton

I don't like standard beauty - there is no beauty without strangeness. ~Karl Lagerfeld

Tell them dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, then beauty is its own excuse for being.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you are ever in doubt as to whether to kiss a pretty girl, always give her the benefit of the doubt. ~Thomas Carlyle

Women always worry about the things that men forget; men always worry about the things women remember. ~Author Unknown

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. ~Kahlil Gibran

By plucking her petals, you do not gather the beauty of the flower. ~Rabindrath Tagore

I'm not against half naked girls - not as often as I'd like to be. ~Benny Hill

They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle; but to me a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation. ~Oliver Goldsmith

From One Side to the Other

2011-12-21T20:14:00.000-08:00

"North Korea warned South Korea on Sunday of 'unexpected consequences' if Seoul displays Christmas lights near the tense border, and vowed to retaliate for what it called 'psychological warfare.' From the article: 'The tree-shaped, 30 metre-high steel structure on Aegibong hill - some 3km (2 miles) from the border - was illuminated by thousands of small light bulbs last year. It could be seen from the North's major city of Kaesong across the border, according to media reports. Pyongyang has previously accused Seoul of using the tree to spread the Christian message to people inside the secular state.'"

On SBS news the other night, a reporter near the north/south divide in Korea was commenting on the difference between the hustle, bustle and bright lights of his South Korean base and the dark and soundless North Korean city he could see just over the border.

This contrast seems to be a universal feature where a democratic state is side by side with an oppressive regime. It was the same in East Berlin back in the Sixties. My friend and I stood with a group of tourists from Czechoslovakia (as it was called then) at the Brandenburg Gate. Everything around us was shadowy and silent but looking through the Gate we could see the lights and hear the music of West Berlin - so near and yet so far away. We felt very sorry for these tourists from behind the Iron Curtain. They just stood there, looking, hardly saying a word, then turning, walked back along a deserted Unter den Linden. Next morning we drove across the border to freedom. Why should we be so lucky?

Before China opened its gates to the West, I was in Hong Kong, then under British rule. Even though suffering from a monster hang-over from the night before, I took a tour to the New Territories adjacent to the Chinese border. At one point, we could look across to a farming area in Communist China. “Over there you can see some communist farmers,” pointed out the tour guide. To me, they just looked like ordinary farmers. Were they meant to take on some sinister image as “communist” farmers? Then a young boy appeared, and tried to sell us sandals, but was severely rebuked by the guide: “Don’t deal with that boy,” he told us all. “He’s always annoying people around here, and has probably stolen those sandals, anyway.”

River

2011-12-21T16:14:00.000-08:00

The Prosser River runs past our cottage at Orford on the east cost of Tasmania. My wife writes: we love the river’s moods – the sun glistening on the waters in the early mornings, the rain drops splashing on wet, grey days, the lights reflected from the bridge, and the birds that fly up and down. But last week there was a huge storm, and the whole character of the river changed. It became wild and clouded with mud. It was as if the tempest had stirred strange beings from the depths. I pictured them rising to the surface of the river and whiffling along the banks and through the tulgey woods. In other words, Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” came to mind, as did this poem:

O turgid reaches,

chocolate brown,

realm of creatures

from deepest down.

They stalk the night,

like Bandersnatch –

with jaws that bite,

and claws that catch.

They stride the verge.

They shriek and scream.

Their voices surge

beside that stream.

But Fear is all

that roams abroad -

its power will fall

to Reason’s sword.

Its vorpal blade

with snicker-snack

sees evil laid

And quietness back.

A Christmas Carol

2011-12-19T21:17:00.000-08:00

The message in Charles Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol” is as relevant today as it was when first published in 1843. At that time, Victorian England was in the throes of the Industrial Revolution with its attendant darkness, sadness and despair, especially for the poor. Persons could be seized, summarily tried, and transported to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania) for stealing a loaf of bread to feed a starving family. Today, the gulf between economic opposites continues. Nostalgia is a way of escaping the realities of life. In Dickens’ age, a wave of nostalgia was sweeping the country. Encouraged by Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband, there was a desire to return to the old Christmas traditions. Albert popularized the German Christmas Tree, introduced the first Christmas card, and revived carol singing. Dickens was the first author to celebrate the Christmas season in literature.

Ebenezer Scrooge was the antithesis of Charles’ father, John, who was described as “a jovial opportunist with no money sense’, constantly in debt, and forever seeking loans from friends and family. When John was thrown into prison by his creditors, the family broke up. Charles loved and demonized his father, and this psychological conflict was responsible for the two radically different Scrooges in the story. The ghosts who play a major part in Scrooge’s conversion come from Dickens’ interest in spiritualism and mysticism which was popular in England and America at that time

Here are a few famous quotations from the novel:

"External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty."

"Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him."

"Ghost of the Future," he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.

"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can."

With best Christmas wishes to all my readers.

Luddite

2011-12-17T17:58:00.000-08:00

Why is there a word for those seen to be opposing technological change but not for those forcing untested technologies upon us? In the midst of the great biotechnology debate, an understanding of our different perspectives could help ...

Maybe we are at a point when we are beginning to re-assess exactly where we have come technologically speaking and if every new advance is “all it’s cracked up to be”. There are often downsides to recent innovations, and some people prefer to go back to the original e.g. the case of CD’s versus vinyl records. What ever happened to the Walkman? Has the Kindle replaced books? I’m always interested in the latest, but I have to ask myself: “Is it worth spending money on it?” or “How long before it is replaced?” I knew when I bought my iPhone that it would be superseded in a very short time, and it has been, but I’m not about to rush out and buy Version 2. What happens to the old gadgets? Do they all go to an Old Gadgets Home? I know some people even now who refuse to touch a computer. Such people are apt to use the phrase “I remember when…” and are generally referred to as traditionalists or Luddites. As in 1815, I feel their cause is ultimately doomed:

In 1811, beleaguered textile workers defending their jobs took on the Industrial Revolution by axing mills and machinery in the English Midlands. Lord Byron's maiden speech in the House of Lords was an impassioned plea for their cause. Although the plight of the workers caught in the technological transition won some sympathy, by 1815 the rebellion led by Ned Ludd ended at the gallows for many of its leaders. Today, Ludd's rebellion is almost universally interpreted as a tragic example of society's failure to comprehend the march of scientific progress. Anyone opposing new technologies is dismissed as a Luddite.

The Price of Luxury

2011-12-14T17:47:00.000-08:00

When my wife and I were in Paris a few years ago, Louis Vuitton’s flagship store on the Champs-Elysées was nearing completion. That was before the financial meltdown. Would be interesting to know how LV is travelling now.

Recently, Simon Kuper of the FT was in Hong Kong with two Englishwomen who were tempted by a handbag in a shop window. It was priced in the local currency. “What’s that in pounds?” they wondered. Eventually they worked it out: £12,000. They staggered off, amazed. Later, they asked an executive in luxury goods who would buy that handbag. “A secretary,” she replied.

That handbag is a key artifact in our current status game. Nobody understands better than the luxury goods industry how status works today. “The whole game now is to be a connoisseur,” they say. The more ambitious status-seeker visits the Parisian atelier where the handbag is made, watches the workman finish the handbag on the spot and listens to the story about how the company has made handbags for posh Europeans forever. What was once a handbag is now sold as an example of craftsmanship, a work of art. Luxury goods companies now call themselves “cultural and creative industries”. Louis Vuitton pays artists such as Takashi Murakami and Olafur Eliasson to design its products and shop windows. The Met in New York recently held a hugely popular posthumous exhibition of Alexander McQueen designs.

A month ago, Kuper visited the Louis Vuitton store (or “maison” as the industry likes to call it) in Paris and found that half the customers were Chinese. (Twenty years ago, they might have been Japanese). He suggests that maybe this is the only plausible economic future for France, Italy and Britain: flogging their posh prewar past to non-Europeans. So how is LV doing now? While it screams out its symphony of the three main forms of status, it will remain prosperous. High birth, art and conspicuous consumption have now merged into one handbag. That’s why it costs £12.000.

The painting is a painter

2011-12-11T22:09:00.000-08:00

The other day I was talking about the book of Matisse drawings and paintings that sat on a stand outside the entrance to the sitting-room in my grandparent’s house in Launceston, Tasmania, and how wonderfully evocative those images were – and how comforting in some strange way. Came across reference to another painter from the same era – Modigliani – also showing, I believe, at the Queensland Art Gallery. How lucky are Queenslanders to have such a major retrospective exhibition! There was a Modigliani print hanging on the wall just inside the front door of my parent’s house in Hawthorn, Melbourne. I think it was a portrait of Jeanne Hébuterne, Modigliani’s mistress, but it certainly wasn’t a comforting image – in fact, it was quite disturbing for a four-year old boy. I couldn’t understand why the lady had such a long, narrow face and extended neck. There was obviously something seriously wrong with her. When I asked my mother, she probably said: “That’s the way he painted her.” I guess she could hardly explain to me how Modigliani had been influenced by African tribal art and the sculpture of his mentor, Constantin Brancusi.

I now realise that certain paintings have the ability to absorb within themselves the contents of the room where they hang, and often adjacent rooms, as well. They assume the role of a painter or a photographer. Looking at that painting later – or even a copy – I can see the room again in all its detail.

How the Mighty have fallen

2011-12-11T18:55:00.000-08:00

Did the downfall of Saddam Hussein trigger the recent uprisings against other Arab dictators? Possibly. In any case, I was reminded of Shelley’s famous sonnet about Ancient Egypt’s Ramesses the Great (Ozymandias):

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Two Cities

2011-12-07T23:04:00.000-08:00

A Record Best Seller

2011-12-07T21:11:00.000-08:00

Peter worked in Thomas’ Record Store in Melbourne. The word “work” has disagreeable connotations, but, for Peter, I suspect it was a totally agreeable experience. Peter had a broad taste in music including classical and modern. He loved music in general and at Thomas’ he was able play music over the shop’s speaker system all day. In his field, he was the most knowledgeable person I’ve ever met. Whenever I was in Melbourne buying shoes for our shop, I’d make a point of calling into Thomas’. Peter would always greet me with a smile and a handshake, and show me the new releases. He not only remembered my name, but knew the type of music I liked. It was no trouble for him to bring out LP after LP for me to hear. Usually I could tell after ten seconds or so whether it appealed or not. Often, he would introduce me to sounds that were completely different – such as the eerie notes of a flute being played inside Egypt’s Great Pyramid, or Frank Zappa’s banned album “Uncle Meat”, or protest songs from the back streets of New York. Peter was the consummate salesman. I always left his shop with at least three LPs. He once asked me to dinner at his house where I met his charming wife. He told me that years ago he’d lived with the aborigines in northern Australia and had been inducted as a full member of their tribe. Buying or downloading albums over the internet might be easy, but it lacks the personal touch of an expert like Peter, plus all the excitement of new discoveries.

Overture to Giovanni Arnolfini and his bride

2011-12-06T23:02:00.000-08:00

We are the immediate witnesses

to a private ceremony of nuptial devotions

conducted in the northern light

of a Flemish boudoir.

We stare across the years at the reflexion

of the Painter in the oval mirror.

Surely ourselves,

our hopes and our lives described

in all their regalia.

What is an art gallery?

2011-12-06T21:30:00.000-08:00

What is an art gallery? The latest, possibly the most innovative art gallery in Australia would have to be MONA (The Museum of Old and New Art) in Hobart, Tasmania. It is an immense, cavernous space where objects are projected at you out of the darkness. The exhibits themselves are controversial, - if not, shocking in some cases - but certainly thought-provoking. Twice I have attempted the Prado in Madrid, and come away exhausted. The great salons of the Louvre in Paris are totally overwhelming. The paintings are so grandiose and in such numbers that one hesitates to enter the next room.

In contrast, the Kröller-Müller Gallery in the countryside of Otterloo in Holland is designed so that the building is an integral part of the surrounding gardens and forest. It has a wonderful collection of Van Goghs, and I found it a far more relaxed place to appreciate Vincent’s work than at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.

Some people might like to spend hours, days, weeks meditating on the great painters in those immense galleries, but it doesn’t do a thing for me. In fact, it blows my brains out. Just too much to absorb. I come away knowing less than when I went in, I think. Give me smaller exhibitions any day.

It seems to me that a gallery is an individual artistic experience. So let me describe a very private, personal gallery that provided me with a great deal of pleasure when I was young. I was reminded of it the other day when I read about the Matisse exhibition now being held at the Art Gallery of Queensland. In my grandparent’s house in Launceston, there was a small sitting room. It wasn’t used much. In that room there was an upright grand piano that I sometimes played, a mahogany bookcase containing special books, Louis XV type furniture, an open fireplace which rarely saw action, and a bookstand as you walked into the room from the entrance hall. On that stand there was a book of Matisse drawings and paintings –reproductions, of course. For some reason, whenever I picked up that book and looked at the images, I felt instantly calm and relaxed. But it was more than just the images. It was where the book was placed, the ambiance of that room - its quietness, the elegance of its furnishings, its privacy. Some may disagree, but to me it was a special gallery.

Dots

2011-12-05T21:23:00.000-08:00

Received a book the other day from my sister called “Painting Music “ on Paul Klee. She had been to Klee’s recent retrospective exhibition in Paris. Paul Klee is recognised for his contribution to modern art, but he was also an accomplished musician. Although a little technical, the book describes how Klee attempted to translate music into painting. One of his methods was to use coloured dots in various sequences to convey musical impressions. This was quite a different technique to ‘pointillism’ invented by the impressionist painter, George Seurat, where dots replaced blending colour on the palette.

Which reminded me of the dots in Australian Aboriginal art. Got me wondering if there was any connection between traditional Aborigine music and their use of dots. Thought I should approach the experts – an art gallery specialising in Aboriginal art in Hobart. Asked the manager: “Why do Aborigines use dots in their paintings?” His answer was: “Because they ran out of dashes!” This was meant to be screamingly funny, but hardly the answer I was hoping for – especially from a so-called professional. I pressed on with my enquiry, but all I got from him was: “Probably they’re an extension of their body painting .” Further discussion was met with “Sorry – got to go.” So back to Google. It appears that the dots represent features in the artist’s tribal landscape. Their arrangement often contains hidden tribal meanings. The link I’d been looking for was certainly there, but it was just part of a much larger picture combining music, painting, dance, and mime. The gallery owner was obviously more interested in how many paintings he could sell. My sister told me that the same attitude applies to galleries selling Aboriginal art in Paris, where dots were the “order of the day”. Of course, the galleries can hardly be critised for wanting to make a profit. After all – that’s their raison d’être. But does it encourage indigenous creativity?

A friend and I were in Central Australia back in the 60s and we bought two Aboriginal paintings from the Rex Battarbee Gallery in Alice Springs. Rex Battarbee had been badly wounded in the First World War and, as a result, was unable to work on his parent’s farm. Instead, he studied watercolour painting. In 1928, together with fellow artist John Gardiner, he toured Australia in a T model Ford painting landscapes. On his return, successful exhibitions were held in Sydney and Melbourne. In 1932 and 1934, Battarbee showed his watercolours at the Hermannsburg Lutheran Mission Station in Alice Springs. One of the men living at the station showed great interest in the work. His name was Albert Namatjira. Namatjira begged Battarbee to teach him painting. After just a few lessons, Rex was amazed to see how quickly his pupil progressed. In 1937, three of Albert’s landscapes were included in an exhibition at the Royal South Australian Society of the Arts. Namatjira became an instant success. In 1940, Battarbee moved permanently to Alice Springs, married, and set up his gallery. His overall aim was to protect and further the work of indigenous artists. He was awarded the OBE in 1971 for service to the Aboriginal community.

Albert Namatjira was a tragic figure. Brought up in Hermannsburg Mission, he married outside his Aborigial “skin” group, as did his father. As a consequence, he was ostracised by his Arrernte community. Yet, when he became famous and wealthy as a painter, he was expected to share his wealth with the other members of the tribe. Unable to support these demands – at one point, 600 people were depending on his handouts – he tried leasing a cattle ranch to supplement his income, but was prevented from doing so by Northern Territory law. Subsequently, he tried to build a house in Alice Springs, but was cheated out of all his money. He and his family were forced to live in shanty on a dry creek bed. At the time, Aborigines were prohibited from buying alcohol, but Albert was granted special dispensation due to his famous reputation. Unfortunately, his Arrernte people insisted that he again share this special privilege. When, as a direct result, an Aboriginal woman was killed in 1957, Albert was held in detention for two months. He died two years later.

The two paintings my friend and I bought at the Battarbee Gallery were by two of Albert’s sons, Enos and Ewald. They were in the same style as their father’s, but their work never reached the standard set by Albert. My mother once owned an Albert Namatjira painting. I’d always thought the colours in that painting were too vivid, but after visiting Central Australia, I realised they were totally authentic. How fashion and demand changes. Now it’s almost impossible to find a Namatjira-type painting for sale in any gallery.

Is size everything?

2011-12-04T20:12:00.000-08:00

One of the questions a writer asks himself before he starts a new book is: “How big will it be?” Or putting it another way: “How many pages will it have?” Naturally, a writer wants his/her book to be reasonably substantial so it can make a statement on the shelf. But then again if it’s too thick it might appear daunting to the would-be reader.

When I submitted my first draft of “Views From the Balcony” to an assessor, she came back several weeks later with the comment: “This is an immense work.” She was referring to the size not the quality. She went on to say that it needed drastic revision. I had two options: either to chop great chunks out of the manuscript, or re-word it. Actually, they weren’t options at all - they were essential steps. As it was a biography, I soon realized that anything not directly relating to the subject was superfluous. Lots of little side stories, interesting in themselves, had to go. Extended examples illustrating the main text acted more as a distraction rather than an explanation, and so they had to be deleted. Anything included as hearsay that could not be specifically verified was removed. The original manuscript was now reduced by at least a third. After that came the job of “tightening up” the remainder – making it easier to read. Here, my publisher was a great help making suggestions where a sentence needed reconstruction or was unnecessarily wordy. So what was left? I looked at the final result and thought: “After three and a half years work, it’s finally come down to just this.” I was disappointed by its size. Yet, when I read through it again, I could see that all the main points were included.

A friend of mine ‘phoned this morning and said she had enjoyed reading “Views” – in fact, her words were “I couldn’t put it down.” For any writer, that’s great to hear, but it’s also a vindication of correct size – not too big to be boring and not too small to be confusing. Some readers may find fault with the book because certain sections have been left out, but it is part of an overall process to produce a work that interests the reader, but remains true to the facts. Maybe that’s the criteria for size.

Crosswords are an addiction

2011-12-03T18:14:00.001-08:00

Crosswords are an addiction. When my parents were together and probably before I came on the scene, one of their weekly rituals was to visit Auntie Bella for Sunday lunch. Sunday lunch – or is called dinner on a Sunday? – always consisted of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding smothered in lard plus hard-boiled roast potatoes, squishy peas, and another two veg. Pudding followed. My mother used to complain about Bella’s lack of imagination and cooking ability, but still managed to show up every Sunday for a free meal. Apparently ‘Sunday at Auntie Bella’s’ was the great get-together for journalists, political radicals, and intellectuals – my parents’ friends. After lunch/dinner – possibly the one square meal for the week for many of them – none were exactly flush with cash -everyone moved into the sitting room, and “The Age” newspaper was laid out on the table. The rest of the afternoon was spent with all attempting to solve the cryptic crossword. When I was around 17, one of those regular Sunday visitors introduced me to crosswords. We would work together mainly on the regular or straight variety, and it was only later that I started on the cryptics. I’m not yet up to the “Age” or “Australian” standard, but usually manage to solve the one in the “Herald-Sun”. Good cryptic clues can be quite entertaining – they almost tell a story. The best clues provide great penny-dropping moments when you crack the answer. My youngest daughter Claudia has now caught the cryptic bug and we often sit down and work on them together. My wife loves sudokus but I’ve yet to get the hang of these.

A Crack in Time and Space

2011-11-30T21:32:00.000-08:00

Captain Fitzroy of the “Beagle”, the ship which brought Charles Darwin to Tasmania, when checking the clocks on his ship against Hobart’s clocks found there was a difference of one minute and 45 seconds. It could be that “Captain Fitzroy had discovered a unique phenomenon – a crack in time and space that accounted for so many things that I have observed about Tasmania.” (Nicholas Shakespeare: “In Tasmania”)

"The Beagle"

Pantomime

2011-11-25T22:38:00.000-08:00

Mime is a European institution. I was going to say it’s not an Australian tradition, but Australian Aboriginals were probably miming animals and birds as part of their religious ceremonies thousands of years ago. Australians in general are past-masters at “taking someone off”, i.e. parodying well-known personalities. One of the best is Max Gillies. But mime in its true European form arrived here with Bip, alias Marcel Marceau, back in the 50’s. I went to one of his shows in Melbourne. It was very amusing but we weren’t laughing just because he was funny. We were laughing at how clever he was at “taking-off” simple things we could relate to – walking against the wind, a birdkeeper letting his birds escape from their cage, a painter laboriously preparing his easel and paints – and all performed in complete silence. Marceau was born in Strasbourg and during the Second World War used mime to keep Jewish children quiet while he helped them escape over the border into Switzerland. His father died at Auschwitz.

Marcel Marceau

Coincidently, I came across a newspaper article this morning on Peter Spitzer, the clown doctor. Together with other members of his Humour Foundation, he works as a real doctor for half the time, and as a clown for the rest bringing smiles to the faces of children in pain. He tells of a young boy, seriously injured in a car accident, who couldn’t speak after waking up from a long coma. Spitzer and his friends wrote and performed a special song for the boy, and were amazed to hear him say: “Thank you, clown doctors. I love you.” Humour is the best therapy in the world. I hated boarding school. The other boys were my friends, but it can be a very lonely place cut off from family. I tried to find a funny side. One of my friends, who felt the same as I did, told me years later that I made him laugh and this had helped him get through that difficult period in his life.

After the War, Marcel Marceau enrolled at the Sarah Bernhardt’s School in Paris, and later joined Jean-Louis Barrault’s theatre troupe playing the harlequin in “Baptiste”, the pantomime. He became famous as the world’s greatest exponent of mime. In 1995, he teamed up with Michael Jackson, but the concert had to be cancelled because Michael suffered a severe attack of pre-stage nerves. Marceau came back to Australia, I believe, shortly before he died in 2007. I didn’t go to see him then, mainly because someone had said his “act” had become “tired”. But I shouldn’t have let myself be influenced by someone else’s opinion. I should have seen his show to pay homage to a master. It’s sad when great performers grow old, and their repertoire remains unchanged. The last script by filmmaker Jacques Tati, another great French mime, was about actors who have “gone out of fashion”. Following Tati’s death, the script was made into an animated film called “The Illusionist”.

Harlequin, Pierrot, and Columbine are traditional names in pantomime. Picasso identified with Harlequin and portrayed himself as the harlequin dressed in a diamond-patterned costume for his painting “Family of Saltimbanques”. The name of the painting comes from the Italian words saltare, meaning "to leap," and banco, "bench," which refers to the stage on which the acrobats usually performed. (The famous “Cirque du Soleil” called one of its concerts “Saltimbanco”). Of the three pantomime characters, my favourite is Pierrot, the sad clown, pining for the love of Columbine, who has breaken his heart and left him for Harlequin.