In the bookstore, downstairs off Collins Street, I was in the science fiction area, looking for a book recommended by my friend J. We'd had lunch and wandered around a little section of Fitzroy, enjoying conversation and the glorious autumn weather. A vision in hot pink spandex and matching sneakers excused himself. I looked up. The sound of the voice did not fit the expectations set by my peripheral vision. I was expecting a woman and saw a man. He was resplendent, with plumage in his hair to rival any bird during the mating season. His eyebrows were strong black diagonal lines. I figured he had been at the Supanova Pop Culture Expo which had been on at the Melbourne showgrounds until I saw him on the train this evening.
Tonight he was wearing a tight red mini dress with a purple faux fur jacket. Again, he was topped with spectacular plumage - red and purple feathers, sprinkled with jewels, covered his entire head. I noticed the eyebrows again.
As I made my way to the exit, he looked directly at me. We nodded at each other. Weirdly, it felt like we were recognising something kindred.
I took the plunge. "You look amazing," I said.
His face lit up. "So do you!"
This felt like high praise from someone who clearly spends A LOT of time on his appearance. I also work hard to maintain my artist's identity when I'm working in that capacity with corporate clients. I must have succeeded today.
"Same hair!" I laughed, referring to our matching red.
"Twins!" he responded with the appropriate amount of irony.
He held the door open for me and we both went out in the night. I found myself wondering where he'd spent his days and then decided he'd probably been earning a living, just like most of us travelling home at 6pm.
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Monday, 13 April 2015
Sunday, 24 August 2014
Sunday Slide Show
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| My vocal group rehearses in the hall attached to a Russian church. While one of the other parts was rehearsing, I noticed the shadows thrown by the chandeliers. © 2014 divacultura |
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| Ghostly shadow. © 2014 divacultura |
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| From my "view from the office" series. This is in the old part of the Royal Melbourne Hospital's Royal Park Campus. © 2014 divacultura |
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| Southgate sculpture. I took this at about 6pm while I was waiting for my dinner date. © 2014 divacultura |
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| Taken the same night from Southgate looking across the Yarra River to Melbourne's CBD. © 2014 divacultura |
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| Early spring afternoon - Swanston Street, Melbourne © 2014 divacultura |
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
Team work - 12 pianists and one piano!
I just watched this video of a performance as part of the TEDMED series. Twelve people play one piece on one piano. The music is interesting and we get to hear the full range of the piano being fully explored.
I watched it again and it struck me that this is a great example of a high performing team. Each member has a part to play. They are expert in the part they play. No one tries to take over someone else's part. They have to work physically closely together without distraction. They look delighted to be working together. We don't see the hours of preparation, both individual and team, that would have been required to achieve the performance we see in the film. We also don't see the debrief afterwards where there would be celebration of success and perhaps some private conversation about errors made. Perhaps they would also plan for their next piece of work.
I'm sure there is a leader. At times I think I spotted one, only to think I saw someone else. I believe this is how it is in a truly high performing team - all members shoulder responsibility and accountability for the performance of the team.
Isn't that a team you'd like to be part of?
I watched it again and it struck me that this is a great example of a high performing team. Each member has a part to play. They are expert in the part they play. No one tries to take over someone else's part. They have to work physically closely together without distraction. They look delighted to be working together. We don't see the hours of preparation, both individual and team, that would have been required to achieve the performance we see in the film. We also don't see the debrief afterwards where there would be celebration of success and perhaps some private conversation about errors made. Perhaps they would also plan for their next piece of work.
I'm sure there is a leader. At times I think I spotted one, only to think I saw someone else. I believe this is how it is in a truly high performing team - all members shoulder responsibility and accountability for the performance of the team.
Isn't that a team you'd like to be part of?
Thursday, 3 July 2014
Art triumphs over science
I had a satisfying moment yesterday when I was co-facilitating an education session for a group of second year nursing students. My co-facilitator was a very experienced nurse herself and able to cover all the clinical information that I don't know. (I cover the communication and empathy components). I love these sessions because I always learn things too.I
We had just watched a mental health simulation with a female patient who had come to hospital believing she was having a heart attack. She wasn't - she was having a panic attack and it was revealed she had a long history of severe anxiety and agoraphobia. There was plenty to talk about.
My colleague led a discussion about the appropriate drug choices and how they work. We also discussed the side effects and other physical impacts of the drugs. Then we talked about "S.L.U.D.": Salivation, Lacrimation, Urination and Digestion. One of the students asked was Lacrimation was. None of the group knew, but I did.
"It's tears," I offered.
They all looked at me completely surprised. (I'd shared that I had no clinical background.)
"The "Lacrymosa" in the Mozart Requiem, is the movement about crying. I just figured the Latin was probably related."
They looked at me completely surprised again.
This little moment reminded me how handy a broad arts education is. Language is the basis of our communication, understanding and knowledge and I can usually work out most things. It helped me on a game show once when I had to name the South American city who name meant "mountain view". "Monte Video", I answered. I didn't "know" the answer, but I'd worked it out based on the language.
Yesterday's insight wasn't even gained from a language class, but from long exposure to Latin and other languages when singing in choirs!
More and I more I realise how important and useful my broad arts education is. It helps me navigate the world.
We had just watched a mental health simulation with a female patient who had come to hospital believing she was having a heart attack. She wasn't - she was having a panic attack and it was revealed she had a long history of severe anxiety and agoraphobia. There was plenty to talk about.
My colleague led a discussion about the appropriate drug choices and how they work. We also discussed the side effects and other physical impacts of the drugs. Then we talked about "S.L.U.D.": Salivation, Lacrimation, Urination and Digestion. One of the students asked was Lacrimation was. None of the group knew, but I did.
"It's tears," I offered.They all looked at me completely surprised. (I'd shared that I had no clinical background.)
"The "Lacrymosa" in the Mozart Requiem, is the movement about crying. I just figured the Latin was probably related."
They looked at me completely surprised again.
This little moment reminded me how handy a broad arts education is. Language is the basis of our communication, understanding and knowledge and I can usually work out most things. It helped me on a game show once when I had to name the South American city who name meant "mountain view". "Monte Video", I answered. I didn't "know" the answer, but I'd worked it out based on the language.
Yesterday's insight wasn't even gained from a language class, but from long exposure to Latin and other languages when singing in choirs!
More and I more I realise how important and useful my broad arts education is. It helps me navigate the world.
Friday, 6 June 2014
Friday thoughts
It's a long weekend. I love the feeling of signing off for three days in a row. Apparently we're celebrating the English Queen of Australia's birthday. I don't know what that means, but I'm very happy to have an extra day where I can wake up when I'm ready, instead of when the alarm goes off - which seems to be very early these days!
*****
Winter is setting in. It's not really cold yet, but I put some towels out on the line to dry today. They went out in the dark at 6:15 this morning. I took them off in the dark at 5:30 this evening and they weren't dry. They nearly were, but they weren't. This is my measure of the seasons.
*****
I'm watching the television show "Nashville" at the moment. It's a soap opera set in the Nashville music scene and has everything from the country music queen whose latest album hasn't really sold, the upcoming blond starlet who needs autotune to make her sound okay, the sexy, enigmatic cowboy/lead guitarist with a dark past and the two young hot things who accidentally start songwriting together. Add to this mix some local politics and financial corruption and you've got everything. I'm loving it.
The character of Scarlett is a gorgeous blonde girl who has been writing poems, but never considered herself a songwriter. Gunnar sets one of the poems to music and they smoulder as they sing together. They get a publishing deal and she speaks about songwriting at a dinner to welcome them to the fold.
She says that she has noticed that the more specific the image, the more universal the truth. YES! What a great summary of all kinds of writing.
I'm looking back at my songs and thinking about this idea.
*****
I'm thinking of going to the movies this weekend. On the list to see:
The Broken Circle Breakdown
Fading Gigolo
The Zero Theorem
Under the Skin
No blockbusters! What have you seen lately?
*****
Winter is setting in. It's not really cold yet, but I put some towels out on the line to dry today. They went out in the dark at 6:15 this morning. I took them off in the dark at 5:30 this evening and they weren't dry. They nearly were, but they weren't. This is my measure of the seasons.
*****
I'm watching the television show "Nashville" at the moment. It's a soap opera set in the Nashville music scene and has everything from the country music queen whose latest album hasn't really sold, the upcoming blond starlet who needs autotune to make her sound okay, the sexy, enigmatic cowboy/lead guitarist with a dark past and the two young hot things who accidentally start songwriting together. Add to this mix some local politics and financial corruption and you've got everything. I'm loving it.
The character of Scarlett is a gorgeous blonde girl who has been writing poems, but never considered herself a songwriter. Gunnar sets one of the poems to music and they smoulder as they sing together. They get a publishing deal and she speaks about songwriting at a dinner to welcome them to the fold.
She says that she has noticed that the more specific the image, the more universal the truth. YES! What a great summary of all kinds of writing.
I'm looking back at my songs and thinking about this idea.
*****
I'm thinking of going to the movies this weekend. On the list to see:
The Broken Circle Breakdown
Fading Gigolo
The Zero Theorem
Under the Skin
No blockbusters! What have you seen lately?
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
In concert - Bernadette Peters
I spent last night with Broadway star Bernadette Peters in concert. I saw her a few years ago at the Sydney Opera House and remember being a little disappointed. I put it down to the dodgy acoustics. When she came out and started with "Let me Entertain You" from the musical Gypsy, I wondered if it wasn't the hall that was the problem last time.
Before the show I struck up a conversation with a woman whose table I was sharing while I had a cup of coffee. She didn't really know who Bernadette Peters is and had won her ticket on the radio. I told her that she's 67 years old as the woman looked at her program. The woman told me that she hadn't looked as good as Bernadette when she was 25! I considered her now and believed this to be true.
Ms Peters looked fantastic wearing a spaghetti-strapped, soft lilac gown with just the right amount of sparkle and a split in the front of the skirt coupled with satin heels. She shimmied around the stage and wasn't always on the microphone.
Hamming it up during one of the best versions of "Fever" I've ever heard, the diva slinked her way up the stairs to lie on a black velvet pillow and strike a shapely drape on top of the piano, she sang the song with lust and wit accompanied by double bass and drums. Yes! This was great performance.
Charming conversation interspersed the evening. "Joanna" from Sweeney Todd started with a cracked note, but improved from there. I started to get a bit twitchy and then I realised what the problem was. Bernadette Peters is much more an actress who sings, than a singer who acts. She is at her best when there's an emotional or comic element to the song. Listening to her sing is not enough and will be a disappointing experience. If you can absorb yourself in the emotion of the performance, then the experience is sublime. Losing my Mind from Stephen Sondeheim's Follies was extraordinarily emotional and like watching someone have a break down driven by the grief of a broken relationship.
The show ended with the big Sondheim song, Being Alive from Company, full of hope (and a fluffed lyric or two).
For encore, Peter Allen's song "I Honestly Love You" left me with tears overflowing. She then shared "Kramer's Song" a song she wrote as part of a children's book written for an animal shelter charity. Kramer is her dog and it was lovely.
I'd love to see Bernadette Peters in a show, rather than just in concert. It must be incredible.
Were you there at Her Majesty's Theatre last night? Have you seen Bernadette Peters? What did you think?
Before the show I struck up a conversation with a woman whose table I was sharing while I had a cup of coffee. She didn't really know who Bernadette Peters is and had won her ticket on the radio. I told her that she's 67 years old as the woman looked at her program. The woman told me that she hadn't looked as good as Bernadette when she was 25! I considered her now and believed this to be true.
Ms Peters looked fantastic wearing a spaghetti-strapped, soft lilac gown with just the right amount of sparkle and a split in the front of the skirt coupled with satin heels. She shimmied around the stage and wasn't always on the microphone.
Hamming it up during one of the best versions of "Fever" I've ever heard, the diva slinked her way up the stairs to lie on a black velvet pillow and strike a shapely drape on top of the piano, she sang the song with lust and wit accompanied by double bass and drums. Yes! This was great performance.
Charming conversation interspersed the evening. "Joanna" from Sweeney Todd started with a cracked note, but improved from there. I started to get a bit twitchy and then I realised what the problem was. Bernadette Peters is much more an actress who sings, than a singer who acts. She is at her best when there's an emotional or comic element to the song. Listening to her sing is not enough and will be a disappointing experience. If you can absorb yourself in the emotion of the performance, then the experience is sublime. Losing my Mind from Stephen Sondeheim's Follies was extraordinarily emotional and like watching someone have a break down driven by the grief of a broken relationship.
The show ended with the big Sondheim song, Being Alive from Company, full of hope (and a fluffed lyric or two).
For encore, Peter Allen's song "I Honestly Love You" left me with tears overflowing. She then shared "Kramer's Song" a song she wrote as part of a children's book written for an animal shelter charity. Kramer is her dog and it was lovely.
I'd love to see Bernadette Peters in a show, rather than just in concert. It must be incredible.
Were you there at Her Majesty's Theatre last night? Have you seen Bernadette Peters? What did you think?
Monday, 10 March 2014
Cultural intake - what I've been seeing and hearing lately
I've had a cultural kind of weekend.
Friday night, I went to the Melbourne Recital Centre to hear the Balanescu Quartet play. Well, it was quartet plus occasional drum kit and looped recorded sound. Visual interest was added with film, including projections on the back of the music stands. Perfect! This was always redundant space and it's great to see it used for something other than advertising!
Anytime I hear music played in Elisabeth Murdoch Hall it is magical. The sound is incredible, no matter what is being played.
On my daily walk past the Malthouse Theatre, and on my way to the Balanescu Quartet, I stopped in at the box office and bought a ticket to see Simon Stone's production, "The Government Inpsector". It was to be a production of "The Philadelphia Story", but rights were refused and this production cleverly turns this rejection into an opportunity. I needed to see it out of curiosity, if nothing else.
I had the best seat in the house (centre front) and laughed myself sick for the duration. It was a matinee though and I wondered how the "language" would go down with the audience. I walked out still laughing, but noticed the rest of the audience seemed quiet, reserved and then I overhead one woman say to another, "Well, it takes all types of people doesn't it?" The I noticed she had been sitting beside me. Was she talking about me or the play?
It's delightfully creative and refreshing. Who needs to see another production of "The Philadelphia Story" anyway? The Age has a review here.
Yesterday, it was off to the movies to see "Her", the film that won the Oscar for best original screenplay and has one of my favourite actors, Joaquin Phoenix. It's an interesting premise and I would suggest, is actually a science fiction film. It's set sometime in the not too distant future where technology is familiar but can do just a little more than what mine does for me right now. Phoenix plays Theodore, a man separated from his wife and living alone with only virtual reality "people", the receptionist at work and a woman who lives in the same building for company. He purchases the new OS1, a "smart" virtual assistant, customised with a female voice (played by Scarlett Johannson) and falls in love with her. There's a suggestion that she also falls for him.
Cut 30 minutes out and it would have been fantastic.
Oh, and get the two women sitting next me, chatting away as thought they were alone in their loungeroom, to SHUT UP!
Tomorrow night I'm off to see Cuban jazz pianist Roberto Fonseca at the Melbourne Recital Centre. I'll be selling CDs too, so if you're there, come and say hello.
What have been doing lately?
Friday night, I went to the Melbourne Recital Centre to hear the Balanescu Quartet play. Well, it was quartet plus occasional drum kit and looped recorded sound. Visual interest was added with film, including projections on the back of the music stands. Perfect! This was always redundant space and it's great to see it used for something other than advertising!
Anytime I hear music played in Elisabeth Murdoch Hall it is magical. The sound is incredible, no matter what is being played.
On my daily walk past the Malthouse Theatre, and on my way to the Balanescu Quartet, I stopped in at the box office and bought a ticket to see Simon Stone's production, "The Government Inpsector". It was to be a production of "The Philadelphia Story", but rights were refused and this production cleverly turns this rejection into an opportunity. I needed to see it out of curiosity, if nothing else.
I had the best seat in the house (centre front) and laughed myself sick for the duration. It was a matinee though and I wondered how the "language" would go down with the audience. I walked out still laughing, but noticed the rest of the audience seemed quiet, reserved and then I overhead one woman say to another, "Well, it takes all types of people doesn't it?" The I noticed she had been sitting beside me. Was she talking about me or the play?
It's delightfully creative and refreshing. Who needs to see another production of "The Philadelphia Story" anyway? The Age has a review here.
Yesterday, it was off to the movies to see "Her", the film that won the Oscar for best original screenplay and has one of my favourite actors, Joaquin Phoenix. It's an interesting premise and I would suggest, is actually a science fiction film. It's set sometime in the not too distant future where technology is familiar but can do just a little more than what mine does for me right now. Phoenix plays Theodore, a man separated from his wife and living alone with only virtual reality "people", the receptionist at work and a woman who lives in the same building for company. He purchases the new OS1, a "smart" virtual assistant, customised with a female voice (played by Scarlett Johannson) and falls in love with her. There's a suggestion that she also falls for him.
Cut 30 minutes out and it would have been fantastic.
Oh, and get the two women sitting next me, chatting away as thought they were alone in their loungeroom, to SHUT UP!
Tomorrow night I'm off to see Cuban jazz pianist Roberto Fonseca at the Melbourne Recital Centre. I'll be selling CDs too, so if you're there, come and say hello.
What have been doing lately?
Monday, 17 February 2014
An audience with the Boss - Bruce Springsteen plays Melbourne.
Bruce Springsteen has long been one of my favourite songwriters. Ever since my grade eleven English teacher encouraged us to analyse lyrics, as well as poetry, for one of our assignments. I remember studying "Scarecrow" by John Mellencamp, "Four Walls" by Cold Chisel and "Born to Run" by Bruce Springsteen. So when the opportunity to see him live came up, I seized it with both hands.
I remember that he played at Lang Park in Brisbane after the "Born in the USA" album was released. I was at boarding school in Toowoomba, so the feasibility of going to a mid week gig in another city was zero. Bruce has been to Australia many times since then, but it has never really worked out.
I've heard people rave about him in live performance, but you have to be one of the tiny people in a huge stadium crowd to fully appreciate the extent of his artistry in performance. There was not a single moment when I felt taken for granted or that he was bored or not enjoying fully, his work.
The wonderful Dan Sultan kicked off the show at 5pm. I love Dan's music, but his smaller band and sound really suffered in the sound mix designed for the fat, saturated sound of Bruce and the E Street Band. The bass guitar was distorting and dominant over all the other sounds. Still, it's great exposure for him.
Hunters and Collectors re-formed to play this gig and it was great to hear them play their hits. It's been a while since I've seen a rock band with a french horn in the line up - if ever - so that was also a treat.
The Boss came on at 8pm and was on stage until about 11:45pm. No one could complain that they didn't receive value for money! I debated with my friend about what the first song would be and suddenly it was 1985 again as the instantly recognisable opening bars of "Born in the USA" hit us. It was on! Apart from every song, the absolute highlight was hearing that they were going to play the whole "Born to Run" album from start to finish! I was in heaven! Hearing this album (released in 1975) as a whole body, was an interesting opportunity to consider Bruce Springsteen's evolution as a writer. The perspective in 1975 was much more individual with stories about people from a personal level, while his more recent songs take a broader political perspective - they're still about people, but it's a broader perspective.
I had an emotional night. Joy was my main feeling, but I had a few tearful moments too. (The story leading into "Growin' Up" and the song itself were deeply affecting.) I think I was overwhelmed. Suddenly I understood all those pictures of girls crying at Beatles or Elvis Presley concerts. It can just happen when you're feeling open and receptive to the music.
While I was well out of reach to have any direct interaction, it was lovely to watch the crowd interactions. Those big screens and fabulous directors of photography did a wonderful job, capturing a huge event with a sense of intimacy.
I looked around the crowd and noticed how different we all seemed, yet here we all were, celebrating and united by music created by a great artist. If you're vaguely interested in music, writing or performance (he's a master of creating tension and holding a crowd) and have never seen Bruce Springsteen live, put it on your list!
I kept notes of the set list and include it here (if there are any errors, please let me know):
Did you go? Have you seen The Boss before? What did you think?
I remember that he played at Lang Park in Brisbane after the "Born in the USA" album was released. I was at boarding school in Toowoomba, so the feasibility of going to a mid week gig in another city was zero. Bruce has been to Australia many times since then, but it has never really worked out.
 |
| The crowd gathers inside AAMI Park. © 2014 divacultura |
The wonderful Dan Sultan kicked off the show at 5pm. I love Dan's music, but his smaller band and sound really suffered in the sound mix designed for the fat, saturated sound of Bruce and the E Street Band. The bass guitar was distorting and dominant over all the other sounds. Still, it's great exposure for him.
Hunters and Collectors re-formed to play this gig and it was great to hear them play their hits. It's been a while since I've seen a rock band with a french horn in the line up - if ever - so that was also a treat.
The Boss came on at 8pm and was on stage until about 11:45pm. No one could complain that they didn't receive value for money! I debated with my friend about what the first song would be and suddenly it was 1985 again as the instantly recognisable opening bars of "Born in the USA" hit us. It was on! Apart from every song, the absolute highlight was hearing that they were going to play the whole "Born to Run" album from start to finish! I was in heaven! Hearing this album (released in 1975) as a whole body, was an interesting opportunity to consider Bruce Springsteen's evolution as a writer. The perspective in 1975 was much more individual with stories about people from a personal level, while his more recent songs take a broader political perspective - they're still about people, but it's a broader perspective.
I had an emotional night. Joy was my main feeling, but I had a few tearful moments too. (The story leading into "Growin' Up" and the song itself were deeply affecting.) I think I was overwhelmed. Suddenly I understood all those pictures of girls crying at Beatles or Elvis Presley concerts. It can just happen when you're feeling open and receptive to the music.
While I was well out of reach to have any direct interaction, it was lovely to watch the crowd interactions. Those big screens and fabulous directors of photography did a wonderful job, capturing a huge event with a sense of intimacy.
I looked around the crowd and noticed how different we all seemed, yet here we all were, celebrating and united by music created by a great artist. If you're vaguely interested in music, writing or performance (he's a master of creating tension and holding a crowd) and have never seen Bruce Springsteen live, put it on your list!
I kept notes of the set list and include it here (if there are any errors, please let me know):
- Lucky Town
- Death to My Hometown
- High Hopes
-
- Born to Run
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
- Ain't I good enough for you
-
-
-
- Encore
- This Hard Land (just Bruce, his guitar and harmonica)
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Handwriting - what makes a good hand?
There's been some discussion lately about the value and importance of handwriting. My handwriting these days is situational. How it looks will depend on the circumstances of its production. If I'm writing a card or letter (yes, I still do that sometimes) I still use the looping, sloped "running writing" I learnt at primary school; but if I'm scribbling notes to myself, it's a more upright and messy version. Writing on flip charts and white boards, I am told that I have a good, strong hand.
My study of penmanship occurred at a time when class time was dedicated to the practice of letters. Exercise books ruled with blue lines to fit letters between and red lines to guide the length of ascending and descending loops were filled with copies of individual letters. Once perfected, the letters would be joined to make words and those words would be endlessly copied.
I was also subjected to the variations of education systems when state borders are crossed. In NSW where my career in penmanship began, we were taught Modern Cursive. As the name suggests it was a modernised version of "running writing" - all the loops were removed and the uppercase letters were basically the same as the printed letters, but they leaned to the right. Gone were those beautiful fancy captial efs and kays; the es was stripped of its flourish and the el was just two perpendicular lines. How would that have looked embroidered on Laverne's breast? There was no drama, just function. When I moved north across the border to Queensland, they were still doing a version of Copperplate, a little less fancy than actual Copperplate, and I don't know what it's called, but it was better. There were more loops, swirls and I just liked it. I went wild. (I was also really good at drawing treble clefs, so maybe all that practice just translated to the letters.)
Perhaps I had been influenced by my Grandfather's pride in his own handwriting. From an early age, my siblings and I were encouraged to write letters to our grandparents. I've seen some of my early work, written in pencil, and while the prose is a bit lacking (of the "hi-how-are-you-I-am-well-variety") those letters were legible. The importance of having a good "hand" was impressed upon me early. The character of others could be immediately discerned. Being described in very serious tones as having a "good hand" or a "lovely hand" was far better than being described as being a "tight knitter" or a "loose knitter".The tones describing the latter were doom-laden and accompanied by knowing glances and shaking heads. For example, "Oh, yes, well, you know, she's a very tight knitter. Very tight." Or, worse, "What do you expect? She's a terribly loose knitter you know." They were actually talking about knitting, weren't they?
Of course, back in those days, the ability to write a letter was an essential communication tool; as was the ability for others to be able to read it. Who writes letters anymore? Well I do. Recently I wrote a letter to a friend specifically because he said that no one ever writes him letters anymore. Sometimes I will write a letter to commemorate a special occasion or even just to express a feeling that deserves to live beyond the five minutes after it is emailed or tweeted. Just last year, I wrote a letter to an 85 year old woman in response to the Christmas card she had sent me. She's Jewish and I agonised about whether to send a Christmas card. I should have just written her a letter anyway. It was a lovely letter -full of descriptions of the garden and the visiting wildlife - one I would have been happy to receive, and was pleased to have written.
I have more than a passing interest in typography. This interest was piqued early in my days of journalism study. When we studied print, we learnt about physical layout of type and a page. I'm not old enough to have been composing with metal type and tweezers, but it was still a time, pre-computer software, when the term "cut and paste" was literal. I will soon be attending a workshop which is all about hand lettering. I know I will swoon as I smell the ink and then hear and feel the sound of the pen on paper. It's pleasing to see a page filled with letters, those letters forming words and fitting on the page in a pleasing and easy to read way.
I wonder how my Grandfather observed his own experience of writing by hand. Even his shopping lists were written in the same formal hand. Had he been to university, I can't imagine that his notes would have been scrawled. (He didn't finish high school.)
I'm lucky to still have samples of his writing. I'm sharing with you now, not only his handwriting, but also part of the story of my family, the Fife family from Ireland. Grandfather wrote this piece for a history of the family which was published to coincide with a family reunion in the mid 1990's. I remember him reading it to those gathered at the reunion because, as far as anyone knew, he was the last man alive to know Nixon Fife, one of five children who was sent by his father from Ireland to Australia during the 19th Century famine. As far as I know, Grandfather never owned a computer and probably never even used a type writer.
From my maternal Grandfather, Eric Hilma Brown, who was born 3 July 1912 and died 7 April 2001.
Is handwriting important? How's yours these days?
My study of penmanship occurred at a time when class time was dedicated to the practice of letters. Exercise books ruled with blue lines to fit letters between and red lines to guide the length of ascending and descending loops were filled with copies of individual letters. Once perfected, the letters would be joined to make words and those words would be endlessly copied.
I was also subjected to the variations of education systems when state borders are crossed. In NSW where my career in penmanship began, we were taught Modern Cursive. As the name suggests it was a modernised version of "running writing" - all the loops were removed and the uppercase letters were basically the same as the printed letters, but they leaned to the right. Gone were those beautiful fancy captial efs and kays; the es was stripped of its flourish and the el was just two perpendicular lines. How would that have looked embroidered on Laverne's breast? There was no drama, just function. When I moved north across the border to Queensland, they were still doing a version of Copperplate, a little less fancy than actual Copperplate, and I don't know what it's called, but it was better. There were more loops, swirls and I just liked it. I went wild. (I was also really good at drawing treble clefs, so maybe all that practice just translated to the letters.)
Perhaps I had been influenced by my Grandfather's pride in his own handwriting. From an early age, my siblings and I were encouraged to write letters to our grandparents. I've seen some of my early work, written in pencil, and while the prose is a bit lacking (of the "hi-how-are-you-I-am-well-variety") those letters were legible. The importance of having a good "hand" was impressed upon me early. The character of others could be immediately discerned. Being described in very serious tones as having a "good hand" or a "lovely hand" was far better than being described as being a "tight knitter" or a "loose knitter".The tones describing the latter were doom-laden and accompanied by knowing glances and shaking heads. For example, "Oh, yes, well, you know, she's a very tight knitter. Very tight." Or, worse, "What do you expect? She's a terribly loose knitter you know." They were actually talking about knitting, weren't they?
Of course, back in those days, the ability to write a letter was an essential communication tool; as was the ability for others to be able to read it. Who writes letters anymore? Well I do. Recently I wrote a letter to a friend specifically because he said that no one ever writes him letters anymore. Sometimes I will write a letter to commemorate a special occasion or even just to express a feeling that deserves to live beyond the five minutes after it is emailed or tweeted. Just last year, I wrote a letter to an 85 year old woman in response to the Christmas card she had sent me. She's Jewish and I agonised about whether to send a Christmas card. I should have just written her a letter anyway. It was a lovely letter -full of descriptions of the garden and the visiting wildlife - one I would have been happy to receive, and was pleased to have written.
I have more than a passing interest in typography. This interest was piqued early in my days of journalism study. When we studied print, we learnt about physical layout of type and a page. I'm not old enough to have been composing with metal type and tweezers, but it was still a time, pre-computer software, when the term "cut and paste" was literal. I will soon be attending a workshop which is all about hand lettering. I know I will swoon as I smell the ink and then hear and feel the sound of the pen on paper. It's pleasing to see a page filled with letters, those letters forming words and fitting on the page in a pleasing and easy to read way.
I wonder how my Grandfather observed his own experience of writing by hand. Even his shopping lists were written in the same formal hand. Had he been to university, I can't imagine that his notes would have been scrawled. (He didn't finish high school.)
I'm lucky to still have samples of his writing. I'm sharing with you now, not only his handwriting, but also part of the story of my family, the Fife family from Ireland. Grandfather wrote this piece for a history of the family which was published to coincide with a family reunion in the mid 1990's. I remember him reading it to those gathered at the reunion because, as far as anyone knew, he was the last man alive to know Nixon Fife, one of five children who was sent by his father from Ireland to Australia during the 19th Century famine. As far as I know, Grandfather never owned a computer and probably never even used a type writer.
From my maternal Grandfather, Eric Hilma Brown, who was born 3 July 1912 and died 7 April 2001.
Is handwriting important? How's yours these days?
Sunday, 9 February 2014
Campanology campaign - a resounding success!
When I arrived at 8:45am yesterday I felt as if mere hours had passed since we finished Friday night's dress rehearsal. We were issued with our celebratory orange t-shirts and my heart sank. Since spending all of 2007 wearing an orange t-shirt (I wasn't in prison, I was organising the Your Rights at Work campaign), I am under no illusions about my relationship with orange. It is good for accessorising, but wearing a whole garment in the colour makes me look like I am either very sick or have drunk too much red wine on a hot day. I decided to accessorise with an over-the-top floral crown to draw all eyes away from contemplating me in an orange t-shirt.
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| The score for the piece we composed for the Melbourne Recital Centre's fifth birthday. © 2014 divacultura |
It was a beautiful evening and people looked at us curiously as we draped ourselves around the wave sculpture near Hamer Hall. There was magic as I struck the first note and others joined in. The rehearsal went well with only a few adjustments to make.
We were blessed with a glorious morning yesterday. The light dappled through the trees along St Kilda Road. I felt a profound sense of celebration and reverence as I struck the first note again. People stopped and looked. Some even smiled. Many of them asked what it was all about and I happily told them. Crossing Southbank Boulevard we encountered a man who was impatient for us to cross. He waved at the flashing red man on the traffic light and turned in front of us. We continued the tintinabulation. As we reached the Melbourne Recital Centre there was a crowd of people waiting for the doors to open; it was our job to open them.
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| Federation Bells - that's "E" on the right. © 2014 divacultura |
We went up the stairs to Elisabeth Murdoch Hall and continued to play as patrons took their seats.
Naturally the piece concluded with a rendition of "Happy Birthday" and three cheers.
It was a truly joyous experience and energy was high as we returned to the VIP room. Contact details were swapped and t-shirts were peeled off.
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| The "backyard". This is normally a carpark. © 2014 divacultura |
I went downstairs to the backyard which had been astro-turfed and turned into a festive party venue. I ate a taco from the taco truck and listened to the Welsh Men's Choir. I played a tune on the decorated piano which was sitting on the footpath and then found a seat to take in some of the open jazz jam. A house band welcomed soloists on a variety of instruments to join them for a song. It was terrific to see so many teenagers taking the stage with their saxophones, guitars and trombones. I wasn't sure if they accepted singers, so I just enjoyed the show. As people rode the escalators to the next level they swung their hips to the music and smiled. Any wonder anything with a swinging beat was considered "devil's music". Never know what an escalator ride and jazz could lead to.
I decided to leave before the day became too hot. As I was walking back to the city, I stopped off at the National Gallery of Victoria. An artist was working in the foyer. Dozens of plastic mesh rectangles had been embroidered with words in black and the backgrounds needed to be completed in white. About ten people were stitching when I arrived. It was lovely and cool in there so I decided to find some words that appealed and contributed a few stitches.
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| Leaving my mark © 2014 divacultura |
After four rows I left. My body was starting to feel the work of carrying and playing that bell and I needed to rest.
As I made my way home I felt so happy to live in a city where there are public spaces and events with really interesting and welcoming things to do on a very hot day where retreat to an air conditioned space is top of the agenda.
Noticing my body this morning, I decided that indulging in campanology is an excellent upper body work out and a very enjoyable one too. I now realised why a hunchback rings the bells!
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| The bells go back in their cases. © 2014 divacultura |
Monday, 3 February 2014
I'm profounded - I mean confounded - words matter.
I received a lesson in the importance of precision in language today.
Back in May, during a period of very wet weather I told my real estate agent that I could hear dripping in the ceiling. There was no reaction. Three days later I had water running down one of the walls in my bedroom. The light fitting was sparking as the electricity met the water that was running through there.
A (very handsome) electrician came and dealt with the electricity - in the ceiling - and left a gaping hole in myheart ceiling. Since then I've had no light in the bedroom and a gaping hole in the ceiling. I have taken to wearing a miner's lamp when I'm selecting my wardrobe for the day.
This happened seven months ago.
People sprang into action last December and decided that the week before Christmas was a convenient time to pack and remove the contents of the apartment, remove the ceiling, replace the ceiling, paint the bedroom and restore the contents. I had other plans thinking that my recent five week absence would provide the perfect opportunity.
Things don't always turn out the way we hope. I won't bore you with the details, but I arrived home to be confronted with packed boxes stacked in the lounge room, bedroom and the entry to the bathroom. And I brought suitcases which also needed to be unpacked. It was 42 degrees Celsius and I had to start work the following morning.
You can imagine the conversations I've been having. I'm writing everything down so they can feature in the absurdist script I'll produce one day. One of them involved the agent advising me to "just follow your normal routine". What am I? A rat in a box maze? She clearly thinks I'm insane. Or some kind of contemporary artist making a statement about some aspect of society as I turn my place into a piece of performance art. Shame I can't sell tickets. There's nowhere for the patrons to stand. I've rigged up a periscope so I can watch television. That's the only activity I can reasonably accomplish - unless I consider moving boxes around to be a leisure activity.
Anyway, the precision of language...imagine my initial surprise when the agent shared an email telling me that she had advised the insurance person and the owner that the flat is "inhabitable". After some thought, I decided she was right, but there was something off about the tone of the email.
Today I received another email telling me again that she'd told the insurance guy that the place is "inhabitable" but also that he shouldn't take her word for it and would need to see for himself. Again, I had a nagging worry that she actually was using the wrong word.
I had to find out, but was unsure how to ask without causing offence. I settled on asking if she meant "inhabitable" as in I can live there or "uninhabitable" as in I can't live there.
Her single-word response came: uninhabitable.
I imagined the insurance agent being moved to even higher levels of frantic inaction with the vehement statements that the place is inhabitable! Any wonder nothing much has happened in seven months.
Considered with the correct understanding, the email from the agent became even more ridiculous as it finished by stating "the place is [un]inhabitable and the insurance agent is aware of that so just wait and see what happens"!
Lucky the roof wasn't blown off! Imagine what "urgently waiting" feels like when you've got bigger problems than not being able to coordinate your outfit or needing to use a torch when you make your way to the bed. Add some boxes into the pathway and you've got added excitement at bed time.
My response in this situation is to initially get angry, then I go floppy and then I start looking for comedy to exploit. I can't even drink as an activity because I've given up alcohol for February as part of Feb Fast.*
Oh and I'm also taking legal advice.
* See how hard it is! I'd love you to sponsor me and support programs for young people who suffer from addictions
Back in May, during a period of very wet weather I told my real estate agent that I could hear dripping in the ceiling. There was no reaction. Three days later I had water running down one of the walls in my bedroom. The light fitting was sparking as the electricity met the water that was running through there.
A (very handsome) electrician came and dealt with the electricity - in the ceiling - and left a gaping hole in my
This happened seven months ago.
People sprang into action last December and decided that the week before Christmas was a convenient time to pack and remove the contents of the apartment, remove the ceiling, replace the ceiling, paint the bedroom and restore the contents. I had other plans thinking that my recent five week absence would provide the perfect opportunity.
Things don't always turn out the way we hope. I won't bore you with the details, but I arrived home to be confronted with packed boxes stacked in the lounge room, bedroom and the entry to the bathroom. And I brought suitcases which also needed to be unpacked. It was 42 degrees Celsius and I had to start work the following morning.
You can imagine the conversations I've been having. I'm writing everything down so they can feature in the absurdist script I'll produce one day. One of them involved the agent advising me to "just follow your normal routine". What am I? A rat in a box maze? She clearly thinks I'm insane. Or some kind of contemporary artist making a statement about some aspect of society as I turn my place into a piece of performance art. Shame I can't sell tickets. There's nowhere for the patrons to stand. I've rigged up a periscope so I can watch television. That's the only activity I can reasonably accomplish - unless I consider moving boxes around to be a leisure activity.
Anyway, the precision of language...imagine my initial surprise when the agent shared an email telling me that she had advised the insurance person and the owner that the flat is "inhabitable". After some thought, I decided she was right, but there was something off about the tone of the email.
Today I received another email telling me again that she'd told the insurance guy that the place is "inhabitable" but also that he shouldn't take her word for it and would need to see for himself. Again, I had a nagging worry that she actually was using the wrong word.
I had to find out, but was unsure how to ask without causing offence. I settled on asking if she meant "inhabitable" as in I can live there or "uninhabitable" as in I can't live there.
Her single-word response came: uninhabitable.
I imagined the insurance agent being moved to even higher levels of frantic inaction with the vehement statements that the place is inhabitable! Any wonder nothing much has happened in seven months.
Considered with the correct understanding, the email from the agent became even more ridiculous as it finished by stating "the place is [un]inhabitable and the insurance agent is aware of that so just wait and see what happens"!
Lucky the roof wasn't blown off! Imagine what "urgently waiting" feels like when you've got bigger problems than not being able to coordinate your outfit or needing to use a torch when you make your way to the bed. Add some boxes into the pathway and you've got added excitement at bed time.
My response in this situation is to initially get angry, then I go floppy and then I start looking for comedy to exploit. I can't even drink as an activity because I've given up alcohol for February as part of Feb Fast.*
Oh and I'm also taking legal advice.
* See how hard it is! I'd love you to sponsor me and support programs for young people who suffer from addictions
Thursday, 15 August 2013
On approach to Alice Springs
A quick turnaround in Alice Springs en route to Darwin has turned into a four hour extravaganza. I'll miss the afternoon I had planned to reacquaint my skin with sun and my body with the hotel pool as I'll now arrive at dinner time instead of early afternoon. Ah well, this is not within my control so there is no point being anxious or angry.
Since last week's bag-falling-on-head incident, I have switched my seating preference from aisle to window and enjoyed the view as we flew over the heart of Australia.
It is a red heart, nothing but sand stretching on and on and on. Ten minutes later there may be a smattering of vegetation, small wiry clumps looking like the stubble on the chin of a dark haired man. Rocky outcrops appear. Some of them look like a partly submerged crocodile, the khaki-coloured lumpy spine curving to meet its head. Beyond the head I see a formation that looks like foot prints from a gigantic prehistoric bird.
The land changes again and I understand the paintings made by the Aboriginal people. Looking at the land below, I could be standing before one of their canvasses covered with dots and lines and concentric circles. Small sandy circles appear. Perhaps they are water holes. Without access to an aircraft I wonder how the Old People knew what the land looked like? A ribbon flows through, the centre of the bed tattooed by trees. I wonder if this river of sand once - still? - carries water.
I see no houses. I see the veins of dirt roads but no vehicles. There's the glint of the railway line, proudly declaring its straight, true lines in contrast to the deceptive softness of the harsh country.
The rocks change and I am reminded of drawing contour maps in grade 9 geography under Mrs Rosenthal's instruction. They have meaning now. Other memories of that class come to mind - learning about barchan sand dunes out in the long jump pit and writing out one hundred times that a wind is named according to the direction it comes FROM. (Of course I knew that the grammar was wrong, but this was geography, not English, and the formal "from whence it came" would be unwelcome as a piece of smart aleckry.) Patches of white stand out against the dark grey-green of the rocks - sand, salt or ash? I wonder.
We near Alice Springs. The vegetation thickens again. The road is bitumen and the markings are visible. I count four vehicles going about their business. The geometry of buildings contrast with the natural shapes. The township pulsates just ahead.
The plane's shadow is tiny on the ground and I have to look slightly backwards to see it. I know we are descending as this shadow grows larger, finally meeting its creator as we gently touch the tarmac.
Disembarking down the rear stairs and onto the tarmac, the warmth is welcome. It was 9 degrees Celsius when my cab picked me up from home this morning. It feels like a very pleasant mid-twenties with a very light breeze.
I will find a way to make the most of this delay.
Since last week's bag-falling-on-head incident, I have switched my seating preference from aisle to window and enjoyed the view as we flew over the heart of Australia.
It is a red heart, nothing but sand stretching on and on and on. Ten minutes later there may be a smattering of vegetation, small wiry clumps looking like the stubble on the chin of a dark haired man. Rocky outcrops appear. Some of them look like a partly submerged crocodile, the khaki-coloured lumpy spine curving to meet its head. Beyond the head I see a formation that looks like foot prints from a gigantic prehistoric bird.
The land changes again and I understand the paintings made by the Aboriginal people. Looking at the land below, I could be standing before one of their canvasses covered with dots and lines and concentric circles. Small sandy circles appear. Perhaps they are water holes. Without access to an aircraft I wonder how the Old People knew what the land looked like? A ribbon flows through, the centre of the bed tattooed by trees. I wonder if this river of sand once - still? - carries water.
I see no houses. I see the veins of dirt roads but no vehicles. There's the glint of the railway line, proudly declaring its straight, true lines in contrast to the deceptive softness of the harsh country.
The rocks change and I am reminded of drawing contour maps in grade 9 geography under Mrs Rosenthal's instruction. They have meaning now. Other memories of that class come to mind - learning about barchan sand dunes out in the long jump pit and writing out one hundred times that a wind is named according to the direction it comes FROM. (Of course I knew that the grammar was wrong, but this was geography, not English, and the formal "from whence it came" would be unwelcome as a piece of smart aleckry.) Patches of white stand out against the dark grey-green of the rocks - sand, salt or ash? I wonder.
We near Alice Springs. The vegetation thickens again. The road is bitumen and the markings are visible. I count four vehicles going about their business. The geometry of buildings contrast with the natural shapes. The township pulsates just ahead.
The plane's shadow is tiny on the ground and I have to look slightly backwards to see it. I know we are descending as this shadow grows larger, finally meeting its creator as we gently touch the tarmac.
Disembarking down the rear stairs and onto the tarmac, the warmth is welcome. It was 9 degrees Celsius when my cab picked me up from home this morning. It feels like a very pleasant mid-twenties with a very light breeze.
I will find a way to make the most of this delay.
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| Flying over the heart of Australia - view from 20F © divacultura 2013 |
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| Red sand, red sand, red sand © divacultura 2013 |
Friday, 5 July 2013
Profound bliss
Is there a bliss more profound
than the removal of too tight shoes?
The toes, creaking and protesting through the day
scream in anticipation
as the wearer hobbles home.
As the boot zipper is lowered -
zzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sigh
The escape of air is almost audible.
The feet expand further,
relax,
splay.
The first wriggle of toes results in deformity -
toes cramping at weird angles -
the blood starts to flow
the bones start to straighten.
The first step,
barefoot,
recalls a duck...
or a heavily pregnant woman.
Caught in the uncertainty of a too late discovery
I wondered
"should I turn back?"
I would miss my train, be late,
and able to walk quickly
elegantly.
Punctuality pressed.
Now
the sheepskin of slippers coddles and cushions
Perhaps I'll wear them forever.
than the removal of too tight shoes?
The toes, creaking and protesting through the day
scream in anticipation
as the wearer hobbles home.
As the boot zipper is lowered -
zzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sigh
The escape of air is almost audible.
The feet expand further,
relax,
splay.
The first wriggle of toes results in deformity -
toes cramping at weird angles -
the blood starts to flow
the bones start to straighten.
The first step,
barefoot,
recalls a duck...
or a heavily pregnant woman.
Caught in the uncertainty of a too late discovery
I wondered
"should I turn back?"
I would miss my train, be late,
and able to walk quickly
elegantly.
Punctuality pressed.
Now
the sheepskin of slippers coddles and cushions
Perhaps I'll wear them forever.
Thursday, 4 July 2013
A morning in Monet's garden.
Paying to walk around vast rooms with crowds of people oblivious to others, all with the same purpose: to stand in front of canvas squares, rectangles (sometimes circles) covered in paint and surrounded by wood. When described like this, visiting an art gallery seems like a strange thing to do.
This morning I went to the National Gallery of Victoria to visit this year's Winter Masterpieces - Monet! The idea of standing in front of a picture suddenly struck me as odd - perhaps as I was jostled and blocked by a fellow visitor ensconced in the bubble of their audio tours. A square on the wall seems so unromantic, non-poetic and unlovely.
I wasn't moved to tears as I often can be when viewing art works. I wondered why. Afterall, I was struck by the extraordinary beauty of Monet's work. Then I read somewhere that he painted "senses" rather than "emotions". I found myself to be more emotionally engaged by the story of a master painter's failing eyesight. It brought to mind Beethoven's deafness. What pain this must be when the body betrays the artist's ability to create their art. And then there was a set of the corrective lenses worn by Monet to help deal with the colour distortion he suffered differently in each eye. They look so small and delicate and vulnerable. I felt so sad for Monet's suffering.
In the same glass box where the spectacles are kept is Monet's clay pipe and also his artist's palette. It is timber and the daubs of paint make it look like a Monet painting itself.
The third room with the enormous decorative waterlily panels is glorious. To get the full story of these pictures you really do need to stand back. Some of the pictures which are in the smoke and fog suddenly come into focus only from 5 metres away.
As is usual when I visit the art gallery, strangers engage me in conversation about the works. One woman described feeling overwhelmed and choked up by one of the renditions of waterlilies as she explained Monet's influence on interior design. She referenced the turquoise ring I was wearing to emphasise her point. Another woman leaned over and commented on the beauty of one of the pictures. My companion looked on puzzled by all these people talking to me. "People talk to me," I explained.
Despite arriving at opening time, there was a very long line and the gallery was extremely busy. This was on a weekday. I would avoid weekends at all costs. And I would ask visitors to the gallery to engage your peripheral vision and be aware that you are not the only person in the gallery. Perhaps an etiquette lesson should be compulsory before a ticket will be provided. Imagine - certificate IV in gallery etiquette!
As I stepped back into the grey Melbourne day with its bitter, icy wind I relished the morning I had spent in the sunshine of Monet's garden.
This morning I went to the National Gallery of Victoria to visit this year's Winter Masterpieces - Monet! The idea of standing in front of a picture suddenly struck me as odd - perhaps as I was jostled and blocked by a fellow visitor ensconced in the bubble of their audio tours. A square on the wall seems so unromantic, non-poetic and unlovely.
I wasn't moved to tears as I often can be when viewing art works. I wondered why. Afterall, I was struck by the extraordinary beauty of Monet's work. Then I read somewhere that he painted "senses" rather than "emotions". I found myself to be more emotionally engaged by the story of a master painter's failing eyesight. It brought to mind Beethoven's deafness. What pain this must be when the body betrays the artist's ability to create their art. And then there was a set of the corrective lenses worn by Monet to help deal with the colour distortion he suffered differently in each eye. They look so small and delicate and vulnerable. I felt so sad for Monet's suffering.
In the same glass box where the spectacles are kept is Monet's clay pipe and also his artist's palette. It is timber and the daubs of paint make it look like a Monet painting itself.
The third room with the enormous decorative waterlily panels is glorious. To get the full story of these pictures you really do need to stand back. Some of the pictures which are in the smoke and fog suddenly come into focus only from 5 metres away.
As is usual when I visit the art gallery, strangers engage me in conversation about the works. One woman described feeling overwhelmed and choked up by one of the renditions of waterlilies as she explained Monet's influence on interior design. She referenced the turquoise ring I was wearing to emphasise her point. Another woman leaned over and commented on the beauty of one of the pictures. My companion looked on puzzled by all these people talking to me. "People talk to me," I explained.
Despite arriving at opening time, there was a very long line and the gallery was extremely busy. This was on a weekday. I would avoid weekends at all costs. And I would ask visitors to the gallery to engage your peripheral vision and be aware that you are not the only person in the gallery. Perhaps an etiquette lesson should be compulsory before a ticket will be provided. Imagine - certificate IV in gallery etiquette!
As I stepped back into the grey Melbourne day with its bitter, icy wind I relished the morning I had spent in the sunshine of Monet's garden.
Sunday, 16 June 2013
Sunday slideshow
I haven't shared my photographs for a while. It's interesting to observe the change in seasons - the different light, colours and mood of the city.
How has the changing season affected what you see? How does your home look in the different light?
All photos taken on my iphone 4s and finished using instragram.
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| Inside the foyer of the National Gallery of Victory is an extraordinary object - a taxidermied deer covered in glass bubbles. It's quite compelling to look at. Everything looks different from different angles; some of the bubbles magnify what's beneath. © divacultura 2013 |
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| Late afternoon at the pool outside the NGV, looking towards the Melbourne Theatre Company theatres. © divacultura |
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| That's the Eureka Tower peering over the smaller buildings. Taken from the corner of Sturt Street and Southbank Boulevard through the tram wires. © divacultura 2013 |
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| While listening to a speech at BMW Edge in Federation Square, I noticed the Arts Centre spire. © divacultura 2013 |
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| Inside the old GPO Building. There's a clothes shop where my old post office box used to be. © divacultura 2013 |
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| Here's the entrance to the Regal Theatre's ballroom. I love the tiles and the gates together. © divacultura 2013 |
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| One of my favourite corners in Melbourne - Collins and Swanston Streets. © divacultura 2013 |
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| The new NAB buliding at Docklands, just near Southern Cross Station. I like the reflections of the building opposite on Spencer Street. © divacultura 2013 |
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| The Helix Tree is a piece of voice activated sculpture which is currently in Federation Square. At 5:30pm, every night in June, an a capella choir sings "up the tree" to bring it to light. It's part of the Light in Winter Festival. This choir is Soulsong. I'll be there with my group, Tongue and Groove, soon. © divacultura 2013 |
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| Singing up the Helix Tree. © divacultura 2013 |
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| The upper branches of the Helix Tree. © divacultura 2013 |
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| Walking across the bridge to Flinders Street Station in the gloom. © divacultura 2013 |
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| The Yarra River from the Princess Bridge at about 5:30pm last week. The warm colours from lights at Flinders Street Station look so inviting. © divacultura 2013 |
How has the changing season affected what you see? How does your home look in the different light?
All photos taken on my iphone 4s and finished using instragram.
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Melbourne International Jazz Festival - closing night with Cassandra Wilson
As I mentioned yesterday, I convened my own private arts festival. After Saturday's outing to King Kong, Sunday saw me take a seat for the first time in the renovated Hamer Hall for Cassandra Wilson's closing night of the Melbourne International Jazz Festival.
Since enrolling in the jazz vocal course run by Bob Sedergreen here in Melbourne, I've really lifted my game and started attentively listening to jazz again. I always listen to music but have such eclectic tastes that I can cut whole genres of music out as I hone in on my latest passion. Most years I attend something at the Festival and semi-regularly go and listen to live jazz around Melbourne. The main barrier to doing this more regularly is the timetable - jazz musicians tend to play late, even on a school night.
Anyway, before starting the course, I had a vague recollection of the name Cassandra Wilson, but hadn't knowingly listened to her music. Fellow students and posters around town and press said that she's a great jazz singer. I thought I should take the opportunity to hear her sing live and bought a ticket on my afternoon walk past through the arts precinct. I'm really glad I did.
In preparation for the concert I resisted the urge to seek her music out. It's not often I can go and hear an artist for the very first time. It was an amazing, joyous and musically rich evening. Apart from her incredible voice and interpretation, the band was marvellous. Conversations between harmonica and violin were never so entrancing. Despite being unfamiliar with the repertoire, I loved the concert and was pleased that I've learned how to listen to new music. How can that syncopation or funky rhythm be resisted? It couldn't be. Well, not by me, anyway. The woman sitting to my right threw off an aura of unhappiness from the moment she was seated and left part way through the third song. I didn't mind.
To my left was an Indian couple and they were impressed that I was coming to hear an artist with completely fresh ears. They looked at me with envy. We talked about the Festival and other jazz artists we liked and whether or not they played any instruments (they didn't but had a fine appreciation for music).
After the (unnecessary) interval, we were rewarded with some exciting and infectious moments. The sound in the refurbished Hamer Hall is very, very good and the seats are very comfortable. I was interested that with the refurbishment, the colour scheme has moved from the dated salmon and flamingo hues to what will soon be outdated orange shades. I think this will date in a very quickly. But I do love the hanging sculpture in the foyer; it's trapezoidal shapes echoing the architecture of Federation Square, the Melbourne Theatre Company's theatres and neighbouring Recital Centre. The arts precinct now has thread uniting it from end to end. I also liked the lighting which reminded me of glow worms dangling from the ceiling.
Apart from loving every moment of Cassandra Wilson and band, I thoroughly recommend the experience of being whimsical and buying a ticket for something/someone unfamiliar. Afterall, venturing in to explore and experience unfamiliar territory is the heart of art and artists.
Since enrolling in the jazz vocal course run by Bob Sedergreen here in Melbourne, I've really lifted my game and started attentively listening to jazz again. I always listen to music but have such eclectic tastes that I can cut whole genres of music out as I hone in on my latest passion. Most years I attend something at the Festival and semi-regularly go and listen to live jazz around Melbourne. The main barrier to doing this more regularly is the timetable - jazz musicians tend to play late, even on a school night.
Anyway, before starting the course, I had a vague recollection of the name Cassandra Wilson, but hadn't knowingly listened to her music. Fellow students and posters around town and press said that she's a great jazz singer. I thought I should take the opportunity to hear her sing live and bought a ticket on my afternoon walk past through the arts precinct. I'm really glad I did.
In preparation for the concert I resisted the urge to seek her music out. It's not often I can go and hear an artist for the very first time. It was an amazing, joyous and musically rich evening. Apart from her incredible voice and interpretation, the band was marvellous. Conversations between harmonica and violin were never so entrancing. Despite being unfamiliar with the repertoire, I loved the concert and was pleased that I've learned how to listen to new music. How can that syncopation or funky rhythm be resisted? It couldn't be. Well, not by me, anyway. The woman sitting to my right threw off an aura of unhappiness from the moment she was seated and left part way through the third song. I didn't mind.
To my left was an Indian couple and they were impressed that I was coming to hear an artist with completely fresh ears. They looked at me with envy. We talked about the Festival and other jazz artists we liked and whether or not they played any instruments (they didn't but had a fine appreciation for music).
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| Hanging sculpture, foyer, Hamer Hall © divacultura 2013 |
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| © divacultura 2013 |
Apart from loving every moment of Cassandra Wilson and band, I thoroughly recommend the experience of being whimsical and buying a ticket for something/someone unfamiliar. Afterall, venturing in to explore and experience unfamiliar territory is the heart of art and artists.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
Have you seen the Hot Box yet?
If you're in Melbourne and have a pulse, you need to see Karin Danger's show "Hot Box" which is playing as part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. I don't say this lightly.
Karin is an incredibly talented comic performer. She's funny and intelligent and sings the hell out of the songs. Did I mention that she also wrote them?
I loved her song about the morning after blues. Not once does she actually talk about what happened the night before and with references to "an Argentinian passport torn up in my bin" one can only wonder. It's hilarious and well delivered. Look out for the cracker Brownlow joke early in the show too.
Apart from the jokes, Karin has something to say and she puts herself on the line to say it. Whether you agree with her message or not, I think the idea of doing this is something to be encouraged.
The show made me happy. I delighted in every aspect of the show. It's great to see a young talented woman making art like this so I just really want lots of people to be happy too.
"Hot Box" is playing until 21 April at the gorgeously kitsch (and now city-based) Butterfly Club which is worth a visit too.
Karin is an incredibly talented comic performer. She's funny and intelligent and sings the hell out of the songs. Did I mention that she also wrote them?
I loved her song about the morning after blues. Not once does she actually talk about what happened the night before and with references to "an Argentinian passport torn up in my bin" one can only wonder. It's hilarious and well delivered. Look out for the cracker Brownlow joke early in the show too.
Apart from the jokes, Karin has something to say and she puts herself on the line to say it. Whether you agree with her message or not, I think the idea of doing this is something to be encouraged.
The show made me happy. I delighted in every aspect of the show. It's great to see a young talented woman making art like this so I just really want lots of people to be happy too.
"Hot Box" is playing until 21 April at the gorgeously kitsch (and now city-based) Butterfly Club which is worth a visit too.
Monday, 25 March 2013
Mobile phones at the theatre - detract from "Other Desert Cities".
Recently, I purchased a mini-subscription to the Melbourne Theatre Company's 2013 season. It's been a few years since I had the funds and also the interest to invest in this way. I've seen three plays and have two more to come. Everything I've seen so far has been incredible - thought-provoking, moving, funny - everything you want live theatre to be.
On Saturday I went and saw "Other Desert Cities" at the Sumner Theatre. The play itself has all the credentials - Pulitzer Prize and Tony Award nominations - and I'm not going to write a review of the play. I will tell you that I tingled in the most dramatic moments and resolved into tears in the next moment.
As amazing as these moments were, they were spoiled. It wasn't anything about the actors on stage, or the production itself. No. In the climactic scene a mobile phone rang. When a mobile phone rings in this situation, it's not just the phone that causes a disturbance. This particular phone's jaunty tune went for a long time, accompanied by whispers of "shit, shit, shit, shit" as the owner rustled through her bag. The phone is found and removed from the bag and the muffling effect of the bag disappears as the phone cuts clearly through the quiet of the auditorium. The audience becomes restless. Heads shake at the impropriety of it all. There is a flicker of distraction that runs across the actors' faces. The phone choked, we all return to the play.
Now, the climactic scene of this play is meaty. Emotions are running high, secrets are revealed, characters shock us with their passion and deception. You need to pay attention - you want to pay attention. Then a second phone rings. This one is two rows in front of me and I can see the owner. Audience members around me start to groan and tut. The phone is choked rapidly. I want to choke the owner.
We settle back Where were we? Ah yes. A third phone rings. Just behind me - one row back, three seats away and within reach. She actually leaves the theatre with her bag. Good riddance I say.
Prior to the commencement of the play, a clear specific announcement is made to the audience, echoing the signs lining the entrance foyer: "Please turn your mobile phone off." The announcement even contextualises by adding "for the sake of the actors and the audience".
What is so hard about turning off the mobile phone? Or if it must be left on, turning it to silent? All three interruptions on Saturday occurred after interval. Perhaps the announcement needs to be made after interval as well. I find it difficult to understand why people can't take personal responsibility for this stuff anyway. Why can't people consider their surroundings and be well-mannered enough to consider that it will be bad if their phone rings during the show. Surely they aren't going to answer it while watching a play! So go on, switch it off.
Apart from being really annoyed myself, people were talking about the phones ringing, rather than the play on the way out of the theatre. Such a distraction! The actors did well (it must be so tempting to turn to the audience and berate them!).
Go and see this play. And if you do, for goodness sake, turn your phone off!
What would be an appropriate punishment for people who leave their phones on? Has your phone ever rung at an inopportune time? What did you do?
On Saturday I went and saw "Other Desert Cities" at the Sumner Theatre. The play itself has all the credentials - Pulitzer Prize and Tony Award nominations - and I'm not going to write a review of the play. I will tell you that I tingled in the most dramatic moments and resolved into tears in the next moment.
As amazing as these moments were, they were spoiled. It wasn't anything about the actors on stage, or the production itself. No. In the climactic scene a mobile phone rang. When a mobile phone rings in this situation, it's not just the phone that causes a disturbance. This particular phone's jaunty tune went for a long time, accompanied by whispers of "shit, shit, shit, shit" as the owner rustled through her bag. The phone is found and removed from the bag and the muffling effect of the bag disappears as the phone cuts clearly through the quiet of the auditorium. The audience becomes restless. Heads shake at the impropriety of it all. There is a flicker of distraction that runs across the actors' faces. The phone choked, we all return to the play.
Now, the climactic scene of this play is meaty. Emotions are running high, secrets are revealed, characters shock us with their passion and deception. You need to pay attention - you want to pay attention. Then a second phone rings. This one is two rows in front of me and I can see the owner. Audience members around me start to groan and tut. The phone is choked rapidly. I want to choke the owner.
We settle back Where were we? Ah yes. A third phone rings. Just behind me - one row back, three seats away and within reach. She actually leaves the theatre with her bag. Good riddance I say.
Prior to the commencement of the play, a clear specific announcement is made to the audience, echoing the signs lining the entrance foyer: "Please turn your mobile phone off." The announcement even contextualises by adding "for the sake of the actors and the audience".
What is so hard about turning off the mobile phone? Or if it must be left on, turning it to silent? All three interruptions on Saturday occurred after interval. Perhaps the announcement needs to be made after interval as well. I find it difficult to understand why people can't take personal responsibility for this stuff anyway. Why can't people consider their surroundings and be well-mannered enough to consider that it will be bad if their phone rings during the show. Surely they aren't going to answer it while watching a play! So go on, switch it off.
Apart from being really annoyed myself, people were talking about the phones ringing, rather than the play on the way out of the theatre. Such a distraction! The actors did well (it must be so tempting to turn to the audience and berate them!).
Go and see this play. And if you do, for goodness sake, turn your phone off!
What would be an appropriate punishment for people who leave their phones on? Has your phone ever rung at an inopportune time? What did you do?
Sunday, 17 March 2013
Sunday Slideshow
I'd almost forgotten that I was in Perth earlier this week. So much has happened in the days since then. Arriving at my hotel at about 4:30 in the afternoon gave me the opportunity to go for a walk and recover from the flight. I could also take advantage of the afternoon light.
I noticed that Perth city has some lovely old buildings and also facades that have been well-preserved. Here is the St George's portico. It's the original entry to a theatre which was on the site. Of the original building, only the portico remains - now attached to a shiny, modern building. At first I didn't notice the building behind; I thought there was just a portico sitting on the Hay Street footpath.
Shiny modern buildings, when bathed in the right light, often are spectacular with their taking of light and reflections. I just loved this building which looks quite blue and reflects both nature and the old architecture on the opposite side of the street.
Perth has a lot of public art. It's a great place to just wander around and soak up the atmosphere. I found this sculpture outside the courthouse to be very striking, especially in black and white.
Back in Melbourne, I saw the Melbourne Theatre Company Production of "Constellations" on Saturday afternoon. With the Grand Prix also on, St Kilda Road was very busy despite the weather. (Our heatwave is over.) I had half an hour to spare before the show, so I wandered around the shop in the National Gallery of Victoria. I quite like this shot of the pool out the front - love how the water looks.
The water wall at the front of the gallery is always wondrous to look at. On the other side of the wall, inside the gallery, a comic lounge has been set up. It's a designated space with black and white mats and cushions and pens and paper to draw a page for a comic book. I took the next two photos of it through the water wall. They remind me of Impressionist paintings.
What do you like to take photos of?
I noticed that Perth city has some lovely old buildings and also facades that have been well-preserved. Here is the St George's portico. It's the original entry to a theatre which was on the site. Of the original building, only the portico remains - now attached to a shiny, modern building. At first I didn't notice the building behind; I thought there was just a portico sitting on the Hay Street footpath.
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| St George's Portico © divacultura 2013 |
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| © divacultura 2013 |
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| © divacultura 2013 |
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| Court house public art © divacultura 2013 |
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| NGV, St Kilda Road © divacultura 2013 |
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| Water wall impressions - NGV © divacultura 2013 |
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| Water wall impressions II - NGV © divacultura 2013 |
What do you like to take photos of?
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