For some reason lost in the ether, I am on the Ticketmaster mailing list. I always consider unsubscribing but haven’t quite got there as sometimes it’s quite interesting to see what’s on. Consequently, the emails keep arriving despite the fact I am possibly their worst customer.

Last week, one of their promotional emails arrived announcing that Deacon Blue were touring. I nearly fell out of the car.

You have possibly not heard of Deacon Blue. They are a Scots pop/rock band formed in 1985 that hit the heights of their popularity during the late eighties and early nineties. I liked them. I have a CD. I am astonished they are still kicking on.

But I haven’t thought about them for, oh, I don’t know, thirty years. I heard them live in 1988 in a darkened and vaguely industrial pub-brewery in Fremantle, Western Australia. It was a great night.

And in the blink of a now middle-aged eye I was back there, courtesy of two words in an email subject line. I was in that pub with my friends, I could see the decor, remember the atmosphere, feel the crowd, taste the coke I was no doubt drinking, smell the smoke yet to outlawed in pubs and, most powerfully, I could hear the music. It wasn’t necessarily a particular song I recalled but the Deacon Blue ‘sound’, their absolute signature so hard to describe but utterly distinctive.

It was a reminder, instant and visceral, of the things our brain keeps filed away—not just a brief outline of the fact we were present somewhere, not a dot-point account of a happening, but a complete visual, auditory, touch, smell, taste and emotional re-experience. The mind is certainly a remarkable phenomenon.

It didn’t actually occur to me to go to see Deacon Blue this time around. I mean, that would involve going out at night! Haha! Anyway, it’s possibly one of those things to treasure as it was in 1988 and not try to recapture a generation later.

I am tempted to dig out the CD, though. ‘Real Gone Kid’ deserves another listening.

Until next time,

Kirsten

When exhibiting artwork in galleries, sometimes the establishment requires me to have public liability insurance. I have a policy so that’s no drama but what the gallery needs in order to establish my credentials is the highly prized Certificate of Currency. This document proves I am up to date with payments and, as the name suggests, currently insured.

A Certificate of Currency is by no means something confined to either public liability or the art world. I was recently asked to produce one regarding our ordinary property insurance. In fact, I’m beginning to think a Certificate of Currency is something we could adopt even more broadly.

I am thinking a document such as this might be worth carrying at all times. It would indicate to the world that I am a fully-paid-up, card-carrying member of the human race, that I am up-to-date with life and wider existence. My personal Certificate of Currency would be evidence I’m aware of the risks and taking responsibility, being ready. Perhaps everyone should have one.

Actually, now I write that and in a complete turn-around, it sounds like quite a lot of pressure – to maintain, year after year, such a connection with what’s going on around me. What about changes in technology: the internet, various social media, even the sophisication of a late-model mobile phone? What about the news – good and bad and, often, incredibly complex? Am I willing to undertake to be currently in tune with those things and so many more?

I don’t think so. Perhaps a global-wide installation of Certificates of Currency is a requirement, some sort of human leveller, that we don’t need to introduce. That’s lucky. It was beginning to look like a rather large obligation.

Until later, and totally uncertified,

Kirsten

Perhaps it’s good, sometimes, to take a little while to question stuff – the things we do, the house we live in in, the junk we cart around, the priorities that seem to have sneaked in, and the like. Perhaps it’s worth sitting with some emotional discomfort for a small while as we think about what stays and what goes, what’s important and what’s not, what we need and what we are best to jettison.

I guess the implication is I’m doing those things at the moment and that would be a correct assumption. Nothing big or dramatic, but just a reassessing of the way things have been. Living with some uncertainty is unusual – I don’t tend to do that – but it’s good for me to be forced to wait, to wonder, to see how things pan out.

Strangely, I’m not stressed but, rather, feel a bit like I’m swimming in a nice warm bath where things are fluid. There’s a chance nothing will change. There may be tweaks. Who knows at this stage? It’s all on the table. We’ll see.

So, until later,

Kirsten

Barry Humphries died not long back. Although not having seen a lot of his performing, I was somewhat downcast when I heard the news.

I have been thinking about it since, in the wake of the well-deserved tributes and brief clips of his characters. He certainly touched a lot of people and was a remarkable talent.

I wondered what it’s like, though, to be best known for not being yourself, to be most recognised as an alter ego, to be slightly unfamiliar to the public in your own face. That is, to a degree, the lot of a performer—particularly one as long-standing and convincing as Humphries—and, I have a suspicion he liked it that way.

But what about us in our daily lives? I’m not sure the same applies. I think, perhaps, it’s best for us, or for me at least, to be known for being ourselves. Sure, there are roles we play, masks we don at times, and these are vital for so many reasons but, having thought about Dame Edna and the others, and not being in a career that demands the complete shifting in and out of character, I think I will aim for my overriding, rememberable persona to be simply me.

Food for my thoughts today.

Until later,

Kirsten

Feeling proud of something you’ve done often requires an accompanying act of defiance.

Feeling proud requires you to be quietly defiant against those who don’t agree—who don’t see your achievement the same way you do.

Feeling proud requires you to be resolutely defiant against the doubting voices in your head querying how much, if at all, you deserve to feel satisfied.

Feeling proud is to be treasured. Pair it with defiance to keep it strong.

Until next time,

Kirsten

Sun’s not sure if she’s welcome,

levers a nose through the doorway,

Helllooo? gently, almost too softly,

but someone among the tumult hears,

Come in. Sun squeezes through the hall,

greets the rest of the weather

and takes a place at the table.

Cloud and Chilled Breeze squint

and reach for sunglasses, sit back,

arms folded, defensive, annoyed.

Rain speaks too loudly, determined

to reclaim the stage but the spittle

disappears in the brightness.

Fog has scuttled to the toilet, overwhelmed.

Sun’s no fool, senses the tension.

Today she’ll just have a quick drink

and head off, leave the rest

to their winter party.

The forecast for many days past has been rain and that theme persists until the end of the week. Strangely for this part of the world, though, the sun has broken through and, although the cold descends at around four, it has been surprisingly pleasant outside.

As a result, I have not been able to avoid the gardening—a long list of tasks that has built up over a considerable time. Of course, none of the jobs has been as taxing as imagined and the satisfaction (oh! the satisfaction) of looking back and seeing what has been done is enormous. Pruning, spraying, mulching and raking have given the garden that tended, loved appearance.

There’s always that thought, whether it’s after gardening or indoor getting-ducks-in-a-row things: ‘why didn’t I do this earlier?’ The towels no longer tumble out of the linen cupboard, you can find a shirt to wear that you actually like, the path to the front door is clear or the to-do list is shrinking. All these things make the daily grind less abrasive.

So there’s a push and pull, it seems, between the effort involved in doing those bigger jobs and the hassle they save down the track. Is the ideal a perfect balance—a par, in golfing terms? Work on big jobs equals effort saved? Or is the larger work involved to make life easier less onerous than the angst? Or, is it easier to add up all the daily annoyances and, hopefully come in under, effort- wise, the toil of getting the big stuff out of the way?

Such musing, and I expect I should have been home knocking off a few more pressing tasks, large or small, rather than thinking about it! Haha!

Until next time,

Kirsten

It’s busy already at fifteen minutes past opening. I have ordered my coffee and forgotten my glasses – only one of those happens on a daily basis. The coffee machine slurps and hisses, psyching up for a big day. The baristas, Leticia and Hannah, gird their loins, I imagine. They work as fast as they can for many hours. The cups and teaspoons clatter in the distance like chirping birds greeting the Thursday morning. Mark, the manager, laughs from behind the counter – is is joyous and a reminder that life is good.

The people next to me eat warmed almond croissants and the smell is enticing. One day soon, I tell myself. My coffee arrives, delivered by the lovely Irene, a Greek girl who delights in family, music and, it seems, her job in hospitality.

I sit at the bench in the window – my usual spot. I overlook the main commercial street of Mount Gambier and the original stone civic buildings – arches and columns decorating doorways and windows. It’s not overdone, though. They had an eye for balance. The modern gallery spaces, carved out of the disused theatre, echo inside. It’s a pleasing juxtaposition.

The sound builds – voices, noises of industry, cutlery on crockery, music in the background. It is called hubbub for a reason – the dull waxing and waning has a bubbly feel. Mark laughs again as he serves the first of the post-exercise class that come in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s a big group – always good to get your order in before them. Breakfasters begin to arrive, sliding into the prized booths and fluttering over menus. There is a brightly wrapped gift, too. Someone’s birthday, perhaps.

My coffee cup is empty. I barely noticed it, but feel warm inside. I am also nurtured by routine, familiarity, and the care I receive. My coffee may cost $5.50 but I receive much more than I pay for.

Until next time,

Kirsten

I visited a garden yesterday. It is a growing project, in all senses of the word, being lovingly carved out of thirteen acres of sandstone ground in the central goldfields of Victoria.

The owner has been there for ten years and is in the midst of creating an, in parts, formal and statuesque and, in others, cottage-y oasis for herself. In the face of excessive wets and drys, kangaroos, rabbits and the sheer volume of labour, the garden takes shape year by year.

It is a work in progress but not a work of days, weeks or months in duration, such as is the majority of mine. This is a decades-long project, if it is ever finished at all.

There is an amazing sense of planning at play here. And the most remarkable patience. The vision is large – both broad-sweeping and detailed. Taking a space, at whatever size, and recreating it in a new form takes incredible imagination – three-dimensional, artistic and in colour. And it is all complicated by the patience required. Nothing settles quickly. Seasons, years, decades go by before the outcome is glimpsed, let alone realised and confirmed as successful or not.

My comfortable time scale is short. I tend to dive into things now. Essentially, I am impatient to see results, change and development. My visit yesterday heightened my awareness of other ways of being. I can’t promise a change in my behaviour, or a magnificent garden, but I am intrigued by the contrast in approach. I see there is a vast continuum between making instantly and building over time.

I apologise to the gardeners among my family and friends for never fully appreciating the extent of the long-term vision and patience required to create their beautiful places. I do now. Thank you.

Until later,

Kirsten

I am so incredibly fortunate to have a studio – a space given over to painting where I can immerse myself, leave works in progress, fill with colours and innumerable bits and pieces. It is a precious place.

It is quite small, though, and lately I have found my brain is squished while I’m in there. Consequently, the art practice is also becoming compressed – I feel the works are less free and expansive. At times, I procrastinate because of the stepping around stuff which takes the edge off the enjoyment. Although I can pin a large canvas to the wall (amazing) I can only fit one wet piece on the floor (where I tend to work) and then I’m hamstrung.

I feel uncomfortable about complaining, as to even have a place to paint is such a luxury. I am interested, though, in the effect that squeezing one’s brain and limiting physical movement has on creativity, motivation and, perhaps ultimately, mood. The mind is a complex and fickle thing that seems to react to everything – diet, hormones and chemicals, stress, weather to name a few. How ridiculously un-robust it is! Has it not evolved adequately to cope with modern life?

I’m sure I’m not alone. Holiday marketers know the attraction of an open world or expansive views – countryside, beaches, wilderness. The mind does well when it can spread. But the question is, how do I achieve that in my precious work environment?

I don’t think I know the answer. It’s something I will continue to ponder. Perhaps I need a massive tidy-up (actually, that is probably essential). Perhaps just being aware is half the battle.

Until next time, find some space,

Kirsten

Recently, I was up during the night. This is a practice that occurs somewhere between ‘occasionally’ and ‘not irregularly’. I don’t mind it at all and I find it preferable to lying in bed awake. In very rare instances, I turn on the telly – usually to see if there is sport (I love Wimbledon time!) or this weird and intriguing art auction show I stumbled over once (never seen it again!)

The other night I did go on a search for the art show, an unsuccessful pursuit, but I did find, much to my surprise, Skippy!! It was a blast from the past that nearly knocked me backwards on the couch. The colours were washed out, the clarity of the picture what you’d expect and, had I had the inclination to watch it, I’m sure I would have found the storyline familiar.

The television station is obviously filling in time at that hour of the night and Skippy is apparently their go-to. It made me think about what I choose to do to fill in time. The answer is not always something to be proud of, I found.

As an (overly) organised person, someone who is chronically early, and someone whose husband works late, I find there is quite a bit of time to fill in across the day. There’s painting work, of course, and the usual jobs to keep the place running but, outside those things …. um ….. crosswords from the Age, maybe interacting with music and, as it turns out, a LOT of clock watching! I certainly don’t feel the need to ‘fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run’ as the overly idealistic Rudyard Kipling advocated (I am a big supporter of down time), but there could be a little more ‘fiddling around’ rather than ‘sitting around’! I feel a resolute moment coming on!

Maybe I should buy a box-set of Skippy.

Until next time,

Kirsten

Fifty years ago, for a period at least, Slinkys were THE THING. You remember – those metal springs that flipped like water from child-sized hand to hand and walked, as if by magic, down stairs without assistance. When they got tangled, as happened periodically, it was best to rush to Mum or Dad as any ham-fistedness could lead to a kink and, after that, they were never the same – they would rest in their cylinder shape with a tilt that was aesthetically and emotionally upsetting. Perhaps they were deliberately fragile – an early kind of built-in redundancy – but I choose to believe not. They were a highly desired item and I loved them.

I was in the post office yesterday , waiting for my turn and gazing at the incredible range of retail items now held in the shop, resisting the Darrell Lea chocolate bullets and marvelling at the products of the television-advertised revolution. And there, amongst toys and books, was a spring, a Slinky copy, in rainbow plastic, no doubt weighing mere grams and selling for the princely sum of $2.99.

I’d hate to suggest that kids these days should miss out on the joys of a ridiculously long coiled toy but I did wonder about the tactile and functional features of the new variant. Would it feel substantial? Would it slip and slide like the original? Would it progress down inclines under its own steam? And, most importantly, was it worth coveting and waiting for?

So much about the modern day is wonderful, so much has improved since the seventies, but I have to say, with all the stubbornness and crustiness of middle age, that the Slinky has definitely suffered.

Until next time,

Kirsten

It’s funny how things happen.

My blog has been on my mind. As each week has passed I have been aware it was becoming longer and longer between drinks, or words, or even thoughts. Possibly the last of those is why I’ve been off air. A long time between thoughts.

Maybe that’s because I’ve been busy and done less ruminating. Probably a good thing, but I do like to spend time thinking. I also like to be busy, so somewhere there’s a balance.

Anyway, yesterday two things happened. Firstly, a dear reader said she missed the blog. Very kind and heart-warming. Secondly, I received an email from my blog host telling me that they would now be charging GST on top of my subscription (not so heart-warming). It is the receipt of the email (not the content) plus my reader’s message that have bumped me in to action. Two prompts on the one day after nothing for months. Ha! What are the chances?

I’m preparing for exhibitions – the painting, the transport, the publicity, the writing, the wrapping, the photography and, most of all, the girding of the loins. The fear, and it is that strong, that my work may be completely out of step with what speaks to people underlies so much at this pointy end of the process. Of course, it’s too late to change anything, and I actually love the frisson of the static performance that is a show, but I don’t want to be embarrassed. Who does?

So, in order to lessen the intensity, my plan is to get back to having a range of irons in the fire, offsetting the all-eggs-in-one-basket trap. This blog is an important part of that so, for better or worse, I’m here again.

So, until later, but not too much later,

Kirsten

The brain’s a funny thing. It’s not always the same. It doesn’t require consistency but, rather, has phases when it needs something different. Sometimes it puts stuff out. Sometimes it needs ideas put in. In the long run, it probably balances, but there are definitely marked periods of one or the other.

For me, anyway.

Recently, it’s been a fairly intense period of getting ideas out. There are several exhibitions for which I’m both creating work and nutting out the logistics of getting the paintings done, stretched and framed, and transported within the required timeframes. It’s going well, I think, which is comforting.

Yesterday, though, I suddenly felt I had reached the bottom of the well – only temporarily, but I was definitely looking into an empty bucket for the afternoon. I decided it would be a good chance to replenish some of the putting out with a few moments of bringing in.

I put on a podcast – one of my favourites which gets far less listening than I’d like – and lay on the couch to soak up the new thoughts. Within about four minutes I was asleep and stayed that way until the final few seconds of the episode.

Obviously this is not one of those periods meant for taking in, for receiving, for refilling. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. I went back to the studio this morning, less empty because of a night’s sleep, but with no monumental new learning to apply to my work. Perhaps today? Ha! Perhaps not.

Until later,

Kirsten

I’ve shortened my usual Christmas holiday sojourn to come home and do some painting. It may turn out to be unnecessary in the long run but, as part of the stress management for the four exhibitions this year, I think it’s a good idea.

It’s not new to talk about this strange seven days – that time between Christmas and New Year – as a lost week. Someone described it to me recently as a time when not much is expected of us. It’s certainly easy to swim in the days, lose track of the dates and the names, and waft around in a most delightful manner. Usually, I spend it drifting – reading, napping, watching cricket. It will be strange to actually try to achieve something.

I remember encountering some business guru who felt the lost week was a great chance to get a head start into the new year. She felt it should not be wasted but, rather, be used to reflect, evaluate, plan and prepare to turn the first page of the new calendar with the right attitude well established. That sounds like a northern hemisphere thing – I, in Australia, seem to be far too summery and soporific to be so directed and so demanding of self. And yet, here I am, eschewing the sun on the deck and entering the studio.

The cricket is still on, though, and there will still be free periods while paint is drying. I’ll enjoy my lost week despite choosing to work. It seems to deserve as much. It is a precious and unique time.

Enjoy your own lost week and best wishes for 2023,

Kirsten