There is nothing like travel or threat of death to give one a new perspective on life and art. My family and I have just returned from Australia and think it a fabulous place! It is safe, friendly and beautiful. Ironically I spoke more Afrikaans to complete strangers in Perth than I have ever spoken to anyone in Durban. As a South African in Australia, I knew the names of many places like Albany, Bathurst and Newcastle, whereas in South Africa I know the places but not the (new) names. I could be at home there, except that it is so clean, neat and well organised.
This was a holiday for me, my brother and our families and was everything it should be, but for few kids coughs and some psychosomatic suffering on my part.
Since I have been gadding about Down Under I have no new art works to show you. This time you are going to have to put up with the family holiday photographs. However, I can tell you about a few events in which I hope to participate. Christie’s London have sent me an invitation to consign works for an exhibition of South African modern and contemporary works. It has been suggested that I give a workshop in the Cayman Islands and the Bloemfontein City Gallery, Oliewenhuis, have asked me to give a lecture. In addition I now have my website link inserted into Nancy Crow’s website (www.nancycrow.com). She is a renowned American quilter and has organised a tour group which will be visiting my studio in 2009.
The Western Australian landscape is beautiful (take a look at www.outbackpix.com ) and it looked strangely familiar to me as I was reminded of parts of the Eastern and Western Cape. The combination of Mediterranean scrub (fynbos) and Port Jackson willow made me think of many places between Grahamstown and Cape Town. The difference was in Australia they do not have to be concerned about the willow, wattle or gums being ‘aggressive alien invaders’. Although I know they have a few of their own invaders, some of which came from South Africa, I am well acquainted with some of their fish, their mullaway is our cob, their muellies are our sardines and their taylor is our shad. I can understand the differences in names since we in South Africa cannot agree to the names of things and places. Is a shad, a shad or is it an elf? Is a leervis that or is it a garrick? And is a sardine just that or is it a pilchard? If you add the Australian names to the list it just gets more confusing. For me the nomenclature is not the most important issue, after all a sardine by any other name would smell as sweet, and here or in Australia it is still a very fine bait.
In Australia, whatever the place was called or however remote it was, we never felt the need to lock the car, house or ever worry about any aspect of our security or safety. Naturally, we as a family began to relax, unwind and enjoy each others’ company. It impressed me to see young women jogging alone, on remote beaches or in the parks. I admired the way the tomatoes and lemons were sold by honour boxes. It struck me as so normal and right that kids were free to play in a wooded stream without parental supervision, without fear of being attacked or robbed, and without fear of pollution or sewerage being present in the water.
Everyone here will tell you that Australia has its share of problems and perhaps they do. While we were there and on the only occasion I did watch the news, the second item splashed all over the television was a story about a burst water main. The visuals showed children riding boogie boards on the up-welling in the street. I am not sure if I was expect to greet this news with shock and horror or delight. Perhaps it is my South African perspective but it did seem to me that they were a little short of exciting news. I thought I had a more interesting story as I managed to catch an Australian bait thief and then with the little bait the thief left me I caught an eight kilogram cob (mullaway).
A pain in my chest in the middle of the night seemed out of place during this relaxed time. I have always eaten copious amounts of butter, cream and cheese along with all the other bad-for-you things and have never really exercised, but then I always suffered from low cholesterol and low blood pressure. At least that was the case until recently. Among the family photographs and relics passed back and forth was an article about my grandfather who died of a heart attack, aged fifty one. On reading the article my view on life began to change, I now regretted my diet and lack of exercise and began to panic. Fifty one! I am fifty one!
A week later as I lay awake at home, a pain in my chest, worried about my family’s future and planning a speech to be given from the operating table, I remembered that my brother and I, stuck in the outback, had lifted a loaded trailer to turn it around in a narrow dirt road. One can never be sure, but I think this time my doctor and my wife will agree, perhaps I may have pulled a muscle in my chest and the rest was the reasoning of a hypochondriac.
