Reflections

There is just one hour left of 2006.

I often thrive on symbolism, and the end of one year and beginning of the next is no exception.

In this hour my mind will race as I regress, looking back on this past year.

I'm tired.

I am at home tonight with no desire to be amongst anything remotely party-esque. For me new years eve is a time to reflect, not get 'shit-faced' and rowdy.

I find entering a new year a very humbling experience, it is a time for me to be grateful rather than gregarious.

We saw M.Ward play last night at The Corner Hotel. He was fabulous, inspiring and worthy of more than this brief mention in my blog. Alas, I am tired and do not feel much like writing, but I did want to make one final entry before seeing this year out.

With my 'end of year self reflection' comes a lot of thoughts about my art. I have made myself some promises, or should I say resolutions, regarding this, along with a couple of others. Hopefully all will benefit my artistic endeavours. I have not painted, really painted, for over a week now and it is starting to play heavily on my mind. I plan to spend a good proportion of 2007's first day immersing myself in my art, (and listening to M. Ward).

Poetry and Prose

I am glad Christmas is over. Not to sound too negative, as my Christmas was quite ok. Really though, it is just another day for me - it's just that many people have other ideas and expectations for the 'jolly' season. Now that some of those expectations have been met, or ignored, I am getting stuck into my painting.

Although I enjoy the act of giving gifts more than receiving them, I must say I was given some wonderful inspiration for Christmas. Amongst other things, my partner gave me a book on Egon Schiele that I have desired for quite some time, he also surprised me with two complete series of Dr. Katz on dvd, and although this may seem to have nothing at all to do with art, for me, it has.

Dr. Katz is my animated hero, as is his son, Ben, and his receptionist, Laura. Dr. Katz is my claytons therapist...the therapist I have whilst not really having a therapist. I was never a big TV viewer but I was fortunate enough to stumble across Dr. Katz on SBS a number of years ago and it appealed to my obscure sense of humour. In many ways, subtle and otherwise, it has been an ongoing influence for me in both art and writing and is one thing that never fails to make me laugh.

I once had a video tape of many episodes that I had diligently taped from SBS over the period of around 12 months, perhaps more, as it was not always a regular programme. This tape was my friend. It was my therapy. It was an escape. (It was only a TV show?) Sure it was, but to me it was also something else, and one day, whilst living in Prahran, my temporary flatmate 'accidentally' taped over every single episode. I was most upset.

I do my very best not to get attached to material possessions but I had a relationship with this particular item that I do not expect anyone else to understand. The joy has now been restored and the laughter can once again flow freely.

Am I over dramatising? For the sake of writing, yes, a little, but as I said, I do not expect anyone else to understand.

As I sit here writing, for the sake of writing, I am listening to one of the most beautiful songs that I believe exists: Martha by Tom Waits. I have listened to this song hundreds, possibly thousands, of times, but the time that stands out was a couple of years ago, whilst sitting on my (ex)boyfriend's bed. I was alone in the room and although I knew the song well, I think it was the first time I really listened to the lyrics. I remember crying, initially not even realising why I was crying, but by the end of the song I realised I was shedding tears over the impermanence of everything in life and in love and there was a part of me that knew many things I had there and then that day, were going to come to an end some day. Many of them did, including the relationship.

That song can still make me cry, but I think I cry with a greater acceptance now, to a certain extent, though I must admit there are some things in life I don't think I will ever understand or even begin to accept, not with any grace anyway.

I did accept my gifts with grace though and I have fallen in love with Egon Schiele's work once again.

With that said I should ride this wave of inspiration away from the keyboard.

I have tried to make my silly season as short as I can and now, for me, it is painting season once again. I have a lot to do before the big move.

I Got the Rooster, I Got the Crow...

It looks as though I could turn 33 in the land of the rising sun.

My partner has been offered a job in Japan.

It has been a dream of mine to experience living overseas, especially in Japan, for some time now, and it finally looks as though that dream will become a reality. I am just as nervous as I am excited...as well as a little lost for words.

I think the experience will have a huge impact on my art, and that is something I feel ecstatic about.

Festive Frenzy

I have just come home from a rather frenetic day about town. My reason for travelling into town was to fulfill my promise to myself, my partner and my pre-made appointment, and get my tooth filled. I did so with a little help from my friend xanax.

After the dentist, all I wanted to do was come home and paint but my friend had caused me to feel rather weary... so instead I decided to attempt a little Christmas shopping. (I also managed to get over to the other side of town to pick up the rest of my new canvases for my next exhibition - which was a far more enjoyable experience than the dentist).

I am not really big on the whole Christmas thing, not that I am a Scrooge either, it's just that I tend to like the freedom and randomness of buying something for people I love when I see something that I know they would really like, enjoy and appreciate. I don't like the expectations that come with occasions such as Christmas and birthdays.

I did not last long amongst the frantic crowds and the suffocating atmosphere they were creating, although I did manage to buy a couple of things for my partner and my mother, two of the three people I really want to buy something for. However, if I had the time, I would just paint something for all those I love. It is only time that prevents, or should I say delays, me from doing so. The ideas and inspiration are certainly there. I could think of nothing better than giving such a personal gift to those dear to me.

Maybe next year.

The Internal Alien

It must be the time of year. I have felt as if I have been so incredibly busy these past few weeks, and not just in a physical or practical sense, my mind has been busy too - the latter possibly causing the slight feeling of exhaustion and at times frustration.

I am working on four paintings at the moment and I am struggling to finish one as I am finding myself getting bored or lacking discipline with one piece only to then start a new one. I have worked this way in the past and it has not been a problem, I am used to having more than one work on the go at any given time, however, it just seems to be creating a more chaotic feeling for me at the moment.

The new year is fast approaching, and as I do every year at this time, I am finding myself assessing and reassessing my current position and realising all the things that have changed since the last assessment and those that haven't along with those that I want to change and those that I don't. I also realise that despite often being quite a self absorbed artist, I am also a grateful one.

I feel that artistically I have had a very productive year and I am happy with where I am at with my work and what I have planned for my next exhibition, however, I feel I could have made better use of my time this past year. I guess that's one thing about moving house too often, it can be just as unsettling as it is exciting, and sometimes by the time you feel settled and comfortable with your new surroundings and create the order you so desire, it is time to move and change again.

I'm rambling. I'm rambling because I know I should be painting instead of writing. I should be using my time more productively, but an outlet is sometime a necessity.

Some days I could swear I have no idea who I am...other than an artist. Some days art is all I know.

It's a Fine Line

I had forgotten the amount of patience required to 'paint' the outlines of my hard-edged and graphic style work as opposed to hand-stitching them. The stitching did required a huge amount of patience and concentration and I nearly always pricked my finger and/or thigh whilst sewing into the canvas. My thumb was often red, sore and throbbing by the end of a day spent in my studio. However, these new pieces are demanding a lot more of the 'P' word than my other recent work has.

I decided recently that I wanted the hand-stitching to take a less dominant role in my new work. The decision was made for many reasons, the main ones being the constant desire to evolve and experiment with my work, and so as not to get to the point where my work became too predictable.

For me, the hand-stitching was, and still is, very symbolic - only now on a different level. I still have many ideas and uses for that and other mediums in my work but I have had a strong desire of late to get back in touch with the 'detailed brush'.

I have been looking through a lot of images of my early work, and some of my more recent work, and assessing the differences and similarities, the growth and changes, and the continuing and changing influences.

Just like in life, there is a certain cyclic quality, and each new cycle is entered into with more knowledge and experience than the previous one. As an artist, and as a human being, I am always learning - through art and through life - and once again, I am forced to re-learn the art of patience (with these new works).

I am not a very patient person, as a general rule, except when it comes to my art, it is the one thing I must reserve patience for.

Hot Hot Heat

The relentless Victorian Summer seems to come without too much warning. It seems to go from one extreme to the other in a very short period of time.

Today, whilst I paint, much of Victoria burns. Evidence of bushfires is everywhere, even in non-affected areas, as smoke drifts through the sky and atmosphere making everyone aware that danger time has hit.

It must be terrifying for the people in the directly affected and threatened areas.

Whilst many Victorians are seeking refuge from the heat at our beaches, many others are praying and doing all they can to save their homes and belongings. The 'season to be jolly' is turning into an awful nightmare for some.

Nature's elements, at their best and worst, are always unpredictable.

I paint inside today as outside it is not only thick-aired and hazy from the smoke, but a very stifling 37 degrees - (at least that was the predicted forecast, I've a feeling it may be higher).

On days like this I barely venture outside. As Summer progresses and the beaches nearby become more and more crowded with each Summer weekend, I lock myself away in my studio. The beaches will still be there long after the masses have departed at the end of silly season.

The tourists can have the beaches, I've got my art, and for now, I am happy being a Summer studio hermit.

School Daze

Whilst at my parent's house yesterday, and inspired by a recent conversation with a friend, I fished out my old high school reports. It was somewhat amusing reading my teacher's perception of my character and ability.

I never really liked school. I was the class clown and somewhat rebellious. Not one who showed much interest in anything other than art. I was quite fond of reading and writing so English began as a subject that interested me - but as my progressive reports showed, I soon lost interest when the teachers began telling me what I should read and how I should write. When I look back on those days, it is the art classes that hold most of my fond student memories. I was fortunate enough to have the same teacher in years 7 and 9, who was very supportive and encouraging. I did not have as strong a rapport with my year 8 art teacher but she was still encouraging and recognised my ambition and dedication.

I had no interest in, or in some cases even a need for, subjects like maths, science, history and geography and I resented being in a situation where I felt forced to learn about or study things that I had no concern for or things I felt would not assist me in my future pursuits. It may seem a somewhat ignorant attitude but it was how I felt.

Art was all I ever wanted to do. As a child, I never dreamed of being a nurse, a vet or a ballerina like most of my class mates, I always answered 'artist' when asked that question: "so what do you want to be when you grow up?" My high school art teachers recognised this and I consider myself fortunate to have had their encouragement during those vulnerable and volitile years of my early teens.

I was also fortunate enough to have very supportive and understanding parents who, despite struggling to understand many things about me during my rebellious teens, (or at least that's what I thought at that age), understood my passion and determination. When I told them I wanted to leave school at 15 years of age they did not flinch, instead, we sat down and had a rational discussion about what I wanted to do instead and they agreed wholeheartedly. I left school on a Wednesday in November 1989 and began working as a graphic designer the following Monday. I stayed in my first job for over 8 years - five years longer than I lasted in high school. I think that speaks for itself.

Memories Are Made of This

My mother and I took my grandparents out for lunch yesterday.

After driving them back home, I asked about an old photograph of me I believed they had. It was a photograph of me drawing. It was taken at kindergarten and I remember it clearly. It used to hang in my grandparent's bedroom before they moved to the retirement village.

I remember my childhood face looking at the camera as I leant over my drawing in purple crayon on yellow paper, (back then with no idea I was producing a complimentary colour harmony work). I remember often looking at that photograph when visiting my grandparents as a child and thinking about how I wanted to, and was going to, be an artist.

In searching for this photo, (which I did not end up finding), I fossicked through dozens of others, some dating back to the 30's and 40's, before my grandparents came to Australia. ( My grandmother is German, my grandfather, Russian. My mother was born in Germany in 1947. The three of them travelled by boat to Australia in 1949. My mother had her second birthday whilst on board. The journey took around 4 weeks ).

My grandparents moved to the retirement village around 7 years ago, and in moving to a much smaller place, many things were either disposed of or placed into boxes. It had been a long, long time since my grandparents had looked at these photos and I was so glad I took them out yesterday.

That shoebox was full of so many memories, both joyful and sad. It was a beautiful moment for three generations of my family to be sharing those memories together. Watching the expressions on my mother's face as she looked through photos of herself as a little girl, some taken on the boat on which she arrived in Australia. My gradmother's expressions as she looked at early photographs of her family, before and after marriage and motherhood. My grandfather boasting about how handsome he was whilst looking at images of his young self and remembering his days as a draftsman.

From the little doll of my mothers that her brother destroyed to the house my grandfather built in Altona when they first arrived here - every single picture told a story that at least one of us remembered clearly and we told some of these stories to each other as we looked through these images from our family's history.

Some of my favourites were those of my mother as a little girl on the boat and a wonderful image of my grandmother with their first television set.

Despite not finding the photograph I was looking for, I was happy to discover and rediscover so many others. I had not seen my grandmother smile this much in a long time. It was truly special and reminded me of the importance of documentation.

Spring is Over

Summer is definitely here.

I have just returned home from a trip to the city. I made a deal with my partner that I would go to the dentist for a check up before Christmas. I have a tendency to put things like this off for a very long time, coming up with the lamest excuses as to why I can't go just yet or "I'll do it after my birthday" - which then became after my exhibition, which then became after Winter and so on. So, with Christmas and my next birthday fast approaching, I bit the bullet and went to have my incisors, canines and molars checked out.

I'd been dreading this visit as I was certain it would result in follow up visits and enormous bills right before Christmas. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I only need one procedure done, a filling where part of a lower molar has broken - no doubt from clenching my teeth. It has been this way since 2003 so I thought myself lucky that this was all that was needed.

This has nothing to do with art, in fact, it is something that took me away from my art today. However, I was hoping to see the Tezuka exhibition at the NGV after my oral examination. Much to my dismay, I arrived at the doors of the NGV only to discover that they are closed on Tuesdays. I was not aware of this. So instead, I drove home (around an hour and a half trip) in the unrelenting heat of mid-afternoon.

The air conditioner in my car has not worked well, if at all, since a minor 'bingle' last year, and despite having it fixed, (or so I was told), it is still struggling. It is a luxury I can happily live without but I will say that at one stage I truly felt I was melting as my hands kept sliding off the steering wheel.

I used to hate Summer. I have very pale skin and also used to be prone to headaches, sometimes migraines, in the heat. Now, however, there is something about the heat that I love. I am not one to lie on the beach for hours, I've no desire for a tan and I do my best to keep out of the direct sun when at it's most potent and I can still get headaches from the heat if I am not well hydrated. The thing that I do enjoy though is hard to put into words. Despite feeling as though I was melting yesterday, with my sliding hands, damp skin, pulsating head and clinging clothes, there is a certain invigoration I feel now that I never used to.

When my partner and I travelled to Japan last year it was very hot, a thick and humid kind of hot. I remember our first day in Kyoto, he was tired and mildly exhausted from the heat, (which is exactly how I would have been a few years earlier), but for some reason I was full of energy, as if I was solar powered.

It is said that there are certain feelings, sometimes extremities, that make us feel really alive or 'energised'. I would never have thought that the heat of Summer would do this for me.

I used to also hate painting in the heat. Now, I enjoy it, and I also now have the room and facilities to paint outside, which, provided is not in the direct sun, is wonderful.

Progressive Palette

I just noticed the full moon. I had not realised it was that time of the lunar month. The past few weeks have gone by extremely fast. On noticing her this evening, I realised why I have been a bit 'all over the place' these past couple of days.

I picked up four new canvases on Saturday. The weekend turned out to be slightly more social than I had expected so it was not until today that I was really able to spend quality time with my new additions to the studio. It's that time of year where social events are pretty much unavoidable, and whilst the weekend was enjoyable, I was extremely happy and appreciative to be able to get back into the studio today.

In recent years I have worked with a fairly restricted palette. It's not that I don't like colour, it's just that I have preferred applying it in a more subtle manner. Red, green, black and white featured heavily in my earlier work, and this year's exhibition was based on a Primary palette, using only red, blue and yellow, (or variations of), with black, white and grey. I have had numerous discussions on colour with many people in relation to my work and have never really had a strong desire to expand my palette too much - until now.

I have recently been reading, (and have been fascinated by), Victoria Finlay's book, Colour - Travels Through the Paintbox, which has made me and look at colour very differently and has inspired me to explore colour, within my own work, in greater depth and on a more emotional level. It is almost as though I have a greater appreciation for colour now and I am looking forward to introducing more and more into my work.

Champing at the Bit

Today was a day for planning.

I will pick up the first lot of my new canvases tomorrow and I am very anxious to get started on them. Most of today was spent making notes, writing down and sketching ideas for new works and working on a couple of smaller canvas pieces that will most likely end up being studies for larger works.

Although a fresh-primed virgin canvas can sometimes be just as daunting as it is exciting, I am choosing to focus on the latter. For the first time in a long time I feel completely prepared for my next body of paintings.

Stuck On Art

I have recently fallen in love with, and been inspired by, the work of German Dada artist Hannah Hoch. Viewing her work recently has restored, or rather enhanced, my interest in the medium of collage.

I have used collage in my paintings and drawings for the past few of years, however, it mostly featured in the background of my work or was used subtly to compliment other media. I am now interested in exploring collage as the feature [medium] in some of my works.

Another collage artist who I have admired in the past is Raoul Hausmann, a co-founder of the Berlin Dada movement in 1917 and incidentally was once Hoch's lover. Whilst many texts suggest that their relationship may have been quite destructive on a personal level it was certainly one that had a strong affect on their work as it was during their relationship that the two of them entered the world of collage. It seems however, back in the day, Hoch was considered Hausmann's lover, not his equal.

I think her work speaks for itself.

Short and Sweet

Just got back from seeing the first ten plays of Short and Sweet 2006. Each play was ten minutes or under and although not all were to my ideal taste, I developed an appreciation for every one of them. It must be extremely difficult to contain a plot or story to such a short time frame and to be able to connect with the audience on an emotional level in this small amount of time or at least capture and hold their attention. I felt a certain artistic empathy and appreciation whilst watching these short plays and left the theatre feeling, in many ways, inspired.

I do enjoy live theatre and I have not been to a show since late February, when I saw Edge, a play based on the last day of Sylvia Plath's life, starring Angela Torn.

The two plays that stood out for me last night were When We Fall, by Tamara Searle (VIC), and The Emotional Anatomy of a Relationship Breakdown, by Suzie Miller (NSW). For me they were the most enjoyable and dynamic, featuring characters and/or stories that I felt sympathetic or empathic towards.

Like with most things I observe, I relate them (or thoughts on them), in some way, to my art or the way I think about or approach it. Tonight was no different and I found myself thinking a lot about the audience (or viewers) of art and the relationship or connection they may or may not have with specific works - in any medium.

I have many thoughts racing around inside my head. I shall sleep on them.

B is for Bourgeois

During a recent discussion with a Berlin gallerist, Louise Bourgeois's name was mentioned, reminding me of the book I have on her. I plucked it from my shelf today and almost every page is a reminder of why she is, for me, such an influential and inspirational artist.

I was fortunate enough to see an exhibition of her work, (mostly drawings), whilst I was is Dublin a couple of years ago. I had no idea it was showing and when I entered the gallery to discover a Bourgeois exhibition I was delighted and extremely grateful.

She was first brought to my attention around five or six years ago when I was staying at a friend's, (artist, Margarita Georgiadis), place in Sydney. Margarita and I were writing stream of consciousness prose together when she showed me her copy of Louise Bourgeois, Destruction of the Father, Reconstruction of the Father. As soon as I returned to Melbourne I went straight to the Arts Bookshop and adopted my own copy.

The book is full of intimate, intricate and informative excerpts in the form of diary notes, artist statements, autobiographical notes, interviews and acceptance speeches. There are a few I wish to catalogue here.

An artist's words are always to be taken cautiously. The finished work is often a stranger to, and sometimes very much at odds with what the artist felt or wished when he began. At best the artist does what he can, rather than what he wants to do. After the battle is over and the damage faced up to, the result may be surprisingly dull - but sometimes it is surprisingly interesting. The mountain brought forth a mouse, but the bee will create a miracle of beauty and order. Asked to enlighten us on their creative process, both would be embarrassed, and probably uninterested. The artist who discusses the so-called meaning of his work is usually describing a literary side-issue. The core of his original impulse is to be found, if at all, in the work itself.
- Louise Bourgeois, from an article published in 1954 in Design Quarterly, no. 30.

...and this, from 'Forum: Women in Art' in the February 1971 edition of Arts magazine when asked by Cindy Nemser: How do you feel about the position of women in the art world today?
Louise Bourgeois: A woman has no place as an artist until she proves over and over that she won't be eliminated.

...and these two statements from 1979:

I didn't have the security of any kind of religion, so in the end, that is how I became an artist - to find a mode of survival.

*******

I have had a guilt complex about pushing my art, so much so that every time I was about to show I would have some sort of attack. So I decided it was better simply not to try. It was just that I had the feeling the art scene belonged to the men, and that I was in some way invading their domain. Therefore the work was done and hidden away. I felt more comfortable hiding it. On the other hand, I destroyed nothing. I kept every fragment.
Nowadays, however, I am making an effort to change.

...and this; On Teaching Art, (previously unpublished), from the 1990's:

To be born an artist is both a privilege and a curse. How can it be taught? It is not possible to become one, you can just accept or refuse the gift. It is not in my power or is it my responsibility or am I willing to try the impossible aim [of] teaching someone to "become" an artist.
However, we can talk about Art Education until the cows come home. It is nice and it can even be funny.
Artists in the medical profession (Therapy) could be invaluable [teachers] because of their insight and their access to the unconscious - their tolerance and understanding of the disturbed.

...and finally, when asked in 1971, by Alexis Rafael Krasilovsky, (question 51 of 61):

How do you spend your days?
Louise answered: I work like a bee and feel that I accomplish little.

Bourgeois will turn 95 this year. That in it self is a huge accomplishment, but she has accomplished so much more.

A Fortunate Feeling

I have grown to appreciate the feeling of being out somewhere, even if it's only briefly, and having such a strong desire to get back home and into the studio amongst my canvas, paint and ever flowing stream of ideas. It reminds me just how wonderful and fortunate it is for me to possess such a desire. To have such a strong passion for something that I yearn for it.

I speak to so many people who are so lackluster and tell me they have no real passion in their lives, some even admit to having no real direction. I have been told numerous times how lucky I am to have known what I wanted to do and pursue from such an early age. I guess I have, at times, taken this for granted but when I do look back, it really is what I was always passionate about and what I always wanted to pursue, without a doubt.

My art is one thing I can truly call my own. It is something that I conceive, something I give birth to. It is something I have to feed and it is what feeds me. It is what I look forward to. It is all this and more. It is my passion, my life. My art gives me a greater sense of purpose and without it I would feel lost. It is a necessity and I am grateful to feel this way.

Always On My Mind

Contrast to last Sunday, this one was a day of rest - at least in the physical sense. Even on these rare days where I do not set foot in the studio, not even to contemplate a work in progress, my mind is still full of thoughts and new inspirations that relate to my art - that part never stops.

These sporadic occasions allow me to realign my thoughts and prioritise ideas that I wish to transform - it's like renovating the studio that is located inside my head and it allows me to see things more clearly when I step into the other one.

On a day of no prac, there is still theory and in a world where balance seems so difficult to attain - I think this week saw the scales pose symmetrically.

Random Excerpt of the Day

Boomer had asked her once, in a telephone call from Virginia, "Why does this stuff, these hand-painted hallucinations that don't do nothin' but confuse the puddin' out of a perfectly reasonable wall, why does it mean so much to you?"
It was a poor connection, but he could have sworn he heard her say, "In the haunted house of life, art is the only stair that doesn't creak."

-Tom Robbins, excerpt from Skinny Legs and All

Eastern Influences

I had a fascination for Japan long before I first travelled there in July, 2003, so it was no surprise that I fell in love with so many things about the place. It was a delightful and wonderfully humbling experience. I returned home with a strong desire to travel there again. I did so in September last year, this time with my partner.

I purposely avoided Tokyo on both occasions in the hope of experiencing a more 'traditional' Japan, and after spending the majority of my time in Kyoto, I was not disappointed. Sure, Kyoto has its fair share of the modern day mundane, the high tech, the fast food chains that seem to be taking over the world and other things you can see in almost any city of the modern world. However, to me all this was perfectly balanced by the traditional elements of Kyoto; the temples and shrines and the city's evident rich cultural history. It seemed a very proud city, and rightly so.

I was so thrilled to be back there in 2005. Other than New York City, Kyoto (via Osaka) is the only place I have travelled to twice, and as much as I loved New York, if I had to choose between the two, I would choose Kyoto.

As an artist I had been greatly inspired by Japanese art and culture for quite some time before I actually travelled there, however, everything was heightened after my first visit.

After painting predominantly Japanese inspired works for two exhibitions I was asked if this would be a continual theme in my work. I have no idea how this question was posed but it prompted me to ask myself the same thing and to then explore other artistic influences. I suppose I was a little concerned, (only temporarily), that I may become pigeon-holed and known only as the 'artist who paints Japanese faces' etc.

In early 2004 I travelled to Germany to visit the birth town of my mother. I also visited Berlin and was most impressed with the abundance of art, galleries and street culture that I saw. It was a fantastic experience and one that encouraged me to experiment with new subject matter, technique and ideas. Whilst I enjoyed the change and new artistic challenges, I always seemed to revert back to my Eastern influences - it was just something that seemed to work for me, it was something I felt a strong connection with, just like the country, (Japan), itself.

I am constantly referring to and continuously exploring my (personal) relationship with Japan in my art and there is still so much yet to explore, which is something that excites me. Each year the work I produce has become more and more personal (intimate) yet I still strive to create and communicate in a visual language/dialogue that allows others into my works, (and the ideas behind them), and maybe even relate to or share the experience. I paint for myself but I am aware of the fact that the work will be seen and considered by the public. I do not expect that everyone will connect or relate to the work, or even like the work, however I always try to communicate, as best I can, my experiences and emotions through my work. For me it is an intimate process.

I still possess a strong desire to return again to Japan to further explore it's rich historical culture and now also to immerse myself in it's contemporary culture and the high tech Japan. It is an amazing country, rich, diverse and like no other place on earth, and certainly one that continues to intrigue, entice and inspire me as an artist.

This may be a case of 'the grass is always greener' as I tend to lack an interest in the history of my own country. I have discussed this in depth with my partner who suggests that the Japanese may feel the same way about their cultural history. Who knows. Perhaps it is my own ignorance that forbids me to seek or find inspiration from my own country's history and I mean no disrespect - but for now that's just the way it is.

Word Play

Still on the subject of words, early last year I was playing around with anagrams of my name. I produced a painting from this 'word game' and called it Fragments and Anagrams I.

I then played around with the words 'Self' and 'Portrait' and produced a second work, Fragments and Anagrams II. 'Felt Airports' was my favourite anagram of Self Portrait.

These two works were produced during a time of personal transition and the fragments and anagrams reference held great symbolism for me.

I came up with quite a number of anagrams for my name, my ten favourites were, (in no particular order):
* Say Mine Random
* Drama In My Nose (or Nose In My Drama)
* Is My Nomad Near
* Damn Is My Ear On
* Yes In Mad Roman
* My Man Does Rain
* No As In My Dream
* Noisy Man Dream
* MOMA Nine Yards
* Me A Darn Simony

The Sea and Other Stories

I have been neglecting my other online blog recently, devoting most of my online activity to writing in this one. Because of this, there will no doubt be entries that are not directly related to my art, which could defeat the whole purpose of this blog if I am not diligent. Therefore, as these non-direct entries are bound to find their way here, I will endeavour to oversee that they are at least indirectly related, in some way, to my art; be it things, people or places that have an affect on or influence my art. After all, this blog was created for my 'artist' self; as a place for me to regularly and freely ramble, vent, document and reflect.

I have just returned home. My shoes sounded like maracas as I walked back from the beach. I decided I needed to get out of the studio, (and the house), for a while. Now that the weather is improving I can take advantage of our close proximity to the sea more often. I have not just sat on the beach for ages and it was most enjoyable to do so once again; listening to the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping, the seagulls squawking, smelling the salty air and squinting at the sun as it heads for the horizon.

Two inquisitive seagulls kept me company for sometime, hoping I would produce something edible from my bag. Much to their dismay, all I had in my bag were three poetry books.

There was no one else around for the majority of my time sitting on the sand, it was so very peaceful and the perfect setting for reading poetry.

The three books I had with me were:
Leonard Cohen's Book of Longing, recently given to me by my dear friend Andrea, (who was also the one who, around five years ago, suggested I read Beautiful Losers and kindly leant me his copy - I believe that is around the time my love affair with Mr. Cohen really began).
The second was Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath which my partner brought back from America for me last year, only to discover that I already it. We have kept both copies.
He also brought back with him the third book I had with me today, The Essential Neruda -Collected Poems . In fact it was my partner who introduced me to Pablo Neruda's work and I instantly fell in love with it. Just as beautiful as the poetry within the book was my partner's inscription which reads:
My dearest Simone
May your life always inspire and derive joy from the love and longing and passion contained within the mysterious language of your own beautiful poetic world of words. - J. 16.06.05

The written word has always been, and continues to be, a huge influence for me in life and art.

A few years ago I wrote a series of 'ramblings' aptly named 'psychobabble'. I also did a series of works on paper based on these writings and have recently reacquainted myself with these pieces and have even began to rework a couple. Reflection can be an inspiring thing.

Mood Music

For the past two days I have had four tracks from the soundtrack to Wong Kar-Wai's film In the Mood for Love on continuous rotation; Yumeji's Theme, In the Mood for Love I, II and III.

The music is every bit as beautiful and emotive as I remember the film being and I have been captivated and inspired by its well composed beauty these past 48 hours.

Free Time

Sometimes I feel a slight sense of claustrophobia with my work. I find it hard to 'free up' at times and often spend far too many minutes, hours, even days on the finer details. I sometimes make a mark that is loose and flowing and will be quite pleased with it, but too often I cannot resist the urge to re-work it and then re-work it some more.

After leaving high school, at the tender age of 15, I worked as a graphic designer for a number of years. I also spent many years drawing with pencil and in pen and ink. The works were all of a realist nature and were highly rendered with incredible attention to detail.

When I first began painting I held the brush the same way I held a pencil or pen; which was with such intensity that it has caused a very distinct curve in the middle finger of my right hand. It bends to the right. For me painting was initially like drawing with a brush.

As a painter, I was once a little concerned about the graphic nature, (as in style not content), of my work, thinking it perhaps closer to graphic design or illustration rather than painting. I learnt to embrace it however, as it is the way I paint. Many of my artistic influences happen to be of a graphic or illustrative nature and be it painters or illustrators they are all artists.

Every now and then however I do like to paint a number of works on paper and attempt to loosen my grip and relax my attention to detail. Many of these works will never make it to one of my exhibitions but they are vital to me in the studio and sometimes even assist my 'sense of sane'.

Me, Myself and I

In the past I have been asked what my reasons are/were for painting self-portraits.

During my 2003 exhibition at Jackman Gallery I had many people comment on the similarities between the faces of my Geisha paintings and my own; a lot seeing a definite resemblance, some even asking if one or two of them were me. None of them were. Personally I could not see the similarities but perhaps I subconsciously painted elements of myself in them all. I certainly felt a strong connection with the works, (at first without even truly understanding why), which stemmed from my fascination with Geisha and their painted faces and flawless aesthetic perfection.

Just after beginning that body of work I flew up to Sydney to meet with artist, Margarita Georgiadis. I arrived at her studio as a Gallery Manager but conversed with her as an artist. We talked about art for hours and it was the first time I had really openly discussed my work and influences with anyone. Our in depth conversation prompted me to investigate the reasons behind this influential allurement of mine even further. I was fascinated with my discoveries and the (deeper) psychological connection I had with my subject and just how symbolic the Geisha's perfection and painted faces were. I certainly was not just painting them because they looked pretty.

It was the first time someone had really pushed me to explore my art further, someone other than myself that is. I began to then realise so many things about my work, (that had quite possibly been obvious to others), that I had perhaps been avoiding, as they were somewhat confrontational. I am still grateful for that conversation with Margarita, and also grateful that we ultimately became friends rather than business associates.

It is amazing how sometimes we, (or perhaps I should only speak for myself and say 'I'), can paint something and not completely understand what or why we have created a particular piece until some time later. I recently watched a musician's acceptance speech where he said that sometimes it is not until a particular song has been recorded and listened to a few times that he actually 'gets it' himself or understands exactly what he was trying to say or what the song ultimately means. It was along those lines anyway, and for a brief moment I felt a refreshing wave of empathy flow through me.

I didn't paint a self-portrait until preparing for my exhibition the following year. I never saw it as an ego driven desire, (to paint oneself), but I suppose many would argue that it is. I felt comforted by the fact that most, if not all, artists go through a self-portrait phase at some stage of their career. For me, self-portraits became a form of artistic self-exploration. More recently, however, I guess it has more to do with my lack of resources as we no longer live in the city and I no longer have any models other than myself. Besides, there is no subject one can know better than oneself, or you would at least hope this to be the case. Perhaps self-portraits allow me to get to know myself even better.

Creative Intentions

Not the most colourful or creative day in the studio but a day in the studio none the less.

Some days, despite being full of inspiration and having a multitude of ideas inside my head, I find it so difficult to make the first mark on a new canvas. There is a certain trepidation that at times causes me to procrastinate or vacillate and often sees me fall victim to the simplest distractions in order to delay what needs to be done.

I even try to convince myself that my distractions are constructive ones while I sit at the computer sorting through reference photos or perhaps take some new ones. I'll write down some ideas or write in my blog. I may even go for a walk to 'clear my mind', and whilst these are not bad things, all I am really succeeding in doing is avoiding my canvas's need for attention.

Whilst surfing the web, (another distraction to fuel my procrastination), for Osaka galleries today, I came across a particular site that had the following quote on it's home page:

Whatever the results are going to be, you've got to roll up your sleeves and get started. Just thinking about it won't get anything done.

How appropriate!

Not Guilty

Not a mark has been made nor a single thing done in the studio today. I am having a rather lazy day, which up until very recently was something I would always feel terribly guilty about. Now, however, I realise that these days can be just as important for me as an artist as the days spent hunched over canvas and covered in paint.

Instead I am spending the best part of the day reclining on the couch with a monthly inconvenience, a good book and an unattractive (but practical) hot water bottle, which, despite its ugliness, I have never been able to throw out. I purchased it in Chicago several years ago in a time of need and it cost a small fortune, as far as hot water bottles go, but it was the only one to be found and I felt it a necessity. I figured I should hold on to it and get my moneys worth.

I am continuing to read Victoria Finlay's wonderful adventures and intricate research on colour and despite having a quiet day as far as the practical side of things go, I am feeling incredibly inspired at the moment and look forward to a creative, colourful and productive day in the studio tomorrow: Sunday - the day of no rest.

Mellowed by Yellow

I was having trouble getting to sleep last night. I broke my strict diet late yesterday, after 63 days, by indulging in a glass of organic shiraz and 2 pieces of organic dark chocolate. I am not sure whether it was the consumption of those or the anxiety related to consuming them that made me and my digestive system feel a bit unsettled, but whatever it was, I was restless and unable to relax properly.

To rectify this, I picked up a book. I often find when I am unsettled late of an evening that reading is the one thing that can bring a sense of calm. I randomly selected a title from my bookshelf which happened to be Colour - Travels Through the Paintbox by Victoria Finlay, (which I think was later re-released as Colour - The Natural History of the Palette). My dear friend Karyn had bought me this book for my 29th birthday, and in over three years, I had not managed to read any of it.

I read a little of the Green chapter and then began to read the chapter on Yellow. I chose yellow in light of a recent commission I had completed. I usually do not accept many commissions, as I find sometimes the expectations and 'guidelines' can limit my artistic freedom. I don't like the idea of being asked to reproduce a particular painting but can I put that there and make that this colour etc. In fact, I never accept commissions of this nature. I do however accept some commissions that allow me that artistic freedom or provide me with a desirable challenge. In this case, it was quite simple, as the only real 'guideline' was that I feature the colour yellow. Although, in a sense, this golden rule was still something I would usually roll my eyes at a little, I was keen to explore a colour that I had hardly ever used in my work. In fact, in the past I had even found the colour annoying at times. Don't ask me why - I have no idea. I now enjoy a much more positive relationship with the colour in question.

I found the chapter on Yellow absolutely fascinating and by 2am I was having difficulty putting the book down despite feeling incredibly tired. I read until I could no longer keep my eyes open.

(I have often heard questions in regards to whether we dream in colour or 'black and white'. Sleep Laboratory evidence suggests that most dreams are in colour, although most people, when dreaming, frequently do not supply colour information unless prompted to do so. It has been said that people who notice colour more in their 'waking life', such as artists, are far more likely to notice colour in their dreams as well.)

I am not sure if this last statement is true or not but I certainly dreamt in full colour last night.

I have picked up Ms. Finlay's remarkable book again today. I simply admire the dedication and intelligence that went into the research and writing of this book. It is truly intriguing and ultimately inspiring in so many ways. What an amazing woman.

Artistic Research

I first travelled to Japan in July 2003, just a couple of months after I held my exhibition of Geisha paintings at Jackman Gallery in Melbourne. I spent the majority of my time in Kyoto, the ancient capital and traditional home of the Geisha, further exploring my subject matter and feeding both my inspiration and fascination.

I remember seeing my first Geisha, it was quite a breathtaking spectacle. I was strolling along the Kamo Gawa in the early evening when I spotted her on the balcony of one of the elevated restaurants that adorn the banks of the river. I stopped in my tracks, somewhat awe-struck, and observed her for a while, from a distance, as she entertained her business-suit clad gentlemen clients over sushi and copious amounts of sake.

I encountered a couple more of these beauties that evening, my first in Kyoto, and became even more fascinated with the history and culture behind these ladies and their art.

Whilst in Kyoto I did a rather 'touristy' thing, that I prefer to call 'artistic research', and had myself made-up in full Geisha attire. Actually I went through the elaborate process twice, first as a Maiko, (an apprentice Geisha), and a few days later as a Geiko, (Geisha). The whole experience was a curiously intriguing one and until that day I had no idea of some of the intricacies involved.

First you strip down to your underwear and slip into a white smock-like cotton gown and wiggle your feet into the tiny white socks, called tabi, (which are split between the big toe and second toe). Then it's make up time. The hair net goes on first, followed by the porcelain face make up, a little pink around the eyes and on the cheeks, then they paint on the eyebrows with black and pink, add black eye-liner to both top and bottom eyelid, blood red to the lips, and finally a little mascara. Then it's off to pick out one of the superbly crafted silk kimono - as a Maiko I chose emerald green and as a Geiko I decided on black. You are then dressed by two women who pull at all your layers and fasten them so tight that it becomes difficult to breathe. I had no idea that there were two other layers to be wrapped in before you get into the kimono itself, which may I say is insanely heavy for a piece of clothing. The fact that these ladies maintain their elegance under all that weight is incredible. The Obi sash is the last thing to be fitted before the wig, with appropriate 'wig' accessories, completes the ritual. Then you can pose for a series of photographs, and take a few of your own.

The photos that were taken that day ended up becoming studies for a series of self portraits.

The experience certainly heightened my respect and admiration for these women and the painstaking efforts that are put into their appearance night after night.

That day I was the only Westerner being made-over, the other chairs in the make up room were all occupied by Japanese school girls, who, when made-over, looked absolutely stunning. I am sure a few of them wondered what the hell this green eyed Geisha was doing!
Artistic research of course.

Back Where it All Began

Another nostalgic blog entry as I also found this photo whilst at my parents house yesterday. I believe it is the first ever photo of me painting.

I showed this to my partner last night and he commented on the smock, (how could he not), which my mother lovingly made for me to keep my garments from being splattered with paint, suggesting that I could perhaps use one of those now. I do have a habit of wearing good clothes when I paint which then serve no other purpose once stained with dozens of colours to be anything but painting attire.

That smock, as practical as it may well have been, looks big enough to fit two children inside. My partner even suggested it could quite possibly still fit me today. I have no idea what became of the smock but I believe it served it's purpose well.

My clothes actually take on quite a similar appearance to the colorful patterned fabric of that art smock after I have painted in them for a few days.

I shall continue to paint smockless.

Childhood Treasure

Whilst at my parent's house today I came across this drawing. It is the first, (earliest), drawing that I can actually remember doing. We were living in a two storey flat in Carlton on the outskirts of the city. I think my father and I may have attended an AFL football match that day, as we did almost every weekend when I was a young child. The picture is of a football game, more specifically, Richmond players.

This tiny little childhood drawing holds great significance for me. I clearly remember drawing this picture for my father, as though it was yesterday; I must have been about three years old. I sat down at the dining room table and announced that I was going to draw a picture for him. As I handed the drawing to my father I then announced, rather adamantly, that I was going to be an artist.

It measures about 6cm square, or at least it did once. It is no longer square in shape. It is crumpled, creased, discoloured and slightly torn in places but I love the fact that after all these years he still proudly possesses this tiny and frail piece of paper.

A Thousand Words Paint a Picture

Last night I read a handful of entries from Linotte, The Early Dairies of Anais Nin, 1914-1920. Her writing never ceases to amaze and please me. I find her use and understanding of language, even at the tender age of eleven, outstanding. She wrote with such eloquence. I find myself often in awe of this when I read her work. I consider her one of my foremost literary and creative influences.

Literature has influenced my work as a visual artist for quite some time and in September this year I wrote about an idea I had in my analogue diary. The idea was based on exploring the relationship between art and literature, primarily the influence of the written word on the visual artist.

When we read we are prompted to use our imagination for with written text there is no other visual platform. We must create the imagery ourselves from our imagination, allowing the written words or dialogue to conjure up images inside our head. In a sense we are merging the writer's imagination with our own.

In some cases, for me, the images that form are very literal and straight forward, parallel to the descriptive text. At other times the words can trigger a memory and the outcome is a more personal interpretation of the author's text – I may perhaps even visualise myself as a particular character or project myself into a specific context. Sometimes a simple sentence or description might trigger an idea or vision within my creative mind, which I then incorporate into a painting. Conversely many writers could possibly write an entire story based on a two dimensional work of art.

I wanted to examine these concepts further and thus at the beginning of this month I set up an online project with several other artists to explore this relationship. I am now taking this one step further and am in the process of curating an exhibition around this idea.

For me the relationship is an important one. I have even sometimes wondered if some authors are artists who cannot paint, (and even if some artists are struggling writers who find it hard to express themselves in a written medium thus choosing the visual alternative). Sometimes when I am reading the likes of Cohen, Murakami, Winterson, Robbins and other favourites, I think, 'I wish I had written that', as it perfectly describes the way I feel, think about or see something. Often when I can't find the right words, I paint. I paint for many reasons and at the end of the day, just like writing, it is a form of expression - self or otherwise.

Qua-Simone-O

I have spent the best part of the past two days hunching over a canvas and my back is now starting to feel it. I have an easel, a rather handsome one that I purchased about six years ago, but I don't think I've ever used it. For me it is just not practical. I work mostly with my canvas on the floor and occasionally up against the studio wall.

I often get so caught up in what I am doing that I forget to periodically compensate my slouching with stretching. By the time I do think of it the stiffness has settled in. I must make a conscious effort to rectify this in order to avoid a Quasimodo-esque posture.

The one thing I do miss about our old humble city flat is a bathtub. Despite the roomier dimensions of this dwelling it has no bath, though I guess with the current water situation in Victoria that's probably a good thing. Still, after a day of hunching in the studio I am sure my muscles would be grateful for the luxury.

There is not a single blank canvas left in the house, I cannot remember the last time this was the case, so today I ordered the rest of the canvas for my next exhibition. Inspired by Saturday's blog entry and for my own amusement, (in the nicest possible way), the majority will be 77 x 53cm.

This Charming Man

Yesterday afternoon, after hearing of Jack Palance's passing, I put on my old VHS copy of Bagdad Cafe, (a.k.a Out of Rosenheim), whilst I painted, pausing attentively for Jack's scenes. I think the role of Rudi Cox was possibly the most charming of Palance's film career, and for me it was certainly the most memorable.

I first watched this film in the late 80's and fell in love with everything about it, in particular, Palance's character, Rudi Cox, an artist who ultimately falls in love with the main character. The scenes where Palance is painting Jasmine, played by the adorable Marianne Sagebrecht, are just delightful and I fell in love with them and Rudi Cox all over again yesterday.

Does Size Really Matter?

It was such a glorious morning earlier that I almost felt guilty for being in the studio painting. I tried to compromise by painting outside on the verandah but as much as I love the quick drying nature of acrylic paint, the sun was actually drying the paint too fast and causing my lovely new brush to harden, making painting rather difficult.

I guess I have to learn how to manage my time better in regards to things other than painting. I hardly do any exercise and often feel quite disgusted with myself for this. The main reason we moved here was for the space factor, a place that was big enough to provide me with a studio that was not part of any other room, so I could leave everything set up at the end of the day and not have to pack it all away when we had guests or wanted to use the living are for other purposes. Another reason we moved was the lifestyle factor and I feel I have not done that side of things justice. We moved in December last year and after 11 months I still have not taken up yoga again. When we first moved here I was swimming almost every day, I guess as the year went on the weather played a big part in the demise of that. However, with the weather getting better now and the beach only a 5 minute walk away, I have no excuse.

A year ago we were living in a one bedroom flat and I was using a section of our small living area as my studio or designated painting area. This makes me think of a question that was put to me recently. I was asked why I don't paint larger works, with the average size of my works being around 70 x 50cm. I wasn't offended by the question itself but perhaps a little by the way it was asked with a kind of 'bigger is better' attitude. I guess I have never really felt the desire or need to paint huge paintings, which possibly had a lot to do with the fact that up until 11 months ago I didn't have the space to paint big, so perhaps I was painting to accommodate my environment. Even now though, with the space, I don't really feel the necessity to upsize. I do paint the occasional larger piece and I'm sure I may surprise myself one day - I certainly have nothing against large scale paintings, but I certainly don't believe that bigger is better when it comes to a work of art. Perhaps I should have reminded my inquirer that one of the world's most recognised and iconic works of art measures only 77 x 53cm. Whilst I'm not saying it's the greatest work of art, there is certainly no denying that Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, in all it's modest sized glory, is one of the most famous.

Brush Stoked and Keen on Green

I finally got around to buying new brushes on Monday after forcing out every last stroke from my old faithfuls. I christened them today. I'd forgotten the joy of using new, pristine brushes and I have vowed to make sure I do this more often. It makes pushing paint along the canvas surface that much more enjoyable.

Speaking of paint, I have been using a lot of green paint lately. It is actually my favourite colour but until recently I had avoided using too much of it, if any, in my paintings, possibly due to a theory that I'd been told in the past. I can't remember who told me, but it was more than one person on more than one occasion, that green was not a popular colour in painting. I think the way one person phrased it was "paintings with (too much) green in them don't sell." I was fairly young at the time and only just starting to use colour in my work, so I must have stored that information and subconsciously took their advice on board.

Looking back, I have started introducing more green/s into my work particularly over the last 12 months, and further more, some of these greener works have actually sold. I don't know where these people got their theory from, or whether there is even a skerrick of truth behind it. I am sure there are people who despise the colour green and wouldn't buy a painting with any shade of it whatsoever, but this could perhaps apply with any colour. I must say, having worked in galleries before, I was often sickened by the amount of people with thousands upon thousands to spend that would want to colour coordinate a painting with there furnishings and decor. I remember one woman even bringing in her interior designer and fabric swatches of her new sofa and holding them up to the painting she'd had her eye on to see if they worked together. I was so disgusted by this that I had to get my co-worker to deal with her. I can't remember whether she bought the piece or not, I just remember thinking that she should buy the painting because she loved the painting, regardless of how it worked with the sofa. I know there are collectors who buy works they may not particularly like for the purpose of investment, but to match a piece of furniture...

Getting back to green, when I look at some of the so called masters of the field, there were many artists who seemed to explore and exploit the colour. After all, it is the colour of nature, it is also the colour of balance. Van Gogh was a big fan of green, it also featured heavily in the works of Die Brucke artists Kirchner, Pechstein and Heckel, and Matisse seemed to find it non-offensive. The list goes on, but I must also give special mention to Picasso's Weeping Woman.

If it was good enough for these chaps, (and so many others), it can't be all that bad, even if it doesn't match your sofa.

Words of Art

I've been blogging online for around 4 years now. Prior to that, on and off since the age of 14, I kept an old fashioned diary - the pen to paper kind. My other online blog covers everything from depression, anxiety, emotions of all colours and flavours, relationships - old and new, to childhood memories, events of the everyday life and random thoughts of the day - some being deep and profound, others bordering on ridiculous. It's an outlet and it is mine.

Despite having written in this way for years, I have hardly written anything that relates to my art, or even art in general. When I look back on all the entries I have made over the years I am amazed at exactly how little mention of it there is. This fuelled my decision to create this here blog. A place where I can document my thoughts, (and images), that relate directly, or even indirectly, to my art.

On saying I have never really put much into words on the subject, there is of course the time, every year, when my exhibition/s come around and I am expected to write a few paragraphs in relation to the (body of) works on exhibition. In the past some clients have also asked me for written information on a particular piece, which I sometimes find amusing. These things I do, but it's not the same as having an ongoing dialogue on the subject.

All in all I have left my art, as a whole, mostly to imagery - and I guess as a general rule this is how it should be for a visual artist as it is a visual medium, and I continually strive to create a visual dialogue between my art and the viewer. Recently however, I have had a desire to start writing more on the subject, for my own reference and benefit. I see this form of documentation as an important thing and something I can hopefully continue to look back on, observing personal evolution. I wanted to create a place where I can just write, raw and uncensored, not re-read, edited and then re-edited to abide by, or adhere to, others needs and expectations as I am ultimately doing this for myself.

I make art because I feel it is necessary for me to do so.
I make art because I love to make art.
I certainly do not expect everyone to love the art I make.
(or like what I write)
However, if people like what I do, that's a definite bonus.