Saturday, September 26, 2015
We always get to a film during school holidays. The obvious choice would have been Oddball, the new Australian film about the unlikely friendship between a penguin and a labrador, but Otto – already ten years of age – remembered the trailer for Gayby Baby (Maya Newell, 2015) from our Jim Henson fest at the Nova some time back, and had it in his sights. I could see its appeal. The documentary features four kids aged between 9 and eleven as they navigate life – school work, sibling relationships and passions – in family's with same sex parents. It tells the story of Gus, Ebony, Graham and Matt, and their relationship with themselves, their parents and the world outside their font door as they negotiate acceptance and their own sense of belonging.
In each of the stories Newell has found a satisfying narrative: Gus' campaign to persuade his mums to accept his passion for crazy-ass WWF wrestling; Ebony's audition and hopes to be accepted into a socially progressive performing arts high school; Graham's struggles with literacy, the legacy of a heartbreaking early childhood; and Matt's unenviable situation – working out whether he believes in Jesus when his church considers his mother, a lesbian and full-on Christian, a sin against God.
I was expecting an interesting film but I was surprised by its beauty. Newell's sure sense of craft is evident at every level, from casting to cinematography, editing and sound. Gayby Baby also uses setting to create contrast: messy bedrooms, rain soaked sports ovals, the fecund tropical gardens of Fiji. Newell's approach to narrative – focusing on change and moving between the individual and collective, the private to public – borrows from fiction films to superb effect.
The drama is not in the same-sex relationships: the relationships represented, what we see of them, are all loving and functional. It's in the struggles all parents of children face: negotiating difference, relegating resources, providing support and boundary setting. What stays with me – other than the kids irrepressible sense of fun – is the ordinary and yet moving portraits of family life, the love and hopes that parents have for their children and what effort familial love inspires. Gayby Baby finishes on an uplifting note and the joyful celebration of Madi Gras. No shame. The shame is mine, for this country and its cruel, outdated laws.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
I was reminded of the value of celebration this week. Bringing friends together in the name of an occasion – five years blogging – at the outstanding Cafe di Stasio was memorable fun. I'm pretty certain that a long lunch is the definition of civility. Really. Great company, delicious food, good wine and sparkling conversation is simple confirmation that sharing is living.
Thanks to Obus, Marmoset Found and Ruby Pilven for their role in making the day extra special. I felt like Santa handing out gift bags with these awesome goodies. If you missed out this time, I'm planning the ten year event already. Be at the ready. If you would like a copy of the limited edition sweetpolka publication (a 24 page trip down memory lane) it can be yours for $10 + postage. Email email@example.com
Friday, August 21, 2015
This week I sat in front of 20 Preps studying Journeys and told them the story of our family's migration to Australia from Poland when I was precisely their age. I had their rapt attention. It's that kind of story, which includes our family separated across continents, my father's trip by boat to Africa, my mother's escape from Poland with four small children over the mountains in an unreliable car and our eventual reunion in Vienna before the long journey by plane to Australia.
My own background as a refugee was one of the reasons I was so glad to participate in Red Cross' exhibition, The Right To Know, which tells eight stories of family separation and reunion thanks to the efforts of the Red Cross Tracing Service. It's difficult not to be moved by the stories of sadness, longing and loss told so achingly concisely.
Designer Cate Hall and I worked on the project out of her backyard studio calling out measurements to each other against a background of children's voices, and Cate's large, doleful black rabbit hopping silently around the yard.
It was the beginning of winter. There was a birth – beautiful Nina in Adelaide – and the shock of Otto's diagnosis of diabetes to contend with the week the artwork was due at the printers. To be honest I was grateful for the chance to lose myself in meaningful work. I laid out photographs of Emmanuel – his warm, positive and dignified face – alongside quotes that were horrifying in their meaning. His story begins: "I was only 14 years old when my family members were killed, when I witnessed that mass killing."
Moving graphic elements around millimetre by millimetre in Illustrator and changing pixels sizes in Photoshop, I felt fate's cruel hand: good and bad fortune, historical and geographical forces. What choice do we have but to keep moving forward one foot in front of the other?
400 Flinders Street, Melbourne
Until 25 October 2015
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Friday, July 10, 2015
When people ask me how the school holidays are going I usually say, great. It's restful not doing the school run. The kids have a chance to unwind. We stay in our pyjamas until we feel like going somewhere, build lolly dispenser machines using cardboard boxes, kick the soccer ball around the backyard, head out for spring rolls on Victoria street, you know, knit together as a family.
But that's only part of the story. At this point of the holidays I am also a shadow of my former self. By former self, I mean me, two weeks ago. It's as though through the process of tending to my offspring my contours have become blurred. I exist in the service of others. The monkeys have no interest in my inner life, other than to check in with me when they become concerned or suspicious that I am "phoning it in." It's true, every now and again a powerful sense of hostility and aggression erupts inside of me about the demands of motherhood and the difficulty of securing one fricken' hour to myself during the daytime (after a solo trip to the milk bar for a can of beans I am unrecognisable like I've just returned from a month long Vipasnia retreat. Present. Radiant. Energetic. Calm). On weekends Stevie's loving gaze carries a heartbreaking amount of sympathy. But to his offers of hugs, I can only yell: Don't come near me, I'm hungry.
I think professionals call it "self-managing".
Because I need to be here, I fantasise about being there. There, being anywhere. Only a few things keep me sane on this tour of duty: a night out on the turps with friends, brisk walks in parkland's and reading fiction. I am ridiculously grateful for authors, especially good ones. (Not you Kirsty Clements of Vogue editorship fame, your novel was so lame, so tedious I read it only with the thought it might be useful one day if I write anything that requires a working knowledge of magazines and/or eating disorders). Good novels, on the other hand, are my salvation. Outline by Rachel Cusk was superb. Formally inventive – a series of recounted conversations – it is so insightful, elegant and provocative, that I felt genuine wonder for how it achieves both a sense of melancholy and gentle satire. The story is simple. It follows its middle aged protagonist, a recently separated professional writer as she travels to Athens to run writing workshops. The book is a moving meditation on the value and role of relationships in culture and the catastrophe of divorce, while revealing almost nothing about its narrator. It's as though she simply exists. This week, that struck a real chord.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
It must be the steely grey mornings that have me longing for colour. I know Melbourne is not Siberia but I am a complete winter sook. I want to be warm, snug and within an arms reach of hot chocolate at all times. But I try and remind myself that winter has an upside which is an effortless introspectiveness that at other times of year, as an excitable Gemini, I have to really strive to connect with. That introspectiveness slows my thinking to just a pip above hibernation speed. I feel able to undertake slower projects, projects like weaving that demand patience and stamina.
The last time I tried my hand at weaving was 1993 in the Silesia region of Poland. Outside the manor in which I was staying smoke stacks dirtied the air (remember acid rain?). Inside its four walls I was trying to evoke a cheerier landscape. It wasn't a success. But I'm willing to have another crack at the art and craft of weaving next month and put my inexperienced hands in the hands of Victorian Tapestry Workshop founder Sara Lindsay. She'll be running a two day workshop, over consecutive Saturdays in July at Pop craft.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
In the early 1990s I was in my most magazine reading intensive period. This was before the internet when monthly titles actually brought news. Poorer than a church mouse I still forked out a whack of coin for my favourite, the US Harpers Bazaar. Under the editorship of the British Liz Tilberis it was truly something special. It occupied a special space in my still largely un-lived and undefined life, one that did not yet include children or a husband. I was transfixed by its imaginative fashion spreads photographed by largely up and coming photographers like Mario Sorrenti and Craig Dean featuring super (and less well known models) Naomi Campbell, Helena Christiansen, Linda Evangalista, Karmen Kass, Nadia Auermann, Claudia Schiffer, Amber Valletta, Shalom Harlow, Kate Moss and Stella Tennant. As a cultural moment I remember that five year period as being both highly romantic and grunge. The designers and fashion houses represented between its pages - editorial and advertising - were largely European: John Galliano for Givenchy and Dior, Alexander McQueen for Givenchy, Karl Lagerfeld for Chanel. In addition to them Tom Ford at Gucci and Gianni Versace were pushing a sleazy disco glamour.
Coming of age during that period, it's been interesting reading Dana Thomas' Gods and Kings: The Rise and Fall of Alexander McQueen and John Galliano, a book that documents the nineties and noughties in global fashion through the prism of two of its uber designers and their rise and subsequent fall (McQueen by suicide, Galliano through disgrace). Not familiar with Thomas' previous work I was persuaded by the fact that she'd written for the New Yorker, the benchmark for quality journalism these days (though truth be told it's closer to Who Weekly than that venerable magazine). Thomas details Galliano and McQueen's working class upbringings and then settles in for a detailed description of their careers, show by show. She contextualises their ascendancy alongside the growth of the luxury market. I'm guessing that was the subject of her previous book, Deluxe. I enjoyed the behind the scenes machinations of major fashion houses and developed a good appreciation of what made McQueen such as remarkable designer: precise tailoring, a sense of the macabre and an interest in working closely with collaborators – jewellers, milliners – on unique, strange accessories. Her heart belongs to him.
Of all weeks I was glad to have it beside me this week, one in which I spent three nights on a fold out armchair at the hospital beside my beautiful boy. When we were sad and overwhelmed by his diagnosis of chronic illness, or trying to stave off frightening thoughts of the future and what it would require of us – thoughts that would rouse us in the dead of night – we'd turn on the night lights and read together until the dread passed.