HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN

A few weeks ago I attended the St Kilda Film festival and more specifically, the premiere of a short film called How the Light Gets In, directed by Siobhan Costigan. It was a wonderful moment as the film, which started out as a small student project, flickered on to the big screen, with a grace and sensitivity that foretells Siobhan’s future success as a filmmaker.

The film is about a mother and a painter: me. It’s about how family and my work as a painter weave together. Naomi and Marlow were very excited to be a part of the film and astounded me with their co-operation (if only we could conduct a school morning with the same success) and Tim’s patience proved, once again, to be boundless. It feels a little strange to say that we might be the subject of a film. Being part of this process has certainly been a very enriching experience, taking me (in the gentlest way possible) worlds away from my comfort zone. I spoke to Siobhan of thoughts and feelings that I have not expressed in conversation before and suddenly there they are – on the screen.

If the film reveals parts of myself that have remained hidden until now, it is largely due to Siobhan’s astute questions, patient listening, gentle coaxing and genuine compassion. There were a few times in our interview together that I noticed tears in her eyes and while I don’t like to make anyone cry – I appreciate her empathy. These unique qualities together with Siobhan’s creative vision and stamina (does she sleep or eat?) will serve her well as a documentary filmmaker and I am certain that we will see and hear many more stories through her eyes.

The film title, How the Light Gets In, was taken from a Leonard Cohen song that I had scribbled on my studio wall. I had heard it some time before we filmed and was so moved by the beautiful lyrics, I wrote them down. I will include the first two stanzas here.
 
"Anthem"

The birds they sang at the break of day
Start again I heard them say
Don't dwell on what has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars: they will be fought again
The holy dove: she will be caught again
bought and sold and bought again
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

I had the easiest role in this whole process and it has been inspiring to see some very talented people at work. Michael Steel is the cinematographer: patient and thorough and committed to a beautiful aesthetic. Danielle Boesenberg and David Bardwell worked on editing and post-production respectively, and while I understand less of this part of production, I do understand their talent is exceptional.

How the Light Gets In was nominated in the category of Best Documentary at the festival and is dedicated to the memory of my first daughter, Eva Serena, who would have been 10 this year.

I hope the film will be available to watch in full, online, at some point – if so I will post here. 
Until then here is a link to the trailer https://vimeo.com/65141851
and the Facebook page. Siobhan has posted a selection of my paintings there too https://www.facebook.com/howthelightgetsinfilm

ADOLESCENT GHOST

Last week the body of an adolescent humpback whale washed into the ocean pool at Newport beach. It was an amazing event to see such a creature up close. I went down to the beach in the evening as the sun was setting and a full moon rising and the sky was putting on a brilliant but melancholy display to mourn the whale.

I know he was dead but you could feel this mighty presence there. It was almost as though the passage between the two worlds was so diaphanous that you hardly noticed that this massive corpse represented an end and not just a continuation of something.

It was a strange atmosphere and while 'celebration' is not quite the word... nor is 'grief'... and definitely not 'apathy'.

With my children in a Catholic school I am regularly pressed to define my idea of God and mostly I find that difficult... but I think God was there, that night, last week.

The next day, the whale had to be cut up and buried as the currents were not favourable enough to take his body out to sea. As the workers performed this grisly task, a whale appeared off the beach,  breaching and making him/ herself visible to all present. I can only imagine that the whale was there to farewell a friend, or son, or brother and I wonder what grief does to a whale.

I have been given a commission to do a painting with ocean and sky... It is a portrait layout which is not natural to me with landscapes so I have procrastinated for some time now. This morning I worked together some of the photos I took at the beach on the night of the whale and this is what I came up with... I now have my reference for the new painting.... Thanks to my encounter with an adolescent ghost.

DOG

Today its Bukowski... It was tempting to post something about drinking and fucking but I couldn't go past this little gem.

dog
a single dog
walking alone on a hot sidewalk of summer
appears to have the power
of ten thousand gods.
why is this?

I said to Tim yesterday that I couldn't wait for winter to be over ... and he reminded me that it had not yet begun. It has begun today.

FUGITIVE PIECES

This is my studio – full of blank canvases. I’ve had a six-month hiatus from painting which I probably needed but now I need to paint more than ever. I have been preparing these canvases for the past few months… itching to slash through all that purity.

I’ve started working in design again and while I love the engagement of the office environment, it will suck my soul right out of me if I am not vigilant. This sounds very dramatic I know, however, I am exhausted when I get home and my ‘portal’ to the office from my home computer blinks at me at all hours of my home life… I have to draw a line. Mmmm, I can draw a line...

On days in the studio when I feel the muses circling, I pick up old novels and pick a chapter to read, wondering where the goddesses will lead me.

I reached for this one the other day and was so moved by this section I thought I’d include it in this post. It comes from the novel Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels, the voice is of a young man who has escaped the utter devastation of war, if only physically.

 “One evening I walked up Grace Street, a summer tunnel of long shadows, the breeze from the lake a cool finger slipping gently under my damp shirt, the tumult of the market left blocks behind. In the new coolness, and new quiet, a thread of memory clung to a thought. Suddenly an overheard word fastened on to a melody; a song of my mother’s that was always accompanied by the sound brush bristles pulling through Bella’s hair, my mother’s arm drawing with the beat. The words stumbled out of my mouth, a whisper, then louder, until I was mumbling whatever I remembered. “What good is the mazurka, my heart is not carefree; what good’s the girl from Vurka, if she does not love me…” “Black cherries are gathered, the green are left on the tree…” All the way through to the opening verses of “Come to me, Philosopher” and “How does the Czar Drink his tea?”

I looked around. The houses were dark, the street safely empty. I raised my voice. “Foolish one, don’t be so dense, don’t you have any common sense? Smoke is taller than a house, a cat is faster than a mouse…”

Up Grace, along Henderson, up Manning to Harbord I whimpered; my spirit shape finally in familiar clothes and, with abandon, flinging its arms to the stars.

But the street wasn’t as empty as I thought. Startled, I saw that the blackness was perforated with dozens of faces. A forest of eyes, of Italian and Portuguese and Greek ears; whole families sitting silently on lawn chairs and front steps. On dark verandas, a huge invisible audience, cooling down from their small, hot houses, the lights kept off to keep away the bugs.

There was nothing for it but to raise my foreign song and feel understood.”

The truth is that I could have opened that book at any page and found a similarly beautiful section. It’s just that this passage is about connection: that connection, elusive and momentary that I seek. That moment that I feel whole. I think, maybe, we all long for it but I am not knowledgeable enough to make that assumption. I wonder if the power of memory lies in the fact that there, safely catalogued in the past, those moments are sitting ducks - easy to isolate, and own. In the flux of daily life it is much more difficult.

Odyssey

From my perch on top of the dunes, I watched the clouds contrive to trap the light. Their strategy was clear... divide and conquer. Half went to designing a parapet, a great wall of scallops, thick and profound, while the other half launched as a fine organza across the sky. Irresistible to touch, the clever clouds named their device Rapture and set it. And the light fell for it. Caressing the vapours and falling through the weave, the lustre found its end on the billows below. The ocean had no issue on this particular day having laboured through the dark to trap the night sky... and in mock submission brought tray after tray of soft foam littered with stars to offer the shore. I have witnessed a victory for the sky and the sea - a formidable collaboration.

In The Odyssey, Homer tells a tale about the Gates of Ivory and the Gates of Horn: portals through which our dreams stream and present themselves to us as truths (whether they are true or not). The very notion of a gate implies a separation between ourselves and our thoughts and memories, as though our dreams exist independently of us.

This is an ancient tale. What we seek is always just out of reach yet we are certain that when we find it we will recognise it immediately, as home. Perhaps this is because we possessed it once, and knew it intimately and have lost it.

I am drawn to this story and wonder whether this separation and loss and longing to be united/reunited with a realm of dreams, is like a quest to come home. For home, what longing is keener? I navigate to apprehend something I may never know... a destination that can only be reached across the landscape of a life. The world is full of comedies and tragedies, of odes and elegies, of promises and endings, of beauty and light; all terrain to be traversed in the odyssey.

And like the light, I am seeking. And like the ocean, I am hunting. And like the clouds, I make my plans. I am compelled to express this, and when words fall short, I need a good ship... and some paint.

This is my artist statement from my last show at Charles Hewitt Gallery. The stunning gallery in the heart of Darlinghurst is the latest victim of tough times and will be closing its doors after decades of dedication to the arts in Sydney. I will miss having Charles and Larry about in the traditional gallery setting... although they are not clearing out completely - just morphing into the 21C with online galleries and pop up shows.

Here are some pics of my show at the gallery in November (about bloody time blogger).

From top to bottom:

The Charles Hewitt Gallery, Opening night 'Odyssey', Me, Wendy Littlewood (who's extraordinary dedication to teaching set me firmly on this path) and dear friends, fellow artist, the talented Lucia Hennessy, Petra Timmerman the photographer extraordinaire with Julie Morin, gifted designer 'inky'.

And last but not least, the tirelessly supportive, patient, loving and kind, man of much faith, Tim.

SPRINGTIME

June Hymn

Here's a hymn to welcome in the day

Heralding a summer's early sway
And all the bulbs all coming in
To begin
The thrushes bleating battle with the wrens
Disrupts my reverie again

Pegging clothing on the line
Training jasmine how to vine
Up the arbor to your door
And more
You're standing on the landing with the war
You shouldered all the night before

And once upon it
The yellow bonnets
Garland all the lawn
And you were waking
And day was breaking
A panoply of song
And summer comes to Springville Hill

A barony of ivy in the trees
Expanding out its empire by degrees
And all the branches burst to bloom
In the boom
Heaven sent this cardinal maroon
To decorate our living room

And once upon it
The yellow bonnets
Garland all the lawn
And you were waking
And day was breaking
A panoply of song
And summer comes to Springville Hill

And years from now
When this old light isn't ambling anymore
Will I bring myself to write
"I give my best to Springville Hill"

And once upon it
The yellow bonnets
Garland all the lawn
And you were waking
And day was breaking
A panoply of song
And summer comes to Springville Hill

The Decemberists from their album The King is Dead. Of course the months are all wrong for us in the antipodes... but the day calls for a song. The album cover is from their previous album, Castaways and Cutouts... I just liked it.

EGO TRIP

‘Tis the season for Art Prizes… a time to queue, a time to lug, a time for random success and more frequently random rejection. We hate it but we do it – for ‘profile’. On the upside it’s usually pretty social as you share a laugh at loading docks and beg favours from friends with utes…

Whilst I could round out this little blog with tales of woe and rejection… that would be counter productive to my ego trip so here are a few of the more happy outcomes.

On Friday I attended the Northbridge Art Prize at Gallery 307 (where I have been teaching a few classes) and to my delight found out that I had won the first prize for the works on canvas and board (which was pretty much painting). The work was called Saturn Rule… as he does me. Sydney artist, Wendy Sharpe was the judge. I have no photo to show as I didn’t get around to that. Yay!

Rewinding a bit, in May I had a small painting accepted into the NSW Parliament Plein Air Painting Prize. The prize was judged by Glenn Barkley, Curator of The Museum of Contemporary Art and exhibited at NSW Parliament House in Macquarie St www.pleinair.com.au. My gorgeous friend, Eugenie accompanied me to the opening. We giggled our way through dinner and many speeches. Noel McKenna took out the big prize with his work entitled ‘My Backyard’.

It was a good night and I was thrilled to catch up with two of my favourite teachers from the National Art School and meet some other artists whom I had known only by their work. Some fellow artists from the mountains and beyond were represented including my friend Rowen Matthews who is currently exhibiting his exquisite landscapes in Melbourne, New Paintings: Intimate Portraits of the Cudgegong River www.catherineasquithgallery.com

There was even a bit of press about that:

http://www.bluemountainsgazette.com.au/news/local/news/general/lawson-artist-in-painting-prize-finals/2167091.aspx

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/arts/video-takes-the-prize-for-creativity/story-e6frg8n6-1226063666312

Meanwhile, back up the mountain, The Blackheath Art Society held their Open Winter Exhibition and were fortunate to have Tony Bond OAM, Head Curator, Western Art at the Art Gallery of NSW to judge the works. In addition to the lovely honour of the People’s Choice Award, Mr Bond awarded my small painting a Highly Commended. The title of the painting is East and West Mean Nothing to Us Here and was taken from a line in Homer’s Odyssey (an ongoing theme in my new work). The painting depicts the Anzac Bridge off ramp as you enter into the inner west at dusk. http://www.blackheathart.com/prizewinners/prizewinners.htm

Mr Bond commented, ‘Susie Dureau's work is typical of what I referred to at the start about simple rendering of a special moment. Here in East + West Mean Nothing to Us Here the silhouetted trees against the turbulent night form the stage on which unidentified lights move in the foreground. It is particularly pertinent given the weather we all braved to get to the show.’

I believe it was the week that wild storms ripped through the Blue Mountains causing widespread damage and power outages… an event of which I was blissfully unaware as it was also the week I moved to the beaches.

The pics at the top of this entry are the work East and West Mean Nothing to Us Here lifted from the BAS website (again I had not the foresight to photograph the work myself) and ME with the table decoration from the dinner at parliament house. I had to be convinced by the caterer to take it and it was only after she assured me that the vase was 'cheap' that I felt obliged to make it mine!

Said and done.