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The Kid With The Camera

9/8/2017

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   When I was just nine years old, living in Wahroonga, Sydney, on the very edge of Kurringai National Park with my family, we had a Japanese gentleman visit us. He was a friend of my grandfather and had a little Yashica camera. He let me play with it. Then, seeing how enamoured I was with it, he declared before leaving that he wished to gift it to me. It was one of the best presents I ever got. It was not for this kind hearted gentleman to know but it was a kick off point for my artistic career. Ten years later I was majoring in photography at the National Art School.

     Film was not cheap to process in those days and we were a family of modest means, so much of my shooting was imaginary. I may not have learnt much about shutter speed and aperture but I did become familiar with composition and subject matters. I learnt to look, to seek out what I thought would be worth capturing within my surroundings, environment. To begin to develop, take notice of, my natural inclinations. We are all different. We all see things differently, notice differently. The more we pay attention the more we notice patterns. And, too, over time, with practice and application, our taste becomes more refined. Art is one of those things that is self rewarding. You move up levels almost indiscernibly. So gradually, it’s not till some time has past and you can compare your recent work with older work that you see the changes. 

    I recall, too, the thrill of processing and printing my first roll of black and white film at art school. Removing the exposed film from it’s protective shell in the blackened booth then winding it on the spool in complete darkness was not easy - especially the first few times. But we did plenty of practice runs and the class encouraged each other. Once the film was processed with the right chemicals for the right times, it was hung in the drying cabinet. Then you would take it out and cut it into strips to insert into train track sheets - ready for a proof sheet. So, off to the dark room with it’s towering enlargers, it’s seductive red lighting and the noxious smells of developing and fixing liquids sloshing around in over sized trays. When the proof sheet is done and dried, you go back in and start making some prints. In those days we worked with 8”x10” Ilford paper - matte or gloss for the regular prints - and later, as we progressed, bigger sheets for more impact.

    The class, a motley crew, would go out on excursions, all of us holding our humble, functional SLRs. It was the first year of the 80’s - so no one had anything fancy. Early Cannons, Pentaxes, Minoltas. The heavy click of a slow shutter. The sometimes stubborn, solidly built dials for aperture and focus. Everything was manual. Our teacher was just back from studying in New York on a Kokak scholarship. He was hyped and passionate, meticulous. A stark contrast from all the other teachers at art school who were laid back, tired, a little lazy. All of them were artists, trying to survive. Some has teaching skills, others just showed up. I didn’t care either way. I was happy to have found somewhere I belonged, after having tried and dropped out of two universities already. I didn’t want to hear someone stand up front of an echoey hall and pontificate. I did not want to see a textbook ever again. I hated them in high school and was not about to voluntarily stick my face in another one. Art school was loose and easy going. We were treated like adults, like young artists. Eccentricity, individuality were expected, encouraged. It was not somewhere for rote learning. We were there to learn primarily about ourselves. And to do that through expression; drawing, sculpting, photography, printmaking and painting. It was fucking heavenly, to be honest. I felt like I had hit the jackpot. 


    That wee boy, the one who was nine, the same fella who used to be bullied cause he was sweet and sensitive, a dreamer, the one who grew to dislike and feel alienated at school more and more as it got increasingly serious and competitive, authoritarian, well, he, now ten years on, found himself surrounded by others who witnessed and experienced the world a little differently. He found somewhere where the powers that be were not trying to channel him, whittle him, box him in, group him. He found somewhere he could relax, do his own thing, at his own pace, in a way of his own intuitive devising. Finally, finally, he could breathe again.

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Everythings & Nothings

12/5/2017

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“A constant reminder…”
“Two days before I left for Scandinavia…."
“Then he went off the dole…"
“As a pretext for doing that... bullshit…”

I'm just going to write down snippets of what I hear people say
Beside me and adjacent in the Mullumbimby cafe

I'm all set up with my long black ice coffee
Cream on the side
And hear that!
It's Billy Joel singing
She's Always A Woman
How nostalgic

I was sixteen when that came out
Probably sipping ice coffee much the same
In a basement cafe called Comos
Next to the station in Hiroo

I was just learning
About women myself
They were teaching me, first hand
The girls from Sacred Heart just up the road
They would fraternise with a bunch of us guys
The ones who rode their bikes 45 mins from our school
I always stayed the latest 3:45 to 5:30
Cause I lived not far from there
We'd all smoke cheap Japanese cigarettes
(Seven Star, HiLite, Golden Bat)
And laugh, joke, laugh, smoke

Just from listening to their banter, gossip and chat
So much was gleaned
It was an education
Much more valuable than that by the one that was ostensible
At my school that was international
But way too ambitious and assertive for me
I was a poet
Even then
A gentle souled, Aussie, comic kid grown up in the bush
On the hunt for fun and friendship, games and laughter
(And of course I made a point to find it -
Tenacious in the pursuit of insouciance
Keen to drift, playfully meander)

What would I ever need from physics, history or chemistry?
I knew it was all a time waste (for me)
Instead I would draw pictures with my multi-coloured biro
Make comics
Compose whimsical, ironic poetry

Now here I am forty years later
Doing pretty much the same thing
I learnt plenty more lessons from women over that time
Upfront and personal
From being completely in love
To emotionally torn and  tortured
Incredulous, blissful and in total awe
The entire spectrum
Had heaps of fun, shed a few tears
Yeah, I had a good run
Married once
Some cheeky one nighters
Some live-togethers
That were real gems, true treasures

Year long international romances
Swedish, American, Kiwi, Korean
All of them delightfully complex, mesmerisingly feminine
We went deep
Got entangled

And, as always happens
After they burnt bright
They ended

So now I salvage the throw-away phrases of random strangers
Up the back of a tiny town cafe
And write about it
As I loosely reminisce and contemplate
All the everythings and nothings
That have come my way

And you know what
It's all OK
It's all OK

You just take it as comes
And eventually you find your way
Back to where you began

A series of alternating
Everythings and nothings
Living life is half the fun
(The other half is just getting it done)

Everythings and nothings
Once, twice, a thousand times
All over again
All over again

Everythings and nothings
All over again
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Paperback Reader, Reader

26/3/2017

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I didn't read this book but seeing it on the table at the op shop brought back some strong memories from another time and another head space. As is apparent from the cover design it is a paperback from the seventies. And the seventies is when my love of paperbacks began. I would say around '74 - when I was thirteen/fourteen.​

I started out with comics which we bought from a tiny second hand book shop in Roppongi on Saturday mornings and young adult books like The Hardy Boys (the end of every chapter a cliff hanger!) which I found in the school library. Our first visits to the library with the class when I was ten or so were a revelation. To me the library was like an adventure, like rummaging through a treasure chest. So much to search through, so much to discover. And I enjoyed the freedom of the process, too. No supervision, no length instructions. Get in there and find what you like. And then when you do - you can take some of them home. For free. What's not to love? I still love libraries and go regularly. 

Book shops, too. On Sundays, with the family, after a movie and dinner, sometimes we would go into a Tokyo bookshop that had an English language section right up the back in the far right corner. We weren't a rich family and the new books were imported and premium priced - so purchase was not an option. But looking was free. And in it's own funny way, this restriction made the paperbacks even more appealing. I would found ones that I was interested in and imagine what it would be like to read them after fully scouring the cover, the mini reviews, and snippets of the contents. 

My parents were readers and had a pretty decent size book shelf in their bedroom. I don't recall reading any of their paperbacks - different tastes - but I poured over all the larger format art books (my Mum is an artist), the full colour, glossy, large format travel books and eventually, and impactfully, the mysteriously alluring, illustrated classic; The Joy Of Sex - which provided a complete and illuminating education. 

So the reading culture was a firm part of my upbringing - and I'm grateful for it. Mum and Dad encouraged it and as a household, we subscribed to Time magazine, Newsweek, National Geographic and Reader's Digest. A few years later, I used my pocket money for a personal subscription to other magazines (from the US) including National Lampoon, Details and Esquire.

But books - paperbacks - were my big love - on par with my passion for comics - which was huge! (What are comics if not abridged books, packed with glorious illustrations? Or elaborate story boards for movies of the imagination?) 

I found a tiny bookshop in Hiroo, just up the road from the station, which was not too far from our house in Nishi Azabu. Up the front on the right hand side, just about eye level there were three shelves with English language paperbacks. This became one of my main sources of self selected reading material for a number of years. Even though, there were probably only a total of less than a hundred titles - I would often an hour or longer, after school, sifting through them. I would limit my purchase to one at a time, mostly - unless there was a new influx of numerous guaranteed winners - which wasn't that often - but was exciting and appreciated. 

They usually cost about 200 yen each at the time which was not a lot but still a considerable amount. My methodology was thorough. I would narrow my options down to top three and work it out from there. My goal was to never buy a book that I would not be compelled to finish. Pretty good was not good enough. I was looking for treasure. Of course, you can't always know until you get into with books but you can hone your assessment skills.

We had to wear (dumb) school uniforms - grey pants (itchy and boring), a white collared shirt (choking), a red tie (clownish) and a heavy dark blue blazer with the school's (SS-like) insignia on the front right hand pocket. The jacket was the only thing I didn't mind - because it had lots of pockets. Two hip level ones, one top front and an inside right hand one, as well. And anyone who knows me, knows I love pockets. I used to carry one, and sometimes two, paperbacks at all times. One at each side. Like a literary gunslinger. Out of my class of say, thirty, there were two others who also came to adopt this convention - Chris Styles and Zach Callagher. We would always know what the other was reading (or had lined up for next.) We sometimes did some swapping but not all that often. Off the top of my head, some writers I remember reading were Alistair Maclean (so compelling!), James Clavell (a masterful storyteller - King Rat, Shogun) , Michael Crichton (The Andromeda Stain blew my mind!), John Fowles (The Magus - game changer!) and the immensely relatable and infuential Horse Feather by Woody Allen. Just as enjoyable and meaningful were some more obscure titles by less celebrated authors that were quirky and esoteric but still enticing and nourishing. I remember one about a teenage girl with evil powers (title unknown) and another about a female spy in Hong Kong who had a lesbian encounter around page 83. Another great one was What Really Happened To The Class of '65? - which I found absolutely fascinating. 

I would read my paperbacks on the subways, at home in the evenings, during class - tucked in behind a text book or on my knee - even while walking, sometimes. I was a reading junky. Nothing has changed - like many - I love to escape. Paperbacks were like iPads of the time. Instant access to another realm. Admittedly only one at a time - but that one was usually deeply engrossing and most sufficient. I read voraciously. I loved reading and it really meant a lot to me. The quietness, the transportation, the magic of the whole process. Books were portals to other dimensions. It was a time when I wasn't magnificently happy in my life - due to struggles at school and at home. I was a deeply emotional kid, moody, stubborn, individualistic. I hated bullies and they hated me back even harder. I did not fulfil the expectations of my parents on an achievement level and felt out of place often. A quiet rage was building inside me, a rebellion. Many family dinners I would eat in complete silence as a protest to what I considered emotional oppression. Of course, I know now that my parents were doing their best with a not easy to define and contentious teen, but at the time I felt like it was me against the world. I refused to bend or acquiesce to asshole teachers and would often end up in detention or even be suspended from school (which was rare at that school, in those days). I was a little chubby, my hair was longer than permitted, I was unkempt (didn't give a shit) and refused to hustle in PE or ever go to swimming classes (self conscious). And though I did love a practical joke or shouting out funny things in class when I thought of them, I was never unkind or harmful to anyone. I was like a mini cheeky hippy - who probably would have been a goth - if they had been invited. I knew the dark side - having come close to death twice by the age of twelve - and endured more than my share of physical discomfort during my growing years. I also cried a lifetime worth of tears, alone, very alone, in my bedroom many nights. 

But books, books; they were my friends. Books were all giving. They required nothing more than one's attention and in return they gave so much. I lived in paperbacks during the years from thirteen to sixteen. They cushioned the perceived harshness and confusion of my developing years. They were my teachers, my guides, they suggested wonderful alternatives. They presented glorious possibilities and mostly, too, tied things up neatly within their own worlds - which was comforting. They were unlimited - but contained. Finish one and I would crave the next. The quest was to find another at least as good - maybe better. I took it seriously. My addiction. My salvation. The simple paperback. Words on a page. They saved me. Soothed me. Unselfishly assisted in the creation of my complex and unique interior structures. Some of which are still sturdy and of assistance to this day. They were fundamental architects in the building of the launchpads for the rocket ships which catapulted my imagination into the limitless multiverse of timeless wonder. Like that last sentence? I can imagine it in a soppy compulsively readable paperback!
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Naive @ Nineteen

16/3/2017

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This is how naive I was at nineteen:

I had already attended a year of university in Sydney. The one thing I learnt there was that I did not like university.

So, when I returned to Tokyo for Christmas to see my family, I knew I was not going back for another year of it. Also, I did not sit for any of the exams. It seemed pointless. I had not been going to lectures or had even opened a text book for months. Instead I was watching double feature art house films and fooling around with a sexy minx who would show me love. (Then while I was away trample all over it. Destroy my trust forever.) (Pretty standard rite of passage.)

My parents called a meeting in Yoshiro Taniguchi's iconic and opulent lobby of the Hotel Okura (sadly, no longer) on the day before I was due to return to Australia and begin the rest of my life.

"What are you going to do now?, my father asked when I declined further further education - of the dry academic kind.

I shrugged. I truly had no idea. I hadn't even thought of it. (Naivety alert!)

What was I good for? Good at? Skateboarding. Playing video games, pinball, pachinko. Writing weird little stories and poems. Contemplation. Drawing random comic style faces with ball point pen. Sneaking into movies.

What future from any of those?

"What about art school?" Four simple words. I will never forget them. A casual suggestion from my Mum. It was like a pathway opened up in front of me. 

Art school? Art school? What is that? I truly had no idea they even existed. (Naivety alert 2!!)

Where you go to learn to draw and paint...

That's a thing? I can do that? That's a real option?

"Um...yeah, sure." I did not hesitate. I felt it. It felt right. Art school.

By some incredible fluke, I was in year one at National Art School in Sydney less than a week later. By shear coincidence when I turned up with my portfolio (a loose bunch of my biro sketches and a few watercolours I had done while skipping uni) on day three of the class in progress, someone had suddenly just dropped out. The headmaster, Theo, ever the practical Greek, shrugged and said, "I guess you can take his place." And I was in. No other assessments, form filling, consideration of existing waitlisted applicants... nothing. Right place, right time. And thank god for that. It was awesome. The entire three years.

First year was a creative buffet. Sculpture, life drawing, photography, printmaking and painting. Second year - you chose a major. I chose photography. Photography had the most pretty girls. Plus I enjoyed going out into the world and capturing intereting moments and viewpoints. Plus, the teacher, Arthur Georgeson, was just back from living and studying in New York and he was amped. It was inspiring. But, sadly, it did not have a third year curriculum. Somehow, kismet again, I managed to convince Theo and a couple of others to let me swerve into year three of Painting. 

We each had our own mini studio space in a cavernous, high sealing, wooden floored old cell block on the second floor. It was heaven. Every day, all day, making pictures. Sketching, pastels, collage, oils, acrylics... big, small, on the floor, against the wall, at a desk... 24/7 creativity.

And here is the interesting, rather integral thing:

I learnt most... not by making art ... I learnt most by looking at and appreciating others art. Those around me, teacher's stuff, lots of gallery visits, books from the library, slide shows in Art History (only once a week for three very valuable hours hosted by Geoff somebody who was a legend)... 

As an artist, you yourself are limited to your own abilities and imagination - you draw from one well. 

But as an art student you are splashed and doused in dripping wet art from all angles. Stuff you could never do, would never do, would never have thought of.... and it fires you up.

You begin to ask yourself - what is it that I love so much about that? How can I translate that feeling into my stuff? Using the tools at my disposal - can I mimic that, respond to it, carry on from there? WHo am I as an artist? What do I have to say? How can I adapt my natural abilities and inclinations to most accurately express what's inside me?

Of course, practice makes you better, improves your natural style, sharpens your skills, but it is actually really through looking and thinking that you become better. 

It's a group effort. Everyone chips in to everyone else's advancement. We all do our bit.

Some works come easy but often it is a struggle. Paintings often start great, then go crooked for a while. You want to push it and usually you end up going too far. So you have to bring it back. After much trial and error, you eventually come to some conclusion. Then it's time for the next one.

It's an interesting process. Because there are always so many options you make a lot of mistakes. 

Then, within it all, you want to have fun. You want to feel free in your expression, you want to experience release, a symbiosis between yourself and what takes form in front of you.

It's hard. Harder than writing, I think. (Which can also be hard, of course.) But, I love it. I really do. 

Thanks to my parents for their patience and suggestion, to Theo for his lackadaisical decision to let me in on the spot and thanks to the bold and perspicacious artist's sprit that resides inside me, I have been painting, making art of some sort or other, now for 35 years.

I found my calling, stumbled into it. And in a funny way, I'm still stumbling around, doing whatever. A new comic book here, some music creation, a book of written works, new artworks for a show... I go where I am carried. 

From a distance it may even look like I'm performing some mysterious dance, a waltz, a fandango with my muse. A pattern may emerge. It may be that the convoluted path I have chosen has actually delivered me to a remote clearing. A mountain high plateau from which I can see not only from where my journey began far, far off in the distance but where I might like to head from now on. 

I may have actually arrived at a place where I have found some signs that reassure me, gently let me know that this is always where I was meant to end up. It may be that my training period is complete. I followed the signs, no matter how faint or obscure, challenging or onerous at times, I stuck with it and now I can confidently continue with my direction, assured that it will lead me home.

I have become the man, the artist, that that naive and gentle hearted boy could not have imagined - and yet, somehow, managed to become.

I suspect he'd be cool with it.
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All This And More

11/9/2016

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I'm reading Amy Schumer's autobiography at the moment. She's the sassy comedian who loves to shock with her foul mouthed tirades and assertions to do with sexuality. She has that common American quality of being brazen and un-checked which can so often go wrong but works well if it's backed up by authentic talent and dedicated self edit. In her case, it mostly works. 

I wasn't sure what to expect but have been welcomely surprised by her honesty and the tale of her assiduous rising through the stand up ranks due to passion and a dedicated and focused work ethic, as well as plenty of tears and tear-me-down-and-I'll-get-right-back-up attitude.

There's some pretty funny stuff including a chapter titles "Letter to My Vagina" - which made me consider attempting a letter to my penis for fun and irreverence. But nah. It would serve no one. 

One thing, though, that I was somewhat moved by and did bring up some memories and long lost feelings of my own were her chapters on her adolescence. I was reminded of what a trying time it is - how emotionally turgid and confusing it can be. Everything is new and a lot of intense and bewildering thoughts and feelings flood in out of nowhere and catch you unprepared. It's fair to say my years from 13 to sixteen were no walk in the park.

I had to put up with some violent bullying at school. I was a long haired, mellow dude - peace loving and kind spirited. But I could also be somewhat cheeky and somehow drawn to provoking ire in thick headed, mentally imbalanced older and larger students resulting in physical attacks on numerous occasions. This eventually subsided (once I started lifting weights - hmmm - a correlation?) but I did have to endure a good five years of it.

As well as that, I was frequently a target for imbalanced and sadistic teachers because I would not bow down to their unjust displays of authority heavy manipulation. Nice teachers - no problem. Assholes - problem. A few times it was like the classic prison guard vs prisoner scenario. I refused to bow down and paid for my stubbornness in various forms of legal abuse. Sadly, on the home front, too, I was misunderstood and unexpectedly troublesome to my parents who were relatively young and unprepared for my esoteric and eccentric behaviours. As the eldest of three boys my artistic temperament was vexatious and at times troubling to my parents resulting in miscommunication and detachment. 

I'm happy to say that now, four decades later - it's all good. LOL. The rebellious, angsty kid has settled the fuck down. And, of course, can now appreciate how difficult it must have been at times to contend with such a mini maelstrom. (I love you Mum and Dad!)

But, yeah, all that. Done and dusted. So heightened at the time but then slowly surpassed and perhaps suppressed as new challenges presented themselves in my twenties - spiritual awakening, anorexia (what? yes. ahead of the curve!), an ill-fitting marriage, adultery, divorce... the usual stuff. 

So why am I talking about myself? Oh, yeah, just happened. It's because of Amy Schumer. She got me remembering. Got me thinking about how tough those years can be for most of us. And yet we make it through. .... to a different kind of tough. Eventually, the edge gets taken off, you become somewhat of a veteran, a long game player, and find that you have somehow lived a fair chunk of life.

It's just one thing after another, really. You do your best - even if it's not technically your best. You do what you have to. It would make a hell of a reality show. So dense, so full of twists and turns, so.... relentless. And only you know the full extent of it. It's your show. Ta daaa! Surprised? Yeah, me, too. (shrugs).
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The Collector

29/10/2014

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I have always loved collecting things. 

When I was eight and we lived near the bush, it was special rocks and twigs. And tadpoles. And marbles.

At ten and eleven, when we lived in Tokyo, my brothers and I would go to a tiny but amazing model shop near Roppongi. The owner was an amazing model maker and always had awe inspiring scenes set up in his window. Inside was stacked to the roof with a comprehensive selection of plastic model kits. We used to buy and make aeroplanes (Spitfire was a fave, and the Stuka with its bent wings), tanks, and less often, a battleship or a destroyer. I was never that keen on the toxic smelling and hard-to-get-off-fingers adhesive that came in a tiny silver tube but I would diligently assemble a small army collection. What I loved most was painting them and putting on the decals - which needed pre-soaking a shallow dish of water and very delicate and precise handling.

Around thirteen I discovered the splendid and rewarding joy of reading books. New paperbacks (in English) were prohibitively expensive but I soon discovered a shelf or two of English language paperbacks in some local Tokyo bookshops. Again, the shops were narrow and tiny and crammed with merchandise. My area of interest and focus were up the front on the right of the Hiroo shop, down the road from our house. Just two or three shelves worth, each less than a metre wide. I would visit often and study every new book, considering it's value and possible reward. I really disliked buying a book if I wasn't going to read it, so I selected carefully, often reading the first twenty or so pages while standing there, sometimes for an hour or more before choosing. Luckily, in Japan, tachiyomi (literally standing/reading) is common and not discouraged by shop owners whatsoever. I would get out my fifty or a hundred yen and pay for my new treasure. The library at school was OK when I was younger with things like the Hardy Boys series (much loved!) but had nothing that would fast track the development and maturing of a hungry and curious teen. A few authors that spring to mind are Alistair MacLean, Roald Dahl and John Fowles. I would also read some slightly raunchy and macabre B grade novels - about witches, fighters and promiscuous experimenters. I was well known for carrying a paperback everywhere in the side pocket of our school blazer. Two other kids, Zac Callahan and Chris Styles, also started doing this and we would often check out what each other was reading and talk stories. Most of the other kids in the class associated reading with school work and shunned it. For us it was a doorway to new and exciting worlds. I'll always remember the feeling of finding a really good new book in the shelves. And the joy of reading one - wanting it to never finish. The Magus by John Fowles was an especially thick one and satisfyingly lasted for quite a while. I considered it a masterwork of the imagination. He also wrote a book called The Collector.

Part of the satisfaction of collecting is the thrill of knowing your subject, area of interest well and becoming familiar with all the popular and semi-popular items within it's realm. Then what happens is every time you go out seeking additions it becomes increasingly harder to find something new and worthwhile. You either have everything good or at least know about it and don't need to acquire it for reasons of taste or space. When you collect you are honing your knowledge and developing a personal taste and quiet opinions about the things within the microcosm of your passion. It's a very healthy and nourishing thing to do. I learnt a lot about art and developed my taste through collecting comics and album covers. I never bought new ones of either of these groups, preferring the chance and thrill of second hand hunting expeditions.

Other things I have collected over the years: movie posters, magazines (especially early Esquires and National Lampoons), film scripts (ordered by post from LA), poker card protectors, hippy necklaces, stickers, caps, skulls and bottle tops.


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anonymous usher

23/8/2014

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I always wanted to work in the movies.

When I was fourteen or fifteen my father formally called me into their bedroom for a discussion. I was having a few issues at school - trouble with accepting authority, occasional truancy, playing class larrikin, detentions and suspensions. My grades weren't great, I rejected the concept of homework (they can make me go to school but once I am out, my time is my own), I chose not to participate in after school sports or clubs.

Not your ideal student, I now see quite clearly. But at the time, I was instinctively rebelling against what I perceived to be injustice and domination. I did not choose not belong. I did not belong. The rigid, intense, result-oriented system did not integrate well with my free spirited, easy going nature. Teachers attempts to force me to comply only resulted in a stronger sense of anarchy in my young spirit.

I wish I had been there, the me now, to support and nurture that young fellow.  He wasn't a trouble maker, not really, he just had a sense of freedom and fun. He truly had not interest in chemistry or physics class. He knew that studying those subjects, as well as Latin and Religion, were a waste of his time. I would have said - if he has to be locked up here, why not just let him do art and English, drama and choir all day. And a long lunch. Maybe leave a bit earlier. Come in a little later. Four days instead of five.

I know now that the me then, was essentially the same as the me now. I wasn't someone who was going to be changed or melded by a bunch of strangers. Especially not by austere, sometimes deranged, sadistic, even perverted, assholes.

In the few subjects I had good hearted teachers (English, Art, Geometry, French) my attention giving and grades were pretty good. I just found it impossible to tolerate bullies and dictators.

My father, bless him, was a very different kind of person to me. He was an achiever, he thrived on rules and structures, he did not mind following, behaving. I was, in his estimation; a failure. If not already, then destined to be one if I kept up with my rebellious behaviour. I know this because he told me so.

"What do you want to do with your life? What is your plan? What do you want to become?" were the questions I was asked that evening, at that meeting, which felt serious and important, formal. Both my parents were there but my father was leading. They were worried about me, he said. The school had rung again. (The truth is mostly I tried to keep out of trouble, ie, not get caught. And  mostly, I succeeded. The reprimands and punishments I received were a minor fraction of my actual infractions. So, I was actually, in my own way, quite canny and intelligent. I also was aware of having been selected for and invited to attend a special school for advanced intelligence children after testing. I decided I did not want to go, when given the choice, because I did not want to leave behind my friends. Regardless, we soon left Sydney for Tokyo.)

"I want to make movies", I replied, after giving it some thought. The answer felt right, in fact, it felt like the only possible answer with any veracity. At that stage of my life, I also liked collecting comics, listening to radio drama, drawing, writing stories... but I loved movies. They were powerful and captivating things. Enthralling. If I had to be involved in some sort of formalised activity - well, that would be it. At least it wouldn't be boring.

"Movies?" My father scoffed. "How can you say that you want to make movies? What makes you think you can make movies?"

Oh. I have to answer. 

I had actually made a few Super 8mm films by then, but nothing elaborate. I did not have any feature credits to my name... In fact, I did not even know exactly how the process worked - screenplay, rehearsals, actors, director, producers, art department - I just instinctively responded to the question with honesty and optimism.

"I love movies." I said. And do what you love, right? Wrong.

"Just because you love movies doesn't mean you have any talent or will ever be able to work in movies. It's a very specialised industry. I'm talking about work. A job. What kind of job are you going to be able to do when you leave school? If you keep up the way you are, you'll be working in Woolies at the checkout. Is that what you want?"

"Er, no." I replied. (Thinking: it wouldn't be that bad. Standing behind the till. Playing with the machine. Chatting with people...)  But I said no. And it wasn't my dream, nor my goal. 

"If you don't start behaving and doing better at school, you will end up nowhere, with very little..."

The meeting was adjourned soon after. I agreed to try harder. I accepted that my answer to the question of what I wanted to do with my life was not acceptable.

I feel sad now. If only I had been encouraged. If only in that rare, important moment, when I was point blank asked what I wanted to do with my future, I had been listened to, heard. Things could have gone so differently. Why ask a young boy that question then squash his heartfelt, impulse response? Obviously it did not fit in with my father's agenda and world view. It was not about my life. It was about his life. And about curtailing the disturbance that my behaviour was causing. And, just like the teachers I hated, trying to make me into something I wasn't.

That moment was a very long time ago. That was the moment that a father inadvertently condemned his son to a life lead with an attitude of underlying defeatism, surrender, displacement.

                 ------------------------------------------------

Cut to me at twenty. At art school. Living in Sydney. I still loved movies. A year before, I had been to every cinema complex along the main street in Sydney seeking employment. Just fill out the form, I was told by unenthusiastic lady ticket sellers. I never heard back, of course, from any of them. It was a closed shop. Those jobs paid well, vacancies were rare and often handed to friends and connections. Being an usher was considered working on the fringe of show business. It required wearing a bow tie and a fancy jacket, dealing with the public with class and efficiency. Nobody walking in off the street was going to get in. That much became clear. Still, I really wanted to work in a movie theatre. Better yet, a multi-theatre complex.

One afternoon, while with my brother and my girlfriend, perusing the books at the old Gould's book shop in it's original location in George Street, directly opposite Hoyts cinemas before heading downstairs to Crystal Palace to play some snooker, I had what I can only describe as a moment of pure, unfiltered inspiration. I was zapped, nudged by some energy, given a specific mission.

"Wait here guys, I'll be back soon." I said, and ran out the door. I crossed the street. Entered Hoyts. "I am here to see the manager!" I pronounced with premeditation. 

"Do you have an appointment?" the lady asked. 

"Yes!"

"What's it in regard to?" she asked.

"About working as an usher."

She checked her big red diary. Slight frown.

"You're a bit early." She harumphed and climbed off her high stool. "Wait here." She trudged half way down the corridor of ticket sellers and disappeared into a doorway. She reappeared with a message. "Mr Cesarro will be out in a minute."

Whoa. I can't exactly say things were going to plan, because I didn't exactly have a plan. Well, I did. I wanted to get a job there. But I hadn't exactly anticipated speaking to a manager. He appeared, beckoned me. We went in through some glass doors, then another security door to his office.

Suddenly, I was being interviewed for the position. My instincts were honed enough, from years of talking my way around a subject and out of trouble at school, that I was able, much to my surprise, to charm my way into an immediate job offer. I was to start in a few days time. Two shifts a week, Friday and Saturday nights, to begin with. I was to go immediately to see the head usherette, Laurel, and get fitted for a bright red jacket and receive a call sheet, instructions and a torch. I walked across the lobby, almost floating. I was nearly there. One final test to get through. The manager had called ahead, so she was expecting me. It all went smoothly. I winged it. I was in.

Mook and Bianca could not believe it. How??? Really? Yes, it happened. They were happy for me - and it also meant free movies for them, at least twice a week. And I loved it, too, even more so. I had accessed an environment, an institution that I had long desired to infiltrate - the dark pantheon of cinematic wonders, the arena of entertainment, manufactured fantasy. It wasn't yet the level of actually making movies - which was still my ultimate goal - but I had forged through the first protective industry layers of obstruction, using will and wit and temerity. I was no longer just a paying member of the public, I was in the club. On the fray of show biz. Movies were free, now - all you can watch. Not just at Hoyts, but due to a reciprocal agreement, at any and every cinema across the city. Not only that, but I would be surrounded by cinemas (seven), immersed in film, connected more closely to the world of my early predilection. Finally.

I was working in movies!  

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put up a parking lot

11/8/2014

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My brother Mook sent me this picture of a parking lot in Tokyo yesterday. In it's place, up until recently, was Roppongi Square Building. RSB housed five or six nightclubs, a tiny cafe and a sprawling, ground floor game centre. I spent much of my youth in that building. 

I was a regular at the cafe, afternoons, after school, I would ride my motorbike there and hang out with the cool twenty-something Japanese dudes drinking coffees and puffing away on Seven Stars. I was the only foreigner there, somehow I had been admitted into the congenial gang. Sometimes we would saunter into the game centre and play the latest low-tech, novel amusement machines - bingo pinball. 
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I had completely forgotten about playing these machines but suddenly I was reminded how much I loved playing them. They were quite difficult to master - many decisions and stratergies and also ball control with gentle tilting and jousting with the machine. I wish I could play it again. Right now. Getting the ball down to 23, 24 and 25 - sometimes crucial -was a major task and then navigating it into the exact number you needed to line up your bingo - well, when achieved was an ecstatic moment.

The game centre had plenty of electronic games, of course. This was mid to late 70's, so it was all about Space Invaders, Mission Control, Car Driving Games, Pac Man and the like. During the day, on weekends, my brothers, Mook and Rich, and I would go there, if we weren't in Shibuya - which offered more great games centres PLUS pachinko (upright Japanese ball bearing game) PLUS movie theatres with the latest releases. 

At nights the Roppongi game centre was very popular with post dinner visitors and pre and post disco and nightclub revellers. I can smell and feel the boozy, smokey atmosphere right now. Even at their rowdiest, Japanese are quite contained and always polite. It was an awesome place to grow up on so many levels.

And many levels is what RSB had. My favourite discos - Nepenta and Giza were housed there. I would go there at least one night a week. I had a three piece suit and cowboy boots. It was the disco heyday in Japan, Saturday Night Fever created a frenzy and nightlife boomed. I had so many experiences there, across the threshold, that I plan to write a book about it one day soon. I saw things, did things, was immersed. I grew up there. From kid to seasoned night crawler. Roppongi nights. Like no other.
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We lived in Nishi Azabu. Our modest home was positioned right in between Hiroo Station and Roppongi Station on the Hibiya Line. Before I got my motorbike and started riding to School, I used to walk down to Hiroo (pictured above) and catch the subway and two trains to school. In the bottom right hand corner of the picture, downstairs, B1, was a tiny black leather, atmospheric cafe called Eruza. But everyone called it Comos. It was where the girls from Sacred Heart International School would go after school to hang out, drinking brews and smoke. A few of the boys from my class would go there after school also, arriving around 45 to 50 minutes later with commute. I was lucky to live close by and would almost always be part of the last group to leave around 5:30 or 6. I could just walk up the hill, Zaimokucho, to get home from dinner. It was the most education I got, down there in that dark, moody cafe. The banter, gossip, information exchange, romancing and friendship that were created and nurtured down there were priceless. 

Even at the time, I remember feeling so lucky and grateful being able to have such a valuable after school outlet for personality exchanges and general youthful exuberance and conceptual rebellion. We smoke ciggies, drank iced coffees, told stories.... there were tears, uncontrollable laughing sessions, serious arguments. But we were cohesive. A core group of about a dozen girls and half a dozen guys. My best friend, Jenny, a Hawaiian girl, was a cheerleader, sports star, academic achiever and very friendly and popular. She was an essential part of my belonging and maturing. She was very kind and beautiful on every level. We never dated. She went out with my friends and I went out with hers. The friendship was more precious, too precious to risk loosing. I was, even back then, in some ways an outsider, a joker. I had long hair and would risk getting in trouble at school if it meant getting some good laughs. In fact, I remember more than a few times, being suspended from school, and riding my motorbike to Comos, spending the day hanging out there reading one of my ever present paperbacks, waiting for the girls to arrive. Jenny would see me there already at three and know I had been mischievous. 

She was equally as playful in spirit but managed to avoid reprimand. We shared a love of fun and people. Her acceptance and embrace of me got me in with the rest of the girls, too. (I was 9 months to a year younger than everyone in the year.) There was a Texan, a Korean, some Japanese American halves, a Brazilian/Japanese at the core. I got close to them all and learnt SO MUCH from them about the workings of the female species. Many times, it was just me and the girls. I would just sit back and listen, absorb, throw in a joke now and then or answer a query, as best I could, about my own gender. It was almost like being a spy. But I never betrayed their confidence. Not once. I had too much respect for what I considered in many ways to be the superior sex. They were certainly more mature and wiser. Plus, they definitely looked and smelled better. I loved being around those girls! I think I kind of knew how lucky I was but tried not to make a big deal of it. Looking back now, I realise I was REALLY lucky. Insights gained then have taken me far in relationships and in generally understanding and appreciating humanity.

Ah, all these memories from a picture of a parking lot. They pulled down the building of my youth but they can't touch the priceless and golden alter of my friendships and experiences.
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special delivery

17/7/2014

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The first girl to ever grab my package was from Korea. Her name was Angie. It was at a school dance, being held at the girl's school. We were in a hallway outside the dance and as we kissed, she just reached down and cupped a handful. It was one of the most mind blowing things that had ever happened to me up until that point. I was fourteen years old. 

I wasn't a virgin. I had already slept with a beautiful Japanese surfer girl called Yayoi whom I had met at Mobius Disco in Roppongi.  I was a full year younger than my friends, Gordon and David, (whose father's worked as diplomats) and they pressured me to have sex with this girl. I really didn't have any idea what to do. When Yayoi and I were about to get started, alone in my friend David's spare bedroom at the Australian embassy with the lights off and our clothing removed, the buildup to this moment had been so great, that I suddenly realised that I had no idea what to do. Yayoi was also a virgin, so neither did she. I climbed on top of her and our bodies took over. I clearly remember being amazed at how proficient my animal instincts were and how they kicked into gear with an enthusiasm of their own, despite my youthful doubts and inexperience.

The next day, after I put Yayoi in a taxi, my mates took me to a fast food restaurant for a celebration and debrief. I do remember feeling different. I had done something that you only do once. I had lost my virginity. I was glad it was with such a beautiful girl. Even those guys were amazed at how I had pulled such a stunning chick. Truth is, she found me. She liked me. And she made it all very easy. There wasn't love, but there was fondness and respect. I saw her a few times after that, but she lived out of Tokyo (she even had her own car - which was a big deal at the time) and despite a sweet connection we drifted apart. 

That's how I ended up with Angie. We used to hang out at the same cafe with the others. Ange wrote poetry and so did I. She had already attempted suicide by the age of 15. She had a dark, powerful allure. Most guys were afraid of her. Again, she was someone who chose me. I just let it happen. 

That grab, at the dance, in the dark hallway. Phew. It was phenomenal. Until it actually happened, I could never have imagined it possible. Then a few months later, after school one afternoon, in the deserted upstairs area of a small local drinking spot, she did something even more attention getting. Something, I experienced for the first time. She really was a tiger. I was shocked, breathless. Half afraid that someone would walk up the stairs, half beyond caring, in a mesmerising mix of disbelief and pure euphoria.

Yayoi from Japan and Angie from Korea. School was somewhere I went because I had to. My real teenage education was from these two females. They were both there, at seperate times, for my graduation - from innocence to experience.
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cat n me

13/7/2014

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"Miles from nowhere
Guess I'll take my time
To reach there..."

Cat Stevens was a guiding force in my formative teen years. I learnt every word on the album Tea for the Tillerman and would listen to it (on vinyl; end of side A, flip it over and put the needle back down on side B, rpt - a process unknown to more recent arrivals on Planet E) over and over. So many incredibly soulful, meaningful, spiritual songs. All of them as relevant and poignant today as they were when first released in the early 70's. 

Father and Son
Wild World
Where Do The Children Play
Miles From Nowhere
But I Might Die Tonight
On The Road To Find Out

That's just some of them. I'd have a favourite for a few months and then move onto the next. As a rebellious teen, I didn't get any guidance from my parents or school. I was pretty much left to my own devices to work things out. Real world experiences, friends, a steady flow of books, and a few select albums. Cat was number one. He had it all - the inventive, pure, melodic music with the meaningful lyrics. Other faves were Elton John (Yellow Brick Road) and Jackson Browne.

"Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!"


Cat was an anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian guy. He seemed, in his mellifluous, calmly charismatic voice, to be talking to my young teenage self, saying, "you are right not to buy into all the bullshit, find your own way." Some of this I had worked out myself, it was innate, but having Cat back me up, with his wisdom, quiet charm and self assurance sure helped.


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it's not what you think

11/6/2014

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Life.

It's what happens.

I mean, I've been paying attention. Close attention. I've been observing, pondering, recording, analysing, interpreting life since I was a wee tyke. Around the age of nine is when I started asking myself the big questions. Like 'What is this?' 'What are we doing here?' and 'Why?'

I remember one afternoon sitting up on the branches of an orange tree doing just that. No answers were forthcoming but I did eat a lot of oranges.

I remember around that same time marvelling at a neighbourhood girl who was thirteen. Thirteen. Thinking: how? And: will I ever be that mature? Plus, she had a dragster.

This procedure: Life. 

Can't be pinned down. And yet we want to. We need to. We try to give it shape and definition. We need borders and structures and clusters and titles. We attempt to make sense of things. We are by necessity satisfied by whatever we can come up with. Even though it is only temporary and illusory. 

Some people don't question too much. They just get into it. Let the adventure and drama play out around them. Buy into it. Invest themselves. This is a perfectly valid response. What else are you going to do? Sit around all day and try to solve an unsolvable puzzle while in the meantime it all passes you by? Doesn't sound wise. But, but... some of us cannot help but divest from the presentation and take a peek behind the curtains. Leave the comfort of the valley home and trek up that mountain. And the next. And the next. We have metaphysical wanderlust. We are existential nomads. Philosophical renegades. Perpetual travellers. Spiritual scientists. We are drawn to the edges of the accepted realms and driven to stepping that one step, two steps further, beyond the boundries. We need to know. We need to know.

The irony is - there is no rush. All is revealed in it's own time. In many ways it is much, much wiser simply to accept the way things are and enjoy the ride. Life will play itself out regardless of how you perceive, interpret it. Why waste time navel gazing when you could be white water rafting or parachuting out of a hot air balloon?

I took this tack for a while in my earlier years. I tried hang gliding, bungy jumping, scuba diving, long distance running. I spent a year eating only raw nuts, I travelled to distant places, I experimented with LSD, I did stand up comedy, spent time with punk rockers, mental patients, criminals. I got married and divorced. I watched my wife run off with a Japanese Elvis impersonator. I shared intense, fleeting intimacy with girls I met on the beach, in a restaurant, on a bus, on the way to the bathroom. I flew to Paris on love's command after a one night stand in Kings Cross. I was hungry, wild, free spirited. During much of this frantic period I remained slightly detached and philosophical, wrote poetry and recorded my musings, but being hyper involved with reality in a demanding way did lessen the questioning.

But then I slowed down. Gradually. 

Living the simple life in an idyllic country town with a population of three and half thousand, I have returned to my ruminations. Attune to nature, mesmerised by it's beauty, surrounded by more spiritually minded folk, I have a precious commodity to play with. Time. Time to think. Time to take my time. Time to play. Time to waste. But I am paying attention. Looking for clues. I am still an agent of metaphysical aspirations. I want to know. I want to find as much meaning as I can. I have more to reflect upon now. More experience to draw upon in my calculations of esoteric algorithms. I have lived more than half a decade. Surely this must assist in my searching, seeking out.

But it doesn't. Not really. I am still a novice. 

I am still that kid sitting in a tree.

I do still love oranges. So juicy!


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the nature of things

12/5/2014

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The future is coming at us, thicker and faster than ever. Every month now, amazing new discoveries and inventions; scientific, technological and biological... The advancements are arriving at a breathtaking pace. I don't have to convince anyone. Just browse through the net. No, not that old fisherman's net. That's just crab shell and a dead half fish carcass. I mean the internet. You must know it. It's one of the inventions that has changed the world. Forever. And for better. So long as we all shall live. Anyone who disagrees, go to the comment box now or forever hold your mouse. Or donate it to science. They are used in a lot of experiments.

A couple of things I remembered yesterday:

One: pinball. Played it every weekend for hours on end in my early teens, with my brothers in the game centres of Tokyo - Shibuya, Hibiya, Yurakucho, Azabu Juban.... somehow, if there was a decent game centre (geimu sentaa) tucked away in a basement, obscure building or mini mall, we'd find it. We had our skateboards and knew the public transport system inside out. We loved playing pinball. (Wizard, Fireball, TimeZone, etc... mid 70's were when pinball design peaked, I reckon). Each place would usually have ten, twenty of them lined up. Lots of choice. Lots of fun. We were all pretty good a getting free games, too. Nothing like that >crack< when you notch up a game.

Two: other play. I was driving to the beach and saw an import Tarago. Notice it as called Lucida. Thought about how Japanese come up with their names for things. Must've looked up the dictionary found lucid and added an a. Fair enough. If they put an 'n' in their, it'd be a nice girl's name... Lucinda. Then, flash!, I remembered that back in the late nineties, I had a relationship with a girl with that very name. I had completely forgotten about her. I met her in a bar in Kings Cross, the Bayswater Brasserie. It was a one night stand that kept going. She owned a house in Surrey Hills, Sydney. She worked in an ad agency as accounts manager. She liked vodka lime and sodas. She loved flowers and knew a lot about them. She was a great cook. One of her specialties was gnocchi. She was very pretty. Like a little doll. She had a great body, perfect proportions, silky skin, long straight hair. She was also very intelligent and successful. She never came to my place in Bondi. She liked her routines. She would often phone me after work, early evening and invite me over. Drinks, dinner, sex. All things I enjoy. Then I would go home in the morning, when she left for work. We didn't do many day time things together for some reason. After a few months of this routine, I was beckoned to Tokyo for a 3 month job. We did the phone and fax (yes, fax) 'I miss you' communication thing for a while and then just let it go. I never saw her again. And until yesterday, completely forgot about it. Interesting how it was sparked by an import Tarago parked at the beach. It was like finding a little treasure on the shores of my memory.


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shown the way

28/4/2014

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When I was in my early teens, we were living in Tokyo and my Mum was a member of CWAJ. Christian Women's Association of Japan - it wasn't a religious group, from memory, it was more about women empowering women through cultural exchange and events. The members were about half expats and half Japanese nationals. One of their main things was that each year at The American Club, near Ropppongi, they would hold a wonderful exhibition of the new works of contemporary Japanese print makers. This would include silkscreens, etchings, lithographs and woodblocks.

There would always be a couple of hundred awesome artworks to purview. The first year, my brothers and I were dragged along kicking and screaming, but we quickly came to enjoy the range and invention of the works. Well, I did, for sure. 

There was also, always, a full colour catalogue that had every print included. I would often pour over it at leisure, studying my favourite works. At that stage, I had no idea that I would go on to do three years of art school and become an artist but did know that I liked art. 

Woodblock is the most traditionally Japanese of the printmaking forms. My Mum actually studied it for quite a number of years with some top notch Japanese tutors. Over the years she became very proficient and created some wonderful and popular woodblock series of her own. (Good on you, Mum!) 

It's quite a labour intensive process. Each colour within a print is carved from a separate block of wood with special tools. Some prints will have eight, ten or more blocks. Then the printing involves the application of the ink, the lining up of the pre-prepared special paper and the rubbing of the paper so that the ink penetrates. It's a delicate and technical process - enjoyable to watch. (Once.)

Over the years, my parents collected many dynamic prints from the CWAJ shows and also from small galleries. I also witnessed things like the choosing of frames, decisions on where to hang them, etc. I did not know it at the time but these things surely influenced and enriched my art head space. Tokyo is tight on space and homes are smaller scale, so prints were generally much more prevalent than paintings. In fact, I recall coming back to Australia to live at seventeen and noticing paintings in homes and being intrigued and enraptured by them.

My uncle Dick, I now recall, a wealthy man, had one of the country's pre-eminent private collections of Australian art. He even had a granny flat full of them and would take us on a tour with animated and learned commentary included. He had originals by Dobell, Whitely, Nolan, Boyd, Crooke, Drysdale and Klippel as well as many others. Visiting him was an art lesson in itself. Funnily, even them, after doing the tours more than a few times in my teens, I never considered that I may one day myself become a painter.

It really wasn't until I had dropped out of Sydney Uni, first year, and returned to Japan to see my family that it even became a possibility. I was eighteen. Uni was not for me. I was doing a BA, studying Literature, Computer Science (!!!)(it was 1979), Japanese and Psychology. These were all areas of interest but I simply found the format of education too dry and personality lacking. A large lecture hall with one guy telling everyone what to think. Boring! More than I could bear, in fact. I quickly began cutting classes and going to the movies. Then later, visiting a sweet girlfriend. Two areas I was much more naturally passionate about. And that taught me much better.

So, I was back in Tokyo to see my family. It was the day before I was due to head back to Australia. My parents convened a meeting at the Okura Hotel. We sat in the lobby. The point of discussion was 'what was I going to do?' I was drawing a blank. The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't want to return to University. Time ticked. There was some tension. Off the cuff, my Mum said, 'What about art school..? You've always liked art...." 

Ping! What? Art school? They have those? That is an option? I seriously did not even know. But now that I heard it, it was like... er, yeah! Next day I was on a plane back to Sydney.

I looked up Art School in the Yellow Pages. The closest one was East Sydney Tech in Randwick. I turned up holding a portfolio of portraits I had done with a biro, mostly copied from comics. The year had started a few days earlier. The selection process was completed months before. And yet, somehow..... I got to show my portfolio to the head of school. Theo. He liked it. Someone had dropped out that morning. Theo shrugged. "You're in group B. Next door. Start now." I was in. It was truly something that was meant to be. So random. So spontaneous. So glorious! I loved it. Three years. A double major in painting and photography. Many, many wonderful classes and experiences. I was on my way....


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first part of the journey

9/4/2014

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This long and complex, magic journey can be confounding. 
We start out as small and innocent beings. 
We are simply alive, like all other living things. 
We exist, we experience, we absorb.
Not a lot is within our control, but we adapt continuously and live from moment to moment, day to day.


Along the way, we pick up things, formulate concepts and notions about how we think things work, based on what we are exposed to.
Events, people and situations compound and connect within our ever-expanding sense of the world and our once small and free vessels begin to take shape in reflection of our environment, circumstances and upbringing. 


We react to things, more and more, not in the moment, not without thought, but within a framework, a template that we have created - a sense of self - which continues to grow.
We realise, eventually, that we are not like butterflies or lizards, or birds, or even dogs. We are not just here for the sake of being.


We are conscious, evolving entities and we can make decisions and choices and these will have consequences and repercussions, good and bad, that will influence our situation and our futures. 
We realise that we are part of a massive, ongoing narrative, a reality via consensus that has been going for a long time and that will never end.


Our daily lives are consuming with their own ever-increasing social and physical demands and in our teen years we feel confused, challenged, constricted. Everything is somehow heightened. Highs are higher and lows are unprecedented. 


Childhood has ended so quickly and now we must come to terms with our own changing bodies, consciousness and realities. 
But we are not fully equipped. We often implode. We want to explode.


Our contemporaries are a godsend. At least they can relate. We watch and learn from each other. It's all just making it up as you go along. Some of us are smothered by our parents and families. Some of us are overwhelmed by the demands of school and society in general. We grapple with our own fast growing bodies, with coming to terms with and acceptance of our our own selves. We are vital, we live in turmoil, we seek answers and reassurances. They are not always forthcoming. Somehow we struggle on, take each day as it comes, adapt, continue to climb. 



There are moments, times, of great joy. They may be simple, quiet, they may be wild and liberating. We don't care. We'll take what we can get. We are caged animals. Still within the care and confines of our parent's construct. They have built homes and castles as best they can. We don't realise it then, but they, too, are just making it up as they go along. They are doing what they can with what they have got. But at some stage, despite their best efforts to mould and guide us, we feel that we are being confined, held prisoners. We do not want to think and do as they do. 


We have our own ideas, our own needs and predilictions. Our own identities. We don't want to be told what to do, we don't appreciate being spoken down to. We don't want direction, we don't need a script of someone's concoction. We are ready to adlib our own dramas. We painfully tear ourselves away. They may be holding on to us too tightly or maybe they have had enough of our unruly, precocious ways. Either way, the time comes for seperation, release, detatchment. We are ready, at least in concept, to go out on our own and make our own way through the wilderness. 


By now, we have developed coping skills, we have come to understand at least the fundamental workings of the world, at least our own small world. Some days we feel more than ready to take on everything, other days we realise our limitations and comparative insignificance. 


But we are young, our blood pumps strongly, we have battles ahead and we are ready. We are hungry. We are not yet jaded. We have hope, dreams and desires aplenty. We are no longer children. We are not yet adults. But we're going to get there, as quickly and boldly as possible. We seek and suck in experiences with an unquenchable ferocity. Through real life adventures, romance, experimentation, drugs, travel, companionship, study... we compound and nurture our existing frameworks. We don't stop to think at this stage. We are firing all pistons and we are fully immersed. 
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    ART GETS ME HIGH

    Picture

    Author & Artist

    Lewie JPD 
    Blog Mission Statement: 

    "I am taking this opportunity to openly and freely express my simple truth in a relaxed, stream of consciousness manner, without self judgment or editing while transcribing and celebrating the process and practice of being an artist.

    My goal is that I will have some fun recording sentiments and thoughts as they come to me, coupled with my recent imagery. As well; to learn something of value and share something that may inspire/offer insight to other artists, creatives and sentient beings."


    Disclaimer: He's high!
    Er, obviously.

    Pass the paint brush!
    *no drugs required

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