high up in the trees

A wise companion.

{One too many.}

Omar likes to follow me around the house. From lounge room to bedroom to bathroom to kitchen, he follows me. Often a few paces behind, near to my side as if glued there, a very vocal companion is my Siamese cat.

Post trip to the dentist, to have plaque scraped from the teeth (my teeth, not my cat's), he desires me to make myself comfortable not by the computer but in the warmer room where the washing hangs by the bar heater. Autumn is nearing and we are making cosy nooks in every room of the house. Blankets have come out of cupboards and herbal teas are prepared and enjoyed in the evening where once we feasted upon pineapple pieces. Farewell summer, here comes autumn.

And so I must obey, for he protests loudly, and arrange my limbs in a cross-legged position on the couch with springs that lie on the floor. There I can cut out future collage pieces as he sits in a tight ball formation on my lap.

Tomorrow those wooden animals with an appetite for zines are to be removed from the cabinet they have called home for the month of February. We’ll unpin the two large drawings and box up our animals for the journey home. It is always best to have something new simmering quietly on the stove when an exhibition draws to a close. A night spent cutting out tricky paper forms is just what I need. My Omar, he is wise.

{It really was true, you could, for a time, count upon the kindness of strangers.}

(Today's collaged photochrome lands show you Niagara Falls, as seen from the Canadian side, and Sinaia, Romania. The tree house was the Crown Prince Charles of Hohenzollern's hideaway near to the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains... as that was some time ago, new inhabitants have since moved in.)

(To all those seeking to continue your journey from the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, how does the Arctic region sound to you? Louise has a new zine out, Before it's too late, and it features seals in repose. What sight could possibly be better? You'll find it available both here and here. Those first in my find themselves rewarded with a little something extra.)

(To all those dear souls who shared their neighbourly woes and grumbles, thank you. To Brydie especially, the news of a possible six month lease is sweet music to the ears.)

Sleepy.

{I was hoping they would leave soon.}

Sometimes, when nearby neighbours are having a loud and raucous party, I feel like an old maid. And whilst I know I am neither old nor a maid, I still feel like one upon such occasions.

3am last Friday evening found me with a frown upon my face as my new next door neighbours both warmed their house and celebrated a birthday. A brick wall between us that seemed to become thinner by the minute, they sung, they stomped, they yelled, and they played the guitar, badly. Our adjoining wall may well have been a sheet for all the noise it kept out. I sat on the couch with pets about my person, nestled in a hand-knitted rug, longing for sleep or a little quietness so as to read or do anything other than glower in the direction of the merry revellers through our now ridiculously thin connecting wall.

Much squealing, much yelping, much jumping, much running and much singing continued to be heard until I finally dozed off and buried myself in an anxiety-riddled dream world.

It gladdened my heart the next day to read Kate Holden’s piece about her own Neighbours of Noise (NB neighbourhood hoods: I’m craving a little peace of the action) in the A2. Knowing others feel the same, and endure the same small irritations proved the medicine I was after upon returning home, post yoga class. I no longer wished to send the VB stubbie resting half full on the brick fence sailing in the direction of their front window. Sleep deprivation can make me feel all manner of things, and I would never normally desire to send a bottle flying towards a window with the intention of hearing it smash against the glass. Such thoughts, as well as appalling me, remind me of a Russian animation watched recently. Directed by Fyodor Khitruk, Story of One Crime (1962) tells eloquently the story of one man (a man deprived of a good nights sleep, we later find out) who commits a wrong against a fellow neighbour screeching loudly in conversation in a communal courtyard. The hands of the clock wind back and we see the day and the night that preceded, from domestic squabbles to late night revellers, and two young lovers communicating to one another through a series of taps on the pipes that snake through the building. So much disruption and so much noise, it is no wonder at all that the woman with the jackal-like cackle proves too much to bear. Best not to judge too harshly the thoughts and actions of someone who longs for a little peace and quiet, don’t you agree?

Off for a catnap I go.

(Thank you for your kind and encouraging comments left on the previous post, they meant a great deal to me and I hope to reply to them shortly.)

(In the collage above you can see Swedish engineer Salomon August Andrée's attempt to reach the geographic North Pole by balloon. The balloon remained visible for an hour as it headed north before disappearing completely from view, never to return.)

A quiet Thursday finds me happy.

{The first coffee of the day.}

A new, favourite way to start the day is having my coffee at a table recently moved under the window to catch the end of summer light. Sitting in the wooden Captain’s chair, I can tuck my feet up underneath myself and sit cross-legged before the table. An embroidered Hungarian pillow resting at the small of my back, a warm cup in my hands and a day free of rules, appointments and plans.

These mornings are my favourite quiet mornings. With the front door ajar so that the sounds of the street can filter through the house, with cats falling back to long slumber, and with the phone silent. Such mornings are to be savoured, relished and lapped up whole. I may have many things to do but the order in which I choose to tackle them is all my own. I am free to start one task and move onto the next when I see fit. Days free of structure, days that evolve as they please, such carefree days I hold dear.

{With a black and white shadow.}

This is perhaps, mused my Mum, why I enjoy my characters in the books I read to be nomads, roamers, and people free to govern their own schedule. Arvid (In the Wake) annoyed my Mum no end as he lay in the Norwegian snow, his feet resting against a tree trunk to stop from sliding. To me, being at liberty to lie on the ground and think of nothing seemed little short of wonderful.

I lie down again with my back in the pine needles, and it feels good to breathe the ice-cold air. I look up between the tree trunks to the sky, which is completely clear and full of stars, and it slowly turns around, the whole world turns slowly around and is a huge, empty space. Silence is everywhere, and there is nothing between me and the stars, and when I try to think of something, I think of nothing. I close my eyes and smile to myself.

Inspector Salvo Montalbano’s independent, cavalier ways irked my Mum just a little. And Zoli, as she set about finding her way to a new home, annoyed her also. I, on the other hand, responded to such characters differently.

All three of us, as we sat yesterday and sewed and stuffed linen birds for a hammer & daisy order, Louise included, agreed that we wouldn’t particularly like to meet the Radlett's (The Pursuit of Love, post Songdogs, is the next book Louise has on her list of reads), nor Brontë’s Jane Eyre (which my Mum is currently re-reading, a tattered copy borrowed from the library), nor a whole host of other characters drawn from the page for that matter. In reality, Hercule would find me a mess, and Philip Kerr’s Bernie Gunther would find me a poor companion to walk the streets of 1930s Berlin, but I fear I’ve lost my train of thought with this, as I so often do.

{Polar bears above the fireplace.}

In my day to day, and in the imagined life I lead through books, I like my options open. I like characters to take me where I cannot go myself, and to places I’ve yet to see. I like them to do unexpected things, and I like them to lie in the snow until they are near to freezing.

I don’t like to be locked in. I like windows flung high. I like very much my relaxed home life with its people, animals and things. I love this little sanctuary from which I am free to explore, and I am looking forward to spending my Thursday at home, all the long day and night doing as I please.

"The Mole had been working very hard all the morning..."

{It turns out it wasn’t that cumbersome after all.}

I spent the majority of my Sunday rearranging furniture. Hauling shelving, rotating a queen-size bed from one side of the room to the other, sliding large folios of prints and drawings and books to be bound, wiping dusty skirting boards, vacuuming newly cleared surfaces, piling high towers of floor pillows and everyday essential non-essentials, heaving small tables and pushing semi-full bookshelves from one room to the next (no need to empty all the shelves when you could push and strain and leave tracks on the carpeted floor). All done so that a working table sits beneath a window in both studio and bedroom, and who doesn’t desire a change in preference to cleaning and shuffling and organising as per usual?

This morning I have a stiff lower back and achy sides. And to show for the hard work and the juggling of furniture (narrow hallways and small doorframes make for Tetris-inspired moves), I have a mini mountain of stuff in each room that I have yet to find a spot for. A water bottle, a pair of rolled socks that fell behind the dressing table, fur-covered cat toys once lost, magazines, short pencils loved to near-tip existence, a box of matches mostly spent, business cards, notes on paper, notes in books, receipts, photographs, an empty box that once contained a vial of perfumed oil… all of those things for the most part destined for the bin, the shelf or the washbasin. The end result always worth it and the clutter seems more organised and more willing to help me set to work.

A new space to work in always appeals to me. Procrastinating always appeals to me.

Best hop back to it. Happy Monday, friends.

(With a title pulled from the very first line in Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows...The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and step and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms.)

Soaked in good things.

Many a good and inspiring thing has crossed my path this week but the beautiful black and white visuals and still-life compositions gleaned in Szerlem (Love), a film by Hungarian director Károly Makk, set in 1953, when Hungary was under the totalitarian rule of Mátyás Rákosi, remain in number one spot. Such a visual delight, it has proven hard to shake and that can only be a good thing.

Masters of Russian Animation (Volume One) and It's Winter (Zemastan), a film written and directed by the Iranian filmmaker Rafi Pitts, completed the bill, their costly dvd rental leaving me with a hole in my pocket that was well worth it for the experience.

A red, foil-wrapped love heart with my coffee yesterday was also something to be enjoyed.

{Been & gone.}

{A smidgen, just a smidgen, of brilliant colour received from ...}

A folded concertina returns no longer bare. Colour front and colour back, and sitting now on the glass cabinet alongside two birds of brightly coloured plumage.

{A patchwork pillow, all warm and delightful and handsome and mine, received from ...}

A lucky thing, a patchwork marvel, sent and received a little while back from Fanja (Le Train Fantôme) with love. It is a beauty, don't you think? And with autumn fast approaching, its cosy warmth is appreciated and timely.

An exhibition about to open (Andrea Tachezy).

People, Places, Animals (a survey of Richard Billingham's work at the acca).

A visually beautiful sign (una merienda, por favor).

A key in my hand, to open a door (paulailustradora).

A blue-grey hare in need of varnish.

How far €10 will stretch and fleeting images (::fleeting::).

On the cusp of the weekend, what good things have you seen?

An otter's den is called a holt.

{Two black pebbles through which to see the world anew.}

Standing by the small-clawed Asian otters on Louise’s 32nd birthday, I received some good news, my book, Find Your Place, was acquired by Artspace Mackay for their collection. It seemed such a fitting place to receive such news and to be elated, surprised and bowled over in such good, pebble-polishing, mussel-eating company (the otters that is, not Louise & co). Unexpected good things always know just when to make themselves known, don’t you find?

{On a bright afternoon...}

{...the sun highlighted many small things.}

+ The Daily Nice, Jason Evans.
+ Steven Guarnaccia's sixteen pages for Un Sedicesimo.
+ Alexandra Hedberg.
+ Ungt Blod, Mette Koldkjær Højlund.
+ Twenty-Six Types Of Animals (including the otter).

Stars.

Feeling quiet and short of words today. Here, in place of text, I offer you three new collages.

Catching what falls freely I, II and III, I hope they inspire you to attempt similar today; look up and explore your surroundings.

{Catching what falls freely (View I)}

{Catching what falls freely (View II)}

{Catching what falls freely (View III)}

Hold that position.

{A cat with inky and irregular spots. (Please click to see a little larger.)}

You viewed the menagerie in the green grass yesterday and today I have assembled them for you once more. This time they are at Platform and somewhere along the line the colour vanished (I opted for B&W due to unforgiving fluorescent light above). The animals, all twenty-one, are in their new home until the cabinet doors are reopened on the 29th and they are released, free to roam once more.

{As they appear behind glass.}

We installed the animals over the weekend in a single cabinet in a subway built especially in 1956 for the Melbourne Olympic Games. Beneath two of Louise’s large and beautiful watercolour drawings they sit, all white with inky hand-drawn fur and bristles. When out and about it is always advisable to have something to read about your person; our wooden animals have a selection of zines to keep them amused.

A single copy of each zine created to date, save the very first one, Is there kunst in the house - how to get by on 4€ a day (made in collaboration with Gaby Bila-Günther, in 2002, this zine still holds dear and thinking of it now I am reminded of a fleeting, madcap visit to Budapest… an adventure where good friendships were made, and a few crumbled as well), as we only have one remaining between us. A copy of Three in the Kitchen, made in collaboration with Shari, rests beneath a bear’s paw, if memory serves, and a new zine, soon to be released, by Louise, Before it’s too late, makes its debut near to a turtle, the smallest animal in the group.

{Can you see a copy of Before it's too late? A line of familiar lights perhaps?}

So happy to be able to share this with you all and to hear that you enjoyed the photos in the previous post. Enjoy the evening ahead.

Something to show you.

Having woken earlier from slumber than I feel I ought (in my dream existence I was madly attending, seemingly in vain, to a largely abundant and unruly veggie patch… best to rise, wouldn’t you agree? I would have been there all morning, with my face pushed hard against the pillow, straightening tarnished crops to the background sounds of a new road being laid out the front of our house), I am sitting here tappity-tapping at the keys. As workmen resurface a road once littered with potholes with a coat of black, hot bitumen, what better time than this could there be to share with you several photographs of our work for Secrets of the Photocopier?

Taken in the nearby gardens prior to a weekend that, as weekends oft do, hurtled by and left me wanting more, here are twenty-one wooden animals pre installation at platform.

{Louise ensures a tiny beaver stands upright in the green grass.}

{A merry procession all facing left, a short hop, skip, jump away from the Shrine of Remembrance.}

{A bat in my hand, and Louise curls around a tree in order to hold a squirrel in place.}

These animals can currently be seen with zines underfoot in a cabinet beneath the ground, in a subway that leads primarily to the main train station.

Pop along and see them in their new home. The exhibition is open from today right through until the 29th of this month. Better still, pop along to the opening and introduce yourself.

Platform
Degraves Street Subway, Melbourne
Saturday the 9th of February
at 3pm

(Seems I neglected to hit publish now... here is a post penned in the morning and posted in the late afternoon. It should make little difference to you as you read it.)