HIGH UP IN THE TREES

Delight.

{Holding a copy of Kerstin Svendsen's From Orchards, Fields and Gardens in own hands. You can see Anna Emilia Laitnen's Garden House on the cover, Shari Altman's Black seeded simpson photograph (and words on the page), Gwen Shlichta's autumn apples polaroid photograph and Sarah Ruben's Toast and Pear, October 2008 polaroid photograph.}

Recalled.
It is the layout I remember first, the long passageways created. When I think of my grandparents’ garden in St Arnaud, it is a garden laid out in three long rows, allowing you to walk the length of the bed from either side, picking peas or hoeing turnips. A grapevine that ran the length of the three sides framed the garden whole, a neat belt to its green corridors. It may not have been so. It may not have been quite so long. For that you will have my memory to take. I recall it thus; it was thus. Memory is not for the factual reliance when it comes to any book stored in the mind.

There was sun suspended perpetually high above. There were plants taller than my height of five years lived, stretching the length of their wooden stakes, giving all the appearance of puppets pulled from high. Green beans grew and strawberries could be surreptitiously picked by hand. There were no leaves brown or laced with holes. It was an immaculate functioning garden, and it belonged to Frank and Thelma. By their hand, it flourished. Cauliflower, carrot, potato, and tomato, they were all there; vegetable peel from the kitchen, and tealeaves, too, a composting role to play.

Garden and house divided by expanse of concrete, hot underfoot, before tunnel entrance to green growth. Through the garden I roamed (though in truth I expect this was more of a bewildered child’s shuffle), with a Siamese cat in tow. No, it was I following the cat. Ming or Dixie, perhaps both. There was produce I know not the name of, and flowers, too, jonquils yellow. Beetroot, pumpkin, silverbeet, rhubarb, cabbage, onion, turnip, and swede (rutabaga), my mum later tells me, all grew. Nothing fancy, everything simple. However, most of all I recall the smell of the tomato plants in late summer. It remains a still favourite scent. I pick a leaf, crush it in my palm, and then hold it to my nose, the aroma freshly trapped. I did this then. I do this now, though perhaps with greater finesse and dexterity.

For the rest, and other contributions, you'll have to read the book.

+ Order a copy for yourself.

{Our two collaborative collages, A fantastical garden of the mind and They had constructed their own garden from what they had, and my written piece Recalled, printed and bound in book form. What a thrill!}

+ How it looks in the hands of others.

Often near to a house.

{A fantastical garden of the mind. (A collage by Louise and me especially for From Orchards, Fields and Gardens)}

The completion of one thing and the arrival of another have made for a week coloured by general elation. A tall fence 2.1 metres high is now in place, and no huffing and puffing by party of wolves could see its demise. To me, it is a fortress-like structure of immense beauty. It is high, it has granted us great privacy, and it is straight.

 

Now we can have the curtains drawn back at twilight, the blinds open wide as fixings allow, and we can see the fruit bats make gloaming pilgrimage, threading their way across the sky. In fact, the house, even at tail end of winter, is flooded with welcome light all the day long, and Misha is, you’ll be pleased to know, in her element. Ten minutes after fence was complete and the spare, sinewy man who erected it gone, she popped down from safe roost and has been one quiet and domesticated puss ever since.

{Photograph taken Easter, 1979, in St Arnaud with Dixie. I am almost four years of age.}

The other ‘thing’ alluded to as a bringer of joy is the arrival of From Orchards, Fields, and Gardens: Art and rememberings celebrating sustainable agriculture and good food compiled and edited by the marvelously clever Kerstin Svendsen. It is so very exciting, so very thrilling, to hold in own hands a copy of this book which features a written piece by me and two collaborative collage works made with Louise on theme of garden green. It is a beautiful publication that also features words by David Szlasa, Gwen Shlichta, Katrina Rodabaugh, Kerstin Svendsen, Laura Olive Sackton, Mary Kathryn Wyle, Molly Sutton Kiefer, Shakirah Simley, Shari Altman and Tamara Sarina Martínez. And it features artwork made especially for it by Abby Powell Thompson, Anna Emilia Laitinen, Camilla Engman, Heather Smith Jones, Jill Bliss, Lena Sjöberg, Mati Rose McDonough, Maxwell Holyoke-Hirsch, Yu-I Chan, and others.

Soon I will take photos of the actual book for you to see (and of Dear Dad too) but for now, I just want to sit and savour it and slowly read it (just as Louise is doing).

(Thanks, Shash. It is a very great book.)

A proven to be unfailing guide.

{Mickey proved no Oily Bird but clever mouse and the scene it played as expected, at ten minutes to two.}

There is a beautiful description in Little Dorrit of Mrs Plornish’s father as an old man “timidly threading his way to the town-mouse’s lodging through a city of cats”. It is one of many I have marked in my increasingly dog-eared copy.

Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be supposed to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the Heavens dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a spark), creeping along a sacred air, as though bewildered and a little frightened by the noise and bustle.
(Chapter XXXI, Spirit)

Noise and bustle describe aptly these past few days as a new fence some twenty metres in length is erected in the back garden between our neighbours and our selves. The old tilted fence has been demolished and in its place are eight tall red gum poles and an orange string line. Soon the pales will be in place, I hope, soon. After a long night consoling the inconsolable, I am hoping this is soon. Misha bellowed repeatedly as though expelling all air. A mournful sound, over and over, it was the sound of a wild thing caught indoors and it nearly tore my heart in two.

Noise and bustle, all noise and bustle have these recent days been. It describes the tail end of a winter that seems to have caught me unawares; it is a pace ferocious. The Melbourne Launch of Dear Dad is more than forthcoming; it’s very near here. Pop along on Tuesday the 24th of August to The Wheeler Centre at 11am to dip toe in poetry waters. (For those in Sydney, there is to be a launch there too, on Saturday the 4th of September at the Rex Centre at 10am.)

See you at the launch, and until then I wish you some quiet time.
 
(Misha is, to those who do not know, a cat abandoned by her previous owners. She lives in our back garden, our back garden that at present resembles a small construction site.)

{The gramophone crackled, the little pig swept, and the road it was lined with aloes.}

{Day and night, night and day, Robinson Crusoe proved an unfailing guide.}

{Dashiell Hammett's Thin Man leads us neatly to the Grotto of Lacroma (where Richard the Lionheart found refuge).}

 

In addition to the cover, these four collages feature in Dear Dad, and are our collaborative response to the theme set. There is a Mickey Mouse watch in there for my Dad, a handsome white car for Louise's Dad, and plenty of references to films from the 30s and 40s watched and story books read.

A band of rare creatures.

{Playing Field opening night. In the foreground, you can see my next-door neighbour; in the blur, you can see me. (The exhibition is a part of Craft Victoria's annual festival Craft Cubed.)}

Openings are curious things. They pass quite quickly. They involve the pouring and subsequent swilling of wine. They involve speeches preferably economic in length. They involve crowds passing through, with luck, you hope. They see faces flush, shoulders brush, and some require the wearing of masks. Some become a colourful carousel and whirl about at speed. Yes, they pass quite quickly, in the blink of an eye. 8pm, all done. Hurrah! Rinse the glasses, turn out the lights, and head for home.

 

Here are scenes harvested not by me but by Lily for Craft Victoria. I thought you would like to see them. You can see a little of our new artists’ book, Sleeping during the day, in some, and should you not be tired of talk of this group exhibition, Louise and I will share further photos of our own soon.

{All photos from the opening by Lily Feng for Craft Victoria.}

+ Photos of the artwork in the exhibition, including ours, can be seen here.

+ There remains only a handful of Red Fox Return greeting cards. You can find them listed here.

"That's the way of all things," said Milton.

{Moving forward in the way of all things, made especially for our part in Playing Field.}

Cilla is in the pocket of the poets. A new home has been found for her finally, and it was worth the wait. The other day, we drove her to her new home where the streets they are named after poets — Tennyson, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, Cowper, Milton — in a suburb believed to be named after Quaker poet Thomas Elwood, and it felt, it feels, the perfect fit for a chinchilla of senior years. That she now lives in a good home with its good owner, its very good owner, in a good place, in a place that resembles, in part, a tree house (owing to its lofty green tree canopy view) has made it all the easier for me. I miss her, yes, but she has a better home than I could have provided. She is the queen in a one cat home. Moreover, she has poets, a slew of them, on her doorstep.

{Taking the long way.}

+ Playing Field catalogue essay.
+ "Perhaps, like the collaborative duo Gracia Haby and Louise Jennison, you could unbridle your imagination and create endless fantasy worlds in which multi-coloured fish fly." (From the essay This is something that happens by Phip Murray for Playing Field)
+ Plus, in gallery three: I'll Show You My Craft If You Show Me Yours (part I)

+ Thanks, Beck.

Repeat.

{With Dixie. Long ago.}

It has been a day of interviews of two different kinds and I have the feeling I have spoken a great deal about myself. One was a radio interview for the Dear Dad poetry publication and the other was seeing this interview published on the Inside Out blog.

Were you creative when you were a kid?

Gracia Haby and Louise Jennison: We both were — like many, like all — creative as kids. We drew constantly, making up fantastical worlds populated entirely by mice (me) or of some weird invention, building or place (Louise). Louise tells me she would build enormous villages from Lego, with her brother Gordon, that covered the entire floor. I, when not drawing, spent time sewing costumes for toys and making creatures from felt and wool.

When you were given this theme of ‘childhood and playtime’ for the exhibition, did you draw on your own past or did you look on the childhood of kids you currently know as inspiration?

We drew largely upon our own, before sprinkling the dish — the various collage pieces — with red herrings, added to taste. There are elements drawn directly from both actual childhood days and elements selected for similarity in feel.

There is a tiny white rabbit seated at a table surrounded by three foxes eager to know him better (in our print Tiny as a soul, there comes the rabbit), and there is a girl riding an ostrich through Venice (in our print Moving forward in the way of all things). These are all the kinds of scenarios one dreams up as a child. These are all the kind of scenarios one, equally, dreams up today.

There are French-speaking animals throughout, characters from the Ballet Russes, and in one work, There are cities one will not see again, new cities that resemble both Cairo and Brittany are entwined together. In our new artists’ book, Sleeping during the day, there are hares and rabbits and seahorses escaping as — in the distance — a volcano erupts, and Neptune enters the room by way of a passageway concealed as a fireplace. There are collaged elements from books we read as children and characters from an Aesop fable as illustrated by Arthur Rackham. There is Tom Thumb in there, too. It is fun to dream up these scenarios, to make anything possible, to move our characters about on a giant paper stage.

What’s one thing about childhood that you’re not nostalgic about at all?

Looking back, it all reads well — though I do not miss dragging my guitar along the ground as I walked to school, consequently wearing a large hole in its base. Nor do I miss playing team sports. Louise does not miss being encouraged to eat certain foods at teatime — brussel sprouts and spinach being the main offenders. Nor does she miss having to keep a tidy room.

(Should the above seem familiar, it no doubt is. Collaboration can be like that.)

(Meet some of the artists featured in Playing Field, Craft Cubed’s childhood-inspired exhibition. Thanks, Lee Tran.)

{There are cities one will not see again en route to the gallery wall.}

MIFF, it's been grand.

{Those which make up the last: The Woman with the Five Elephants, The Mouth of the Wolf, Lola, To Die Like a Man, The Wind Journeys, Honey, In the Attic: Who Has a Birthday Today, Certified Copy, and Kôji Wakamatsu’s Caterpillar.}

In nineteen days, I have seen twenty-eight films. I have sat in five different cinemas and watched 2,739 minutes of film which is equal to 45.65 hours of footage. I have traveled to parts of Turkey, Columbia, Manilla, Japan, Ukraine, Iran and more, and now, this Monday evening, I am bereft that all is over for another year. I have followed in the forest a small boy and his father, and watched them as they gathered honey from hives high in the trees (Semih Kaplanoğlu's Honey). I have journeyed across Columbia on a grey donkey and wished I were a juglar, too, destined to play accordion for all my days remaining (Ciro Guerra’s The Wind Journeys). I have listened to the art of translation, transfixed —  "One cannot exhaust an excellent text, and that is probably the sign of the most superb quality.” (Vadim Jendreyko’s The Woman with the Five Elephants) — and I have delighted at the stop-motion marvel of a world drawn with reclaimed items lying in an attic (In the Attic: Who Has a Birthday Today). Provided with more than a chance to see things as others do, but to feel things as others do, and this, for me, is the beauty of a good film, of a good book too. With the heart loaned from a prisoner now free and acquainting self with streets no longer familiar, I saw a Genoa I am unlikely to see when next I travel overseas (In the Mouth of the Wolf). Through vintage footage spliced with that of today, I was privy to an intimate love story.

 

I miss already not traipsing from ACMI across to the Forum and then up to Greater Union. I miss sweet snacks shared with friends as we waited for the next session to commence. I miss watching the endless procession of people as I queued.

 

In no particular order, my five favourite films seen this year have been Women Without Men, Honey, Jiří Barta’s In the Attic: Who Has a Birthday Today, Border, and The Wind Journeys. With Street Days, The Woman with the Five Elephants, La Danse: Paris Opera Ballet and Jan Hřebejk’s Kawasaki’s Rose very close by.

"This is the story of a journey," Ciro Guerra begins. "A journey towards the beginning, towards the spirit. Towards our soul. For centuries, we’ve asked ourselves: What keeps up apart? Now it is time to ask what brings us together." (The Wind Journeys)

Thank you, MIFF; it's been swell. See you next year.

+ Thank you, Ritva.

Abuzz.

{One of five framed prints you can see in the group exhibition Playing Field. This piece has been reworked with both colour pencil and collage, and the show it opens tonight.}

Sandwiched willingly between those things that need doing (the domestic chores of washing and cleaning) and other exciting commitments (the binding by hand of 500 poetry books for the APC, and the finishing touches to our work for Playing Field), my festival days roll on. A cold never came, thankfully, and since last I stopped by this cave wallpapered with film stills, I have new ones to add. I have seen several more films, some brilliant, some, naturally, less so. I will paste them here, alongside those that preceded, so that come next week I will remember them in full glory still.

Two links to share before I depart.

+ “Armed with antique magnifying glasses and donning stylish vintage trench coats, Gracia and Louise elegantly traverse Moroccan souks, Icelandic seas, derelict natural history museums and tiger-filled jungles gathering inspiration for their artists’ books, zines, prints and postcards…” is a charming visual painted that made us both smile ear to ear. Thank you.

+ From Orchards, Fields, and Gardens: Art and rememberings celebrating sustainable agriculture and good food is a book Louise and I am a part of, and am exceedingly happy that this is the case. (More on this soon, I promise.)

From Orchards, Fields, and Gardens features writing from 11 authors, and photos and illustrations from 21 artists. The authors remember activities, people, and places that shape(d) their appreciation for small scale food production and processing. Beginner small scale farmers, a young jam making entrepreneur, a scientist, poets, and artists recollect exploring grandparents’ gardens, gleaning walnuts from a walnut orchard, studying honeybee colony collapse disorder, planting garlic, and more.

More later, for I’ve an opening to attend and a trench coat to lay my hands on.

{Women Without Men, La Danse, The Portuguese Nun, The Ghost Writer and Margreth Olin’s fiction debut, The Angel, equal a further five films seen. Scenes from both Shirin Neshat's brilliant Women Without Men and Frederick Wiseman's beautiful La Danse: Paris Opera Ballet still play in my mind. See them both if you can. Do.}