HIGH UP IN THE TREES

"That I should have lived to see such a sight!"

{Keeping watch alternate days, there was little to no chance of intrusion. (I)}

{Keeping watch alternate days, there was little to no chance of intrusion. (II) (The view is the coast of Cape Breton near Louisburg. Or is it some place else?}

There was nothing which we could see upon the shore which seemed to me so wonderful as the great sheet of water before us. Our numbers and our noise had frightened all living creatures away, and save for a few pterodactyls, which soared round high above our heads while they waited for the carrion, all was still around the camp. But it was different out upon the rose-tinted waters of the central lake. It boiled and heaved with strange life. Great slate-colored backs and high serrated dorsal fins shot up with a fringe of silver, and then rolled down into the depths again. The sand-banks far out were spotted with uncouth crawling forms, huge turtles, strange saurians, and one great flat creature like a writhing, palpitating mat of black greasy leather, which flopped its way slowly to the lake. Here and there high serpent heads projected out of the water, cutting swiftly through it with a little collar of foam in front, and a long swirling wake behind, rising and falling in graceful, swan-like undulations as they went. It was not until one of these creatures wriggled on to a sand-bank within a few hundred yards of us, and exposed a barrel-shaped body and huge flippers behind the long serpent neck, that Challenger, and Summerlee, who had joined us, broke out into their duet of wonder and admiration.
 
"Plesiosaurus! A fresh-water plesiosaurus!" cried Summerlee. "That I should have lived to see such a sight! We are blessed, my dear Challenger, above all zoologists since the world began!"
 
It was not until the night had fallen, and the fires of our savage allies glowed red in the shadows, that our two men of science could be dragged away from the fascinations of that primeval lake. Even in the darkness as we lay upon the strand, we heard from time to time the snort and plunge of the huge creatures who lived therein.

(The Lost World, Chapter XIV: Those Were the Real Conquests, Arthur Conan Doyle}

A land full of wonderful things.

{My Mum's copy of Alice in Wonderland purchased a few years ago now.}

Alice went down a rabbit hole, and Cilla, in own tale of magical adventure, it seems, went down one too but passed up the half-tragic part. She landed not in land topsy-turvy but in an apartment every inch suited to her needs. Recently, I was able to pay her a call, and Louise took these two photos of her upon my shoulder.

Her paws on her oars are dipped in perpetual golden afternoon, there is no doubt.




{Cilla, so nice to have known you.}

(My own copy of Carroll's  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is one that features thirteen colourplate illustrations by Arthur Rackham.)

For a little spell.

{The banded linsang with tail strong enough to cup the tallest of ships.}


{Keeping on one's toes for the reasons obvious.}


{At least this one was safe.}

Leaving you in the hands of some scheduled posts littered with new postcard collages while I take a little break from blogging. I hope you don’t mind; I didn’t want to miss chance to give these sporadic typed thoughts (previously left to languish in drafts) and recent paper creations an airing.

+ (But before I vanish) trying own hand at Pinterest
+ Insect collages

Strolling.

{The entrance to le Musée Boucher de Perthes had one notable difference to all others, though some could not tell what this was, even after all these years.}


{In plain sight of all those in office, the lesser malay chevrotan hoped luck was on her side.}


{An aquarium such as this was easy to get used to. (The name jolthead porgy less so.)}

Walking home in path that affords great view of different houses and gardens, I snake down streets that take me further from my door, my desired final destination. The path the crow flies is not my path on such walks, on such days. I zig one way and zag the other, looking in open windows, admiring the garden settings before them, and conversing quietly with whatever cat or dog on veranda stands guard minding their realm. Walking home, I sighted, today, many signs of spring. Blossoms pink and white, magnolia buds preparing to open or spent and scattered on the ground below, and much blue-flowering rosemary of which I pick a few sprigs for my cooking pot. I spied a blue heeler asleep on a garden seat, a cat grooming herself upon a sunned hay bale, a mosaic wall of broken crockery by an entrance way, and bees encircling lavender in bloom. Some houses were open, others were shut; some were making most of the sunshine, others stood seemingly empty. I never walk quite so much as I do in spring or autumn, and I think of little. I just look. I look about me if sun does not make me squint and blind me to my path, and I note that the days are growing longer.

Ensorcelled.

My Mum realised that the last time she saw The Nutcracker performed (save Graeme Murphy’s beautiful Nutcracker – The Story of Clara) was in the early 80s when she and my Dad took me as a child to the Palais Theatre. I am guessing I sat on their coats folded, to better see the stage. Looking in our family photo album meet scrapbook of memories collected, the blue and white tickets tell me we sat in row R in the stalls. Me, in seat 7, flanked either side by my parents. The year is 1982, a Friday night in October month. The programme tells me we saw a Leonid Kozlov and Valentina Kozlova production, and it comes with a fold-out middle spread illustrating the colourful costumes worn, a large yellow sun at its heart and a small white cat in boots near to a fold.

Looking at this, and at my own drawings drawn sometime afterward, I doubt not that I was enchanted for I was enchanted by last night’s 47th performance of Peter Wright’s The Nutcracker too, as was my Mum, and this was something magical to share. The Arabian dance, the Waltz of the Flowers, the Snow Fairy and her attendants, the four Winds and those Snowflakes, and a snow goose in flight all performed their spell perfect, and reeled us in closer to stage, lifting our feet from their moorings before casting us into the dark quiet night. Nevertheless and best of all, my heart belongs still to the rats who do battle with the soldiers in red coats. What a treat! What a giddy treat from start to finish.




{An early book of mine, held together by a staple now rusted and sticky tape now yellowed. It is twelve double-sided pages in length.}

 

+ Hila’s first post for Behind Ballet, The Australian Ballet’s British roots, is up. (Congratulations to you, Hila.)

+ Thank-you, Camilla, for the kisses.

+ Lizzy's raffle draws nearer.

"Listen Stars light, listen, listen,"

{With tail to catch moon should it fall.}

'tis 'the witching time of night'
Orbed is the Moon and bright
And the Stars they glisten, glisten
Seeming with bright eyes to listen
For what listen they?
For a song and for a charm
See they glisten in alarm
And the Moon is waxing warm
To hear what I shall say.
Moon keep wide thy golden ears
Hearken Stars, and hearken Spheres
Hearken thou eternal Sky
I sing an infant's lullaby
A pretty Lullaby!
Listen, Listen, listen, listen
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten
And hear my lullaby?

...

('Tis the "witching time of night", John Keats)

Louise is off tonight to see Peter Wright’s The Nutcracker, and will fly home, no doubt, on a giant snowy goose. Car be damned! There remain far greater ways to travel. And the view promised: how could such be resisted? I, on other hand, have a night or two to wait until I go and take my seat in the stalls. I am excited, as you would expect, at the thrill forthcoming. Sweet anticipation lives up to the popular name, and is a cocoon I am happy to stay wrapped up in until then. A fuzzy cocoon like fairy floss in texture is what I imagine it would look if it could be seen. A wilderness of tasks remains in state undone about me (as alluded to earlier in the day on twitter). I will get to them by the by, and would have sooner, had I not been having too nice a time of it reacquainting self with scissors, paper and glue. Here, in this post, the fruits of my labour as I wait patiently my turn.

+ Playing Field in closer detail, one more time.

Waiting for you.

{Spotted. On the weekend.}

After class, there he sits, as patient as can be. He is waiting for his master, waiting for his pack. They are in the library, which is very lucky for me for now I get the chance to say hello to the timid creature wrapped up in dog jacket orange and black. Looking at him paw the grass, I am reminded of Wenceslas Hollar’s illustration of the Aesop fable, The Dog and its Reflection.

+ The Book Cover Archive

Hopped about. Once. Swanned about. Now.

{The visit to Deyrolles shop (detail). From artist and author Maria Kalman's beautiful and clever The Principles of Uncertainty. Paris on my mind, and it is a book I am revisiting with considerable joy.}

A visit to Deyrolles shop is one of the things I hope soon to do. Until then, I content my soul by looking at the various winged inhabitants of the lake, making most of the day.

{To swan about.}

Thank-you.

{A small film, Over My Shoulder (IV) is the fourth in my Over My Shoulder series. This time the setting is my parents back garden, and the book, I chanced upon the unexpected and found I liked it, is bound for the State Library of New South Wales.}

Like Kings and Queens of old, we have feasted of late, and it has been every inch of it wonderful. The past few days have been stacked high in favour of good things, and I wish to say thanks for all the birthday cheer shared and the dear messages left or posted by hand (Frips, you are a treasure to remember each year and to send me a drawing). We’ve been to see Halcyon, choreographed by Tim Harbour (as part of the Australian Ballet’s Edge of night programme), and swooned suitably in presence of its brilliance and beauty and strength — those Greek gods! Father’s Day, too, we’ve celebrated with Turkish delight, honeyed nougat, and Sienna cake, and forget not spring’s arrival. Seven days in, spring is a favourite time of year. Handwritten lines from a tale of the sea (Shakespeare’s The Tempest) arrive soon after from Hila, and all feels brimming with promise.

Thank-you.

{A little of those past few days}

+ the red shoes
+ Italy in the spring, drawn

Happy, happy birthday!

Happy birthday, dear Gracia. Hope the coming year is a balancing act with imagination on one side of the wire and joy on the other.

XO lj

An area of open land.

{Up. Down. Up. From inside and hanging on the gallery walls so white to outside in the gardens. From outside in the gardens to inside and hanging on the gallery walls so white. The ups and the downs of it all. This Saturday is the last day of Playing Field. The show closes on the the 4th of September.}

Sleep. The land beyond you is not round.
It is merely long, with various dip and mound,
its ups and downs. Far longer is the sea.
At times, like a wrinkled forehead, it displays
a rolling wave. And longer still than these
is the strand of matching beads of countless days;
 
Joseph Brodsky, Lullaby of Cape Cod [For A.B. ] (XII)
1975 Translated by Anthony Hecht from A Part of Speech

”Sleep. The land beyond you is not round” we have written in pencil in our recent artists’ book, Sleeping during the day. Exhibited as part of Playing Field, edition two of ten of this book is now in the hands of the State Library of Victoria, and the third is soon weaving pathway direct to the shelves of Melbourne University Library’s collection. Each edition of the book features two unique collages inlaid into their hand-cut paper frames, a plus symbol at the book’s beginning, and a triangle at its end. One collaged beginning features a detail of a fresco on the walls of the Tomb of the Lionesses in Tarquinia as its base, whilst another calls upon the aid of a fifteenth-century Persian miniature depicting two men riding horseback and a curious green frog clinging to the saddle of one. A busy corner of Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthy Delights forms the backdrop in another where the new addition somewhat harder to find. And we’ve added own feathered character to a tiny section of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in another edition. In the edition exhibited at Craft Victoria, a Japanese scene is clear if you squint and believe it so.

+ This weekend sees Playing Field draw to a close. If you are nearby, you may wish to pop in and catch it.

+ A forthcoming workshop (B2B: Collage)
+ so much goodness (in Thereza's hands)
+ We are dreaming of the sea (in Kate's hands)