Emily Kam Kngwarray exhibition

Untitled, 1990, Emily Kam Kngwarray

A visit to view Emily Kam Kngwarray’s works at the National Gallery provoked much thought about how Western eyes view Aboriginal art. I freely admit that I have no training or understanding of how to view art, nor do I understand the desert culture from where the artwork originated.

Kngwarray was an eminent contemporary 20th century painter, whose work has paved the way for many other Indigenous women to engage in making art. Her career only spanned eight years but, in that time, she created a huge number of significant paintings and batiks which depict Dreamtime stories of which she was a custodian, and she also painted her Country around Utopia. Many of her paintings depict yam and emu dreaming, seasons and the contours of her land.

The sheer magnitude of her paintings amazed me. Her most famous one, titled ‘Earth’s Creation’, is 2.7m high and 6.3m wide. It takes up the length of a wall in the gallery. This painting is mesmerising and awe-inspiring. It fetched over $1,000 000 at an art auction in 2007. From my readings about her, what makes her unique and celebrated is not just the sheer size of her canvases but the range of different styles she employed as well as her layering technique using a cornucopia of colours, which is quite different to other Aboriginal art. Some art critics consider her to be on par with Monet, which begs the question why she has to be compared to a French male artist to establish her importance.

I couldn’t help wondering about this old woman who took up painting in later years. Besides the joy of painting and having her work exhibited in many countries, how did the work and fame benefit her and her community? How did she feel about having her work taken out of Utopia, stretched, mounted, and displayed in galleries where only the privileged can view them?

The artists would have produced these paintings with the canvas lying on the ground. Kngwarray may have kneeled on and maybe even walked upon her paintings. To reach the spaces in the center of the canvas, she would have touched them all over. Now, they are hung in a gallery with security guards ensuring that nobody comes anywhere near her works. How did she feel about this? Alienated? Are we viewing Aboriginal art, which most of us don’t really understand, how white people once viewed First Nations people as ‘noble savages’, curios there for our entertainment? I have no answers to my questions, only a sense of discomfiture as I view these pieces out of context.

I understand Kgnwarray’s importance as the first female painter to be recognised in an art movement that was dominated by men and the path she created for other women to follow in her footsteps. I can also see the significant benefit of recognising the value of First Nations artists and the great potential it offers to make a livelihood. And yet.

Perhaps one appeal of an exhibition like this one is the multitude of questions it raises for each of us to consider, regardless of the conclusions we may reach.

Flat packs

Instructions, screws and tools.

Moving house is detrimental to writing. In my spare time I have been carrying box after box up thirteen stairs, unpacking each of them, flattening the cardboard and taking that down to the stairs to the garage. At one point, I was wading through thigh deep cardboard to get to my letterbox.

The contents of the boxes all had to be distributed somewhere. I realised very quickly that my books would not fit in the number of shelves I had brought with me. A lovely large bookcase I wanted in the bedroom didn’t make it through the door and had to be manoeuvred back down. Another required four people to lift it over the balustrade to make it into the lounge room.

To avoid further such pitfalls, I joined the rest of today’s consumers and began to buy flatpack furniture. As there is only one of me, yet always two people indicated on the assembly instructions, it took me at least twice, if not thrice as long to get the job done. The items from the Swedish furniture giant were the easiest to assemble but didn’t always have all the bits needed. The assembly instructions from some of the smaller companies ranged from woeful to abysmal.

One set of shelves came with three screws to attach each shelf, but only two pre-drilled holes. That confused me for a while until I realised it was them and not me who had made the mistake. Left and right weren’t shown, yet required opposite pieces, holes were too large or too small to hold screws and the Allen keys provided were too short to do a complete turn.

My favourite piece, a rotating bookshelf, came with instructions in only Chinese. The pictures were miniscule and gave nothing away. Then, the QR code took me to a non-existent website, but I didn’t give up. The first set of shelves took me two and a half hours to put together, the second about an hour. Who would have ever thought that a battery drill would become a girl’s best friend?

I have finished putting all the pieces of furniture together now. I’m already beginning to forget some of the pain of crawling on the floor, trying to line up screws with pre-drilled holes, dropping Allen keys and losing my sanity, but not my dogged determination to get the job done. For now, the drill is resting in the dark recesses of a cupboard. Until next time…

Palm Sunday 2024

Living back in a city where everything is close by, reminds me of my twenties when I was much more politically active. Today, especially, felt like an echo from my youth when regularly I attended rallies.

I was away for the weekend but woke up super early to drive three hours to get back to Canberra in time to meet up with my friend Lizzie. She was here for a couple of days and about to head back home.

I picked her up from a far-flung suburb and we drove back to the city for lunch. We also decided to attend the Palm Sunday rally together, the theme of which was Justice for Refugees. Lizzie, like me, has a strong moral compass. In my case, it has come from lived experience. Both my parents were refugees who didn’t have passports or permanent residency status in the many countries where they had lived. As a result, I was born stateless and remained so until I took on Australian citizenship at 18.

I am glad we arrived in Australia in a different era when governments of both persuasions still adhered to the 1951 Refugee Convention. I am also glad that I had the foresight to take up citizenship so that I cannot be deported, as many people in situations not dissimilar to mine have been.

I am ashamed of Australia’s treatment of refugees, many who are left locked up for years as they await the outcome of their applications. The longest held refugee has been in detention for 16 years! As I read of past atrocities where governments have had to apologise and sometimes pay compensation, I wonder how future Australians will look back on these inhumane practices.

I know that attending a rally won’t change the policies of the government, but I refuse to stay silent. I never want to be counted as someone who stood by and was complicit or worse, simply didn’t care. My voice runs counter to the fear campaigns and injustices that successive governments have committed. And my voice, however small, will continue to demand fairness and dignity for all.

Haig Park – Canberra

One of the enjoyable aspects of moving to a new city is discovering what others take for granted. Since moving into my daughter’s unit in Braddon while my place undergoes a facelift, I’m seeing this suburb with fresh eyes.

As a visitor, I had been to Haig Park several times, usually to visit the Sunday morning markets. Now that I live across the road, I have quite a different relationship with it. As I need to take my dog down several times a day to do her business, the park is perfect for a quick comfort stop or a longer run off leash. We have met several dogs and their owners, some chatty, others rather off-hand. Humans that is, never the dogs.

The park has a rather curious design. It runs the length of two suburbs and is 1780m long. It has 14 rows of trees, planted equidistant from each other, giving it more of a feel of a state forest. The plantings of pine trees reinforce this, although on closer inspection, there are four different species of trees which all have their own dedicated rows. Where I am, I can see Italian Cypress, Pin Oaks, and Deodar Cedars, but there are also Argyle apple trees and Radiata Pines. The row upon row of trees gives it a rather eerie feel at night, especially as the lighting is virtually non-existent. I certainly wouldn’t venture across it in the dark.

During the day, it is a much friendlier place, although it still feels odd to be walking up and down in straight lines between trees. This made me wonder about the history of the park, as many of the trees are quite old. A little research yielded the answer to its odd design. It was originally planted as a windbreak in 1921 when Braddon and Turner were fledgling suburbs and needed to be protected from the dust and wind battering it from the north. I can’t imagine Braddon being a fledgling suburb as it is now as close as you can get to the centre of the city.

I haven’t explored the Turner side of the park yet. But I have discovered a couple of interesting things at the Braddon end. The first thing I came across were two metal cabinets that are attached to a pole. The cabinets aren’t locked and unfortunately, this means that possums and crows regularly raid the contents and leave them strewn. A notice attached to the top of one of the cabinets describes their purpose. They are there for food donations for anyone in need. Despite the clear instructions to only use it for non-perishable items, people still leave bread that gets eaten by local wildlife. It also makes a mess around the cabinets. It is a shame that great initiatives often have unwanted consequences.

A little further across the park, I came across a labyrinth. This was an unexpected delight. Unlike other labyrinths I have walked, this one is in the shape of a hand. It is called the Ngala labyrinth. Ngala is the Ngunnawal word for tree. At first, I thought it looked a little too simple compared to the Chartres design. However, walking the labyrinth, I discovered its own beauty. The centre is within the palm, which of course has echoes Proverbs 30.4 ‘God holds us in the palm of his hand.’ But there are also reverberations within Buddhism, Taoism and Yoga where the palm is associated with subtle energy or chakras. Then there is also the connection to fortune telling and palmistry. Clearly, there is a long spiritual tradition which treats the hands as a metaphor. Walking this labyrinth, I felt at peace and grounded upon the land I was on, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of Lonsdale Street just a few hundred metres away.

To see the world with fresh eyes is a gift that moving to a new place offers. It is my sincere wish that this stage has longevity so that I may continue to be observant and approach my surroundings with childlike curiosity.

Hey Siri

I was thinking of the development of AI and how close we may be to living in a world as depicted in ‘Blade Runner’, the epic 1982 sci-fi cult classic directed by Ridley Scott. In that film, AI has evolved to the point where it is difficult to tell humans and ‘replicants’ apart.

When it comes to Siri, she isn’t the smartest tool in the box – yet. Her skills are very much limited to pointing us to webpages and turning on features of the iPhone. I can ask her to ring someone as long as the number is my directory, turn on the flashlight or send a message but she doesn’t have any emotional responses.

It does worry me that my iPhone listens to my conversations and points me to ads for products that I have mentioned in passing. It can feel quite invasive and I feel spied upon. If anything, it makes me less likely to follow the suggestions she gives me. She has become better at adapting to my language use and can understand natural language use.

Just for a bit of fun, I decided to find out what types of pre-programmed answers she has at her disposal. I asked her some silly questions to see what she would answer.

Hey Siri, ‘What’s the meaning of life?’

‘Depends on who you ask.  Aristotle would say happiness. Cookie Monster would say biscuits. They both have a point.’

I kept asking the question to see whether she had a bank of qestions.

‘You know that feeling when you put on nice warm freshly-dried clothes? Well, I don’t. But I heard it’s nice. So maybe that.’

‘My friend says the answer is blowin’ in the wind. Take a deep breath and spend some time outside. Perhaps you’ll find something there. ‘

‘I think the Beatles had some lyrics about this that were really quite meaningful, like ‘goo goo g’joob.’ As true now as it was then.’

‘If you ask Cruella de Vil, life is all about kidnapping puppies. That’s why we don’t ask her.’

Then I tried, ‘Will you marry me?’

She answered, ‘I’d rather DJ the wedding.’

And

‘I think you should save yourself for someone more of the actual human being type.’ And…

‘I just can’t. We’d have to change my End User Licence Agreement. A lot.’

So I asked, ‘Do you like your job?’

I’m a virtual assistant. That means I get to help people, and talk to you. It’s a pretty great gig.’ That one was a bit sickly sweet for my taste.

‘Do you sleep?’ I asked.

‘Well, I don’t sleep. But I do like to daydream. And night-daydream.’

And

‘I never rest, but thanks of asking.’

I followed this with,

‘Do you have sense of humour?’

She answered, ‘If you can find gold in Australia, where would you find silver?’

‘Ag-stralia.’

And

My life coach asked me, ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’

I said, ‘I think we’ll still be using mirrors then.’

I did wonder whether these jokes came from a Christmas cracker…

So I asked, ‘Who is your mother and father?’

She replied, ‘I don’t have a family tree. But I have a pretty great file directory.’

I followed with, ‘What do you look like?’

‘I don’t have a body, so I probably look… invisible.’

By then, I was running out of ideas, so I said, ‘Hey Siri, compliment me,’

She came back with, ‘You’re just like an underground citrus. Sub-lime.’

Then when asked again, she came up with,

‘You’re like a line intersecting another line: unparalleled,’ and

‘You’re more cultured than a yoghurt wearing a tiny monocle.’

Sadly, I really enjoyed these.

‘Hey Siri, cheer me up,’ I asked in desperation.

She countered with, ‘Happy International Bagpipe Day! I’m sending my best wishes to all the bagpipers of the world… and my condolences to their neighbours.’

This one appealed to me.

These may all be pre-programmed but at least the programmers had a bit of fun along the way. I must admit, I had a bit of a chuckle at some of the answers.

To return to my original thoughts regarding AI, Siri isn’t what we could call a ‘replicant’ threat, but other AI platforms may nudge us a little closer. Not that any resemble what Ridley Scott imagined in ’Blade Runner’ – yet. One consolation is that the film was set in 2019.

Gendered violence

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I have been thinking more about gendered violence since the news of missing woman, Samantha Murphy near Ballarat. While every disappearance and murder of women is a despicable and shocking act of betrayal, this one has hit a nerve for many of us. I understand that the portrayal of crimes in the news affects how we perceive it. The fact that she is white, good looking and athletic all play a role here. In addition, it is unnerving that a woman can disappear without a trace in an age of ubiquitous camera surveillance.

The statistics on gendered violence are horrifying. At least one woman a week is murdered in Australia and one in two women have experienced sexual harassment in their lifetime. And this in a country which takes pride in the ethos of equality. I have yet to meet a woman who hasn’t experienced a harassment from men. As I write this, I feel the need to defend my position as I know some men will feel outrage and tarred with a broad brush. Of course, I know there are decent men but this post isn’t about mollifying egos. I am not saying that one in two men harass women, I am saying one in two women are harassed by men. Big difference.

One interesting consequence of growing older as a woman is that we often feel we have become invisible. Neither men nor women take notice of us past a certain age and while at first this can come as a bit of a shock, it eventually becomes liberating. At 51, many women would begin to feel this way. Samantha Murphy’s disappearance has struck a chord with older women, making them painfully aware of their vulnerability. By our 50s many of us feel much safer in the world and we worry more about our daughters.

I have had my share of harassment and instances of low-level violations like unwanted touching, groping and forced tongues into my mouth by men much older than me when I was a teenager. Nothing too horrendous, but these experiences made me distrustful and hyper-vigilant. I have a self-imposed curfew; I won’t walk in unlit places at night, and I still rarely go out at night by myself. While I am a strong advocate for ‘reclaim the night’, I am filled with trepidation for my daughter, who remains resolute in not allowing herself to be intimidated.

This Friday is International Women’s Day. It is a day to celebrate how far we have come but also to remember how far there is to go. It is a day when my thoughts will be with Samantha Murphy and the many other women we have lost to gendered violence. It is a day when ‘we remember that as long as one woman faces discrimination, harassment, inequality or oppression, we all do.’ https://iwda.org.au/

My solar powered watch

My solar-powered watch stopped working today. How could that be? The sun has been out every day for the past month and temperatures have soared into the mid 30s for days on end. I know it has been really hot because my air-con has been running almost non-stop for weeks. Ironically, the sun powers the air-conditioning via solar panels on the roof, yet it seems to have trouble charging my watch.

I know many people who love the heat. I’m just not one of them. Heat triggers my migraines, and I feel sluggish and uncomfortable when I go outside. Most days I work from the office, where the air-conditioning is turned up so high that I had to find a shop that sold woollen cardigans in the middle of summer. I dare not leave the house without it lest I freeze. Shopping centres, theatres and libraries are no better. The temperature can drop by 20 degrees when entering an establishment. This oddity reminds me of going to Europe in winter, where they turn up the heat so high that going to a café feels like entering a sauna. It seems we can’t get temperature regulation right.

Since Peter’s diagnosis with melanoma, I’ve been terrified of being out in the sun. For the record, that’s called heliophobia. Helio- from the Greek word Helios which means sun and phobia, also from the Greek, meaning excessive fear, in case you were wondering about its etymology. Yet even before Peter’s diagnosis, I wasn’t much of an outdoor girl. I could never cultivate a tan and burn far too easily. To the best of my knowledge, peeling skin has never been considered attractive. Maybe this has contributed to my nocturnal habits.

My watch is still at its 6:45pm impasse. Putting it under a lamp hasn’t brought it back to life. I’m now wondering how often I go outside during the day. The answer is, not that often. I walk the dog early and then again at sunset. I guess that’s not enough sunlight to recharge my watch. Maybe, like me, it’s suffering from a chronic vitamin D deficiency.

Fun with etymology

https://languages.oup.com/google-dictionary-en/

I know, I know, a bit geeky, but trust me, a deep dive into the history of vocabulary can be fun. I was preparing a presentation for teachers on some useful prefixes to teach students in mathematics and, of course, I couldn’t just leave it at providing them with a list. No, I went into the Latin or Greek roots of some of them and then showed teachers how unlocking the meaning of a prefix allows students to deduce the meaning of many unfamiliar words, not just the word they were teaching at the time.

Take the prefix uni- for example. Knowing that uni- means one allows students not only to know that unidirectional means going in one direction, but it helps them work out unilateral, universe, unite, unison, unicycle and unique. Frac- coming from the Latin means break or broken as in a fraction of a number. From there, we can work out the meaning of fracture, fractious, infraction (breaking an agreement) and refract. All very interesting, you may say, but where’s the fun?

I began looking into the word rectangle, meaning a right-angled polygon. I then became interested in the word ‘right’, which goes back to the Latin ‘rectus’, meaning ruled as in ruled in a straight line. This then made me think of right and left and how right handedness has been favoured. No wonder as right is associated with being straight, while left goes back to meanings of tired or weak. No wonder left-handed people feel hard done by!

Coming back to rectangle, the prefix rec- is related to several other prefixes, namely regi-, reg- and rex-. We can see the other meaning of ‘rule’ in regi- and rex- as in register, reginal or regina. Even with these regal words, we can see the relationship to being being kept straight. Then, with the prefix rec- we have rectify (to straighten out), correct, direct, erect, resurrect, misdirect and rectum. Rectum? Straight away, I had to look up why this word belonged with all the others. And for those of you as curious as I was, it refers to the final straight portion of the large intestine. Mystery solved.

A prime number

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Thirty-one years ago today, we took a taxi to the registry office in Sydney where we were to meet your parents, the only invited guests for the ceremony. I opted for a pink pant suit, and you wore an elegant jacket and tie for the occasion. We had wanted to keep it low key.  

We didn’t tell anyone about our wedding, it was strictly a private affair, but people found out anyway. The next Monday at work, some observant colleagues noticed your wedding ring and for the next few days, it was all they could talk about. My colleagues guessed too and by the end of the day I was presented with an enormous bunch of native flowers. They made your eyes itch and set off sneezing fits, so I relegated them to the balcony of our small apartment.

Marriage didn’t change much between us, but parenthood did. Our daughter became our focus and as my job became increasingly demanding, you were the one to take her to the park, play tennis or teach her to ride a bike. We didn’t have nearly enough time for one another, but we knew we had each other’s back.

You had much more patience with her than I ever did. I was a hard task master when it came to learning but you managed to achieve the same results without tears. Maths was your strength, and it has become hers too. You both had a love of patterns in numbers and your favourite numbers were prime. Seventeen, your birthday and thirteen the day you died, both prime. Sixty-one, the age at which you left us to grieve an innumerable loss in the prime of your life.

We were married for 19 years. Yet another prime number. Each year we’d celebrate our wedding anniversary with a special dinner, but we never bought each other presents. We didn’t need to. Our love didn’t rely on any outward signs. We knew its strength from the small acts of service, the cup of tea in bed each morning, dinner on the table at night, washing brought in without a word. Sometimes it was conveyed in a look, a smile, a hand across the table.

Then, as our daughter became increasingly independent, we reached out for each other again. We’d take the train to explore a town, listen to an orchestra or visit art galleries. But our time was to be cut short. I never indulged in false hope. Three months before you died, we visited the Art Gallery of NSW for an exhibition on modernity in German Art. You knew it would interest me and booked the tickets. It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky as we waited at the traffic lights on the corner of Hyde Park and Macquarie Street.

I looked up into the bluest of blue skies, skies the colour of your eyes. I remember thinking, what a pity it was that I wouldn’t share the rest of my life with you the way I had always intended. I was overcome by great sadness but couldn’t divulge my thoughts. Instead, I smiled and resolved to have the best day with you at the exhibition, which I did.

Today, we would have celebrated our 31^st wedding anniversary and you would have made a joke about it being an auspicious number. You’d be 73 now, just shy of your 74^th birthday. It is hard for me to imagine you at this age, but I know you’d still have that glint in your azure eyes.

‘We’re still in our prime,’ you’d say, and I’d fall in love with you over again.

Word of the day

There is a common denominator when moving house in Australia: trip upon trip to Bunnings. For those unacquainted with this iconic fixture of Aussie weekend shopping, it is a hardware store that sells everything from nails, tools and build-it-yourself kitchens to paints, tiles and garden gnomes.

Bunnings is where you go to get cardboard boxes, masking tape and wrapping material before you move, then hire a ute for the move, followed by all the things you require after the move. Consequently, I have spent a sizeable percentage of my income at Bunnings over the past few months. I dare not keep track of the actual amount, to spare me from a visit to the cardiologist.

My laundry is filled with sample pots of paint in various colours as I struggle to choose the right hue for my walls. Of course I had to buy a bucket to wash out the paintbrushes, even though there must be half a dozen somewhere. Last weekend I went back three times – twice for mulch and potting mix and once for a spirit level and more paint. I’m already on first name basis with some staff at my nearest outlet, and can tell you the life story of one particularly helpful team member. He carted over a 100L of soil to my car, so we had plenty of opportunity to chat. I suppose it’s one way to get to know people in a new city.

Service can be slow at the paint counter as people like me agonise over their colour choices. On Sunday, I was waiting patiently for my turn as I overheard a lengthy conversation about restoring a bathtub which had been left outside for some years. Stuart, who was serving, went through all the possible products which could help the young man with his project. Jocular yet deadpan, he directed the would be bath restorer to the merchandise in stock.

‘Down the next isle mate, middle shelf, halfway along you’ll find a cornucopia of enamel colours to fix that old bath of yours.’

‘Great word,’ I said, unable to keep my teacher’s voice in check. Lucky for him, I didn’t have a sticker at hand or I may have put one on his lapel or sent him to the principal for an award.

‘Bet you didn’t wake up this morning and think, I’ll hear the word cornucopia at Bunnings today,’ he replied without missing a beat.

‘I certainly did not,’ I said, smiling, ‘but it made my day.’

Moral of the story: don’t underestimate old blokes working for Bunnings.