I could prove the inclementness of the weather if my camera, blighted beast that it is, didn't keep on insisting on turning the blackest boiling skies into little white puffy clouds, and the roughest of seas into the most placid of lakes.
I think I'll call it the Monet filter, as it turns every damn thing I try to take into lily ponds, and if anyone can tell me how to turn the damn thing off there will be some squeezy hugging involved. I want grim and black and dire. Thank you.
Not that old Monet was all lily ponds. One of my favourites of his resides at the NGV, and I love it for the little chap down in the corner, desperately clutching his hat. Not only does this give the picture a feel for the robust hat imperiling weather depicted, but also a touch of comedy, as Monsieur is about to lose his chapeau at any moment.
But the point is, when I went round the cliffs at Bondi on Saturday, it was a lot more dangerous to hats than the camera makes it seem, damn its eyes.
So yes, off to Sculpture by the sea. There were some fun pieces, but few pieces, and a lot of meh work, to be honest (still on the large metal squares thing, huh) and I know I'm starting to sound exactly like my mother when I say I think I can live with only seeing it once every couple of years, but there it is (amusing as my embittered old mother's been there, done that, can't be bothered stance was to onloookers, for a wee kiddie fresh in the world is was...trying, to say the least).
|The Bondi Beach. Not worth three days at the back of a plane, eh?|
|Sculpture by the sea 2012|
Anyways, whipped round it in record time. Art, check, Exercise, fresh air and sea salt, check. Off to Newtown, then.
You know I got straight through to Bondi by various bits of PT (as per the legendary tram of yore), and when I managed the same feat to get to Newtown, pretty much walking up the steps from the beach to the steps of a bus, then straight on a train, I was nearly in tears - what a shameful waste of rare transport karma when interstate travel was in the offing.
Anyway, I found a lovely cafe that served...I'm ashamed to say, Mars Bar milkshakes, but I had just done a cliff walk, I figured, so I indulged. Besides, the last time I had a milkshake was in February (therefore = sometimes treat).
A short roll down to the bookshop (Elizabeth's), then the Dendy and the screening of The Globe's Doctor Fautus. The one with Arthur Darvill as Mesphisto. And what a snippy, world weary, cape swishing young demon lord he made. Yummo.
This is the third version of Faustus I've seen on stage (Bell version last year and a British production ages ago with Jamie Bamber in the cast), and this was by far the best. The acting, the costumes, the dancing and music, the props, the book slamming, the dragons, the dick and fart jokes, the moral peril. All senses were treated and entertained. The cast were excellent, truly top notch, especially Faustus, but you know I have a thing for bad boys. Hello, Mephisto.
The music though, and the costumes, and the nightmarish gates of hell, really quite creepy, far scarier in suggestion than deed, as I always find. And did I mention that red hot little devil?
Anyway, loved it, love the play, loved the staging, performance, everything. Loved Mr Darvill.
I'd so wanted to see him on stage in this. At least I've seen two of the productions I missed when my holiday was cancelled on me (boo, hiss). Thank you 19thC technology.
Sunday it was up early and off to Canberra by bus. Arrived in the PM, checked in (and could the desk clerk be any more snooty, especially as the hotel straddles the bus terminal, I mean, really, lose the 'tude) and went to lunch in the cafe next to my favourite cafe, which was chockers. Seemed like a good idea at the time, later, not so much. That chicken salad is still repeating on me in an unhappy fashion.
Went shopping, spent all I'd saved by frugality (bus, hotel) and ended up getting a Chinese massage, which I thought might help with the stiff shoulder, but now I'm just bruised from very pointy elbows that were dug into my poor back.
Watched telly, went to dinner by myself, and was made to feel it, which meant no tip (good wait staff try hard not to make me feel like a freak), and then retired to room with a cup of tea and Grimm on the telly. Hey, at least the hotel room had basic cable (cable woes still not sorted, have given up on ever watching telly again).
Next day I was up at dawn and I... malingered. The sun was shining on bed, and later, chair, when I'd managed to stir that far, and I just lounged and scribbled. Bliss. I even ordered room service, tsk, but it was the best bircher museli I've ever had, so totally worth it. And a nice pot of English Breakfast tea.
Off to the gallery, the whole point of the exercise, the Sydney Long exhibition (one glance at the recent re-hang in my room will prove that I'm a fan, but I digress).
Wallowed in the sculpture garden for a bit. They have a machette of the Angel of the North now, which amused me to see it amongst gum trees. How I hate it, though. Nothing against it per se, it's a pefectly serviceable human like figure with bi-plane wings attached, but it's what it represents that irks me so.
Several years ago I planned my one grand trip, Venice to Wick, by rail, only to have British rail let me down and we were bussed from York to Newcastle (and, having missed all connections, bussed from Inverness to Wick). We passed the bloody statue on the bus and it mocked me, and I hated it, for the ruination of all my plans. And it's not like I could do it again, two legs of the trip were via the bloody Orient Express itself. Years of planning and saving, that trip was. Even now, that statue upsets me. I had to sit far away from it.
|Proof of Canberra|
|Angel of the North|
|Really, don't blink|
|Sculpture garden, NGA, ACT|
So, off to honour Mr Long. It was good, it was thorough, it had all my faves, though it lacked that certain pow of seeing something for the very first time, but it did have a very special treat for me at the end: a room full of his flamingo pictures. I just sat there, completely flamimgoed, and loved it. It weirdly reminded me of my grandmother's house that I knew as a small child (were I was raised until school age, my mother didn't want me) and I can't think why. Maybe she had something flamingo pink, or art noveau, or maybe even a print. Whatever, happy place. (You want to know about being cast out of paradise, I could tell you what happened after I left my grandparents, it'd turn your hair white).
Anyway, happy flamingos. Happy pink flamingo room. And I love the pan's people pictures. I always hear the pan music from Dr Lao when I see those pictures, and for me, they're one and the same, all mashed up in childish fancy and wonder.
I think that's why I love Sid. all childish fancy and wonder.
Onto the gift shop and no prints for sale! Oh wail, oh gnash. Oh, harumph.
Tried to console myself with a nice pot of Earl Grey tea, but the NGA cafe has set the bar so slow for disgraceful non service I doubt it will ever be bettered, if that is the term. First they ignored me for a good 20 minutes. Then it was another 20 to get the tea and they snatched the table number away so savagely they clocked me with it, and refused my request for the biscuit I paid for. Finishing tea, because I really needed it, I again requested my biscuit and they refused rudely. So rudely I demanded my $3,50 back, which they took from the tips jar (tips!!!) and threw at me. Basil Fawlty could not have done a worse job. Harumph.
So it was off to the rest of the art. Sat in front of Blue poles and tried to figure out just what Caffrey likes about Pollock, but couldn't, and the comment behind me about 'my kid could do better' meant I never would.
I dunno, like Peter, I'm more of a classicist myself, which is a line from Brisco County Jnr, which features one of my favourite, most surreal pieces of tv. Pete the black hat of the show, is arguing against the modernist/post impressionist movement, stating that he was more of a classicist at heart, while adding the finishing touches to a photo-realistic landscape. Pull back and he's painted a rock, sitting on the tracks, and here comes the train and it's a Road Runner cartoon entirely in execution, but it still makes me smile. That was a cute show. Daft, but cute.
Anyways, round and round, 70s photos, early colonial oil paintings, and a bronze cast WWI memorial that makes the genial homoeroticism in Magic Mike look tame (althetic young guy in very tiny, tiny pants weilding mighty thrusting sword, and what is it with WWI monuments, but I love 'em, for all the most terribly wrong reasons).
Some sexy, shiny silver modernist teapots, some post modern squiggles and I'm done (as a national gallery, I've seen larger collections in town council basements, but there you are).
Too late for anything else, really, without getting in a fluster, so it was back to the city centre, my favourite cafe, tables free this time, and a pot of Russian Caravan tea, which they serve with jam (I'd add it to Arkady's fetishes if he didn't have fetishes enough as it was).
Long bus ride home, through a small storm in Mittagong, and home just in time to see the worst ever episode of Supernatural. Oh well.
Still playing muical chairs at work. I either get a call before COB Friday telling me I'm out, or I'm through to the next round. It's awful. No wonder I'd rather crawl into a Sydney Long painting and dance.
Fiction wise, no time to type, but it's getting weird. The FBI really do have warehouses of fake art, just like the end of Raiders (I thought I totally made that up) and, feakier still, when I cast an obscure British actor toplay Freddie in the fic, it was because of The Line of Beauty and Sense and Senseability. I never in my life imagined he'd ever be in the same room as Bomer. But he was. Now no one will ever believe me. Hell, he was Freddie before I ever saw an episode of D.A.
And as for all the kinkiness that happens later in the story that I'd swear I'd have to cut out because no one would ever believe it, well, now it looks like so much band wagon hopping onto I'll probably have to cut it anyway. Which is a pity, because it was disturbing but fun to write.
Fuck it, maybe I'll invent a role for young Mr Darvill, Go on, MB, schmooze up to him, now, I dare ya.
Sigh, life ripping off my art before I've ever finished it. I'm going to look even more of a hack than I am. It's annoying. I'd love to be a writer. Maybe after this Friday I can be (you should see me jump every time the phone rings).
And now the Bomer is wandering around NYC (and I'd like to try and picture Simon as an undertstanding spouse but I just can't, having been in receipt of all those persnickety emails of yore) with brown contacts trying to pretend he's my Colin's, and I will say my Colin, father in that flick wot they is filming. As and if. Though it is distressing that casting agents seem to think I have a type. I reject the notion that I have a type. Harumph. And harumph again.
Still annoyed over the whole Freddie thing though. I thought I was so damn clever when I changed him from rough diamond Fred (think Daniel Craig in Layer Cake) to the somewhat wet and dewey Hon. Freddie, a mash up of Freddy Eynsford-Hill and any Wodehouse or Waugh character you care to mention, because instead of looking down his nose at everyone, and Neal Caffrey does, to everyone, especially Peter, always picking on his clothes, his food and beverage choices, his entertainment choices, etc (I had a gentlemen friend who did that and I had to part ways with him as it was just too darn exhausting dining with Professor Henry Higgins every night).
So here is Freddie, someone Neal pretends to be the equal of but is clearly not and never, ever will be. For one, Freddie never goes to gaol. He gets warnings, fines, rehab and community service, but never prison. Unlike Neal who did four years or so in a federal prison. Thus Freddie is demonstrably above him, and it was a dynamic I don't think I've really explored, and now I'm not sure I want to, now it's spooling out in the social pages. Oh, to be nothing but a pathetic copyist.
There used to be a definite line twixt fact and fiction. And the FBI really do have warehouses of fakes? Gosh and golly.
Meanwhile, one of the perils of travelling down to Canberra by bus is ending up with a whole lot of AM radio rattling around in the old noggin. Argh, I hated that song as a kid, stop it. I'm sure the Geneva Convention frowned on such things, which people used to take note of the G.C. And did they have to plaster me with so much Supertramp? Would it have killed them to at least give me a little Queen or ELO? Sigh. Plague by the most foul of earworms, I'm fairly sure it's a torture of which sexy young devil Mesphisto would approve.
Friday: Made it this far. I shall not talk about the office, where I stayed back two hours to help and received the verbal equivalent of a shovel to the face for my efforts (ongoing). I shall whine instead about the terrible toll of mars bar milkshakes. I had to use two safety pins to hold up a dress on Sunday, because I'd lost so much weight it kept falling off me. Today, those same two safety pins are now holding my blouse together, because my cups runneth over. So it's back to the back of the wardrobe unless I can walk this milkshake off, dash and darn it. Ah, weather permitting, there is major work to be done on the weekend, which should count. It doesn't, but it should. Sigh.
Honestry decrees I own up and confess it's not entirely the milk shake's fault. There was the left over bowl of choccies from Halloween when we had no trick or treaters at all, and Himself always buys quality chocolate in case of just that calamity (ah, local urchins, you don't know what you missed). In my defence, I'd like to say that it's absolutely ghastly, workwise, and the cable is out, so something had to give. My buttons, apparently.
Anyways, thanks to the dear, dear friend in the States (wot never writes no more, jeez, what did I do this time?) who sent out the Halloween garlands of ghosts, pumpkins and bats. They looked a treat, and by happy chance I found them again the week before Halloween, instead of the usual week after, in my attempt at another tidy, shoved in a shoe box which could only be very loosely described as miscellaneous items.
Not that we do Halloween out here, but it's starting to take off, and any addition to the permitted chocolate days in the calendar is okay by me.
Rough weather at Étretat
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7 September 2012
7 September 2012
7 September 2012