Painting Fakes

So I fell off my bike.  No-one helped me do it, I was not a victim of anti-cyclist road rage or a careless driver using their mobile phone.  I was just riding down Mt Gravatt one morning six weeks ago after a little bit of rain and the wheels slipped out from under me. I landed on my right shoulder.  Quite hard.  I broke my collarbone, bruised a rib and did something or other to my hip which meant I couldn't walk.  Six weeks on my hip is getting better although I'm still limping a bit, my rib is still slightly sore and I have a metal plate holding my collarbone together so it is gradually healing. Still, it's not all bad.  At least I get an opportunity to learn stuff.  Here's some things I've learned. 1. Don't Fall Off Actually I already knew this.  It's just that now I know it more.  Don't ride too fast for the conditions.  Concentrate around the bends.  Brake appropriately.  Etc etc.  Hindsight is a wonderful thin...

I turn 57 this week.  I'm at the stage of life where each birthday is not so much a cause for celebration, cake and presents, as a reminder of the passing of time. My father lived to 77, so if this is any indication I might have about 20 years of life left.  Of course I am healthier than my Dad.  He smoked, and was overweight, and he died of heart failure.  I don't smoke, am barely overweight, and ride my bike to stay fit.  So perhaps I might live longer.  Maybe I have 30 years. Then again, my Mum was also much healthier than my Dad.  She didn't smoke, and never carried an ounce of extra weight.  But she was cut down by a brain tumour, and died at the age of 71.  So who knows, perhaps I only have 14 years. Perhaps next time I go for a ride I'll get cleaned up by a careless motorist and die on the spot. No-one knows the day or hour of their death. This might sound maudlin and a bit creepy, but I don't spend a lot of time worrying a...

Billions have staked their futures on her But she is dying The death of a hundred billion cuts. Poisoned slowly in the wastes of her own entrails Roasted on a low fire Gasping for breath in an atmosphere of unknown gases While her killers bicker over what remains. Aeons of patient craft, slow shaping, intricate artistry Erased in the blinking of a geological eye. The stars look on, and weep. Elsewhere, another star is born.

So, I'm having a change of scene for a little while.  Can you believe it, someone is paying me to travel to the other side of Australia and talk to people (or rather listen to them) about social issues for three weeks.  So here I am in the beautiful Dampier Peninsula in the far north of Western Australia, where I've never been before. Of course I'll have to work but since I've signed a confidentiality agreement I can't talk to you about that.  Instead, I just thought I'd mention that Australia is an EXTREMELY BIG PLACE.  In something like eight hours in the air we flew across over 5,000 km of territory.  As I looked out of the window I saw huge swathes of bushland, mountains, desert, coastline, and very occasionally a little sign of human habitation - a long straight road, a town, a distant light. Of course we so rarely see Australia this way because we are, naturally, always at the places where humans live.  For a city-dweller like me, I am nearly alwa...

"Now it happened that Kanga had felt rather motherly that morning, and Wanting to Count Things — like Roo's vests, and how many pieces of soap there were left, and the two clean spots in Tigger's feeder." As you do.  Even though I rarely feel motherly on account of my Y chromosome, I felt like labelling things.  I tried labels on this blog when I first started and soon gave up as I had a new label for each post.  Now that there's over 150 posts here it's getting hard to find your way around, so I thought it was time to be a bit more organised.  Every post has a label, and every post has only one because that's the tidy way to do things.  I know the real world is much messier than that but that's not my problem, I didn't make it that way.  I tried not to have too many labels.  Hope you enjoy using them.

Spent five days in Sydney - three days running focus groups with public housing tenants and two attending the National Affordable Housing Exchange , where they spelt my name wrong on the program.  This wasn't really a holiday but when work's this interesting it can be hard to tell the difference. Visited Eden , sleepy NSW coastal town and long term base for whaling and fishing.  Eden was the site for an amazing and maybe unique collaboration between human whalers and orcas in the capture of humpback and right whales, documented in Tom Mead's Killers of Eden .  Now people come to watch whales, and to visit the museum which celebrates their killing. Spent three days on Phillip Island , walking and enjoying beautiful scenery, failing to see any short-tailed shearwaters (except one that looked seriously ill) and joining thousands of tourists who miraculously appeared from nowhere to watch penguins walk up the beach at sunset. Drove to Adelaide via Lake C...

I'm off travelling.  One of my favourite clients is paying me to spend a week in Sydney, then we're off for a nice little holiday in Southern NSW, Victoria and South Australia including a visit to the ageing but still healthy in-laws in Adelaide. Internet access will be limited and so you may not see another post here until the end of April.  In the meantime talk among yourselves and don't get up to any mischief while I'm away.

On the Hill of Tara all four points Stretch to far horizons. The sheep are lords of all they survey, And the mounds and gullies sing of former glories. The tourists dance around the phallus Singing of glories to come. At Newgrange the inscrutible dead Sleep the sleep of millennia, Protecting the secrets of their strange carvings. After so much labour, Carting stones so many miles, Rolled on makeshift logs Lifted labouriously into place So the sleepers within can catch the fleeting sun To light their eternal darkness. In every town there is a reminder Of the days long gone And of the days hardly gone - The fight with the English, The bombings, the murders, The Protestant churches firmly locked. Things grow and change, The golden arches beside the Boyne, The half built houses on every street The "yes" and "no" to Europe at every junction, The English papers, the European soccer, The Chinese students walking the streets. Time marches, the ...

I thought you might enjoy some extracts from the journal I've been keeping on my travels. The monks chant, their drone puctuated by cymbals, quickened by the building, fading pounding of the drum. Behind their striking purple, their gaudy green and yellow, worshippers bow in street clothes, shoes in plastic shopping bags, some kneeling, telling over beads, holding out bags and packages for the mysterious blessing of the fire. Above, the fierce god in his blue war paint scowls at his worshippers, his blue attendants matching his ferocity, brandishing sword and chain, fiery halo and pointed fangs. Yet around the walls his worshippers remain calm, unafraid, seated in their socks slippers stowed carefully beneath the sepia sky. Outside, the fierce sun shocks us out of winter. The carp beg beneath the bridge. The blossoms defy stereotype. The old man smiles a greeting, or a comment, or perhaps asks a question I can never answer. Later, on the bus, the yo...

This morning I rode my bike up Mt Cootha which is a mountain near the centre of Brisbane - it has a lookout which faces back towards the city so you can see pretty much the whole of Brisbane out to Moreton Bay, and the hills in the distance to the South and North. I got to the top and could see the clouds closing in around the city and rain falling on my home. A pleasant change after years of drought and anxiety about dam levels in South-East Queensland. As I rode down the mountain the wind whipped my face and blinded me, and by the time I got home I was soaked. Still, rain is such a novelty these days that I loved it. Since creating this blog precisely no-one has read it which is hardly surprising since I haven't told anyone it exists but hey, I needed to post something before I forgot how and also needed to log in before I forgot my password - too late, I'd forgotten already!

Arthur Koestler told this joke in his book The Act of Creation. An art collector once bought a painting from a dealer, which the dealer claimed was by Pablo Picasso. The collector wanted to make sure that it was genuine, so he visited Picasso in his studio. The great man was busy painting, so the collector waited, watching him for some time as he applied the paint to an almost-completed work. When Picasso was free he unwrapped his purchase. Picasso looked at it for a couple of seconds and snapped, "it's a fake!" The collector was disappointed, but nonetheless felt privileged to have spent time watching Picasso paint. Imagine his excitement when a few months later, visting a gallery, he saw on sale the very painting on which he had watched Picasso working. He bought the painting and went to see the painter again. Pablo looked at the new painting for a moment and once again snapped "it's a fake!" The collector was amazed. "But Pablo," he said, "...