Rare Book Summer School: 1

Hello from rainy Melbourne! It always seems to rain torrents for at least one day of every visit to this city, and today's the day.

I'm here for the week, to teach a letterpress masterclass at the State Library of Victoria's 2012 Rare Book Summer School. As I write this I'm sitting in the Ancora Press room at the Monash Caulfield campus, learning to wrangle the beasts they house here. I've spent the day playing with their Albion iron hand press and their 'Har-Ma' tabletop press, so that I don't look like a clueless idiot in front of the class tomorrow. I don't mind actually being a clueless idiot, I just don't want to waste their precious learning time doing all the dicking around I've done today, like working out the feel of the handle action on the Albion so it doesn't judder the print, and how to adjust the packing and the platen so I can get a decent print out of the wood type.

I arrived yesterday, and after dumping my heavy bags with SLV Rare Books Librarian and all-round good guy Des Cowley, I took the chance to duck down to the art gallery and catch The Mad Square and fall in love with Otto Dix all over again, especially after I saw a photo of him. Woof!

Then I had a wander around before meeting up with Des again and heading out to my digs, a library-flat owned by another of the RBSS lecturers. He lives across the road, and the flat is his book overflow repository. It's amazing. No tv, no computer, just books and a good bed & bathroom and basic kitchen, with the bathroom being the only room not stuffed with books.

I haven't spent much time in it, because I went out last night, having dinner with Lucy Tartan and her lovely husband, after which she went home to their gorgeous baby and he and I went on to see The Clouds at The Corner pub. Good time had, went to be way too late and now I'm a bit tired.

So off I go, into the rain to get to the Sticky zine fair at the Town Hall and then to the SLV for a RBSS launch, and then I might have a very early night before class tomorrow.

Hopefully next time I'll have some photos.

Um, yeah. A vignette.

Scene: The Northbourne Ave/Antill St traffic intersection. I'm in the right hand turn lane, the only car at the intersection so far, and the full cycle of light changing is ahead of me.

The scraggy window-washer approaches. I have my window down, but the music up (Nirvana was on the radio, playing 'Heart-shaped Box'. I'm singing along). He says something.

I turn the music down. 'Sorry, what was that?'

He waves his squeejee thingy.

'No thanks!' I say.

'Yeah, it looks pretty clean already. Did your husband wash it?'

'Um, no. It rained yesterday. That usually helps.'

'Ohhhh. Yeah. Huh.'

'I guess you don't get many takers when it's been raining. Bad for business and all that.'

'Ohh, yeah, I guess so.'

'Don't worry, everything will get dusty again soon.'

'Ohh, yeaaah. Huh. Hey, I just wanted to show you that I bought this new squeejee, brand new. But the rubber's got a dent in it, so it doesn't work well already. Pretty fucked, eh.'

'You should take it back to the shop.'

'Huh? You reckon? I think I've still got the receipt.'

'Absolutely you should! Tell them it's bad for your business. It's your professional tool, after all.'

'My prof... yeah! Huh! I should do that!'

'You go nuts, mate. Good luck.'

The arrow changed to green, and I took off, leaving him looking thoughtfully at the dent.

happy heart

On Friday I went to the ANU School of Art Grad Show opening to present my wee annual studio residencies to the people I'd chosen.

The actual selection was really hard - there are lots of very talented people that graduate every year, and this year is no exception. I had a wide range of choices, especially from Printmedia itself, which is having a very strong year. However, I have a real interest in working with people who are not printmakers by choice, mainly to see how they explore the notion of printing textually, so I always have a look around outside of the printmaking workshop for one of my choices.

It took me a while, but I came up with Louise Upshall, who is a painting graduate whose final work consisted of zines and collage, and who has a confronting (in a really good feminist way) called Cervixosaurus. Click that link if you want to be reassured that there are young women who still believe in feminism.

The second choice was Merryn Sommerville, from Printmedia & Drawing. In the words of Gillian Welsh, 'some girls are blessed with a dark turn of mind', and Merryn is one of them. Her work pretends to be pretty, but then grabs you by the throat. We've owned a print by her for a while now, from (I think) her first year of art school, and her final year work is devastating: eerie and creepy pastel drawings of children on dark paper, accompanied by ceiling-strung disembodied vintage childrens' clothes.

Here's Merryn, accompanied by a bevy of equally talented young things:


From left to right: Louisa, Edie, Rachel, Merryn. Merryn is wearing a vintage 1920s flapper dress, complete with sequinned fascinator.

Another reason to go to the opening was to listen to the guest speaker, Robyn Archer, who didn't disappoint. She kicked ass, talking about ambition; the ability, nay the necessity to fail; the fact that art doesn't have to please anyone but yourself, thanks very much; and she started the buzz for the Centenary year (2013) celebrations that she's organising by saying how much she wants the art school to participate because it's full of energy, talent and knows how to put on a good party. And yes, Kerryn, she said good things about Adelaide, mainly the fact that by the time she got to the world stage, she'd learned everything she'd needed to know from her small home city. She rawked.

So I gave out my prizes, and am looking forward to some fabulous conversations over lunch with those two young women...

...and then dashed off to my dinner appointment, around the corner of my neighbourhood, to the home of some friends who are amazing, um, homemakers is the wrong word, but I don't know what else to say. Their garden is magnificent, all interesting and useful and edible plants, with nice nooks to sit in and a big pizza oven setup. I went to eat pizza, and eat pizza I did.

Somehow over dinner we got talking about music, and about ukuleles. I know a lot of people who have taken up ukulele playing, not the least Helen Garner, whose short piece 'The Ukulele Club' was published in The Feel of Steel in 2001. Back then, she could write about a man from Sydney wanting to join the Melbourne Ukulele club:

They stared at me.
'Is there such a thing as a ukulele nerd?' said Sally.

Well, Sally, yes there is, and apparently now, ten years later, there are a lot of them around. Both of my pizza friends, F and M, play ukulele, but M is definitely a ukulele nerd. When I expressed interest in trying one, she brought out a few from her collection, one of which she had made herself.

We sat around the fire in the chilly summer night (!) and played something simple. I am a casual uneducated guitar picker from way back, unable to read music but able to followed chord tabs and with an ear for a tune, so I followed pretty well.

And fell hard.

M let me borrow one of her ukes. I took it home and downloaded too many songs from the internet and played all weekend. Of course I'm crap, and I can't sing, but I'd forgotten the simple pleasure of making one chord move into another in a way that makes your heart sing along.

I went to my first Uke Group on Monday night, and while it was tricky to keep up and sing at the same time, it was fun because it was completely inclusive, and non-competitive. And there were those chord changes, ringing into the heart.

My fingertips hurt. But now I know what I'm getting for Christmas... we're going to the music shop on Saturday.

Initiation rights

I'm having a weirdness with Blogger, so apologies if I post even less frequently than I have been. It's something to do with the login, they're playing hard to get. But I can get in from the art skool, so I'm taking a break to slip this in.

Two days ago Bumblebee went on a camp to Wee Jasper with his Outdoor Ed class. They'd split into groups of three, worked out a menu (sausages, steak and BBQ chicken for their dinner!) and equipment, were given a list of clothes & things to pack, and I spent most of Tuesday night wrangling him to follow the lists and argued for something besides meat to go into the food bag. I pressed a tin of baked beans into his hands, saying that if the stove didn't work, if an animal broke in & ate their supplies, if they lost their utensils, this one perfect can would save him, since it could be opened by hand & eaten cold with his fingers if necessary.

He took the can, and it came back intact, as did most of the sausages. None of the clothes were touched, as he slept in his clothes overnight (including boots!) and just got up & kept going in the same clothes. He drank the 600ml carton of milk with his dinner, which was lucky because everyone else's milk froze overnight and one person's was completely off, they discovered as they swigged and spat a mouthful. B awoke the next morning with his braces frozen to his lips, and had to get a sympathetic friend to swish some unfreezing water onto his mouth to free them. That's how cold it had been.

But this is by the by. They had a marvellous time caving, abseiling and other fun things, and came home sore and desperate for a hot bath. The main reason I brought this all up is the shock I got when I dropped him off at the school early on Wed morning for the camp.

As we parked, I could see two groups: girls, standing together with their mothers, and boys, standing around without parents. I helped B carry his bags and tent up to the Boyz group, cheerily said hello into the air and felt my greeting hit a sullen wall of WTF. B, to my utter surprise, had curled downwards from the head into a similarly surly slouch and he muttered 'see you later, Mum', almost under his breath. I pretended I didn't hear him, and gazed around at the group, only to find myself being glared at by males of various heights who didn't seem to want to utter another word until the female had left them to their Business.

It was quite powerful; I didn't want to submit to this Wall of Testoterone, but I could see Bumblebee was getting more curled with every second. OK, have fun, I chirped, stopping myself from leaning in to give him a hug, and walked with a very forced air of jauntiness past the smug mothers of girls (who may have been holding a sweep to see how long I'd last) and back to the car. I decided to sit in the car until the bus arrived & they were safely loaded, and then it dawned on me that most of the cars around me also had what I presume were parents of sons, sitting and watching wistfully, like exiles, like people sent to Coventry.

I walked like a ghost for a few hours until my soul warmed up. Of course, when I picked him up yesterday afternoon, he was really happy to see me, and we nattered on for ages, but it really brought home to me that I am now a guilty pleasure for him; he is not allowed to show affection for me in public anymore, according to the conventions of his peers. One part of me wants to shout POPPYCOCK to the world, but the other part acknowledges that this is part of him becoming a separate individual in the world.

The one thing that really pleased me is that instead of sitting around the campfire with his mates all night, he was so engrossed with the book he's reading that he lay in his tent with a torch and kept reading. The book? Up to now, he's been obsessed with Alex Rider teen fiction books. When I went dumpster diving at the Lifeline Book Fair depot recently, I found a Matthew Reilly book (Contest) and gave it to him. He's completely obsessed with it. I console myself that it *is* reading, and that I'm constructing a slow and careful pathway for him, up through various genres, the same way I've been guiding him, Beatrice-like, through music and movies. The true test of his broadening knowledge is that he can now watch things like The Simpsons and South Park and actually get lots of the cultural references.

So, sigh. Many more milestones to go, and most of them in the face of these stony young men who don't want to look adults in the eye. At least we have fun at home, where, to quote B's latest friend, things are really Ninja.

tummy wobbles

A friend sent me this wonderful link called Unhappy Hipsters. It keeps me snorting, daily.


The hill had the perfect incline for rolling. And the trampoline was wildly exciting, at first. But crushing peanuts into the deck brought the grown-ups running, and was therefore deemed the most fun of all.

I've just had a lot of time with Bumblebee. He has an unfortunate history of becoming sick just before a major Fun Thing and thus missing out on it (we all remember the Queen tribute concert, with hideously expensive tickets bought months in advance, when we bravely tried to rally & attend, but he ended up sobbing in my arms at what the noise and the bright lights were doing to his head, even though they were playing his favorite song really well...).

He had a touch of the tummy wobbles just before camp last week, and we all took it very seriously, because we all really, really wanted him to go to camp -- B because it was CAMP, us because camp is a great place to make friends -- so we dosed him up on garlicky chicken soup, made him go to bed early, etc etc.

He made it to camp, and had a fabulous time, of course, and came back tall and happy and glowing, and reported that five kids had developed gastro-like illness and had to be driven home. The healthy, happy glow lasted until monday arvo, when he started womiting, and thus he's been ill for the last two days.

The first day, Tuesday, I dragged him along to Studio Duck so that I could hang out with Natalie, my resident student printer. As Nat printed her fabulous Super Mario prints and I constructed a box for my Mackay Libris entry, Bumblebee flopped on his beanbag playing gameboy and doing sudoku puzzles. When we were home he flopped on the couch to watch the Stah Waz Clone Waz dvds that he got from a fellow Canberra Stah Waz Collectors Group member.

Yesterday, when I realised we had to stay home if we were to defeat the tummy wobbles, I decided to make the day memorable for him. Instead of letting him have the usual flopping and playing kinda day, I marched into his bedroom and gave him all four books from Keiji Nakazawa's Barefoot Gen manga series about surviving Hiroshima. "Don't get up until you've read all of these," I said.

And he didn't. I brought him drinks and dry biscuits, made him soup which he ate with his head in the books, and then waited for his reaction, which came in the afternoon. In the meantime I worked on the computer, catching up on lots of small things I'd been meaning to do for ages.

He came in, not quite sobbing, but teary at the ending. No spoilers here, you'll have to find out for yourself if you can; Nakazawa is very clever in the way he's structured the story. The grand scale of the tragedy is brought down to a very personal level that forces you to engage emotionally. Bumblebee is a classic modern kid, hardened in the face of visual constructions of violence (is that the right way to phrase it? I mean movie & book violence as opposed to real encountered violence, which shocks the hell out of him), so the bomb dropping & drawn images of people suffering didn't engage him as much as individual characters from the story suffering.

He's now very interested in Hiroshima and we had a great talk about reasons why it happened and why the Americans thought it needed to happen. The more we talk about history, the more he digs it. I hope that has a lasting effect! Or at least a lingering half-life...



POSTSCRIPT: I just thought I'd respond to SCB's comment about my motherhood skillz out here, up front. I like to blog these nice parenting moments because they remind me that I can be a good parent when I'm not feeling like one. Last night I caught some of At the Movies and Margaret mentioned a character who was a 'good but slightly flaky' mother. 'That's me!' I thought with a flash. I didn't tell you, did I, the whole story about Bumblebee's latest vaccination?

There were two vaccinations on offer: Hep B and Chickenpox. I ticked both on the form, thinking to myself that B had had such a slight case of C'pox -- one spot -- that he might need a needle anyway.

The night before he was due to have the vaccinations, I stumbled across -- this was during my big cleanup -- an old diary stuck in the back of the filing cabinet. I took it back to the studio, wanting to put it together with all my other (scatty) diaries, and before putting it in the box, threw it open at a random page.

That random page recounted the day before my birthday in the year 2001, when Bumblebee (at the age of 4) had a really bad, crusty, oozing case of chickenpox. I'd planned a party, but only the stronghearted came, and towards the end of the (early) evening Bumblebee, who loves a party, was telling everyone to 'GO HOME, GO. HOOOOOME.' because all he wanted was less noise and more mum. We didn't get a lot of sleep that night, poor wee little man.

How could I forget something like that? The 'one spot' thing was actually ME, as recounted many, many times by my long-suffering mother, who had to nurse my poor crusty, oozing brother at the same time.

Luckily I could ring the school, and send a note to the administering nurse, and save B the extra needle. He was ever so grateful, and I felt like a more than slightly flaky mother.

And, for the record, I used to read What Katy Did in bed when I was sick too. And What Katy Did Next. Sometimes I still do.

this is an odd thought

I just suddenly remembered that I was browsing the 2008 Guinness Book of Records whilst on the loo at Kyogle and that the record for the most live snails on a human face was SEVEN. That seemed rather low, I remember thinking. I could do better than that. Imagine hosting seven slimy creatures that won't stop trying to get off your hot dry face, I pondered. Perhaps you need a damp cool face?

I just googled this and discovered that others had reacted the same way. Soon after, someone managed 25 snails. And then a boy managed FORTY-THREE. Check out the photo...

No-one over the age of fifteen seems to want to challenge this record. Surely adults would have a larger head? Maybe a bald fellow could achieve more?

As you were.

life skills 101

heh.

Q: When is a house a home?

A: when it's listed in the Real Estate section of the Canberra Times.

Over the last ten or so years, I have watched the RE section of the CT grow from half of a broadsheet section (shared with Employment, probably) to its own half-sheet full-colour, saddle-stitched (i.e., stapled) 104-page(!) magazine. At least it's not glossy, but I dare say that's only a matter of time, really.

Last weekend and today, I searched this 'section', called Domain (highly original, I know) for images to cut & paste the old-fashioned way, with -- gasp -- scissors and glue, to make a master page for a photocopy zine exercise I'm doing with my Book Design students. I wanted large lush house and interior images, and lines of text to collage about houses and the things they contain. I specifically wanted the word HOUSE.

There is, in 104 pages, only a few, maybe only four, uses of the word HOUSE, in all instances followed very quickly by the word HOME.

There is a gross overuse of the word HOME, and medium use of the word PROPERTY.

In the private advertisements, listed by suckers who are Not In The Know, 'HSE' is occasionally used, but not the full word because it would cost too much.



The home is two minutes walk from...

Aficionados of this suburb will recognise this glamorous home as one of Kaleen's finest...

Number of homes sold in the suburb in 2007...

This stunning family home was designed from the ground up to take advantage of the spectacular views... [I should hope so! Hard to design a building from the side across, or from the top down]

This dual-occupancy property features a 4 bedroom home ... at the back of the block is a three bedroom home...

Constructed less than 4 years ago ... you will discover this substantial and well presented 4 bedroom plus ensuite home.

Looking for a separate title home without the hassle of a body corporate? [oh noes!]

This 3 bedroom home has been extensively modernized to ensure you enjoy coming home every day. [GAH]

If you have been searching for a home and love to entertain, this light filled three/four bedroom home may be just too tempting. [tears hair out by the roots]

Whether you are looking for your first home or even your first investment property, this home could be the one for y---- OK, THAT'S ENOUGH!


Your Honour, I object! Apart from the shocking lack of hyphens, I object to the overuse of such a delicate and intangible term as HOME.



I would like to write more, much more, about the ways that a house becomes a home: by the people in it, by the amount of time you spend in it, by the length of time you've lived in it; about the fact that millions of people around the world have good, valid homes without the tonnage of bricks and stainless steel that we seem to think we need; about the execrable use of language in the RE industry; and about the fact that my students probably think that making a photocopy book is impossibly retro of me...

...but I've run out of time. Sorry, it's a busy day (yes, I know it's Sunday), and I just had to quickly vent my spleen.

Things to be done, pages to be folded, aged photocopier to be gently warmed up.

When opportunity knocks, grab it!



POSTSCRIPT
Reading Domain and writing this post totally changed what I made for the student group project. It's now a double-sided photocopied A4, with the reverse a page of blue & white clouds (our ancient and beloved workshop photocopier has blue and black toner) and the main side a series of houses and interiors with snippets of text pasted over them (many the same that I quoted above).

It's folded in half and then halves again and slitted down the middle in a classic one-page zine fold (which, if you don't know or want downloadable instructions on how to do it, click here), and then I've cut out bits of the details (windows, fridge doors, pool decorations) to reveal the blue sky and clouds underneath.

The title is 'HOME NOT HOUSE'. The last page is a townhouse, with the words 'townhouse not home', because my trawling post-post revealed that only houses with a chance of families living in them were dubbed 'homes'. Flats, apartments, townhouses, were all given their real names or were called 'properties'. Tuh, talk about fairy-tales!

The tourist trap

A few people wanted to know more about my Annoying Tourist Encounters (ATE) in Tasmania.

Annoying tourists are of course not confined to Tasmania. I'm sure they are world-wide. I like to draw a distinction between Travellers, Stupid Tourists and Annoying Tourists.

Travellers
These tourists travel with curiosity and tact. They tread lightly, take their rubbish with them or at least throw it in a bin, and they are mindful of both the environment they inhabit and the other tourists traveling alongside them. Not content with what they're told to visit, they will actively seek out additional places to visit and pass tips on to fellow tourists. Conversations with fellow tourists can be both entertaining and informative. Sometimes friendships are sparked that can last for anything from just the holiday to a lifetime.

Stupid Tourists
These are your general, run-of-the-mill tourists. They pass through and visit each tourist attraction at least once and spend most of their time there taking endless photos or videos, presumably to defer thinking about what they're looking at until they are sitting back at home on the couch. Often litter-droppers, they worry about not finding enough entertainment. Mostly harmless, conversations with them can be entertaining. They tend to travel either in packs or in odd combinations of generations.

Annoying Tourists
There is at least one of these in every tour group. They will talk over the top of the tour guide and then ask for things to be repeated. When given specific instructions they will do the complete opposite, especially if it involves safety. They are the ones who get lost because they ignored directions, and the ones the boat/bus/group waits for as they lose track of time, even though the hooter/horn/call has gone out.



Of course, these are gross generalisations, but I defy anyone to deny they've met any of these three types on holiday. I met a couple of travellers, lots of stupid tourists and just enough Annoying Tourists to keep the holiday entertaining. I'll give you some concrete examples of ATE:

1. Devonport, trying to see baby Little Penguins at a beach reserve.
We were greeted at the gate to the Hide by a ranger who gave us clear and firm instructions: we were about to go onto a boardwalk overlooking the pebbly beach, and it was almost the end of dusk. If we were quiet, moved softly, and did not use torches, flash cameras or mobile phones (because they're noisy and light up), then we would see baby penguins emerging from under the boardwalk and adult penguins coming up from the sea to greet them. The latter would wait in the water until they were sure things were safe; if we made too much noise they would wait in the water for hours waiting for us to go.

All good. The ranger gave those instructions to every single visitor. So ten minutes later there were a good number of people standing quietly on the boardwalk, looking out to sea, and down at our feet, where every now and then a beak would duck out for a second, then pop back in. Then a bunch of people arrived -- a family, I think -- who started walking up and down, talking about whatever they felt like (sounded like they were catching up on family gossip) in normal voices, which in a situation like that sounded like they were shouting. One of the group was a teenage boy who kept pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket, flipping it open so that it lit up, then flipping it shut. Open, shut. Open, shut. Making a flash of light each time, and a clicky noise.

The poor baby penguins kept scuttling out, noticing the group, and scuttling back in again. The group were oblivious to the grumpy stares everyone shot them, and for some bizarre reason the ranger did nothing. So it was a pretty annoying. I think if I'd followed my impulse to grab to phone and chuck it over the bushes to the carpark I would have received a very quick round of fervent fairy claps. Ahem. Dear reader, I resisted. Finally the ATs noticed a baby penguin and shut up, but the damage was done. The baby penguins came out and wandered around, peeping and were pretty gorgeous, but we didn't see any big Little Penguins, because they were obviously biding their time until the dickheads left, and we left before the group, exasperated.


2. Patting the devil, Cradle Mountain


Bumblebee loved the baby Devils, who in turn loved trying to bite him through the glass

After a fantastic day of walking around Dove Lake and bits of the Overland Track's boardwalk, we decided to experience a real Tassie Devil. The only proper way to do this apart from stopping to look at a roadkill is to visit a Devil sanctuary/farm. The sanctuaries know this, and charge like a wounded bull, but it is a pretty marvellous experience. They have large enclosures full of Devils of all ages (although they only live to about 5 or 6 years, like most marsupials), and this particular place had a Devil that we could meet, and pat.

Before we could meet this Devil, we were prepped very carefully as a tour group. we were shown a DVD about Devil habits and history, including a very graphic section on the Disfiguring Facial Tumour Syndrome that is annihilating their species. We discussed the fact that Devils are solitary animals who only interact socially to eat and breed. They have no social skills to enable them to get along together, hence the growling and perceived bad-temperness.

Then the guide told us very clearly that this Devil is not trained to like being seen or touched; she is not tame, she has merely been around humans since a very early age, and tolerates the exposure. She is very nervous, and needs to feel that the room is safe so that she can relax and pretend that we are not there, even to the extent of pointedly ignoring our hands on her. There were very clear instructions. Keep movement to an absolute minimum, no noise, no cameras or phones at all.

The group seemed to comply, and the guide left the room and came back with a small ball of black hair that made little growly noises, bundled into his arms. He sat at the end of the room, and told us that we would sit like this for a while, to let her become accustomed to the room and us. Suddenly the man next to BB started shifting in his seat, not once, but over and over. His camera fell on the floor, and instead of leaving it there, he swung around and started trying to retrieve it. His son started chatting to him. The guide asked them to stop and stay still. The Devil got restless and began biting the guide's jacket zip. The man stopped. But as the Devil calmed, he started crossing and uncrossing his legs in an insolent, bored manner. The guide said firmly that if the room was not still, he would take the Devil back outside. The man reluctantly stilled himself.

The Devil balled herself up and buried her head into the guide's armpit. It gave me a heartpang, because it was like a shy child, and it also reminded me of Padge, who sleeps with his head tucked into my armpit. The guide slowly moved around the room, talking calmly of interesting Devil facts, and allowed us to gently stroke the Devil's back, down low near her tail. He told us not to try and touch her on the neck or near the head, as that is where marsupials are attacked by predators, and touching any marsupial there will stress them immeasurably. Also, if we stroked lightly, it allowed her to maintain her pretence that we weren't there, that she was just having a nice cuddle with someone she trusted.

Of course, the AT reached high, at which the guide snapped, 'she's not a cat, mate.' Forced to do the right thing, the AT then proceeded to roughly pat the Devil as you would a big dog. Later on BB and I confessed to each other that we were quite looking forward to the Devil turning and biting this man. That she didn't showed remarkable restraint on the part of the Devil, and I'm sure the rest of the group joined us in admiring her for it. The man's wife looked exponentially more embarrassed as the evening progressed.

The Devil's fur, by the way, was much, much softer than I expected. I only stroked her the once, with deep admiration and respect. It was a moment to treasure, and the memory of her fur and stoic resignation is better than any photograph. I wish researchers the best of luck and skill in keeping the species alive over the next ten years.



There were a few other ATEs along the road, but those two sum up what is either pig ignorance or wilful anti-establishmentarianism when interacting with both fellow travellers and / or nature. At least they weren't putting our lives at risk, which is a category of tourist that I don't even want to think about. The best wish I have for anyone travelling is that they don't encounter any of those!

Best Beloved finds ATEs frustrating at the time, but he delights in recalling them afterwards. He seems to have a drawer in his mental filing cabinet full of idiots he's encountered, and pulls out the files occasionally for purposes of comparison. I don't like to waste my time thinking about them too much, but I think next time I might take a photo of each ATE and construct a little artist's book from them. I'm sure BB will be able to help with the text!



Next batch of available space: Mackay Focus on Books IV!

129999

I'm back. I'll write properly soon, I'm busy. I'm sorry.

I'm excited, in a sooky Lefty way, about today. I may be utterly wrong on many levels, but it feels like something is going to tick over, to change.

As i keep saying to Bumblebee, it's not an ending, it's a beginning, even it is a bit sad and tired and overdue.

white ribbing

The Colonel and Lady Duck visited a couple of times over the last few weeks, bringing the usual care packages of a bag of lemons, a bag of plums and a bag of trash magazines. I've been picking up a mag every now and again and having a giggle. But this morning, over breakfast, I had a big fat guffaw.

A few weeks ago Crap Idea had a special on White Ribbon Day, which campaigns against domestic violence. They had a photo shoot of 'celebrities' (I always find that word laughable) posing in white and quoting life-affirming things. All good and well.

The photo that made me laugh -- nay, snort my tea -- was the first one, of the White Ribbon Foundation Chairman, Andrew O'K (from shows I've never seen: Weekend Sunrise, Deal or No Deal).

Let me set the scene:

Banner Headline: STARS STAND UP
Subhead: With thousands of women suffering domestic violence every year in Australia, these stars have joined [Crap] Idea to say 'ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!'

And they have a picture of Andrew standing up:



But that's not all, no ne no...

Andrew also says -- and rightly so, I have no problem with any of the words --

The White Ribbon Foundation wholeheartedly supports the excellent work being done by all those working with victims of violence, but we also believe that such violence will continue unless we begin to change the attitudes of men and society. Attitudes about the power, sexist attitudes and the belief of the silent majority that domestic violence is not their problem.



I'm sorry, but the toe of that pristine shoe dipping in the water, and that facial expression -- let's have that again, shall we?



-- speaks volumes about reaching out to men to change their attitudes about harming women, don't you think? The rest of the shoot isn't much better, either.


This is really such an important issue. Now excuse me while I beat the crap out of this ball, or at least try to look jolly while I wield this club next to a woman.

Boo sucks to whoever commissioned that ridiculous photoshoot, undermining a really serious campaign. Intentional, or brain-dead? You pick.

Now excuse me while I go and rinse the tea from my nose and get on with the day...

Fading away

I've been thinking about age recently. Partly because I turned 40 -- and thanks for all the well wishes -- but also because I've been spending time around a very elderly person who is descending a very slippery slope; not into dementia, but into her own overwhelming sense of anxiety and loss of control that must come with getting frail and helpless. As well, a colleague lost a parent, very suddenly, leaving a partner who can't fend for himself. And tonight I saw Away From Her, the first movie about the ageing of the babyboomer generation that I've enjoyed, because it's not hubric about that particular generation, just honest, and extremely poignant.

Dementia haunts my (immediate) family. My grandfather has it in spades, and currently lives in a far South Coast facility that specialises in his condition. He doesn't know any of us, his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his great-grandchildren. He has been reduced to a very basic model of himself, his core personality. He still loves children, music, painting and walking. He still tries to escape; they call him the one-man escape committee, but he's always had an urge to escape, wherever he was. He just wanted to walk, to be, to exist without trappings. When he first retired, he was a hippy farmer, wandering happily around his property on the edge of Lake George in a kaftan with nothing underneath. Mmm, fresh air and sunshine.

All the theories about avoiding dementia are, in my opinion, phooey. Crosswords? Brain puzzles? He did them every day, because he loved them. Creativity? He drew, painted, cast, threw pots, and all beautifully. Eat healthy foods? He was a vegetarian who drank wheat grass juice every day before anyone else had heard of it. Exercise? He walked for miles.

It's either bad luck or genetics. I vote genetics, in this case. He has a number of siblings (at least 4, one of whom died in WW2) and they all, except one, got it. My mother is terrified of getting it, she makes note on everything, but she is hopeful about the theory that it skips generations. Which puts me firmly in the firing line.

I, too, am terrified of developing it, and pin my hopes on my brother having received the genes. That would be sweet. And then I figure that if I get it, I won't know about it, so what's the problem?

The problem is, as you all know, those left behind. The ones around who are faced with leaving you somewhere, finding someone to look after you, who are left with a basic personality and no shared memories. My poor Nana is not quite a widow, and all her hopes of growing old with the man she loves/d are dashed. Luckily she's a very self-sufficient person, and one of the personal bonuses of getting really old is the shrinkage of your life down to your own concerns. Nana lives in jolly Nana world, and as long as her dog and her garden are near by, all's right with the world.

Oh, where am I going with this? I think this is another one of those posts where I'm not quite sure where I'm going, I just want to tap away at the keyboard until my wurties go away.

It is a very good movie, and raises some excellent issues once you mentally cut through the neat tying up of themes. I guess it made me sad for my grandfather. It made me wistful for the future. And scared. And hopeful that if I do go quietly blank, that someone will be close to me who can deal with it. And if I keep my faculties, but just get very elderly, that my young toyboy of a husband (see? aren't I clever) will still be there. And if I die young, let it be swift, and reasonably painless.

I guess that's all any of us can hope for, eh?

A bit of topicality

I just rang my credit card provider to cash in some reward points (movie tickets, of course) and was offered twice the amount of credit that I have now (which is VERY modest). When I refused, the man on the other end sounded positively miffed and was very cold to me for the rest of the phone call. I felt like giving him a mini-rant about personal credit overloads and the crisis currently hitting the States. Not that it would have made any difference. I feel shitty about getting rewards for spending money; I'd rather be rewarded for NOT spending money, but that seems to have gone out of fashion...

And I'm hearting Kevin at the mo, and loving the lack of fight in the Liberal creche about Kev's big breasty adventure. Last night on the news I could feel all the glass houses trembling slightly, but no stones were thrown. Let them only try, and see what crawls out into the light among all the glass shards...

Best Beloved was in Broome last night, cuddling crocodiles apparently. Tonight he is in Darwin, and will travel all abouts there. He's loving his job because he gets to travel all around Australia, and has a Quaintarse map that he uses to cross off all his flights. He's crossed off about half of what they offer so far. Bumblebee and I are quite enjoying his times away; we get to revisit our single parent days...

This is what personal blogs are for, rly

Monday the 13th of August is the 20th anniversary of my brother's death, a fact that takes my breath away at odd moments. I have mentioned him obliquely over the years, as his memory bobs up and down. Today I will go full frontal. Ish.

Twenty years is a significant anniversary, and aside from the usual feelings of loss, grief and helplessness, I feel an urge to know what some of his friends are doing now, and since I have this first-person narrative thing chugging along on teh interwebs, I thought I would put some feelers out there in case any of you know anyone who knew him.

So rather than attempt to say all this in an personal notice in a newspaper, I have placed an abridged In Memoriam notice in a couple of large newspapers for today, and at the end of the notice I have placed my blog address, and that is why I am posting about this today and not Monday. No doubt the newspaper typesetters will set up my notice in a rather ugly fashion and the blog address will blend together with the personal message completely illegibly, but those who are interweb savvy will hopefully get the gist. Maybe others will think it is poor taste to promote a blog in a death notice, but it is 2007, for goodness sake, so get jiggy wiv it.

This is the ad I placed (or how I would like it to look):

FLORANCE, Jamie Andrew
1/12/69 - 13/8/87

You were wrong: life isn’t better without you.
You are loved and missed.

www.ampersandduck.blogspot.com



I didn't include the photo, of course. It's a very old and battered photo, and the only one I could find. I get so used to seeing images of him at my parents' house that I forget that I have none around my own house apart from this so-very-alive one. Yes, his t-shirt says 'adildos'. He was a teenager :)

I would also have liked to expand that line a bit to: You are loved and missed, especially by those who would like to have known you. By that, of course, I mean Bumblebee, and Best Beloved.

Bumblebee thinks and talks about Uncle Jamie constantly, and is very concerned that we don't visit his grave enough. I've tried to explain that I don't feel the need to visit his grave site often because I don't feel J's presence there, but B likes the formality of a graveside visit. And I think he was deeply impressed by the year we went to a florist to get a flower to lay on the grave, and 5-yo Bumblebee was asked by the shop assistant if this pretty flower was for his mum or grandma. 'No,' he replied seriously. 'It's for my uncle, he's dead. He killed himself.' The shop assistant went to pieces and gave him the flower for free. I'd never really made a fuss about visiting a cemetery with him before that (it was a bit like visiting a playground), and it was his first taste of someone treating such a subject seriously.

Best Beloved finds the topic poignant, probably he is a little bit younger than Jamie and can see it on a peer level. He wishes he could have met him, especially after viewing Jamie's Good News Bible, his school's religious textbook of choice, altered during many long boring Religious Ed classes, with every line drawing adapted and captioned in a hilarious Monty-Python-meet-The Goons fashion. I think that Bible is my family's most precious possession, a capsule of my brother's taste and ability in comedy. Always look on the dark side of laugh.

And my parents and I just miss him, like a gaping hole in our lives, slightly patched by the inclusion of B and BB, but something that will never, ever be filled properly.

Here's a few things about my brother, just in case it jogs anyone's memory or social set:

He went to Cranbrook School, in Sydney, Class of 1987.
(No, we weren't/aren't rich, he had a full scholarship that is only given once every 6 years to a Defence Services child. Just in case you were wondering.)

Yes, Class of 1987 means that he died the year of his HSC exams. Just before his trial exams, actually. And his friends were NOT given permission to delay an exam to be able to attend his funeral. But they came anyway.

His story is quite similar to the film of Looking for Alibrandi, especially the area of Sydney used in the film, and the schools the characters went to. So similar that when I saw the movie, I couldn't see the credits for tears, and I wondered if the author, Melina Marchetta, had known my brother and his girlfriend. I don't think so, but I don't think I can ever watch the movie again. The book was published only 5 years after his death. It's too close to home, literally, or at least the home we were in at the time. Except that my dad wasn't a bullying perfectionist lawyer-type that drove his son to his death, or whatever it was.

When he died (he gassed himself, on our kitchen stovetop, BTW) his friends tossed some ideas around on how to commemorate him at the school. One idea was a plaque on one of the toilet cubicle doors. He would have loved the silliness of it, but the school thought it was undignified and refused, missing the point completely.

Names of friends I can remember without ringing my parents (who will probably find this post excruciating): JJ, Sam, Gaby, Justin, Julia, Rod, and Kathi. I hope you're all doing really well, and having happy lives. I'd love any of you (and any others) to get in touch, by commenting or by email (mentioned in the sidebar of this blog).

I wasn't, to my eternal regret, around a lot at the time, but that's not anyone's fault. By the time we got past that whole 'my sibling is dumb' phase, I was at university having a big sister life, and although we wrote and visited and got on extremely well, I mostly got long-distant reports about what my family were going through for the 9 months (there's that irony again) between his nervous breakdown and his death. Nine very hard months for my parents, who tried everything they could think of to keep him alive. And we had plans for him to come and live with me while we both went to uni, so I guess I was counting on a bit of quality time then. But no, it was not to be.

Actually, the message I really wanted to print is:

BAD CALL.

If you know anyone who is showing suicidal tendencies, tell them it sucks. It sucks big time. It really does. For those who go (gee, you showed 'em), and for those left behind constantly wondering why (no matter how many reasons you give them) and if they could have done anything, or anything else to help. It's a lose-lose situation.

Anyway, that'll do, Pig. He was a good brother while I had him, and I hope he's happy where he is. I have a number of drafts of notes he tried to write, and the last line of one of them is:

I know you can live without me. Please do.

Smarmy bugger. As if we had any choice, bless him.

Yay for Mika

She deserves a medal, the men either side of her deserve to be clubbed to death with their own genitals.

And as for Paris... meh.

In future, we shalt...

I am about to launch into another bout of collaboration with Bernice Balconey to pull our dreamy art idea into the cold hard light of reality, and stumbled upon the following this morning:

10 Commandments of Collaboration

Thou shalt trust thy collaborator's art with thy whole heart.
Thou shalt trust thy collaborator's judgment with thy whole mind.
Thou shalt trust thy collaborator's integrity with thy whole spirit.
Honor thy own voice.
Honor thy collaborator's spouse.
Thou shalt not be an egotistical asshole.
Thou shalt not covet all the glory.
Thou shalt love the same foods as your collaborator.
Thou shalt eat and tire at the same time.
Above all, honor the muse.

From Denise Duhamel & Maureen Seaton via ample sanity.

This is not a pointing finger at Bernice, gawd forbid, just a timely happening that applies to all the (artistic) collaborations in my life at the moment!

I am taking it on board the good ship Amperduck as she sails through time and space.

Remember to breathe

I forgot to remember to breathe, and it shows, doesn't it, with all that crabbiness of the last few posts. I'm sitting at my art school computer, and I don't really have an image that I can post nearby, so I offer humbly some space...




















... and my favorite find of today's crop of ebay searches: a name.

MANLY BANISTER

Isn't that a great name?

I thought it MUST be a pseudonym, but then I found an article written by him where he tells of creating a flotilla of pseudonyms to fill the first issue of his mimeographed zine (note to anyone thinking that 'zine' is a modern term). As if you could make up a better one than his own name! I am all curiosity as to what those pseudonyms were, and if I ever get time, will hunt down a copy of the first issue of The Nekromantikon to find out.

If anyone out there know anything about any of this, please share!

The Quest for Type

And I thought going to Rowany was a unique extension of my blogging experience...

Late last week I found myself facing a small window of opportunity to drive to Melbourne and back in three days to pick up some letterpress equipment. Museum Victoria had decided to deaccession a stack of its letterpress paraphenalia and I was one of the lucky few whose tenders were considered worthy (I wrote mine on behalf of the BookStud, not for myself). They wanted to offload the pieces soon, my dad was heading to Canberra in his ute for the football, and I only had one day of work to swap thanks to Anzac Day. When I'd first heard about the successful application, I'd offered a fast & furious road trip to Zoe -- share the drive, hit Melbourne, catch up with as many bloggers as possible, zoom home -- SMOK-ING! But unfortunately things moved a bit too fast and Zoe had a scheduled holiday at the same time. I found that I had to do it alone, which is cool because I do a lot of things alone. I have no problems being a lone duck.

I did drop Lucy Tartan a quick email suggesting maybe we catch a cuppa together... but she was heading to Sydney at the same time. Bummer. Then, in an astonishing act of trust and generosity (for this day and age, don't you think?), she offered me her house to stay in while she was gone! I guess I come across as pretty respectable on this blog, don't I? Heh. Actually, yes. I am as decent and trustworthy as they come. It was a good call.

Normally I would stay with a couple of friends, one very close to the city and one quite far away from the city, but I couldn't resist this chance to have a couple of nights to myself... anyone with a partner and/or kids will know why. So I worked out meetings with the lovelies and first thing Sunday headed down the Hume to Sills Bend.

Now, it's one thing to meet a fellow blogger, quite another to be in their house without them. Especially one like L, who writes so articulately about her environment. I arrived just on dark, found the house, found the key, opened the door, and there was Baz. He greeted me like a long-lost friend, then dashed between my legs, under the ute, and across the road. I picked up the welcoming note beside the door and read 'Don't let the cat out'. Crap. I walked carefully after him and watched him do a wee in the neighbour's tan bark. I bend to grab him and off he scarpered. Crap. My dad rang to see how the ute went. I explained my predicament and he hung up chortling. Pig. As I have explained before, I am quite relaxed about my cats' escapades, and always believe they will return for meals. So I applied the same philosophy here. Sure enough, 20 minutes later Baz returned meowing for a meal. He got one, but he didn't get outside again for the rest of my stay.

Inside everything was eerily familiar... I can't actively remember ever reading about the layout of the house, but L must have written something about it because my dream back in February had got the sunken loungeroom bit right! Love a sunken room. Of course, there was the couch, and the recently-framed poster, and the books shelved by colour! Everywhere I turned there was something that made me think of her blog. I felt like a stalking fan.


I'm very inspired by this bookshelf. I, too have a visual memory, and it's a refreshing break from the need to alphabetise.

I guess all you can do in these situations is embrace them. I roamed Banyule (another fun thing was that I've only ever been to one supermarket in Melbourne, and it happens to be L's local)
and got a hot box of yummy stirfry and an excellent slice of cake, then sat on the couch and watched... what else? Tommy. I really enjoyed it, but was a bit confused by the last 20 minutes. I don't understand why Tommy seemed suddenly to do things his parents' way rather than break away, as he'd almost done on the beach, tearing his mother's jewellery off.

Anyway, I used Baz as my antenna throughout the stay. Other people's houses always make odd noises, and you never really relax until you've experienced the entire range. I decided that if the cat looked alarmed, so would I. So every time I heard a noise, I would look at Baz. Nearly every time, he was supremely oblivious. And I could just relax. Mind you, Baz wasn't calm by any means. He wanted out.


Baz wants out.

Baz wants out.

Baz REALLY wants out, and will jump up to that window and gnaw the rope if you don't let Baz out. Then Baz will ambush you in the dark and attack your ankles if you don't let Baz out. Baz wants out.

I tried to close the bathroom door to stop the leaping and gnawing, but Baz can open doors too! He's a lovely cat with a mild case of cabin fever. Apparently leaping at my ankles means he likes me. I'm very glad. My cats do it too, and I know they like me.

My dad's ute is an old Nissan Navara that used to be a gleaming and proud beast when he first bought it years ago, but it has seen a lot of days and moved a lot of letterpress equipment, among other things. My family probably wish I had a lighter obsession. This time I loaded it up with about 500kg of galley trays, type trays and wood type, plus an old roller cabinet filled with rubber rollers.


Then Rod, the good guy at the Coburg warehouse, and I spent a long time covering it all up carefully with tarps and ropes (because it just had to be raining, didn't it?! Only lightly, thankfully, and not for very long). Neither of us are artful with ropes, so the whole setup was a bit dodgy, but it got the stuff home.

I did two things on my one day in Melbourne, other than pickup huge amounts of metal: I saw the marvellous book exhibition at the State Library of Victoria called Mirror of the World: Books and Ideas. It's a permanent exhibition, and REALLY worth going to if you have any love of books in any sense. It's magnificent, and I will go every time I'm in Melbourne. Apparently every so often they will turn pages of some of the older books. But the more modern books in the gallery are wonderful, lots to see for the letterpress/ bookarts lover.

The other thing was (and this may have been overly ambitious) to drive out to Monash University to visit the Ancora Press.


This is Brian, who runs the press in a basement room of the university, showing off one of his presses, a custom-made thing of which there are only 15 or so in the world. Brian is very old school, and thinks (respectfully) that using a cylinder proofing press such as mine is tantamount to cheating, but I think he thoroughly enjoying talking to someone who knows what he's talking about. We have a bond now in that he got half of Museum Victoria's wood type, and I got the other half.

It was a lot of driving there and back to Sill's Bend, but I managed it and also to have a scrummy Indian dinner catch-up with my Monash/Diamond Creek girlfriend, and then got back in time to collapse into bed with Baz and await the 5am possum dance.

The possums encouraged me to lie in (the ultra-comfy) bed and read Ghost World until I felt able to start the slow trek back up the Hume Highway at 80kms an hour on Anzac Day.

Here are some highlights of the trip (L has already done the landmarks in her post):


Dad's home-installed car stereo has had its face plate removed too many times, and occasionally you have to hold it on whilst driving. I rigged up this clarsy solution, improvised from some gaff tape and a couple of erasers (all I could find at the service station). It worked most of the way, and I got to listen to the audio book of Tomorrow when the War Began for a couple of cds (such a good story for driving on Anzac Day!) but then the whole thing died at Albury and I had to listen to the radio the rest of the way, which involved too much Radio National gumph about the meaning and appropriation of AD.


Found at Holbrook in the ladies public loo: 'S----W---- roots her father'. Charming use of texture and colour. Extra points for veRnacular.


"Stop. Move Away from the Cookie Jar." Anyone who loves The Office will find this at your local discount Warehouse. I regret not buying one now.


A view of the Hume Highway. Nothing else to look at. In fact, this is all the visibility I had -- no view in the rear vision window. I couldn't reverse, so it was forwards all the way!


What every ute needs -- a work dog.

I spent a lot of the time whilst driving worrying about how to get the stuff off the ute at the other end. What I'd forgotten was that I married someone who acts small and meek but is actually well over 6ft and covered with muscles. I got home, he got in the ute, and we went to the art school and offloaded everything and got it up to the BookStud with the help of a lithography stone trolley and a supermarket trolley. He's astounding.

I can't seem to stop driving. I haven't used my bicycle in a week or so. I'm hoping I can ride tomorrow, because I've had enough of steering wheels and rude bastards who cut in. Big thanks to everyone who made that trip happen. I'm still in awe of what I managed to do. And big thanks to Lucy T and Dorian, who are getting a big dinner when they come to Canberra next.

A key to a room of your own and a mind without end*

Shall I say "nothing happened today" as we used to do in our diaries when they were beginning to die? It wouldn't be true. The day is rather like a leafless tree: there are all sorts of colours in it, if you look closely. But the outline is bare enough.

I've started reading The Diary of Virginia Woolf, and I've started at the beginning. My Aged Poet friend is reading them too, but she started with Volume 4. We're both motivated by Leonard and his press; AP had a dear husband who made wonderful books with his press at one end of the house, printing while she wrote poems at the other end of the house, so she probably relates more to the Woolfs than I do. I have a dear husband who watches The League of Gentlemen on DVD while I plan my printing; but he's a lot more literate than any other of my lovers, so I guess I'm heading in the right direction.

AP hasn't found much about the printing side of Hogarth; I, however, was thrilled to read VW's brief mention of herself and Leonard sitting at tea on the 25th of January 1915:

we decided three things: in the first place to take Hogarth, if we can get it; in the second, to buy a printing press; in the third to buy a Bull dog, probably called John. I am very much excited at the idea of all three -- particularly the press.

(Cor, imagination the size of a planet and she wants to call the dog John.) I love the thought of them sitting and making those plans, both grand and mundane. Then life intervenes with another bout of VW's madness, and the press is put on hold for a few years.

Those life interventions are hard to reconcile. I remember a teacher at art school taking me down to the library when I was pregnant and depressed about being sidetracked yet again, and showing me a stack of catalogues on famous artists. She opened each one to the biography section, and made me read down the list. She pointed out the gaps between exhibitions, between major achievements. "See those?" she said, "They're called LIFE. Nothing happens as you plan it. Just stay as focussed as you can." Well, it's taken about 9 years, but I reckon I'm back on track.

The Hogarth Press plans were made, as I said, in January 1915. They didn't buy the press until Spring 1917. It must have been very frustrating for Leonard. In those two years it wasn't certain whether Virginia would recover, let alone write again. And if she didn't recover, he would have had a hard time starting a press. Of course, she did, and he did, and while you can't say there was a happy ending, at least they both got a lot done.

I love and loathe Virginia herself. She's a strange mix of genius and utter prat. It's mesmerising. So I'm slogging through Volume one (1915–19) Only four more volumes to go! Only 7 days until the next Lifeline Book Fair -- I'm hoping to pick up some more Diary volumes there. Among other things. Heh.


P.S. Re. the phone-camera shot a few posts down -- I was emailed this link today. Check out the nice phone camera nature shots! Steev, take note!

* Indigo girls, of course.

Warning: Full power ahead

full_power
Originally uploaded by Ampersand Duck.

I composed this image today while thinking about the gallery 451 print exchange project. It didn't really work as a print, but I thought it had merit as a digital image. If anyone would like a high-res version of this (about A4 size) let me know and I will send it to you. If you use it, mentally attribute it to me (no need to physically acknowledge me anywhere).