Quandong Season

Brandenburg Gate

I was fossicking through my photos looking for a particular photo I wanted to post when I found this. I think I'm standing pretty much where the wall ran, not that I was especially conscious of that at the time.

I look ecstatic, don't you think? It was a beautiful clear day, but lordy it was cold! I would say that it was the coldest I've ever been, but in fact just a week before I'd been colder in the Danish town of Roskilde, where my friend and I began losing the physical ability to speak or walk due to the low temperature, not to mention the capacity for rational thought. Maybe it wasn't that bad on a world scale, but for my sub-tropical body it was almost too much.

Berlin was lovely.

Berlin Wall

I'm a bit of a closet GDR nerd. I have a toy Trabant on my desk and everything. On this anniversary of the fall of the Wall, a few links for your ever-expanding knowledge.

Deutsche Welle, Germany's excellent English language broadcaster, has a great selection of GDR bits and pieces. The main reunification page is here, but a few specific pages that I've found particularly interesting:

• Path to Unity. Gallery of pictures that trace Germany's history from 1945 to 1990.
• Demolished Treasures. Selection of architecture from East Germany that has since been demolished.
• Highs and Lows of Reunification.

...and much more besides.

The Stasimuseum is located in the former headquarters of the Stasi, and allows a peek into the workings of the secrective organisation.

Our museum is located in the House 1 in the central complex of the Ministry for State Security in Berlin-Lichtenberg, in which Erich Mielke, last minister for State Security, had his seat. You can visit his offices which are preserved in their original state. Added are a lot of exhibits that sample the activities of the State Security, the different aspects of the political system and the resistance and opposition in the GDR.

As I read it in Stasiland, the offices were abruptly shut as they stood in their everyday working life, then re-opened as a museum within a couple of months. Amazing. I wish I'd known about it when I was in Germany.

DDR Museum:

The DDR Museum is the only museum which concentrates on everyday life in the GDR. We don't only show the crimes of the State Security or the border defences at the Berlin Wall but we display the life of the people in the dictatorship: Maybe you know the spreewald pickles, nudism beaches and the Trabi - the rest of the life in this socialist state is unfamiliar to most of the people in the world.

Archived ABC News broadcast reporting of the fall of the Wall. Probably the broadcast I watched, stunned, with my mouth flapping open. I recall only having half an eye on the news that night, but this caught my attention, to understate it. I obviously hadn't been paying attention to current affairs in the weeks leading up to this, because it was as amazing and shocking to me as if the broadcast had been reporting on the arrival of Martians. I still find it moving today.

Palace of the Republic. The now-demolished headquarters of the GDR. I saw this when I was in Berlin. I had no idea what it was, but it was absolutely arresting, in the sense that it takes a particular brand of genius to make something this ugly. The interior is another matter though, a wonderland of modernist excess. Love it.

1989 - Europe's Revolution, BBC's page on the topic.

Right on Target

When we come together with someone in a romantic partnership it's easy to be lulled into thinking that you've chosen one person, an individual. Of course, mostly they come with their family in tow, one way or another.

Last night I was out shopping with my mother-in-law. Nothing exciting, just off to Target to take advantage of a sale that I hoped might provide a new pair of pants for me for summer.

Since pregnancy I've put on a few kilos. Nothing huge, just enough that a lot of my pre-pregnancy clothes aren't an option any longer. Clearly, mother-in-law has noticed. We enter the store and I head for the women's clothes, whereas mother-in-law turns for the "plus size" section. Oh, she says. Aren't you going to look at the large clothing?
No, I say, the regular ones are just fine.
Oh. Meaningful silence. Are you sure?

So — in the regular-sized clothing — I find some pants to try on, and walk over to the fitting room. They're not quite right, so I head out again to look for something better.

No good?
No, I'm going to try a different size.
Well, let's head over to the large section, as if I've finally seen sense.
Actually, those were too big. I'm after the next size down.
Incredulous: Really?!
Ignore.

Decide on a pair after another fitting. Make general complaint about cuts of pants currently on the market. Well, are you sure you don't want to look in the large section? You might have more options over there, you know.
Think to self, Oh for fuck's sake!!

To put it into perspective, the pants I bought were a size 12, so hardly in the realm of a circus tent. Thanks, mother-in-law. You're pure gold.

Movember

Lofty is growing a moustache this year for Movember. He's putting down his razor for one month (November) to help raise awareness and funds for men’s health – specifically prostate cancer and depression in men.

What many people don’t appreciate is that close to 3,000 men die of prostate cancer each year in Australia and one in eight men will experience depression in their lifetime - many of whom don’t seek help. Facts like these have convinced Lofty he should get involved and I am hoping that you will support him.



To sponsor his Mo, you can either:

• Click this link and donate online using your credit card or PayPal account
• Write a cheque payable to ‘Movember Foundation’, referencing his Registration Number 362156 and mailing it to:

Movember Foundation,
PO Box 292,
Prahran, VIC, 3181

Or get in contact with us and simply hand over a bit of the folding stuff.

Remember, all donations over $2 are tax deductible.

Movember is now in its sixth year and, to date, has achieved some pretty amazing results by working alongside The Prostate Cancer Foundation (PCFA) and beyondblue: the national depression initiative. You can read about some of the great outcomes of Movember here.

If you are interested in following the progress of Lofty's Mo, click here . Also, Movember Australia has heaps of useful information.

Never Mind Your P's and Q's

After a couple of years now of reading baby's and toddler's books, it was nice today to get this in the mail:

C is for The Clash
with a strummer called Joe.
They're playing tonight,

should I stay or should I go?

So refreshing to open a book secure in the knowledge that there are no fluffy bunnies or cute puppies lurking within. And it's about time my kids learned about The Ramones, I think.

One, Two, Three, Four!
I just wanna read some more!
Gabba Gabba Gabba Hey!
Come on kids, it's back to A!

This is one of a series of three books, and I'm mightily tempted to pick up the others, too.

George Symons

Over the years I've meant to photograph various older buildings in the city, ones that are clearly not going to be around much longer. I rarely do, but did manage to capture George Symons "mens suit factory". Obviously, if you were of a mind to get dressed up as a mens George was who you went to.

The recently closed Skinny's Records had an incarnation along this strip of Elizabeth Street, but I can't remember exactly where. I do remember that it had an impressive cast iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. This was after the Queen's Arcade was bulldozed to make way for the delightful Myer Centre. Skinny's started in a pokey, out-of-the-way corner of Queen's Arcade, as did several other interesting businesses. The Mask is one. It was an odd place, shabby and decorated in spray painted stencils and promotional posters. The rent must have been a bargain. Where do little left-of-centre businesses start up now?

August

I've just realised that I posted nothing at all for August. I was busy in my own head, turning 40. I'm sure you understand. Consider it a period in a cocoon, preparing for my time as a curvier, wrinklier, wiser butterfly.

Breaks Radio Silence

I break this (undramatic) silence to tell you about something beautiful I saw online tonight: Yves Marchand and Romaine Meffre's photographs of Detroit in decay. Oddly enough for someone living on the other side of the globe to Detroit -- in fact, I think you'd be hard pressed to get further away from it, geographically -- I've seen quite a lot about the decay of Motor City recently. Funny how things go in waves like that. I have seen enough, however, to regret not having known about is when I was in that part of the world. Everything I've seen seems poignant, beautiful and heartbreakingly tragic. I really, really want to go there. In the meantime, please enjoy the photos.




From the Time website:

On their website, the photographers write, "Ruins are the visible symbols and landmarks of our societies and their changes...the volatile result of the change of eras and the fall of empires. This fragility leads us to watch them one very last time: to be dismayed, or to admire, it makes us wonder about the permanence of things."

A couple of the "places" I've seen Detroit recently are also worth a mention. Firstly, the always excellent Foreign Correspondent featured Detroit a few weeks ago; Stephen Fry's compelling Stephen Fry in America also paid a visit. Or did he? Now that I look at the website I think I may be mistaken. Either way, his show is wonderful, and you'll be a better person for tuning in. 7:30pm Sundays for the Antipodeans reading.


Time's collection of the Marchand/Meffre Detroit photographs

le Tour and le Ashes

It's Tour de France time, and as usual SBS is embracing it and giving it a very continental double cheek kiss.

For your enjoyment, every Australian's favorite frog, Gabriel Gate, gives his now regular gastronomic tour. I have a few of Gabriel's cookbooks, and while they're excellent, they don't allow me to hear his fabulous accent, so his Taste le Tour spot is just that bit better. I have onions sauteing as I type for the pissaladière. Won't be doing anything good to my breath, but I'm not too concerned!

I like to catch up with the Tour highlights every night, but I have to admit that I don't really follow the race itself. I enjoy the spectacle of so many men on cycles bunched together like that. It's suspenseful. Any minute they could go down in a spectacular heap. Once one goes down, that's it for anyone but the most fortunate. The bikes look so spindly and slight. And the men themselves do if you really look at them. And those outfits; that's part of the interest. I live at the foot of a so-called mountain that attracts cyclists from all over town. They look quite hilarious in their tight little outfits, but during the Tour that's the standard! One of the few places in the world you're not risking a beating by venturing out in public in an outfit that is little more modest than paint.

Image from Britain's Daily Mail

The other thing I love seeing is the French countryside. Generally if I'm watching I'm looking over the cyclists' shoulders at the vista. I don't get sick of that.


These days the first thing the Tour de France brings to my mind is Kraftwerk. It's my favorite of all their albums, and you can get a little bit of it here.

While we're tuned to SBS, the novelty of them hosting The Ashes isn't wearing off any time soon. Cricket on telly without having to suffer Tony Greig or Bill Lawry, or the strangeness of having the radio on and the television turned down! No limited edition autographed prints for sale for several hundred dollars! No Tubby Taylor and his inanity! Wonderful! Stuart McGill is turning out to be an urbane and witty host, too.

Image from SBS

I think it's safe to say that this year's Ashes have made Nathan Hauritz Hervey Bay's most famous son. Poor guy has had a nasty finger dislocation -- his spinning finger, too! -- so will most likely be out for a while, but still. He's one of ours, and we love him for it.

Farewell, Fellows.

It's my second last day at work today — I resigned a few weeks ago — and as I was waiting for my regular 6:39 am bus this morning I felt a sudden surge of sentimental sadness. I've been seeing many of the same people each morning for a year, and this morning I feel as though I'll miss them terribly. I feel I should be saying goodbye, letting them know where I am just so they don't worry.

Bye, cute 50-something obvious smoker. All your lovely waist-length hair is going to fall out once you're on chemo, you know. Try to pack the fags in, won't you? And just so you know, Mandrake-look-alike man with long leather coat, I won't be catching this bus anymore. All the best, eh?

And there's the gorgeous young woman who gets on in Ashgrove, if she's on time. When I do see her she's running across Waterworks Road, barely missing the traffic to get to the bus. I'm guessing the bright red coat she wears was a gift from a concerned friend, so at least drivers can see her darting madly about, and have a chance at dodging her. I really want to know who cuts her hair.




And there's the guy with one arm. He's about my age, and I'm guessing the absence of his arm is due to Thalidomide. I recall seeing Thalidomide-affected kids around when I was young, but I don't notice them grown up and out and about these days.

There's also the guy who combines office and cowboy wear to endearing effect.

And the otherwise quite nice woman who gets on at my stop and manages to inject religion into even the briefest exchange. The insurers didn't repair her roof for around six months after the big storm, and you can see discolouring where the tarp was.

And the high school-aged twins who go to Kelvin Grove, but have to turn up early for orchestra practice. The boy of the pair has a harder time getting out of bed than she does; I hear his sister telling her friend what excuse she's been asked to relay for the day.


Later in my commute, I pass by Woolloongabba bus station, where a Buddhist nun gets on, and a schoolboy aged about nine or so. He's a bit of a misfit; you can just see that he's not one of the cool kids, and is a bit awkward and odd. I like him for that. The nun seems to have taken a bit of a shine to him, and wraps up a smiling conversation as they get on each day. She has that typical peaceful happiness that committed Buddhists often do. As the weather has become more frigid, I've fantasised about making her an arm warmer. She puts heavier fabrics around herself, but her right arm has to make its own way out in the cold. It bothers me. The imaginary arm warmer is a beautiful yarn, soft and warm but not sweaty, and just the right colour. She loves it, but can't wear it because the arm has to stay bare. She likes the gesture anyway, and I'm happy with that.

The commute for me is much more than a means of getting to work. These days I am enslaved to my domestic obligations, and this small amount of time I get two days a week is precious. I can wander off and get a quiet coffee if I feel like it. I can go to the library. I can browse the shoe store. I can do whatever I damn well please, so long as it doesn't take too long. I can't see how I'll get that regular freedom again in the foreseeable future. The commuters I'll forget in just a few weeks; that tiny window of small freedoms will be missed sorely.

Pictures from Creative Commons.

Some days my spectacles have Diane Arbus lenses. People look really weird, but oddly dignified.

Collins St, 5pm

In the Weekend Australian a couple of weeks ago I read an extended article about John Brack's work. It was largely critical, the author's main gripe being how remote Brack was from his subject, how unsympathetic. The painting below, Collins St, 5pm, is the example most often cited when discussing this aspect of his work.


If we're discussing his nudes I agree. I don't like them either, and for the same reason. But today I'd like to argue in favour of Collins St, 5pm.

A common interpretation of this painting is that it depicts the old faceless automaton, the mindless drones returning from slaving witlessly for The Man, heading back to their sterile boxes like sheep. Get a grip. That view is lazy and ignorant.

As most people who do it daily know, commuting is the only time in some people's day they have to themselves. That's certainly how it is for me. And it's a time when no-one asks too much of you. For me, it's that precious window between where-are-my-glasses-no-put-that-down-don't-bite-your-sister-eat-your-toast-don't-forget-to-hang-out-the-washing and have-you-sent-that-email-what's-the-deadline-on-that-and-can-I-have-an-extension-what's-to-be-done-about-the-coffee-machine. You can go into standby, conserve some energy or build some, or absorb yourself thoroughly in your thoughts. Prepare yourself. Just be.

And those faces that Brack put on that canvas all those decades ago are doing just that. To one person, they may be blank and moronic. To me, they are thoughtful, going over the events of the day and planning what to have for dinner, and perhaps just tired. Just as people are at peak hour.

1984

I've been reflective lately, and happily so. A couple of months ago I was among the first to be contacted by three women organising a reunion for our year at high school. It seemed like such a big job, so I duly offered to help. Immediately I wondered if I'd regret it, as I so often seem to when I make these offers. In fact it's been wonderful.

Over the past couple of months I've heard from people I'd not seen or even thought of for decades. The truly amazing thing is that they remember me. I always assume -- or perhaps hope -- that people won't.

One friend I heard from was amazed I'd tracked him down all the way to Trinity College, Dublin. The way he wrote it you'd think I'll physically tracked him across the globe following the trail of broken twigs and fibres snagged on fences. But despite the fact it wasn't me who found him at all, but another friend of ours, it isn't actually that great a feat. Trinity College is one of the the most famous universities there are, and we now have this remarkable thing called the internet. Being an academic perhaps he's not heard of it. I searched for him myself later, too lazy to look for the email containing the link, and he came up on the first page of Google results.

Another long-lost classmate got me thinking when, commenting on our year 10 photograph, he said, "Look at us - heads full of hair and the world at our feet."* My hair hasn't taken leave, but it's an interesting thought to reflect on. We do take changes like mobile phones and the internet for granted, but if those 15 year-olds in that photo had been shown these things in 1984 we would have been apoplectic with astonishment. We were told it was going to be all jet-packs and nuclear winter. And so much leisure time due to computers and robots taking over the lion's share of our labour that the industry of "leisure management" was where the smart folk were heading. (Seriously. I recall one of our Phys. Ed. teachers telling us this repeatedly, trying to urge us into this economic liferaft.)

Robot slave. On the left, a tin man.

Instead, life is quite ordinary; I don't go in a hover car to my two-hour-per-week job supervising robot slaves, nor do I have antennae implanted in my head. But the ordinariness of my world in the ordinary suburbs diverts attention from just how fantastic and "futuristic" it all is. As I sit in the bus writing this, most other passengers have MP3 players plugged into their ears. When I was at school everyone was excited about their Walkman, a portable cassette player about the size of a boot, that chewed through batteries like billy-o. MP3 players fit in a matchbox, carry hundreds of songs and can be plugged into the mains to recharge. Can you imagine being shown one 25 years ago? Or a laptop computer? For starters, it has colours on the screen! And for eveyone except our household, they boot up on under half an hour, and without cassette tapes! Even some of the fabrics we wear today would be foreign and wonderful to my 15 year old self.

A Walkman, like the makeup, turned up too loud.

But is it a better world? I think so. Today we are more accepting of people who aren't white, straight, able-bodied males. We are generally more self-aware, so we have more opportunity to develop ourselves and live happier and fuller lives. While I think we are polluting more, we are aware enough of that that big polluters like industry are beginning to be pulled into line. And in Queensland, we are blessed with a social and political world that is infinitely more kind than it was in the mid-Eighties.



About six months ago I dreamed that my current self woke up one morning in the body and life of my high school self. I was very grateful to wake up for real. As sentimental as this reunion business has made me recently, I would struggle terribly in 1984.


*It always seems to be about the hair when looking at old photographs. Women: Look at my hideous hair! Men: Look at all my beautiful hair!

Lord love a duck, it's hammering down here!

Image from Bureau of Meteorology, Mt Staplyton Radar

As I passed through the CBD on my way to work today I noted the phenomenon of the Alpha Umbrella. Men of a certain type carry very large umbrellas. Very large umbrellas that impinge upon other people's space and stab about willy-nilly near their eyes. The carriers of the Alpha umbrella seem completely oblivious to the discomfort they cause -- obviously, or they wouldn't carry such large umbrellas in congested spaces. I can only guess that these are the same men who perform the Alpha Male Leg Spread, whereby they take up as much space as possible by essentially performing the splits while sitting on, say, a seat on public transport.

Let it be known that I respect a man who has the confidence to carry a modestly-proportioned brolly.

Slick Work

What a week. The latest thing is that the entire local coast is thick with vile, heavy, carcinogenic, toxic, fumy shipping oil. Jolly. Likely, the person in charge of the Pacific Adventurer was under pressure to meet deadlines, fill quotas or whatever management tripe you like, and so didn't consider avoiding the cyclone area. Nope, just carried right on through dangerous seas with dangerous cargo. So thanks, mate, for the ammonium nitrate over the side, and the hundreds of thousands of litres of oil along our coastline. Nice work.

The usual solution to this kind of disaster is to throw money at it, but I don't really think that that's going to fix it this time. While a gigantic fine is appropriate, I'd like to see more appropriate punishments handed out, to not only the captain, but also to the people further up the pecking order. Be forced to live in a house where every surface is coated in oil, including all food, for example.

It's hard not to be despondent about this kind of thing. The people responsible will not be held accountable in any meaningful way, we'll be left to deal with the pollution, life will carry on as normal. I just can't believe that this kind of thing still happens, I really can't.

Being election time, The Borg has seen this primarily as an opportunity to throw his usual tiresome array of schoolyard taunts. This does nothing but turn me away. If he were truly interested in gaining a bit of respect, he'd be meeting with Anna Bligh and asking what he and his colleagues can do to help.

Heartbreakingly, in the cyclone a school friend's brother was lost at sea. We've had a big spoonful of malevolent nature in this country over the past few weeks.

For Ms P

My dear friend, Ms P, made a post on her blog recently about how, as a pregnant woman, childcare was something she was beginning to think about. This prompted some bully boy dick to copy her picture and post to his blog, make repulsive comments about her, and get all his mates to start harrassing her on her blog. Classy. The result is that she has pretty much dissappeared from the web. I'm pretty sad about that, because Ms P is one of my favorite people to read online, particularly since we haven't lived in the same town for such a long time. So, to Ms P, I offer this cartoon in the hope that it encourages you to not take it personally.




To the sad-arses who think their time is best spent anonymously bullying a pregnant woman they have never met, well, I hope life looks up for you at some point.

Is Everyone In Your Time Retarded?

From realdanlyons via larvatus prodeo

Nerdy Needlework

I've got a tattoo that I feel needs a bit of work. I don't like it much, but don't see it so don't mind too much, either. I would like it transformed into something fabulous, though.

Browsing today I came across a few interesting ones, tattoos with a maths/science theme. Here's a couple of my favorites.

Left: Subatomic doodling. Right: Tuning in


Left: Logarithmic spiral Right: Entropy


And not so much a nice tattoo, but a hilariously practical one for some. I'm sure my chemistry exam results would have been a bit better for having had one at the time.

Happiness Via The Post

I got a parcel in the post today, which is always nice. This one was a gift from myself. I bought some prints from the very excellent Kate Banazi. I've been ogling Kate's work for some time, but was prompted to flex the plastic this time because she's generously donating all proceeds from her sale store to the Red Cross Bushfire appeal. I love the prints I unrolled today, and she even threw in another artist's proof as a bit of a bonus. What a gal.

Readers outside of Australia will not have much of a clue how big this bushfire thing is*. It's a very big deal. And I don't want to detract from that when I say this: if you are of a mind to donate some money please consider splitting it and giving half to the flood appeal. While the bottom bit is burning, the pointy bit is seeping and gushing and rotting. People are doing it tough up there, too; it must be galling to have become second-rate news.

*ABC coverage of bushfires. Note that I am avoiding this news as it's too distressing. You can make your own choice, but you've been warned.

ETA: Sorry, perhaps that should read "she even threw in another Artist's Proof". I don't mean a proof from another artist, but an "artist's proof". You know, a trial run before you start printing the edition. She just sent me an extra print, OK?

Valentine's Day is for Twitchers

And I don't mean birdwatchers. In addition to being the patron saint of lovers, St Valentine has charge of epileptics as well.



It's hardly a great surprise that epilepsy has a patron saint; it's so frightening and seemingly inexplicable that it was thought for a long time to be the work of the devil. What else could a sufferer and their family do but pray, pray, pray?

I've been reading a bit about epilepsy recently, and there's a lot about it I didn't know. I didn't know how many different types there are, for example. It's not all the dramatic thrashing about we see in the movies and on TV. An episode can take the form of just blanking out for a while, experiencing phantom sensations such a tastes or sounds, fluttering eyes, all kinds of things. And it's not genetic. I assumed it was.

So this Valentine's Day -- if you're not too amorously engaged to have the time, that is -- take the time to have a quick read of this first aid information for epilepsy.

Yay Me!

Two of my designs have been featured in the Remo General Store newsletter: Ligature Star and Remo Record. Perhaps I'll do up a Suburban Safari one to give to everyone for their birthdays this year. ;)

Site: Grain Edit

Grain edit is focused on classic design work from the 1950s-1970s and contemporary designers that draw inspiration from that time period.
Site content includes interviews, articles, designers’ libraries as well as examples of rare design annuals, type specimens, Ephemera, posters and vintage kids books from our bookshelves.

I stumbled across this site by happy accident as I hunted for something else for work. I'm a big fan of this style of design, so I'll be visiting here often.

Link.

Artist: James Jean

Books full of beautiful sketches of the everyday.

Link