Life on the Edge

Brian Che, the current resident Windgrove artist, and I have had a string of slow, easy autumn days; mostly still and sunny with plenty of quiet time to reflect upon and create our respective art.

Looking through the window of Che's studio (once I removed him), the 2nd photo shows some of the smaller paintings progressing along. Outside, the 3rd photo shows a very large "Red" drying out next to the bath.

For me, it has been exciting and informative to watch the daily/weekly process; the multiple layering required to achieve these color field landscapes. A true skill. This learning experience is one of the rewards I receive for running the Windgrove artist-in-residence program. Hopefully, if I can sell some of Windgrove's 100 acres (I'm still working with the local council for approval), there will be sufficient money to build four artist chalets as well as a larger multi purpose studio. That will be fun. Better yet, an important development for Windgrove.

As for my work. The 4th photo shows a small "still life" that I am presently carving. The myrtle spiral, weathered beach stick and four stones will be "set" into a piece of huon. Slow, steady, meditative work. I sit on the saw horse, chip away hundreds of tiny slivers of wood, listen to the sounds of the day, and when the mood hits, head on down to Roaring Beach for a surf. In the evening a shared meal, good conversation and a bit of a read before retiring. Life's easy.

I have a TV in my house. A Sony Trinitron, in fact. I even have a DVD player. But they sit on the floor of a closet. Not so much hidden away out of disgust or abhorrence of their addictive qualities, but simply that I have no real desire to use them. In the last ten years the total hours watched would most likely equal what the average child in Australia and America views in ten days. Maybe an exaggeration, but closer to my reality than reality TV. Might I suggest that people, just as an experiment, put their TV in a closet for a month, or perhaps a week, at least? Not that the news and one's favourite program aren't informative or entertaining, but it could prove interesting. So, telephone your partner or a friend and say invitingly: "Guess who's coming home to dinner tonight" and have a different type of TV dinner. What type of TV dinner you ask?

For me, this means sitting down with a glass of organic wine, munching on a stir fry and.... gazing into the intricate face of a sun flower so stunning in its format that my plate of food gets cold. The pixels of this screen -- around 50 seeds per square inch -- shine with a clarity and depth not found in any plasma screen that I know of. When I am in town visiting with my city friends, what I find most disturbing is the phrase: "I'm going home tonight and veg out in front of the TV". This statement, "veg out", does a great injustice to the integrity and stature of vegetables. They do not sit around remaining idle and sloth like. They are constantly growing inside and out, never resting; developing into their fullest potential. Besides this, they are in constant search of a "grand coupling". Their sole mission is to sink roots deep into the fertile soil, spread out luscious, searching tendrils of communication, burst forth in gorgeous displays of flower, fornicate copiously and then bear the most mouth watering succulent fruit. The next time a friend says they are spending the night vegging out, give them a wink, a knowing smile and remind them to practice safe sex.

Today.... April 6... the third anniversary of the lighting of the eternal flame here at Windgrove. Over a thousand days of feeding wood into a black, sunkened hearth now powerful with its own legacy spread throughout the world. Over a thousand days standing before it offering prayers of peace.... This morning was no different than any other morning. Lift the lid off, add three to four split logs to the flames, do salutations at each of the four cardinal points facing outward, finishing back at the East stone, but now facing inward to speak prayers into the fire, sometimes audibly, most often silently. I feel quiet. No more need be said about today. Except to offer up this poem by Pattiann Rogers: Trial and Error The right prayer might be a falling prayer spiralling down in the throats and raised wings and white warmth of tumbling pigeons, the joy of a beseeching abandon, or a crossing prayer in the fingers of oak branches over themselves, their display of a hopeful wind, or a drifting prayer in the cerise petals loosed and dropping from a stalk of wild betony, a proclamation in dissolution. It may take two every night, maybe three every dawn -- prayers offered of one fact against another -- milkweed against winter, reflected face against water, rapid barking against fear. I can compose any kind, prayers wrapped in seaweed, rolled in grape leaves, prayers sent spinning tied to butterfly kites crackling in the sky over the sea, prayers in wax bound to stones sunk past coral cliffs or ice canyons to the ocean floor, prayers delivered with moans or howls, rattling gourds or timbals, prayers in the cadence of rain, prayers in the absence of breath. I'll send them out in signs, lanterns on rooftops, candles on cairns, backward prayers like the dark side of the moon, prayers hung upside down by the knees, prayers beginning with praise, beginning with "Our Father", with "Darling Mother", with "Darkling Son", fading off fast to "In the beginning..." I'll become by myself, I swear, whatever prayer it takes, teeth, eyelids, ears, beatitude of knuckles, invocation of spine, a solid skeleton of the perfectly linked linguistics of prayer, hands pressed together before me, my whole body speaking, waiting.