Category: Meanderings

Pablo Picasso said: Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.

In the 1970’s, I visited Bali, before the island became the popular tourist destination it is today. In those days it really did seem like a Sangri-La full of happy people going about their business with huge smiles. What struck me most about the lives of the Balinese was that every person in the community seemed to be , in some way, involved in art. Doors, windows and furniture were decorated with intricate carving, Baskets used for carrying rice or lunch to work and school were exquisitely woven and decorated. Batik for clothing, beautiful filigree silver-work, artistically carved leather and woodwork all seemed part of everyday life. Nothing was mundane. Plates of flowers, offerings to the Hindu Gods, arranged in delightful patterns were left outside shops and houses each morning. Dancing and theatre with amazing costumes were an integral part of the culture as was music. In countless ways, both great and small the community participated in creativity and I wondered, in those days whether this was the source of the palpable sense of of contentment on this island.

Since that visit, I have often wondered about the intrinsic value of community arts and was delighted when moving to Cairns to find myself in a place bubbling with artistic vitality. However I also saw in the streets and shopping centres people who looked worn down by life, perhaps trapped in a cycle of consumption and working to pay for the consumption. Perhaps too caught up with other demands to even create a beautiful meal let alone enrich their lives by participating in arts or crafts or theatre.

Growing up as a post-war baby boomer in country Western Australia, I was blessed with a family that encouraged education but there was an ambivalence about the arts. My musical father and artistic mother both valued and feared the arts. Back in Scotland they lived through the depression and the second world-war years. Although in Australia they started out with nothing, they saw hope – better lives for themselves and their children. There were countless stories of the the horrors of surviving in their homeland, especially through the harsh Scottish winters. They saw escape from the poverty cycle through education and good jobs. Creativity was feared. Artists then, as now, were undervalued by society and poorly paid. Why would you want you child to be an artist?

After my mother raised her family she turned briefly to art and writing. I was always in awe of her natural talent but she ruled herself with ruthless criticism. She ended up denying herself that which had been reinforced in her childhood as an indulgence. I feel the fact that she didn’t reach her artistic potential was a grief in my mother’s life.

I often come across other people yearning for the creativity missing from their lives. I believe it is a basic human need and wish these people would grab a brush or join a singing group. I would like them not to think about outcomes, just enjoy the process – enjoy themselves. I would like the community not to judge an artist on how many paintings they sell, how much money they make from their art-form.

Art does not have to start with a capital A. It can be expressive and satisfying in countless ways. As on of my teacher’s used be fond of saying: ART SHOULD BE FUN!

I come from a family of storytellers. Maybe we all do. There were always stories. Stories about past lives, stories about places, magic tales to spark our imaginations and tales of caution to scare the hell out of us. These stories can be lost or recede into the mist of time. But the past, both real and imagined, of my family is not forgotten. Through the tales of our grandmother and our parents, the past lived on.

Now I fear for the fate of stories as much as I fear for the Great Barrier Reef. Their existence is threatened. They have been banished from the tables of family dinners and replaced by phones and television. Blessed bits get passed through WhatsApp and social media but I feel the thread stretching and I fear it will break.

But then I tell myself: ‘Get real, old woman. The word is a different place. Accept it. The young people are amazing in their own way. They find their own ways to connect.’

But, for me, the stories intruded. The stories found me. And I wonder, will stories find them.

Agnes found me. Eventually I told her story with the book,The White Apron.

The girl, who lay awaiting the birth of her baby, on the day that my son Rob was born, found me. Dark Enough for Stars lies in my computer waiting professional editing. I have started to design the cover –it still needs work but I know from past experience, it all takes time.

And Lettie found me. Oh Lettie, do I have the energy to tell your story. Your family have given me permission and now the responsibility weighs heavy. It took me nearly 15 years to research and tell Agnes’s story. Your story is just as amazing but comes from the polar opposite on the social spectrum.

Your story has never been fully told. And it should be.

Any fool can have an idea, I hear my father saying.