I am going on a trip tomorrow. To Sydney. The distance from Cairns to Sydney is more or less the same as from Exeter in the UK to Tripoli in Tunisia at a cool 2400 km at 32,000 feet.
Or from Amsterdam to a sunny spot on the coast some 184 km south of Istanbul in Turkey.
Makes me think of the many many times I flew Amsterdam to Lisbon (1861 km) and back. The Terena village taxi would be waiting for me at the airport. Senhor Ignacio, the taxi driver, often had some villagers with him who may have needed medical attention or made a visit to a grandchild in Lisbon.
In those days I'd go somewhere, only to come back to want to go away again, even further.
Now I painted the place to come back to. And the painting will be hanging where I rest my head at night.
It's never cold in the Igloo for this Eskimo, remember?
In Sydney, I will meet the very last addition of my colourful family, Nina Shirlaw, daughter of Abigale and David, daughter in law and son of Kevin and Margaretha Shirlaw, brother-in-law and sister of Norman and Sally Bakker, my brother and sister-in-law, parents of Angela, Vanessa and Jeremy, cousins of Jenny, our actress Deborah and x-box enthusiast Peter Woodley-Page, son of Ursula and David. Nina Shirlaw is great grand child number 8 or 9 to my parents Joan and Arie Bakker, grand parents also of my daughter, the soprano Renate Arends.
Who thinks we are not tribal.
I've been in Cairns now more than 9 months. It feels like it was a successful pregnancy. Looking back over the work I have done here I cannot hide a smile; all these births. Natural or cesarean? A smile of gratitude. Not only the paintings. But having arrived where I know I am to be.
I had nothing to do but start a painting with the colours I woke up with this morning. A 'Going away' painting about the before mentioned (yesterdays writing) Sanctum Sanctorum.
I did it with the speed of lighting. Finished, varnished and given a fresh new cot.
I'll be back.
I told you before we buried the pussy under the banana tree and on the actual place a potato vine is growing and looking very well and strong. I imagine (as a painter of roots ) the tentacles under the ground growing and worming their way through the earth and through pussy.
So when the banana tree pops its fruit next time, will I eat the fruit? Will I think the fruit has our pussycats flavor?
This canvas is again in a way a good-bye to a period of time. I used several familiar figures. The little flying lady is back and my usual notations on the canvas and as always the sign I have tattooed on my groin, a word written in my secret writing I have used since I was 7 or 8 years old. Also a few comments on where, how and why.
But getting back to the banana tree and its fruit. It is like a painting in a way. Like the banana, my canvas is also carrying the traces of a cat.
When I am in a dreamy mood, when I cannot sleep or simply am speedy, I imagine my ideal dream studio. It has a polished cement floor (Daniel's Hiperfloor) and a view to kill. Huge and stacked to the rafters with beautiful virgin Belgian canvasses, all 1200x1200 and all the Swiss Lascaux paint I need.
But all this only if I don't have to be alone.
I am not... :-)
This day we had to bury our cat Twoface. She was killed by a big dog. Too quick, for sure. It was a horrible battle and I saw the light go out of her eyes. I only have once before, with my beloved Diena, had the 'Death experience', but I do remember looking into eyes that didn't look back. Ears that didn't hear me anymore. Hands that didn't feel me anymore.
Anyway, lately I have this theme in my paintings. The unknown, the dark, because of the lack of Light, a little inviting but not much.
At this point in time, this supremely happy time, never the less, the last thing I want to know about is how I'd handle another situation involving death. Let alone handle pain.
Painting these scenes with the roots, literally crawling up or down, are still worrying me. I worry whether I am handling such a heavy subject a little superficially. Getting off on pretty colours and unexpected shapes.
Well. pussy is buried in the garden under the banana trees.
And she's on the yellow canvas.
Some time ago I had come to the conclusion the world was much 'smaller' then before. Because of e-mail via the internet, multi functional mobiles, Facebook, MySpace, YouTube, XTube, etc., etc. Shit, writing a letter is now 'snail mail'.
People go to sleep at night thinking: 'well, I have contacted more than one hundred people today. I sent so many coffees, pokes, kisses and hugs and I hope that tomorrow all my friends will have answered me. Sent me many Martinis.'
It's like The Reader's Digest all over. A shortened version of a great book made even greater because all can read it without deep moral or religious dilemmas. Like half a painting? And Reader's Digest publishers don't even try to bind that tiny magazine in a way it can open easily. Like a forbidden book.
But the distances have stayed the same. Speed is the big difference. I had a look at Youtube today and as a joke I tapped in a name of a singer from the 60's, a singer who called herself 'Singer without a name' (Zangeres zonder naam)(click on) and it made me cringe. Yes, for sure, everybody has his or her story and wherever you go in the electronic world the supply is endless. It makes me want to just give up a little.
It pisses me off that I am asked daily by Facebook if I am trustworthy. I must look now at my Facething as so many people write now via these outlets. And I feel guilty if I don't send something on to you all to save some life somewhere somehow.
E-Bay is another thing I don't know much about but I went to the Paintings section and many of the paintings are 'Made in China', for sale at the best offer. Or something like that.
Why am I complaining? I am having a battle with my Muze. Working on this painting, here above, and it just sits there staring at me. And the cat is staring at me. Or the cat is staring at the painting thinking.... Oh come now, cats don't think about paintings.
After all the above: The painting is finished, was finished but the umbilical cord hadn't been severed!
(click image to enlarge)
Painted in Armidale, NSW, during a most unsettled time while sharing a house with three musketeers.
Once a day, better, once a night, before I can start building my dream village with dream studio, before I lie down and snuggle up, I like to stand still and imagine a black hole and enter it a little. Not go in and then imagine love and protection housing there. Very close. That's all I do to touch the Inexplicable and the Infinite.
'Meet the Creator' is held by Brent Harvey, Armidale
I started this the other day and then it rained. I thought: I want to paint humans and trees. When I started Lenny the kid wanted to help. I want a few figures but will build it up slowly. I know: the Tree is there.
My friend and colleague Roeland Zijlstra (click) does many portraits, something I have always been afraid of. To have an actual human sit or stand in front of you and wait to see the result is scary. Did I do his dick ok?
Roeland has told me over the years to just do it. So will I paint recognizable figures in or around the tree? Think not yet.Anyway, I've run out of pink.
Last night on the BBC news they showed us people huddled in temples around Burma. To think so often over the centuries the temple, church, synagogue or mosque is the place of safety. No wonder they were built with strength. Sure they don't need a painting.
We used to sleep or 'do an over night' in Rangoon on our way to Jakarta.
Had my usual threats from Facebook writers. IF I don't send something on I will suffer pains in seven days. And don't forget the sender wants proof! And a KISS and a COFFEE and don't forget the POKE.
I cannot get you to send my page on? I was voted TRUSTWORTHY by two people.
A parody (pronounced [ˈpɛɹədiː]), in contemporary usage, is a work created to mock, comment on, or poke fun at an original work, its subject, or author, by means of humorous or satiric imitation. As the literary theorist Linda Hutcheon (2000: 7) puts it, "parody … is , not always at the expense of the parodied text." Another critic, Simon Dentith (2000: 9), defines parody as "any cultural practice which provides a relatively polemical allusive imitation of another cultural production or practice."
Parody may be found in art or culture, including literature, music, and cinema. Parodies are colloquially referred to as spoofs or lampoons.
I promise, I'll never talk about him again. I never liked ultramarine blue too much either.
Photo by Clemens Vermeulen
Reference: 'Parody' on Wikipedia