GUINEAFOWL REFLECTION
On my first day of the school holidays, as I stare out of my window at my little group of grey guineafowl sunning themselves peacefully, it looks like the quintessential farm scene. They’ve found the shelter of the lawn around the farmhouse. It’s protected from wind and soft and cushy underfoot. Sunshine sprinkles its warmth over their feathers as they groom and slow-stretch their wings – finishing with a whole-body fluff-up shake which lifts them off their bright orange feet for an instant.
Just like the peace and reassurance exuded by a quietly grazing herd of cows, the group dynamic sees guineafowls brushing comfortably against one another, or lying stretched out – feathery wings spread like a spilt deck of cards as they sunbake. Bright orange-blue heads swivel in all directions – always keeping watch with those large luminous eyes shielded by luscious lashes, looking out for each other.
The peacefulness of the scene belies their inner strength. They are fierce and fearless protectors, raucously announcing the arrival of strangers or predators – following at a safe distance, like a mob of activists on a rally, screaming their warning for the world to hear.
I’ve seen them outwit a fox. Working as a group, they’ve positioned themselves at angles around it, then worked to confound the fox – twisting mid-air in a swirl of feathers as they jump in an arc over its gnashing head, all the while shouting obscenities and warnings in loud cackles and shrieks – one after the other in a mob display of defiance that drove the fox to despair, choosing a face-saving exit rather than further humiliation.
A rustle of movement brings me back to the moment and the scene outside. They move in tandem, little grey arrows moving as one, pecking periodically at the fresh green shoots as they pass out of sight…
The Panorama
In Outback Australia landscapes are so enormous they swallow you whole. Time and space have a meaning of their own in the Flinders Ranges of South Australia – where farms or rather ‘stations’ run from 20 to 100 thousand acres each and the rocks of the ranges bear witness to ancient seascapes 600 million years ago.
Despite this, a brave artist decided to paint this hauntingly beautiful landscape. To do it justice, he created a panorama of the view from the highest mountain peak in the ranges, St Mary’s Peak. It’s on display in a purpose-built gallery in Hawker, South Australia. The circular canvas, 33 m circumference by 4 m high, is so realistic you need to stand still and stare to take it all in. The greens on the slopes of Wilpena Pound speak to Nature’s capacity to thrive despite adversity. Your eye then travels beyond to a birds-eye view of range after range of contorted rock faces in every hue from white to green and purple, lying at absurd angles. Nothing is horizontal. It’s as if mighty forces bubbled and tore at the Earth’s crust, folding and buckling upon itself, pushing and pulling before spewing the mangled bits up and out. These strange Medusa stone mountains and hills stand today for all to wonder at the ancient forces that wrought this landscape.
J
As your eyes slide lower, colourful birds and yellow-footed wallabies emerge from the canvas, and the leaves almost flutter
It’s a harsh land, without a doubt, but with the soft touch of a paintbrush and a quiet eye – it becomes a beautiful land, worthy of any panorama artist and panorama gallery.
Leaving we recall the artist’s own words where he tells of a conversation with an an Indigenous man who told him:
”You’ll be back. The land calls you.”
18 April 2023
The Art Hotel
“…after the devastating bushfires, the artist collected ash and used it in this painting. He pixelated the scene and dipped his brush in ash to paint every pixel…”
As her voice continued, I stepped back from the wall…and further back until the grid of canvases merged into a single monochrome landscape. It was huge and dominated an entire wall of the hotel.
Gradually my eyes adjusted, and I could see the stark black skeleton of a tree hanging from a cliff, boulders strewn haphazardly at its base. It was an Australian scene – nature at its most resilient, after a bushfire – but it called out to me to look deeper. I noticed a few birds perched on the bare branches and as I focused on the rocks, wildlife emerged magically from the grey-brown ash:- a possum, a Tasmanian Devil, a Spotted Quoll and ironically, a Thylacine (not long extinct) stood watching from the shadows. This artwork was a lesson in itself.
The Henry Jones Art Hotel in Hobart, Tasmania is an Australian first. This hotel doesn’t just display artworks on its walls – it imbues art. It is an official gallery. It promotes up and coming artists and sponsors art competitions. This painting was a recent winner in their Tasmanian Landscapes division.
This boutique hotel has integrated its history of place with images of the future. Every room is bespoke luxury – a cocktail of granite spas in glassed walls, with a splash of convict-hewn limestone blocks which sit beneath warm-hued timber rafters, to add the honeyed note of comfort.
Henry Jones himself was a man who knew how to create a lasting impression. Joining the jam-making factory on this site at the tender age of 12, as he pasted labels onto bottles he had his sights set high. Over time he became the proprietor, then expanded the brand to establish the national/international “IXL Jam” business. This quirky building of converted warehouses, factory floor and shops is now an avant-garde boutique art hotel. At its centre an imposing wooden staircase still sweeps grandly upstairs to Henry Jones’ wood-panelled boardroom and chairman’s office. Approaching the inner sanctum, the lofty spaces are decorated with sumptuous wingback chairs, intriguing sculptures from the East and entire wall panels depicting historic scenes and timeless landscapes, painted in lush oils. One had to pass all this to reach the man – all silently screaming out – “Look where I am now. I’m at the top of the heap!”
In today’s Henry Jones Art Hotel, curated artworks honour its beginnings as a jam-factory, the hardships of convict and early settler life in Hobart Town, and the tenacity of those who faced adversity – and flourished.
…and watching quietly from the shadows stood the last Thylacine (Tasmanian Tiger).”
Extinctions such as this are our contemporary challenge…and perhaps through the power of art and the lessons of history, they too can be saved, solutions created, balances restored so that all can flourish on this amazing planet we call home.
Yacht Race of the Year!
The golden sickle moon hung tenuously in the night sky before dropping smoothly behind the mountain, leaving the inky black sky and glassy waters of the river estuary in its wake.
Peering into the darkness I stood watch and waited for the first super maxi to appear. As the waves lapped gently at the shore, my tracker app showed how close she was and I knew they were threading their way invisibly up the river, in the final leg of the Sydney-Hobart Yacht Race.
Four massive super maxis were out there – Comanche, Law Connect, Black Jack and Wild Oats – like a motley band of outlaws being brought in by a Wild West lawman.
First sight of them was the glint of green globes floating in the dark, when suddenly a massive black sail broke from the sky heading directly across the water towards me! Forty metres high, it loomed large, greedily snatching the air around it to billow with promise, like a circus tent In the breeze!
Tacking suddenly, it paused dramatically as her jib swung across breathless skies before… CRACK!! her sheets of sail snapped into the wind and she snarled her way upriver toward the twinkling lights of Constitution Dock.
Black on black they raced onward to the final mark and the roar of a gunshot as Comanche crossed the finish line, with the other maxis hot on her heels.
What an unforgettable climax to an annual event where sailors pit themselves against the ocean, the winds and the unpredictable weather – trusting their instinct, their teamwork and their skill as watermen, to battle it out for a trophy (worth more than mere money), and their place in the sun!
My One Little Word 2023
My OLW for 2023 is bold.
I love this quote and it has served me well over the years. This year I am taking on some exciting challenges: moving from teaching Grade 3 (for 15 years), to teaching Year 6, and implementing 7Steps Writing practices while also trying to inspire other teachers to join me on this writing-focus journey – despite all the clamour of curriculum demands and the general busyness of teaching!
I need to remember to be bold.
I
The Avocado Parade
THE AVOCADO PARADE
Two by two they marched
down the pathway,
hands clutching
their precious treasure
tightly before them.
Two by two they came
down the corridor,
avo-green leaves
like a parasole, softly
swaying overhead.
And still they came…
Two by two…
Without any fanfare
Without any applause
They took their avo trees
and placed them, ever
so carefully down,
at the Office doors.
Hearing the swish of the cavalcade of feet, the quiet giggles and shushing, I rushed to my classroom door to find students trooping past in an endless stream, transporting over a hundred avocado trees to the Office. They were donated as part of a fundraiser and were being delivered to a central point for purchasers to collect. What a wonderful picture they presented and I hope these words allow you to envisage the scene.
Spies…
I have spies at my house. There’s the feeling of being watched. The furtive grey shadow that peels off, just out of sight, when you turn to look.
That sense became real one day as I parked my car – when the shadow moved quietly into view.
It was my grey guineafowl –watching and waiting for my return! They’d never been so concerned before.
Knowing I was alone, it helped.
There they stood – a line of three musketeers down the path…pheeping softly as I approached, then moving ahead of me with little clicks. How I treasured their interest and care.
Now we have a little routine. They wait as a trio on the patio at the end of the path, grouped together as a welcome party. And if I’m late – I get a rousing chatter as if to say, “Where have you been!”
Whoever said that birds can’t talk!
Paint the Town Red
The hotel tower was red. It stood glistening and gleaming in all its borrowed red-light jewels – calling softly “paint the town red tonight”.
Red and effervescent, the tower shone like a torch- a column of energy blazoned against the jet black night sky.
It hovered like an overly tall dancer – full of passion and promise -poised on the shore ready to cartwheel across the bay.
It intrigued me. What a clever idea to get the city into mid-winter festival mode by transforming key structures into red show stoppers. I certainly felt like painting the town red as a result.
Weekend in the Country
We hurtle towards our destination
on bitumen
conveyor belts
Unravelling
the distance,
space
and time.
Whizzing
between
green paddocks
hemmed by clumping hills
zigzag-dotted with
sheep
Entering the gorge
we skirt the river
to hug the bare-faced stone
that walls us in
We tango
to the very end
dramatically dipping
and spinning
Embracing
the river closely –
It’s energy
Vibrant
to the very end
Emerging
Transitioning –
Arriving at last
Sunset at the Inlet
As the sun slowly lowers itself in a sheen of orange, the scene at the inlet is other-worldly in its peace and natural beauty.
The quiet waters of the inlet move insistently to shore, blown reluctantly into waves and ruffled like crocheted lacework, to hit with a slap and splash – over and over.
Bonsai-like paperbark trees emerge curiously from rocky ground to stand disorientated, like drunks caught in the headlights, unsteady and contorted into strangely whimsical sculptures.
Birdsong pervades the twilight air, from sweet chirping tweets to the cheeky chattering of the honeyeaters, who flit like arrows on GPS from tree to tree. Long-legged herons beat their way steadily across leaden skies, like heat-seeking missiles fixed on their final destination.
The ocean roars and thunders in the background like an orchestra below the stage, a cacophony of salt and wave…sand and shore – in a playlist stuck on ‘repeat’.
Ghostly reflections of paperbark trees haunt the edges of the inlet, while curious kangaroos pause, pricking their ears to listen. All will soon be still and silent, when the inky blackness of night arrives.