School Days

First Day at School.

 

First days at school are generally fixed firmly in the back of our minds, mine is no different. My Mother always called me PJ .short for Peter John for as long as I can remember claiming I was called after a back page comic strip in the Daily Mirror. As a child I paid little attention to such nicknames accepting the title with some pride. Little did I realise that when I started school that the name when haunt me, other boys mocked the grandiose nature of PJ. an attitude that caused me no end of trouble.

Mr Allwork’s Primary School was located at the far end of our village, and being a fairly shy boy the shock of confronting strangers on that first school day proved traumatic. There was the gauntlet of aggressive boys that needed to be navigated opposite our house who took great delight in hurling abuse and throwing stones at those they consider different. I never have understood the hostility and even now thinking back it resembles similar experienced encounter between Catholic and Protestant school students later years.

The day inevitability developed into a push and shove between first dayers until someone’s finger found its way into an eye. Most of the boys had led isolated lives and were not terrible good at sharing. A fight developed resulting in my receiving a black eye from a rotund boy called Barany whose father owned the local soft drink factory. Thinking back it is hard to imagine what the disagreement was about, but we became good friends. This had the added advantage gaining access to the never ending supply of lemonade his father made a delicacy only available in my home on birthdays. The resulting fight led to our being made to stand outside in the school yard, noses pressed hard up against the stone wall.

It was only then that I remember the box of matches in my pocket I had ‘borrowed’ from my parents art deco cigarette boxes scattered around the house like wild mushroom after rain. It was September and the dry summer grass remained in abundance. I suggested to Barany that perhaps a little diversion was in order and much to our delight we soon had the grass on fire. Being five year old we had not taken into consideration that smoke quickly finds its way into any open window. Parents were called and another round of talks with the parish priest followed about the need to act responsible. Strangely no one ever enquired as to whether I had enjoyed my first day at school.

Armenia, an outsiders view.

Armenia, an outsiders’ view.

 

Over the years my thoughts have often dwelt on Armenia and my desire to visit strengthened over that time. This interested goes back to my paternal grandmother, father’s mother who never learnt to speak English and I suppose for cultural reason never really got on with my mother, or for that matter members of her family. My father at the time of his death possessed in his library a book written by his brother Petros Creet about George V. After his death a few weeks before end of the second world war, my Mother’s decided to migrated to Australia, so that I lost contact with the Armenian side of our family. Apart from the   occasional letter from his elder brother Leo and my grandmother,  I would never have realised that I had any Armenian heritage at all.  Later I discovered that the book about George V, who was the Supreme Catholicos of All Armenians, from 1911-1930, during that dark stain on Armenian history the 1915  Genocide. He attempted to aid and organizes relief for the thousands of people driven from their homes, no small task.  As an added bonus he was the person who appeared in our family photo album,  naturally I felt curious about his life. When I decided to visit the country I had no idea who he really was or why my Uncle had written the book.

 

                                                           George V and Uncle Petros.

 During my recent visit I decided to attend a High Sung Mass held at St. Echmiastsin Cathedral outside of Yerevan Armenia's Mother Church,  the service was wonderful, both the male and female parts lead by great singers was an experience in itself. After the service, I decided to  show the photo in my uncle’s book to a priest asking whether he knew who this person was, and it was only then that I discovered his true identity.  Much to my surprise he told me he was buried right next door to the Cathedral entrance and showed me the grave. He was a much loved bishop and as Supreme Catholicos during the Armenian Genocide of 1915 had the task of organizing relief for the refugees and wounded soldiers and their families.

 

                                                    His grave is the second on the left in the front row.

The city of Yerevan itself proved to be an even greater surprise, not the typical grey Soviet style city suggested in guide books, but instead I was confronted with what seemingly on the surface at least was a modern city of wide tree lined boulevards, smartly dressed citizens, and extremely attractive young women searching the shop windows for the latest Parisian fashions. All this did not equate to the guide book description of a very poor country with a very low wage structure, nor did the description equate with the packed street café and restaurants. It would appear that the city has somehow reinvented itself since the collapse of the USSR. New building everywhere in the soft pink Armenian stone embellished with relief sculptures for which the country is famous. An abundance of parks, squares and fountains all created a very pleasant experience. One of the most satisfying aspects was the recognition of Armenian song birds, the poets, artists, composers and creative former intellectuals with the erection of memorial sculptures and statues to pay homage to them.

 

                                                        Heather relaxing at a street café.

                                                         Public Sculpture, Yerevan.

                                                               City Fountain.

 

Over the next few weeks I was able to explore this inner city and its many surprises. I have been lead to believe that a lot of this development is due to the Diaspora Armenians living all over the world who offer financial support. The development of the Cascade an extraordinary construction of galleries and Centre for the Arts built by Gerald Cafesjian offers a good example of this generosity, this American diasporan philanthropist has set  a high standard. Not only did he complete an abanded project at the time of independence in 2001, but contributed many of the art works. At the foot of this structure is a large plaza with several dozen sculptures running down each side. Fernando  Boleros’  Cat and Roman Warrior being two.

 

 

 

 

                                                   Lower Fountain Cascade. Yerevan.

 

Yerevan is blessed with many fine restaurants, both indoors and out, while its parks and squares provide many sites for fountains. I was privileged to attend several concerts at unbelievable prices. On a more critical note it is hard to understand why Russia striped all the factories of their equipment at the time of the collapse of the USSR. When you drive out into the country side the onlooker is confronted with rusting buildings and machinery that no doubt was too heavy to carry way. In order to overcome unemployment many government institutions are over employers. At the airport some twenty girls were on duty to look at a hundred odd passengers’ passports . Armenia not being blessed with oil is a somewhat poor cousin in this part of the world. Having no land corridor to the outside world other than Iran and Georgia has made exports difficult. Much to their credit the Armenians are developing a medical tourist industry. The general option in the street is that a lot of corruption still exists.  A few years ago I think around 2003 a gunman walked into parliament shot three members of parliament  and casually walk out how is beyond reasonable explanation!

 

There are many issues that I shall try to explore over the next few weeks, but one of the greatest qualities of the Armenians is the glue that binds them together. Their culture, language and religion seem deeply entrenched. Whether the ability of the six to eight million Armenians living aboard will be able to hold together over the coming years as their descendants grow up in other cultures remains to be seen. Many modern day Armenians feel the Genocide has bounded them together in a new way. For the moment I shall leave further comments for a later blog as there are so many issues that need examination.

Jollymont Vineyard & Olive Grove.

 Jollymont occupies the hilltop and as a result has a 360degree view of the surrounding countryside and Channel. The property has a northern slope and offered an opportunity to return the small scale grape growing, the perfect retirement. We had in our youth developed a large scale vineyard enterprise in NSW and had been forced to leave for it  economic reasons. This new venture offered a sort of closure. Our years here have been very happy ones and both of us enjoyed the development of the property.

Looking North.

Corner of house.

Terrace looking east.

The top of the hill has been cut off so as to create a flat area around the house. At the time of building I was making concrete sculpture, so the columns were all cast on site. The vine is a decorative one as we did not want fruit dropping in summer due to bird attack. This area has given us much pleasure over the years, we hold large harvest lunches for our friends who kindly help with the harvest. When we first arrived here I would trap rabbits for the lunch as my revenge for the yearly damage they cause.

                                                                 

Terrace at Jollymont

View towards the Channel

"Diana"  Ceramic sculpture by Heather Creet.

When Heather and I first moved here some twenty odd years ,we imagined that a five acre vineyard would be a fairly straight affair. Being a north facing slope we decided to plant Pinot Noir grapes as the most suitable variety for this exposed site. The locals at the time thought we were mad and felt the site was only suitable for a quarry. But personally I have always felt that a  rocky site would generate greater reflective heat, while respecting the old French adage that the poorest vine, makes the best wine. This has over the years proved to be correct, as we have won medals in every wine show we have exhibited in.


In many ways this was a retirement project, why we could not simply sit down and read or play golf, I still do not know. An added bonus however was the opportunity to return to creative work, as both Heather and myself have over the years worked on and off as artists. Over the years here we have established a haven for all sorts of wildlife, with our building of stone walls and the planting of hundreds of trees and shrubs. Jollymont, a half and half French/English name [the French don't like foreigners using French on their wine labels], so we decided to be somewhat bloody minded.

I have put together a few photographs of vineyard, olive grove and sculpture garden so as to give my readers some idea as to where we spend our days. I hope you will enjoy the feel of the place as much as I do.

                                                                      "Love seat"

looking towards the Channel

Back road to the eastern olive block

Giant standing in a burnt out tree.
We have an acre of native bush in the south east corner of Jollymont.

"Cat Chair" Heather Creet
They are portable cermaic parts that slot together on a metal frame.

                                                                   Autumn
View of the outdoor eating area in the autumn, on some days it is quite magical.

                                                               Eastern View
The sculpture is of Atlas after he has dropped the world. The piece has six vestal virgins who stand guard.

                                                                   Autumn Shadows

                                                                Memory of Knossos
Based on the throne of Minos at the Knossos Palace in Crete.

                                                               Through the Trees

                                                      Our bushy south east corner

                                                             Winter Almonds
Concrete tower sculpture some three to four metres high, the piece is made in moduas so the hight can be whatever you like.

                                                              Looking north west

A week to forget

Last week was one most of us would wish to forget, but on second thoughts I remembered I had promised myself to be as truthful as possible in both events and memories.It started with the drama  of stitching giving way on my recent skin graft on my head and the ensuring rush to hospital [ see encounter with fate]. But this proved not to be the only disappointment I experienced as I was diagnosed with Idropathic pulmonary fibrosis [ thickening of  lung tissue to the point where there is lung no a longer function],  The worst news being such  a condition has no cure nor responds to any suppressive therapy.

Everyone imagines that they will live into ripe old age and these events only happen to others, reality is always a shock. I am trying at the moment to be as philosophical as possible under the circumstances, but at times this is hard. Hoping for some break through solution, but reality keeps drawing me back to a bucket list I must put into action. At least I now have a time frame, always a good thing, so the important thing is to remain positive, finish outstanding current projects and hope that in the near future some treatment appears on the horizon.

Lorenzi wine bar

Some may quibble about the assertion that the Australian wine bar was saved from an inglorious fate by post-war migration.Their status during the 40's and 50's was little more than a cheap drinking hole for the consumption of fortified wine mainly sherry and port. Drinking  bulk wines by economically deprived groups such as aboriginals and other inhabitants of the world of the street still haunt the wine industry, where the cost of "happiness' must come at the lowest possible cost.

In Australia the consumption of wine has historically  been associated with the upper economic. segment of society. Even today the media love to refer to the Chardonnay set, what ever that means. No doubt this is a reference to the early colonial governing class . The British working man being  a beer drinker, established a hostile attitude towards wine drinking counties as being perceived inferior.

As a young man around 20 ,I was drawn to the idea of owning a wine bar, perhaps out of bloody mindedness, I liked the idea of doing whatever was contrary to fashion. This after all was the new age were anything was possible, the abandonment of many prewar concepts of what was 'correct'. I had recently terminated my seafaring  career and was searching for some means to earn a living. I still had mother to support and in addition was attempting to learn some sort of skill that may in the future enable me to earn a living. Having left school at fourteen I was not considered eligible to learn a trade or enrol in any government educational institution as minimum educational standards applied. Hence a rather bizarre career in unusual businesses followed.

To buy a wine bar didn't seem all that extraordinary and in any case I would be able to live on the premises. In those early postwar migration years I had noticed Italian migrates turning these establishments into coffee shops come snack bars. The problem was Sydney wine bars had a very unsavoury reputation, in reality they were rather sordid affairs filled mostly with down and out characters from the streets. Men mostly dressed in hand me down cloths drinking threepenny "darts" of sweet or dry sherry. In fact anything with an affordable high alcohol content. The bars inevitably stunk of unwashed bodies, while the floors were covered with spittle.
How on earth anyone could turn such an unpromising environment into a business was anyone guess, I was not Italian nor did I have a help full family. This of course was the reason these business were being sold for next to nothing, they were not profitable nor appealing, and in the end I decided against the idea.

At the time I had enrolled at the Julian Ashton Art School of which I shall deal later, where a number of students frequented an Italian owned wine bar of the renovated type. It boasted an express coffee machine something still very rare in Australia at the time, it served light snacks along with bowls of pasta. The bar was run by a very bedable Italian girl called Auguste who would brook no nonsense. Unfortunately for the mainly male clientele she was married and not interested in any hanky-panky .She was very intelligent with large flashing dark eyes and long black hair, the visual opposite of Australian  girls. This was the sort of person I would need to help me bring this wine bar idea to fruition. Unfortunately I failed to find anyone who came remotely close so I settled on a pie van!

Lorenzi's at the time was the centre of  Sydney's Avantgard set [that is the wine drinkers, beer drinkers meet in a waterfront pub] and was generally full of all sorts of characters. Displaced persons mainly as they were commonly called, people escaping from the the new communist countries of eastern Europe, deserters from the French Foreign Legion, displaced professional men from every corner of the globe. Sydney's artistic life was then considered more extreme than would be found in Paris around the turn of the last century. You must remember this was the age of Jean-Paul Sartre, womens' feminist movement was starting to bite .

Germaine Greer held her meeting in various George Street coffee lounges as they were called, while what was called the Sydney push held sway in the Philosophy Department of Sydney University. To go to University was then still a privilege only available to the wealthy segments of the community unless you were in a position to win a scholarship. My education really took place talking to all those displaced persons in Lorenzi' wine bar.In hind sight I don't regret it.

Portrait of Mother

I first became aware of her drinking problem as a young boy, running into her bedroom in the morning I would find her drinking an egg flip ( milk mixed with raw egg and a large shot of brandy) Before going out for the day to "see a man about a dog" she would say, this meant that she was going over the road to the pub.

Looking back I realized this was the call for help, but with my father already in his grave and her parents also fond of the bottle there was nobody of any maturity to offer help. I suspect loneliness caused her to start drinking to excess. Even when my father was still alive he would be away sixteen to eighteen hours running two surgeries and calling on patients. What with  regular nightly bombing raids and our dash to the air-raid shelter with saucepans on our heads she had more than enough to cope with.

By wars end  her drinking accelerated and no amount of logic could divert her from this chosen path. Hiding grief through a bottle is not  an uncommon problem. This was my last year of childhood as we never lived together again as a family. As an Australian by birth she was able to return on a troop ship, there was some half million soldiers waiting to return home, shipping took several years to reestablish it's timetable.

On arrival to find rental accommodation was near impossible due to the wartime restriction on building. The family was thus split up my sister and I were sent to a boarding school, while mother moved in a descending order of quality from hotel to hotel until her money ran out. With the little money she had she purchased a
half finished shack on Broken Bay north of Sydney. Still in need of some sort of income she rented small hamburger shop in Oxford Street Paddington ,hoping that Manual (you met him in the gambling blog) would do the cooking, he was in fact quite a good cook.Unfortunately he was arrested for reliving himself in a nearby doorway and received three months jail sentence. It was decided that my sister would serve on the tables while I would cook until Manual release. Not much skill is really needed to cook a hamburger on a large hot plate as most of you would know, mince along with some onion, tomatoes sometimes all in a bun.
Australian cafes in those days were fairly basic to say the least ,most only offered steak, lamb or pork chops, sausages and the famous mixed grill. This was generally served with a choice of one or two eggs, onions, tomatoes and so on with chips. This restricted menu did not seem to stop the possible combinations running to  two pages or more.

We kept this up for a few weeks ,until mother in a drunken state fell down the stairs and through the window at the bottom and had to be hospitalised. My sister and I retreated to the half built shack despite there being on running water or cooking facilities. The toilet consisted of a hole in the ground some way up the hilly block that I would have to tip into a hole once a month.As there was no road into the place I would row a wooden skiff the mile or so to the shop for supplies.To supplement our diet I built a wire fish trap out of netting that I would set each night,  in those days fish were plentiful.

On her discharge from hospital mother arrived still drink and when ever she ran out of alcohol would take to drinking  methylated spirit. After a few weeks of this she had a stroke and was taken to hospital and next day admitted to the Parramatta Mental Hospital. Alcoholics were treated then as mental patients rather than people needing treatment. Often they would remain locked up for years in these institutions with little or no effort to rehabilitate them. It would be some time before I saw mother again but when I visited her she was just sitting on an iron bed, blanked face, eyes staring wide all bunched up unable to straighten her limbs, her speech was inaudible. It was all very emotional and although I could not call her particular good mother ,I felt a very strong sense of responsibility, somehow I had to get her out.

Encounter with Fate

Thursday 5th May, the day started normally enough all I was going to do was to have some staples removed from a graft some 120-140sq mm on the top of my head. They had tended to be uncomfortable when you touched the top of the head, they sent a number of piecing pains down into the skull. This was the result of surgery to remove a  melanoma.

All went according to plan until around 9pm ,while washing up I felt liquid running down my face , at first I thought it was tomato sauce but quickly realised as the volume increased that I was bleeding from the wound on my head, By now it was running into my eyes as I could no longer see, into my ears and down inside my shirt. The volume increased considerably as I called out to Heather that something was very wrong, I watched in horror as the sink started to fill with blood as the flow seemed to running down my face in every direction.By now I was feeling giddy  Heather rushed into the kitchen and seemed to know exactly what to do. She wrapped a towel around my head asking me to press hard on the wound. The graft had given way and I was pumping blood profusely everywhere.The blood in the bottom of the sink now a few mm deep was starting to congeal and seemed to resemble thickened custard, while my face ,
beard took on very red hue of congealed blood.

Slowly she encouraged me to slide down the kitchen cupboard until I sat on the floor, while she ran between the telephone and the kitchen. I must confess that this felt like the end had come ,I could not conceive how we were going to stop the blood flow. The dizziness increased as I seemed to be slipping away to a deep sleep. Somehow I felt great tiredness come over me as I struggle to remain conscious. My bowels gave away and no matter how hard I tried there was nothing I could do.

Somehow an ambulance arrived and vaguely I heard a voice saying my blood pressure was 70 and still dropping. There still was no music in my ears as I have always felt I would hear Albinoi's concerto in the background as I was whisked away across the River Sykes. The original warm feeling started to ebb away and I felt quite cold. Sometime later after being pumped with enough liquid by the medico I arrive at Calvary Hospital where the duty doctor restitched the wound and stopped the bleeding.

During this experience I could not help feeling that all this was not possible, there were too many unfinished project , who would look after Heather, so many painting still in their formative stage, Mei portrait, the Marie Island series not to mention the Vietnam suit. Still this morning I seemed to have recovered and have no more than a bad headache from this nightmare.

Istanbul Carpet Seller

While inspecting a number of Persian carpets at an auction house recently a rather amusing incident experience a few years ago came to mind. While walking through the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul where every merchant seemed intent on selling me a carpet. It did not matter that I had said ten times already that I had no need of a carpet.This however did not interfere with the colourful sales pitch of stall holders.
Q.  "Where you from? "
Meaning Canada, Australia, USA, Germany and so on.He wants to establish your purchasing power and what your attitude towards carpets will be. Turks for some reason don't like the Dutch as they  are deemed to be too money conscious to buy carpets. European jokes do travel this far!
Q.  "Where you from?
 By this means he wishes to establish his concern for your welfare. He will always have a brother, cousin or best friend living there. This is to assure you that he is to be trusted as he is friendly towards your country and therefor 100% honest and will sell a  carpets to you at the very lowest price because he is your friends.
"If you buy carpet I can explain all you need to know about carpet so I no cheat". .
Q. "Where you stay."
This establishs your purchasing power and at what his opening price should be. It is best to keep in mind the name of some run down dump but it doesn't always work. If you are still not interested.

Q.  "Why you no buy, no obligation you my friend."

At this point the apple tea ceremony begins, there are no shortage  of tea boys on the streets of Istanbul and you hail them as you would a taxi. The drinking of tea has become a national past time since the fall of the Ottoman Empire and Turkey lost control of the Arabian coffee trade resulting in  price of coffee being prohibitive.
"I will tell you all about carpet because you my friend?"
No matter how many times you explain that you have no need of a carpet he will respond .
"I understand , but when you know all about carpet you will want to buy."
After a further hour of dialogue and more apple tea he will say.
"You no use carpet in Australia I make half price."
This  price  is generally somewhat near the correct price if you are lucky you tell him you may look up his brother on your return home .  He may not like this and offer even a better price .What ever the out come you have filled in an amusing hour ,apple tea anyone.