Saga of Virus Risk.
            

                   One of the most extraordinary side  effects of the current worldwide

                  comment about COVID-19 outbreak is the search for some country or race

                   to blame, rather than accept that this is all the result of modern travel.  I t would seem that every virus has a political shadow.

ANZAC  Veteran’s Landing.

Dressed in their own colours, red, green and blue the ships cast an enquiring eye towards Alexandra basking in the sun. The scale and activity beyond our view offered a sense of coming excitement. A march to Cairo perhaps remained a possibility, but Limnos and Gallipoli intervened and the fleet sailed steadily north. On arrival the ships hid behind islands, as anxious eyes viewed rope ladders swinging from iron rails waiting for the given time. Warships were to tow the boats to their correct destination. Butterflies danced in empty stomachs as the minutes ticked by.

All was quiet until a spark from the ship’s funnel like a conductor baton orchestrated Turkish fire. A shell went straight through the funnel, but strangely failed to explode. The order was given and one by one with packs held high we crept ashore. Edging through rowing boats we ran towards the hill. The landing turned out to be a mile east from the correct position.

Slowly step by step we edged up the hill, a hill so steep that many troops fell and rolled down again. Half way up we fell upon a Turkish trench whose occupants immediately put their hands up and were taken back down to the beach. Heavy fire at hill’s top drowned out all communication; casualties were high, shrapnel flying in every direction.

Moving around a small ridge we eventually came across a small gully that enabled us to dig ourselves in for the night. As the sun rose our position came under heavy enemy fire, but somehow we were able to hold off any Turkish advance. After two days of continuous fire the lack bandages forced us to evacuate the wounded back down to the beach. Causalities were heavy, having landed with seventy officers and one thousand men our force was reduced by seventy percent.

One morning after I set off to collect water and rations, but had only travelled thirty yards or so when an explosion behind me blew my companion who I had been talking to, to pieces. Slowly we were forced back down the hill and in order to avoid being driven into the sea continually had to dig new and deeper trenches. Turkish’s bodies piled up along with our own so an armistice was called to bury the dead. Only tall troops of at least six foot went out to bury their companions, after taking their wallets for identification they laid their sleeping mates in shallow graves.

Many men broke down among the mixed shrapnel of needle pellets and spasmodic fire and we would have to carry them back down to beach.

Winter was a problem; only sea water remained as we munched on stale weaveled biscuits and dreamed of home. Then there were flies in their millions, bluey-green in colour that came to claim the dead bodies. There were body lice and competitions were held to see who could remove the most from the seams of our grey flannel shirts.

Sickness was worse than casualties, but Elgar played on. Mistreatment was considered very wrong by both sides, Turks respected Australian soldiers there was no hatred from anyone. We would exchange bully beef for cigarettes much to our officers’ dislike.

Lone Pine was the fiercest battle you would ever see in your life. A lone pine stood guard over the hill. We were ordered to attack at 5.30am. Next morning the Turks counter attracted, we never saw much of the British; they just stood there and would not dig a deeper trench without orders from above. Over five days 2000 Australian troops were lost, while the Turks suffered 5000 dead .

December saw heavy snow; many of the men had not seen snow before so this was a treat. Lord Kitchener arrived to OK the withdrawal. All discussion was kept top secret, the men were in poor condition and were not told about the evacuation until the last moment.

Three weeks later the withdrawal started. We had received Christmas cake that was greatly enjoyed by all on the beach. The silence lasted two to three days, no shots were fired. These silence days were held every few days, two days, then three days, one day and so on to confuse the Turks. When the night came no one was allowed to talk, parties were taken down to the beach, socks worn over their boots. It was thought the casualties would be higher than the landing, no one had any experience in such an evacuation. Rifle fire continued with a water device so the Turks assumed we were still in trenches. From Anzac cove a pier was built from a barge covered with onion bags to deafen any noise as the blue water darken with rain.

Over 1000 killed every month, it took twenty four hours to become a veteran. It was an example of how a nation was able to look after itself. A glorious failure, we did what we needed to do, to support Britain.

 

These recollection were recorded by Australian veterans who were there.

William Russell. War Correspondent

William Russell, war correspondent.

William Russell almost single-handed invented the art of the war correspondent. Born in Dublin in1820 Russell inherited the charm and way with words for which the Irish are renown. The emergence of mass public opinion during 19^th cent Britain presented him with a readership for the major political events of his age. For the first time public opinion mattered and the British middle classes had a spokesman they could trust.

Writing for the Times, Russell covered such diverse subjects as the Crimean War, Indian Mutiny in 1857, the American Civil War, Franco Prussian War to the experience of travelling by train into the Wild West in 1881. His description of embarkation in Chicago displays his ability to engage readers reveal his writing strength places the reader into the story.

He writes, ‘the special train scrambled into the Chicago terminus… at some unpleasantly early hour. We wandered on through the crowds of early workman and people going to their various places of business in straight lines, and saw street life in the morning – coffee – stands, crowds round the barbers’ door and saloons, and coloured men and women – a large element – shuffling to and fro along to the scene of their labour.’ Russell’s ability to transfer such exact observations of participants while presenting two sides of a story are his trademark.

His dispatches on the Zulu War are honest and exact.

Sept. 28 Zulu War. About the Battle of Isandlwana he writes,…’I am bound to say… established beyond doubt that the Zulus had no intention of making an attack on that occasion, because it was the day of the new moon, on which they never transact any important business.’ However they were ‘fired upon by the volunteers and mounted police.’ Later when talking to Methlegazulu a Zulu Chief,  showed indifference to his fate remarked, ‘How,’ he said, ‘can I be worse off than I am? You have taken away my cattle, my wives have deserted me, and I cannot get any more; if you hang me I could hardly be worse off! ‘

Russell mentions that Natal settlers had praised ‘heroic methods of the Anglo-Saxon doctors who have “polished off” the patients in Tasmania, Australia,’ suggesting a possible solution to the Zulu problem in Natal.

Some of Russell’s most descriptive observation concerned the Crimean War. His covering of the campaign was such that it was widely read by the British  Cabinet as well as the general public. His relentless descriptions of misery and military incompetence made their mark. The lack of proper food, water filtration and even basic sanitary discipline, the lack of suitable clothing provided the detailed for fluent, angry, brilliant despatches. For the first time a reporter was telling the public the tale of their fighting men at war.

The British Army was not impressed, they refused him a mount, or rations, or any quarters to sleep or any recognition of his status. Russell’s despatches however for the first time brought home to the War Office that the public had a right to say something about the conduct of wars in their name. His dispatches forced the Government to improve their responsibilities towards their troops. These seething articles were directly responsible for Florence Nightingale going to the Crimea. Russell’s achievement speak for themselves and have never been equalled since

Amedeo Modigliani

Reclining Nude with Necklace

 

One of the more romantic artists of the School of Paris although it should be known as the School of Montmartre and Montparnasse was Amedeo Modigliani. A group of artists intent on searching for an alternative direction to Cubism and Abstraction  that were  occupying central stage in Paris' artistic direction at the time.

 

Their life style promoted the idea of an artistic Bohemia on both the right and left banks of the Seine. Modigliani although of modest means presented himself according to Ossip Zadkine as ' a young god masquerading as a workman in his Sunday best'. Charming and generous without fault, but intent on self destruction. A fine draftsman but his lack of money forced him to spend hours sitting in bars and cafes creating portraits in exchange for drinks or a meal.

 

Like many artists at the time Modigliani was greatly influenced by African sculpture, features he incorporated into his sculptures and painting. Poverty forced him to abandon sculpture in favour of painting as it was always difficulty to move heavy pieces of marble in the middle of the night in order to avoid paying rent.

 

Since my youth I have always admired his work, due no doubt to my art studies at Julian Ashton Art School in Sydney were an academic approach to art education was the order of the day. Modigliani's paintings  revolve around the human face and female figure were he freely used African artistic features  His search for new ways to portray reality within a traditional format offered both a dramatic and engaging new language to the viewer. As a painter he seems to have discarded much of the subject matter of many artists. There are no landscapes, still-life and little supporting structural interiors.

Antonio

Madam Pompadour

Lunia Czechoxska

Paintings such as "Antonio" and Madam Pompadour illustrate his desire to incorporate cubist observation of Cezanne as well as expressionistic treatment within a realistic tradition. Both portraits and figure paintings exemplify an almost formulaic treatment of heads and necks that disregard realistic proportions. Not the drawing of noses, eyes and mouths. The elongated necks and simplified almost abstracted backgrounds. There is little attempt to place sitters in any realistic setting. Whether Modigliani if he had lived longer would have arrived at abstraction is debateable.

This approach is carried over into his figure paintings such as "Reclining Nude and "Lunia Czechowska". No use of tone rather space has been created by the juxtaposition of shapes and colour. While his paintings appear realistic they are distortions that border on the expressionistic nudes of Otto Mueller.

  

Visit to Lone Pine. ANZAC COVE

Hillside of the Dead.

Contemplate the fallen,
resting body spent
night sky drifts across
the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Cast a gaze at tottering stones
darkened by natures' stains.

Mother, the night sky dances
on the sloping hillside of the Dead.
To bruise death's markers
at sleep's yawning birth.

While the lone pine stands
on the sloping hillside of the Dead.
On lookers stare
with clouded eyes upon the fallen.

Is it  a mirage? Is it a mirage?
On the sloping hillside of the Dead.

To perish under a blazing sun
beneath a carpet of golden flowers.
Mother, the mirage is dancing
on the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Yes, children the storming wind
turns the sloping hillside white.
It is the mirage! It is the mirage!
On the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Like an enraged bull.
It is the mirage! It is the mirage!
On the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Yes, the mirage, the mirage
Crown's our grief
as it dances, dance through
the sloping hillside of the Dead.

Australian Heart Foundation

Australian Heart Foundation.

 

Living in  latitude 43degrees south, you become used to the piecing winds that inhabit this part of the world. Winds that wander around the world due no doubt to the lack of any major landmass to impede their journey. Other than South America it is plain sailing. A fact much appreciated in the age of sail when sailing vessels followed the forties latitude. It is little wonder that this region became known as the roaring forties.

Local walking groups, sponsored the Australian Heart Foundation in Southern Tasmania have in recent years been encouraging people to undertake regular daily exercise in an attempt to enable everyone to seriously take their physical and dietary responsibility to healthy living seriously. The never ending march of inactivity in the modern world needs to be countered. The Kettering Walkers as our local group is called is one such group, ex-heart attack victims among others who confront the roaring forties on their twice weekly walk. Not that the wind presents a daily problem, but on occasions the members have learnt to put their heads down and plod into the occasional wall of hail and rain.

Some found their way into the group from the Royal Hobart Hospital heart rehab programme, where valiant nursing staff attempt to correct a life time of bad habits. Others join simply for the disciplined walking programme that takes them to more distant corners of our island. New comers to the district also have the opportunity to make new friends.

My own introduction occurred after a minor heart attack on a steep local mountain caused by a blocked artery. This required the insert of a u shaped hoop to hopefully hold it open.

I would highly recommend that anyone wishing to join such a group do so, after all we only live once.

Routine and Ritual and a better World.

We have all been exposed to various forms routine or ritual at some point in our lives, and I have often wondered whether such forced discipline hinders creative thinking. At a personal level the outcome only really effects ourselves and our relationship  to the world. But authorities of every hue love discipline whether they be Governments, Religions or Employers. After all it is the bedfellow of control. Conservatives would claim that this is the only way to run the world. But recent political actions around the suggest otherwise. We seem to be living in an age of extreme individualism.

 

Of course there are circumstances  when such a ritual or routine are desirable, even advantageous. Waiting to catch a bus or to be served in a shop are generally actions that run far more smoothly if some sort of agreed procedure is applied, not to mention the necessity for rules in driving your car. Likewise learning to dance or eating with chopsticks could not satisfactory  be undertaken without a predetermined teaching structure.

 

In today's world however it often seems everyone  may claim the right to interpret their actions souly in terms of self. They claim that defined action and response to new  ideas and actions by the application rules are undemocratic, anti-free will. Catholicism relies heavily on ritual and discipline, theatrical repetition of religious service is justified on the grounds that all worshipers are able to  understand and engage in religious service no matter where they live. A structure that has stood the test of generations, claiming to have a calming effect on participants.

In contrast thinking independently, exercising free will are activities frowned upon in most controlled societies, the control of daily task and thought are considered essential if anarchy is not to prevail.

In recent years Western societies have moved increasingly towards individualism, life styles that do not necessarily produce the best outcomes for its citizens. Should the desire for complete freedom of action in all aspects of life remain central to harmonious living? I am not suggesting we need a dictatorial form of government, but rather more self-control over our desires and actions, but a better understanding of the resulting consequences. Fundamentalists are trying to impose their will, while libertines are advocating the opposite. I have no idea where the correct balance lies, but excessive ritual and routine or freedom of action both seem detrimental to a peaceful world. .But the continual focus of minority groups on their personal problems and determination to impose them on everyone will not necessarily  create a better world.     

The Long Road Home.

Home is where your heart may be found. A village, some distant valley or enchanting location, this is where past memories abound and as the distance lengthens from then to now soul searching often tarnishes such memories.

 

Memories of past events take on their own aurora, both good and bad. To examine the past in this way has many positive benefits, no longer are your personal interpretations distorted by outside influences. Such a journey down this road from childhood offers all sorts of possibilities, new interpretations, why such and such happened or didn't. How successfully do you view your life from then to now.

 

Travelling down this road is not unlike travelling down a long dark tunnel, never knowing what lies around the next corner. The revival of experiences now seen in hindsight and with a clarity of experience accumulated over the years can be refreshing.

 

Home always has that heart warming love of childhood. Yearly birthdays and the joy and excitement of Christmas with its innocence of true belief. This can never be recreated and for many remains the happiest years of their life.

Memory.

Memory can have many masters:
As the world moves with ever increasing speed towards a possible abbess, it is time to sharpen our memories of not too distance past. Current political events aboard to day offer little hope that it is possible to restore reason and a sense of duty in  today's world leaders. How can hope exist when the past is so easily forgotten. Hope for a better future requires known or aspired goals. Past memory has such magical powers when recalled, it sits motionless, silent waiting for recall from a disinterested present. Memory is history without which there is nothing, simply a void, a world without any true purpose.

To what extent does memory play in current events? Is it simply a collection of past experiences without any relevance to the present or a  reminder of possible outcomes. Unfortunately its value depends on how long personal memory spans. This varies from individual to individual, from country to country, the shorter the span the less useful. There are events in  all lives that are fixed in the past because they are markers of important experience in our lives.

The greatest value memory should play in life, if it is not to continually repeat itself with similar satisfactions, disasters, would be greater examination of the detail as to how decisions were made at the time. The reasons whether personal, political and social are the key. It seems little thought is being excised by our leaders in decision making. True universal aspirations are required.

The Great Wall

Every visitor to the Middle Kingdom visits the Great Wall and it seemed appropriate that after a morning offering sacrifices to the Gods at the Temple of Heaven that a visit to the Great Wall would be timely. Firstly a word about the temple complex, it is one of the best examples of Ming Dynasty architecture in Beijing covering several acres. Temples to past Chinese Emperors with their ornate decorative interiors were visitors may leave offerings abound. Still a active monastery the monks sell ink paintings to raise funds for the upkeep. At one point we were ushered into a large studio with a large selection of images of historic deities. The monks and other devotees paint here. The standard of the art work was of a very high standard depicting Chinese landscapes, along with the Gods and more modern images.

Then we drove about a half hour or so to the Great Wall that naturally has been developed into a major tourists destination. The wall itself was a surprise, clinging as it does to the edge of ravines and across steep gullies. The wall runs up hills and across the mountain tops. From our car park it ran in two directions, one a fairly modest clime while the other more or less ran straight up the mountain ,naturally the direction I took. Built of bricks and stone, each step  a different height  that makes the clime very taxing. Every fifty metres or so there is a fort [very breezy with no enclosed windows] were the troops lived and slept while on duty. I was told that soldiers lived here for months or even years on end.

As I'm only one month away from my 80th birthday I decided to see how fit I was and qualify for the title of  Chinese Hero for climbing the wall. After an hour of climbing I reached Fort 12 that required a lot of pulling myself up by the handrail with frequent stops. Still I'm pleased to say I succeed and felt that the evening massage was a just reward.

Haircut by any other name.

.Arriving in Suzhen on a hot June day I decided to try to find a barber for a haircut. On receiving  instructions from the hotel porter I  turned off right instead of left as instructed, but could  see no barber in sight. Not being sure how Barbers advertised themselves in China I undertook several enactments of a person receiving a haircut. Eventually after a few false starts I arrived at what looked like a cross between a lady's hairdresser and a barber. After being waved inside I was firmly conducted towards a barber's chair were I was presented with a sheet of Chinese writing. The gentleman standing over me seemed to indicate that I should point at whatever performance took my fancy. Not having my glasses didn't help and the page appeared as a big blur. He naturally spoke no English and my Chinese to say the least was non-existent, so anything was possible.

After several minutes I trust a finger at what appeared to be an attractive character. He immediately attacked me with mechanical clippers removing most of one side of my beard along with what little hair I had, just one or two remained on my head. By now I was rather anxious about the likely outcome, but as the barber's chair had been laid right back there appeared to be little I could do. Then the cut throat razor came out as face, eye brows and the top of head were examined for any likely hair in need of removal. While this was going on another assistant started to rub some sort of lotion into the top of my head. This in turn was followed by a conditioner and heaven's know what else. Then came the shampoo, not that the last time I looked there was a lot of hair to wash, certainly after the clippers had done their duty.

So there I was , razor man on one side and another with a hose washing down the shampoo on the other. Then the messages started. Firstly, ears and eyes, followed by head, nose and cheeks. The massage continued down my back, across my  shoulders, arms and a final hard pull on each finger. After the final workout my head was dosed in hair cream, the reason for which still escapes me as I'm pretty bald, then the job was finally finished. I suggested that the bill when it arrived must be a mistake, after all I only wanted a haircut. But no $72 was the correct amount. Long negotiations then took place. I would write one amount on a piece of paper, the barber another. This continued for some time and I was at loss as to know what to do  At last I comprised and paid him $50 that was still the most expensive hair cut in my life. Such are haircuts in China.

Steam ferry Laura.

Over the years I have been fascinated by the pictorial elements of old walls, ship wrecks and industrial machinery and their influence on my abstract paintings. The island of Tasmania fortunately has an abundance of wrecks, no doubt due to its location on the roaring 40s that helped the early explorers circle the world with the wind at their backs.

This latest exhibition has been inspired by an riveted  iron steam ferry that ran aground in the D'Entrecasteaux Channel in the 1920s. These ferries were used to ship timber, milk and apples from the  Channel ports up to Hobart before the establishment of road access. SS Laura being the inspiration of this series of painting has provided me with a great array of abstractions developed from drawings often made by climbing inside the vessel at low tide.

The following pictures illustrate a few of works.

 

 

 

 

Not sure when the Lorea was built, but a steam ship of the same name was built in Glasgow in 1878 for Howard Smith a Victorian shipping company. They eventually sold it in 1920 to Electrolytic Co in Hobart. This vessel founded in Storm Bay at the entrance to the River Derwent. Like so many wrecks there is little detailed information available.

Update the history of the Laura I have been working on was an iron steamer of 63 tons, built in Brisbane in 1873, so it is a little older than the above Laura. She ran aground in 1929.

 

SS. Laura as seen today.

Tognetti and Vanska play Bach.

 

Tognetti and Vanska  play Bach.

What a delight to experience two very fine violinists entertaining a rapt audience with a selection Bach’s concertos that always move the heart strings. I had not attended a Tognetti concert for many years and it was wonderful that he has not lost any of the youthful enthusiasm and excitement he manages to pack into his performances. His dancing figures exploring the violin strings as he plays. Today all these years later it is hard to understand why the Australian Chamber Orchestra could not, not entice the two hundred subscribers required for them to continue their Tasmanian visits, much to Tasmania shame.

Tonight he is accompanied with another gifted violin play, Finnish Satu Vanska who together explore Bach’s conversations with a select group of string instrument’s musicians from the TSO. What a privilege to hear them play on Richard’s 1743 Guareri violin and Satu’s Stradivarius. Both sets dancing fingers moving with such ease up and down the key board, along with the TSO string players held the audience in raptures. Bach at any time is a memorable musical experience and along with the big surprise of the evening Peteris Vasks’ Vox amoris created a night to remember.

Vasks’ fantasy for violin and strings proved to be a show stopper. Composed  by Latvian composer Peteris Vasks, Vox amoris is a very emotional work. Vasks  not a household name in the West and it is only since the collapse of the Soviet Union that he has made an impact worldwide. His music reaches beyond simple tone-painting and reaches into the relationship between humanity and nature. Vox was written especially Richard Tognetti and his playing did not disappoint. It is about the greatest power on earth – love and there is no better interpretation about a love story than violin and strings orchestra. The wave of emotional music moves softly and slowly as love itself becomes stronger. If you are still to hear this piece it is highly recommended.

 It is always impossible to convert musical language into speech, you need to listen to the string instruments in conversation with each other, especially when controlled by two extraordinary violists. I hope this work will eventually reach the wide audience it deserves, as Peteris Vasks remarks,’ make the world a brighter place, more open to love.

Leicestor City.

Leicester, what more can you say, from Battlers to Kings of England. Like many followers of English Premier League around the world the unbelievable has become fact. Who could have believed the impossible was possible? Player considered by more prestige clubs considered expendable forged together into a united troop to take on all comers and win. While retired Socceroo Mark Schwarzer played a small part in playing six matches last seasons to keep Leicester in the fight from relegation.

 

Then there was the midfield, who valiantly in defence kept Leicester in the game along with Claudio Renieri's fairytale belief in the Foxes that anything is possible. At the beginning of the season many eyes were on Bournemouth's attempt to mix it with the big boys, while Leicester City was relegated to 5000 to one. Such a triumph must inspired many in this competitive world of ours to greater belief in self. If Leicester can do it so can we. There are so few example of the extraordinary becoming believable that the Foxes achievement will live for ages.  

 

Something triggered by memory.

Something triggered by memory.

Memory is a strange thing, often you are sure of your facts, only to discover that your recollections have been subjected to Chinese whispers or another member of the your party recalls an entirely different version of events. Most people living in Australia would think the eating of a banana to be a very ordinary event, most likely they were spoon fed their first banana as a baby in arms. Thinking back over breakfast with my sliced fruit sitting on top of the breakfast cereal, I recalled my first encounter with this tropical delicacy. That first encounter still fills me with wonder, this is natural enough, and Britain was hardly overrun with bananas during the war. Such exotic fruit that reach her shores had to run German blockades of U-boats all the way from the West Indies before they appeared anywhere near our village. The sheer fact that such fruits were grown far away on some tropic island far away from the daily bombing and food shortages in itself put bananas into the dream class.

Our big event occurred when my mother returned home one morning and presented my sister and myself with a banana she had just purchased at a Red Cross Auction for the princely sum of one guinea, an amount equivalent to a weekly wage. As children we had no idea how such a delicacy was eaten. After much debate our treasure was duly divided into two equal half’s and after instruction as to how to peel it we proceeded to suck this strange fruit very slowly so as to prolong the flavour for a long as possible. If my memory services me correctly we held our banana very gently so as not to squash it, the consumption or rather licking of that banana took the best part of an hour. I’m not sure whether we set any sort of time record, but it would several years

Montsalvat and Justus Jorgensen contribution to Australian culture.

Sketch of Montsalvat by Justus Jorgensen.

The end of the Second World War saw the influx of many European artists who had been displaced with the redrawing of Europe's map and the emergence of an enlarged Communist block in  a Eastern Europe. Many of these artist joined their fellows who had fled to Australia during the events in Germany and elsewhere in Continental Europe during the 1930s, and later helped to create Montsalvat we know today . Justus Jorgensen, a first generation Australian had in 1938 started on his life's work of establishing this artists collective at Eltham just outside of Melbourne.

 

I first became aware of Monsalvat in the 1950s talking to many of these New Australians emigrant artists as they often meet  in Loronenzi Wine Bar a coffee shop in Sydney that many artists used  on a regular bases. Often they had just returned from Melbourne after spending a week or so helping build this great project, Jorgensen wonderful contribution to Australia's cultural life. At the time the country was hell-bent on the demolition of vast numbers of the country's early Georgian and Victorian buildings. Many fine sandstone buildings were destroyed  and used as fill. Fortunately a number of the doorways and various other sculpture reliefs were rescued and given a second life in the building of Montsalvat. Jorgensen a trained architect attempted to revive both provincial and major buildings in his reconstruction project, to some extent he represented Australia's version of the Art and Craft movement of the late 19th cent. This recycling resulted in The Great Hall, Long Gallery and church along with a number of mud brick French Provincial cottages. The philosophy behind Monsalvat was to create an artists collective were artists, writers, musicians and craft people could exchange ideas and work in a peaceful environment. 

 

Jorgensen himself a professional painter, there are some 3000 works stored at Eltham has strangely been ignored by most of Australia's art writers and critics over the years. An early convert to atonalism while studying under Max Meldrum Jorgensen was always a very traditional artist, his work has a simplicity and direct appeal. A regular exhibiter to the Archibald Portrait Prize were his work displays a more academic  approach. The reason for his almost total exclusion from Australia's art history is hard to explain. He did not exhibit widely, but then many painters don't, so there must be a more convincing argument. Whether his work displays a lack of conviction for any particular approach has any validity is another criticism. 

 

What ever ones opinion about his artistic merits, Jorgensen's contribution to Australia's cultural life remains inspiring, Perhaps one day his gift will be fully appreciated.  

 

 

Stresa, Lake Maggiore.& Modern Italian Painting.

Giorgio De Chirico.
Antigone, 1926

Stresa, Italian Alps & Modern Italian Painting.

One of the great surprises of our stay in Stresa on the shore of lake Maggiore in the Italian Alp was the discovery of a very fine art gallery. Not only did it stock the usual sweet Italian painting and a fine selection of art glass and silver, but some paintings by modern Italian masters.

A fine example of Giorgio De Chirico’s painting titled ‘Antigone’ 1926, from   Chirico better periods the 1920s. As many of you know de Chirico is best associated with Surrealism, but he was the originator of an art movement called Metaphysical Painting, a style of imagery were random object are arranged in a composition stripped of their true meaning. This approach to art of course was adopted by the Surrealist movement.

Another surprise in this lakeside gallery was a work by Giacomo Bella, one of the leading exponent of Italian Futurism. A movement interested in depicting aspects of modern industrialized life. That Futurism, Italy’s contribution to modern art is still freely available was surprising.

Stresa as an alpine tourist town on the shores of Lake Maggiore is quite delightful to both the eye and pocket. There are several grand hotels around the lake shore, but plenty of good budget hotels and backpackers, many with views across the lake. Taken back by first impressions we decided to stay a few days to explore some of the small villages and towns scatted around the lake’s edge. One discovery was the Botanic Garden of Villa Taranto established by Captain Neil McEacharn in the 1930s. He was a Scottish nobleman of considerable wealth and over the years collected over 20,000 trees and shrubs from all over the world. Now over ninety years old the gardens offer wonderful examples of unusual and exotic trees and shrubs.

Another worthwhile outing is the bus trip up to the top of the mountain raising behind the town to visit the Alpine Garden, a community project were they collect various alpine trees and plants from around the world. There are also visits to the islands such as Isola Bell and its castle or palace.

The town itself is very picturesque, full of earth coloured building of a few stories height each in perfect harmony with its neighbour and there is plenty to do boating, swimming if you like cold water and just sitting admiring the view.

 

 

Lyon gastronomic capital of France.

Lyon roofline from pont La Feuillee. drawing Peter Kreet

Lyon.

To return to your past may often prove to be a daunting experience and revisiting Lyon after fifty-five years was no exception. The city first visited in my youth however did not disappoint, although our arrival to take up an apartment tenancy proved to be disappointing. Our landlord simply failed to show up and honour his agreement. But I do not wish to dwell on negatives for Lyon over the years has developed from strength to strength. It is easy to understand why the city in recent has enticing visitors in great numbers. Its delightful building painted in a variety of pastel and earthy tones throw out a welcome greeting. Lyon standing as it does between two wide rivers, the Saone and the Rhone has a spacious feel and does not force itself upon the visitor unlike some European cities. It is possible to walk around its wide squares, parks or down wide streets to feel the space the city offers.

View from Fourviere.

 

For our eight day stay I intended to draw many of the wonderful roof lines of the beautiful 18^th cent buildings and explore the museums, restaurants and attractions at will. August unfortunately is not the best time to visit private art galleries and interesting boutiques as many owners take their annual holidays in August as well. But the Museum of Beaux Art was open home to a fine collection of historic and modern painting, along with an extensive Egyptian, Greek and Roman antiquates. The city after all was capital of Roman Gaul.

 

rue de la Platiere  drawing Peter Kreet

Standing proudly on Place des Terreaux breathing jets of vaporised water through their nostrils are a wonderful group of rearing horses the creation of Frederic Bartholdi designer of the Statue of Liberty in New York. One of the highlights of Lyon however would have to me Basilique of Notre-Dame standing guard on Fourviere a large hill overlooking the town. This unique building built in the last years of the 19^th century was constructed as a thank you to the Virgin Mary for saving the city from the plague devouring Europe at the time. The Cathedral is a wonderful example of old and modern design. Built with carved stone this neo-gothic building contains an extraordinary ornate interior. Indeed the Basilique is more like a palace than a church decorated with tens of thousands of mosaic titles depicting various biblical scenes. How the late 19^th century found the hundreds of artists craftsmen to carry out the work I have no idea, but the final result is quite breathtaking. Considering the building is barely hundred years old, the stone features and general structure suggest a much older place of worship. It is possible to return to the old city via a zig zag track down the hillside a great walk in itself.

La Fontain Bartholdi

Mosaics

 

Basilique de Notre-Dame

 

 

After a few days drawing we decided to take a tour of the nearby Beaujolais wine district. In my youth I spent the odd summer holiday with my uncle who lived in Chamlet pruning a few vines on the edge of Beaujolais district. Our tour guide turned out to be a very lively commentator as we stopped at the little medieval village of Oingt considered by many as one of the prettiest in France. Built of a yellow-ochre coloured stone the buildings have a wonderful warmth and glow, I could not resist the opportunity to carry out a few drawings. We then visited a local winery. The Beaujolais is divided into twelve appellations according to soil type, so the wines vary accordingly. A more mineral flavoured wine from the blue stone soils and a softer fruity flavour from pink granite. Nearly all the vines I saw were gooseberry bush pruned, that is close to the ground to obtain maximum reflected heat to enable early ripening.

Village of Oingt.

 

Another don’t miss experience while in Lyon is a visit to the Sunday market along both sides of the River Saone
. Unlike most markets in Tasmania, all the stalls are grouped according to the produce they sell. The book section was all together, while on the other side of the river was devoted to arts and crafts. Many artists worked away on site, painting, drawing and even potting. Further down over the river again ran the fruit, vegetables and some great cooked on the spot take away foods. It is possible to select a chicken, select your desired spices and have it cooked while you wait. I believe these markets are to be found all over Lyon.

River walk Soade.

 

While on the subject of food which is central to any visit it is a must to partake of a genuine Lyonnais meal in a bouchon. One near our hotel Chez Paul offered a unique dinning experience. The menu consist of some six to eight entrees, a selection of three mains and three deserts. However unlike a normal restaurant each entrée dish is placed on the table and the dinner may take a serve of each. The same applies to the deserts all this for a fixed price. The food is traditional Lyonnais home cooking and dinners are seated on entry on the first vacant seat, table by table not unlike a farm kitchen meal. This procedure   is carried until the restaurant is full. Don’t think the dishes are plain one night I enjoyed pork cheek. The major problem for many visitors is the dishes are new and the temptation to taste them all is great.

Entrance to Cath. Of Notre-Dame

 

Towards the end of our stay, we took the metro to Lumiere Museum housed in their villa an architectural creation of Antoine Lumiere. The brothers registered nearly 200 hundred patents during their life time over a very diverse field. Apart from their development of all sorts of new techniques in the fields of photography and cinema, Louis invented the articulated handgrip in response to the causalities from the First World War. Later he invented the diaphragm out of folded paper, a predecessor of the acoustic membrane of to-days loudspeakers. August invented the Tulle Gras dressing, anon-adhesive dressing impregnated with active ingredient for the treatment of burns. The list goes on and Lyon must be very proud of its Lumiere brothers.

Villa Lumiere

Moaics

 

Finally no visit to Lyon would be complete without a visit to Paul Bocuse Restaurant; unfortunately there is a year’s waiting list! Still I decided to visit Paul Bocuse Food Hall, housing a vast array of all sorts of possible ways to prepare food. Stalls producing all manner of dishes from snails to mouth-watering pastries, Lyon is always worth a return visit. 

                                                               Roman Theature.

A Village Diary.

A village diary.

Several weeks ago a body of council workers arrived at our village early one morning and after several hours of discussion, started to prepare the footings for some new guttering along a small section of highway. Apparently tourists had been sighted walking along the road counter to health safety regulations.

Now the number of men required for such an operation varies from one location to another. In this case the number ran from five to thirteen depending on the weather and the day of the week. All would always be dressed regulation orange except one who wore yellow and his task seemed to be holding vertically aloft a squared off length of timber several metres long. The other attendees on these occasions would stand around in a circle around the man in yellow transfixed on every word, eyes glazed in a trance not unlike that observed in many yoga classes and other oriental activities that have become a central part of much Western social life.

There appeared to be a rule that no more than two could carry out any activity at any one time, while the others stood perfectly still, eyes transfix on any object laying nearby, it appears that many of poles, bushes and discarded objects held contained some religious reference judging by the attention bestowed on them.

On most days a couple of men would be detailed to the task of boiling the billy for the regular tea breaks this sort of activity required. Others would roll cigarettes while walking from one end of the construction work to the other. Some held aloft signs requesting motor traffic to stop or drive at timely intervals. These tasks have taken up considerable time as the work progressed over eight to ten weeks. Some wag suggested that the new concrete be painted grey to blend with the existing gutter.

One of the requirements for this new work was the removal of a clump of old cherry plums that had created a sort of private little circular path away from the road.  Over the years the trees had built up a small mound of composted leaves and fallen fruit creating a fertile mound of earth under the trees, for reasons still unknown the removal of this soil caused several people in the village to take up a petition for the earths return. Unfortunately our labouring group had taken the prized soil to a secret location. Fortunately further digging was required so that a salutation presented itself in replacing the missing treasure with freshly dug piles of subsoil and clay from the recently dug ditch. What use all these heaps of dirt are to the villagers’ remains a mystery. Still the works goes on while still more men arrive to construct this twenty metres of guttering glinting in the sun.

Concertmaster-Jun Yi Ma.

I have never really understood exactly what  role  the Concertmaster played. I knew he or she were the first violin in the orchestra, who would be the last musician to appear on stage while everyone else was intent on making a maximum racket fine tuning their instruments. They would always walk on last, flick their tail coat beyond the chair’s edge, then play middle C on his violin for the benefit of the orchestra before the conductor arrived at his podium.

He would be required solo pieces when required and generally hold the orchestra together. But the most important role was that of a bonding agent for all the musicians who over the years become his friends and confederates. His influence on the musical quality of an orchestra can be quite profound. Ma is much loved by both musicians and audience and so it was with his final concert last week with the TSO. As soloist he played a masterful performance of Korngold’s violin Concerto, a composer better known for compositions written for Hollywood.

The musicians were quite emotional as you would expect as their Concertmaster of fourteen years bid farewell.  There was to odd tear and considerable enthusiasm from both  musicians and audience alike. a  standing ovation amid much shouting and Bravos. All wished him well in his new role as Concertmaster with the Australian Opera Ballet Orchestra in Sydney