Olives Groves, the eternal tree.

 At this time of the year our olive grove takes on a festive look, the hillside appears to be akin to Christmas decorated trees. Before we started to grow olives, I always believed birds did not like olives, they most certainly are not palatable to human tastes before being pickled.

Parrots are the main villains, they just sit there cracking the olive open in order to eat the seed. They try one, then another until an olive meets their requirement. One lone parrot would not be too bad, but ten, twenty or more can make short work of the crop in no time. Other birds, also seem to be addicted , starlings have this addiction, only they  seem to be more intent on seeing how many they can pluck, drop, pluck, drop, there seems to be some sort of competition to see who can remove the most within some sort of time frame.

The olive tree embodies human history, the beginning of our civilization. The farming, harvesting, and pressing the olives for oil, to be used as food, medicine,  burning for light, stretch back into prehistory. There are gnarled survivors in Lebanon that have been carbon dated to several thousand years. Olive growing therefor is a very serious business, it is not an activity to be entered  into lightly with only short time frame in mind. I must confess that our decorated trees don't seem to be all that effective, I thought the silver and red tape fluttering in the breeze would discourage birds. It seemed to work at first, for a year or so, but not any more, so you see birds do discuss these things among themselves. European olive groves don't seem to have this problem to the same extent, they have already eaten most of the bird life, so numbers are now more controllable.

Another first for this years harvest will be the trying out of a mechanical wand, it consits of two clapping like hands, that also move sideways at the same time, causing the olives to fall onto  tarpaulins around the base of the tree. These machines run on a tractor battery so that you can move from tree to tree. It all sounds very simple, you rake or comb the tree, and the olives fall down! Yields of course are highly problematical, what with the birds, wind and other natural interventions. Is it all worthwhile, I hope so, most things we do in life just don't have the time frame of an olive grove. You need a long vision into the future, plant them hopefully for many generations to come. They are after all called the eternal tree, they can be burnt, chopped down, will withstand heat, frosts and still regenerate, no wonder the ancients loved the olive tree. Sacred to the gods, it is said when Julius Cesar chopped down the sacred olive grove in Spain he sealed his fate.

,

Camino of Santiago

Pilgrim Hostel, St Jean Pied de Port.

The human urge to travel, seek  inner truths, to explore the unknown, are traits as old as human kind. Why  do people embark on these journeys, I don't know. But this quest for some deeply hidden truth  lies deep within us. Over the years, I have often toyed with the idea to undertake this pilgrimage from St. Jean de Pied de Port to Santiago. A current film showing at the State in Hobart titled, "The Way" brought back many of these hidden desires and memories. In my less rational moments, I feel I should complete this walk on foot like a true pilgrim on foot, not experience the journey from a car, train or  bicycle as I have done along with many do others. My only semi-serious attempt to travel to Santiago was by car, bus and, I am ashamed to say very little walking. This pilgrimage was from Lisbon, Tomar, Braga, and on to Santiago Di Compostela. Now whether I have left it a little late is hard to say, to walk some 840kms in my mid seventy posses more than a few health and fitness problems. This is not the first time I have had this urge, a few years ago I spent several days in St. Jean de Port, a lovely little town in the foothills of the Pyrenees, before driving across northern Spain. It was the first time I became aware of this thousand year old pilgrimage undertaken continually over this vast span of time. St. Jean, with it's hilly cobble stoned streets seemed like an ideal training ground, it is all up hill from here over the mountains, until you arrive in Spain. This route is often called the French way, you could of course undertake the journey from anywhere, Paris, Granada or Berlin as many do, depending on how far you think you could walk. My first confrontation with pilgrims was in a church here in St Jean, where three potential walkers were singing hymns, staffs in hand with their scallop shells as symbols of  pilgrimage. Outside, I suddenly became aware of all the scallop shells everywhere, something I had not noticed on my arrival, they hung in the doorways of hostels, cafes, and official registration points for those wishing to undertake the duties of  the pilgrim.


What drives so many modern people [100.000 last year], to undertake what really is a religious experience I have no idea. Living as we do in what many would call a Post-Christian era, yet  vast number of walkers undertake this demanding hike over several weeks in search of some inner peace and truth. Interestingly, the characters in the film I recently saw, all gave different reasons, one to lose weight, something he badly needed to do, another wanted to give up smoking, while a third wished to write a book about his experience. The star of the film, Martin Sheen had had no intention of undertaking the Camino at all when he arrived, he was in St. Jean to collect the ashes of his son, who had meet his end a few days early, while only a few days into his journey. There was no one cast undertaking the pilgrimage for spiritual reasons. Various people I have spoken to over the years, who have walked the Camino, claim that less than half undertake this journey for any  religious purpose.The vast majority do it for their health, the experience, to circuit break some unsatisfactory period in life, or simply are addicted to long walks and a love of nature. Pilgrimages, Crusades, the voyages of Odysseus, searches in general are all part of being human, personifying the truth that the journey is what is important in life. Personally, I feel there must also be some hidden reason buried deep inside every one's psychic, some guilt or desire to right some perceived wrong in the past. It is possible that the rational self has rejected religious belief, while at the same time feel that life must have a meaning beyond  day to day existence. A young Japanese couple I spoke to in Santiago, who had walked all the way from Paris to Santiago, were Buddhist, yet felt that such a pilgrimage was within their religious belief. Many pilgrims claim that the experience changed their view of life, but often seem  unable to tell  why.


One thing I did find disturbing was the lack of any genuine religious atmosphere in Santiago. It was not what I had expected, like Rome and many other religious centres the city appeared to  have scummed to greed. The cathedral itself is surrounded by tourist shops of all kinds, attempting to maximise their profits at the pilgrims expense. The simple scallop shell, symbol of St. James stands in marked contrast to the gold and silver ones in the shops surrounding this shrine. But it was my experience inside the Cathedral itself that provided the greatest shock. Behind the high alter there is a narrow stair way leading up to a small room, that I assumed held the bones of St James. No sooner had I mounted the staircase, than a rather sinister figure emerged from the gloom. Dressed in purple, with a skull cay planted on his gaunt head, clutching a ornate box that he trust under my nose requesting a donation for St James. His long tapered fingers clutched a box, his rather disconcerting appearance gave me quite a shock,  I had not expected to be waylaid in such a manner.This churchman had all the qualities of the hunchback of Notre Dame, it was almost as if I had emerged into the middle-ages. I was so shocked by his appearance that I turned and fled back down the stairs. His appearance haunted me for the rest of the day. I felt I had walked into the middle of a Hieronymus Bosch painting with their visions of hell.


What ever the reason modern pilgrims undertake this walk, it most certainly was not to meet this churchman. What ever the reason most people undertaken the camino to Santiago, all seem to agree it changed their view about what is important in life. The facilities on route are basic, there is no place for pretence, the walk becomes an obligation to reach Santiago at any price, and pay whatever homage you may want to make to the tens of thousands who have gone before. I am no Steven Hawkins, nor particularly religious, but nor can I put behind me the childhood experience of a religious education. This experience was more about memory, it's fears, the distaste of having to kiss dead nuns at the end of their funeral, the hours I was compelled to knell for hours on end in chapel, Hours I was required to spend praying, the long retreats and constant religious services Religious instruction and church services of one kind or another, often took up two to three hours ever day, seven days a week.. I felt that by visiting Santiago, I could expel some of this weight that I have been carrying around all these years. In this sense, this churchman sitting in the dark, next to the bones of St. James worked wonders, and I am very grateful.

A Tale of Lost Legs

A few years ago a farming neighbour of mine enquired as to whether I had lost any legs lately. At first, I was some what perplex, but assured him that the last time I looked everything was still there. No. no, he replied, I mean have you lost any pigs legs. He explained, that he had recently changed his abattoirs because because after some consignment, the old meat works deducted payment for various parts of the carcass. It may be a leg, sometimes half of the rib section, the head and so on. I assured him, I had not experienced any problems of this nature, apart from difficulty in loading large bacon pigs on to the truck, that gave a whole new meaning to the expression of pigheadedness.

He related how on enquiry, he would be told that the missing parts had been condemned, and no, he was unable to inspect the missing parts as they had been deposed of. It was never explained, why a leg and part of the rib cage was not fit for human consumption, while the rest of the animal was fine. All the more so, when the pigs were in tip top condition when leaving the farm. Apparently, this became a major problem around Christmas time for the condition of hind legs, it seemed that often both legs would become contaminated at this time of the year. One can only assume that their loading ramps needed urgent attention. All this goes to show how dangerous transporting livestock can be. Who knows what they are likely to eat on their journey into town.

Day in the life of an exiled Cossack

Acrylic painting from my Fragments of memory series.

I first meet Sasha in one of those old converted Sydney wine bars in the 1950's. They were the sort of establishments much despised by the local Sydney population, but were much sort after by newly arrived migrants from Italy. These early post-war settlers, would turn them into successful wine bars come coffee shops, with the odd plate of pasta thrown in. At the time they reflected an Australian version of a Parisian street cafe, attracting a rebellious crowd of writers, artist, musicians, and anyone else who felt dissatisfied with colonial life. It seemed at the time, that turn of the century Paris had arrived in Australia. This was the age of Sarte, the dawn of the postwar age, when it seemed anything was possble.

Sasha, had fled China, as did many Russians after Mao's victory in 1949. He always described himself as a displaced Shanghai Cossack, and  could best  be described as a lively eccentric. We both got along famously from our first meeting,  no doubt as he saw me as someone from his part of the world. I had quite recently "come ashore", after several years of seafaring, and spent many long hours in these wine bars drinking coffee or red wine, after spending the day drawing plaster casts at Julian Ashton Art School. Later we shared a house together for a few months in Balmain, with other "displaced individuals". Sydney at this time viewed most non locals with considerable disdain, any one wearing suede shoes or corduroy was suspect. One could be abused on the bus or train for not speaking English. One of his greatest delights was to get out his saber, and after wavering it around for a few minutes would depart to buy cigarettes. This task seemed to consist of visiting the local garage and smashing the window with his saber to obtain his "free cigarettes". On his return, he would give us a demonstration of how you use a saber. As some of you may know, it is worn upside down, that is the cutting blade is facing up, this weapon has a round nob at the handle end, so that the user could hit the nob with the side of their hand, thus drawing out the blade with one movement, followed by one downward movement presumably removing any heads that were in the way. Cossacks he told, could by this system simply turn their wrist and do further damage on the way up as well.

But, Sasha most outrages exploits, was what he referred to as his Carpet Gang. This involved himself, and one other person dressed in workman's overalls, calling on up market hotels and offices. According to him, it was a fairly simple operation, they would drive up to their targeted site, and claim to had come to collect the rugs and carpets for dry cleaning. Nine times out of ten apparently, the person on duty accepted the request, and they were allowed to role up expensive rugs and casually walk out the door, never to be seen again. How they were able to get away with this I never found out. Luckily, I departed shortly afterwards for Italy and never saw them again. Whether they eventually met the arm of the law, I have no idea.

Armenian Memorial Day & Anzac Day

There is a certain amount of irony, that Anzac day follows Armenian Memorial Day, 24th April. A day that remembers the beginning of the Armenian genocide, or should I say night. It was on this day 24th April 1915, that the Turkish Ittihad Party, gave the order that Constantinople Armenian cultural leaders, their writers, artists,  clergymen, teachers and so on, were all to be arrested in the middle of the night. In hind sight, they should have realised that something was a foot. Thus the first 250 songbirds of Armenian culture were removed from positions of influence. Little did they realise, that they were the first of some one and half million of their countrymen earmarked for extermination.  The spiritual leader of all Sunni Muslims, Sheikh-ul-Lslam had already announced on steps of Fathi Mosque on 14th November,1914, that a jihad had been declared against all "infidels" and other "enemies of the faith". The Armenia, as the first country to adopt Christianity was an easy target. The fact that they had lived in the country, we now called Turkey, for over two and half thousand years counted for little. Not of course, all Turks subscribed to this policy,  I should mention many lost their lives due to their objection. The issue that sticks in the throat of modern day Armenians, is the fact, that Turkish governments over the last eighty five years have maintained total denial that such events ever took place.

Thus, we come to Anzac Day, and an ill fated landing in the Dardanelles, the very next day, 25th April, 1915. The day, when the first lorry load of Armenians were being removed from their homes. One of the tragic side effects of these events is that the genocide, the removal of an entire people, from their homeland would be repeated twenty four years later in Nationalist Germany. Whether the German advisers played any part at the time is hard to say. But it is not difficult to see a template for future events. This century has witness so many ethnic cleansing, Armenian, the Holocaust, Ukraine, Cambodia, Rwanda, the Balkans, and recently Dar fur, there seems no end. Turkey is one of the few countries who even today, refuses to admit any responsibility, as the recent out cry over the French Government's declaring that denial of the Armenian Genocide is a crime in France. I do not wish to suggest that ex-Turkish soldiers should not honor their dead war heroes, but whether they should do so in Anzac Day marches remains questionable.
.

Ship Wrecks , design blocks for abstruction.

On this  the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, I would like to share with you my own personal thoughts about ship wrecks, as basic starting points for abstract painting. Whether it is my own experience of viewing wrecks around the world, the left overs from the Second World War in places like New Guinea, or my life for many years at sea as a non swimmer, I can't say. But ships in all their shapes and sizes continual forms draw me to them. The underlying organized structure gives them strength. A strength that evolves with time, formed and reformed by natures elements. The wind ,sea, sand all have played their part to resurrect a life lost to a new one. All good painting needs a  strong grid like underbelly to make them work.

Unlike, landscape based abstraction, were  the natural random design elements of nature dominate, the engineering discipline of a wreck, now modified plays a major part. The natural erosion of the elements soften the impression, and unlike a formal French garden like Versailles, never look contrived. Luckily, were I live, we have a wonderful wreck on the shore of the D'Entrecusteaux Channel, south of Hobart. The steam ferry "Laura" ran aground here around 1923, and has become a favorite sanitary for fish and seabirds alike. She was built I believe in Newcastle, of steel and rivet construction, and though she no longer looks her best offer any visitor bothering to walk along the shore line a welcome. In her working days the "Laura" plied the Channel Ports collecting apples, milk, and and other agricultural products for the Hobart market. At this time there was no satisfactory road to the city. The highway as such was built during the great depression in the 1930's.

Over the years, I have taken many photos of the "Laura", and produced several painting based on her. I have attempted in these photos to capture the beauty and charm of such a sight. I know many people only look for perfection, the perfect reality without the realisation that everything in this world is always in a state of flux. Things never remain the same for one moment, to fully understand the visual world, we must always try to look with new eyes.

Tasmania has many wrecks scattered around her coast, no doubt due to the location of the island in the roaring 40's, a latitude that allows the wind to roar around the world without hindrance.  Many a sailing ship in the age of sail meet there doom on this rocky coastline. Most of course, now lie at the bottom of the sea, so I am lucky to have accesses to one without getting my feet wet. Here are a few images of the "Laura", so you can appreciate the abstract possibilities of wrecks.

The hazzards of the grape harvest

Every year it seems to be the same, rain, rain, and more rain. It is almost as though some entity, unknown to mere mortals, decides the sugars are not allowed to reach an acceptable level. In many ways, this is somewhat like running a water hoses into the wine vat. You see, we try to make a wine without irrigation, a wine made by natural methods using the wild vine yeasts, a wine not laced with chemical to prolong it's  shelf life. Every time it rain falls, the vine takes up the moisture, and thus dilutes the sugar level in the berries. This in turn causes a lower conversion rate of sugar into alcohol, resulting in a thin wine without body.

The real frustration of poor results after the pruning, care, netting and so on is hard to explain to anyone who has not experienced it. You may think that is all part of farming, this of course is true, but it does not make it any better to bear. Last year a wasp attack sucked the crop dry, before we were able to pick. They came in swarms straight through the bird netting.Fortunately, this year we set dozens of traps, and caught bucket loads. I exaggerate not, we must have caught tens of kilos of wasps, at least they make good compost. The strange thing about wasps is they seem to undergo a change of diet throughout the summer, at times they crave sugar, at others  rotten meat. Still, while they are gauging themselves they are too blotted to sting.

In the meantime, all we can do is clean out the press and wait.