Recently I decided to enter the Linden Postcard Show , at the infamous Linden Gallery , in nearby St Kilda. I purchased the appropriate size canvas , enrolled online, and dutifully paid the fee . Scanning my studio I decided to create a Luna Park face based on a photo pinned to my wall . It was ink wash , a medium I am not familiar with but I mastered it, and left the work alone, rather than fiddle with it, as is my wont . The next day I added grey lead pencil . Climbing the iron stairs at the back of the Victorian grandiose mansion, I was plagued with doubt . Was it good enough ?, all these other strident , confident artists seem to know what they are doing , I’m only a student after all . Dropping it off I was wished well and queried about my surname, by the enthusiastic curator.
“Luna Park” , nestled alone and forlorn amongst the shelves at Linden . My life continued . On Thursday at Tokyo Deli, with youngest child I received a text that ” Luna Park ” was to go to a new home . He had been purchased within half an hour of the show opening . I was sad he wouldn’t be returning to me but elated I had received validation as an artist . Someone else liked my work enough to buy it . A pivotal moment in my artistic career and a much needed spur to continue on my path of image making .
Thank you Linden and I hope you will be happy in your new home , ” Luna Park ” , x love from your creator .
A vicious volley of words , slammed doors and hurled insults . It became obvious that the time to leave was imminent . Fleeing the family home with a clutch of possessions and a heart full of resentment , a lonely drive from inner urban madness , to semi rural tranquility , my oldest child has left home .
Illness had decimated the family home . Daily tasks presented monumental difficulties , happy faces were replaced with ones of foreboding , and personal space eaten up . A mother’s love , and sibling affection not enough to hold a young man to the family unit .
A kaleidoscope of emotions rage through my body as he arrives to pack up the remains of a life , shared with his family of 24 years . Collective memories of a firstborn , tinkling laughter , and the early shared adventures of a nervous parent and inspiring child . Latterly , charting the child’s progression from boy , through gawky adolescence , to manhood. Harbouring a furtive pride in the genetic transference of same eye colour and wiry hair , of the compassionate and caring nature of the man he has become .
He has left . A sense of desolation engulfs me in a sea of sadness , and unshed tears . I brace myself and know I must go forward , grateful for the life I have created and nurtured , ever mindful of the lifelong journey of parenthood , the deep passion it evokes , and the unrepentant task it employs .
Betty was my mum . Dimunitive in stature but feisty in nature she was born in 1926 in rural outer Melbourne . She grew with an older sister and enjoyed a bucolic lifestyle in the period between two wars , a forerunner to the Great Depression .It is a shared history of many older Australians .
These events helped shape my mum’s early life , as did a bout of peritonitis when she was 14 , that required a 6 month stint in hospital , and precluded her further education . Betty went to work at 15 in the British Australian Tobacco company , Swanston st , Melbourne . First sweeping the floors for discarded tobacco skeins , later graduatiing to the sorting bench . Lifelong friendships were forged and happy events shared , particularly when VP day was announced . Dancing in the streets and all out revellery was enjoyed as a young spirited nation could put the grim spectre of war behind them .
Mum married , moved , lost a baby , and subsequently raised my brother and I in Colac , a country town in the Western District of Victoria . She was an astute baker , sewer and gardener and seamlessly re -adapted to rural life . Independence presented itself in the form of her tiny Morris Minor and a driving licence . She was soon seen careering around country roads , only travelling marginally faster than the pedestrians , with us , and the corgi “Taffy ” firmly ensconced in the back .
A move to Melbourne saw Betty take on the joint running of a pub. The first in gritty industrial Port Melbourne circa 1969 . A subsequent move to a South Melbourne pub , where she remained for 30 years followed . Betty nursed her partner through cancer and retired to the home she had made for herself . Some uneventful years followed . Mum travelled , gardened , entertained and viewed the world at a more leisurely pace .
Warning bells began to ring when phone calls became discordant , words jumbled and sentences incomplete . Heating was unable to be turned on or off and letters were attempted to be posted at flinders st railway station.Taps were left on and keys were lost . Falls in the street , and further falls late at night alone in an empty house , indicators to Betty’s world slowly unravelling .Inoxerably Betty ‘s progress towards a nursing home was charted .
Comfortable , modern , great views and caring staff replaced her much loved home . She mourned for and lamented with flickering anxiety her home . It was mirrored in her plaintive cry of ” I just want to go home ” . Betty survived for 4 years in the new regimented environment , daily submitting her will to greater indignites and submerging her independence . The slurred speech , unkempt appearance , wild hair , and muddy eyes , signified her gradual descent into madness . Her final act of rebellion , I believe administered by what remained of her addled brain was to stop eating . Betty peacefully slipped into oblivion on the 27 september . There is not a day goes by that I don’t miss her and rue her passing . Dementia is a cruel , remorseless disease .