After the storms?

Sydney has seen some epic storms lately - both of the literal kind (see above) and then of the inner turmoil variety. I'm not sure what to say really apart from, well, things have been tough. It's been four months since we left London and it's hard not to wonder if we made a mistake coming home when we did.

Missing..... Martin Creed

I'm going to do my best not to be that whiney person who never gets over the fact they had an incredible overseas adventure only to move somewhere else in search of other adventures. No one likes that person. Not really.

That being said....

Martin Creed, Work No.200. Half the Air in A Given Room, 1998

Wylie's Baths

It's a fairly undisguised fact that I'm really not hugely happy at the moment, between the London homesickness, the loneliness and the lack of employment opportunities currently being afforded to me. It's been the ultimate exercise in mindfulness really; just trying to be in every moment and not go screaming off the rails with anxiety, or worse, regret. 

Which is why I've been getting back in the water, seeking ablutions for my head as well as my body. 

Up at Avalon, it was here, slalom swimming amongst the bobbing grannies, looking out towards the surfers:

Now that we're in Coogee, it's here, at Wylie's Baths...

There's no place like.... Coogee

So we're now officially residents of Coogee. It's the Australia Day long weekend which means, like all self-respecting Australians, we spent it trawling Ikea for random bits of shit we thought we'd packed but clearly ditched because 27 boxes was enough.

Stalking art heroes

So I went to Carriageworks on Friday and hovered, as expected, awkwardly and mostly alone by the buffet. When I wasn't hovering by the food making blind date awkward eyes at people I thought I once knew, I had the huge privilege to take in the extraordinary work of Christian Boltanski, whose work I've always admired. 

Chance was first shown at the Venice Biennale in 2011 (the one I didn't manage to get to...) but this is it's first Australian outing and it's a hugely contemplative experience and yet another deft expression by Boltanski of the randomness of life.

A big week

I can't believe it's been two years already since I sauntered through my Mum's garden and married my Lovely Boy.

More than that - I can't believe it's been a year since we celebrated our first wedding anniversary in a Mexican emergency room. 

Please can we hit the pause button for a minute?? For reals, if things move any faster, I can see myself, cartoon-like, slipping off the back end of the treadmill that is Life.  

It's been a big week. And it's only Thursday.

2013. The year that really, really was.

Well 2013 has definitely been one for the books. As its final moments eek away I’m still grappling with everything that I saw, did, ate, accomplished, learnt, discovered and appreciated. I’m really not ready for 2014 to start and feel like I’m being dragged along, heels firmly entrenched, towards Getting On With Things when I’m still not ready to let go of London. So, really, New Years Eve is the perfect excuse for some indulgent looking back. And there’s a lot to twist the neck for….

Crafting Christmas

So it rained on Christmas Day. My sardonic inner Londoner appreciated the nod to all things internal winter of discontent and/or Christmas 2012. My outer trying-to-be-literally sunny Sydneysider however, was a little concerned the downpour would ruin her decorations.

Someone has been channelling their angst into craft.

Phantom limbs

I can’t really account for the last month. I can’t quite believe it’s been a month. Four weeks sounds less scary. Closer to London, not increasingly, terrifyingly, further away.

On the ferry to Manly

It’s good to be home, where home is a moving feast of emotions attached largely to family members and friends. Sydney is eluding me for the moment. Things familiar and comforting are the people who know me best, who acknowledge the last five years and what they’ve meant/involved/provided and who offer the proverbial gentle hand (and/or kick up the arse) to start getting on with things here.

But I ache for London. Like a crack whore wanting one more dose of the possibilities.

Comings and goings

So we’re back. And it feels….

Familiar.

And strange.

I’m just freewheeling with my emotions at the moment – ignoring the stunned, slightly dazed feeling that comes from a cocktail of jetlag, overwrought emotion, uncertainty and exhaustion – and focusing on the minute to minute. And the truly genuine joy at being back amongst the family.

The Last Weekend and Several Last Suppers

It’s been an epic last weekend in London with all the requisite factors – alcohol, tears, museum visits, high teas, posh meals, public transport fails, contemporary art piñatas and pouring, sobbing rain.

I’m exhausted, a little overwrought, foggily dazed and both dragging my feet and ready to pull the pin. 

I might be flexible but I don’t thrive in limbo.

Launch

Today has been a big day. Against all odds and despite all signs to the contrary over the last couple of years, 21st Century Portraits is now out in the world and tonight it launched at the National Portrait Gallery.

A bout of lasts

It’s a strange feeling sitting here in our flat, contemplating our last remaining night after three and something years in shitty old Hammersmith. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved our little house and life here nearly overlooking the Thames but I ain’t going to miss this particular patch of west London.

I honestly thought I’d dread this moment but after nearly a month of packing and sorting and chucking and, let’s be honest, low-grade bickering about whether or not we really need to pack the enormous French dictionary when neither of us speak the language and realistically never will, well, I’m just ready to pull the cord.

21st Century Portraits

Today is a BIG day. Like, 245 pages big. The Book is now on sale.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating and frankly strange to think that all my words are now out there in the world for public consumption. We’ll try not to go near that other c word (criticism) for now.

I’m incredibly proud of how hard I worked to help make this book happen and hope that anyone with the excellent sense to buy it (…) appreciates its provocations, its beauty and its best intentions.

I always said I wasn’t going to leave London until the bloody thing was published and so here it is, and now here I go, in just two and a half weeks time. Talk about back to back Significant Life Moments.

First the boxes....

GONE.

Two more weeks and so will we be.

Our marriage survived the packing (just), the house is still a mess, the heart a little heavy (hug me and I cry) but for the first time is that a delicate whiff of ready anticipation?

Sookiness and Sadler's Wells

Last week was hard work.

There were tears. Yes, more tears.

There were big days and late nights, a bit of packing and a lot of melancholy conversations about saying goodbye to great people and exciting projects in pursuit of an as-yet-unclear Next Life Stage.

It’s been hard balancing the increasing, lovely, enthusiasm of our families for our increasingly imminent return with the rising tide of panic and anxiety and sadness and uncertainty that comes with calling time on five years. I’m aware of the first world nature of my problems – having to give up an amazing job and say goodbye to amazing friends to move to another pretty amazing country (despite the fuckwit running the place) where amazing family and other amazing friends live and where there will hopefully be other amazing job opportunities and if not, well at least there will be amazing beaches and amazing coffee. 

There’s lots that is amazing, see.

And yet…

Amsterdam. Or, My Last European Adventure For A While.

So my last European jaunt c.2008-2013 is officially done. And it was delightful.

Gem and I started talking about a weekend away months ago, when her UK trip was first mooted and credit to us both for actually booking the fucking thing and not just talking about it as something we should totally do.

I’m not sure how we decided upon Amsterdam but I was happy to go, never having been before, and happy to look past the weed and porn clichés in the hope of experiencing something memorable for all the right kinds of reasons.

The problem with Australia

So I went to the press preview for 'Australia' at the Royal Academy on Tuesday. I'm writing a review for Artlink and for a couple of weeks now I've been worried my instincts (that it would be disappointing, conservative, terrible... that my snobbery and cultural bias would cloud my objectivity...) would get in the way of me looking at the show with an open mind.

And so I tried. And failed. Because it really isn't great. Does it warrant the casual racism and vitriol dressed as criticism it's receiving in the British press? Well, no.  But it's not great. It's not even very good. I'm going to need to leave my thoughts to marinate for a while yet in the hope that something by way of coherent argument emerges. Because right now it's just an exasperated mash of frustrations.

I can't believe this is the same institution that hosted the seminal Sensation back in 1997. I mean, where's all that curatorial chutzpah gone?

What a missed opportunity. National Gallery of Australia, I'm blaming you too.

Art, liquor, laughs and boxes of tears.

It's been a big week. Some art. Some liquor. Some laughs. Some boxes. Some tears.

Basically in that order.

On Thursday we organised an art tour for a crowd of 16 to 25 year olds to visit the new Artangel Commission near Goodge St. I have a bit of a professional crush on Artangel and the work they do, which is ostensibly commissioning contemporary artists to make site-specific works in non-traditional art spaces. The Roger Hiorns I dragged Lovely Boy to see a few years ago was one of theirs, as is the tug boat currently parked atop the Royal Festival Hall on Southbank.

Image courtesy: Southbank Centre

Something to sing about

Oh I’ve had a lovely weekend.

Visits from best friends from home are just the tonic to my life gin. It means to be pajamed until 2.30pm, talking and laughing and drinking tea. It means desperately absorbing the ease and familiarity, wit and delight of a dear friend, like sunshine on an increasingly autumnal day, so enormously grateful in the knowledge that you can live on the other side of the world for five years and still pick up like it was yesterday.

It’s been a lovely, lovely weekend.