Category Archives: Christianity

The Endless Explorations of an Overstimulated Mind…

Life is what happens to you while you‘re busy making other plans.”

John Lennon

To the untrained eye, my thinking’s seemed pretty random of late…a mush of pea and ham soup with a few recognizable objects thrown in. Indeed, even I’ve been starting to wonder if there are any threads of logic tying my ramblings together. After all, there’s been no sign of  a train of thought methodically stopping all stations on the way to its advertised destination. However, after much consideration, I was relieved to find a noticeable thread running through it all, even if I did have to search for it.

Yet, as much as I love darting from light bulb moment to light bulb moment, I’ve also been feeling overwhelmed and wondering whether a more focused approach would be more productive.  After all, I’ve almost blown a circuit when all my light bulbs switched on at once. As much as that sounds fantastic from a creative point of view, I do have practical responsibilities. Indeed, clearly driving a car with a blown circuit is a liability. Moreover, members of the family need to eat, go places and live their lives. Yet, I also want to fulfil my own destiny. Walk in my own shoes.

So, today I thought I’d share some of this journey with you. I’m not even going to try to put a heading on it. I’m just going to grab my keys and go. That said, you ought to know we’re in Australia. I don’t want you to get lost before the journey’s begun.

First Stop:  Henry Lawson.

Henry Lawson by Lionel Lindsay

This journey began almost a month ago when I bought Colin Roderick’s: Companion to Henry Lawson’s Fifteen Stories at a garage sale in Pearl Beach. Fortunately, thanks to good luck or fiendish book hoarding tendencies, I already had its other half: Henry Lawson Fifteen Stories. Keen to write more short stories myself, I decided to get stuck into them. They’re designed for a high school audience and seemed quite thought provoking. I also wanted to immerse myself in my Australian cultural heritage. I stridently believe that everyone needs to know their own culture and step beyond the one-size doesn’t fit anybody global culture. So, I started reading more about Henry Lawson’s bio and was struck to find out he had a Norwegian father, Nils Larsen. I sort of knew that but that meant a lot more to me now. That you can’t just change a few letters in your name, and change who you are.

Second Stop: Bridget Donovan, Irish Famine Orphan Girl.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Charlotte Merritt, daughter of famine orphan, Bridget Donovan.

As it turned out, Henry Lawson and his family were living in Mudgee in Western NSW where my 4th Great Grandmother, Bridget Merritt (Donovan) and husband George were living for several years. Bridget was an Irish Famine Orphan who came out to Australia onboard the John Knox as part of the Earl Grey Scheme. These Irish Famine Orphan Girls have been commemorated at Sydney’s Hyde Park Barracks as well as through historic research. As much as I’ve always loved an related to Henry Lawson’s works as an Australian, they suddenly meant a whole lot more to me now that they provided gained insights into how my family lived and the sorts of challenges they faced. Indeed, George and Bridget and their children could well have resembled one of Lawson’s characters and lived his short stories.

Third Stop:  Bourke, NSW.

Bertha Davies (nee Bruhn) and Herb Bruhn

Uncle Herb right as I knew him, along with his sister Bertha.

However, the connections didn’t end there. I also found out that The Bulletin magazine had sent Henry Lawson out to Bourke in 1893 to write stories about life in the outback. As it turned out, my grandmother’s uncle did a stint out in Bourke back in the 1960s. Moreover, Mum’s always told me this story about she was desperately looking forward to going to the Peter, Paul and Mary Concert, but was forced to go on a family holiday to Bourke instead. Although Mum was twenty and a student living out of home, there was no way she could get out of it. Even then, she was expected to do what she was told. No questions asked. So, I start picturing the family squished into the FJ Holden heading from Wollongong up over the Blue Mountains, through Dubbo and onto Bourke not quite following in Henry Lawson’s footsteps but I could sense a story in there somewhere.

Before I pursued this story any further, it was time to hit the research trail and see what I could dig up about Bourke in the old newspapers. Wow! Was I in for a surprise! While I knew Uncle Herb was into singing and I’ve at least seen an old black & white photo of him working on a musical production, I had no idea Uncle Herb was the Producer of the Bourke Musical & Dramatic Society.  As a town with a population scratching to reach two thousand souls, this was hardly the big time. However, he approached these productions with such professionalism, gusto and passion that he truly belonged on Broadway. From what I gather, they put on numerous productions including: Oklahoma, Cleopatra and South Pacific. Yet, given Bourke’s remote location, it was a battle for the show to go on. There were numerous efforts to recruit new members in the newspapers and he even offered free voice training. However, the appeal which really struck home was his quest to find a pianist, which must’ve hurt because my mother was not only a piano student at the NSW Conservatorium of Music. At this time, she was learning from Linley Evans who’d accompanied the great Australian opera singer, Dame Nellie Melba. However, mum was in Sydney and almost a thousand kilometres away.  Of course, Uncle Herb did approach my grandparents, but they decided she was far too young (Phew!!)

By this stage, the whiff of another story was almost knocking me out. However, the excitement didn’t end there. While I was scouring the old newspapers online, I stumbled across something like twenty poems Uncle Herb had had published in the newspaper. I didn’t even know he wrote poetry and as a poet myself, that was important. I’d found someone like me, and that’s not to be overlooked lightly. Indeed, I immediately wanted to drop everything and compile his poems into an anthology. However, than idea had a quick demise when I remembered that my own poems need a lot of sorting out and I’d better get my own poems in order first

Fourth Stop:  Honi Soit, Sydney University’s Student Newspaper.

Antonymns Rowena

Here I am back in 1990 running for election to edit Honi Soit .

Last week, while I was down in Sydney for the Carer’s Day Out, I detoured home via my former stomping ground, the University of Sydney. Quite aside from photographing the old buildings and retracing my footsteps, I found out that past issues of the university’s newspaper, Honi Soit, were available online. Needless to say, that proved quite a distraction.

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The Main Quad, Sydney University, 2018.

Hoit Soit was first published in 1929. As it turned out, my grandfather was studying dentistry at the time. So, that’s where my investigations began and I soon got caught up in all sorts of tales about students struggling to meet people on campus, which were exacerbated by the ruling that women couldn’t attend a dance unaccompanied by a man. Naturally, this ruling affected those who needed to meet new people most…the freshers.

Student Theatre Type

Above: The Arty Theatre Type

In my father’s day, I also found a very entertaining article advising freshers on “How to succeed at University by Really Trying”. May favourite was Graham Sawyer’s advice to college residents:

“Although a book could be written on entry into college the following hints may be of assistance.

  1. Be gracious, even when yelled at to answer the phone.
  2. Be mysterious, never take anyone (at all) into confidence.
  3. Get long distance phone calls, exciting letters . . . arrange these yourself,
  4. Rent a good painting for your room, when you have to return it say the artist was having a show, Australian art only of course.
  5. Buy from a junkyard a smashed up TR3 grille and inscribe it “September 1961, Sandra”. Put it in an obvious position.
  6. Have an affair with a girl in Sydney, and one in the old home town. Talk about it with passion, let whole college advise. Break one of the girl’s hearts, and plead guilty to the whole college.[1]
Student Graffiti Artist

Above: The Newspaper or Literary Type.

After browsing through a few back issues from my own time, I headed to 1969 the year of my birth. I was due to be born on the 20th July the day man landed on the moon and I wanted to read student coverage of the event. After all, the moon landing has become part of my personal narrative.

That was two weeks ago. However, in typical Rowie fashion, I still haven’t reached the moon landing. Instead, I stumbled into the Vietnam protest movement and my journey veered off in an entirely new direction. You see, my Dad had been called up to go to Vietnam and I almost felt a sense of duty to delve into it further.

Stop Five: Conscription & the Vietnam War.

Image result for Save Our Sons No Conscription

In 1964, the Australian Government introduced conscription. On the 10th March, 1965 the first ballot or “death lottery” was held, which covered men who turned 20 from January 1st 1965 to the 30th June. That included my Dad who was in the third year of his economics degree. It was pure chance, but Dad’s birthday came up. It was like playing pin the tail on the donkey, and suddenly the thumb tack went straight through Dad’s nose. He was in. That was that.

However, Dad still had a bit of time up his sleeve. He could defer until he’d finished his degree, but that would only buy him a year.

By now, you’ve probably gathered Dad got off. That’s a story in itself, involving what Dad called: “An Act of God” and once again brought into question that delicate fusion of destiny and chance. Not being a lawyer myself, I’m not exactly sure how this loophole stands up in court. However, you might recall that Billy Connolly referred to it in: The Man Who Sued God. 

Anyway, Dad was driving home from a party in the rain when his car skidded and careered across from one side of the Pacific Highway to the other into the path of an oncoming Mercedes Benz.  Needless to say, Dad was lucky to survive. However, he ended up with multiple fractures in his pelvis and a few broken ribs. When the police came to interview him, he managed to gloss over the bald state of his tyres and claimed: “it was an act of God”. Naturally, the Police were sceptical. However, what really mattered, was that his injuries rendered him medically unfit to go to Vietnam. So, it appears that even the army couldn’t argue with an “Act of God”.  By the way, in case you’re doubting the legitimacy of of divine intervention, the couple in the Mercedes had been having an affair and the accident opened the lid on that too. So, even if you don’t believe in the man upstairs, perhaps you’ll now believe in miracles.

Researching conscription and the early days of the Vietnam War has been fascinating, especially given my father’s involvement. I’m particularly keen to find out how these young men handled the waiting game. Although the birthdays had been drawn on the 10th March, the dates had been kept secret. The chosen ones would be notified by mail within a month and asked to report for a medical. Of course, there was no email notification back then and I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for all those young men waiting to know their fate. Did they just get on with it and hope for the best? Or, was there an overarching sense of dread? I need to get my father relaxed and get him talking. He hasn’t said a lot. Although it’s over 50 years ago, it still feels relevant and must’ve been a significant stepping stone on his journey.

Last Stop:  Bien Hoa Airbase… Marigolds in Vietnam.

Bien Hoa

Although Dad didn’t go to Vietnam, all this research highlighted how little I knew about the Vietnam War and that I really ought to know more. In the past, I’ve found it rather intimidating with places names which weren’t familiar, and there’s always been a hostility to Australia’s involvement there. However, by starting to read about the war as it happened, it began to make more sense.

I’m not going to go into the battlefield side of things. However, I stumbled across an article by by  Dorothy Drain who’d visited Vietnam in 1965 as a war correspondent for Australian Women’s Weekly. There was one snippet within this story which really caught my eye. Indeed, my heart was glowing. Dorothy was near Bien Hoa Airbase, when she met up with B Company’s Sergeant Major, Eric Smith, “who was showing us with pride the marigolds blooming outside his tent”. He said:

“The wife sent the seeds. She sent me a Cootamundra Wattle, too, and someone swiped it with his big feet”[2].

Sergeant Major Eric Smith Australian War Memorial

I went on to find a photograph of the very same Sergeant Major, Eric Smith recording a tape to send back to his wife for Christmas. I don’t want to idealise this marriage of people I’ve never met. Yet, it warmed my heart.

Where To From Here…

red shoes

So, here I am at the end of another week wanting to consolidate all these fine beginnings. Write short stories galore. Yet, another week lies just around the corner with its own extraordinary moments. Indeed, on Wednesday, I’m planning a trip to the Art Gallery of NSW followed by a concert at the Conservatorium of Music where my grandmother Eunice Gardiner taught the piano and my mother was her pupil.

So, as much as I would like to slow life down for my pen to catch up, I still want to live. Keep my eyes open and absorb everything around me right down to the intimate, detailed minutae of things. I don’t want these light bulb moments to stop.

However, if you see me looking rather lost or woozy, could you please get me a chair or perhaps a glass of water. You could even give me a lift home.

After all, all this thinking, can wear you out. It’s surprisingly hard work.

I would love to hear any reflections you might have of any of the abiove. Clearly, it’s covered quite a lot of ground and it took quite a few days for me to gather my thoughts.

Best wishes,

Rowena

 

References

[1] Honi Soit, March 5, 1963 Supplement.

[2] The Australian Women’s Weekly, December 8, 1965 p 7.

Weekend Coffee Share – May 14, 2018.

Welcome to Another Weekend Coffee Share!

I hope you are having a great weekend and that you’re enjoying your cup of tea, coffee or even Bonox.

We are now well into Autumn here and this weather is teaching me to shut up about our warm, balmy Aussie weather. Instead, I’m down on my knees apologising and eating humble pie. Perhaps then, this cold snap will disappear and we’ll be back to 24°C again. It’s currently 14°C or 58°F. If you ask anyone around here, anything below 18°C is “freezing”. We can cope with the heat, but the cold is our kryptonite.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone.

My big question about Mother’s Day is why couldn’t I sleep in? Indeed, why couldn’t I sleep through Mother’s Day entirely? Surely, if it’s my one big day of the year, I can do what I like and this while idea of hanging out with the family and doing together stuff is over-rated. Well, you can be sure these days that you’ll have at least some peace and quiet because it’s quite impossible for people to stay off their devices long enough for you to get through lunch, especially if you’re sitting down and having a more formal occasion.

We celebrated Mother’s Day last night by going down to visit my parents in Sydney. When it comes to celebrations and fanfare, I usually like to do something big and festive but you also need a bit of inspiration. On Friday, I spotted a book in the supermarket: “Me and My Mum”. It’s one of those books you fill out yourself and add photos, drawings etc. and is pretty much designed for a young kid to give to their Mum. This made it all the more fun for me to fill it out and give to my mum. I printed out some photos of our family dog but most importantly, there was one of Mum and I both in our bikinis about 40 years ago, when I was about 10. It was a real hoot pasting that one in and I think I should frame that and stick it up on the wall…me with my glamorous, bikini model Mum. Well, she wasn’t a bikini model, but she could’ve been if she’d been that way inclined. Instead, she was a music student at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. I’m not a huge fan of chrysanthemums so I bought her a cyclamen and it’s also not going to die in a few days like a bunch of flowers.  I bought one for myself too. I deserved it. Indeed, I deserved more, but that’s another story.

Yesterday, I was also helping out with the scouts. I spent two hours selling sausages to help fundraise for our kids to go to Jamboree. While the standing was a bit much and my maths struggled with the mental arithmetic, I enjoy being on the BBQs. I’m the frontline person who does the talking and takes the money, which suits me really well. I also spent an hour on the Mother’s Day flower stall. That felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life and took me back to my childhood in Galston living on five acres. There were loads of market gardens and roadside stalls selling peaches, strawberries, flowers etc. Indeed, my friend and I sold lemons beside the road once. I was really in my element. Selling the flowers was a bit different. Like being someone out of a movie…the Flower Seller… It should be staring a young Julia Roberts and not a haggard mother. Well, actually, I did have a lot of help as we had a young joey scout who was incredibly cute and a born salesperson who did an amazing job. Very hard to say no to.

Friday, Geoff and I went down to Sydney for a mini conference for the Myositis Association. My autoimmune disease, dermatomyositis, falls under their umbrella and I’m also a member of Muscular Dystrophy NSW. I really valued the conference as I met other people in the same rare boat and also received some important medical updates. I really am wanting to keep in closer contact. I go through phases with this, as I can be feeling quite well and like it’s all behind me. But, then it’s not. It’s still there and just like the ocean, I can’t really turn my back on it. Indeed, things have been a bit up in the air lately and I’m having a chest CT tomorrow, more blood tests and another appointment with my lung specialist on Thursday along with more lung function tests. I am feeling better than I was a month ago when I saw him last and my lung capacity was down 20%. This takes me down to around 54% so I don’t have a lot to play around with. I’m not coughing as much so surely that’s a great sign. Then again, I could talk myself out of any worsening symptoms at the moment. I’m feeling a bit over it. Or, what I call “chronic illness fatigue”.

This brings me to a beautiful song my mother played for me last night. They’ve been watching Britain’s Got Talent and she wanted me to hear a priest sing. I was a little surprised and wasn’t too sure I’d like it either but you need to have a bit of faith and being a Mother’s Day celebration, I did the dutiful daughter thing and stopped and paid attention. I’m old enough now to appreciate what it means to make your mother happy and put yourself on the shelf for a measly five minutes. I’m very glad I did, because she played a YouTube video of Irish Priest, Father Ray Kelly singing Everybody Hurts At age 60, he was discovered after his personalized rendition of  Hallelujah went viral. It is so funny and Father Kelly is not only beautifully refreshing, but he has that old fashioned personal touch where he can put his finger straight on your heart and heal at least that sense of being the isolated soul. Here’s Danny Boy I highly, highly recommend you check these out and if you have a thing for Christmas jumpers, he’s wearing a beauty here. He has two cavaliers and it wouldn’t surprise me if someone knitted this personally for him.

I could listen to Father Kelly all day and all night. He brings a sense of peace to a stormy and busy world.

Eunice Empire State Building 1948

Eunice Gardiner, Empire State Building New York, 1948.

Before I head off, I thought I might just mention my contribution to Friday Fictioneers this week…A Pianist in New York 1948  The photo prompt featured the Empire State Building all lit up at night, and it reminded me of a photo taken of my grandmother up there in 1948 as an Australian concert pianist living and touring through USA and Canada. It was a beautiful trip down memory lane and I managed to find a few more details about her time there, which really remains quite a mystery to me. So, that was really special.

Well, that’s about it from me.

How was your week? What have you been up to? Hope it’s been a good week for you and you and yours are doing well.

Best wishes,

Rowena

 

 

Walking Through Christina’s World…A-Z Challenge.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

As you might be aware, I’m currently taking part in the Blogging A-Z April Challenge, and my theme is Writing Letters to Dead Artists. Yesterday, I wrote to American artist, Andrew Newell Wyeth regarding his iconic masterpiece, Christina’s World.

What I discovered, has been a Eureka Moment. Indeed, I’ve not only jumped out of the bathtub, but also leaped out of my skin. You see, I live with a muscle wasting disease called dermatomyositis, and a complication which causes fibrosis in my lungs, leaving me short of breath and prone to infection. My situation is extremely rare and even world-wide, there are only a handful of people who walk in my shoes. So, it’s also equally difficult to meet anyone who gets my situation from the inside out, without having some kind of medical training. Clearly, this isn’t something you can bond over with a stranger at the bus stop.

Christinasworld

Andrew Wyeth, Christina’s World

However, then I stumbled across Christina’s World. Not only is there the connection with Christina and her muscle weakness, but very late last night, I found out Andrew Wyeth experienced a chronic lung condition. What the??? I was absolutely gobsmacked!  Somehow this painting had brought about this very intense cosmic fusion between artist, subject and observer. I’m not even going to estimate the chances of this happening. They’re so infinitesimal, that you’d need a microscope to find them.

So, clearly you could understand why I was so excited about finding this work of art. It was like I’ve been travelling along the road less travelled forever, and suddenly meeting  two fellow travellers, and having someone to walk with. Not that I’ve been alone, but you get my drift.

That’s why I’ve come back to Andrew Wyeth today. While the whole point of this challenge is to visit a new artist every day, I felt this connection deserved so much more than a fleeting, one-off letter exchange. That the three of us needed to sit out on Christina Olsen’s front step, or which ever step it was, and chat. Or, simply inhale and exhale the same air, and not even say a word.  Me being me, I’d have to add a sunset. I’m not sure whether we’d be facing the sunset in real life, but sharing a Ginger Beer with two dead people is hardly what I’d call “living in the real world”. So, I can paint the sky any way I please, even neon if I get the urge. Well, that is, unless some of these Wyeths feel like giving me some painting lessons, or doing the job for me.

However, while we shared these struggles, we also shared our strengths. None of us were victims, who let circumstances chew us up and spit us out. Rather, we are survivors, battlers to the very end.

Despite her great mobility difficulties, Christina was out in the field picking blueberries and getting herself around without a wheelchair. She wasn’t sitting on the porch waiting to die.

As a young boy, Andrew Wyeth was frail and too unwell to go to school. However, encouraged and taught by his illustrator father and brought into his wider circle, he painted and mastered his craft trying various techniques until he found his own voice in egg tempera. Yet, his lung deteriorated further.  In 1951, he had major surgery to remove a portion of his lung. He survived two near death experiences, and they even had to cut through muscles in his painting arm. This would’ve devastated many. Wiped them out. Yet, within a matter of weeks, Wyeth was back at work again. Indeed,  Trodden Weed (featured image) was completed in March and if you’re familiar with Wyeth’s paintings, there’s all his usual attention to detail in blade after blade of grass. He didn’t slack off.

Of course, I don’t know for sure what Wyeth was really trying to say in Trodden Weed, which has been described as an “unconventional self-portrait”. However, based on my own experiences of medical setbacks, it could well signify that he’s back on his feet, even if he is wearing Howard Pyle’s boots. That he’s going places, and that his heath problems aren’t going to hold him back. Indeed, he certainly didn’t paint himself sitting in a chair out on the porch. No! Here is an artist, yet a man of action, much like Rodin’s The Thinker, if not so muscular.

Rowena skiing downhill Fri

This sense of perseverance is something I’ve experienced myself, and I’ve pushed myself in ways that defy logic. I’ve always been a writer and photography has also been an omnipresent part of me. Yet, since my diagnosis I’ve also taken up the violin, done some adult dance classes, and even gone skiing. Each of these activities defies logic. While I’m certainly better than I was, I still have days when I even struggle to walk around my house, and my lung problems aren’t trifle either. So, I’m not superhuman, but it does show that there are forces at work which we don’t understand, and it’s worth getting out of our comfort zones to stretch what is possible as far as we can. I’m just mighty grateful that Australia’s largely flat, and I’m not living in Switzerland!

So, it is little wonder that alongside Christina’s World, I also relate to Brendan Graham’s modern hymn: You Raise Me Up, in such a personal way. For, along with Andrew Wyeth and Christina Olsen, I have also conquered mountains. Mountains beyond the physical and into the spiritual realm and I know I haven’t merely done this on my own strength. (By the way, I actually had the privilege of meeting Brendan Graham when he came to Sydney.)

Anyway, the day is done and I still have to move onto today’s artist…Guo Xi, which is starting to look like a very brief encounter indeed.

andrewwyeth-masterbedroom 1965

Andrew Wyeth, Master Bedroom.

So, I thought I’d let Andrew Wyeth have the last word. You see, it’s a great irony that after spending most of his life in the shadow of death, that he somehow managed to live a very long, full life and passed away at the grand old age of ninety-one. How did he do it? That’s a side to Andrew Wyeth’s genius, that I’m truly wanting to pursue further. Was it something he did? Luck? The will of God? When I get to heaven, I’ll be lining up Andrew Wyeth and Stephen Hawking side-by-side and asking questions… “Please explain!”

Have you ever had an experience like this with a work of art, or a book perhaps where the artist, writer, whoever knows your innermost struggle in such a personal way? Please share it in the comments.

Best wishes,

Rowena

PS I just wanted to mention someone who walked with Andrew Wyeth in a very personal and unique way. That is Joyce H Stoner, a Conservator who worked with him on his paintings for the last 12 years of his life. Here’s a link to her reflections http://samblog.seattleartmuseum.org/tag/joyce-hill-stoner/. She talks about him in such an illustrating, personal way that even if you’d never seen his paintings, you’ll enjoy it.

She also appeared in this this detailed interview of his works.

 

W- Andrew Newell Wyeth: Letters to Dead Artists…A-Z Challenge.

Welcome to my series of Letters to a Dead Artists, which I’ve put together for the 2018 Blogging A-Z April Challenge. For the past month, I’ve been steadily moving through the alphabet and after writing to Leonardo Da Vinci yesterday, today I’ll be writing to Andrew Newell Wyeth, an American realist painter.The music I have chosen to accompany Andrew Wyeth is Celtic Woman singing You Raise Me Up

Wyeth was born on July 12, 1917 in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, and passed away at the age of 91 on January 16, 2009…a very long way from Sydney, Australia.

“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape – the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.”

Andrew Newell Wyeth

Prior to setting out on this challenge, I had never heard of Andrew Newell Wyeth, and to be perfectly honest, I only found out about him on a Google search trying to fill up the vacant letters. It’s a problem I face every year, where I’m forced to leave something out because certain letters are bombarded with choice, and I’m left desperately scrambling to find anything for others. However, my criterion for choosing every single one of these artists, whether I knew them before, or whether  they popped up in the Great Google Lucky Dip, was that I needed to experience some kind of emotional, psychological and even spiritual connection. It couldn’t just be a case of: “She’ll be right mate”, or any artist will do.

As it turned out, Andrew Newell Wyeth’s iconic painting Christina’s World (1948), grabbed me by the throat and almost stopped me dead. This artist I had never ever heard of before, had never met, and lived on the other side of the world, had miraculously captured my suppressed, desperate, clawing frustration of battling against the muscle weakness brought on by dermatomyositis.

“To be interested solely in technique would be a very superficial thing to me. If I have an emotion, before I die, that’s deeper than any emotion that I’ve ever had, then I will paint a more powerful picture that will have nothing to do with just technique, but will go beyond it.”

Andrew Wyeth

When I first saw the house on top of the hill, and Christina groping her way up through the grass, I could feel her struggle in my own body. Yet, it didn’t occur to me straight away that Christina also had some form of muscle loss. Rather, I thought the painting simply portrayed human struggle, and that clawing desperation to make it up the top of the hill. Indeed, I felt a sort of chill or goose bumps, as soon as I saw the painting. There was that instant recognition of myself, and of course, it helped that I also have long dark hair and there could well have been quite a likeness once upon a time. Of course, it helps that he painted her with her back to the world and we can’t see her face.

Christina Olsen 1947.jpg

Andrew Wyeth, Christina Olden 1947

Indeed, seeing Christina’s World, I was swept into a horrific vortex of memory, reliving when I simply tripped over a broom at home.  Much to my surprise, I was literally swept into a blood-chilling nightmare, when I couldn’t get myself up again.

Rowena with kids Mt Wilga 2007.JPG

How the camera lies. An everyday photo of Mum and kids, except I was in Mt Wilga Rehbilitation Hospital and could barely walk or get myself up off the ground. That was just over ten years ago.

There I was a 36 year old Mum home alone with my two young kids. Mister was about three and a half and at an age where, like a scene out of Dead Poet’s Society, he’d climb up onto our back shed to get a better look at the “mountains”. He was somewhere when I fell, which usually meant mischief, danger or a combination of the two. Meanwhile, Miss was only 16 months old, and Mummy’s little shadow. However, that also meant that when I fell, I knocked her over on the way down. She was crying and this was no ordinary cry either but had that same chilling sensation of fingernails scraping down a chalkboard, which travels right under your skin. Of course, I’d normally pick her straight up. Comfort her. Kiss it better. However, I was weighed down like a sack of lead potatoes, and couldn’t move at all to reach her and just had her cry in my ear.

Instead, there I was lying face down on the tiles and couldn’t get up. Moreover, at this point of time, I didn’t have a name for the horrific monster which had invaded my body and my bloodstream. Not having a diagnosis, in a way, meant that it didn’t exist and that I was just “tired”. It was just part of being a Mum with very young kids… having a baby. Sleep deprivation and utter exhaustion are par for the course, aren’t they? However, this was different…something nasty, sinister, a monster.  While I hurt my knee in the fall, why couldn’t I get up? For somebody with normal mobility, this was so surreal and strange. Quite unlike the sort of panic that comes, when you can’t feel your legs. As far as I was concerned, there was no reason I couldn’t get up. I was just tired, rundown although there was something funny going on with my blood tests. Eventually, I was able to lift myself onto my bottom and I shuffled into the kitchen. For once, the cordless phone was there when I needed it and I rang my husband who was at work a two hour train trip away. Clearly, he couldn’t just pop home and magically save the day. Meanwhile, my call filled him with a sense of dread, absolute powerlessness and horror. Clearly I was very unwell and needed immediate help, and he couldn’t do a thing. In fact, I don’t think either of us even considered calling an ambulance. That was for emergencies and I’d just simply fallen over…

All he could suggest was levering myself up with a chair and that worked. It took a further six weeks for me to finally receive a diagnosis and then I was in a combination of hospital and rehab for about 8 weeks.

“There’s a quote from Hamlet that is my guide… He tells the players not to exaggerate but to hold a mirror up to nature. Don’t overdo it, don’t underdo it. Do it just on the line.”

Andrew Wyeth

So, while it was sensational to find Christina’s World and to see my struggles depicted and represented on canvas, there was also an enormous sense of sadness. You see, like Christina, despite pushing myself beyond breaking point so many, many times, I still haven’t made it to the top of the hill. I haven’t made it home. Not only am I adrift, but there’s also that intense frustration better known as angst where I can see where I want to go. Where I’m meant to be. Yet, I’m constantly clawing through the mud and getting nowhere.

“I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future-the timelessness of the rocks and the hills-all the people who have existed there. I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape-the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.”

Andrew Wyeth

Yet, ironically there is also great strength in persevering through weakness. Indeed, there’s that old adage: “what doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger”. That’s so true and these days they’ve even called this fighting comeback…resilience. Indeed, resilience is now considered one of the key ingredients for getting through life. So, for those of us who received more than their allocated glass and a half, we must be powering all the way to the moon. Well, if only we could make up that darn hill.

By the way, after spilling my guts about how Christina’s World touched me so personally, I had to laugh as these prophetic words of Andrew Wyeth’s:

“I get letters from people about my work. The thing that pleases me most is that my work touches their feelings. In fact, they don’t talk about the paintings. They end up telling me the story of their life or how their father died.”

Andrew Wyeth

I guess it’s not surprising that Wyatt knew and had experience intensive suffering and loss himself. In 1945, Wyeth’s father and his three-year-old nephew were killed near their home, when his car stalled on railroad tracks and was struck by a train. Wyeth has often referred to his father’s death as a formative emotional event in his artistic career. Shortly following the tragedy, Wyeth’s art consolidated into his mature and enduring style, characterized by a subdued colour palette, highly realistic renderings, and the depiction of emotionally charged symbolic objects[1].

Christina’s World was painted a year after his father’s death.

Although this introduction is very rushed and feeling incomplete and inadequate, I’m going to get moving and start writing my letter to Andrew Wyeth.

A Letter to Andrew Wyeth

Dear Andrew,

For the last month, I’ve been trying on the shoes of so many artists and tried to see the world through their eyes, before I take a huge, audacious step and actually write them a letter. As much as it’s been a lot of fun in a heavy research searching for the meaning of life kind of way, it’s also been very challenging, especially as it seems that almost every artist without exception, has experience incredible suffering. I don’t know whether it’s this understanding and empathy with suffering, which has given their paintings added depth and emotional insight, but there’s definitely that common thread.

Do you think artists suffer more than others, and their grief inspires their art? Or, does their art become more of an antidote, a way of releasing the anguish trapped inside?

I have asked God myself why there’s so much suffering, especially at one point where I felt he’d channelled centuries of wrath in my direction and afflicted me with the dermatomyositis. However, ever faithful, he replied and said: “if it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for you.” I didn’t challenge him on that front again. He’d made his point.

Anyway, I’d like to thank you for giving us Christina’s World. While everybody who sees the painting could well have their own interpretation, her story obviously has a very personal connection for me. Trying to get up hills is particularly hard for me these days. Not so much due to the muscle weakness but due to the associated problems I have with my lungs, which are currently not much over 50% capacity. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but you seem like the sort of people I could simply talk to. That you care. That no one’s experiences or struggles are too small or insignificant. Each of us matters.

Before I head off, I’ve enclosed some leftover egg yolks, which I thought you could use to make up your tempura paint. I made a pavlova yesterday and I hate wasting the left over yolks. By the way, I’ve attached my recipe for Betsy. I understand she made a lot of meringues in her time.

Best wishes,

Rowena

wind-from-the-sea

Andrew Wyeth: Wind From the Sea.

A Letter From Andrew Wyeth

Dear Rowena,

Thank you so much for your letter and the egg yolks. I’ve already started on a painting. This one depicts Andy Warhol’s reaction when I received your letter and he missed out. Dad, ever out to compete and do things bigger, bolder, brighter has splashed oils all over the biggest canvas in stock. Mine is more subdued, but you’ll have to wait.

I was rather taken aback to read that you have lung troubles, my friend. You see, I had lung troubles from a very young age and even had one of my lungs removed and the other one wasn’t that good either. So, I was living on less than half a tank never expecting to grow up, make it through middle age and it was the most confusing things after being so terribly ill, to actually see most of my friends pass away before me like Autumn leaves.

So, my friend, there is hope for you yet.

Sorry, I forgot to thank you for the Pavlova recipe. Betsy loved it and everyone’s grateful for a change to meringues!

Best wishes,

Andrew.

By the way, I highly recommend Dan Schneider’s Video interview with three experts on Andrew Wyeth:

 

[1] http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h3707.html

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3374451/

https://curiator.com/art/andrew-wyeth/trodden-weed

 

When it Takes the Village…Friday Fictioneers.

There was no reason why he couldn’t ski off the edge of Mt Kosciusko. Fly across the valley with the crow. Not even for the smallest nanosecond, did he actually consider his human form. That while his spirit soared, that he was made of flesh and blood and belonged to the Earth.

“Joshua! Joshua!” The crow was calling his name.

“Joshua!” His mother’s scream echoed across the valley. Only the power of prayer could save him now.

The stranger could almost sense his skis mysteriously turning under foot, then spotted the troubled young man and understood. His time had come.

……..

100 Words

This story is dedicated to families who love and cherish children with special needs and the constant vigilance required to keep them safe. An 11 year old autistic boy was run over and killed by a train in Sydney last week after escaping from a care facility.

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields. PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields.

Best wishes,

Rowena

 

 

U- Paolo Uccelli “Paul of the Birds” – Letters to Dead Artist, A-Z Challenge.

Welcome to Letters to Dead Artists, my theme for the 2018 Blogging A-Z April Challenge. Today, I’ll be writing to Paolo Uccelli (1397 – 1475), or “Paul of the Birds”.Uccelli will be accompanied by the Two Cellos playing  Game of Thrones

So strap on your seat belts. We’re boarding the time machine and heading back to early Renaissance Florence. By the way, the term Renaissance means rebirth.  and to give you a quick insight into Paolo Uccelli, he was concerned with achieving with linear perspective, something which hasn’t really crossed my mind so I’m in for a steep learning curve.

Cinque_maestri_del_rinascimento_fiorentino,_XVI_sec,_paolo_uccello

Portrait of Paolo Uccelli, Artist unknown, The Louvre, Paris.

Rather than going into much biographical detail about Uccelli, I’m going to place him in a very loose historical context. While there’s naturally debate about The Renaissance, it roughly started in Florence around 1350-1400. Paulo Uccelli was born in 1397 and died in 1475 only 17 years before Colombus “discovered the “New World” in 1492. Florence’s Cathedrale di Santa Maria de Fiore was completed in 1436, during Uccelli’s life time. Botticelli was born in 1445 and died in 1510. Leonardo Da Vinci was born in 1452 in near Vinci in Tuscany and died in 1519 in France. Michelangelo was born in 1475… the year Uccelli died.

According to Vasari, Uccello’s first painting was a Saint Anthony between the saints Cosmas and Damianus, a commission for the hospital of Lelmo. Next, he painted two figures in the convent of Annalena. Shortly afterwards, he painted three frescoes with scenes from

Paolo Uccello The Annunciation 1430

Paolo Uccelli, The Annunciation

anta Maria Maggiore church, he painted a fresco of the Annunciation. In this fresco, he painted a large building with columns in perspective. According to Vasari, people found this to be a great and beautiful achievement because this was the first example of how lines could be expertly used to demonstrate perspective and size. As a result, this work became a model for artists who wished to craft illusions of space in order to enhance the realness of their paintings.1.

One aspect of Uccello’s work that writers have not failed to praise is his imaginative and innovative imagery, replete with fantastically elaborate dragons, fierce thunderstorms, the pageantry of war, and the elegance of the Renaissance hunt 2.

When it comes to most of the artists in this series, we’ve had “history”. Thank goodness, we’re only talking about falling in love with their paintings and sculptures, and not with the artists themselves. Or, I’d be in huge trouble with my husband. Putting the shoe on the other foot, goodness know how I’d feel if he ran off with 26 artists for the month. Let’s just say there would be a “discussion” at the very least.

On the other hand, when it came to choosing Paolo Uccelli, is was more of a lucky dip because I didn’t know any artists starting with “U”. However, there’s nothing like turning a challenge into an opportunity, is there? Could I actually find a connection with Uccelli’s art after plucking his name out of a hat? That remained to be seen. First, I had to check out his paintings, and get to know what I could about the man. A man who died in 1475 and 563 years ago and all I really have to go on is Giorgio Vasari’s biography, written 75 years after Paolo’s death, and a few contemporary official documents. Indeed, it would easier to get to know the man on the moon.

Yet, all it takes is an angle and a hook and from there, you can launch a journey of a thousand miles. On the other hand, you can also end up in a dead-end before you’ve even got started. It’s all in the luck of the draw as well as just how persistent you are as a researcher and conversationalist. Can you draw blood from a stone or a dead artist who could be very determined to conceal their secrets.

When it comes to understanding Uccelli, it’s all a matter of PERSPECTIVE. That is, the art of representing three-dimensional objects on a two-dimensional surface so as to give the right impression of their height, width, depth, and position in relation to each other.

However, if you’ve ever seen me try to park my car, you’ll know that my spatial skills are abysmal. Moreover, while my husband will tell you I can’t navigate or read a map, our son would just snatch the map away and give up on me in disgust.

So, you could say I have a lot of learn about perspective.

However, that’s another story.

What I wanted to understand was why perspective was such a big deal to Renaissance artists. Surely, perspective was kind of obvious…what’s close up appears larger than the stuff in the distance or further away. However, that also depends on your world view. You see, during the medieval period, a person or object who was more important, was often larger than a less significant person who might’ve been standing closer. That’s putting it very simply, but if you’re anything like me when it comes to geometry and maths, I need to keep it very slow and s-i-m-p-l-e.

In about 1413 there was a big breakthrough in art when  a contemporary of Ghiberti, Filippo Brunelleschi, demonstrated the geometrical method of perspective, used today by artists, by painting the outlines of various Florentine buildings onto a mirror. When the building’s outline was continued, he noticed that all of the lines converged on the horizon line. According to Vasari, he then set up a demonstration of his painting of the Baptistery in the incomplete doorway of the Duomo. He had the viewer look through a small hole on the back of the painting, facing the Baptistery. He would then set up a mirror, facing the viewer, which reflected his painting. To the viewer, the painting of the Baptistery and the building itself were nearly indistinguishable. Soon after, nearly every artist in Florence and in Italy used geometrical perspective in their paintings, notably Paolo Uccello, Masolino da Panicale and Donatello.

Speaking abut Renaissance sculptor Donatello, Uccello and Donatello were long term friends, and Uccello even named his son after him.

800px-OrteliusWorldMap1570

Ortelius World Map 1570.

Letter to Paolo Uccello

Dear Paolo,

I hope you don’t mind me popping in on you like this out of the blue. Of course, even a dead artist should be allowed to rest in peace, but are you getting bored? After all, you were living in Florence during the early Renaissance, when humanity was just waking up from years of repression and a very long sleep. Indeed, humanity was thirsting for knowledge, and it was such a time of human discovery and awakening. You were there. Not on the periphery of it all. You were there in Florence at the very epicentre of it all. What was it like?

Today, I was reading about the Renaissance and how humanity had lost all the knowledge of the mighty Greek and Roman civilizations for a thousand years. That’s not to say, nothing was going on during those so-called Dark Ages, but it is a healthy reminder that what goes up, can come down and we shouldn’t be resting on our laurels. How much would it take to destroy much of our centres of learning? There’s the nuclear threat, global warming, but what about a computer virus? A lightening bolt up in the cloud? Then they’ll be saying “Blessed are the book hoarders, for they will have knowledge.”

By the way, I thought I’d enclose a current world map, along with a copy of Ortelius’s WorldMap from 1570 so you can get a bit of a comparison. If you look down towards the bottom of the map, you’ll find Australia and I’m from Sydney, a beautiful city with its stunning harbour, Harbour Bridge and Opera House all coming together to make a perfect  postcard. Hope you like it.

Well, I’ve been so engrossed in the Renaissance, that I haven’t been able to make my ANZAC biscuits. Tomorrow is ANZAC Day here where we honour those who have served our country, especially those you made the ultimate sacrifice.

I look forward to hearing from you!

Best wishes,

Rowena

A Letter From Paolo Uccelli

Dear Rowena,

Thank goodness you wrote to me. I can’t tell you what it’s been like being cut off from the happenings on Earth for so long. Of course, we have quite an artists fraternity up here, and even Heaven has it’s prima donnas always wanting their portraits done. I’m afraid there’s no such thing as a selfie up here, although I could think of a few good uses for the stick, especially if you could attach an electric current!

I actually have a question for you, Rowena. What happens when you lose perspective? My entire life’s mission was to find perspective, and now humans are throwing that all away. Humph! That Jackson Pollock and I…Let’s just say were seated poles apart up here at the dinner table. That man was something of a rogue barbarian splashing his paint around like that, without any respect for the rules. You know what really breaks my heart, is the extraordinary price tag humanity has attached to that rubbish when mine works are worth a fraction of the price. Indeed, one of mine ended up in a charity shop in Bondi the other day, simply because someone was decluttering. I bought it back and hid it. You’re not getting it back.

Anyway, as I said, what happens when you lose perspective? Not just in a painting or in your own life, but as a civilization?

Civilizations can rise up, but just as easily fall down. Your generation takes too much for granted, and has become lazy. Why can’t you walk, instead of burning up the planet wasting so much petrol? You only have two feet, so why do you have enough shoes for an army? You’ll end up consuming the Earth.

Hey, but what would I know? I’m just a Renaissance Man!

Your friend,

Paolo

PS: Could you please send me one of those cheeky white cockatoos with the yellow crest? I’d love to teach it to speak and stir up Leonardo. He works so hard and could use a funny distraction.

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paolo_Uccello

http://www.carnesecchi.eu/Maggiore4.htm

 

M – Edvard Munch- Letters to Dead Artists…A-Z Challenge.

My profuse apologies to Michelangelo, Monet, Matisse and Miro, who I’ve had to overlook. Today, I’ll be writing to Norwegian expressionist, Edvard Munch accompanied by sensational violinist, Lindsay Stirling’s thrilling violin rendition of The Phantom of the Opera. 

However, Edvard Munch’s The Scream has resonated with me for so long and in such an intimate way, that I could only write to him. For he was there holding me close, when I was stuck inside my constricting  inner labyrinth.

To be honest, these storms began as a child, increased during the swirling vortex of pubescence, but blew their banks in my 20s when the pressure inside my head, reached a final climax. Not due to mental illness. Rather, I had undiagnosed hydrocephalus (fluid on the brain) and the storm was trying to get out.

Strangely, while I was consumed by this churning vortex of anguish, despair, heartbreak, or pure panic, I found myself curiously carried out of the abyss by the figure in Munch’s The Scream. In hindsight, it was a bit like somebody carrying the crucified body of Christ off the cross and washing my wounds and bringing me back to life. Isn’t it ironic, that a painting which is so graphic in its anguish, can also be soothing.

EXHI001000

I was about 12 years old when I was first introduced to Munch’s The Scream in art class at school. Its impact was immediate. I loved it. This was many years before I knew that this state of extreme stress and panic, was something called anxiety. Or, that I could, at least to some degree, choose how I responded to the things which happened to and around me. That the glass could either be half-full, or half empty. I could focus on what I have and what is working. Or, I could fixate on what was missing or wasn’t working, and fall into an abyss of anxiety, depression and despair. Of course, that’s a simplified way of looking at things.

However, that way of looking at things, later probably saved my life. When I found out I had 60% lung capacity, I could’ve sat in a chair and have everything done for me because I was sick. However, I thought about how singers and brass musicians have increased lung capacity. That gave me the idea that if I worked on the 60%, I did have instead of fixating on the 40% that was missing, , I might just have enough. So, how you respond to a situation can ultimately make a huge difference to you, as all those small steps and little decisions add up.

Anxiety

Edvard Munch: Anxiety.

Like virtually all the artists I have written to thus far, Edvard Munch had his battles, and it is no secret he lived with mental health challenges, most likely bipolar disorder. You immediate see these two extremes of mood when you put The Scream and his mural The Sun side by side:

The diagnosis of bipolar disorder with psychosis is based on his own diary descriptions of visual and auditory hallucinations, a multiply documented instance of his travelling throughout Europe manifesting manic disrupted behavior that culminated in his shooting two joints off the ring finger of his left hand, and his psychiatric hospitalization in 1908 for an intensification of auditory hallucinations, depression, and suicidal urges. He also suffered from bouts of alcoholism. However, when you read about his extensive experience of familial death and grief, it also makes me wonder how much they contributed to his heightened state.

Edvard Munch was born on December 12, 1863, in Löten, Norway, the second of five children. In 1864, Munch moved with his family to the city of Oslo, where his mother died in 1868 of tuberculosis, when Munch was only five years old.

“I find it difficult to imagine an afterlife, such as Christians, or at any rate many religious people, conceive it, believing that the conversations with relatives and friends interrupted here on earth will be continued in the hereafter”

Edvard Munch

This marked the beginning of a series of family tragedies, which would’ve given Munch a very intimate experience of deep, prolonged suffering. His sister, Sophie, also died of tuberculosis, in 1877 at the age of 15; another of his sisters spent most of her life institutionalized for mental illness; and his only brother died of pneumonia at age 30. Munch’s father, a Christian fundamentalist, interpreted these tragedies as acts of divine punishment. This powerful matrix of chance, tragic events and their fatalistic interpretation left a lifelong impression on the young artist, and contributed decisively to his eventual preoccupation with themes of anxiety, emotional suffering, and human vulnerability[1].

Moreover, it would be interesting to look at parallels between Munch and author Roald Dahl, who was also Norwegian and experienced similar family losses and developed a dark, almost sinister current through his writing.

The Scream

which scream is best

“Painting picture by picture, I followed the impressions my eye took in at heightened moments. I painted only memories, adding nothing, no details that I did not see. Hence the simplicity of the paintings, their emptiness.”

Edvard Munch

Essentially The Scream is autobiographical, an expressionistic construction based on Munch’s actual experience of a scream piercing through the air while on a walk, after his two companions, seen in the background, had left him. Munch recorded his initial conception in 1891: “I was walking along the road with two of my friends. Then, the sun set. The sky suddenly turned into blood, and I felt something akin to a touch of melancholy. I stood still, leaned against the railing, dead tired. Above the blue black fjord and city hung clouds of dripping, rippling blood. My  friends went on and again I stood, frightened with an open wound in my breast. A great scream pierced through nature.[2]” (Heller RH: Edvard Munch: The Scream. New York, Viking Press, 1972, p. 109) [3]

There are actually five versions of The Scream. The National Gallery in Oslo, Norway, holds one of two painted versions The Munch Museum holds the other painted version (1910) and a pastel version from 1893. The fourth version (pastel, 1895) was sold for $119,922,600 at Sotheby’s Impressionist and Modern Art auction in 1912. Also in 1895, Munch created a lithograph stone of the image, which is my personal preference. It’s so graphic.

In 1978, the Munch scholar Robert Rosenblum suggested that the strange, sexless being in the foreground, was inspired by a Peruvian mummy, which Munch might’ve have seen at the 1889 Exposition Universelle in Paris. This mummy, which was buried in a fetal position with its hands alongside its face, had struck the imagination of Munch’s friend Paul Gauguin. Indeed, it stood as a model for figures in more than twenty of Gauguin’s paintings, among those the central figure in his painting, Human misery (Grape harvest at Arles) and for the old woman at the left in his painting, Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?.

Letter to Edvard Munch

Dear Edvard,

There’s so much I could ask you, but beyond all else, I wanted to thank you for painting The Scream and giving it to the world as a way for all of us experiencing anguish and suffering, can potentially find release.

Did you find release from your personal inner labyrinth when you passed?

Or, were your own words prophetic:

“To die is as if one’s eyes had been put out and one cannot see anything any more. Perhaps it is like being shut in a cellar. One is abandoned by all. They have slammed the door and are gone. One does not see anything and notices only the damp smell of putrefaction.”

I’d love to hear from you and could you please send me a painting of where you are now.

Best wishes,

Rowena

A Letter from Edvard Munch

Dear Rowena,

Thank you so much for your letter. My old friend Gauguin is feeling rather left out now that I’ve received a letter as well as Van Gogh. Do you think maybe you could send him a letter anyway, even though it breaks the rules of this challenge? You’re such a compassionate soul and I’m sure you could bend the rules a little and just send him a few lines. I’d be mighty grateful. Even in heaven, he can get a bit moody and he and Vincent had another falling it when he tried to read his letter.

Anyway, you Australians are a positive, upbeat bunch. All that sunshine must do wonders for your outlook. I’ve met one of your former Prime Ministers up here…a Malcolm Fraser. He challenged all my gloomy thinking and said: Life wasn’t meant to be easy, but it can be delightful.”

I’ve attached a print of a mural I did called “The Sun”. That’s a pretty close approximation of what it’s like here. Oh yes! Much to my surprise, I am able to have loads coffee and chats with my loved ones up here. It’s really very social.

Yours,

Edvard Munch.

sun

Edvard Munch, The Sun

References & Further Reading

[1] http://www.theartstory.org/artist-munch-edvard.htm

[2] https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/creative-explorations/201503/creativity-and-mental-illness-ii-the-scream

[3] https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/creative-explorations/201503/creativity-and-mental-illness-ii-the-scream