working from home in the house of fish

Things are busy in the House of Fish. I am supposed to be writing today.

It is a non-teaching day.

But the house looks like a cyclone has been through it and I am hunting for a Very Important Piece of Paper, which of course I cannot find.

I have gotten the scanner to work though.

Naturally, I am allowing this to completely take over what I am doing and not one word has been written.

I did find some notes I took in a boring meeting.

and then I found a picture of my models wearing some of my Titian inspired brooches.

I wonder who is wearing these now?

Oh, look. Some flowers in Monets garden when I was there last. What splashy dahlias!

Ah, so pretty!

Looking at the time, I see I have lost another day as it is almost time to pick up the children on this rainly day. So much for working from home: the sum total of my efforts today is to make some scans, create even more piles of mess in the search for things I need, and a total avoidance of the Big Issue: the unwritten thesis.

Of which I have entirely lost the thread, the plot, and half my notes.

But have agreed, having been thoroughly shamed, to take the daughter Formal Dress Shopping.

Apparently, she and her friend are the only two children not to have a dress. All the Other Mothers have long taken their girls and spent their every dollar to clad them in some wonderful dress...the other said mother rang me in horror "do you know what i had to do today? take georgia shopping...oh, it was horrible"

so that leaves only me, the Failed Mother, yet to tackle the job.

Which sounds only marginally less horrid than writing a thesis in one weekend.

Oh, one day. Saturday, I'll be shopping...

In which the fish goes to see Veronese in Paris: or, How to Live in a Delusional Universe.

Today

I am in Paris.

Long, long ago on the Passerelle des Arts.

Yes, Paris.


What's that you say? That the last time you saw the Seine it was not rearing up in plumes? That  the water outside my window looks suspiciously like the Pacific?
Ah, yes. Fair enough observation.
My physical surroundings might say otherwise, but really, truly, today I am in Paris, and not in Sydney at all.
I am in the Louvre, looking at paintings.




No, no, that noise you can hear, the squabbling, no, that's nothing. I can't hear that here in Paris.  Nor the moan of the stormy wind, nor the accusations that I have not done the grocery shopping correctly. I can only hear the murmur of the folks around me, and the delightful clack of my own heels on the floor as I tappity tap my way along the grand halls of the Musee du Louvre, pausing, almost in slow motion, to watch the trees along the Seine appear and disappear as I pass windows.




I'm not entirely sure what I will look at first, because there is an exhibition on which I am really wanting to see. Perhaps it might be nice to call by Ingres Odalisque, and then have a short black in the cafe before visiting  Veronese, Titian and Tintoretto. Yes, the Venetians are in town, in Paris, and I am of course wanting to see the Venetians, naturellement.




It is a marvellous light which falls in the new section of the Louvre, just like in the British Museum, a seamless fusion of old and new. How I love it here. I begin to think about the way I inhabit cities almost entirely by their museums. How little I seem to see of other things in European cities. Ok, I have been up the Eiffel Tower twice, but I have never been in the Tower of London. Again and again I have navigated my way between the art galleries of major cities, familiar with the track between them, often oblivious to other features I may be passing.




You may, at first glance, think that I am in a beachside suburb of Sydney, curled up sheltering from the storm outside, the storm inside. But I am dreaming, so vividly that I feel as if I should say
laissez-moi tranquille, je suis en train de regarde les peintures 
but instead, I merely half close my eyes, and continue walking through the Louvre until I get to the exhibition, holding my sketchbook and my little tin of London pencils how I love them so, you were with me when I bought them Gina, do you remember?
Holding my sketchbook clack clack clack say my heels: I must be wearing my boots. I look down, yes , yes, I am.  


Once I went to the Clignancourt markets and bought a pair of charcoal grey trousers to wear here, with the black polo neck I always wore, and a new ribbon, which I tied in a bow on my ponytail, just so I would feel Very Dressed Up. Ribbons can do the trick quite nicely.


But no, Indigo dress and boots it is, when I visit Paris this time, to look at Veronese and Titian and Tintoretto.
Years ago I used to hand-paint miniatures in tiny little frames and sell them as brooches. in fact I was known as the Brooch-lady, I sold so many. I spent every Friday night and many others besides making and painting these brooches. It was endless, but I loved it.
I derived the faces from Titian and Veronese, tiny little faces I painted with a small brush, learning all about the shadows and shades, the skintones and the plaited tresses of these painters as I copied them with my brush. I surrounded my creations with fake pearls, and gold leaf, so beautiful. When I see the beautiful faces of Titian's women, I can recall the smell of paint, of being bent over my board, listening to the late night movie which ended at half past two in the morning.


But this time I am reminded of my beloved Venice, the faces in these paintings reminding me of drifting through the Accademia, or standing in the chapel looking at Peter Greenway's homage to the Wedding at Cana,   or being surprised in the hot air of Scuola dei Frari  by the whole universe of Tintorettos.






Paris.
Today,
today I am in Paris.


I am neither looking out at a storm swept sea, nor negotiating the various domestic minefields that weekends bring,
I am looking at Veronese in the Louvre, holding my red and white sketchbook and my pencils, sketching faces and beautiful sumptuous bodies, the details of braids entwined with pearls.
Let nobody tell you otherwise.

II

Porte de Saint-Cloud


(this is a rather depressing post)

It was my wish to be just like Caroline, I was in awe of her from the minute I heard about her.
 I had been to Paris before, but this time my friend and I were going to spend time with her cousin Caroline, an Australian married to a Frenchman, Pierre.
Somewhere on my agenda I thought that I too might meet a nice frenchman, and be like Caroline, teaching at the language school. 




Caroline was tall and fair, a little taller than Pierre, with large kind blue eyes and a gentle manner. She spoke beautiful French, and despite all the years I had studied French, including two at Alliance, I could not quite keep up. From the age of 12 I had decided that one day I should like to speak French and live a while in France. It is hard to keep up practice in Australia though,  but the school excursion to Noumea was fun, even if it wasn't like going to France itself. I satisfied myself with Kieslowski films, and pretending I was Juliette Binoche, despite the fact that I am not shaped remotely like a French woman.


I loved their apartment, and I loved the address: Pierre and Caroline lived in Porte de Sainte-Cloud. Gate of Clouds, I often thought. An entry to dreamland. I can still picture the large gate, hear caroline saying that name, Porte de Saint-Cloud,  the walk to the apartement. They had little notices in the kitchen, one featured a figure with a tricolore-croissant for a head. Pierre would say ello, breakfast-ead! as he passed it.


Caroline and Pierre introduced us to a heap of friends, one of whom I stayed with numerous times when I visited, he lived near the Sacre Coeur.  They seemed to have friends in Paris from all corners of the earth. We often ate together, or strolled in the gardens, went to the Bois de Boulogne. I wished I could be Caroline, work in the language school, but I was not clever enough to get a visa, and frankly, my french was not that good.




But it seems Caroline pined for the blue skies and light of Sydney, as expats often do. The grey seeped into her soul. She had two children, and pined even more. She wanted to come home, she wanted to leave Porte de Sainte Cloude.


She rang her family in tears, and was told by her mother she had to stick by her family: she had chosen to live in Paris, and to stop complaining. Pull herself together.
The grey seeped ever further  into her soul.




She stood in the sitting room one day, after many tearful years, and asked Pierre:


Do you love me? 


To which Pierre replied


For gods sake, we are not teenagers! 


At this, Caroline ran across the room, plunged through the beautiful, tall, open window, and down down down to land in a crumpled pile on the cobbled street below.




The children, recently in Australia finally visiting the cousins, asked about their mother. Wanted to hear everything about her, wanted to see this magical place where their mother was from, which they were now seeing without her.


Tell us about Maman, they asked. 
Noone ever speaks of her, not Dad, not anyone.






I am thinking of Caroline now,  because I have only just recently heard about what happened. It breaks my heart, I was so shocked I was incapable of speech. 
And it teaches me a lesson not to envy the lives of others, that you can never tell what goes on beneath the surface. Had my mythical frenchman materialized, I may well have ended my days wishing and yearning for the bright skies of home. Or I may not have, I will never know. But it is not a good thing to envy the lives of others, no matter how golden those lives may seem, how hidden those shadows may be.

apropos of my last remark

Humpback whale surfacing among the regular Ocean swimmers, Manly beach, august 2009.

(outside of Shark net season)

 

 

Baby whale freed from shark net

DEBRA JOPSON

October 3, 2009 - 1:09PM

"A six-metre long baby humpback whale has been freed after becoming tangled in a shark net off Kirra Beach on the Gold Coast.
It took three hours for a 13-strong rescue team to cut the whale free while its mother waited nearby, Matt Davidson, an officer with the Queensland Boating and Fisheries patrol said.
After being alerted by a shark net contractor that the whale was trapped, four crews, including one from Seaworld, used special "shoehorn" knives on the ends of poles to cut the net, while a strong northerly blew and sea conditions deteriorated.
"Once you lay the knife on the whale's body, it is manufactured in a way that will not cut the whale," said Mr Davidson.
The whale was unharmed and resumed its southerly migration, he said.
This is the second time a whale has been caught in nets off Kirra beach and the third incident involving humpbacks on the Gold Coast this spring.
On September 1, a humpback measuring eight-metres was freed at Kirra and on September 28, a 10-metre whale suffered tail injuries in a net off Miami Beach before being released.
The numbers of whales becoming entangled in nets is likely to grow as the humpback whale continues to recover from coming close to extinction in the 1960s, the chairman of the Australian Whale Conservation Society, Paul Hodda, said.
‘‘They are designed to kill sharks, to keep numbers down and unfortunately they kill whales, as well as other marine animals including turtles, dugongs and harmless sharks,’’ he said.
An estimated 10-14,000 humpbacks are migrating south to Antarctica this spring after breeding in warm northern waters and this is likely to increase again next year, he said.
Rescue crews are on hand around tourist areas like the Gold Coast, but in other less populated areas, whales become entangled and die, he said.
He called on people concerned about the impact the nets have to lobby politicians at all levels to get rid of them.
Alternatives which are not as dangerous to whales, such as drums anchored to the seabed with sharkbait on hooks are available, he said."

Sydney Morning Herald Oct 3 2009

in which the fish tells of a happy ending

I saw the shark-net man and his boat laying out the nets and my heart sank. The silhouette in the hard glitter on the first day of the season moved along, dropping the curtain of silver rings in to the deep.

Surf Patrol not yet started, the sea quiet, the beach lonely.

After only two days, the word was out: there is a shark stuck in the shark net!

Kayakers and paddlers, perhaps even swimmers, had seen it there struggling. 

Hilariously, the Police were called. There were nine of them, summoned by various phone calls by the distressed paddlers. All had phoned the police. 

Seven uniformed policemen stood lined up along the edge of the rock pool and gazed out to sea.

Fur Coat, doing his laps, stopped and leaned a wet elbow on the edge and asked

What ya gonna do about it, mate?

and the constable nearest him answered, 

Buggered if I know

Paddlers in their kayaks, looking down as they passed, saw it struggling, caught in the rings.  All day and night I am filled with the horrible vision of the shark caught there, wriggling and thrashing. Some say it is a Tiger shark, which puzzles me. All these months the creatures of the sea have had free passage to do as they wish, and now here is this awful obstacle suddenly appearing out of nowhere. Today a shark, tomorrow a turtle or a dolphin. 

Naturally people get very emotional about the issue. Anything to do with a shark terrifes all and sundry, but truth is the likelihood of being bitten is so slight.

I dreamed of the shark. I wondered how long it would struggle , bewildered, before dying.

Next day I was drying off after my swim. I mentioned the Tiger Shark to Trumpet., wondering if it were still alive.

Tiger shark? he said. No, it was a Grey Nurse. Oh, the coppers all lined up on the edge, gotta laugh...

Oh, no! a gentle, almost extinct shark, huge and shy....even worse!

But just before tears sprang from my eyes , he said 

The Boat crew set it free.

The Boat Crew?

The Boat crew who had been training that evening, had heard about the shark. They had rowed their wooden surfboat out to the nets, lifted the heavy steel with their oars, 

untangled the tired shark, 

                                                            which, having been let loose,

swam free.