It's always nicer once one's head has caught up with one's body, even if one wakes up in a different country when that eventuality occurs.
The human mind is a complex thing, and mine may very well be more complex than many, although from my personal perspective it does seem to serve it's purpose. There have been many cogitations over the past few days, although despite the way it may seem they haven't been overly serious ones, nonetheless there have been an interesting destination or two reached within my head that are quite different to the ones to which my body has travelled.
As we were chewing the fat the other evening, Dume spoke of his journey leaving behind the label "successful businessman" to the point where he was confident enough in what he was doing to describe himself as a "sculptor". The parallels were extraordinary, the same insecurities and embarrassment, until with just one completed work that someone deemed worthy of owning, a switch turned on in his head and from that day his insecurities simply vanished.
For me that switch happened a day or two earlier, but there was an audible "click" as the light turned itself on.
When it did, even after almost six decades (I find that almost impossible to believe!) my father's words of "encouragement" rang in my ears: "Get yourself a piece of paper first, then you can do whatever you want." he would implore, always following up with: "Artists don't make any money until they are dead."
While doing whatever I wanted (post graduation) for all that time, I have often justified my position in my own defence against the regular haranguing by my beloved as she urged me to take up a paint brush, that if it was important to me I would be doing it. The time will come I often said when it would become important, and when it does, I will. If I were die before that happened, I guessed I wouldn't be making any money in the time frame espoused by my father.
There is a reason for this apparent naval gazing.
Last week, while our exhibition in Orleans was being constructed, a calendar was published in North Queensland. The cover features one of my father's photos for which I had arranged for the publlsher's to pay a royalty. To my knowledge, that would be the first of his photographs ever to produce an income.
Twelve years after his passing I can't help thinking that he'd be embarrassed at the fact that I'd seen them as objects with a value, further embarrassed at the fact that I'd even spoken with anyone with the aim of creating an income, and he'd be chuckling at his own advice and telling me "I told you so".
The human mind is a complex thing, and mine may very well be more complex than many, although from my personal perspective it does seem to serve it's purpose. There have been many cogitations over the past few days, although despite the way it may seem they haven't been overly serious ones, nonetheless there have been an interesting destination or two reached within my head that are quite different to the ones to which my body has travelled.
As we were chewing the fat the other evening, Dume spoke of his journey leaving behind the label "successful businessman" to the point where he was confident enough in what he was doing to describe himself as a "sculptor". The parallels were extraordinary, the same insecurities and embarrassment, until with just one completed work that someone deemed worthy of owning, a switch turned on in his head and from that day his insecurities simply vanished.
For me that switch happened a day or two earlier, but there was an audible "click" as the light turned itself on.
When it did, even after almost six decades (I find that almost impossible to believe!) my father's words of "encouragement" rang in my ears: "Get yourself a piece of paper first, then you can do whatever you want." he would implore, always following up with: "Artists don't make any money until they are dead."
While doing whatever I wanted (post graduation) for all that time, I have often justified my position in my own defence against the regular haranguing by my beloved as she urged me to take up a paint brush, that if it was important to me I would be doing it. The time will come I often said when it would become important, and when it does, I will. If I were die before that happened, I guessed I wouldn't be making any money in the time frame espoused by my father.
There is a reason for this apparent naval gazing.
Last week, while our exhibition in Orleans was being constructed, a calendar was published in North Queensland. The cover features one of my father's photos for which I had arranged for the publlsher's to pay a royalty. To my knowledge, that would be the first of his photographs ever to produce an income.
Twelve years after his passing I can't help thinking that he'd be embarrassed at the fact that I'd seen them as objects with a value, further embarrassed at the fact that I'd even spoken with anyone with the aim of creating an income, and he'd be chuckling at his own advice and telling me "I told you so".
1 comment
Ace photo!
Post a Comment