In which there is The Bluebird
Yesterday from 2:30 until 3:15 I swiped and scraped a pastel portrait of Sumi on beautiful red paper, brown ochre and sepia and magenta and cool dark blue grey. It's not finished, needs about 15 minutes more work with a white pastel, but I missed that powerful urgent execution of drawing - art this term has been caught up in glazes and analysis and consolidation and learning the criteria again and again and abstract and gesso and hesitation and this just felt satisfying. I am sick of abstract, I want figuration again. I want people.
I have a volunteering-jig at Heide. So now I'll be able to share something more with Dad, and spend hours surrounded by paintings. I went into the interview, they were lovely, I said all of the right things (which were my true opinions - but it feels odd knowing that it's just what they want, too), they said they felt like they already knew me because Dad talks about my concerts or exhibitions we've seen together or things. I was ecstatic and kooked abound bouncily in the Rick Amor exhibition. We ran up grassy hills and I knocked at and hid under a silver statue with Zoe.
(Jack is creating a song on a game on the internet - three plastic arcade ostinatos. 4 year old Zoe sings Linkin Park.)
One of my closest friends is now 18. She took us out for dinner at a Japanese restaurant, to the Comic's Lounge, and then to a jazz bar. Rum. Little sleep. South African versions of trivial pursuit.
Today for the first time ever I walked all the way from MLC to Toorak Station - abandoned the 16 for a few hours of cross-suburb conversation. I love visiting old primary schools on nostalgia trips.
---
Oh, oh. I was reading about Rejoice in the Lamb, and I youtubed it, and then wandering around, found Balulalow - also Britten - gorgeous, sang this with school choir last year - and this. It's The Bluebird. Sublime, melting, inhalation. Top Vox sang The Bluebird last year.
The lake lay Blue, below the hill.
As I looked, there flew across the water cold and still, a bird,
Whose wings were palest blue.
The sky above was blue at last.
The sky beneath me blue in blue;
A moment, ere the bird had passed.
The lake lay blue below the hill.
I have a volunteering-jig at Heide. So now I'll be able to share something more with Dad, and spend hours surrounded by paintings. I went into the interview, they were lovely, I said all of the right things (which were my true opinions - but it feels odd knowing that it's just what they want, too), they said they felt like they already knew me because Dad talks about my concerts or exhibitions we've seen together or things. I was ecstatic and kooked abound bouncily in the Rick Amor exhibition. We ran up grassy hills and I knocked at and hid under a silver statue with Zoe.
(Jack is creating a song on a game on the internet - three plastic arcade ostinatos. 4 year old Zoe sings Linkin Park.)
One of my closest friends is now 18. She took us out for dinner at a Japanese restaurant, to the Comic's Lounge, and then to a jazz bar. Rum. Little sleep. South African versions of trivial pursuit.
Today for the first time ever I walked all the way from MLC to Toorak Station - abandoned the 16 for a few hours of cross-suburb conversation. I love visiting old primary schools on nostalgia trips.
---
Oh, oh. I was reading about Rejoice in the Lamb, and I youtubed it, and then wandering around, found Balulalow - also Britten - gorgeous, sang this with school choir last year - and this. It's The Bluebird. Sublime, melting, inhalation. Top Vox sang The Bluebird last year.
The lake lay Blue, below the hill.
As I looked, there flew across the water cold and still, a bird,
Whose wings were palest blue.
The sky above was blue at last.
The sky beneath me blue in blue;
A moment, ere the bird had passed.
The lake lay blue below the hill.