nosebleeds

I used to get a fair few nosebleeds when I was a kid and into my teenage years.  I guess they stopped for many years because I can’t really recall it being an issue. Over the last two years they seem to be returning with greater frequency though.

I don’t know why it happens. I can’t predict when it will happen. I don’t have high blood pressure (in fact I tend to have lower than normal blood pressure which has its own implications). I don’t have a cocaine habit or Ebola or any of the other causes that WebMD suggests. Generally I bleed from the left nostril and it stops usually pretty quickly without much effort or fuss. Afterwards I’m left fatigued and a little too crowded in the head.

The internet search was deeply unsatisfying so I widened the search to symbolic meaning of nosebleeds. Now things get a bit more interesting. Apparently I am feeling unrecognised. So I sit and dwell upon this for a bit. No one wants to admit to feeling unrecognised. 

Andy Warhol said that we will all get our 15 minutes of fame. Maybe mine is still to come but let’s assume I’ve had it – what happens now? Does fame constitute recognition? I doubt it in all honesty. I could think of nothing worse than not being able to walk down the street picking or sitting in your car at the lights quietly picking your nose (not that I’d do that as it wouldn’t help the nosebleeding issue) without being recognised and harassed. In fact, I dislike working near where I live as I like my privacy too much. Bad enough that one has to be polite to customers at work.  Goddess forbid I should have to be civil to them on my time.

Okay so if it’s not fame then what does recognition mean to me. Peer and industry recognition perhaps? Not so much of “yes, I’ve heard of Amanda Kennedy the artist” but “You’re an artist. Great . Would love to see/discuss your work”. Or “You’re an artist. Great .  I’ll put you in touch with so and so”. I know that artists are a dime a dozen and art covers such a wide scope. It often feels like I’m wandering alone in the shallows in the dark hoping to catch something with my small hand held net.

It’s taken me a few years to easily answer ‘artist’ when that question of what do I do comes round to me at social gatherings. I can now do it without laughing and actually happily engage with people about how it all works from my point of view. So I guess I’ve started on the first steps of this journey by recognising myself as an artist. It’s now up to me to put that out further into my world and beyond.

Just to be to cover my bases I have my affirmations -

“ Even though I have a need for recognition and feel unrecognized and unnoticed, and I am crying for love, I deeply and completely love and accept myself.

I love and approve of myself. I recognize my own true worth. I am wonderful. I recognize my own intuitive ability.” 

(thanks Louise Hay)

And always carry a pack of tissues.

thinking back

I married at age 19. It was 1991 and it most certainly was not because it was what I was supposed to do. It was more likely because it was I wasn’t supposed to do. Marriage as an act of rebellion. Why not?

Rebellion is even too strong a word. As a piece of performance art – very possibly. Not because I was bored – I wasn’t. Not because I came from ‘a bad home’ – I didn’t.  In truth, right then I really loved the fella. I could see us doing everything together (possibly not great in retrospect but ain’t hindsight grand). He was my best friend. I felt very much myself with him. I liked myself with him. I liked who I was, how I felt and acted. It was comforting to be with him. I enjoyed his company one on one and also in groups. I didn’t anticipate any insurmountable problems.

 I grew up very much in middle suburbia. The house I grew up in was built for my parents in a court where all the houses were completed in a similar period of time, many with young families. There were lots of kids running around that my two brothers my sister and I could choose to play with. The court had a gentle and a steep incline that we could skateboard, ride our bikes as well as a large round flat area at the head of the court on which play all types of ball games. There was even a large vacant block which provided many abseiling, climbing and cherry eating adventures. It was the era before gluten free, nut free and ethically produced snacks.  When you look at it, those cherries we pulled off the trees were locally sourced, organic, nut free, gluten free snacks.  I never felt my parents were hovering over us watching our every move, though I’m not saying the large lounge room windows that looked smack bang out onto the middle of the court never saw my mum’s eye.

I attended the local primary school following in the footsteps of my three older siblings, sometimes literally as we walked the 700m to school. I had to use Google maps to check how far and how long the trip took because I couldn’t have guessed if we took 10 or 20 minutes to get to school. Google maps says 9 minutes, for the record. It was, in general, a perfect neighbourhood primary school. It backed on to the local park which had a large, shallow, muddy lake to one side. Certain teachers would use this convenient resource to ground our learning in the real world.

I remember once being chosen to be on the committee of kids to tour other local schools and test out their play equipment for our newly proposed adventure playground. It was such a prestigious position. Kids were chosen from each year level to survey the equipment, shortlist particular pieces and which were then put to the school council to finalise. At least, that’s how I remember it. Imagine the excitement of being let out of class, whilst your fellow students had to stay inside completing some scholarly exercises.  All the time, we were ferried around a few local schools to play on their equipment whilst their students were also in class. One rocketship/tunnel/fort – no waiting!

We played sport on weekends. We took regular holidays around country Victoria with all 6 of us piled in the car. As I was the youngest and the smallest, I usually was stuck on the front bench seat between mum and dad. I do recall straining my neck trying to be part of whatever was going on in the back. As we got older, my parents bought a beach house on the Mornington Peninsula opposite the area where we’d always camped each summer holidays. The afternoon of December 25, we’d pack up the car and drive the 90 minutes or so down to the beach house. Of course, summers then seemed almost endless. Not returning home until the start of February, days and dates lost their significance. It was only the weather that would shape the day’s activity schedule.

There were boats to be sailed, boats to go fishing from and boats to take on trips out around the bay. There were walks up to the lighthouse, if you only wanted a little walk or up to the pier if you wanted exercise or a chance at a private conversation. Plenty of scrub to hide and muck about in. Wet weather days meant jigsaws, books from the everchanging in and out bookshelf or maybe a trip out to the movies or bowling. There was a great little book store called The Hole in the Wall where they sold and bought second hand books for a couple of dollars. It was cool in the dark recesses of this tiny space. So many books piled high with hand written labels on the shelves letting you know if the section was Western Adventures, Biographies or Mills and Boon Romance novels (bleurgh). The shop even had its own particular smell.

To be continued

SHIT OR GET OFF THE POT

On making my art AND on making myself as an artist.

There are times when I doubt myself as an artist. Well many times if I’m to be frank. (‘Glad you’re being Frank’ I can almost hear my children chorusing).  It usually comes right about when I have to fill in an application form for an exhibition submission to a gallery. I’m starting to build up the CV of previous exhibition experiences. I’ve been fortunate enough to meet people I consider part of my tribe who have welcomed my emerging art status.

The part I most often trip over is the ‘schooling’ bit. I’ve done some tertiary study it just wanted in relevant areas or even completed. I’d like to imagine that I’ve picked up the odd relevant thing in my 44 years of life though.

So this is where I feel somewhat in limbo. I’m 44 years old so I’m not newly-realised-into-the-world-kind-of-emerging but I’m certainly not seasoned-showing-my-art experienced either. I don’t even feel near the middle. I’ll concede to feeling 30% of the way. On a side note, I heard recently that most people experience doubt about projects etc at the 30% in and 30% to go marks. Maybe that helps explain it.

I’ve never formally studied any art. Local living and learning centre courses of which I’ve done a few years worth, apparently don’t count. I’ve a friend who started painting with me around the same time I did. She’s now in her second course studying Fine Art at a fine tertiary institution. I’ve had chats with her about this and I can’t say it draws me towards incurring a substantial higher education debt for a few lines on an application. I struggle with conceptual art and find myself alienated from of abstract, performance and even video art. Even the world installation can be off-putting.

I would like to increase my practical knowledge about techniques and different media and even relish the idea of associating with fellow creatives on a regular basis but this appears not to be the real situation in most tertiary education facilities.

Occasionally I browse a short course, adult education catalogue and see what is offered. Then usually I jump to the more immediate YouTube to satisfy my curiosity. I am aware that there are many things that I might learn from fellow students as well as my teacher in a class situation that I may never discover from YouTube alone but instant gratification usually wins out. I also like the small but useful tricks of rewinding, pausing and bookmarking sections where I want to study in more detail. The internet provides an incredible wealth of information about the technical side of certain mediums, though I also hit up the art supply store peeps too.

 It’s great to get out of a solo art studio and chat to someone else who is so enthusiastic about the minutiae of art mediums and the Melbourne art scene, as the lovely people at some of my favourite art supply stores. I found myself once having an in depth conversation about particular pigments days after walking past an impressive wall of wisteria - a scene that wouldn’t leave my mind. I needed to paint it you understand.

So I try not to over-think these things (an expression I heard from a friend a few years ago and I immediately knew what she meant). The way to make art and therefore makes myself as an artist is to just keep turning up at the easel.

SHIT OR GET OFF THE POT

Story with prompts from my writing class

Once upon a time there was a little boy called Danny. He had two older brothers called Sam and Bob who wanted nothing to do with their annoying little brother so this story isn’t about them. Like most children at this time, Danny didn’t have a parent hovering around him to ensure his snacks were ethically produced or gluten-free. Danny did whatever he wanted to as long as he was home in time for dinner.

At the bottom of the court his family lived in was a large unruly vacant block that Danny loved to explore. Most days were a blank canvas. He used to love to abseil down the not so steep slope with found rope tied awkwardly around one of the trees – not that he would have ever have heard of the word abseil.

In Spring from the blossom trees that lined the street, he would eat as many of the sun warmed cherries as he could before he felt ill. Bush tucker man had nothing on Danny. Though not the ones out the front of number 4. Nobody played with the kids from number 4. The house smelled funny and they wore weird clothes. The parents didn’t talk like the other parents. Nobody went near number 4 if they could help it.

One day, Danny found a ball laying in the gutter at the very bottom of the court almost out the front of number 4. He rescued it and decided to play footy. He discovered that it was really tricky playing footy without friends or big brothers. Because of that, Danny decided that Big Ted needed to be goalie.

Hiding Big Ted from no one in particular, Danny liberated him from the bedroom floor and installed between two scrappy trees that served as goal. Goal was always at the bottom of the block to take advantage of the natural incline. The goal trees were at each edge of the block and since Big Ted was a lazy fucker Danny always scored.

And because of that, Danny assumed he was an excellent footy player. Going to school the following year sorted that assumption out quick sticks.

Until finally many years later Danny realised two things – he was crap at sports and there was nothing wrong with the people from number 4 after all.

my first masterclass

So I’ve signed up to do a writers masterclass.

Lately, people have been talking to me about writing. It might be a case of the more your brain has been alerted to something, the more you start to notice it around you. Whatever the case, I’ve decided to take the leap and give it a go.

I feel that I used to be able to write better than I currently do. Maybe I just need to flex my writing muscles and practice it. I’m hoping that it will aid my writing about my art practice. I want to be able to better nail down my thoughts about my art. I can talk freely about the why and the how of my art practice but sieze up when it comes to conveying these thoughts to others via the written word.

I love to read. I love stories. I love movies, theatre, radio interviews where the story is deftly played out.  I’d like to be able to participate on the other side of it.

So my birthday gift to myself is signing up to this writing class and hopefully more words will flow.

Impotence

The dilemma of trying to create when I am also trying to declutter my space is proving problematic. Purging and creating aren’t content bed partners. There’s no desire to bring something into creation.

It’s more than “losing the urge”. I feel impotent.

It’s probably not surprising that I’m also experiencing a significant loss of libido. The sacral chakra is the seat of creativity . It is also where the sex organs are located. No coincidence methinks.

No matter how many glib motivational memes I see, their pappy messages slide off me.  Nothing seeps in through my latex skin. The arting around that I am doing is also in blues.  I’m obsessed with indigo, sky blue, azure, cerulean, ultramarine, slate, cobalt, aquamarine, lapis lazuli and so on.

Nothing tastes like it should today. I’m sick of cups of tea; it’s lack lustre. I even changed drinking vessel to see if that made any difference – it didn’t.  I just feel like nestling up under a blanket and and zoning out. So that’s what I’m doing.

long time no see..

So I've been a bit busy lately. Who am I kidding ? I'm always busy between paid work, family and art.

I recently finished a series of 12 small watercolour pieces based upon scenes from the Yarra Valley and its wine. They will be featured by the Australian Wine Tour Company over the next few months on their website (link here) and social media. It's been a great experience working with them and clearly a subject I am passionate about after 12 years working in the Yarra Valley and many more years imbibing.

I also took part in an online course (#etsyresolution) to revamp and make the most out of my etsy shop (link here). I learnt about SEO, call to actions, tagging and so much more.

Subsequently I've also put more effort into my Instagram  account (link here) .

To celebrate my new found self-education, I'm offering a 10% discount (excluding shipping) when you spend over $20 in my etsy shop. Just use the code "BLOG10" to receive your discount.