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This Paradise is broken
So we’ll invent a new one
This time we have to be careful who populates it
Or we’ll end up again
With guns - left, right and centre.

Not Enough

We have too much of everything:
Too much food to throw because it's past due date;
Too many cars dotting the roads,
Too many Winters and not enough Sun.
Too many wars decided by fate
And not enough trees.

Too many lumps of coal, too much smoke
Too many books, too many hours to work
Too many worries,
Too much money to waste
On too many illusions
But not enough peace,
Not enough love.

Avant L'Hiver

Eblouie
Pour des raisons mal-comprises,
Inconnues.
Comm’elle me tombe bien, cette pluie
Et comme mon cœur danse,
Ma petite âme, qui suive l’automne et la lune.
Ce soir, on va partager les étoiles
Une à une.
Rien pour moi ; je n’en veux aucune.
Je ne veux rien de cette pluie belle de l’hier 
Sauf pour une feuille jaune
Pour emporter chaleur dans mon hiver.

 

 

 

A Random Self-Portrait

 

Imperfectly stunning;
just like the bunch of my favourite oil pencils:
A sharp tip for every mountain climbed,
a broken one for each of my stumbles
But all together,
what a brightly coloured picture
With shades of dusty roses
And highlights of cobalt skies.

Growing Roots

 

Many times a day I get these questions "where are you from"? Or "where is your accent from"? Or even put in simpler but more resonating words: "where's home from you"?

This is my favourite of the three, for it involves a careful introspection, lots of analysis and reminiscences. Even then, I am not quite 100% sure which one of the places I carry in my heart is my home, more than others.

Nowadays I call The Land Down Under my homeland. And I am even starting to grow roots, enjoying every single moment with my little family. They are the ones who taught me that “freedom” and “belonging” are equally important and that they don't necessarily have to hinder each other.
They are also teaching me how to grow these roots, in my personal quest to gift them their own.

 

The trouble with traveling around the world for so long is that many of the places will leave their mark on you and that you will carry pieces of everywhere within your being.

There are a few "home" fractions I carry with me - they are there to define who I am and it's important to acknowledge them as "me".

 

There is a land far away where I was born and from whose mountains I am still drawing strength. There is a village where I learned freedom, roaming the hills and mountains. Where life was simple and timeless. Where making bread was the existence centre of every household.

I learned meanwhile that "home" is made by more and more layers added on through one's life journey. So, if I had only a question to ask, it would be this: what is the taste of "home" for you? My home is definitely made of dough and baking.

It is now only a memory, clouded by the passing years; but there are fewer pleasures, to me, than the satisfaction brought by the baking day, back in my village. Times and times again I have been writing about what the making of the bread truly meant in those days. About the work it took, to feed the whole house on homemade bread. There were no bread makers, no mixers, blenders or kitchen aids. Just your palms, one big wooden trough and lots and lots of flour waiting to be turned into wonders.

(Click Here for an older writing about my Nana’s bread).

No doubt, that little village gave me great values too; for I have learned that labour is the price for any of the life's little pleasures. Wild strawberries mousse meant that we had to spend hours in the forest to pick the tiny little red dots; no supermarket was selling them. There was no supermarket either.
Much like Proust's little madeleine, the taste of the wild strawberries mousse will bring up vividly so many of my lost memories - the sounds of the woods, the mossy, earthy smells of the land...that delicious tiredness accompanying the happiness of bringing home a bucketful of fruit...the contentment of a job well done...

Beside the fresh bread and wild strawberries mousse, there is another particular taste of my childhood that I consider "home". Whenever my Nana and my Mom used to make this delicious traditional desert, it was a great day. The village was in a mountain area where plum trees and potatoes were aplenty; so plum dumplings were probably the most logical choice. Along the years, it has grown to be one of our main fare staples. I didn’t realise how much I missed it until yesterday, when I asked my mother to make some.

I made it myself before, but it didn’t taste the same. We followed the same recipe, but somehow, only my mother’s hands brought back that magic taste.

 

And just in case you wonder how the dumplings look when they are ready to eat, here is a pic. As for the taste, you'll really have to try it.

 

 

 

 

A Big, Warm Hug

 

A long time ago, when my beloved Nana passed away, I promised myself that I would never go to a funeral again – except mine.

Joke aside; it doesn’t take a Rocket Scientist to figure out that I really don’t deal very well with loss and grief.
A very selfish approach - I came to realise - but my birth day this year has changed it: this year, I chose to spend my 40^th birthday honouring the life of a very brave fellow mother who lost her battle with cancer.
We weren’t very close, but the friendship we struck during the school drop off and pick-up times has left such a strong mark. I feel very lucky to have known her, and maybe we did cross paths for a reason.

While grieving is still a very raw issue to me, I now understand that here are so many other heartaches out there. Like how do you say good bye to your loved ones, especially to your children? How can you keep positive, trying to make some great last memories for them? How do you hide your tears, knowing you will not see them growing and that you will be missing out on everything we otherwise take for granted?

I keep thinking about her randomly. This morning, she popped in my thoughts while I peeped outside, over the grasslands and I was greeted by this view.
I don't easily believe in signs, but fog is very unusual at this time of the year and during the entire period we have been living here, I have only seen this particular type of sunset only once before. today, it really felt like the Universe was sending down a big,warm hug. I thought I'd pass it around to everyone in need of one.

The Second Sun

It was that second sun who stole my heart;
It wrapped my soul in love and set it free
Embracing me and guiding from the start
Although its shining light was never meant for me.

A ball of orange rays so subtly lit
Shining through dandelions on a knoll
T'was lost to me before I even found it
But it's that second sun who has my soul.

 

 

 

 

Memory Cracks

The ground is cracked and there is barely any grass left. The yard is a dust bowl speared by brown stubble. I point my toes at it and whinge: “I don’t have my shoes on!” I touch the ground again: it’s hot, prickly and dusty. But somehow, it’s soothing as well. One single blade of grass has stubbornly decided to grow, against all odds.
And then, I remember. When did I start loosing that part of me? I used to wear shoes only when I absolutely had to, constrained by stupid social norms. Or by the cold: winters at -32C are not an (easy) shoeless feat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, life does feel like a movie - and I swear, I can hear violins. And then I’m back in my beloved village and life is great again. It’s over 30 years ago but I can see her in her sunflowers dress – that was her good dress – and therefore its sight was always anticipating great things ahead: a trip to the city, a Sunday visit to someone dear or somewhere nice, a wedding… All my childhood memories are now woven in that Sunflowers dress. I wish I had the chance to keep it. I do have her blue sweater – another appearance staple of hers that stayed engraved in my memories since early days. She was never a fashionista, my Nana. She never spent time or money shopping for herself. Her only fashion statement ever happened much later, during her last days with us. She made us promise that when we lay her down for her final sleep, we will tie a ribbon around her neck, to hide her wrinkles. She even chose the ribbon: a red one. My mum was the bravest of us all and she carried out Nana’s wish, much to the affront of the old crones who came for the last visit: “you better take that silly ribbon off before the priest arrives”. – “The ribbon stays”, mum stated. The priest didn’t mind it; he was an old friend of my grandparents and he knew Nana was a good woman who had the right to one last little extravagance, after a life spent looking after the others.

I think often about her. About my village and our farm. Above all, I think about the crazy ways my life has changed so much. About the things I have forgotten and those that still await for me. About how I used to roam around the hills and forests, finding my way by finding north. My Old Man made sure I knew how to do that. I think about how I could tell a season by the birds around the place. Something that the Southern Hemisphere can’t really relate to. How I could find the cardinal points by the moss on the trees. How we used to bake bread and labour the land. I knew what needed to be done each month just by looking at the garden. Here, the soil has lots of clay. The months and the seasons are opposite to everything I knew. I still find solace in the hours I spend in the garden, Most of the time, it feels good. But it also feels artificial: Nowadays, I am not really cultivating the land or growing a crop. I have a small garden purely for our pleasure.

 

My Nana was a woman born ahead of her time. She would have made a very good entrepreneur in our days. Having survived the War, she had a great way of doing lots from little. You know how we all spend bucket loads of money on gro-bags when babies are born? Those special, tiny sleeping bags keeping babies warm at night but preventing them from overheating? My nana invented those before they were invented in the modern days. That’s how she slept her babies and that is how we slept as babies too. She made clothes from scratch and kept sewing, knitting and crocheting – depending on the season.

No scrap of food was ever wasted – she swept the breadcrumbs and fed them to the chooks. The food leftovers were made into pigs feed. The fruit and veggies were made into preserves. She moved about with the grace of a ballerina yet with a general’s demeanour and precision, ushering us all into the chores we had to help with.

And then, the bags. Those plastic bags that we all complain of slowly filling our environment… I still remember how she used to wash and recycle every single plastic bag that came her way. In fact, she recycled just about everything; nothing could go to waste. We made our pocket money by selling bottles to the recycling point. Glass bottles, not the plastic pets we have today.

There are so many things I love about her. But above all, I remember her big heart. Her smile. Her witty replies and her thoughtful praises.

She used to go to bed last, as she was preparing the household for the new day. She was first up, before even the sun was up and I remember those mornings, half asleep, when I could hear her voice talking to the chickens while she fed them. Then she milked the cow, talking to her too.

I don’t have any memory of my nana sleeping. I don’t think I have ever seen her sleeping. Her “rest” time was sitting in her arm chair, working on something – a sweater, a vest or perhaps making a new tablecloth for her 3 granddaughters’ trousseaux. I kept asking her whether she was tired – she always answered that the night was too long - something I didn't understand until it was my turn to have children.

 

 

About Choices

Today is the last day of this year. I have no idea whether I am going to pick up my camera and snap a shot or two. But whatever I choose to do, I am going to be content.
The one thing I learned about making a choice in art is this:  - in most cases - there aren’t such things as good choice/bad choice. It all reduces to what makes one happy.  Go with what you feel that is right for you. For instance: colour or black and white? It is all a matter of taste.  And of considering the finality of your artwork.

If you are a close friend & family, or if you are following my work, you probably know that I have started a big project, getting people to talk about following their own dream, about ideals, aspirations and what keeps them motivated when the going gets tough.  (You can find about it here: A Hat of Many Dreams)

In my case, I want to use minimal props and interventions because my project is meant to be a social experiment: an honest incursion into people’s souls, witnessing their own dialogue with themselves. I just guide them from the sides, with a couple of questions.

I chose to devoid my setting of any colour, because I want to “see” my sitters through their emotions. Therefore it is going to be black and white all the way. Again, if you know me well, you’d know that I am fascinated with people and their ways of life. I find surprising and strong characters from all walks of life on daily basis, just by chatting to people. Which is a wonder in itself, because deep down I am quite the introvert.

But I have to admit, in certain cases, my sitters are beyond fascinating and I find myself facing the dilemma, whether I want to preserve the colour, maybe change the brief of my project and allow those bright colours to take over and shine. The answer is no. Much as I’d like it, I think it is important to keep my brief consistent. I have already made one concession from the initial brief, allowing myself to a wider range of portrait sizes, erring from my initial close-up portrait set up.

Luckily, digital photography makes it easier for me to have my cake and eat it. Recently, I have had the privilege and honour to photograph and meet in real life a lady whom I have admired from the sides for quite a while. She proved to be more interesting than I could have ever dreamed of. We got to know each other a little. We found lots of things in common. We had a giggle or two. We shared a spectacular sunset over my beloved grasslands.

She is unique, intelligent and fun. She has a great sense of humour,

magnificent eyes and a custom-made shade of red hair.

Seeing how the 3 primary colours worked so remarkably well in defining her portrait, how could I not take these gorgeous shots? And incidentally, doing this series of portraits gave me the best of both worlds - I got to work in one of my favourite places in the world and we literally were photo bombed by the kangaroos, who are so used to see me with my camera that they started to run towards us and lined up behind Tara.

(You can also see the black and white series by clicking here)

Until a year ago, I wasn’t much of a portrait photographer; not in a true form anyway; as I was too busy chasing the kangaroos and the light around the grasslands. But one time, in a discussion forum over a National Geographic Assignment, Marie McGrory, one of the National Geographic photo editors gave me one of the best advice ever when she challenged me to take more portraits. Sure, I always liked people and their stories but what if I started to go more in-depth and do more portraits? So this year I have challenged myself and I have worked really hard to find out just how good I could be at unearthing their stories through my images. I had some failures but I think I had quite a few great experiences too. The most rewarding thing about pushing my boundaries and doing portraits is forging new friendships, learning new things and finding extraordinary stories in the most ordinary places.