About the Eyes

About this poem:

We live in times of great turmoil; worldwide, we are divided by power, greed, discord and famine. I think it is most important than ever to acknowledge that we live under the same sun, that we are all equal. Unfortunately, I don't speak as many languages as I would like to.

I imagined 4 different characters, with different languages, different eyes colour and different life experience. They are made by the different memories each of them carries.

The black eyes remember storms, wars and their mother, trying to find her children's next piece of bread. Even when they found peace, living in a different country, a country of blue-eyed people, the memories come back.

The green eyes remember different kind of storms and Spring nights. The brown eyes remember the enchanted forest of their childhood. The blue eyes have never known famine and they reassure the black eyes that they will never have to worry about the bread.

I have always considered myself a visual artist primarily. That is not to say that I am not serious about my writing. I always knew I want to write - there was never a doubt. I just always envisaged the two getting along just fine. I couldn't imagine myself doing one without the other.
Recently, I have been commissioned to write. A lot. And I am thrilled to say, "Stories from my Grasslands" will soon have a home, airing from a local radio station. (I promise, all will be revealed soon).

Meanwhile, I want to talk about writing and about what I have learned about writing . Last year, I was fortunate to take part in a series of "Mother Tongue" workshops under the guidance of the ever amazing Jacqui Malins and Lauren Klinger. I admired their courage of standing up and admitting they only spoke English; yet their workshops were truly mind blowing. They taught techniques and emphasis, they made writing exercises fun, they made me see languages and their fusion in a totally new perspective. Each workshop was enhanced by the contribution of a special writer as well as the contribution of the other participants - so many ladies brought their knowlege: Anita Patel, Niloofar Fanaiyan, Vesna Cvjeticanin and Dunja Cvjetićanin, Christiane Vivanco de Savaris, Melissa Gomez, Karina Palomita. Thank you. I have learned so much in so little time. And I made some friends too, in the process.
So I decided to try fusion for myself. Here is my first poem in all the languages I love.
I get this question so many times, why do you write in other languages than yours? And I don't really know what the answer would be. Perhaps because my biggest regret is that I cannot make music, even if my life depended on it. So I play with the words, instead. I find music in their rhythm. I am (by far) not an academic, and I am sure that my grammar is poor at times. Perhaps the sense of what I want to convey is lost in translation at times, just like me. But what a fun adventure, to dance one's way through all these words.

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.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

A Monday Rescue Story

This is a rescue story with a happy ending - just in time for Christmas.
You know those Monday morning when you show up late for work with a wild excuse to make up for it? Well, this is actually not of them.
However, I would have thought it wild, had I not witness it myself.
At first glance, there is nothing wrong with this car. Or is it?

What would your boss say if you were to show up late telling him a Galah bird got caught in your car while driving to work? This is exactly what happened to one of my neighbours.

Luckily, the Wildlife expert lives just next door and the entire complex got mobilised pretty quickly in an improvised rescue team.
Two of my neighbours worked diligently to free the bird tangled in the car front.

We are all anticipating the sweet moment when he is finally freed: will he be all right?
Understandably distressed, the little fellow is very lucky to be alive and seemingly unhurt.

I've saved the best for last: a few words about our wildlife expert in residence.
Emma is the sweetest soul. She is very passionate about her work as a wildlife volunteer. Under her expert eye, the bird was kept under observation for a short while. He settled pretty quickly and then he flew away as soon as Emma opened the cage.
He sure has a tale to tell to all his other peers who aren't bothered much to move away from the road when cars drive past them.

.

Self Portrait

I'm made of blue and mountains;
Of salty taste and summers,
Long silences and echoes,
Snow, clouds and stormy waters.

I'm made in equal parts
Of sunrises and darkness
tied up with shiny moon beams
And windy whispers through quiet blades of grass,
Of solitary trees that shelter all their birds,
Rivers gone dry and icy streams.

I'm made of hopes and tales untold 
Of amber skies and loosing without trying,
Of drops of rains and rainbows raising high above,
Horse riding in the sunsets bright as gold,
I'm made of rocky seas and winning without gaining
I'm made of love.

Through My Heart

 



 Maybe our souls were meant to dream as one
Temple on temple and heart next to heart
Silence to silence, two riders on the run,
Hand holding hand, not meant to come apart.

Two halves of same horizon, we sail across the sky:
Tempests within a silence and tides within a shoal
Colours that spell a lifetime and smiles within a cry
I wish the world could see right through your very soul

Stars in your eyes, like melted drops of rain
Meeting the golden rays of morning sun
I read through you the joys and all the pain
Of thousands words that haven't yet been spun.

We're Stream and River, drawing cores from depths
Where shapes and lines and colours play the part
Of songs unsung, undying love and strengths;
I wish the world could see you through my heart.

Yesterday I have been wrapping up a project very dear to my heart.
A project that I have spent my last 2 months working really hard on perfecting.
I don't intend to share publicly the portraits of the children that have thought me so much during this time.

But I would like to ask everyone to take a minute and consider this: how do you explain Autism and the Spectrum to someone that has never experienced it and doesn't understand it?
How do you educate the masses, changing ignorance through information? How do you make someone understand that the little kid throwing a tantrum at the mall is really not deserving that "naughty child" label so readily applied and that in reality some children have a huge sensory overload that they are just learning to deal with?
And how do you explain non-verbal autism to someone that has never been exposed to it? The longing to communicate with the others, as well as a parent's longing to hear their child talking?

Today, I chose to do it through a poem and an image. In writing this poem, I was inspired by a dear friend and the  amazing, loving connection she has with her son.

A Hat of Many Dreams

You meet someone in the crowd wearing same hat. Who wears it best, you wonder? And you might even alternate a couple of hats, depending on mood, style or season.
But what happens when a hat "wears" the persons?
This is not so much of a human portraits series but more of a hat portrait. It is an invitation to dream: what is inspiring you? How do you see yourself when you are wearing the "hat of many dreams?"
Nowadays everyone is a story teller; in the rush for sensational, we tend to forget that ordinary people make the best stories. This is my favourite hat ever. I started this series with my own family and our innermost self-projections but I intend to extend the project, take my hat around, ask people about their dreams, get their eyes off their phones and uncover their stories. Ultimately, this is about connecting with each other; a tale of individuals and of identity.

If you are interested to have your portrait taken in this series, please contact me.

Update: "A Hat of Many Dreams" has now taken off and it has its own home. You can read all the stories by clicking Here. 

About the Inner Child, The Lost Child and the Child Who Lost His Way

 

- “Mummy, you have 3 kids: me, G and Daddy!”
I love the way she said it, with that cute little crinkled nose and a big mischievous grin on her face. She doesn't know it. But she is right. Not only about Daddy's lovely, warm nature, who loves nothing more than playing with his little ones. No matter how tired he is, his inner child comes out, and he invents the most delightful games to keep them engaged and entertained.

I do have three children. I just didn't get to meet one.  It is just a small detail and it doesn't make him or her less important. There is no day that I won't think - even if only for a few seconds about how life would have been, together with all our children. Trying to give him or her a face. My inner child desperately longing to connect with the lost one. I never really had a chance to grieve properly, as it happened very fast and we only found out about it too late. And - after a miscarriage (especially a very early one) - there are no worst words that a mother can hear than "it wasn't yet a child, yet, you know? It wasn't a real child yet". To me, it was.
A grain of life has chosen to take shelter within me for a fleeting moment and then it went away.

That is a reality that many women confront nowadays  -some, more than once, unfortunately. The worst part is that it happens mirrored by silence; most dialogues are muted. It all becomes a heartbreaking monologue, made out of rhetoric questions and dreams that didn't hold their promise.
Back in the day, I didn't really understand why people avoid taking about it. But recently, on couple of occasions I found myself on the other side, with not too many wise words to console fellow mothers who needed sympathy and understanding at a very trying time. I remember being horrified by the thought that I might have become insensitive to someone else's grief. But then I realized it wasn't that. No one is deliberately insensitive in such moments. It's just hard finding the right words at the right time and I tend to put my foot in my mouth most  always, without meaning to do so.

And maybe if we as a society start taking down the walls and actually talk about the things that really matter to us - good and bad, happy or sad, maybe solitude and isolation won't hurt so much. It's actually baffling to me, how on these times of high technological progress, where we can reach easier to each other  - even across continents - we still end up alone and isolated when we need the support most. Sometimes it's also a process of self-containment; we keep to ourselves and take the time to process the events and how to deal with it. We are all unique individuals and see life through different glasses. What works for me won't necessarily be good for you. Or the other way around. But it's very important to remember that one is never alone and one never has to do it on their own.  Luckily, there are some wonderful grieving support groups out there who will know how to guide you. And if you don't feel like joining one, remember you are part of an unspoken sisterhood. Every one of us, having been in those shoes, will understand how you feel, no matter how clumsy we might get when words escape us. "I understand" are two simple words but together they form a very strong sentence, which said at the right time, may mean the world to someone.
October is SIDS, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month and usually around this time of year I get a bit melancholic, thinking of my lost little one. But I am also grateful for the happiness I get every single day, from the two special little people in my life.

And I am also starting to understand other types of grief and loss. Like when you lose a child to a concept/idea/religion without physically loosing that child. Seeing their choices ruining their life before it even started. Or when that child pays the ultimate price in order to carry on a plan that wasn't his in the first place. I cannot even fathom what a mother might feel in those moments. But because it happened in October, I will briefly talk about it.
15 is an age when great ideas take flight, when the inner child is still very much there, getting ready for conquering ideals and laying up plans for the future. 15 is an age of insecurities about dating and about exams, not an age when one should carry a gun and actively going out there to take out lives.
As a mother, my heart goes out to his mother. Not judging her. Just giving her a virtual hug, at her darkest hour.

Life Line

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Out of a pen, those mighty words 

Flew over skies down to a grassy knoll

Hiding around, like homeless birds

And found their home inside a lonely soul. 

Each day, they fly from darkness to the sun.

Each lightless night they guide towards the shore. 

Their magic spell has quietly been spun:

The lonely soul would like some more.

 

A while ago, I wouldn’t have gathered the courage to confess what inspired my poem.

But over the past few months I have learned that anxiety and depression are more common that we think. That it takes time and strength to reach for help. And that is perfectly fine. What is not fine at all is the taboo zone around the mental health dialogue; we tend to pretend that all is great when in reality it is hard to admit even to ourselves that it is not.

We are brought up to be perfectionists – and we are also putting this pressure upon ourselves, to be perfect in every single thing we do. Except that somewhat our upbringing forgets to mention that the world we live in is far from being perfect. There is so much anguish, pain and inequity out there. Not to mention the huge geo-political unrest we are currently witnessing.

So today, on “R U OK Day”, I want you to ask your friends and family if they truly are ok. Better still, I want you to really listen to what they say.  Just put your phones/books/newspapers down for a few minutes and listen.  Just listen. They might surprise you with a frank answer.

Because I know how it feels to smile on the outwards while feeling sheer desolation.

Because around three months ago, this poem was inspired by a “Beyond Blue” add inviting to reach out when you feel depressed.  Ok, the pen is a poetical licence; it was actually a screen. But you get the idea. TALK TO SOMEONE AND REACH OUT if you feel that life is getting too much. And when someone does talk back to you, believe me, it’s a life line.

Enjoy a quiet, beautiful walk in the sunrise of my grasslands. For me, art is the best medicine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love is Love

Small update on 27.06.2015: 

Isn't it amazing that #LoveWins? As it always should. #Australia, you can do it too! The fact that USA has recognised the #MarriageEquality is a great step towards a better tomorrow. Now we need to work on attitudes, too. Just like racism, homophobia will not disappear over night. Even if it is illegal to discriminate, some people out there are and will still be doing it. Hopefully the stereotypes will start fading and one way to ensure that this will happen is to start telling our children that is is ok to love who you want. That it is doesn't matter who you are, what your preferences, your religion or race are. The only thing that should matter is whether you are a good person. I am reposting on all social media my #photstory on #MarriageEquality rally in #Canberra because I think it is more important than ever. Please help spreading the love. Share away, my friends.

Today, I came across the #marriageequality rally by chance, as I happened to be in the city with my camera. And I am grateful for being there, for witnessing two powerful messages. 

Firstly, seeing so many children involved, gives me hope for a better tomorrow. For a world where humanity, common sense, compassion and love will reign, if we all try to bring up our kids without projecting on them our own vision of the world. Seriously, try listening to the little people. Really listen to what they have to say, to their take on things. You will be amazed beyond words. 

I also really enjoyed Shane Rattenbury's message. Very powerful and delivered with his heart. You know what? I am #proudtobecanberran too. 

I  am an European "transplant" but after such a long time being here, I consider myself very close to a true blue local for the simple fact that I know lots of little nooks that no one else does. Canberra for me was pretty much love at first sight. And something tells me it would stay that way for an eternity and a half. 

I am going to leave these images here- they speak for themselves. My camera was merely a witness, documenting a moment that we might remember in years to come as the beginning of equality. I am going to say just this: I think it is pretty awesome that politicians here can be openly gay, live with their partners, even have children together and that this will not ruin their political career. Show me any other country where this is happening. So why then, holding back and denying gay couple the right to be legally acknowledged as a family? #loveislove. On my agenda, it only matters if you are a good person. I don't care what religion you choose to follow, what race you are or what happens in your bedroom. Everyone is free to make their choices. As long as you are in a happy, loving and mutually respectful relationship, it shouldn't matter to anyone else who your partner is. Or their gender. 

I know quite a few married couples who have long lost any connection with each other but choose to stay together for the kids, for convenience or for keeping up the appearances. Why are they more entitled to a legal bind than a same-sex couple is? 

On the other hand, I have quite a few friends in a same-sex relationship and I am always amazed by the way they manage to keep "that sparkle" going, by the gentleness, deep respect and love they always have for each other. I think it's only right they get the same legal recognition, same legal rights. I find it extremely unsettling that countries like Ireland and Mexico (who are renowned for their Catholic direction) found it fit to legalise same sex marriage, while Australia, whom I always considered progressive, modern and forward, is still somewhat rejecting the idea. Love always comes from the heart. The rest is just details. So my friends, today and always, #teamequal definitely has my #freevote. Upon leaving the place, I couldn't help but notice that even Mother Nature rallied to the cause, projecting a beautiful rainbow where was least expected.

If you liked this story, please feel free to share it. If you are in these pics, please contact me for your free copies. If you are a parent of these children, you have my deepest respect.