PROSE, POETRY AND MIGRATION.

Wing Song oil on canvas  83x168 cm Nada Murphy 2013

Others are with their friends and family this day and our writer’s group has become company. 

I read out loud and I will stumble before I get my stride and slow to the pace of the words. 

My friend listens, and will simply respond “wow” , She says I am revealing more of myself in my words. 

Yes, this is more personal writing I am happy to share with her.

Her own words are always evocative of emotion as she juxtaposes the tug between “her angels and devils” burning down to the core of being.   Not simply well chosen but felt.

There is more in this too. There is a layer of events that trigger the flow.

The manuscript another has offered starts with the writers musing over how to start the story and starts a world away. The text is full of idiom and stands translation for my friend, who is not working in her first language. 

We wander into stories of travel from far-away places where our roots were established before moving in our hearts.  Tribal and self protective communities or contemporary life where there is a

lot of movement? People have been moving for eons travelling from one side of this spinning existence to the other . Otherwise there would be no such thing as a colony, or perhaps it is an enclave in this foreign place?

Nothing new. 

You can respond with curiosity, openness, and generosity, then learn, or close the doors. 

WHY PLAY HARP?

The first album I ever bought was John Lee Hooker and Canned Heat. Of course if you have listened to that you would know that the “harp” plays a special role.

I have been playing piano for my own pleasure since I was a kid and continue to work on improving but of course if you want to move around a bit it is a bit difficult to take the piano. I have a lovely Kawai grand but the little harp just fits in my pocket.

These days I am working as an artist and the piano shares space in my studio which opens out into our covered back patio and doubles as a performance or workshop space.  Over the years we have had a regular end of year show when I would play, along with all the kids who were learning instruments. Most of those kids now are professional musicians! But I stick to my art

In addition to painting I have recently started to build skills working with glass with very pleasing results. 

You are most welcome to visit the studio.

Nada Murphy

Fine Artist

www.nadamurphy.com.au

studio@nadamurphy.com.au

10 Holland Street

Wembley WA 6014

+61 08 93873162

+61 0400031952

WINTER

Winter, that season in the year that has come around again.

A chilled air, the days sunny and clear

 I have always loved winter’s in this city

 Even though as the years pass I hanker more for the fine hot days of the north

 Once discovered they are hard to pass up

Along the with open space and the starry nights.

This year we have no escape route though from the morning chill

As a child winters were a time for those last minutes in bed to be savored.

 It was a small weatherboard house that did not insulate you from the frosty air.

The pace was set for almost running for the train to keep your soul from the cold. 

And the rain would drizzle over the day grey and monotone.

 We wore black and dessert boots.

Now the cold just seeps into to these complaining bones

A sunny day is the gift.

People refer to the autumn years

Autumn colours are warming even though the life is leaving the leaves.

The tree survives another season

Winter is for when we grow cold.

The cold sits in my body more with each passing year

And that some things in winter simply hibernate

But others challenge the myth that spring is the only time for the emergence of new life.

I celebrate my own birth in the month of July. 

Yes smack in the middle of winter.

I will live every winter to the full.

FOOTPRINTS ACROSS OUR LAND

A few years ago when planning my first painting journey into the north west I started to seek out information concerning the roles that  indigenous women played in the desert communities. I always was in awe of how indigenous people has survived in such harsh and what for most of us would see as inhospitable country. I did not find information about these women so easy to access, although  I have been slowly building a picture in my head through different means, meeting with indigenous artists, and taking in as many exhibitions of indigenous art as I could as each painting informs as well as reading.

I went into Magabala books whilst I was last in Broome and picked up a copy of Footprints Across Our Land a compilation of  has translated the stories told by senios Kukatja, Wangkajunga, and Ngarti women . based at Wiirimanu and Yaka Yaka communities. These women present their perspective on living in the desert, Tjukurroa (Dreaming) and their encounters with kariya ( white people) in the 1930's and 1940's.

The book is informtive on many levels and revealed the strength and capability of indigenous women with insights into the ways of providing and caring for their children and the older members of the group. The story reveal that roles extend well past the gathering of a diverse range of  bush tucker as women also hunted along side the men. It also reveals how men and women shared roles in taking care of new born infants. The foundation of the underlying community mentality is clear. Pulling together was the best survival strategy. The modern world could learn a great deal.
.
There are many quotes one could share but this one reveals how things have changed in one critical way:

" We were real skinny ones in bush - fast too. Any one can grab that kangaroo's tail, even the girls. Different food in the bush. We bin chase and kill animals when we were kids, we really quick. Bin get pussycat, wallaby, goanna, and little kangaroos. It all changed now. we dying form sugar...early too.  We bin have different training in bush, bin go without meat and food for one months. take a long time to die..." Lumu Nungurrayi.

I know I will read these stories again and again. My respect for the indigenous women of our country
has grown exponentially.

FOR AUNTY JOY

One of my regrets has been that by living in Western Australia I have not been in the position to contribute more to the quality of your life this past 10 years.  Initially we could use the telephone and I know you enjoyed hearing me play the piano over the phone, but eventually your health deteriorated to the point that phone calls were no longer possible.  I had to be satisfied with brief visits we had when I did come in to Melbourne.

When I first visited you at MacLeod, we went for a walk and came back to the living area to play the piano for a bit.  I found myself with the community song book, as I always needed the music on front on me, unlike you who would simply play from memory.  I could hear other folk settling down to listen to as well.  Eventually someone piped up and said” who is this woman any way?” and you piped up  “She is Nada Joy Wood and she is my niece. I played some more and then the same question was posed and you told the woman again.  Memory loss is something that was a common affliction.

But we have many, many great memories.

Firstly I recall running away from home, to your place when I was little. It was a long walk but I knew the way well.  Of course I sought respite at your home.  I remember deciding to retrace my steps though as I discovered the “cute cottage” and the see saw we kids wanted, under construction and thought that Grandpa might be cross with me.

Many years on you gave that loving care you always gave, when I was quite exhausted from visiting Mum at the Austin after she had stroked.  You suggested I just lie down for a bit. You tucked me in and pull the blind down in the middle room.  The memory is of your large capable hands just smoothing the blanket across me as I drifted off.

We had so many good times not the least of which was the Christmas table laden with sponge cake, sandwiches, and of course the saveloys that all us kids polished off with gusto.  I can remember barely being tall enough to see what was on the table, but knowing that it was laden with delicious food, the white linen table cloth, always smooth and strong.

The garden, always so beautiful, a magnolia, the ferns s and of course the veggies: your beautiful dresses, and the rose bowl.

Then of course there was the music. Your influence was of course immense.

As it would be you were quietly slipping away, and I was rehearsing with the Western Australian Opera Chorus for a performance in Broome, set for the day that you would quietly go.  I would be page turner again. I have done this a few times before as I read music and have the hang of working in the outdoor setting. 

You would have loved to be in that audience. Fantastic rousing music, with so much music that would have been so familiar for you.  The first that strikes my heart is Casta Diva from Bellini’s Norma, one Dame Joan had in her repertoire.  Then later as the pianist slides over the lilting Offenbach’s Barcarole. We have The Easter Hymn and Humming Bird Chorus.  The pianist's solo : Rachmaninoff  Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini. The program flows.  Then to wrap it up. You’ll Never Walk alone.   

I hold my own , but then the encores. The finale is a favourite of mine that is very sentimental. I knew that would get me. Jimmy Chi’s Town by the Bay but everyone gets emotional with that tune.

Here is an authentic version http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-C1LVwJq7mY just for you.

Love you so much Aunty Joy. 

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After a scorching week or so, a cooler space was an anticipated relief. Our familiar sky of blue was exchanged for the grey, familiar to me from my childhood. We were heading east for a wedding.

The week leading up to the celebrations was punctuated with a trip to the shops for a shirt, a tie, a pair of trousers and shoes. A short burst in Brunswick Street was refreshing as we take in the contemporary styles and met a woman asking for spare change a few times. She was working the street in one direction for what she needed and we the other for what we needed; a friendly engaging woman who was politely refused, although leaving a question about how each of us have different life experiences. My change of course had been swallowed by the parking machine and I had indulged with an affordable bunch of stunning red dahlias from the barrow in front of the florist on the Greeves Street Corner to give to my sister in law.

The traffic orderly but heavy, took us in a stop start way, with me thinking my way through which lane to chose. I am reminded of how it was in the larger city in the middle of the day. The peak hour on the freeway not that different from our usual experience but it was another story once you took your exit and the traffic locked down.

The afternoon at Monsalvat in the Great Hall was rewarded with a personal expression by the bride and groom of the reasons they were dressed up to celebrate with their friends and family. Attention to every detail. The light from the window where they stand shows of a stunning bride and the groom, who with gentle touch later glides with her across the dance floor: as if they had been dancing all their lives and would go on dancing with grace and ease.

Lots of chatting, laughter with food and drink a plenty.

All you need is love and boat to carry you away.

The taxi driver who ferries the three of us across Perth drives the evening shift until late, he says all bar one night when his wife says come home. He will not drive taxis for ever as he is a philopspher and says he is learning from his passengers how to make money whilst he sleeps, and how they drill for oil.

It is a balmy relaxed Sunday evening and we breathe in the fresh air and we are home again.

One small dog is ecstatic to have us back.

Untitled Boomerang Michael Riley (1960-2004)

Image from the cover of Maquarie Pen Anthologyof Aboriginal Literature. Edited Anita Hess and Peter Minter Allen &Unwin 2008

I have been reading biographies for a number of years now including some of the stories of about or by Indigenous Australians. Many have been moving and given insight into what Rob Riley referred to as a sanitized history.(Beresford Quentin. “Rob Riley: an Aboriginal Quest for Justice “Aboriginal Studies Press 2006)

I was fortunate to have a " good education" that I am aware excluded the telling of the stories of Indigenous Australians or indeed even a honest portrayal of contemporaneousness treatment of my indigenous peers in the 1950's and 1960's of my childhood. I guess I have been reeducating myself by reading ever since, so I found this volume a very helpful book.

During a recent visit to the Kimberley I was looking for a relevant read and came across: MacQuarie Pen Anthology of Aboriginal Literature edited by Anita Heiss & Peper Minter Allen & Unwin2008 in a Derby newsagent. This book would take me on a walk through another version of Australian history with excerpts from the written works of Indigenous publications dating from 1796 to 2006. It is a helpful volume that dispels many notions that are commonly held about our indigenous countrymen and women.

The book contains many memorable quotes and will give anyone seeking insight an excellent starting point as I am sure it will lead you to read many of the full texts available.

Each excerpt reflects on people who have something important to say.

THE GRANDFATHER CHAIR

It sat in the corner of the girl’s room. A dilapidated wreck really: a large old leather chair.

"You like old things, Don't you?" was my father’s question. He had decided on the answer already.

His mother’s eldest sister had given the chair to my mother and him. The chair along with the mattress on the floor and the baby bassinet that carried my oldest brother the only furniture my parents had when they first moved into our old home. Perhaps that the chair go to the eldest grand niece was in Dad's mind.

The chair was bundled up along with my mother’s treadle sewing machine with some other memorabilia in a crate that also held a few treasures my husband has from his father’s estate.

Once it arrived the task of having the chair repaired confronted us. The damage to one leg left it a sharp barb and the leather was beyond redemption with the colour worn away stuffing peeping through.

Ernest was enrolled to repair the frame. His right hand with several fingers taken at the stump carry’s a cigarette. His working man’s accent and a large black dog accompany him. He comments that this is a grandfather chair, made of Australian Cedar probably dating from around 1880. He says there should be a grandmother chair, smaller but with similar design somewhere to be found.

He returns the chair some weeks later the frame repaired with the timber gleaming warm honey gold, new casters fixed to the front legs. The stuffing, leather and springs are returned.
We now need to find an upholsterer who will bring it back to top condition.

The chair frame sits and patently waits. A few quotes determine that more patience is needed, but finally there is clear air and we call the upholsterer again. He comes with samples and bundles of enthusiasm for the task and takes the chair away.

Again it is clear we are working with a man who is careful and diligent in his craft.





The grandfather chair arrived this week and sits proudly now is the corner of the living room. It is a grand chair to be sure. My father and great aunt would be pleased no doubt.

GENEROSITY, SCHOLARSHIP AND FRIENDSHIP

I have been thinking a lot about the gifts I have from my friend . I struggle somewhat with the words but with some reflection here goes:

The love of Purple Green and White.
Pottery beads, hand crafted and withstanding the heat of firing. Hands that are steady when life is turbulent.
My blue coffee cup: raised money for Amnesty with a gathering in the garden.
The pots that hold my paint brushes.
Dyed silk that holds a natural dye. A way of going forward when confronted with bad news.
Northcliffe: an adventure for five year old boys curious to find tiger snakes!
Later a respite in the winter with the wind whipping round the house as I sit and read about women in Early Modern times.
Things that must be said.
A coffee or green tea in a generous round cup.
Conversations in the garden, the front room , floating in the pool, at the beach, art days and finally where she is most comfortable. And it is not just idle chat and we both Knew that.
A deep understanding of the importance of writing. Endless encouragement to do this.
A shared view of how important the children are. Her own son and his partner, her grand children, others' children not to mention my own son, and even those in early modern times.
Love that was unconditional and promoted a fair go.
Freshly baked bread, a hearty bowl of soup, or delicious salad and a table shared.
A book plate to prepared to keep me busy whilst I grieve. I am grateful that she sees the proofs.
Generosity, Scholarship, Friendship.
Lastly her gift of the friendship of her life-long partner: his warm affection, calmness and special way of saying Hmm.
My hat goes off to you.

April 17

I am muddled and think it is the 16th today after a week full of domestic challenges.

The phone rings. It is my sister to announce she is at my front door. I did not hear the door bell as I am in the back.

She arrives with a bundle which includes tapes my father made of my aunt playing piano. There are some with my Mum, and surprisingly of my son and I also playing.

My sister has been hard at work sifting through the last of the things. Since Dad died having taken on the task of finding a home for the various sentimental items my sister is almost done.
She says Dad had a habit of pressing the record button, so we did not know he had taped us.

There is the painting that sat in the dining room at the old house. The paint is falling off the board. I recall the lesson was to prime to board well so paint would stay stuck. What material did we have to hand in the classroom which indeed meant the effort was in vain. It is a basic still life and I ponder about restoring this wreck. I had thought I said to let it go, but perhaps I had been ambivalent at the time. So it has travelled wrapped carefully all the way across the country.

There is a cookery book we both shared for domestic science. Covered well with brown paper with magazine cut outs then protected with plastic. I look at is more closely a little later. It includes some hand written recipe for plum sauce in my Aunt’s hand writing and another for French dressing in my mother’s hand.

It is the smallest of items that has us both in tears. It is a small gold baby bracelet that had been mine.

My sister and I spend a good part of the day together, just sharing some tasks; some shopping to be done before returning to make a sandwich and share some recipes. We are asked to come to dinner. The fish market has fresh muscles on offer. My brother will be by himself tonight as the others have already gone ahead for the bush wedding. I call my older brother before we leave. He is still on work time though.

It is a good evening with some gratitude to be shown for a difficult task done.

I am reminded of the distance there is between us and of special times to be shard as I have been sitting this week with my dying friend who is showing me how you can live every moment of your life well.

It is four years since our father’s death.