Layby: how some of the best art collections in the world have been made.

Artwork, December 2017 Fleur Wickes Artwork, December 2017 Fleur Wickes

Such a beautiful dream

I dreamt last night that I called to him, and he came to me.

In the dark, with words I couldn't quite catch.

I woke up feeling open and tender.  It was so nice to feel him with me, even if it was in a dream.

It's good to remember desire.  That particular kind of longing, warm and hot right down deep.

I feel expanded today.

Nadine's photograph of remember love, 2017

Nadine's photograph of remember love, 2017

I dreamt last night that I called to him, and he came to me.

In the dark, with words I couldn't quite catch.

I woke up feeling open and tender.  It was so nice to feel him with me, even if it was in a dream.

It's good to remember desire.  That particular kind of longing, warm and hot right down deep.

I feel expanded today.

This photograph suits my mood.  A woman, N, bought a studioprint of remember love, 2010 from me a little while ago, framed it with this floral background.  When she sent me this shot, she apologised for its dodgy nature.  But I love how it's all shaky and out of of focus.  Too much in our world is way too sharp these days.  A little bit of gentle soft focus never hurt anyone.  Lol.

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December 2017 Fleur Wickes December 2017 Fleur Wickes

This is what I hold on to

Standing at the kitchen bench yesterday I was thinking of my mother gone,  shoving corn chips in my mouth not because I was hungry but because I felt lost without her, and wanted to ease the ache of it.  I looked across to the window, maybe a noise outside made me turn.  I noticed the curtain moving in the warm afternoon breeze.  

I paid attention.  I made this photograph.  I find it beautiful.

Kitchen window curtain in the breeze, 3 December 2017

Standing at the kitchen bench yesterday I was thinking of my mother gone,  shoving corn chips in my mouth not because I was hungry but because I felt lost without her, and wanted to ease the ache of it.  I looked across to the window, maybe a noise outside made me turn.  I noticed the curtain moving in the warm afternoon breeze.  

I paid attention.  I made this photograph.  I find it beautiful.

Taking note of these small quiet things that make up my life is like an anchor for me; a way home to my self when I'm feeling untethered.

The tiny holes in the selvage, the rythmic gentle texture of the fabric itself. The warm black of the shadows. The heavier more solid other curtain in the background not made for moving in the wind, but instead made for warmth and keeping out the dark.  

We are told to live life large, to reach for success and the faraway stars.  I have tried that and found it a painful anxious way to live.  It seems to work for others, but for me I can't find purchase in that upwardly mobile life, and instead spent my days in a state of constant wearying grasping,

failing,

falling.

These days I've found a different way to live.  I'm not reaching for much.  Instead I've found something solid to hold on to:  the quiet beauty of a small domestic life. 

It unfolds right here in front of me. Every. Single. Day.  Without me even trying.

All I have to do is to stand still enough to notice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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December 2017 Fleur Wickes December 2017 Fleur Wickes

In loving memory

This is the last photograph of her and me.

The last photograph. 26 August 2017

This is the last photograph of her and I. 

She passed away, beautifully and peacefully, on the second of September. 

This photograph was taken a week before she died, at the celebration we had for her 80th birthday.  Everyone she loved, and who mattered to her, was there.  Most people who came knew they wouldn't see her again, but it was a happy occassion all the same. 

I didn't know when my lovely niece took this photograph what an important moment it was.  I was only interested in kissing my Mum.  She was so beautiful and sick and tired and fragile and strong that day. 

I've been waiting for the right time to write about her here, and I haven't been able to write anything else until I did. 

All of sudden it feels like time. 

Tommorrow is three months and thirteen Saturdays since I stood beside my father and held her hand and smoothed her brow and watched her take her last gentle breath.

Yesterday I wrote an epic essay length post, which took me hours and which I then deleted.  It wasn't right to share all those words here.  I have been writing so much in my diary my hand hurts some mornings.  But all of that will remain private.  For me alone.  Grief's like that, eh.  You have to find a way through it yourself, no matter how much love you have around you.

Today I decided that instead of words, it feels right to me that my tribute to my Mum who I loved so deeply and who was there for me my entire life, is made up instead of this random series of pictures.  They were never meant to be any kind of photo essay, but it feels right to me that they've come together - imperfectly and just because my heart says yes to the idea. 

So here they are. 

These photos are for you, Mum.  This is how I've felt since you left.  It hasn't all been sad.   As you well know, life, thank christ, doesn't work that way. 

Visiting Mum, 18 August 2017

Visiting Mum, 18 August 2017

On my road with my shadow, 30 August 2017

On my road with my shadow, 30 August 2017

Mum's 80th birthday celebration, 26 August 2017

Mum's 80th birthday celebration, 26 August 2017

In my hallway with my favourite sweatshirt on, 31 August 2017

In my hallway with my favourite sweatshirt on, 31 August 2017

Mum's jewellery, at rest in the drawer her grandfather made, 2 September 2017

Mum's jewellery, at rest in the drawer her grandfather made, 2 September 2017

In bed on the day after Mum's funeral. My 47th birthday.  6th September 2017

In bed on the day after Mum's funeral. My 47th birthday.  6th September 2017

Come home wishes, 12 September 2017

Come home wishes, 12 September 2017

The stone I hold, 13 September 2017

The stone I hold, 13 September 2017

Delivering artwork and receiving kindness, 16 September 2017

Delivering artwork and receiving kindness, 16 September 2017

Red thread for Mum, 18 September 2017

Red thread for Mum, 18 September 2017

XO, 20 September 2017

XO, 20 September 2017

After training, 26 September 2017

After training, 26 September 2017

Sanctuary, 1 October 2017

Sanctuary, 1 October 2017

Letting it all out, 5 October 2017

Letting it all out, 5 October 2017

Cows in the rain matching my mood, 7 October 2017

Cows in the rain matching my mood, 7 October 2017

Work in progress, 7 October 2017

Work in progress, 7 October 2017

Doing what has to be done.  18 October 2017

Doing what has to be done.  18 October 2017

Seth smiling with his old-boy snout, 20 October 2017

Seth smiling with his old-boy snout, 20 October 2017

Frayed red thread, 24 October 2017

Frayed red thread, 24 October 2017

Sarjeant and tree from the car, in the rain, 31 October 2017

Sarjeant and tree from the car, in the rain, 31 October 2017

Beach for a difficult day, 7 November 2017

Beach for a difficult day, 7 November 2017

Boys doing what boys do, 11 November 2017

Boys doing what boys do, 11 November 2017

I wrote trust on my arm, 12 November 2017

I wrote trust on my arm, 12 November 2017

Because you were there then and you're there now. And I love you.  For Louise. 17 November 2017

Because you were there then and you're there now. And I love you.  For Louise. 17 November 2017

I only realised later that the sign I was determined to walk to was C for Colleen, my mother's name. For Tania. 20 November 2017

I only realised later that the sign I was determined to walk to was C for Colleen, my mother's name. For Tania. 20 November 2017

Out of focus heart, 24 November 2017

Out of focus heart, 24 November 2017

Me crying in the bathroom, 30 November 2017

Me crying in the bathroom, 30 November 2017

Mum and me on the family wall in my kitchen, at rest in the warm light.  30 November 2017

Mum and me on the family wall in my kitchen, at rest in the warm light.  30 November 2017

I can see a sky of the bluest bluest blue, from It's a kind of love song, for Mum, 2017

I can see a sky of the bluest bluest blue, from It's a kind of love song, for Mum, 2017

When I made this artwork, for the exhibition I had about you, Mum, I didn't write what I truly meant by it.  It was too painful to write the words then. 

I made this artwork imagining you gone.

Imagining you up there in the ether, free of pain, watching us all from a beautiful sky. 

I wanted to pull this from the show; I disliked it because it hurt me to look at it.  Right now today, I'm grateful I made this work for you to see.  I suspect that all along you knew exactly what I meant.  Right down deep, you always understood me perfectly.

I know you can see that sky, Mum.  I know you're there.  

You looked after all of us your whole life.  You deserve a bit of blue. 

Rest easy, and have some long lovely walks with Portia.

I love you.  

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Word/

feeling/

entry/

drawing.

Every day,

2025.