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

December 2017 Fleur Wickes December 2017 Fleur Wickes

It's a dog's life

I walked into the lounge and there he was, asleep in the warm and yellow light.

seth_on_green_couch_dec_2017_29.7x29.7_2000px.jpg

I walked into the lounge and there he was, asleep in the warm and yellow light.

The thing about Seth I have always liked the most is that he has this ability to get the love he needs, without fuss or demand.  

There's a silence about him.  He comes to you quietly, without whining or snuffling, presents his body or head to you for the pats he needs.  And you do pat him, because he's there and he's lovely and why wouldn't you?  I've got a lot to learn from Seth.

When I say Seth needs patting, I do think it is a need in him rather than a want.  My last dog could take or leave the physical affection.  Seth can take or leave food for the most part, but touch he cannot do without.  

Hmmm, they says dogs are like their owners... and yup I'll admit I'm the same as him.  Too long without physical contact and I can feel my body reaching outward of its own accord, increasingly needy.  Thank christ my friends and family are good huggers.

I have a sister Jack.  I don't see her as much as I'd like; she lives in a different city. But when I do all I want is be sitting beside her with my head on her shoulder.  Just being in her company gives me great comfort, and my body gets all calm and chill. Love you Jack.  

When I was kid, there was this tv show called Contact. Remember the theme song?

 

Contact is the secret

is the moment

when everything happens. 

Contact is the answer

is the reason

that everything happens

contact.

 

 I am so with that vibe.

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Archive, December 2017 Fleur Wickes Archive, December 2017 Fleur Wickes

This too will pass

I came across an old magazine while shifting Dad yesterday, an old New Zealand House and Garden with an eight page story about me in it.  Mum had kept for 15 years.  She always was proud of me.

What I wrote on the beam in my kitchen in 2002, rephotographed from the magazine 2017

What I wrote on the beam in my kitchen in 2002, rephotographed from the magazine 2017

I came across an old magazine while shifting Dad yesterday, an old New Zealand House and Garden with an eight page story about me in it.  Mum had kept for 15 years.  She always was proud of me.

Re-reading the article after all this time  was like diving into another life, maybe someone elses. 

The words the journalist wrote talk of my husband, what I wore on my wedding day, my work as an "award-winning" portrait and wedding photographer, the family of four step-children I had then, the home "perched on a hillside in Wellington's Melrose, a wild and romantic spot with views over the Cook Strait to the Orongorongos." 

Of all the things I can see in these pages from the home that was mine - that I created - there are only two things I have kept: the plastic chandelier I got for two dollars at the Red Cross Shop in Newtown that reminds me of the scene in Pollyanna where Mr Pendergast is showing her how beautiful the light cast from crystal can be, and the cruet set on the dining table that I still sometimes use for flowers.

When I got up on the ladder and wrote this too will pass on that beam in our kitchen, I didn't imagine it would be our family and life together that would be one of the things to pass.  I didn't expect to spend a decade bringing up our son on my own.  Hell, David wasn't wasn't even born.  Time teaches brutal lessons, eh.

Since those windy Wellington days, I've had lovers and a boyfriend.  My family and friends and son with me always.  I've experienced so much, grown deeper, grown up.  Come home to my self as a woman, and an artist. But the path I've been on has been mostly solitary.  I understand it's been necessary.  For my life, and my work. 

But I wonder if, in the powerful and necessary letting go I did of the material things that symbolized a love and life passed,  I also by mistake shut the door hard on the possibility of again experincing the very things from those years in that house that really mattered:  a loving partnership, a home to call my own, and a large part of my wide-open heart.

You know what? I want those precious things back. 

Good news.  I closed it that door.  I can damn well open it again.  I'm tired of protecting my heart so fiercely.

This too shall pass.

 

 

 

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December 2017 Fleur Wickes December 2017 Fleur Wickes

Taking it all down

It will be strange though, to no longer have a place to go back to which is full of my mother's things.  She loved her things.  My parents have moved around a lot in their lives, so we as a family don't have a family home as such.   What I didn't realise until now is that my mother's things were our family home.  She was like a turtle and carried what mattered to her with her wherever she went.  But as I said to one of my sisters, she no longer needs them now.

Boy with his bubble on my parent's wall, December 2017

Boy with his bubble on my parent's wall, December 2017

I'm going to Palmerston North today to help my sisters pack my Dad up and into his new place.  He's leaving the home he spent the last years in with Mum.  Most of my mother's things will be distributed amongst us six kids.  Dad doesn't have room for it all.  I am happy for my Dad.  He wants and needs to move on  - he feels her absence too keenly there. 

It will be strange though, to no longer have a place to go back to which is full of my mother's things.  She loved her things.  My parents have moved around a lot in their lives, so we as a family don't have a family home as such.   What I didn't realise until now is that my mother's things were our family home.  She was like a turtle and carried what mattered to her with her wherever she went.  But as I said to one of my sisters, she no longer needs them now.

When I was child - maybe eight - my great grandmother gave Mum and Dad some money.  With it Mum chose to get a whole series of Pears Soap adverts framed.  They were there on the wall as I played  games in the wide hallway of my childhood.  As I skipped and bounced balls and ran my hands over the big old-fashioned brass telephone I was fascinated by, felt the texture of the telephone table beneath it. 

I'm not a big "things" person. I don't keep a helluva lot in my house, aside from photographs and artwork and notes the people I love write to me.  Mum had style and her things worked beautifully in the spaces she inhabited, but I don't need her stuff for myself.  Her things represent her life, not mine.

Instead, I made this photograph.  It has her in it, her love of this print, and it also has me. And my Dad and our family and our life together too.  This boy with his bubbles has been there through thick and thin.  If only he could talk!  The loud fierce arguments, the everyday living,  the big loud love.

I'm going to make a beautiful print of this, frame it. 

Then I can look at it and and picture my parents and their private life together, see them sitting beside eachother in their beige lazyboys watching Masterchef or league, hear Mum telling Dad off for spilling his dinner on his tshirt, hear Dad singing a line in his no-tune voice to her because it irritated her, and because he loved her and it was his clumsy shy way of showing it.  61 years living life beside eachother and as Dad says, they're still together now.  

Wish me luck for today.  Even though I'm feeling strong and have this photograph to keep me that way, it's not going to be easy, taking it all down.

 

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December 2017 Fleur Wickes December 2017 Fleur Wickes

Tie a yellow ribbon

I was getting my morning coffee from the excellent the village snob down by the riverside yesterday, and came across these two ribbons.  One yellow, one black.

I wondered who put them there and why. A memory of a kiss?  Some kind of grieving?

Tie a yellow ribbon, 6 December 2017

Tie a yellow ribbon, 6 December 2017

I was getting my morning coffee from the excellent the village snob down by the riverside yesterday, and came across these two ribbons.  One yellow, one black.

I wondered who put them there and why. A memory of a kiss?  Some kind of grieving?

Whatever the reason, it felt like a tribute to me.  Someone's way of reminding themselves of something that should not be forgotten.

Acts like this - silent and prepared to go unnoticed - sometimes hit me in the gut more powerfully than an entire installation at an art gallery.  

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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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