2013

Attended M’s mothers funeral in Richmond. A woman who saw her father shot by fascists in Greece, raised her brothers and sisters, emigrated to Australia, had children of her own, had a breakdown, or breakthrough as the case may be, found God, became alive again. The word of God was held high––interpreted as a love for humankind. I turned up to the church just before the ceremony commenced. The room was packed. I took a seat. The minister commenced the proceedings. There was much groaning and praising. Amen. Amen. Amen. A man in front of me with a hearing aid sang at full throttle––tone deaf. M’s daughter’s spoke of their love for their grandmother, of how they’d been cherished by her and of her impressive vegetable garden, which I’d been taken around one Easter when a goat had been roasted on a spit. They spoke of her cooking and her silences––quiet moments sitting in her garden. Her dedication to M––helping her raise her daughters, taking them to and from school. At the end of the ceremony her husband threw himself on the coffin in a dramatic display, although he’d taken to ceaselessly yelling at her in the final years, perhaps he had a touch of dementia as can happen to the aged. As the coffin was brought down to the nave of the church the family made an arc around it. No stoic stiff upper lip Anglo-repression, rather full-bodied catharsis; embracing, squeezing, kissing the grief away. I was so out of place, a stranger to all but M and her daughters. M’s mother was a woman who loved people––who helped people. They all showed up for her.

Boundary Speak (Diaries 2013-2021) centrally focuses on reportage of my life’s happenings, notes on readings, phantasms or wild forays, riffs off music or footnotes from poems that take me on a strange journey, ruminations and thought fragments. My outsider artwork is focal on my Re-learn your Alphabet for the Twenty-First Century drawings (some of which are collaborations with my children), my robot series, as well as many other drawings undertaken over the period 2013-2021.