The art of the wistful wisteria

An hysteria of wisteria clambers over the wall and along the trellis

wistfully escaping her winter tendrils

and poised,

she droops over the arbor like a series of delicate oriental lanterns

festooning the way in a blaze of lavender.

Her joy is palpable as a swarm of local bees discover her inner beauty

.... droning in and around her miniature iris-like flowers.

I am in awe of her beauty,
her colour,
her art ....
for the wistful wisteria
never disappoints.   

© 2012 Francesca Muir

Her name is Effie

And that is all I need to say....

The art of the wooden bench!

I found a wooden bench to call my own ....

Hidden away on an island in the middle of the city

It's a relatively new bench - compared to its surroundings ....

 Sitting alone in a room once full of ship-building turbines

She sits against a worn-out wall - sandstone green with age

Wall cannot recall when she last saw a coat of paint....
but never mind, her beauty shines through the cracks

Her windows are  boarded up in anonymity ....

 .... as if to keep her history hidden from prying eyes



Alas though it's all in vain....

For the echoes of a turbulent past 
reverberate around my little wooden bench 
hidden on an island 
in the middle of the city.

© 2012 Francesca Muir

Life on the road to Ubud

The road to Ubud is extremely busy!

From sun up to sundown, 

people go about their daily chores by foot or by bike.

 I spied the egg man with his fresh fetch of the day ....

.... the cheery soul taking his not-so-cheery daughter to school

.... the man carrying a basket of offerings on his head 
(The fact that he was a pillion passenger was all the more impressive)

.... the gentle-faced basket weaver carrying his wares to the market

.... and the schoolboy with a cheeky grin

Greeting motorbike riders through the car window was de rigeur!

and seated side-saddle, the female pillion passengers and their wares managed admirably

It was indeed a busy trip to Ubud!

The 18th Biennale Sydney 2012

A short ferry ride from The Quay,

World Heritage Listed Cockatoo Island once again is host to

the Sydney Biennale

  

Here,a large number of international artists juxtapose their 

modern creations among the remnants of a bygone

era of convicts and shipbuilders

A few of my favourites include the Euraba Artists and Papermakers

whose creation in the Turbine Shed was a highlight

 

And I loved the wind-scattered

 Giant letters littering the Prison Courtyard

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And in the Chapel of the Old Convict Precinct I coveted the collection of 

threads and cuddles  covering the ancient wooden floor

 
 Sometimes it was difficult to tell what was art and what was reality

And snapping the snapper was always interesting

British artist Philip Beasley enchanted with his ethereal moving lights ....

Whilst the Museum of Copulatory Organs mesmerised some 

and left others somewhat nonplussed!

For me the most poignant was Nadia Myer's Scar Project

.... an emotional journey on canvas
.... on an emotional journey 
to an island forged by 
decades of human endeavour.

© 2012 Francesca Muir

My Little Stone House

This is one of my great loves!

A little crumbling stone house with faded blue doors and shutters in a village nestled into a hillside in Eastern Crete.

 When I first met her in the late 1980s she sang to me.
There was something about the peeling patina; the crooked way the doors and shutters sat in the old stone wall; the well-worn stone step at the front; the slightly crooked roof line and the rusty hinges. 

Recently there have been many changes to this part of the world. 

There are now “holes in the walls” for 24-hour banking; tavernas which home deliver and everyone, even the local shepherd has a mobile phone!

But my crumbling little house has hardly changed at all.

Every year, the oleander bush at the front continues to flower in summer; die back in autumn, endures a severe pruning in winter, ready for buds in spring.

Her old stone walls have chipped and peeled and she's been propped and prodded to fill the gaps and the old girl has seen a splash of faded paint at some stage.

  

But her shutters are still weather-worn.  Faded. Peeling and sun-bleached. They still hang in a crooked line and the ironware has rusted even further.

She has aged sublimely.

Oh that I could own her,
for I would leave her just as she is. 

To forever stand on the narrow cobbled street leading to the mountains as a gentle reminder 
of 
what was, 
what has been 
and sadly, 
 what will never be again

May she never change
For great beauty only ever comes with great age.