I am soon off to Europe for a trip and should be full of vim and vigour. At least producing more sketches for my next project, but I’ve done little except moan about toothache, or a pain that could be sinus, or it might be…? Maybe tomorrow the periodontist will come up with a name, but meanwhile a winter sketch has lifted my spirits – a little.
When I learned the Gow Langsford Art Gallery in Auckland was holding an exhibition of New Zealander Frances Hodgkins’ paintings and Mary Kisler, an authority on Hodgkins, was to be speaking with gallery owner John Gow about the artist, I booked in immediately. I arrived early, as many were expected to attend, and I strolled around the gallery taking photos until the rooms swelled with viewers. I, like so many New Zealanders, have been attracted to Frances Hodgkins’ art for a very long time. Being an artist, I admired her determination not to be pigeonholed by any one style. She was adventurous, and prolific, working in many styles and mediums throughout her life. And although Hodgkins moved to Great Britain as young woman and spent most of her adult life there, she is still very much admired and loved by us here.
You may have thought I’d never get going on this idea of a memoir of me as a youngster. True, I didn’t get far, but there were other things I had to do. But now I have looked through my initial rough sketches, and have decided to show them to you, I feel it is a small start. My plan, from here on in, is to complete a couple of images in colour on good paper, using watercolour and pencil, as a trial for the finished product. Today however, it’s just more pencil roughs. Except for the photo of me, left, taken on a Brownie camera in the 1950’s. Yes, I’m that old.
I took this photo the day before flying to Christchurch; A good omen I felt. Kerry and I were off to attend the first night of a play selected to mark the opening of the new Court Theatre in the Christchurch CBD. The original theatre in the old university buildings suffered irreparable damage in the 2011 earthquakes.
The play, The End of The Golden Weather, written 50 years ago by New Zealander Bruce Mason, is a Kiwi classic, and my daughter Lara was honoured to be asked to direct the show. We were thrilled to be at the opening and to see how she would interpret this beloved play. Yes, this was a big deal!
The morning of the play, we were with my sister in Sumner taking a walk along the esplanade. It was a stunning day, and naturally I took a photo, looking along the beach towards the Southern Alps (which sadly, were hidden behind cloud at the time).
Behind me were dozens of surfers, mostly women who were there for a competition. The air was chill, and they all deserved medals for their desire to brave the cold water.
This week I started in on some pencil roughs intended for the future graphic novel. Everything is guesswork on my part, completely experiential, as it’s the first time I’ve embarked upon this genre. Over the months I have picked up and examined many graphic novels, by women, mostly. This has been such an interesting exercise, as they are so different from each other and all brilliant.
I’ve spoken often about how I love to go walking in my neighbourhood, and I didn’t let the previous night’s storm put me off. It was still blowing furiously yesterday when I took off, cap on under my red jacket hood. Sunglasses too, to keep the wind and salt air out. The debris on the footpath had me stop at the end of the block, and there I stooped to uplift a fine collection of fallen goods. I picked up a large leaf, (from a magnolia I guessed), two small pōhutukawa leaves sporting radiant autumn colours, a seed of some sort and a small feijoa. Feijoas are loved and disliked in equal number here. I love them. To eat, one should slice them in half and scoop out the middle with a teaspoon, But this fallen delicacy was way too small to eat.
For all my excitement about my new novel, and tripping about to speak at book stores etc., I admit the busyness over the past few weeks has seen me flop on my bed for ‘Nana Naps’ most afternoons, my thoughts of sketching lost in dreams.
However, I woke feeling fresh this morning (ye ha!) and made a start on sketching three small figs on a saucer, before taking off to walk by the sea. So lovely with the hint of autumn in the air and tui going crazy in the trees.
My batteries were re-charged.
This past week has been rather exceptional, and yes, I am still talking books. My book launch went well, with a good crowd out to support me, and Paradox Books, through whom I am selling my book locally. My old friend Liz, from Melbourne, introduced me and spoke about knowing me from age fourteen. She spoke so well, and was kind, as she’d promised. Then it was up to me to read a passage from my book. Fortunately I love reading aloud, and enjoyed this bit very much. Then came the feeling of being a little bit famous, as there was a queue for me to sign books. I would have posted a shot of me, but decided this image was better.
I apologise for the lack of posts and comments on others posts. The intention has been to write about something other than THAT book (a sketch for a change perhaps?), but truly it’s a topic I can’t get rid of, just yet. I’ve yet to prepare words for a speech, and practice reading a passage aloud for the book for the launch this coming Thursday, and also be part of the gang creating canapés for the occasion. Boy, have I been stressed! Even my usual bubble-bath soak hasn’t rid me of my anxiousness. And then, last Thursday I received the first review of Mrs Forsythe by Terry Toner from Dusty Shelves. (See image above).
Last week I put up a new page on my WordPress site about my books. I have yet to flesh it out, with links to reviews and the like, but take a look, I am open to advice.
This week I received cartons filled with my new book, Mrs Forsythe, and then a different kind of busyness began. My publicist had sent me a list of reviewers I was to send copies to, so they could read it and make fabulous comments (I hope!). Every part in publishing a novel takes time, and wrapping and addressing each book is just part of that process.
ARTISTRY 