Look at Moi

Yesterday I was listening to a program on  Radio National about selfies – those pictures you take of yourself and put up on Facebook. The discussion centred on whether it is OK to post images of oneself as one would like to be seen and whether attractive girls should be self-consciously aware that they are being looked at.

 It got me thinking: this has been a week of self-consciously aware phenomena.

It started with the new Pope. I really wasn’t that interested until I awoke early, turned on my radio, and heard the news that white smoke was billowing – and there was a seagull on the roof of the Vatican, obviously the commentators were getting restless. The buzz was still about who the new pontiff was and eventually when the announcement came it claimed victory for an Italian Cardinal. I read now that the Italian clergy were so dead sure of themselves that they had drafted and early press release and sent it out. 

When the hubbub settled and the TV cameras had panned over the boxes of waiting red shoes, lush red velvet capes and bejeweled vestments,  and  talk about the ceremony and the ritual had flagged, there he emerged in basic white, a wooden cross around his neck, and a greeting of simple good evening. 

Mmmm…what image of self being delivered here? 

Much has been written and talked about in the days following and we are yet to see whether the image of a simple Pope with a focus on social justice gets made over into the pompous head of the Catholic Church. And whether he will deal with the real issues that exist within a celibate, patriarchal,  clergy.  

I visited the Vatican some twenty years ago and the thing that  stunned me most was the Vatican Museums with  huge hand drawn and coloured maps of the new world, and  rooms of ceremonial garments designed and donated by the likes of Henri Matisse. So much wealth in such a confined space. As a child I had sacrificed pennies into cardboard mission boxes to help the starving in Africa. Couldn’t the Vatican have sold one single art work and relieved the suffering of all those unfortunate African babies I had been schooled to condescend to?

I’m house hunting. If there was ever a place where the manipulation of the image comes to the fore this is it. I have decided that the pictures and images that Real Estate Agents put up to sell houses are another version of selfies.  

Pictures are taken and posted at contortionist angles - there is no way I get the same view when I enter the so called elegant sitting room for real; peeling paint is non-evident as the pictures are taken too far away for detail to be seen; there are pictures of one or two enticing aspects of the property – flowers in bloom, a corner of a room with a nice window, and when you get there the rest of the place is a tip.  

Don’t get me started on the weasel words of agent speak like:

·         Cute- so tiny you cannot bring any of your current furniture and should start shopping for your new fit out in dolls house shops

·         Prepared for sale– we’ve only  just sprayed for fleas, so take this mask and hop about a little as you inspect the property

·         close to transport – the railway line runs by the back door and is the main route between the coal mines and the port

·         honest – has never been touched since it was built in 1940 – truly – you can see where the porch used to be.

·         spacious – room enough for two of you to be in the same room at the same time

·         renovator’s dream – don’t even consider it. Full of asbestos, needs rewiring, roof leaking, dry rot evident.

·         Can I help you?– How can I take the maximum amount of your money for the minimum amount of exertion and effort?

Most frustrating of all is the Open House phenomena and the arrival to find that either:

·         The  property has been sold in the 6 hours you have been driving in order to arrive on time for the inspection; or

·         The  property is listed at one price, but the owner wants $25 000 more than is recorded on the agents internet site.

So, I’m being careful of selfie images that are poked and prodded into a version of the object that I am meant to think is true.

I’ll stick with the artist and will rely on the upcoming selfies in the Archibald Prize exhibition where I know that what I am looking at is a manipulation – a likeness.  The artists make it clear that I am being deliberately led to see something other than the photographic surface of the image. And, as Pablo Picasso said when someone commented that his portrait of Gertrude Stein did not look like her:

  

In 50 years that’s how everyone will think she looked. 

 Now there's the self-conscious awareness I admire. 

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Art Work of the Week

Reinterpreting the visual and the literary landscape : The Devils's Marbels and Murray Bail's Eucalyptus.
Larger image can be viewed at thickerthanwater.com.au

Eucalyptus 3 Acrylic, wire, fishing flies on paper 320x280 mm

 

What, Soap?

When my daughter turned thirty I received a phone call. 

You never told me I could expect grey hairs for my Birthday, she cried down the line.

 When she turned 40 the phone call was to tell me she had just found her first grey eyelash.

Bennie has announced this week that he will retire as age prevents him from performing his duties  effectively and we will soon be watching for smoke from the Vatican.

There are a lot of things about aging that nobody tells you.

We are a family that suffers from cramp and seem to need excessive amounts of salt in our diet. Good living purists and health freaks with whom I sometimes dine are appalled by the amount of white stuff that gets sprinkled across my dinner. 

Of late I’ve discovered that the cramps are far more frequently. 

I have imagined that I might have impending thrombosis, a cancer of some sort, some obscure tropical or African disease acquired in my travels and that both my legs would soon be in need of  amputation. I imagined what life would be like without my legs and whether I would be a good paraplegic and a potential Special Olympics contender. For a moment I envisaged myself as the South African  Blade Runner, but ’m glad that thought only lasted a second given his arrest in the last few days. 

In an effort at self diagnosis I have consulted Dr Google and learn that 70% of adults over 50 suffer nocturnal cramps. That figure was a surprise. 

And, it turns out my complaint can be treated with the simplest of remedies. I can have a spoon handy and place it on the offending cramp when it occurs; or I can sleep with a bar of soap under the sheets at the end of the bed. 

Since I don’t live in Ireland where playing with spoons is a mark of a good pub musician, the image of a mad woman continually tapping herself with an item of cutlery – particularly when required in public places - was just a bit beyond my eccentricities. 

So I have opted for the soap.

Instructions call for wrapping the soap in elastic bands and pinning it to the bedclothes so it doesn’t move. I’ve just stuck it under the bottom sheet and hoped for the best.  Mind you, I am worried that should I, by some sheer stroke of luck, or madness, happen upon an attractive and willing playmate, he will wonder what I am doing with an apparent urinal deodoriser in my bedclothes. Hopefully I will get enough notice of the impending event that I can whip away the soap bar before our passions overcome us and we are writhing around in ecstatic bliss.

…oops, where was I?

That’s right – the cramps.

So far the soap is working. 

I’ve been reading recently about the placebo effect and truth be told that may be what I am experiencing. Nevertheless, I am not now writhing about like I am having a fit when I awake or sitting bolt upright from slumber crying out in pain and frightening the neighbours. 

So whatever it is that is working, it’s working..

I’ve got options though should the remedy fail:

·       If the cramps return I am advised to throw out the soap and replace it with a new bar

·       I can decorate a spoon so that it looks like a fly swat and flip away at the cramps as they arise

·       Or, I can go back to reading Tom Stoppard who has already taught me that nothing is insoluble given a large enough plastic bag. 

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Art Work of the Week

 Some would call knitting Tea Cosies a habit that comes with aging.

Cool Running created after a conversation with the honey lady at the Tuggeranong Markets