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A Golden Sunday
It’s the fag end of winter, and here and there you can see trees budding, a few brave flowers showing, the sun beaming down on a city that’s no longer quite so bleak. Why, just the other day I took over the cab for my evening shift and the outside temperature in the warm afternoon was 20 degrees. There’s still a cold morning, a frost or two, but we’ve broken winter’s back.
Sunday was a golden day, bright sunshine streaming out of a high blue sky, everything warm and pleasant when I awoke in the afternoon, careful not to kick the drowsy brown Burmese on the foot of the bed. My day off, and I try to spend some decent time with my wife, who barely sees me during the week: a weary iceberg when I slide into bed at about four in the morning, and a grumpy lump a few hours later when she rises to get dressed and go to work.
Today was a treat, a new exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery in its temporary home at Old Parliament House. Beside the High Court they are building a new gallery, but for the time being that’s a construction site, dust and dumptrucks, cranes and hardhats. Old Parliament House is a gorgeous old Canberra building, low and horizontal in its lines, square windows, the old debating chambers maintained in red and green leather, the parquetry of King’s Hall between them echoing to the footsteps of tourists and guides admiring the old official portraits of Prime Ministers on the walls. At the heart of the building is the old Parliamentary Library, which has been taken over by the National Portrait Gallery, home to heroes and hotshots, explorers and entrepreneurs, sportsfolk and singers.
It’s a painted community of notable Australians, a showcase for some of our best artists, and quite simply it is a wonderful area to spend some time admiring talent of all kinds.
Australia has some brilliant artists, and it is a treat to see how they have created not just a likeness of the sitter, but their personality as well.
One of the most brilliant of artists is John Brack, and I love his style, tending towards the semi-abstract, a skewed perspective , a careful hand for details, and a razor-sharp eye for the personality of the sitter. A John Brack painting is not a photograph, not more than a nod towards realism, but at the same time he gets to the heart of the subject. The fixed smile of the ballroom dancer, the heft of the prosperous businessman, the skeletal hunger of a politician. Perhaps my favourite portrait is of the artist himself, razor in hand, confronting himself in the bathroom mirror before breakfast, hair a shambles, eyes still full of dreams, acid yellow tiles behind him.
His wife makes a regular appearance in the oeuvre. Serene, she sits through marriage and four daughters, aging gracefully. The daughters themselves are seen at various stages, from lumpen baby to smiling face under too big hat, a calm foursome on the edge of teens, and finally as confident young women. Perhaps the one I love best is of a small girl on tiptoe, holding herself up on the rim of the washbasin to brush her teeth, determinedly facing the future.
There are dozens of works in the exhibition, ranging from sketches to massive oils. It easily doubles the number of Brack’s works I’ve previously seen, and I’ve spent years attending galleries and exhibitions in search of his work. It is a feast indeed.
Sated for the moment, Kerri and I retire for afternoon tea to the cafe at the rear of the building. We elect to sit under the loggia in the courtyard, taking refreshments where Prime Ministers and Senators once relaxed from their duties. The sun is warm, reflecting off the white walls, and giving the place a languid air. If I was a cat I’d curl up in a corner, but instead we enjoy the food, the location, and each other’s company, before taking another swing through the gallery to mop up the crumbs we’ve missed.
Home again, a lazy evening with a proper sit-down meal, wine and the company of our son. Daughter rings from New Zealand while we are watching TV, and we pass the phone around, hearing her news. She’s enjoying her stay, and loves the school, a tiny country primary school with less than a hundred pupils. She’s off to Auckland next weekend, to tour the bookshops. That’s my daughter!
Much as I like my work, I love the time off even more, especially when I get to spend it happily with my wife.
Sunday was a golden day, bright sunshine streaming out of a high blue sky, everything warm and pleasant when I awoke in the afternoon, careful not to kick the drowsy brown Burmese on the foot of the bed. My day off, and I try to spend some decent time with my wife, who barely sees me during the week: a weary iceberg when I slide into bed at about four in the morning, and a grumpy lump a few hours later when she rises to get dressed and go to work.
Today was a treat, a new exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery in its temporary home at Old Parliament House. Beside the High Court they are building a new gallery, but for the time being that’s a construction site, dust and dumptrucks, cranes and hardhats. Old Parliament House is a gorgeous old Canberra building, low and horizontal in its lines, square windows, the old debating chambers maintained in red and green leather, the parquetry of King’s Hall between them echoing to the footsteps of tourists and guides admiring the old official portraits of Prime Ministers on the walls. At the heart of the building is the old Parliamentary Library, which has been taken over by the National Portrait Gallery, home to heroes and hotshots, explorers and entrepreneurs, sportsfolk and singers.
It’s a painted community of notable Australians, a showcase for some of our best artists, and quite simply it is a wonderful area to spend some time admiring talent of all kinds.
Australia has some brilliant artists, and it is a treat to see how they have created not just a likeness of the sitter, but their personality as well.
One of the most brilliant of artists is John Brack, and I love his style, tending towards the semi-abstract, a skewed perspective , a careful hand for details, and a razor-sharp eye for the personality of the sitter. A John Brack painting is not a photograph, not more than a nod towards realism, but at the same time he gets to the heart of the subject. The fixed smile of the ballroom dancer, the heft of the prosperous businessman, the skeletal hunger of a politician. Perhaps my favourite portrait is of the artist himself, razor in hand, confronting himself in the bathroom mirror before breakfast, hair a shambles, eyes still full of dreams, acid yellow tiles behind him.
His wife makes a regular appearance in the oeuvre. Serene, she sits through marriage and four daughters, aging gracefully. The daughters themselves are seen at various stages, from lumpen baby to smiling face under too big hat, a calm foursome on the edge of teens, and finally as confident young women. Perhaps the one I love best is of a small girl on tiptoe, holding herself up on the rim of the washbasin to brush her teeth, determinedly facing the future.
There are dozens of works in the exhibition, ranging from sketches to massive oils. It easily doubles the number of Brack’s works I’ve previously seen, and I’ve spent years attending galleries and exhibitions in search of his work. It is a feast indeed.
Sated for the moment, Kerri and I retire for afternoon tea to the cafe at the rear of the building. We elect to sit under the loggia in the courtyard, taking refreshments where Prime Ministers and Senators once relaxed from their duties. The sun is warm, reflecting off the white walls, and giving the place a languid air. If I was a cat I’d curl up in a corner, but instead we enjoy the food, the location, and each other’s company, before taking another swing through the gallery to mop up the crumbs we’ve missed.
Home again, a lazy evening with a proper sit-down meal, wine and the company of our son. Daughter rings from New Zealand while we are watching TV, and we pass the phone around, hearing her news. She’s enjoying her stay, and loves the school, a tiny country primary school with less than a hundred pupils. She’s off to Auckland next weekend, to tour the bookshops. That’s my daughter!
Much as I like my work, I love the time off even more, especially when I get to spend it happily with my wife.