Learning to See (Part 4)

In the seemingly never ending and ridiculously brisk pace of life it's often difficult to take the advise of others, especially when banal comments like 'Take time to smell the roses' or 'Take some time out for yourself' seem the only offer as the solution to what you might see as a train wreck about to happen or a nuclear holocaust already in progress. In a world where a strong work ethic is God and financial security is the panacea for all ills, time to watch the lawn grow or the paint dry on the walls of your newly renovated suburban castle has been replaced by more mundane pass times such as watching the mortgage grow and the competition's name dry on the office door next to yours. After all, photographers have to eat. Some days it seems as though your very own heart rate can't keep pace with the blood that flows through your clogged arteries.

Yet, for some inane reason that is completely beyond me, I have chosen a profession that requires just that: a pause, momentary as it is, to reflect on the present and the past, to spend some time pondering the life of another human being, to give life to their Truth, their Beauty, to render their purpose purposeful. My life is filled with imagery, photographs taken by myself and others that require a presence, an understanding, a vision to produce and an insight to read. Each one of these images requires of me to 'smell the roses', to give the value they deserve.

But why?
I don't have time for this! I'm a busy man. I have 'things' to do, 'places' to go, 'people' to meet, 'business' to deal with. When do I have time to look at my own images, let alone the myriad of visual stimulation thrown at me on a daily basis, all geared to influence my thinking. Buy this, sell that, the shock of the old and new, now for the news, a touch of beauty mingled with the torment of a nation, sickness and well-being all neatly parcelled in a box and plastered onto the screen or tabloid before me. Stop! Look at me! I'm the best. My photograph is the Truth. It holds the answers to all things. Emulate me and your dreams will come true. Envy me because what you see is unattainable. Dare to like what you see and I will stay with you forever. Hate me and I will have won.

This is a terrible dilemma for us all. We swim through the sea of sensory stimulation willingly, constantly tortured by the savagery of other people's skills. We are the baited fish dragged behind the boat, desperately dodging the snapping jaws of the frenzied school of sharks. Everyone wants their bit of flesh and all we want is to be dragged from the water screaming so we can drown in our own misgivings. Our dream changes from 'I can do that' to 'I wish I could do that'. We wait desperately for our Flickr graph to rise or the blog counter to tick over. When it doesn't we have failed, when it does, other's have failed. 'Nice colour' the comment reads. Is that it? Is that all they can see? 'What lens did you use?' Do they also chase the bait? Is it me they emulate, or it it my photograph they want to copy? I really do need to smell the roses. But where do I find them?

Each day I spend a few moments with the photographers and their work; just staring. I dream of places I have never been. I meet people I do not know, I look at cherished objects and battles fought and lost, a shed in a field, a car crash, a well worn path, a new born baby and a grieving wife at a funeral. I also look at my own images and remind myself of why I do this thing called photography. Above my favourite chair is a framed photograph of some flowers. It holds no special place except to exist for its own sake. It is the answer to all things, the god I seek, the tranquility I need, the space in the chaos, the dream, the 'rose' in my garden. As I look down at the book I am reading I am reminded of what its all about. Its not about the photograph or the winning or the ego that sometimes replaces my common sense, or lack of it. Its about the struggle, the lack of understanding, the inadequacy, the guilt, the search. That's what we do from the moment we eagerly take the first breathe to that fateful and inevitable time we gasp the last; photographers no less than others.

As T.S. Eliot pointed out to us all:

"... Each venture
Is the new beginning...
...what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate - but there is no competition -
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again ......
For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business"

I still keep trying to see; for myself and for others.

Learning to See (Part 3)

By the time I'd reached my late 30's I knew it all, at least I thought I did. I was secure in a good job, my photography was being well received and keeping me busy, I had a family, living in a comfortable cottage in the Australian Bush which I had built with my own bare hands (and a few of my friends' bare hands as well), and there was a future in sight, dim and clouded as it was.
The euphoria that accompanied this apparent  state of well being and contentment was also supplemented by a strange emptiness that filled my waking hours and a few of my sleeping ones as well. It was nothing I could put my finger on but it seemed I had a need to complete some unfinished business that was yet to be identified; maybe even commenced.

In an effort to resolve this inner struggle, I read. Anything from 'Zen  and the Art of Motor Cycle Maintenance to the Bible, all of which were ploys at explaining someone else's problems; certainly not mine. I didn't need a road trip or a God, I needed a simple answer. Two hundred pages of Buddhist ideology while standing on my head in some exotic yoga position wasn't giving it to me; just a head ache and a bad back.
While all this deep and meaningful stuff was transpiring, I had not seen my Old Man for some time so I called him up, and on the pretence of building something from wood which I knew he would be quite happy to interfere with, I asked him to come and stay awhile.
He turned up on the next train with his usual attire; dressed like he was going fishing and carrying only a small tartan bag from which the smell of week-old prawns emanated and the tip of a telescopic fishing rod protruded.
It's an Ugly Stik. You could tie a knot in it. I assumed he meant the rod.
 He travelled light, my Old Man, but not fast.

After he had inspected my craftsmanship on the cottage and the new project, a large barn adjacent to the house which would be my studio and workshop, he settled into a shady spot on the verandah where, I imagined, he would stay until I took him to the train to return him home at some undetermined point in the future. He would muster enough energy during this dormancy bordering on hibernation to assist with the technical aspects on the building site - and fish. Occasionally he would break into conversation when he was reminded of something in his past. An old joke (which I had usually heard before), a place or person he recalled (who was more likely dead or missing), a song that came to mind (often something obscure he had heard on his favourite radio station: Triple J).
Do you remember so-and-so? I wonder what he's doing now? Looking up from yesterday's paper.
I invariably couldn't help him in his eager search for knowledge. He would return to his paper and scratch his balding head as if to find the answer in among the newsprint, possibly the obituaries.
Not many of the blokes are left. He would mumble. He might add as a recourse for his own persistence.

Towards the end of his stay, although I still wasn't aware of any use-by date at that stage, I borrowed a small row boat so we could venture out into the river early in the morning to catch the changing tide and, hopefully, a few flathead for which the Macley River was famous. As we rattled around with the trailer in the pre-dawn darkness, he took note that I had loaded my camera.
You fishing with that thing? He asked.
Thought I might catch a few shots while we fish.
Not while I'm fishing, you won't.
I knew the directness of my Old Man was harmless but none-the-less to be heeded if I was not to be reminded in the future (possibly for the rest of my life) of my forthcoming transgressions if I ignored him. The camera, much to my vexation, was returned to the house. As far as I recall it was the first time in twenty years I had been without it on such an occasion. It just didn't seem right. It felt as unsettling as failing to wear jocks with woollen trousers.

When we hit the river it was still dark. The silence was only broken by the smooth running of the tide, the splash of an occasional tailor feeding on bate fish and the rattling of the trailer chain. We slid into the water with a swoosh and paddled out into the blue-green darkness. The sky overhead appeared like black satin, brilliant with an infinity of stars. Something black passed a shadow across the void; a bat on its way home most likely. The air was warm and humid. A light flickered on the water, then vanished. Neither of us spoke.
We found a place to anchor and strung our lines out into the tide to wait for it to turn. We waited in silence, still as a tombstone in a churchyard he sat, humped over slightly, arms pushed forward with the line in his hand, staring into the blackness. I could well have been alone.
First light appeared. A yellow streak pushed its way into the sky above us like a finger pointing at our past and the arm to which it was attached would drag our future into the new day. I automatically reached for my camera before I remembered that it didn't have a place on this boat.
Lost something? He said
I wish I had my camera with me.
He remained silent.

As the morning progressed and the light got stronger, the panorama of the river unfolded. This was by far one of the most picturesque places along the river, with its fleet of fishing vessels nestled into the shelter of a tight meander and the bridge dividing the sky from the water. In the background was the silhouette of Smokey Cape and Yarahapini and through the next thicket of mangroves the Pacific Ocean could be heard, roaring at the coastline before the yawning mouth of the Macley. I had photographed this place many times over the past years and it never failed to present a new, fresh and breathtaking vista. I itched for a viewfinder through which to look.
The Old Man pulled his line from the water. As I recall, it was the first time he had dried his line since we anchored.
I bet you wish you had your camera now. A wry smile sprung from his face and he winked slowly just to let me know who was in control.
Now all you can do is look at it. He added.

It always takes me a while to understand the implications of his veracity for briefness. Reading between the lines was something I grew up with in any conversation with my Old Man. He was the most understated overstatement I knew. It was like having a ten metre sign at the front door that simply said 'Enter' (in small print). It was like a driving test without the manual, a dictionary without all the letters, a play with the middle act missing, a song without a chorus, a 'Dear John' letter without the 'goodbye'.
Yet, in a single moment on that river, in the early hours of a November day, my Old Man provided me with all the answers I ever needed. Up to that point, I had viewed the world as if I was photographing it; recalling it later in a two dimensional flatness that I believed was everything. I had missed the point again. I had missed the real thing all along. My emptiness was beginning to fill. Once again I could begin to see why I was here on this river. Not to photograph it but to take it in, to enjoy it, to live it now, to sense it with everything I had. No distractions, no philosophies, no sales pitch for the customer, no display for the office wall. Just be here and take it all in. To share the experience as it happened.

And I did. We both did. Together we sat for an hour or so and watched. I don't remember everything I saw that day while sitting there in that small boat with my Old Man but I do know I was there, in every sense of the word, with every sense of my body, taking in what I could. Once again I was learning to see and it was so fulfilling it was almost painful. I don't remember if I had a tear in my eye but I should have.
Had enough? He interjected, after what seemed to be an eternity in an instant.
He dropped his line into the water once more.
You didn't bait up. I enquired
I'm fishing, not catching. As if one might interfere with the other.
Er, Dad. Thanks for that.
I don't talk when I fish. That controlled smirk returned briefly. He returned to his distant gaze at the scene before us. I don't believe I had ever seen the river in such a way before.
And I'm still learning to see it.

Window shopping

Yesterday it's Cartier, Hugo Boss or Tiffany's. Today it's Myer or Bett's. Tomorrow it will be K-Mart and Target.
A window display provides an opportunistic glance at another world; usually one we cannot afford. We are tempted by our own greed, manipulated by our own self-interest, coerced by our personal desire to be what we are not, to climb the social ladder, look different, be different, be respected and loved for what we want, have and give; to endow ourselves with status in an effort to put ourselves above the statistics of the ordinary person in the street.

The 5mm of glass that separates our world from that of the land of commerce gives a false transparency. It shows nothing of the smokey cloud of delusion that misleads us. Well polished articles with minuscule price tags turned down, glimmering under the purity of a halogen glow, resting in a silken nest or on an outreached hand who's stony sole is hidden by a satin glove. All this cosmetic camouflage provides no clue to the penance we must pay if we enter.

How we are tempted. 'Sale' is the burgeoning catch word, in bold white letters against a blood red background. The Sale is perpetual, feeding its ever hungry bowels with last years stock. A bargain is always in store for those who dare to enter.
But such proportional reduction would only bring the prize within glancing reach. The smiling assistant reaches for her chain of keys and unlocks the lacy fortress. Her movements are slow and purposeful to ensure maximum suspense. The buyer is unaware of the temptress who feeds from the serpent's tree, extending her hand like a viper, sniffing the air for prey. He is dazzled by his own avarice.

I believe this was the item you were interested in, sir.
More than interested, he thinks. Intensely impressed. What rewards he could reap with such a gift? What opportunities await when he wears such apparel? How irresistible he will be?
How better life will be when it is mine? This gem, this jewel buried in gold, this technological perfection, this piece of fine craftsmanship must be mine. I cannot live without it. It is the air I breathe, the water running over my tempered brow, the sustenance that keeps me from the grave, the God that will keep my sole. It is Me.

He reaches out, feeling the alluring pull like a meteor trapped in a spiralling orbit. The treasure touches his skin and he feels the flames within him kindle into life. Little does he realise, the very oxygen that keeps him alive now surges through those flames as the spiral turns to a steep decent, heading for an explosive grave.
The moment of truth has come.
How much is it?
It almost seems crass to have asked. He knows his limits but not his own limitations.

His heart sinks. His dreams are shattered. He pulls his hand back, turning his palm downwards in a gesture that is understood by any aggressive reptile. Submission is his. He has no will. His life has ended. He stands before his demons, lashing out with all his will. There is a final blow from the serpent.
Master Card, perhaps?
She'll know, he thinks. There's no deceit in a receipt. He finds inner strength, spurred on by past experiences. He searches for the words that will end all this. A final blow. A formidable surge of determination that will return him to safe ground. The street awaits his return. He is ready.
I'll give it some thought. Can you hold it for me?
A brusque smile is her reply. She knows him well, this suitor, this charlatan this fraudulent impostor.

Like a one night stand he is gone, tail between his legs and hand on his wallet. As she turns to return her prize to its nest, another face stairs back at her. She is momentarily mirrored in the smoothness and for that instant she is startled.

Am I the prize? She asks. Am I Alice in the Wonderland of glitter. I don't belong here either. This world on the Other Side isn't mine. I too have greed and cannot fulfil it. The world of the window is of itself. There is nothing here but bling. It leaves us hollow and wanting. I am its servant and he is it's slave.
She watches him vanish into the crowd and beckons him to return and take her instead. She offers no pretence and her price is small. Hope and promise is all she asks. He'll not find that in any window.

Learning to See (Part 2)

My memories of growing up are always accompanied by the heat of a Sydney summer; stifling and submissive, covered with suburban blue sky tainted with a tincture of dust and an odour of freshly mowed grass and rubbish bins left in the street too long. My view of this world of cobbled streets and clattering carts was framed by a small, lace curtained, sash window above my bed. What entered through this rectangular aperture each day was a passing parade of life as I new it. Friends, family and neighbours came and went through the squeaky gate, my sisters played hopscotch and chattered with boys along the verge, Snowy barked at the postman, Bob the Bookie made his regular visits to Dot and Wally's place across the road, providing them with the latest odds for Rose Hill races.  The camphor laurel tree shed it's leaves without ever becoming bare. The light through the rusty fly screen woke me in the morning and the street lights kept me awake at night. The sounds and sights of my childhood emanated from this orifice like a mysterious story told by The Oracle. Passing my days at that window was endless and effortless.
What are you looking at? my Old Man would ask.
Nothing really.
Are you going out to play?
No. I'll just sit here and ........ watch.
My Old Man would leave me to my watching.

I watched from my grandstand pretty much through my childhood and into my teens. Nothing changed, or so it seemed. Then an internal amendment was made to my homeland security. Mayhem reigned in our household. A baby arrived. I was fully aware, by the age of fifteen, how that happens and where they come from. Nevertheless, I was somewhat shocked and concerned that my parents still had it in them to do such a thing. After all, they were my parents. Even now I find the whole thing a bit distasteful.

Understanding that space was at a premium at Number 17 New York Street, a complete reshuffle of personal space was inevitable.
My old man placed his gnarled hand on my shoulder and looked me squarely in the eyes with that steel gray look that said volumes. His was the Rule of Law.
The baby will need the spot by the window.
I gave in reluctantly. After all, the Big Brother must do what he can to accommodate the cute and cuddly new sister. I think my life also depended on it.

Me, my bed and my meagre belongings were relegated to the back room while L'il Sister's bassinet was wheeled into place, fitting perfectly below the well worn sill. A cool breeze ruffled the curtains as if to greet her to my world. She would be happy here, I thought. I kind of liked the idea that I could share my vision with someone.
Each day I would sit with her and explain to her what she might see if she could reach. As she grew and begun pulling herself to the window we would share our excitement as the new day passed us by. Her view seemed limited somewhat to only those things she could realise with her immediate attention. When the old man from Number 9 passed by, she had no concept of his existence beforehand or afterward. It was as though he only existed in the time it took to pass her view. When it rained the drops came from nowhere. When Dad came home at the end of his day he would call to her and she would look puzzlingly before bubbling with excitement at his magical appearance.

I would share with her my experiences as a child as well. My first sight of a car. The flowering of the frangipani. The day they tarred the road. Oh, how I remember the smell and the noise. She giggled at my expression. The night of the fire. I let her feel the fear and comforted her as if she had been there. I was back there again and she was with me, with the frame of our window shielding us.

Eventually she began to tell her own stories in her own bumbling way. I would stare out the window with her as she described the days events and be there in among the passing crowd. I began to see what she saw. She delighted in the understanding of object permanence. The window was now our common perception and we revelled in it.
What are you two looking at? my Old Man would ask.
Nothing much.
Are you teaching her to see?
I guess I am.
After a long silence (my Old Man was filled with long silences) he would peer over my shoulder and stare through our window; the three of us like crows on a fence. How strange that must have seemed to passers-by.

How's the photography going?
OK
My Old Man always had the ability to add to a conversation, a question that left a void for me to fill. It was like reading a book with the last chapter missing and I would have to write it myself.
Many years later, when my father was no longer around to ask me pointed questions, I came across a photographer by the name of Jane Bown. She said she photographed so that others could see what she saw. I think she must have known my Old Man. At least she must have looked through the same window.
I still share that view through my window with my L'il Sister. I hope she sees what I see.

life as a tree

The difference between you and me is minimal. Yes, you, the bloke with the camera. Just for a moment, take your face away from that thing and pay attention. I don't know how long this bout of consciousness is going to last.

As I was saying, if you think about it, we have a great deal in common, you and I. To start with, we're about the same height, although I can't really tell how much there is overhead. You seem to keep yourself in good nick as I do and I reckon we'd be about the same age. What's you're IQ by the way? I'd say there wouldn't be much in it by the look on your face. You can put the camera back up there now. I've seen enough.

You look surprised that I would suggest such a thing. Let's consider the facts.

We both spend most of our life trying to reproduce, right. Spreading the seed around, so to speak. Monogamy isn't really my thing. There's a few of my hermaphroditic floral decorators over there. They just hang around all day waiting for a bug to pass by. Not much fun really, but you take the good with the bad, being a tree. The good thing is there's no pretence. We all look pretty much the same and we don't have to fluff ourselves up like a bunch of orchids to get any attention. The action is a bit lean down here on the inter-tidal flat so you take what comes your way.

 When I'm not chasing a bit of foliage, I spend most of the time just standing around looking useless, just like you. I know. You call it 'retired'. Whatever. However you look at it, you still don't get a whole lot done in a day, do you? I know you can move about. I saw you coming from here. Very impressive. Saw you fall on that rock as well. Very graceful. And where does all that mobility get you? Out here in the hot Sun where I have been all day. You had the choice and you still came out here. Very intelligent.

There's a whole lot of other things we seem to indulge in. as well. It may not look the same but the outcome is consistent with staying alive. Food, for example. You eat, I 'eat'. Trouble is with you, you'll eat just about anything. I've seen some of your wrappings float by on the tide. Not very enticing I must say. Me. I cook for myself - always. Wouldn't put any trust in some teenager to brew me up a batch of carbohydrates. I've heard about their 10 second rule.

Water and a few spices come in handy for the protein build-up. Straight out of the ground. And the air I breathe. Ahhh! Fresh as. Just smell it. You won't get that coming out of any air conditioner.

You're looking a bit hot out there. Come a bit closer and stand in the shade. I'm not here for your calling but I'm happy to share. In fact, I'm not quite sure why I'm here really. Ever since this self-awareness came over me I've had this strange urge to let others know about me. You know; tell them about myself, tap other trees on the branch and say: 'Hey. Look at me. See how good I am. Has anyone got a mirror?' I feel quite self-indulgent. I think I'm developing an ego, whatever that is. I keep looking at my own shadow to see if its the same as everyone else's. Is it too big? Has my trunk got a bit rough? Am I loosing my leaves?

That cluster of gossipers over there have got this thing going between them. I can hear them rustling from here. They're probably talking about me right now. They have formed a Grove who have this strange theory that they have some greater purpose and there's a meaning to all this standing in the Sun and lapping up the salt water. They even mentioned a Big Tree that controls everything and planted us here in the first place. Can you believe that? You put a couple of thinkers together and they immediately get carried away with their own self importance. As if my being here is serving any purpose at all, especially to the likes of you. Why, you come out here, take your pictures and piss off; no thanks, no payment, no gratitude. Then you go back and tell everyone what beautiful photo's you have taken of this great tree you found. Found! I've been here all the time just doing what trees do. Just remember who's keeping the Sun off your balding skull right now.

I think this consciousness stuff is highly over-rated anyway. Its giving me a headache and I don't even have a head.

I'll tell you what. I'll go back to being a tree and just 'doing' what trees do and I'll leave the philosophy tripe to you and your mates, who, I have noticed, have left you out here in the Sun talking to a tree. They're probably laughing themselves senseless right now.

Oh, and if you ever come to your senses and give up all this high and mighty, self-importance nonsense, arguing among yourselves and stuffing it up for the rest of us, come and see me. I'll save you a spot where you can paddle your feet.

One last word. That stuff about Purpose. Forget it. I have it on good authority - and it goes back a way- that we're just in it for the ride. You know, hurtling through space at the rate of knots without a care in the world, occasionally bumping into something along the way just to stir things up a bit. You know, like a mangrove on a mud flat

The meeting place.

Take any point on the planet and at any time of the day or night, something will be going on.
Chances are, if there are people around, they will meet and greet, exchange something in their individual lives and move on.
It may be a tentative and casual connection brought about by coincidence more than construct. An occasional glance, a stance that reflects a common interest, possibly in each other. Questions are raised and not spoken. A secret guessing game. The separation remains amiable but not aloof.
Maybe she'll be here tomorrow. I'll speak to her then.
Why doesn't he say something. I'll come back tomorrow. Maybe he'll be here.
They shift their bodies without eye contact. They're not ready yet.

The space between men signifies the strength of their relationship. Little is casual but must appear so. Even the best of friends keep their personal space sacrosanct. There is a power struggle that remains restrained. Knowledge shared and compared. A boast and brag that stays until the next time. Same place, next week. A nod and no looking back. Move to the next place. Never speak of the last.

In another time and place the same psychology applies. They know it all, about life and politics and the weather and the trouble with their wives and kids and bosses. Nothing escapes their scrutiny. Nothing is solved unless by brute force. It will be forgotten by lunch, some spirit and the heat of the Sun. Until next time when all will be rediscovered as new; with the same definitive solutions. The landmarks are institutional but hear nothing.

In a quieter moment others will accept their lot knowing that 'the good old days' are long gone. They will find shelter under a cloud of reminiscence. The past seems brighter under a winter Sun. Its all been for the better. Common friends and aquantances are mentioned in passing, to add a body of truth to the tale. A date defines a common point. The hours pass and they grow a little younger, a little stronger; ready to face tomorrow.

In some meetings we search for explanation of common ground.
We have met before. We have someone we can discuss and share. The conversation can only last as long as the view is familiar. It might become awkward and stuttered with irrelevance.
It was nice seeing you again.
What was her name?

At what point does a meeting become tactical? Even with the best of friends there is some jossling for a place to begin. The hello's and reflections on the weather, family and work need to pass before either can settle into the raison d'être. Conversation is constructed cautiously as delicate subjects are broached. It is important to include but not to offend. There is a point at which something will be revealed that the other did not know. Some comforting and advice will be forthcoming. The friendship will deepen or divide. The outcome is unspecified.

  
How easy it seems for some to gather in familiar places. Their chatter is chaotic and dialectic. The subject matter is theirs and theirs alone. No-one will ever understand as they move from childhood prattle to adult dialogue through adolescent banter. They cannot be heard or overheard. Their secrets are safe from the crowd that parts as they pass. They will linger for hours, moving from group to group in a well configured pattern and fixed with protocol and heirarchy. Meeting is as important an event as eating and sex.

How convenient is it to meet again, as we did yesterday. Should I ask her for coffee? She faces him now, waiting for the question. Coffee would be nice. This is close enough. Tomorrow I'll bump into her, without knowing. How many meetings like this are appropriate? You work in the office across the road, yes? That's enough for today. The lights have changed. Their lives have changed.

 
They wander through the streets. These people. From meeting to meeting. Intersecting lives, sharing fragments of information about themselves and others, about the world, their homes, their families, their aspirations, inspirations and sometimes just a moment of their time. They take each meeting with them to the next.
Did you see such and such today?
I ran into so and so yesterday.
Tomorrow I'm meeting with her for lunch.
I haven't seen him for ages. What's going on?

There's a comfort in meeting. Being in the same place at the same time has a universal expression of sharing. We may never meet again but I will take this with me into the future. In that you will live as long as I do. The place will be a monument to our existance. This bench is ours. The meeting place belongs to us, and to the next who spend their short moments here.

Learning to See (Part 1)

On any Sunday I would find myself at my father's side, standing before a masterpiece in some gallery. There was a ritual to follow. Silence at first. I watched him from knee height, absorbed in his fascination for the image in the frame. A Constable, Manet or Titian, it mattered not. The stance was the same. Hands by his side, head tilted slightly upwards, a barely distinguishable smile that I had learnt to recognise and only a son could see. A tall. proud man, well dressed, creased and cuffed trousers, shiny brown shoes, a soft open necked shirt, hair well groomed and glimmering in the dimmed light of the gallery.

After the silence came the questions.
What do you see?
I would explain. Trees, people, a woman and a child, a man lighting a fire, leaves on the ground.
Tell me what they are doing.
Resting. Preparing lunch.
Then a bit more silence.
Now I want you to be the artist.
I can't paint.
You can see. See what time of day it is. See how close the woman is and how far away the man is. See the space between the trees, the colour of the leaves on the ground, the clothes they wear, the look on the faces. Here. Hold up your hand. Point to the child. Paint the eyes. I did as he suggested. Carefully I outlined the eye, then the other. I could see the sparkle. It blinked at me. There was always so much more to see.
Now smell the smoke from the fire. It's gum smoke and it bites at the back of your throat and makes your eyes water. Smell the dust from the ground and the mould from the leaves. Smell the richness of the air with the odours of the Bush.
Can you feel the leaves under your feet? The heat of the morning falling to the ground. No breeze. The weight of the child on the mother's lap. It's you. Now feel the weight of life on the father's shoulders. I never understood that bit for a long time.
What's for breakfast? Can you taste it? Some milk, perhaps, for the baby. Porridge on the fire, honey from a hive. Tea.
WeetBix and cold milk.
He laughed quietly and nudged me affectionately.
Yes. WeetBix.
Now listen. Carefully. A whip bird calling. Something moves in the trees. The clatter of sticks as the man builds the fire, crackling into life. Can you hear their heart beat. I could hear mine.
Silence. I could hear my father breathing. Other patrons pass by but don't stop. A woman stares at us as if we are lost. We are, in a wilderness of wonder.
Its like a window, Dad.
Its the artists window. He wants you to see what he sees. Every time you look through his window you will see something new, a little more of the artist and what his world looks like to him. That's a very special thing he does for you.
I wish I could paint.

Use your camera instead. Show people your world through your window. I can hear him say it now.
Will they see what I see?
You'll have to show them how.