Tale of the rut

Tale of the rut

As usual, I appear to have been tardy with my blogging. As always, I have a wealth of good & valid excuses (the ubiquitous ‘life’ definitely featuring). But perhaps, all being consenting adults as we are, we could just deem such fripperies unnecessary and gleefully move on into the late-Spring sunshine.

Except of course not literally as I’m sick in bed and well, you’re probably not in Canberra.

Prior to gracefully taking to my sick bed this morning (read: hobbling to the kitchen to refill my hot-water bottle before stumbling back into it’s white-sheeted embrace) I’d been in a bit of a rut.

Throw. Teach. Turn. Clean. Work. Bed.

Not a bad rut, and arguably a bit of a necessary one to get through the myriad of things I signed myself up for this semester but a bit well boring. Especially when adopted as a seven day maxim as I did, because being a student means both being able to sleep in till 11am on a Wednesday and also forgoing weekends (meaningless constructs of the professionally employed).

But this rut did leave me with less free time as I kept ending up in the ceramics workshop at odd hours (like 10am Saturday…and then also Sunday) and this combination of less free time and less identifiable wastage of it created less impetus to blog.

Which I’ve just realised makes it sound like I blog because I feel guilty. Which really isn’t the case. I just generally wait (lazily) for the momentum to build which compels me to put digit to keyboard- momentum that has been sapped by my rut (productive though it has been).

I did have an intention to blog last week about a talk I was going to by Mike Parr at his exhibition (which is currently on at the National Gallery) but the whole thing ended up being such a disappointment of substance-less hype that I needed to drown my remaining brain cells in a bottle of Pinot Gris. Which somehow became several which severally impacted my effectiveness for the rest of the week. Hangovers over 23 are actually the stuff of horror movies.

So now, sans the brain cells to compose such arguments on the trajectory of contemporary art, we are left with my observation that people in Canberra must actually hibernate like bears. This being the only explanation I have for why my previously sparsely populated lakeside commute (with its excellent ratio of 5 angry black swans per cyclist) is now akin to Sydney Central Station tunnel in rush hour. 

Having reached the end of my Codral-induced ramble, I will leave you with an image of some of my many pots and my current ponder - why do glazed pots never look as clean & crisp as their formerly freshly bisqued selves? 

Without beginning nor end

Without beginning nor end

Getting naked in the name of art

Getting naked in the name of art