Me and Ken Burns

The luthier made a truly stunning thing - a baroque instrument, a viola da gamba. He diligently took photographs of the entire process from the rough bits of wood to final completed instrument. I gathered up the shots and made a wee film of it with iMovie. It was a fantastic process. I didn't really know what I was doing, but nutting out how to crop shots and drop in music and lengthen clips and zoom and all was really fun.  Jane Campion, eat your heart out! Well, maybe not quite yet.


What the luthier does never fails to astound me. His work is superb and sculptural and fine. This instrument, with its beautiful Baroque quirks, caught my heart. The size (smaller than a cello), shape (flat backed with sharp edges) and its extraordinary range (7-gut strings of sound, - and when they say gut, they do mean gut) and its unique, sweet feur de lys embellishment, handpainted with love by the luthier, all came together to make an incredible objet d'art. 


So, if you would like to see how to make a viol in 4 and a half minutes, please do watch this little film, cropped and edited with love by moi. 


iMovie. So good!

I do just have one question though. Why do they call that zoom-y, croppy effect "Ken Burns"? Who is this Ken Burns? Anyone?

I obviously have no idea, but his natty, zoom-y effects are quite jazzy. Thanks Ken!

Local Talent

This one is not to be missed.

Luthier - Go Behind the Scenery

Keep your eye out for the Luthier's Violin No. 3 on this excellent ad selling our wee state.  How exciting to be included with icons like MONA, Cradle Mountain. David Foster and that dude with the alpaca. It fills my heart when the luthier gets a bit of love for the work he does. It took more than 300 hours of hand making passion and an incredible amount of skill to make that beautiful instrument.  A little love for the work goes a very long way.

If you can't see the YouTube screen, click in the link
http://youtu.be/eziM99bFSj0

Love and Lemon Cake

Last Monday evening I raced home to bake a cake for the staff lunch on Tuesday. It was my debut baking contribution at work so I was hoping to pull off something good, something maybe even a little impressive? One could only hope. It was going to be the pear upside down cake. I'd made it a few times before and it always worked. A nice spongey cake topped with a lemony caramel syrup and thin pear slices.

I had a two hour window of baking opportunity before French class so went to work. I knew the danger of baking to a deadline. Cakes often don't take kindly to it. I knew that the best baking is always the result of entering a weird baking zen mode, with no pressure or performance anxiety. Unfortunately these conditions could not be manifested on this occasion, but bake I must.

All went reasonably well, although the cake batter looked a bit curdled and runny, but in the oven it went, while I made, served and ate dinner with the Smiths. At the halfway check, the bottom looked a little black - the oven was too hot.
Damn!

I was getting a bit antsy by this stage. I had no more time to make anything else so this had to work. Oh well, a little extra 'caramelisation' on the bottom wasn't the end of the world. I turned the oven down and hoped for the best.

With five minutes to go till I had to leave to parle francais avec mes amis, the oven timer rang and the cake came out of the oven. It looked ok.

'Thank God.

Now you have to turn these cakes out while they're still warm, don't you?

Here's my fancy cake plate. Its a nice big,flat, white one. A bit slippery on the top, but she'll be right. I'll just put it over the cake tin and flip ...

Fuck.'

That was the moment that the tin slipped off the edge of the cake plate and half the cake splatted onto the kitchen bench.

I removed the tin quietly, lay down my tea towel, walked to the armchair and sat down.

Not only would I NOT be impressing the staff with my baking skills, but I would be that knobber who promised to bake and didn't deliver.
The baking-under-pressure curse strikes again.

It was time to go to French.
I picked up my books, despondently hugged the luthier and smalls and left the ugly cake scene behind.

Halfway through French class I received a text with this photo and the message 'lemon cake'.

The luthier, known for his superb craftsmanship of stringed instruments and the occasional maker of an excellent custard, who has not often before made a cake, had come to my rescue. Covered with lemon butter icing, it was the toast of the staff lunch.


My hero
It must be love.

 

Viola

The luthier delivered a viola this week, his first to be played in our state orchestra, the Tasmanian Symphony orchestra, or TSO, as it is affectionately known. Three of his bows belong to TSO players, but this is the first instrument. It's a big step and a proud moment.

Everything in the luthier and bow making business takes a long, long time. There is a myriad of minute handcrafted steps in every lengthy process. A violin takes 3 or 4 months to be planed, shaped, constructed, carved and varnished. Many of the materials are gathered from all corners of the planet like aged tone wood from Germany. And for bows he uses Mongolian horse hair, silver, pearl, ebony and pernambuco, the endangered Brazilian rainforest wood that can now only be reclaimed from buildings and packing crates. Animal glue, oil varnish, and mother of pearl - the elements are alchemical and exotic.

The luthier has spent the last 12 years carving out, little by little, not only beautiful, resonant instruments and now bows, but also handcrafting a reputation for excellence, if only on our little island, as yet.

I can't wait to drink in the sight and sound of this viola (and its talented and discerning owner) in action on stage with the TSO. And to see the luthier acknowledging,in that moment, all the work he has done and to, perhaps, consider the possibilities of all the musicians and stages that his instruments and bows are yet to grace all over the world.

Remind me to pack some hankies.

Filling the Gap

It might be boredom, or midwinter blues, but we've decided we would quite like to move to New York. That should be totes easy, shouldn't it? Finding jobs, getting visas, finding schools and moving the 5 of us to the biggest of big towns? Easy. 


About 457 people we know (or at least 7) have visited the Big Apple this year. It must be a sign. 


Sigh,... we can dream. 


Ten years ago the luthier was offered a job on Long Island and sadly, we couldn't get a visa. No money and not enough qualifications held us back. It wasn't all bad though because then we moved from a very unsatisfying, debt-collecting life in Melbourne with a baby on board to an easier life in Tasmania. I remember one of the girls I worked with in Melbourne at the time read auras. She was very excited because she said mine was green and that indicated that moves and changes were imminent. You should have seen her face when I told her that she was right, but, it wasn't New York we were moving to but sunny Launceston! Her disparaging response was very unmystical. But hey, New York - Launceston. Same same. 


Tassie is extremely kind to us. And my heritage, on my father's side, is so embedded in this island's soil that no matter where we are, this will always be home. (I am fifth generation Tasmanian through my grandfather and 7th on my grandmothers' side, or something like that. Luckily my mother is English or the gene pool I'm swimming in would be more of a puddle.) Tasmania is a beautiful home. But I am itchy. My feet are itchy. 


Most islanders leave for university and travel the world. They live in the big Australian cities and then many come back. A friend of mine once described it as feeling like you are attached to the island with a huge elastic band, You can leave and travel the world for years, but there is always a little tug that bounces you back home. 


The luthier and I lived in some big towns, but we didn't travel the world in our youth and now that we are dead-set, middle aged, we both feel like we would love to take on the challenge.  That's right, there was no gap year boozing in Ibiza or playing in London pubs had by us. No touring Europe, working in bars or funny secretarial jobs for random businesses. One of my sisters had a short-lived job in the UK working in one of the country houses of a lesser royal, blacking the grates and warming beds like a chamber maid and then going out and getting plastered on pints of ale on the weekend on her travelling adventures. 


We have been lucky enough to get a travel taste with our French journey and we are hungry for more. The luthier dreams of more contact and experience in a place where the real luthier action is, and who can blame him? The biggest limitation of the island is its isolation, which is also one of its greatest blessings.


I turn 40 this year, is that too late for a gap year?

Rewards for the Daily Grind

A couple of months ago I had a mega meltdown. The domestic grind got me desolate and depressed.

I was working hard so that my husband would successfully pursue his vocation and so that the kids would blossom in an exceptional educational environment. This facilitation of their success was not delivering quite the satisfied, warm fuzzy feeling I had hoped for. For a while I tried to simulate the feeling of being rewarded by buying myself shoes and eating chocolate. But the buzz from these hits wears off fast and my jeans got tight. So one Saturday, its always a Saturday, my bubble broke. I woke up and burst into tears. I bawled for ages and when the luthier bravely came in with a cup of tea and asked what was wrong, between heaving, snotty, ugly-cries, these words burst out from my very innards in  a sobbing staccato:

"There


Is



Nothing


In


This


For


Me"


I know, very self-pitying and ungracious and ungrateful etc, but in that moment, for me, it was the essence of truth. I suspect I am not the only mother in the world who has felt like they are facilitating everyone elses' joy, and not getting much in the way of personal reward in return?

Now, before I go further, can I just say that this was one day. Many days I like my job and a lot of the time I get huge joy from watching my kids and my husband grow and succeed. I am grateful for being employed and what that means for us. I am also acutely aware that this depression, this unrewarding state is a situation utterly of my own making. Not investing enough in my own dreams is no-one's fault but my own.  But, on this  day (and a few others) I was overwhelmed with sadness and the feeling that the happiness of my loved ones was being gained at a cost to me that was to high for me to carry. And so I melted down.

This staccato cry of honesty. Revealing the guts and gore of my dissatisfaction changed everything. It was not pretty, but it was the truth. The luthier saw me, exactly where I was. He listened. He took me by the hand and gently propelled me out of bed. He took me by the hand, herding the children as we went. Putting one foot in front of the other, though I was fragile and  panicky and shaking, together we stepped, us and the children, along the river in the autumn sun. Silent. Slow. But forward. Step by step, with the sun shining on the tantalising glimmer of potential change.

With the light  and the motion appeared the possibilities. For days after slamming into this black full stop,  and then beginning this slow motion,  me and the luthier walked through our options. What had felt like being utterly stuck in a fathomless hole, became a journey through a tunnel. With every step, another possibility emerged from the gloom - strange and fantastical, practical, huge, teeny, even infinitesimal shards and shifts in perspective. As they emerged we picked them up and handled them. We ruminated, tasted and tried each one on for size. Some, prickly and uncomfortable, were quickly discarded, while others were embraced, fleshed out and adopted and the energy they generated propelled us further still. From some possibilities we just kept little pieces. Tiny idea fragments that we put in the basket for later. Never knowing when they might just fill a gap.

Changes have been small but the shift has been significant. the road is slow. We have distilled our current possibilities to an essence. Now, our eyes are more firmly set upon the prize, the daily grind has purpose and the potential for rewards for all of us. Travel is our goal. Trips and outings big and small. Our eyes are set on days out, minibreaks, jaunts, journeys, and adventures of all kinds.

Breaks from domesticity. Rewards for the daily grind


Potential purchases are measured in miles. No more shoes. Shoes are a trip off the island and you never know when that might be just the thing required.

Last weekend we cashed in our first miles and paid ourself with a modest minibreak. Heading south to the city nestled between Wellington and Derwent, we escaped. Our weekend home was a sweet, French-style apartment in a mansion near the beach.

Across the road was good coffee and breakfast. The beach, with a river dressed in spinnakers, was only skipping hops away.

We had money to spend so we bought things and went out for dinner, saw the beloved cousins, uncle and aunts and played together.

The trips catalyst was to see J perform with his school choir and 300 other school children from choirs from all corners of the island and beyond. I did not take enough tissues. They should put a warning on the program when groups of small children sing songs like Eric Clapton's "Tears In Heaven" . The Treblemakers (don't you love a musical pun), J's choir crew, rocked the house. The show was one of many in Hobart's Festival of Voices which warms the city with sound and light in the frosty heart of mid-winter.  After his triumph at the school soirée crooning 'Count on Me' by Bruno Mars while accompanying himself on bass guitar, comfortable and confident, like he had been performing all his life, and a great school report, the rewards of our choices were evident.


For me, the icing on the weekend cake was a few hours in bed with Kevin.

We took the less travelled road home and found snow and lakes.

Everyone needs and deserves a break from the domestic routine and a reward for the daily grind.

What rewards are your heart set on?

Good Things

In no particular order:

'The Elegance of The Hedgehog' by Muriel Barbery.
I love this book. True love.

Monday night French class.
This class is just good fun. Adult classes, in my experience, can often be quite torturous, depending, of course, on the group. This crew of French talkers are hilarious folk. We get together mingling and mangling French and English over vin rouge in a plastic cup and a little fromage. The classes are offered by our local Alliance Francaise, of which I have somehow become Treasurer (I don't know how that happened). This week we learnt the handy phrase. 'Elle est passée à la casserole. It means 'She got laid'.
Our French teacher, well, we love her because she's cheeky.

Book group.
Our group has been going for nearly seven years. We've shared births, marriages, deaths, moves, new jobs, and lots of laughs and books. Last Monday there were the great ladies, red wine, wagon wheels, Tim Tams, of course (there are always Tim Tams) and big laughs. We didn't discuss the book much. Instead stories were performed with big gestures and funny voices. The book for this month is 'The Spare Room' by Helen Garner.
An excellent read.

Breakfast table.
When I got home from bookgroup, all the Smiths were asleep and the breakfast table was set and the uniforms laid out ready for an organised morning. The luthier told me that his grandma (she was the country kind that always had coco pops AND fruit loops and made meringues with the egg whites and custard with the yolks) always set the breakfast table, and even on the night she passed away, cutlery and crockery were laid out, ready for morning. (I bet she had one of those net milk jug covers with the beads to weight it down.)

Bloggers meet.
A local gaggle of bloggers got together over a work day lunch at the QVMAG at Royal Park (one of my favourite places) this week. Organized by Tanya from Suburban Jubilee, it was a pleasure to put faces to blogs, to see bloggy friends and to talk about the who, why and how of blogs and blogging. An incredibly stimulating chat with a joyful bunch of people. Thanks Tanya, I hope it becomes a regular thing.

Saving.
Money is not a usual topic for my blog but I am chuffed to have reached a little savings goal. The Barefoot Investor is definitely a good thing. Excellent, simple financial advice having nothing to do with budgets. To me, the word 'budget' has the same effect as the word 'diet'. It makes me want to immediately spend all my money on something utterly superfluous and/ or eat a whole packet of biscuits. So after a lifetime of being unfeasibly useless with money, the advice of the clever Mr Pape has brought us to the point of having savings and a plan. Not just good, bloody miraculous really!

The luthier has finished a violin and nearly finished two violas. They are beautiful. He is not too shabby either.


Blocks of Lindt chocolate are on sale at the supo. The 'Coconut Intense' is my current fave, and when they do that 2 for whatever deal, it would seem rude not to buy at least ... 4.

And today on my midweek weekend, the sun shone brightly and I got to hang with my dear old friend while our girls put on too much blue eye shadow and lip gloss.

Life is full of good things.

Schedule

Me at work.
The luthier on all school runs plus Mummy pick ups not to mention the small matter of a luthier-y to run.

Three kids at a school with a heavy schedule.
Drama, orchestra. cello, ballet, cricket.
Orchestra and French for me and the luthier.
Not to mention the endless dinners and those gosh-darned Lunchboxes ... peeeyerf!

Squeezing in some friends and fun or we will go crazy.

Phil declared yesterday that he doesn't have time to scratch his nuts.
I said "Yes you do, scratching time is between 6.30am and 6.35am.'
He protested "But that's farting time."
And I told him that some elements of our schedule will just have to be combined or we'll never get everything done.

Present and Proud

Great things have happened over the last two weeks. We adventured to Killiecrankie Farm at Glengarry and selected a beautiful tree from the beautiful Lee. Christmas alternately shines and looms on the near horizon.

The luthier and his Camerata Obscura performed a breathtaking concert of Mendelssohn and Dvorak on Wednesday night. Piano and violin solos of the complex and ambitious Mendelssohn piece stole the show. The second concert of this sweet small orchestra was a smash. I think the luthier was a little chuffed, as well he should be. The giveaway was the next day he began referring to himself, in jest as an 'impresario'. I like it.

The luthier spent years watching his father play and teach violin and musical direct show after show, and a quartet in the kitchen was not a rare occurrence. Taken far too early by dreaded cancer, his father would be amazed at the luthier now. He didn't see his son become a man, a father, a luthier, a bow maker or an impresario. But at the concert on Wednesday night, I am certain he was present and proud.

The Luthier's Cello No. 10

This is the luthier's 1oth cello being played so beautifully by a mystery cellist. This wee film shows just a little bit of the magic that the luthier creates with his own hands.

And he brought me breakfast in bed yesterday after I have spent the last few days being a surly cow. He is the best.

Happiness is a new zine

"Happiness. This is an uncomfortable word, too full of associations of cheerfulness and mindlessness. I prefer fulfilment. The goal is to have a fulfilled life, which means enduring periods of great difficulty, but in the name of something worthwhile. Also, it feels vital to conceive of happiness as something one might, at best sample in 10-minute bursts. To imagine a decade of happiness seems insane- happiness is a rich food that we can'[t stomach for very long. We're creatures built on anxiety and apprehension. That's how we survived." - Alain de Botton

I found this kernel of wisdom in a new mag I stumbled across. It's called "The Smith Journal" and markets itself as

With a name like that how could the luthier not love it?   He did like it, but  he is suspicious that it contains mostly writing by women about men rather than real men talking real men's business. However, it has great pictures of cars and shoes and sheds made from upturned boats. The photos are beautiful in that Frankie-style sepia way, and there are some great short stories. The piece by Monsieur de Botton, my favourite modern philosopher, is entitled "Ten things I Believe" and worth a read if your are feeling a little philosophical.

The Wisdom of The Luthier

Last night the luthier reminded me that sometimes I don't have to search very far to tap into the wisdom of the ages. He asked me about the book I was reading - "The Happiness Project" and I explained it was a a book describing a woman's research and actions undertaken over a year to change her behaviour in small ways in order to become more happy and generate more happiness in those around her.

"It's a self-help book, isn't it?" was the reply.

" Well, yes and no, ... well yes, I guess it is."

" It's easy to be happy" he went on in his matter-of-fact way
"Really? How's that?" I said intrigued.

He replied "Just pull your head out of your arse."

I think he might be onto something.

Le petit orchestre

On Wednesdays, a little orchestra comes to our house to rehearse in our living room. This is one of the many benefits of being married to the luthier. It is a chamber group formed by the luthier, from a group of the finest strings players in our town who also happen to be the most charming people. They call themselves ' Camerata Obscura".

Last week, they gave two serenades to me and the children and we happily drifted off to sleep all cosied up together.

It is a luxury and privilege to have our own private orchestra each Wednesday but this week the children and I have been generous enough to share. The Camerata will be playing their first gig at Fresh on Charles at 7pm this evening. The program of music is dreamy and superb. They will play Tchaikovsky's Serenade Opus 48 and Elgar's Serenade in E minor. it would be lovely to see you there.

My Husband

My husband made this bow

I am very proud of him and I love him more than pie.

That is all.

Movember

Write to me hand printed stationery. It's nice. Really nice.

This little stack of it will be on my market stall this weekend.

Now I am off to get my eyebrows and lip waxed so nobody at the market thinks I am a freak show exhibit. Left to their own devices my eyebrows would rapidly take over my entire face. This morning I observed to the luthier that my nose hairs were oddly growing underneath my nose. He replied " That's your mo'. " Which is nice.

It might be Movember but this mo' is about to go.

Better than Prozac

Photo from australiantraveller.com

Two weeks of school holidays made me very depressed. Really sad, to the bone.

School holidays always sneak up on me, and catch me with no plans or means for lovely family trips to the beach and the like. The Luthier's one-man, small business means not much in the way of Smith family holidays.On our big adventure, he had about 10 days off work in seven weeks, leaving the kid-wrangling to moi. Anyhoo, one mustn't whine about an overseas adventure because it was unreal, child-challenges and all.

The fact is I don't cope well with prolonged periods with no time to myself. No time to do any old thing that takes my fancy does not work for me.

So on Saturday, the Luthier took the kids and I took a long walk in the sunshine. Just me and my iPod going GaGa. Destination fancy caf by the river, a glass of Jansz, some truly sublime lime cheesecake with a blood orange gel on the top and a good old chatfest with a lovely friend. No kids talk, no housework talk, we did not even slag off our husbands. We talked big, fanciful, outlandish ideas and she made me laugh so hard that I spat. On her cake. Terrible form.

Two hours did the trick.

I gotta remember that the it is, sometimes, that easy. Sunshine. A little time. A little walk. A little laugh. A little being nice to myself and now I feel more like being nice to everyone else.

By hook

Mrs Smith has experienced a long post-adventure malaise. There has been a very long crafting hiatus but I am clawing my way back with a little help from my crochet hook.

There has been much going on chez Smith. The mission list went up on the fridge and so it is written, so it shall be done. The luthier found the DIY god within and rooms have been painted, furniture has been moved, boxes have been ticked. Our Antique White USA has been replaced with Orange Flame in one room and Lead in the other. Rooms have changed jobs and now the J is installed in his own 'pad' and we have more living space. Its a revolution! We have entertained on no less than 3 separate occasions since the rearrangement, with enough room for grown ups and children and all. Making space for great people makes me very happy.

And I made this Orange and Rhubarb Upside down cake and I recommend it for your repertoire. It is bloody delicious!

The luthier turned 40 and great friends joined us for dinner at Black Cow. Grown up and Lush! Cape Grim beef and Holm Oak pinot followed by the ubiquitous and delicious chocolate fondant. The evening proffered great company and conversation. In fact, I learnt that ombudsman and smorgasbord are the only two Swedish words in common English usage! Fun and educational! Life on the Island is good.

So what now?

As my previous post may have foreshadowed, on return from our travels, I determined that my days as a full-time stay-at-home mum were numbered. 7 weeks of 24-7 with the little whatsits had done me in. The little lady was off to childcare. and I couldn't wait. Except for one small problem ... the good child care centres have no places and the others aren't good. We went to check one out, but the sea of snot-covered faces pressed up to glass doors and the frightening proximity of the tiny toilets to their dining tables, left me a little nonplussed.

So here we are. The Smith ladies together. All day. Every day.

I have resigned myself to it, almost. She can go when she is three and the early learning choices are a little more palatable. I can't say I am not disappointed. For a few minutes I had the whiff of freedom ( you know, that free-for-two-days-a-week-between-the-hours-of-9-and-2.30 kind of freedom) in my nostrils, and I liked what I sniffed.

For now though, I'll jump into these last months as a full-time homemaker with both feet, but I am keeping my eyes on the future.

Mrs Smith has plans.

Mezos

Mezos was a very sweet little village with a honkin' boulangerie and a tip-top second-hand shop, conveniently located on the drive from our little villa Landaise to Onesse, where the luthier was learning how to be an archetier. Every time I saw the hotel with the car parked out the front I beamed. A constant little snapshot of France in the 50's. Perfect!

Falling in Blog again. Never wanted to. What am I to do? Can't help it...

Bonsoir mes amis,

So here I am, back again. How could I stay away?

Fresh off the plane from la belle France. What a trip! What a country! Vive la France!

What can I say about France and travel that hasn't been said a million times. France gave me everything I hoped it would and more. Beautiful scenery, flea markets, nutella crepes, generous and friendly people, language. Yep we dug it, train strikes, volcanic clouds, sunshine, rain, butterflies, squirrels, toll roads, shopping, Paris and traffic and all.

This trip gave me a rare and treasured opportunity for a girl who has never travelled as an adult, let alone as a mother and wife. The opportunity to stand alone with my family in my very own shoes. To face myself, my strengths, my demons and doubts and to stare them hard in the face. No one else to praise. No one else to affirm. No one else to blame. No one else to lean on. Just us. It was hard, in parts. It was joyful, in moments. It was self determination at its best. I liked it. We messed it up. We managed it. We made it.

The luthier made a very fine bow. In true French style he fell in love with the profession and its incredible, warm and passionate protagonists in France. He experienced the generosity of a wide open door, the firm shake of a hand or two kisses on the cheek and a "Yes, come in, take all the time, and help that you need, and lets have Jambon Bayonne and a nice Bordeaux for lunch."

Here are the first pics.

Singapore

Here we were hosted with generosity and patience in our anxious new-traveller, jet-lagged state by my brother and sister-in-law in Singapore ex-pat style. I wish I had taken a photo of us luxuriating in their lavish pool.

Cousin Samuel

Aunty Sunny's plaits

J and Soph eating the most outrageously expensive ice cream in the world in Viva shopping centre in Singers. Hope you liked it kids 'cos that's the last Haagen Daas you'll be having in a loooong time.

Paris Day 1 and 2

Tour Eiffel
Eyeful

Notre Dame - from the side. We actually saw it mostly from the playground with the deadly beelzebub spinning toy at the rear, whilst indulging in our first of many nutella crepes.

View Pompidou and Hip Hop-idou?

Sophie's first Parisian baguette shopping trip. Views taken from our apartment window in the Marais.

More to come.

Thanks for stopping by after my hiatus.

Au revoir, A bientot.

G