Abstraction in August
We sat in the far corner of the Art Gallery Café.
Just finished viewing Paths to Abstraction.
An insipid collection of works by renowned painters,
who would have been surprised that these experimental works
made their presence felt in any art museum wall.
Perhaps it was the lack of clean, bright colour in the collection that caused me to notice the living painting sitting,
upright.
upright.
On the soft, red couch that hugged the flake white back wall of café.
She sat so still, as though carved in marble.
Her face, fine boned and beautiful,
smooth white, like a geishas,
with the mailbox red lips,
observing the flow of people and space.
Her swan neck ringed with giant, white pearls
mirrored the pearl drops from her ears.
Her silken, white, well groomed, shiny hair hung down and curled under,
shoulder length.
Her woollen black jacket was smart and well cut, encasing a white blouse
made of silk.
The black slacks had a white slim line stripe on the side,
Red shoes finished the ride.
As she slide out, ladylike, to leave,
I could not but help to exclaim
“You look like a complete work of art!”
My cheek felt the whisper of a fingered white glove.
Bowing low to my ear, her voice softly sighed,
“Thank you, my dear. You have just made my day. To live in Art is divine.”
“Thank you, my dear. You have just made my day. To live in Art is divine.”
SHADOW WATCHER
Ever walked along the boardwalk from the ferry wharf at Manly, traveling east, gazing at the long shadows cast by the afternoon sun?
Rob watched his shadow walk, in large, black bubble sneakers, and thought he walked like Charlie Chaplin.
On this particular afternoon, the tide was particularly high.
Floating in it were all sorts of plastic rubbish, a blue milk carton, a red bread tray.
There were bits of bark and a sculptured lump from a tree.
The sea would have been rough and scary earlier, surging up against the seawall.
Allowing it to be dictated to by the August winds, the wash had hurled itself against boats and sand, spilling over onto grass, dragging debris from the shoreline into its depths.
Covered in bark and seaweed, black long fizzy hair was barely visible to the onlooker on shore.
As Rob concentrated on the lump covered in slime from the sea, he now saw, between each wave motion, more of the gruesome human relic that was being washed ashore.
Like a fish gasping for air, the mouth gaped open, but even from the wall he could tell that the eyes, glassed and dull, had ceased seeing anything.
Still the body appeared fresh, like a doll someone had accidently dropped overboard on the last Manly ferry crossing.
Now here is something he did not see everyday, a freshly minted corpse. He grasped his mobile and called 999.
This was way out of his league.
