My favourite shop in Genova is closing and they are selling these beautiful pieces of furniture.
Anyone interested in having them in their home or workspace, or who knows people who could use them in their cafe or shop, please don't hesitate to contact the lovely Francesca and Norma. Details are there on the advert.
I believe that half the trouble in the world comes from people asking 'What have I achieved?' rather than 'What have I enjoyed?'
Walter Farley
A wholehearted yes to this quote, found over on Terri Windling's beautiful blog, Myth & Moor.
I have decided that to die rich is stories is another way to measure a life. I have never 'achieved' in the normal sense of the word but I like the way my life has played out so far. I've lost everything twice but not in a traumatic way ... it's more that I simply stepped away from 'stuff'.
I read of people desiring, quite desperately it seems, to declutter their lives and I think, 'move countries' and take only the 23kg limit allowed by most carriers out of New Zealand. It was the same when I moved from Istanbul. What you can't leave behind becomes clear ...
I discovered a graffiti park, here in the city, once upon a time ...
Of course developers took it over, 'fixed' it, and these days it's a shadow of its former luscious self. But here's a photograph I made before it was fixed.
When I went home, back in 2012, one of the places I had to revisit was the river in the photograph below.
It was the scene of much childhood joy. It was my river. I loved the smell of it as it flowed out of the valley and onto the plains. I loved the scent the stones would throw up from under our wet and wriggly bodies as we baked ourselves on top of them, teeth chattering, after being ordered out of the river to warm ourselves a while. I loved picnics there ... warm Greggs cordial in big glass beer bottles, and egg sandwiches and cakes Mum had baked. And I loved the way my hair would smell, full of river water, on the way home.
Later, when body consciousness forced me out of the river and those idyllic childhood days, I returned with my dog. She seemed to share my passion for the river. I would skim stones for her from the shore.
Fast-forward decades and everyone warned me, when I went home ... things will have changed. You will have idealised it. So I was cautious with my expectations, knowing that the landscapes I had loved might seem different, now I was older, more traveled.
But no ... those old landscapes, they rose up in front of me and kissed me full on the mouth. A bear hug, or more, and this deep feeling of joy over simple things like bird song and the scent of bush in the rain at Tautuku.
Nothing had changed. All of the big passionate love I had felt was still there. Those 'scapes allowed me to slip back in and love them like always. No recriminations about leaving.
Well, maybe .... just a few sly questions like, have you found anywhere better? Name one place where the air smells like this ...
Did you miss us?
I rolled up my sleeves and waded into my photo-archives, wanting to begin the selection process I need to do for my exhibition opening at the end of October.
I popped back to the surface of life when reminded of an 11am appointment, at 11.15am. I'd forgotten in spite of having my appointments book open in front of me. An appointment with a friend but still, I forgot.
Photographs were taken, the last in a series. She made me a coffee, we shared our stories since last meeting, then I returned to my desk ... after lunch and a little more laundry.
Then came a conversation about 9/11, a link shared that pulled me into the world of the 2,200+ engineers and architects who want the event properly examined. Using real science. And I read the discussion that followed amongst friends and bommpft, I fell off the edge of my creative world ... again.
I have 8,000 photographs in the archives of my 2010 visit back home to New Zealand. I have photographic archives that I have never fully reviewed ... folders where I have skimmed off the best and most obvious at the time, meaning to get back to the rest but life has raced on, like a galloping horse sometimes.
Slightly destroyed, I wandered across to my bed. Note: having an office in a large bedroom means that the space isn't big enough to stop the bed-walk from occurring when sadness kicks in. I flopped there for a few minutes before the Belgian bloke phoned from his first day back after his long summer holiday.
Guilt. Caught being so lazy.
So here I am, back at the computer, exploring all these archived images of mine. I love what I'm finding, in terms of memories of home and people I adore but I'm fighting the sensation of overwhelm as hundreds upon hundreds of moments I never want to forget appear here in front of me.
Meet Fiona, my friend Fiona. She has been described in this way since I first left the place where we grew up. My friend Fiona ... my very best friend since I was 13 and still, so many years on, much-adored ... much-missed because we live about 20,000kms apart. I wish we lived closer.
Missing you today, Fiona.
Love, Di
