April Fool’s Day tomorrow. Don’t forget it. Jess is after you my boy. Stick it in the old cerebellum! Have decided this is no diary. More a record of impressions, lacking the orderliness of day to day entries. Why anyway? What happens every day? Sum total that counts.
Have been giving it rather a thrashing over Easter. Long standing habits plus novel interest in country outlook of country family pub proprietors.
A lazy man’s diary. Another day’s entry missed. Woke yesterday to still another view of the country below us. Vague indeterminate washes of landscape highlighted by sun edged vaporous blanket whose swift moving tatters slink between the trees about us. Dispersed by sun; revealing once more unending edgeless distance. The mind desiring to assimilate the man-indifferent vista soars out and above, returning to the fleetingness of insistence and the immutability of nature to recapture that largeness, to reflect it in our small effort is our job of art. Lacking the humility before nature. The impression of vastness, denies man the possibility of creating art.
Jess and I walked down the gullies yesterday. Shooting, killed many rocks. Accompanied by the crazy fox terrier pup Toby, whose strenuous running on stilt-like legs amused us greatly. Dawn & he spend their entire time in frivolity, food and sleep. Dawn, a seven years old puppy, a dizzy old blonde wanting to go the pace, yet lacking knowledge, not knowing, is stiff and a trifle baffled, taking the lead from Toby. Easy life, experienced through smell & belly. Took Dawn again for a long walk to the village and around exhausting her fat city arse.
This afternoon gathered rock lilies in the gully for Dorothy & killed 2 more rocks. Had a decent wash on our return & were thereby greatly improved. Heard N.Z. Premier Savage on radio last night. Extremely good reception.
The first day of the diary but not of the trip. Had been out since Saturday. (Left 2 o’clock & after a pleasant but stinking up Kurrajong drive – boiled up ½ gall. Water arrived here more or less sober at 7:30 pm.) Entertained Mollie & Petrov over Sunday. They left about 6. Monday most uneventful. Did a job for WW & moved camp to a pleasant grassy spot overlooking the world as we knew it (i.e. in sight and imagination). Yesterday made friends with Dorothy Hobbs daughter of the philosophic proprietor. Have been pestered with her ever since. A lonely nice spoken child who brings us oranges and a companionless heart. A good little girl who gets on the women’s nerves. Excess of attachment. Not shy – about 12, fine eyes, can’t remember colour – walks 2 miles to school & then comes up to take me shooting – means well. Met her brother Jack – gangling gaunt hill-billy with gum boots & gap between incisors – dog took violent dislike to him. Must be his Khaki shirt & watch stuck in leather pouch on rear of belt (with chain). Got blind tonight – returned home to find gifts laid before our doorstep. Oranges from lonely child. Shall eat two now. (11 pm). Shall write as thoughts strike me – bugger style – what we want is recreation of holiday and reactions (3rd orange.) Saw the sun rise this morning. A sat-on luminous orange all squat blood red and impossible to look upon. Dominating what (for the 1st time in my life) a materialised but incredibly ethereal Chinese scroll painting. What bloody beauty & mastery these people possessed.
Woke to find the low lands filled as with water. Mists licking the shoes of Kurrajong as though great tidal wave of vapour inundated the whole of stinking city noise smothered so far as Richmond. Sun bleeding upon incredible unbelievable pearly greys – towards Broken Bay a series of phantom hills lacking substance lacking in reality so skilfully planted by the Oriental hand & heart, bred ???? & loving mist – us sun-worshippers considering such as inconvenience to early milking. Spoke with son of the soil tonight in pub recapturing wondrous pearly pattern & was appreciated. They see but do not see. Could not bear so much for long and needs must kill or murder a rabbit. My soul too stepped in pettiness to contemplate such large scale grandeur. An overdose I can’t take. Grandeur is the wrong word association with the fulfilment of art – in actuality a false painted scene – flat but colourful – reading what I have seen into it. The sublimity of immobility. Hills solidity vaporised to nothingness but re-concretised in my mind by Oriental calligraphy. I couldn’t stand it long. Am I still ill? – unstable?
We are beneath pines – the floor is strewn with oranges, set squares, canvas & dreams & talk. Remember yesterday near Geoff Blundens a running live stream of silver-lit bracken burnished blue against sharp red tipped green; deep lined black trunks & lush green covered scars of last October fire – couldn’t see that withered flame blackened wallaby. That poor rabbit! I killed its rhythm.
In 1937 Wep took off on a 6 month painting sabbatical to travel with his wife Jess in their caravan around the New South Wales and south east Queensland countryside . He kept a journal of sorts of that trip; a record of his impressions of people he met, the landscape – it’s colour and light and his struggle in developing his own painting style. As I transcribe this work I will be posting the entries to this blog. Later, I hope to include some of his photos and links to works which I have identified.