Accidentalis Pulchritudo

Brilliant writer Elisabeth from Sixth in line has been discussing a professional family portrait that she's been given as part of a recent birthday present.

Despite being apprehensive about it, she explains the concepts of 'punctum' as it relates to photography. I won't pretend to be familiar with Roland Barthe or his 1980 work 'Camera Lucida' but, as my grey matter understands it, 'punctum' describes the unplanned associations one makes with a photograph.

Usually, in my own experience, 'punctum' pops up in photographs that aren't formally posed. Either the subjects depicted are unaware of being snapped or there's been timing flukey or lucky enough to catch a unique situation.

Seeing as it's still Sunday, I'm going to give a nod to River's Sunday Selections tradition and plunk down some photos whose 'punctum' productions particularly grab me.

Firstly, our ex-rabbit, Skipper.  We caught up with him during our recent visit home to Oz and found that he's just gained a new friend, Gus the kitten. Gus likes to regularly leap on top of Skipper's back. Bunny boy is rather tolerant, but, after the sixth ambush, he kicked out his back leg and Gus found himself off the couch and sprawled on the floor.

Eventually, even 13 week-olds get tired, and this is what Sapphire found when she lifted up the blanket.

In Adelaide, a 43C day was made a lot more fun by using Kent's underwater camera.  Regular readers will know that my husband, Love Chunks, is a softly-spoken, quiet achiever kind of bloke, but during the photo session in the pool he did all manner of duck dives, bombs, swim pasts and chop sueys for attention. I'm thinking of having this one enlarged and framed.

Could this be any more Australian? Our mate Kent, mid-jump, on a plastic thong coloured in the national flag directly into the pool.

Earlier times, circa 2007.  Our underwater rain water tanks had been buried, the under-grass drip watering system was about to be laid and then some turf finally rolled over the top.  The chickens - Hermoine, Luna and Ginny - were happily settling in and Sapphire was busy bustin' her moves on the trampoline, unaware that I was nearby.

Even earlier, around 2003.  Our intense young artist was busily painting in her pen drawing of Ursula from 'The Little Mermaid', wearing one of LC's old shirts.  She spent many many hours at the bright yellow table that my father had made for her; specifically on projects involving empty boxes, sticky tape, play dough, paints, chalk and pipe cleaners.

Artists do get tired though. This one had recently been diagnosed with Asthma, and was told that Elmo was too furry to sleep with. To deal with this upsetting news, she was allowed to pick something/someone less hirsute.  Jesse the Cowgirl was a regular night time companion for several years.

A portrait of my god son (Will, in yellow on matching space-hopper), his two older siblings and my child.  Sapphire clearly had a few unrealised romantic feelings for young Mr P and took the opportunity to steal a quick embrace before the word 'cheese' had ended.

Despite being on the far end of Daggy slash Tomboy slash Unkempt, for a couple of years I made a lot of jewellery to help the school fundraising efforts. Sapphire was very keen to show off the bracelet she'd made (which was subsequently sold, a few weeks later, to a rather sophisticated older adult). What turned out was a slightly out of focus piece of jewellery but a lovely portrait of her happy little face.

Not so happy here at the start of 2009 though, despite my urgings to smile.  Leaving the only home she'd ever remembered to go and move to Melbourne was a time of uncertainty for Sapphire. Seeing some of those friends a month ago put a huge smile back on her face.

My mother has a beautiful singing voice, and I've reminisced in the past about her sterling efforts in many a musical production. Why not duet with your granddaughter to ABBA?

Holding a book in a damp bathroom whilst cleaning your teeth might not be the best idea, but who was I to tell her off for reading?  Multi-tasking at its finest.

Tasmania, January 2010. The first stirrings of tweenage angst from Sapphire.  And yet, then as now, my heart surges when I see her and LC together. They're more alike than they realise.

Geneva, 2012. An impromptu greeting from Milly that is received with thanks.


















Martigny, Switzerland, is home to the St Bernard Museum.  Worth a visit because the town also contains some impressive Roman ruins and a museum that regularly snaffles art masterpieces such as Van Gogh, Monet and Picasso to have a look at.  

Back to the dogs. This fella was in the very first steps of slurping me entirely across the face, leaving me covered in a clear-but-thick saliva jelly substance that smelled of St Bernard's bum hole. Still worth it.

When my parents arrived, I insisted that they pose in front of the UN, which has become a tradition for all of our house guests. We discovered that none of the flags were up - something I'd never seen before. Just after taking this photo, a gaggle of kids walked by.

Is your dog friendly? Can we pat him?

"Of course, but 'he' is a 'she.'" Milly was surrounded by admirers....

......who insisted that I take their photo, too.

Eventually, their mother and Auntie persuaded them to keep on walking and I decided to take another photo of my parents, Sapphire and Milly, "just in case the first one doesn't work out."

Before we knew it ....

.....this cheeky little guy dashed in, posed as the extra family member, and dashed out again!

This is the photograph I was referring to when commenting on Elisabeth's blog post: 'When LC and I married a millennia ago, we did the usual thing and hired a professional photographer. I hated the awkward poses, wearing too much make up and having all eyes on me (plus a brain tumour that, undiagnosed at the time, made me feel rather ill) and the photos all reflected that. A wedding guest friend, however, gave me some snaps he took on his old kodak and one immediately grabbed me. We're slightly out of focus, but LC and I are both not looking at the camera, but at something else that has made us laugh. It's the only one I had framed and is still on our bookshelf.' 

And, finally this one.  This is the one that I will get enlarged:

I love you, darling Sapphire.

Snappy September - Day Three - Baino's meme














Before the end of the Boer War (or twelve months ago in the blogosphere), Baino sent me four words to write about. Snappy September's now in full swing, so why not bung in a few of my photos and get my blog on?

TOFU (because I'm betting you hate it and can really get your teeth into that one)

Well, dear Baino, you might be surprised to discover that I don't hate tofu. Sure, I don't buy it as part of my regular grocery shop but do occasionally order it when I feel like an Asian-dish that's packed with more veges than meat. Fried tofu is best because it gives it a toast-and-egg flavour and coating but the steamed silken stuff is okay too.

The key word here is 'okay'. Not my favourite, but not disliked either; 'tofu' to me is the flat vinyl beanbag of the healthy(ish) food world -I could quite happily live without it, but might choose if it it's right under my nose.













THONGS (you can go either way on this one)

Thongs, for me, will always belong to my feet and never my arse crack. I only once gave the undies a go and lasted about ten minutes before the thought of having white cotton and spandex rubbing right up against the least hygienic part of my body - let alone the feeling of willingly paying $12 for a permanent wedgie - was about as much fun as undergoing a PAP smear on YouTube. Seeing the visual evidence of G-strings walking in front of me - the jiggling buttocks under work trousers wobbling like nervous blancmanges down Collins Street - was enough of a turn off as I didn't need an amused audience behind me as I passed by either.

Tess, our first dog, loved thongs so much that LC and I ended up buying the $1.79 rubber pairs as a regular Woolworth's item long before they were back in vogue for people to wear. She'd wedge her furry face under the straps towards the peg bit that secured the big toe. Then she'd frantically flap her ears so that the sole of the thong would go 'Whappity Whappity Whappity WHAP' on the side of her head, thus starting the fight. She'd then try to shake off the marauding footwear and bite it back, which only caused it to slap her a few more times which gave her another excuse to bite and wriggle back as it slapped her snout again and again...... Many pairs of thongs were ruined this way, but it was more fun and value than wearing any of them.

HEAVEN (because I don't know what you think about that)

Neither do I, if I'm honest. I come from a 'churchy' family, but elected to sleep-in as soon as I was permitted to make the decision myself. Since then, any church attendances have been out of sentimental reasons (it's Christmas time, we're at my parents' place and Mum is singing in the choir), weddings or funerals.

I know that 'God' is just a word, but I believe, somehow, that there is a God of some kind. Despite picking at my nails until they bleed and suffering all-too-regular bouts of insomnia, I've never spent much time pondering the meaning of life, the point to our existence or what is beyond the Milky Way. Something far bigger and cleverer and stronger than me has made all sorts of things that my brain doesn't have a hope of comprehending. All I can do is try to be a decent person. I think.

And if reincarnation is true - and my own philosophical and spiritual jury is still out on this issue - I'd love to return to this planet as a much-loved and well cared-for family dog.

Heaven, therefore, in my own small way, is experienced every day through the things I see, touch, hear and taste. The coffee made by Love Chunks; the feel of Milly's furry ears, my first dazzling view of Sapphire each morning, the taste of chocolate and knowing that every single person I interact with has a story that will fascinate me. A neckrub is pretty close to heaven too.














AMBITION (Because you're driven but still manage the work life balance - he-he free tips without buying the book)

Hmmm, this is a tough one to summarise. I was ambitious once, up until about five years ago when my body, mind and soul decided to simultaneously pull the blinds down so that it forced me to rest, reduce my ridiculous working hours and decide if having a fancy office, a meaningless-but-important-sounding job title and a big salary was worth losing six teeth, possessing a gnawing gut, painfully excreting rabbit droppings at 3am and then explosive diarrhoea five minutes before a presentation was my idea of a successful life.

It wasn't. Nor was having Sapphire in childcare - and later, before and after-school care full time; crying for no apparent reason on the weekends; feeling permanently resentful/grumpy/exhausted and jealous; hiding out in the work toilets or finding myself at the desk, having done an hour of work when my boss would ring - from the sanctity of his breakfast table in Glenelg with the opening line, "I knew you'd be there already."

Writing a book, surviving the aftermath of Bulldog's ego and cruelty to work from home as a writer and researcher and chocolate reviewer has been the best thing I've done for my so-called 'career path'. I earn a fifth of what I earned five years ago and am extremely lucky to have the luxury of knowing that Love Chunks earns enough to see us through. He supports my work (and the diversions) and has pointed out more than once that I'm a healthier and happier person.

So 'ambition' for me is about trying to contribute to my family on my terms, but acknowledging that it can't be done without the support and understanding of Love Chunks and Sapphire. And for that I'll be grateful to them for the rest of my life.

Snappy September - Day Two - Brotherly Love
















This one is of my nephews from over three years ago. It's pre our Trinity Gardens SA renovation when the blue couch from 1996 was still around and covered in coffee splotches and the mat beside it had enough spilt wine for the dog to lie on and sniff intently whenever she had a spare moment.

Back to the brothers. Neither of them were aware that I took the picture, with Jack the youngest (and therefore the one underneath, besieged) being more interested in defending himself; and Matthew the oldest doing his best to do what big brothers have been doing since sibling slap fights first started around the camp fire in the Stone Age.

I have my own brothers to thank for my arsenal of sneaky self defence techniques. Having one brother two years older and one two years younger than myself meant that I was frequently required to participate in brother-bashing and the value of a well-timed dead leg, hen peck, type writer, Chinese burn, brandy throw, neck pinch and gut punch are not to be underestimated.

My daughter Sapphire is an only, so her weapons of choice are considerably less violent but no less effective. So far, responding to an eight year old classmate saying 'You're hot' in year three with 'And you're an unsophisticated bonehead' has held her in good stead.

As has, 'Mum, when you get Alzheimers it's not going to be an unpleasant shock for you,' said to me - with an eye roll for added emphasis - just last week.