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Reflection 23/03/22 Part 2
I chose to layer up a portrait of myself. Shedding skin -- multifaceted nature -- lineage -- crossover -- polarity -- the light and the dark -- ripples -- fragmented // The many versions of yourself percieved by others or polarised within yourself -- created and destroyed // built and refined // Break the chain // Ancestral Trauma // What is mine and what has been imprinted on me that is no longer mine to carry?
((I liked the inverted version more however it didn’t transfer as well as the original edit))
Temuka // Gammack Street
When my mother and her siblings were young, their father, my grandfather ‘Basil’ worked as a shearer his entire life in the countryside of Temuka. A small town that seems like one road to those passing along state highway 1 was much more to those who lived there or loved people who lived there. To me Temuka was tending to the gardens, motorbike rides with uncles and trips to Caroline Bay for the annual carnival. It was packed dining tables at Christmas and bloodied knees from playing basketball with my cousins (majority being boys), it was memories and more, it was burrowing out the hedge for battle and trying not to fall into the neighbouring properties backyards with their unforgiving watchdogs. It was a short walk to honour our ancestors at the local cemetery and a long skip to disregard our hard earned pocket money at the local dairy. It always felt so safe and most of the time we spent there was in the summer. It was selling daffodils by the bunch in camping chairs with 2 6 year olds as the leading faces and using doilies as handkerchiefs, it was my idols going through goth phases and their enemies chasing us on bikes, it was a million magnets on the fridge and the perfect milo in glass mugs, it was magic shows and filling bowls with raspberries. It was and is so much to so many.
My grandfather, a skyscraper of a man had a long stare, a short-temper and a heart of gold. He had noticed that the temuka pottery trucks were dumping seconds or broken pottery into the river opposite where he was working, forging them into banks. Soon enough his 5 girls and 1 son were out on the weekend in closed shoes wading through the water to scrounge for imperfect treasures mixed amongst the discarded shards of crockery.
Mum said it would be like winning lotto every time a fully intact piece revealed itself. They quickly learnt how to manoeuver the mounds of broken brown speckled pottery, securing their feet so as not to slip and lacerate their young limbs.
At Christmas time we would serve our family of 30 on temuka pottery. It was a staple in each of the Thompson members home.
When Bas passed, he returned the collection to its rightful hands - Dividing them to my Mothers and her siblings. My Mothers favourite was always the steak plate and so she was gifted the majority of those.
I love the marbled earthy colour and simple shape of each item in the collection. More importantly I love the story behind how they found their way into our cupboards and our family. ( ( Sentimentality ) )
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Reflection 23/03/22 Part 1
Matrix Map // Idea Generation
Originally after playing around with the matrix I was drawn to the idea intersected between Clara (Object being the moonstone ring she gifted me before leaving back to São Paulo, Brazil) and temuka pottery gifted to me from my Mother. Clara mirrored many things for me. She was born 9 days before me and came into my life in my final year of high school. On a one year exchange from Brazil she was naturally unlike anybody else I had become close with. She sat directly in front of me on day 3 of year 13 and just started up conversation.
Not long after we were spending most days together - photographing each other for our folios, going on adventures, learning from each other. She introduced me to many things meditation (sitting in a car waiting for our dealer), polyamory (or non-monogamy), spirituality, astrology, what it’s really like living in Brazil - corruption, poverty, instability, injustice, the animals, the people, the vitality, the passion, the importance of community.
She said she would choose Brazil over New Zealand every time. She said in New Zealand we dramatise everything because there’s no real danger here. We worry about little nothings because we’re so sheltered from real world issues. When she was 15 and walking home alone at night she was pulled up by officers who said she had two options - have sex with them or spend the night in the cells. At age 15 she spent the night in the cells because the people who are supposed to protect you, hunt you like everyone else. You can’t trust police over there and so it was strange for her getting used to the trust we have in the officers here.
She taught me to remember what’s important, that everything we do should benefit the collective, not just ourselves or our immediate circles. She never wore a bra and she didn’t care for glaring eyes or jealous girls.
She didn’t care for labels, flaccid conversation that felt more like an obligation than a true exchange of energy, for ill-intentions or empty compliments. She knew who she was, what she was good at, the impact she wanted to have on others and the world. She had a soft spot for the underdog always seeming to attract people who really needed someone like her. I really needed someone like her. Someone to wake me up, throw cold water over me and challenge everything I thought I knew.
She was the most incredible artist herself and inspired me to keep creating and share my work. Something I still struggle with.
She was the first women I was ever with and that confused me for some time but not in an unhealthy sense - more in the sense that I’d finally allowed a part of myself into the sun and I didn’t know how to look at it let alone embrace it.
( ( S a c r e d M i r r o r ) ) I couldn’t believe my luck /my fate in meeting her.
The imprint she had has shaped me into who I am and who I wish to become.
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