The National Arboretum: a taster

Tags

bonsai, food, National Arboretum, trees

If only politicians looked as far ahead as the planners of the National Arboretum! It’s early days yet, and I won’t be around to see groves of mature gingkos, or tulip trees, or Wollemi pines, or Californian palms. But I can see the beginnings: from the groves of Himalayan cedars and cork oaks planted in the 1920s which escaped the brutal bushfires of 2003, to more recent plantings, nearly a hundred forests of rare, endangered and symbolic species. The vision for this 250 hectares overlooking Canberra is 100 gardens and 100 groves of trees. While you wait to see the full vision realised there’s plenty to do. You can test your muscles mountain biking, walk your dog, ride your horse (and corral it while you have a coffee), get married (if you don’t mind a long engagement – bookings are two years in advance), listen to music in the amphitheatre, eat a classy lunch, see 360° views of Canberra nestled in its hills with the alps in the background, and of course enjoy horticultural and sculptural pleasures.

As you approach the shallow-domed building, you pass panels tracing the history of plant life on earth and I nod knowingly at Silurian, Carboniferous, Devonian, Pliocene. Inside, rafters of native timbers, prefabricated in Melbourne and transported to the site for assembly, overarch a cafe, a restaurant, exhibition space, a shop and numerous panels and trays about all things tree.

My favourite spot was a very attractive garden, amongst the first of 100 gardens, showcasing plants that don’t need much water, sponsored ironically (or responsibly) by the provider of Canberra’s water.

Some of the plants are under the cover of these attractive circular stencils-on-a-pole.

Two hilltops are home to dramatic sculptures.

“Wide brown land” actually sits on its hilltop sequentially, but I couldn’t get it all in one photo. The script is that of Dorothea Mackellar who wrote the iconic poem celebrating Australia which begins its paean of praise with I love a sunburnt country.

Just down the hill from the wide brown land is the grove of mature Himalayan cedars. This photo shows part of the grove, companioned with a bonsaied version of the same tree.

Which brings me to …

I’m not a big fan of bonsai, and even less of penjing with its kitschy little creatures. Why interfere with the perfection of a full-grown tree? Enthusiasts spend a lot of time manicuring and trimming, and the creators are designated “artists”. The shaping are always pleasing, and I suppose the art does enable you to see the tops of trees that are usually frustratingly invisible.

I celebrate a pleasant morning with a somewhat classier lunch than usual, avoiding kalamata olives and tomato soil, and feasting on goats cheese and puffed grain, followed by braised kangaroo and native plums. This is a fitting prelude to my first encounter with my 6-week-old great nephew, Samuel Victor.

Still life, written

Tags

clothes, food, written still life

In a short period, only a few days, I am solicited over and over by possibilities of still life. Sue offers many examples: books, embroidery, wine bottles, old cameras, artfully posed. DesleyJane arranges her subjects for RegularRandom with great artistry. Paula and Suzanne transform pears and celery. All these temptations come from the blogosphere, but I know I don’t have the knack of casual arrangement that still life requires.

Then my writing companion comes out of left-field with an invitation to attempt still-life in words. She sends me a link to Wikipedia on still life. On a wildly windy Sunday morning I read it avidly, and begin to see potential. Portraits of my aunts through inherited objects. The celebration of a season. A slice of life in words. Contrasts, maybe bleakness and plenitude. I make a list of still life artists and still life ideas to pursue.

And then I raise my eyes from the iPad and see my first subject in front of me.

1

They lie there on the black and white geometry of the carpet, a carpet bought to please the eye and encourage it to take the mind rambling in evening cogitations. About philosophy. Wire gates. Solar-powered washing machines. Poetry. The nature of the mind.

The jumble of clothes gives no hint about the mental life of their owner. The red track suit pants are worn thin. Those round shapes are holes. They are comfort clothes, strictly in-house. Their use-softened fabric wrinkles and folds, catching shadows in its creases. A pseudo-leather belt coils out from under them, a snake to the idle unfocused eye. Behind them is a scrunched up black waffle-pattern undershirt, discarded once the day warms up, and black rumpled work trousers. They offer protection against march flies, nettles and sunburn when the man works amongst his corn and chillies and tomatoes and herbs in the wire-netted dome-garden visible through the window. The sketches lie, one on its side – the one with the green splotches of deck paint – the other one pointing a dance-step away from its mate. This is a composition in basic black and white and red, with just a small accent of green.

I’m a woman of excess. Once I’ve spotted one subject my eye is attuned. The man is not only a gardener but a caterer. He brings me my breakfast fry up. And lo, another still life.

2

Out of the old cast-iron frypan, handle long since gone; from the old fuel stove, oven and hot water tank long since gone, comes Sunday morning breakfast. The host places it on the black and white geometry of the carpet, so I can appreciate its contrasting circularity before any attempt is made to desecrate it by mastication. The old silver knife and fork are angled perfectly and begin the theme of gleam. They don’t match – nothing in this house does – but they have history. The plate is simple white china with two maroon rings marking its rim. A few minute pieces of onion loiter away from the main meal. The food is arranged to show off its components, and topped by a glisten, a gleam, a sparkle, a blink, a coruscation, a scintilla of olive oil. The egg is neat, shaped by a teflon egg ring, the yolk bright yellow and off centre, the white crinkled brown around the very edge. The potato slices are elongated oval and well-browned, interspersed with glossy half rings of onion. The small tomatoes, picked five minutes ago from the garden, have collapsed into a bright splotch of red.