JOAN: A quiet walk along the side of our beautiful awa recently fed my soul. It was one of those special winter days when the air was still, the sky was deep blue and the river reflected the trees and hillocks on the far bank. I parked the car behind the ex-Chronicle building and for a while enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere of the setting with only a few fishermen in sight on the walkway. I set the Cobham Bridge in my sights. The whole area is truly lovely. Well-mown grass, new shrubs and dignified old trees separate the pathway from the bustle of Taupo Quay. I heard only the lapping of the river, the birds celebrating the day and I didn't meet a soul walking either way. Across the Whanganui, the settlement of Putiki reminded me of the many stories told by Huia Kirk of its early days. The hills behind were soft and gentle. I smiled to myself, thinking of the many places abroad that Mike and I have had the good fortune to visit and enjoy. I loved them all but imagined how much the many tourists we saw in these busy places would value this peaceful stroll by our river, unspoilt and undercrowded. I am sure that we should recommend this area to tourists who come here from overcrowded Singapore apartments or the noise and greyness of Chinese towns. I felt really blessed.
JOAN: I was glad that I had used my eyes to good avail that day ... before my 'gardening misadventure'. Another such winter day saw me out in the garden engrossed in a good tidy-up. I leant forward to pull out some weeds only to not notice a garden stake at face level. Past my glasses it went and into the corner of my eye. In the mirror it looked horrific and a trip to the Emergency Department ensued. I just want to extend gratitude to everyone there who tended me. I was triaged at speed by a most concerned nurse after being sympathised with by the lady on reception. After a careful test to make sure my eye itself was intact (!) I had the area stitched by the dishy Dr Paul Delporto (and I could see two of him at the time!), painlessly and with great expertise. He was observed in action by both me and a most gracious female doctor who had the most radiant smile and who even thanked me for allowing her to attend! Nurses came and went. Every one of them gave me eye (sorry!) contact, spoke encouragingly, showed concern. Every part of the process, new and a bit alarming to me even though a common occurrence to the staff, was explained to me and I was never made to feel ancient or incapable of understanding. The Discharge Summary, of which I was given a copy, was - forgive the teacher in me - literate and comprehensive.
I am so grateful to all involved and happy to be able to publicly acknowledge my gratitude. Thank you.
MIKE: As I started to draft this article, while listening to the Concert programme, I had to stop writing in order to give full attention to my favourite piece of music from Elgar's Enigma Variations. The glorious, but all too brief Nimrod, is a jewel of pure, unadulterated beauty, which fades away into the ether after a mere 100 seconds. Perhaps its brevity is the key to its beauty. Any longer and it might have proved difficult for Elgar to maintain that level of the sublime.
And so to the Milbank Gallery. Of the three artists whose show opened last Friday, my focus was directed particularly to the works of Karl Amundsen. Two of his five oil paintings feature Vincent van Gogh, an artist who has always held a certain fascination for me, ever since I read Irving Stone's novel, Lust for Life. France is a country that Joan and I both love, where we have spent several happy holidays.
We have visited Arles and other places where van Gogh lived, and have often admired extensive fields of tall sunflowers, tossing their heads in imperious pride. Vincent in the soil at Auvers - the price of being able to see, is written above a portrait of the famous artist, depicting him seated, naked, scrawny, emaciated, sinewy.
A coin on his eye referred to the custom of the ancient Greeks, relatives paying the fare so that the dead could be transported over the River Styx to the Underworld.
Karl told me that he often finds himself returning to van Gogh in his paintings.
He feels an affinity, partly for the obvious reason of both being artists, but also because Vincent suffered greatly from depression, a condition with which Karl himself has had to struggle.
At least Karl still retains both his ears!
Another portrait, Louise, shows an elderly lady with a 'lived-in' face looking directly at the viewer. Somewhat ravaged, almost merciless in its raw honesty, the work pays homage to Dame Louise Henderson, a noted New Zealand artist, whose pupil he was prior to spending four years as her studio assistant. A striking tribute.
Something I could easily relate to was the reason behind Garry Currin's Parlour.
As a youngster he would visit his grandparents' house, where he was constantly confronted by the parlour, its mysteries concealed behind a closed door which was opened on special occasions only.
My own experience was precisely the same.
Rarely as a boy was I allowed to venture into our parlour, the 'front room'.
Referencing this influence from his childhood, Garry's display consists of 20 small items, all oils, but on varied bases - paper, canvas, tin, aluminium, ceramic plate, even linen. For me, the four ceramic plates had a particular resonance, again due to childhood memories.
The one item on linen shows the dramatic wrecking of the Port Bowen off Castlecliff beach.
