Well I am still convinced that the best part of going to Yoga at 6am on a Thursday morning is the breakfast afterwards! (Apologies to the lovely Louise Yoga Master if you are reading this, but hey, you know how we feel about our breakfasts!) Even in the rain. It looks cold and bleak, but it was quite a mild morning and the sun tried for a little while to force its way through the clouds on the horizon, it sent a few God beams through grey and then promptly gave up. But there was nothing finer that gobbling down some scrambled eggs and hot cup of coffee, just metres away from the beach, the waves rolling in, and breathing in all that fresh salty air. What a great start to the day, (yoga aside). I was momentarily tempted by the freshly baked fig muffins, the aroma was tantilizing, but last night's garlic aoli has lingered on my taste buds making anything sweet taste a little funny! Note to self, stay away from the aoli!
Stay aaaaaaawwwwwwaaaaaaayy! Which is what all my colleagues will be doing today, well almost all. :)
Oh Sunny days, where have you gone?
Into the blue
The Alley, as it is known by the locals is an area just south of North Cronulla Beach. It is a permanent rip at the southern end of the beach where the water scoops around from two directions and causes a channel of water to flow back out to sea. The board riders use it to get a tow back out past the breakers, but it is a treacherous area for swimmers. I love watching the waves fold over one another and the rich dark green hue of the water as it swirls and foams. Here the water is deeper than the rest of the beach where the channel has scoured out the sand on its way back to the sea. On any given morning there are coastal showers away on the horizon with the ever present God beams shining through. And there are always board riders, always. Sitting on their surfboards, looking like little black ducks, waiting for the next wave.
iSpy iPad
Well the good news is that my Red Leather Magnetic iPad Cover arrived in the mail today. Yay! And it smells seriously good. You know, that wonderful leather smell... like new shoes! (And I do confess I feel a little uncomfortable that some friendly bovine sacrificed its life for such a worthy cause.) Unfortunately the iPad itself is possibly weeks away. By which time I will have worn out the cover, just playing with it, turning into a makeshift spyglass on the off chance I will see into the future and find out when my iPad will arrive... and smelling it quietly when no-one is looking (damn it, I shouldn't have written that last bit down).
My ex husband curiously commented on the imminent arrival of my Red Leather Cover only this morning, curious because I hadn't mentioned that it was Red. To which he replied... "Well there wasn't a decent Blue one to choose from."... sadly, I am that predictable... well when it comes to colour that is!
So now I am waiting... waiting... waiting...
Shark Island Swim
"The first Cronulla Shark Island Swim was held in October 1987 on a drizzly overcast day. There was a medium swell running and the water surface was choppy. Sixty-four competitors swam from Cronulla Beach out to sea and around Shark Island and back to the beach; approximately 2.4 kilometres. There were no buoys and the competitors swam their own course causing many to have concern for their safety. There were no prizes but the race had already attracted some attention with long distance swimmer and Australian Belt Champion, David O'Brien winning the race."
You can read more about it here.
For me it has limited appeal... firstly because it contains the word "Swim" and secondly because it contains the word "Shark"
Sea Spray
Well my Thursday mornings are now at the beach, apres yoga... and the coffee and cake mornings have been replaced with healthy breakfasts overlooking the ocean. (Coffee and cake has actually been rescheduled to another morning. some things are just not negotiable.)
Le Pain Quotidien again!!!
Yes again... well it is just one of my favourite places to hang out these days.
Dinner at the Fishos!
We went to the Fisho's club the other night. That is, The Fishman's Club at Brighton Le Sands, on the river. We were doing a taste test on the menu for an upcoming function. Tony the Chef (from Laos) cooked us a sensational meal. He is the owner of Holy Basil restaurant in Canley Heights and has worked with Tetsuya and Luke Mangan. The dessert was sensational... Deep fried icecream in filo pasty... it was so good we dived right in and completely forgot to photograph it!!!! But as I know you would all like to see it, as a special favour, I promise I will go back and order another... purely for photographic purposes that is. :)
Surf Life Saving
I used to go the beach every morning, walk along the Esplanade as the sun was rising. I have become lazy, well perhaps thats not true... I got into the habit of going to bed late. So the effort of getting up early is so much harder these days. Thursday mornings I've started yoga. Can't say I enjoy it, but I do enjoy having breakfast at the beach straight afterwards. And of course, I always have my camera with me... just in case.
A face in the crowd
I turn around and I confronted by this woman, who is woman pointing at me. She has just discovered I was the strange white woman handing out photographs to her friends in Bac Ha markets. Clearly she approves. :)
The Chilli Seller [ 2005 ]
As my photos pass from hand to hand, woman to woman, a ripple of excitment grows. The women are laughing and pointing at the photos, and it seems to me they are checking out the clothing from 5 years ago, as much as they are looking at the faces. An argument breaks out over the identity of a face in one of the photos. One of the women is suddenly animated as she recognises a friend, and points excitedly off to a distant corner of the markets. Another woman grabs the album and closely scrutinises the photo, she clearly disagrees and shakes her head. The first woman snatches the album back and casts around for agreement from the group of women looking on.
I am so engrossed with the “my” woman, happy and surprised that I have found her in the middle of this crowded marketplace, that I didn’t realise there was a second woman I’d photographed 5 years ago standing right next to her. She holds the photos I’d taken of her and offers them back to me. I push them back towards her. “They are yours to keep” I say. And smiling back at me, she understands. She has happy eyes.
Frailty
I visited an old woman the other day. She was the Great Aunt of a friend of mine. 101 years old and close to death. She drank half a cup of coffee while I was there. Held to her lips by her devoted son. Slipping in and out of consciousness. Calling out occasionally to her mother, long ago gone. She slept. Her eyelids fluttered open. She slept again. She had a quiet dignity about her. She has been alive a long time, perhaps too long.
I light a candle to those who have gone
It seems the gods are angry at the moment.
Not that I believe in any of that stuff. I stopped believing when, in my teens, someone very close to me died, tragically. Or rather was killed in an accident caused by the drunken irresponsibility of another. It made no sense to me . Forty years later, it still doesn’t. That, and the injustices I’ve seen around the world have left me jaded at the thought of a higher power that is “looking after” us. If that is the case, then I think he/she/it is doing a pretty poor job of it for most of the population of this planet, irrespective of their individual beliefs.
A few years ago, I was standing in an ornamental garden in the centre of Tokyo. I was attending a banquet dinner, where the most exquisite of food had been served. And afterwards we wandered in the gardens while musician serenaded us with the discordant strains of traditional music.
It wasn’t the first tremor I had experienced. But it was the first time I was standing on the ground when it happened. So there was no rattling of windows, no shaking. What felt like a giant creature, a 100 foot sandworm was writhing in the earth underneath my feet. It rolled and writhed and surged and then was gone. I felt it rise up through my feet and legs and vibrate my entire body. I felt it in every molecule of my body and it terrifed me. I felt its might and its ire.
I looked around at the “locals”, but they hadn’t reacted. After all, the Japanese experience around 1500 of these a year. There were earth-quake detecting instruments in the corner of every room, in every public building I entered. Even more disturbing were the illustrations on the back of the door of the hotel, showing what to do during an earthquake evacuation procedure. The idea of placing a pillow over my head to protect me from several floors of concrete landing on my head, was totally ludicrous...
I looked across at the banquet hall and a couple of Japanese people were holding onto the glass window with both hands. I thought it odd.
I caught up with my girlfriend... “Did you feel that?” I said. “Feel what.” She replied. “Oh, it was just an earth tremor.” I said, trying to down-play my experience. I didn’t want to push the conversation, she had already told me that she’d be on the first plane home if an earthquake hit. I could not believe she hadn’t felt it. It was only one of several tremors we would feel in our two weeks in Japan.
The next morning I stood on the observation deck of one of Tokyo’s highest buildings. The view was almost invisible. I was up in the clouds and the mist swirled and clung to the windows obscuring my view of most of Tokyo. What if an earthquake hit now, I thought. Would I ride this building to the ground? What if the lifts failed to work, or just failed. I thought of the people who jumped off the World Trade Centre and I shuddered and I decided not to think about it anymore.
Reunited (photos taken five years ago)
“That’s Her!” Stan said. But for a minute I wasn’t so sure. We were standing at the edge of Bac Ha Markets and I was suffering from sensory overload. The humidity, the noise and the riotous colour of the Flower Hmong’s traditional dress was swimming in front of me like the opening sequence of a Baz Luhrmann extravaganza. The unfamiliar smells emanating from the open-air kitchens was assaulting my nostrils, as was the more familiar odour of animal dung wafting through from the buffalo market, on what would otherwise have been a welcome cool breeze.
I flipped through the little book of photos I had brought with me. It was her, she was even wearing the same coloured hat and scarf.
We handed her the photo and she stared at it for a long time. I wondered about the quality of her eyesight. Finally she looked up and pointed a bony finger at me and her face collapsed into the sweetest of smiles. We smiled, we nodded, I babbled on in English, and ripple of activity radiated from where we were standing as a crowd of noisy, nosy women closed in around us, grabbing at the photos and chattering excitedly to each other. Pointing and laughing at the photos in turn as they recognised the images of their friends.
A woman standing behind me indicated that she wanted to see the photos too. I reached across to retrieve the photo from “my” lady, but she gripped it tightly and would not let it go. I had given it to her, and there was no way she was giving it back. She held it up for the others to see and her eyes crinkled so much I wondered that she could see out of them.
I asked if I could photograph her again, and she composed herself, stared directly down the lens at me and honoured me again with her portrait.
Meanwhile the activity around us had shifted slightly as another women recognised herself in one of the photos. A shy woman, five years ago she had tipped her hat at me as I photographed her. She had aged, as had all the women. But then, I guess, so have I.
Woman
I don't know anything about International Women's Day except that it is today. I only found out last night. I should rush off and google it. I’m not a feminist, but I believe in women’s rights and equal opportunity. And I ache for the women around the world who are unempowered, supressed and subjugated.
So today I am thinking about all the women I've seen in my travels. Especially the ones in developing nations who work hard to help support their families, who work tirelessly, and sacrifice so much, to provide their children with opportunities they, themselves have been denied.
I love this photo of this Vietnamese woman. I photographed her 5 years ago, and sadly did not find her when I returned to the region this time. I left my photo album of photos with a lady in Bac Ha Markets, I hope the photo I took of her found its way into her hands. And if so, it gave her the smallest of pleasures.
What I like about this photo, is that I connected with this woman. For the briefest moment, there was the briefest eye contact. But it was like the history of all womanhood was passed on, or rather acknowledged in that look. Woman to woman.
I know nothing of her life and she could not concieve of mine. But the communication through her eyes found common ground on a fundamental level. A brief encounter, long since gone, but preserved here this photo and in my memory. There is a knowledge, a secret code, that trandscends cultural and racial barriers. Not even the faintest of smiles, or the slightest nod of the head, but this woman and I read each other, accepted and acknowledged.
I wonder where she is today and how International Woman’s Day is treating her.
I am blessed that I was born into a society that allows me as a woman to have choice.
Here and There
Don't forget to visit my exhibition!!!!
Le Pain Quotidien in Surry Hills. Opening Night Tuesday 8th March 6-8pm. If you are in the neighbourhood, please drop by.
The exhibition will be on show from the 8th March to the 27th March and will feature new images from Vietnam and some from my previous exhibition [ my ] 'stralia.
Le Pain Quotidien has great coffee and fabulous food, so if you can't make opening night, pop in any day between 8am - 5pm and treat yourself.
Here and There
The exhibition will be on show from the 8th March to the 27th March and will feature new images from Vietnam and some from my previous exhibition [ my ] 'stralia.
Le Pain Quotidien has great coffee and fabulous food, so if you can't make opening night, pop in any day between 8am - 5pm and treat yourself.
n.b. I will not be providing airfares for any of my interstate or international friends. Sorry. :(
HERE & THERE
An Exhibition
Opening Night – All Welcome
6 – 8pm Tuesday 8th March
Le Pain Quotidien
Click Here for Map & Website
cnr Bourke & Fitzroy St, Surry Hills
Exhibition 8th - 27th March, 2011 – 8am to 5pm daily.
Contact Alison: • 0414 53 6600
www.alisonlyons.com.au
alison@standalone.com.au
Outside the House of Perfect
Just taking a break from the Vietnam photos... Shot this in the Sydney CBD on a Sunday afternoon
Who is this woman?
Who is this woman with rheumy eyes and betel leaf stains on her lips,
her teeth rotting in her ancient sunken mouth?
Was she ever a little child with shiny black hair and innocent eyes?
Did she sing softly to herself as she played in the village?
Did she ever tread lightly, full of hope and expectation?
Was there a time when she was vital, her breasts young and her hips had a sensuous curve?
Did her heart race when she caught a glimpse of a young man’s face
or heard his voice whispering her name?
Did she laugh, did she giggle, did she dream?
Has she ever lain in a night of passion, an urgent young man at her thigh,
lust reflecting in his soft brown eyes?
Did she ever hold a newborn to her breast?
Its small dark eyes glinting up at her with dependence?
And when the war swept through her country with cyclonic force,
did she sling a gun across her back and fight for her freedom?
She has flowed with the ebb and tide of the Thu Bon River and rowed heavily upstream against its current. Taking passengers and produce forwards, backwards, upstream and back, day after month after year. She would have weathered the monsoonal floods of ‘64 and ‘99 and 2009, when the rich people of town hoisted their precious belongings to the top floors of their houses for safety.
At the end of the day does she have a home to go to, a family?
As she squats and counts the notes she has earned, does anyone hand her a warm bowl of broth?
Does the smoke from the wood fire catch and cling in grey of her wiry hair?
Is there a small bed in a small room where she can rest?
Or does she sleep in her little boat, tethered by an old rope to the dock,
with only the familiar sounds of the night for comfort?
Who is this woman with rheumy eyes and betel leaf stains on her lips
and her teeth rotting in her ancient sunken mouth?
Girl... you've gotta carry that weight
he women who go to Bac Ha markets every Sunday, often travel many miles to get there. Some on the back of motorbikes and some walk, often leaving home during the night in order to arrive at the markets early enough to get the bargains.
So the bag this woman is carrying mightn't be completely full, it mightn't be full of rice, she might not have to walk many miles home with it on her
Boat woman of Hoi An
I confess I don’t know much about the boat women of Hoi An, well to be truthful, I know nothing about them, other than what I observe.
I shift my camera from one arm to the other, protecting a niggling shoulder injury as I watch an elderly women row a group of five people across the river. I’m hot, the sun-block is sliding off my arms, and I am looking foward to sitting down on the balcony one of the riverfront restaurants with an icy cold mango juice. The woman must be at least 70, but it is hard to determine what age she actually is, she looks like she is in her nineties, too old to be rowing boats for a living. She picks up another passenger and several large sacks of rice and rows back.
I wonder if she has been rowing boats across this river all her life, if she has a family to support and what has brought her to this point in her life. When it rains here, for weeks on end, does she still row?
The women seem quite intimidating with their wizened leathery skin and stern expressions. They wait at the river’s edge, tethering their boats by resting one bare brown foot on the concrete dock, as they wait for passengers. They work hard ferrying people across, or along, the river.
They are old and they look tired. They’ve lived through the hardships of war. “We” we bombed these people and now, as elderly women, they are still living in hardship. I feel tired just watching them... and sad.
As I raise my camera to photograph one of the women, she stares back down the lens at me expressionless, she doesn’t care about whether I take her photo or not. Another waves me aside, she doesn’t want her photo taken, and I completely understand why.
I approach another boat woman and raise my camera, she kicks her head back and smiles at me. I take her photo and I thank her. She smiles again.
She is now locked in my bag of memories from Hoi An. I look at the photo and it brings back the smell of the river, the sticky humidity of afternoon and the soft sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat.
And today as I post this photo to share with you, I know she will have been rowing across the river many times, and tomorrow she will do the same, and probably every day until she no longer has the strength to do so.