My Life Flashing Before My Eyes.

We are just about to open a retrospective from the Sydney based hard-edge painter Col Jordan. I studied Col's work when I was doing my masters, so this exhibition is really important to me - it is such a thrill to handle works that you know so well from reproductions. Anyway, I was in the gallery hanging the show till quite late last night and then I got into work this morning at about 7am, so I am feeling a bit frazzled and generally a little nuts. For this reason, I doubt this post will be particularly cogent.

In any case, coming in this morning I had my first chance to properly survey Col's exhibition. It contains works done over 40 years - from 1966 to 2007. As I entered the gallery I had this strange thought about what entering a show like this must be like for the artist. After all, a retrospective like this aims to sum up an entire career's worth of production - it must be a bit like seeing your life flash before your eyes. I asked Col about this when he came in this morning. I think he was a bit hot and flustered after walking from his hotel to the gallery and thought that the question was a bit strange. That said, when he walked into the gallery and saw all of his works beaming forth, I think he was genuinely taken aback - I actually think the analogy of his 'life flashing before his eyes' seemed quite appropriate. Once he had caught his breath and thought about my question, Col replied "I just hope it looks this good when I see my life flashing before my eyes!" I thought that was a really great response, and I really hope that one day I can look back on something like that a say the same thing...

I am currently writing a song about my late grandfather. I don't know why this happened, but like most songs it just happened. Usually a couple of ideas come into my head and I then have to try and find something to tie them all together. In this case, the first line that came to me was"

We talked about how
you walked so slowly round the shops
using a shopping trolley as a crutch.


The second line that came to me was

Your last years were a labour
but you wore them like a matyr
till one day your knees finally gave out asunder
'neath all of the burdens your old Scottish shoulders could bare.



My grandfather, Jim Doherty was a really great old man. The thing I remember most about him was how he held the whole family together. Whenever something bad happened to one of the family, I remember my mother always being terrified about how much it would upset granddad. I don't recall him getting angry very often, but I do remember sometimes he looked upset about things that happened. He would be quite silent and you could see him carrying weight. Maybe this was why he was such a great patriach to the family. For most of the time I knew him (1979-2000), Granddad's arthritis was giving him trouble. His knees caused him so much pain that in the last days he could hardly walk. For such an active and social man, this was like being a prisoner in his own body. Up until he died, Granddad would relish any opportunity to get out of the house. In his later years, when mobility became a major issue this was largely restricted to visiting the shops twice a week. The trips to the Karrinyup shops followed a carefully plotted routine, where he slowly ambled around the centre pushing a trolley. Granddad always resisted a walking frame - preferring his old walking stick which my brother bought him in Scotland. But the stick wasn't much use towards the end, so the trolley became a substitute walking frame, which he mastered to quite good effect.

The other thing I remember about my grandfather was that he loved taking the family to Miss Mauds buffet on Murray Street. I don't know why he was so attached to Miss Maud's. My Dad always thought it was a reaction to the extreme poverty of Granddad's upbringing. According to this theory, having grown up hungry so often, the idea of being able to give someone 'all they could eat' took on a major significance. I don't know if this is true - it might be. Or maybe Granddad just really liked Miss Maud's. It doesn't really matter - but I haven't been there since he died. Anyway, the thing about Miss Maud's that sticks in my mind was how much my Grandfather remained dedicated to Miss Mauds, even though he was not able to get up and got to the buffet. He would be reliant on other members of the family to tell him what was at the buffet and to get his helpings, but that didn't worry him. As long as everyone else had their fill.

In writing this song about Granddad, I don't know why his physical ailments seem to be the continuing theme, but I think the reason is that even though his body was giving up on him, even though he was becoming more and more dependent on others, even though he couldn't help everyone in all the ways that I know he wanted to; somehow he still managed to hold us all together. Somehow, in the time when he was at his weakest and most vunerable, when we were all so terrified about what the future would hold, about how his condition would deteriorate and how unbearable it was to watch his and my Nannan's final days; even in those final months he held us all together and kept us a family. In the years that have passed a lot of things have changed. When she is really worried my mother still talks about wishing she could call up Nannan and Granddad. For me, I think that when Nannan and Granddad were alive it wasn't just about them or the advice that they would give, but about the stability and solidity that they provided our world. Amongst the family we would fight and people would hold grudges and grievances, but everyone would still turn up to Miss Maud's for Granddad's birthday. Just the idea of upsetting Granddad - of breaking his heart - was a symbol enough to keep us together. I think that is what I miss most about Granddad.