Botanical Art

What comes to mind when you hear the term "botanical art"?

If you're like me, it's birds, flowers, and staid images hanging on the dusty walls in the musty houses of the elderly.

Well, I'm happy to admit I'm wrong. My father-in-law has recently painted a series of close-ups of Australian native plants. They were partly inspired by a visit to the West last year: the prices that cashed-up West Aussies were paying caught his attention, I think.

Anyhow, I love them, and I hope you do too. There are others, and I can put you in touch with the artist if you'd like. Yes, this is a shameless plug.

Re-entry

In financial-world speak, I’ve had a blog-free quarter (Nov to Jan). I’m hoping to make a re-entry in the weeks ahead.

Speaking of re-entries, last week I was one of many Perth residents who got to see McNaught’s Comet. What a treat! [re-entry--comet--solar-system: it's a tenuous link; but have mercy, it's been a long time since I've blogged :-)]

On Friday night, we viewed it from floodlit Scarborough Beach. Rating: 8.5 out of 10. Saturday night, we were in a poorly-lit coastal town north of Perth. From this darker vantage point, Mr McNaught was far bigger and brighter – 9 out of 10, at least.

Seeing the comet reminded me of the last line of a poem by Les Murray.

Comete

Uphill in Melbourne on a beautiful day

a woman was walking ahead of her hair.

Like teak oiled soft to fracture and sway

it hung to her heels and seconded her

as a pencilled retinue, an unscrolling title

to a ploughland, edged with ripe rows of dress,

a sheathed wing that couldn’t fly her at all,

only herself, loosely, and her spirits.

A largesse

of life and self, brushed all calm and out,

its abstracted attempts on her mouth weren’t seen,

nor its showering, its tenting. Just the detail

that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about –

as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.

I’d like to see a woman with hair like that!