house of horror

I travelled to Brisbane for a friend's art exhibition in a house on James Street in Fortitude Valley. I arrived alone and on dusk, and I seemed to be the first person there. The door was ajar, but not open, and the lights were dim. I peered through the window and I was frightened. There, next to my friend's artwork, I saw old photographs of hags covering the walls of the room: old and ugly witches with cruel eyes, hooked noses and twisted mouths. The photographs seemed to be from various times throughout history - even well before the camera was invented. I gathered this was a record of the owner of the house's ancestry, and I was repelled. I did not want to go in, but I feared disappointing my friend. She arrived and went happily into the house, which was now somewhat lit up and open to the invited guests. A few people arrived and I was more or less ushered in with them. I barely saw my friend's artwork, I was so horrified by the photos lining the walls. Photo after photo of evil-looking and grotesque people. I went into the second room - a dining room - where we were to have supper and a lecture on art. As I was supposed to do, I sat at a mammoth dark-wood, highly polished table in the centre of the room. The walls were painted a lifeless grey and heavy teal curtains were closed against the world outside., concealing the room within. A tall man in a black suit dusted the curtains and polished silver ornaments. He kept his face turned away, but I knew he was the owner of the house and would wear the same dreadful countenance of his family line. I felt this was some kind of trap; a scene of a crime about to be committed. I woke up.

money in the wind

I was sitting inside at a vast open window, looking out at people passing by while I sharpened coloured pencils. There must have been hundreds of pencils and I had to sharpen them all before I could draw. The bucket of pencil shavings was half-full and my sharpener was dull. For some reason, my wallet was sitting on the window sill and every so often money would flutter out and blow into the street - ten dollars, twenty dollars, fifty dollars. Each time, people made an effort to help catch my money and return it, but a few times the money was lost. Once, a dog snatched my money out of the air and ran away with it in his teeth.

choosing abundance

Driving over the apex of a city hill on dusk, I could see a traffic jam ahead in the bottommost curve of the road, before it swept once again up the hill. The red brake lights of all cars in front of me glowed dimly in the darkening day. As I approached the queue, I saw that the road divided: I could either join the long line of cars inching along the road, or I could drive up a set of cement stairs that reached high up above the city. Taking a risk, I drove straight at the stairs, hoping, believing that the car would not simply crash into the staircase. Indeed, the car eased onto the stairs and drove powerfully, confidently up the steep incline. I realised that I was driving a black Lexus, and felt assured, knowing my car was capable. At the top of the stairs, I drove into a wide and spacious mezzanine area. I left my car to take a look around. Up here, there were people enjoying the view, children having private art lessons from master artists, boutiques selling exquisite clothing and art works of great beauty. All of this and more, in the city and yet above it.

unit and art

I was visiting some people in their new unit. At first, I was only observing the scene as though watching a film, but gradually I became a part of it. The unit was on the top floor of a complex of six units; three on the ground floor and three on the top floor. The inhabitants of two of the top-floor units were friends and divided their time between both units; perhaps more of them knew each other well, but I did not see them. It reminded me of Melrose Place, or some such situation. I did not know anyone well at all and they all seemed to be in their mid thirties, but, even though I am older than that in waking life, I felt a year or two younger. My older sister was there and it became evident that they were her friends. One unit was already furnished and lived in, while the one I was visiting was barely furnished. A blonde woman had nearly finished painting the walls of the entire unit a pale mint green. The style of the unit was quite retro and, although it was not to my taste, the colour quite suited it. Another woman arrived home and became outraged as she had not been consulted as to the new colour. She did not like it and felt that it should be a neutral colour such as white. She and the first woman argued for a while and then the first woman left the room. I had not offered an opinion but as soon as the woman left, the second woman asked me my thoughts on the matter. I said that I thought it would be better if the entire unit was painted a chalky white, with colour introduced by soft furnishings. I suggested warm-coloured furnishings to give the unit a lift. The first woman returned and, immediately, I felt reserved again, aware of the effort it would have taken to paint the unit and not wanting too to attract her anger. I walked around the unit and, as I did, time seemed to pass. It was now painted white, highlighted by soft furnishings and paintings in warm, earthy colours. Fabulous art books and objets d'art were scattered about the place. I went into the dining room and, on the table, saw a crystal bowl. Inside the bowl were several small sculptures of dogs. I picked one up to look at it and then replaced it. Instantly, the dogs came to life. Four tiny dogs walked around inside the bowl. I picked one of them up - a tiny, golden curly-haired dog with sad brown eyes. After putting him back into the bowl, they ceased being live. I walked around the unit again and decided to collect art, to visit galleries and invest in beautiful and valuable pieces.

fixing situations

I was in Newcastle and I drove to a venue that regularly housed an art exhibition, open to the public every weekend. The woman who organised the exhibition was there and she told me about the latest sales and encouraged me to display more of my work for sale. I was inspired by the idea and returned home where I sorted through old canvases, deciding which ones I would paint over, ready for the exhibition next weekend. I went to a shop to purchase some art material and, upon paying for my goods with my new eftpos card, two hundred dollars was inadvertently debited from my account. I waited while the man reversed the transaction, crediting the money back to my account. The next morning, Sunday, B and I went down the road to a cafe that opened at nine. We talked about their late opening hours realising that it brought them their target trade. We had breakfast and went to the counter to pay. Again I used my new card and again money was wrongly debited from my account, this time one hundred dollars. The man pointed it out to me and I told him I would wait whilst he rectified the situation. Not sure of how to do it, he charged one of the younger workers with the job. She went to find instructions on how to proceed. The line grew behind me and someone else started serving the waiting customers. I waited for forty-five minutes, growing increasingly angry. Finally I found the young woman for whom I was waiting and confronted her. My anger bubbled up until I was shouting at her, telling her how long I had waited. As I shouted, she backed toward the cupboard behind her, her body disappearing, until finally, she evaporated and passed through the closed wooden doors of the cupboard, hiding deep inside. I felt sorry and called out to her, saying that I didn't think she was stupid, that I believed she could do a good job. The cupboard doors opened a little and I hoped she would come out. Instead, her two shoes stepped out - she was still invisible - and walked quickly away. I was alarmed that my anger had caused such an extreme response, but felt sure that I could right the situation.

exhibition

I was at the state art gallery to view a new exhibition of illustrated books, wandering around the vast space, when I came upon a small exhibition wall dedicated to my book. The book was there, printed and bound, sitting upon a white plinth. Around the book, someone had created a display in hot pink and orange with lots of white space, using various items to make an eclectic installation, such as boxes of tea and fine fabric. I went over to a lounge and sat down, my breath taken away upon finding my book included in the exhibition. I watched as a woman picked up the book, turning the pages carefully. She came over and asked if I had seen the book, pointing to a specific illustration of a young woman's face surrounded by leaves and flowers arranged in an intricate pattern. I was not sure if I should tell her that I had written and illustrated it, but I did and she was appreciative. I then noticed one of my paintings hanging on the wall, again predominantly pink, orange and white, and I realised that the entire section was dedicated to displaying my work. I saw empty walls and wished that I had produced more work to fill them, that I had made more of the space.