I have been thinking a lot about art, the flat visuals feeding into my thoughts seamlessly and stirring up sediment and memories from years ago; recalling fondness and passion and making me realise that geography and layout can dictate a certain type of sensory experience.
From my bedroom window I can see Mt. Stromlo, where Rosalie Gascoigne lived with her astronomer husband. She moved from the wet hills of Auckland to this struggling little outpost in 1943, mastering ikebana and reforming waste into beauty. The telescope is still there, they restored it after the fires in 2003 but the hill upon which it sits is still naked. Its barrenness reminds us of whole streets destroyed in minutes. Plants are slow to grow, things take time to heal, longer than we think (or allow).
Rosalie Gascoigne, Suddenly the lake, 1995
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