In January 2021, three micro-grants of $1000 each were granted for a new, original short work, for writers over 18, residing in New England and creating for adult readers/audiences in any genre. Works could be multi-arts and the theme was "Summer in New England", which could be interpreted in a variety of ways.
The following is Trish Donald's wonderful interpretation and multi-media project.
The following is Trish Donald's wonderful interpretation and multi-media project.
Introduction | Reflection
|
Two things struck me as I began this project. How much I enjoyed talking to people and my small observations of them as I talked and the reaction I got once I asked them to share their experience; the giant pause.
My proposal was to have conversations with six people from the New England region regarding their experiences of the New England Summer, in particular, the sounds and smells. I then wanted to create a piece of artwork based on a theme that emerged and place it back into the landscape from where one of the stories was set. I discovered, as I began the conversations, many shared experiences, and, far more than six willing participants. It seemed that whenever I mentioned the project I was immediately rewarded with enthusiastic people wanting to share their experiences with me. Conversations took place in homes, cafes, workplaces and on bush walks. They happened formally and informally. It was delightful how eager people were to share their experiences with me and be part of the project. 
The great thing about writing is that you can write anywhere! Here I am, crafting stories in a student café in Melbourne on a recent visit, while my son is in class at Victorian College of the Arts (VCA)
|
1) I decided to write a series of vignettes capturing these impressions. The descriptions reveal my inner thoughts and relationship to the person, capture the flavor of our surroundings and land on various feelings and objects. It was a wonderful process for me to capture these impressions. It felt like perfume lingering in the air after someone is gone.
2) The pause, was fascinating. Pausing when asked a question is natural, people need time to gather their thoughts, but this pause had weight, it was tangible and people had to step over in order to reach the past. This hump was a community besieged by drought and unrelenting bush fires, of the upheaval and loss of freedom due to COVID followed by what felt like continuous rain. These experiences usurped memories of the past, stole them away and left people paralyzed. It took some effort to recall anything beyond this point. They had to think hard. But, lucky for me they did. They found their way over the hump and shared their experiences of summer in the New England. The project unfolded by falling into three parts: Project Beetle Hunt!
Join the Beetle Hunt out at the Blue Hole between Friday 23 April and Saturday 29 May 2021.
Christmas Beetles have been hidden in and around this lovely picnic spot to find. Hide them again or take them home as trophy! There's a QR code on the back of the beetles that will bring you back to this page. Read the Beetle Hunt Stories |
Epilogue
As I began work on the project the Armidale Regional Council invited locals to submit proposals for pop-up art installations in the mall. I decided to expand this project and was successful. My proposal is to create papier-mâché Christmas beetles and place them in a window of a local shop. Accompanying them are postcards that invite the community to write their story about Christmas beetles. These postcards will be collected by council and made available for the public to enjoy.
As I began work on the project the Armidale Regional Council invited locals to submit proposals for pop-up art installations in the mall. I decided to expand this project and was successful. My proposal is to create papier-mâché Christmas beetles and place them in a window of a local shop. Accompanying them are postcards that invite the community to write their story about Christmas beetles. These postcards will be collected by council and made available for the public to enjoy.
The Vignettes
Impressions
|
Before me sits a woman with the air of an old fashioned movie star. Perfectly groomed; eyebrows, lipstick and blush with striking short blond hair pulled upwards off her face. Her emerald green pantsuit accentuates her curves and bold femininity. She is as perfectly presented as the groomed sashimi placed before us. I am mindful, as she scoops one up like a dancer, that I am the opposite, and I internally revert to the farm girl in gumboots and overalls trudging down the paddock.
She sits squarely opposite me at the table, armed with menu, ready for business. Her shirt, quality cotton with a delicate pattern of geometric shapes in earthy tones is complimented by a necklace that looks like it has been taken straight off the gallery wall. I compliment her on the perfect match and she expresses her pleasure in the combination. Her warm and down to earth manner does not betray the depth of the emotions she has experienced. We order pots of tea and casually continue our conversation.
Delicate features and a radiant smile look up at me as I sit down offering a hand full of pipe cleaners to her two year old who has joined us for breakfast. “I have pipe cleaners in the car” I offer as explanation. “Of course you do.” I see the delight in her eyes at the random things artists have on hand. She apologizes for her linen “sack dress” that is so unlike her usual attire of stunning patterns and textures that drape perfectly on her tall slim frame. The same outfits on me would raise questioning eyes, but on her, the competing patterns, textures and colours elevate her to fashion goddess. 
Sharing a creative session with artist friends at Dangers Gorge. They painted and I captured their stories.
|
A large man with a naked head sits lightly on the edge of his bed. It is low to the ground forcing his knees up high. In his lap, a carefully held, small fluffy dog is eager to lick me. Her tongue flicks desperately forward but I am just out of reach and maintain the distance with caution, mindful of a slimy ambush. They have an enviable familiarity, one that is grown out of many hours spent together. I listen and watch. They both have kind eyes. Discovered, two people in a lookout shelter on a drizzly day, hunched over steaming tea, getting back to nature. Teabag tags hang over the edge of blue aluminum mugs. Crinkled paper discarded nearby reveals remnants of cake, telltale signs they ate their goodies quickly as sweet rewards for trudging through the landscape on a gloomy day. I feel guilty interrupting their couple’s tranquility but they seem eager to chat. Perched on a rock I take in the view. Danger’s George on a cloudy day that threatens extreme heat or a downpour. Butterflies flutter over scraggy spindly bushes. To my right an artist friend sits, amber ring set in silver on her left hand. In her right, a paintbrush skips across the canvas balanced on her knees. Green and greys take form and rocks emerge. The artist to my left is a new to me. She starts with coloured pencil in her workbook trying to unpick the layers of trees and make sense of them, simplifying her interpretation on the page. Perched on a tiny chair she leans forward reaching for more colours until her hands are full. We are tucked away, out of the pathway of bushwalkers. A discussion ensues about our experience managing the unconcealed disappointment of passersby on previous painting excursions. Our stories are similar; coming upon us painting in the bush, they often expect to see a masterpiece. But, our small studies of unfinished scribblings, our roughs, to us full of surprises and life, do not meet the expectations of these transient viewers. A breeze picks up, the butterflies have all but gone but two flicker and make their fluttery way uphill towards me. Flies buzz unrelentingly eager to touch my arm, cheek, ear, other ear, nose, and my fingers. Why am I so interesting? |
The Stories
Cicadas
A man leans back on his armchair and thinks of a distant past…
“I was a taxi driver back then. It was warm, everyone was on holiday and people were in good humour. An older couple got into my taxi. They were from somewhere overseas, I forget where, they had only been here a few days. Anyway, they were chatting about the sound, it was coming from all directions and it was loud. “Cicadas”, I offered in response to their question. I sat back and watched them in the rear vision mirror as they took this in.”
A cheeky smile spreads across his face…
“We don’t have Mr Whippy trucks anymore so we need the Cicadas to herald in the summer!”
She moved countries and was unprepared for the screaming…
“You certainly know you’re in a different country! They are distinctly Australian, you just don’t get sounds like that in New Zealand. They scream at you. During summer I have to push them to the back of my mind so I can concentrate. Even though they are so intrusive I lived here for about five years before I had a serious problem with them. I was the mother of a sweet, round faced perfect toddler. He was always sensitive to sounds and at the age of two, their unrelenting high pitch proved a great agitation. With hands pressed over his ears he would express his distress, which distressed me and his dad, we all suffered. So his father and I got him some earplugs. He coped well with the fat rubbery yellow tubes sticking in his ears, and didn’t even try to take them out. He was immediately calm, which meant his dad and I were also immediately calm. Who would have thought something so small could make so much noise, I dreaded Cicada season every year but likely, he got more tolerant as he grew up”
A woman sits at home unable to escape, the noise is deafening…
“While the sound of Cicadas during summer is always impressive, what stands out for me is the deafening silence when darkness falls. Their sounds is so piercing and unrelenting you feel like your ears are about to rupture. They just keep going, and going, and then? They stop. One minute you’re watching TV with the volume turned up, stinking hot cos you need the windows closed to hear, then… nothing. And you don’t realize straight away. But, at some point, you notice how quiet it is, and you look out the window and it’s dark. You realize they have stopped, open a window, and turn down the TV. The tension you have been holding eases away. The silence feels blissful.”
A man sits on the veranda, thinking about how lucky he is…
“I love the sounds of cicadas, they are a symphony guided by a hidden conductor. The best time to listen to them is in the heat of the day, when they are at their loudest. I sit on the veranda, and look out at the gum trees. The heat sits close to my body and it feels good to be so warm. I like to imagine the conductor, up high in the tree, baton waving, looking down the branches to the orchestra responding diligently. I am absorbed, the rhythm builds, then stops, the conductor taps its baton and off they go again. I sink further into my chair.
Christmas Beetles
A woman sits with her feet in a stream...
“Summer in the New England is so different to the Canadian summer. In contrast to the bitter cold, New England was stinking hot. My first summer here was a shock. I could barely breath, it was unbearable. I sat with my feet in the cool water at Blue Hole to get some relief.
There was one commonality though, Christmas beetles, although they are known by another name back home. They share the same distinct smell.
So, there I was, in this unfamiliar landscape, this oppressive heat, feet cooling and a gin and tonic in one hand with the smell of Christmas beetles reminding me of home. I never drink gin throughout the year, but when I smell Christmas beetles I know its Gin and tonic time!”
The pop of a cork…
“I will never forget my parents having a fancy Christmas party in the garden when I was young. Everything was perfect. All the guests were dressed beautifully in fancy cloths nibbling fancy food my mother had prepared. The garden was manicured and tables decorated beautifully. It was very sophisticated. Men were in suits and women in high heels tried not to sink into the grass, delicately keeping their balance. Everyone was making polite conversation holding champagne flutes while taking in the beautiful summer evening. Then the Christmas beetles arrived. One by one flute glasses were dive bombed as they started to drown in their Champagne!”
I have a great story for you” she says as her face lights up. Her computer hums absently behind her as she begins…
“We had just moved to a new home just out of Armidale. The water tasted a bit funky, it was just a bit off but we were too busy unpacking to give it much attention. Eventually, about a week later we ventured out to the water tank to check it out. It was thick with drowned decomposing Christmas beetles. The tank had no lid and was under the bathroom window. Beetles had been drawn to the light at night and fallen to their doom. Poor little things. They were just sludge with a very distinct taste. So, now, when summer starts, and the Christmas beetles start to arrive, I can smell them and remember how they tasted!”
I will never forget when my mum came to visit from England...
“It was summer and really hot. We hadn’t long moved in and the house was smelling stuffy from being locked up for so long. One evening my mum was fussing and cleaning and I will never forget when she decided to open the window and let in some fresh air. My sister and I both ran and screamed at the same time, it was like slow motion “n-o-o-o-o! But we were too late, she had flung the window wide and the Christmas beetles flooded in!
Summer storms
It’s only a matter of time before it hits…
“My first summer in New England felt like autumn because I was used to Sydney summers. One particular New Year’s Eve it was freezing. My band was playing in the shed and you could see our breath!
Every summer I wait for the hail. I know it’s coming, ready to do damage and wreak havoc on peoples Christmas joy. That year, the year we were huddled in the shed playing, hail as big as golf balls wrecked half the roofs in Armidale and shredded avenues of trees. A man out riding on his horse was badly bruised and a chook was killed!
A few years ago, two days before Christmas a storm hit so severe it forced traffic on the highway north of Armidale to pull over. We’d already left for Christmas to my sister’s holiday house south. We arrived home two weeks later to moldy carpet in a bedroom when the gutters had been too full to cope with the deluge. It was a common holiday conversation with fellow Armidillions that year.
Last summer, this time after Christmas, my daughter and I got caught out in the middle of a driving lesson on the outskirts of town. It started gently enough, rain, then more rain, then torrential rain that was too much for the windscreen wipers even on full. We were forced to stop on the side of the road. Then rain was replaced by hail, small round biting balls of hail, pelting us from a darkened sky. Then that got so heavy and thick we were forced to seek shelter at a nearby farm, we drove into an empty shed to escape. Then, as quickly as it had started it stopped and the raising water around the car threatened to trap us.
My daughter cautiously navigated furrows in the hail made by other cars as she drove us home. Eventually the hail melted to sludge, but she was still careful. I tell you, that was one hell of a driving lesson!”
The smell is distinct...
“I love the smell of hail storms. They smell cold and old, and rich and earthy. The drama is followed by thick mists rising from the road as it evaporates from the hot tar which, only moments ago was too hot for bare feet. It won’t be long until the white balls of ice melt and reveal a carpet of green. Trees have been stripped bare and stand in shock as people drive by in the safety of their cars. Mouths open and eyes wide.”
The Family
Two families sit around a giant wooden table, eager to participate. The youngest girl, aged 10, shoots her hand into the air eager to contribute, well trained from school to talk once permission has been granted. Her mother and I exchange amused smiles and everyone sits politely, waiting for her contribution. Once she finishes suggestions erupt from all directions…
“Icy poles melting before I can even lick them”
“Going to the beach, looking out the window on the way, waiting takes forever!” – the boy
“Roses, and the smell of cut grass” - the proud mum
“Mangoes!” – the 15 year old in a burst, it’s become a competition.
“If you buy them in a tray it’s not as expensive” – the rational voice of the dad and everyone nods knowingly.
“Cherries!” counters the boy, “adding more cherries to your mouth to see how many can fit in then spitting out the seeds one by one”
“My birthday” calls another voice
“Hailstorms” says another adult, “building up in the afternoon, you can feel the storm brewing, hear the storm coming, see the green hue in the clouds”
“Lots of weeds” – the mother again
“Cicadas”
“The smell of barbeques” everyone agrees appreciatively.
“Roo’s coming up close to the house last summer in search of water and food”
“Going for bushwalk”
“Sweat trickling down my back”
“Air conditioning at the shopping Centre”
“Salvia’s flowering”
“Blue wrens and their little girlfriends”
“The town pool!”
“Swimming carnivals!”
They keep calling out examples, raising to my challenge, and I keep capturing them in my notebook.
The Emerging Artwork
|
I really enjoyed the stories of cicada’s and Christmas beetles. While there were similarities, I was struck by just how many different stories there were.
The Christmas Beetle stories in particular captured my attention. These little beetles are so common that nearly everyone I spoke to have had an experience with them. I thought it would be a good choice to translate into an artwork because it would be easy for people to relate to, and, in doing so, would help them reflect on their own experiences with Christmas Beetles. This would help to provoke conversation and sharing of stories. Beetle Hunt @ The Blue Hole
Did you find a beetle and scan the QR code? That's fabulous!!
These Beetles were created by local author/illustrator, Trish Donald. Here's a bit more information. Please scroll down to the bottom of the page to share your story with us. |
Typing up the stories and editing. Looking at Christmas beetles for inspiration!
|
Trish, tell us a bit about your Beetle Hunt project.
It was the stories that so many of us have about finding Christmas Beetles (that emerged out of the Micro-grant project) that inspired me to translate that into a community hunt. I chose the medium of painted rocks as the final artwork because it is very popular at the moment. People paint rocks and place them in different places, both rural and regional, for others to find and enjoy. Once found, hunters can keep their rocks or re-hide them for others to find!
Can you tell us a bit about your creative process?
I drew a Christmas Beetle and had it made into different sized stickers, popped them on rocks, painted the rocks white and varnished them. On the back, QR codes will direct you back here so that you can share your story.
(Click on the image to open the gallery)
This is such a fun project! We hope to share some of the stories from the folks who might find your beetles. How long will the "hunt" be on?
They will be placed out there for one month (from April 23 - May 29), after this time I will go back out and collect any that have not been taken.
|
Thanks Trish!
It's been a blast. I've loved doing this. Also, thanks go to Aaron Simmon, Area Manager of New England Area Northern Inland Branch of NSW National Parks & Wildlife Service. He gave permission for me to place the artwork out at Blue Hole. |
|