Carry me away
Let me float
or don’t let me down gently

Thoughts
Watching them go by
Wondering how to rejoin

Just you

and I

and us

and them

lost together.

A butterfly or a moth
A mouse or a rat
Life in damp places
Life lived uphill

Clutter or calm
Grounded again
Body is lost
Start over

Walking a forever staircase
Happiness sits far away

Forwards to the other side?
A bit like my mind

Click on the cover to view the book… and click your way through the pages.

The little book tool is pretty simple and if for any reason you can’t view it, let me know. It isn’t suitable for small screens at the moment, but any smaller and it would not be readable anyway. It’s difficult to effectively show a book online.

The physical version is 12 x 12 inches, hard cover and 52 pages.

Every time I read about somebody with depression, they say how if it was not for their partner/their kids/their friends/their pet, they would not have made it this far.

I wonder what I have. I do have things. I have people. I have a pet. But nothing makes me feel like everything will be alright. This makes me wonder if I do have something.

So what of those who don’t have anything to keep them from sinking? We don’t get to hear about them? Did they not make it this far?

When the skies open up and the power overcomes, my heart beats rapidly. It’s a chance to witness something above our species. A force we cannot tame.

I always get an urge to stop the car when I see roadkill. Sometimes to move the animal to save it from endless tyres. But often I don’t really know why.

Society today seems to shield us from being face to face with death, yet we’re exposed to so much more from a distance.

When I walk back from my car towards the animal, I don’t feel sad. Sometimes there is a fear that I’ll see something hard to look at, but generally I just curiously want to sit beside reality.

I don’t worry about small things. The superficiality of everyday modern living becomes insignificant. Something usually ignored seems more important. It holds more purpose than our petty concerns.

To society common, I’m seen as strange for prefering this to going home to watch CSI on television. But the more I think about it, the other way around just seems strange. I suppose the difference is that I am thinking, whereas the alternative is an exercise in preventing thought.

In order for life to continue, life must be consumed. At the top of the food chain, our closet of skeletons is the biggest of all. The progression of mankind is the result of a history of violence. Our intelligence is thanks to murder.

It’s hard for many to accept that a mosquito has no higher purpose. That the viruses it spreads do not exist for a reason which is somehow beneficial to us in the long run.

A female mosquito requires blood in order to breed and one of its favourite sources is humans. The method in which the mosquito extracts blood can allow the transfer of viruses.

It’s been 18 months since I was bitten and I can still barely walk most days. Yet each day I seem to become more frustrated with people (in all our wisdom) than I do with mosquitos.

I don’t have many vivid memories of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if I had photographed him, would it feel different to look at the pictures? Would I feel more connected?

Even seeing myself in images as a child, I don’t feel a sense of familiarity. So it seems like a struggle to feel familiar with my ancestors in old photographs.

Prior to the invention of photography, was there a deeper sense of struggle for remembrance? Hearing stories, maybe even seeing and touching belongings or creations, must surely not have yielded such strong feelings of connectedness. Or perhaps the need to make significant use of one’s imagination might have resulted in a greater sense of fulfilment.

Perhaps the more clues to knowing a person, through the viewing of a photograph, the more questions that arise.

I used to imagine what it would be like being one of those kids at school who had shifted house six times, changed schools, swapped friends and started over. I never thought my family would move as they enjoyed the comfort of familiarity and stability.

When we moved to a new house I was 16 so it was not really like those kids I had observed. But looking back I notice changes in feeling. Houses became more modern. Everything became clean, bright and white. My new home felt more open and less like a cocoon of safety.

I see more of my childhood home in my mother’s childhood home. I never lived there but it still has that feeling which reminds me…well not of anything specifically. There’s just an overwhelming sense of feeling reminded.

The wallpaper is discoloured, becoming brown in parts. Even where some has broken away revealing a whiter wall, it still feels homely. The patterns on the wallpaper seem to be of endless variety. Tiling, lining, skirting… There appears almost endless details.

I had the date marked in my calendar well in advance. I had to ensure I actually remembered to check a calendar so that I could be reminded. I felt like a part of me would chicken out. I felt like for some reason I wouldn’t belong.

I didn’t know why I felt it was so important. Maybe I thought it might be an important step. Maybe I could connect or reflect. I tried to push myself to become a part of it all, though I still felt like a spectator.

I feel very uncomfortable photographing people who are not comfortable with me. I become agitated and I worry I am interfering. It’s not that I find it difficult to deal with others’ emotions. I’m just afraid to disturb people. I’m just afraid of confrontation.

On this day I was aided by the knowledge that what I was hiding was the reason this event was taking place. It turned out to be worthwhile. I was comforted by the openness of the subject. At least for a day it did not seem taboo.

I can’t recall a time I’ve made a significant error photographically. I generally embrace mistakes and accidents, or I simply don’t worry about them.

On the way home I discovered the first error. One roll of film was one half of what I’d taken. Yet, I still felt able to shrug it off and instead continue to embrace the earlier real experience. I could have shot more, but I didn’t want it to take over. I didn’t want to be a nuisance.

Later came the final straw. I approached it as any other time. However, as if to remind me of what initially lead to the date marked in my calendar, I tripped and fell again. Another rung missing, another step broken… I gave up. I gave up once again. Overcome with anger, overwhelmed with frustration… It could already be too late. Any chance to salvage was slowly disappearing.

There was that feeling of something working against me yet again. But I’ve grown since the past. Just as I don’t need a saving light, I know the crippling darkness is only in my imagination. So I tried once more.

The results are far from perfect, but I have results. The struggle of the journey is etched all over them. The ugly marks are prominent and they make no excuses. But they are real. They are imperfect and they are real.

White Wreath Day is held around Australia on the 29th of May every year in remembrance of all victims of suicide. It aims to publicise the issue and contributing mental illnesses.

I find cemeteries peaceful. I’m often happier surrounded by headstones rather than the living.

I find the concept of morbidity puzzling. Acknowledging thoughts about our mortality seems to shatter a social taboo.

Love, reason and consciousness of the inevitable are what separate us from most other beings. The exploration of these is what continues to drive our evolution.

The day I became comfortable with my own mortality was the day I began a new life without walls.

Having recently completed a degree in Photography at the Queensland College of Art, I am embarking on a career in photographic art practice. With this newfound freedom from the educational structure I have begun working on several bodies of work.

My work method adapts with my emotions and my concerns in life, and with death. Only my emphasis on telling stories through quiet moments remains constant as I fully embrace a desire to be always changing. In an industry where finding and eternally utilising a niche style is encouraged, I choose to let my natural instincts to see and to try new things guide my path in creative art.

My series will be showcased alongside other emerging Australian artists Ben Ali Ong and Rebecca Smith, both of whom I regard as great influences as our works share an underlying emotional similarity.

Always searching for something more, something different and something fulfilling, I look to nature; I look to animal instincts; I look to the dynamic power of the weather. Chasing storms which seem to parallel human existence, I find metaphors for our emotions.

I hate that I spent so much of my life afraid of death.
I hate that I was brought up shielded from the realness.
Telling children there is a place called hell is torture.
Telling children there is a place called heaven may not be torture but it’s still a lie.
Let people open their eyes. They may see some horrors, but at least they will have seen.

At 98 years old my grandmother could no longer look after herself and finally had to leave her house. Her husband, Neville, died about 10 years ago. He was a carpenter and built the house himself.

It was also home to my mother and her four sibilings. I remember going to many family get-togethers with the extended family.

It still has the same feel; the same atmosphere. The bulk of my memories of the house are from when I was quite young. As I am the youngest of the generation, most family had grown up and moved on. So gatherings here were scarce in more recent years. Therefore, in my mind I held onto a more childlike image of the house.

Taking the time to walk in and out of each room slowly, thinking about who had once lived there and how each room was used, I noticed much more. Viewing through the lens, without the aid of the wonderfully advanced human eye, darkness is enhanced and the light seems to have more a physical presence.

My grandmother, Ivy, may have had to move on, but the house still remains. Hopefully it does so at least for her lifetime. Her memory fails her in the present but she still describes vividly the distant past. There are so many more memories in between and so many to be found in the house that Neville built.

I wonder what it would be like lying alone in the room where your daughters first slept 60 years ago. All the time in the world to think. Wondering what your daughters are thinking now that their own daughters have left. Would you keep the curtains closed some days?

It seems the more a house ages the more colour appears. Carpets fray; floors scuff; walls fade; benches stain; door handles become worn. Yet it’s more than this. There’s a remnance filled with the traces of those who have lived within the spaces. There’s an aura filled with the human emotions pieced together over time. There’s an atmosphere filled with colour.

Some Feedback

Email from: Sasha_Ann (sasha_colchane@yahoo.com)
Date: 18 June 2010 14:05
Subject: Photo story

Your Grandmother could’ve stayed in her home if you or someone had unselfishly thought to care for her.
Now she’s gone and you think you can cash in on her ‘art-’life’ lol.

My reply to Sasha_Ann’s unreachable email address…

Hi Sasha,

My grandmother lived alone for many years after her husband died. She did very well for herself but with time needed more assistance. She has five children and they all did their bit in looking after her. Her many grandchildren also lended a hand. As well as this she had nurses assist her. Her neighbours too. She was unselfishly cared for every day.

After many health scares including falls resulting in nervous hospital stays, doctors recommended my grandmother have full time professional care. She and her supportive family eventually agreed to the advice.

She is much happier today and always talks about what a great place she is now in.

I have never made a cent from the images I took of her house. I put the images together into a book and gave it to her. I often visit her with my mother and we show her the book again. Some days she recognises a few of the images and it brings a smile to her face. Unfortunately her memory fails to serve her well in her old age and she has trouble remembering anything but her childhood.

Next month she turns 100. I’ll be sure to take many photographs at the occasion and I will have no qualms in showing others and not feeling selfish or that I am cashing in.

Pete.

A dragonfly caught in a spider’s web. It stops struggling to watch the sun go down. Roots of mangroves intertwine. Hands joined or endless struggle.

A forest peephole mirrors the world outside. Forgotten by tomorrow. A ripple in a creek otherwise calm. A sigh for something, somewhere.

That’s the thing about living.