Taking the Chance

Thick crimson drops fall, slowly spreading and dispersing into the water. I look on with horror, and as the sink becomes filled with blood, shock and disdain grip my throat. I have blood on my hands.

Earlier, I had watched in awe as the thick colour of pale flesh rose up from watery depths, peaking and curling and writhing, gasping for air, grasping for life. Earlier still, Cadmium Orange and Yellow had danced with Magenta, mingling and spreading like an African sunset across the sky. Pouring in the secret potion brought pure alchemy – and then, patient waiting… waiting… and just as the paint paused, the moment came to lean into chance and spatter the foaming Titanium White across the canvas. And then back off.

Before my eyes, the memory formed.

The baby in the skip bin.

Canvas after canvas reached into the depths and drew out the poison. The ears in the frying pan, and the wife who was forced to eat them. Waving goodbye to my dad in his Rhodesian Army uniform. Driving in a high-speed convoy after being instructed to obey my parents and crouch behind the front seats if they said so, and not to look up no matter what. Terrorists and AK47’s. School drills and wondering about the practicalities of the protection offered under a school desk. Rape and pillage and plunder. Catherine sodomised. Jose’s toes sticking out from under the sheet. Children losing control of their bowels in terror. Bloodshed and Tears. Life in Africa.

I wash my hands and my water jar. Wipe up the spots. Mop up the spills. Dry the tears. And let the blood out of the sink.

The walk on the beach fills my lungs with fresh air and the strong cappuccino at Enzo’s calms my nerves. The sun is still shining. Light catches the water, the sparkles dance, and all around there is life and beauty. Crystal-clear water caresses flowing designs into glittering shore, crabs sculpt perfect spheres of sand to eject from their burrows, and shells and smooth pebbles whisper of creative genius in a palette of neutrals and intricate line-work. Seagulls scuttle alongside my strolling feet; the Pelican, in his Picasso-style kit-out, keeps his beady eye fixed on the fisherman; and the Fish Eagle basks and preens her glossy feathers in self-admiration. Silky sand strokes my toes, rhythmic sea-song fills my heart and soul, and I can head back again.

At the airport, we had to say goodbye to our family, our friends, and our life in Africa. All around us, it grew dark. Nikita wept, doubling over in grief. I told her, “Walk, Nikita. Put one foot in front of the other and walk…” Step by step, we walked away from life in Africa – me and my three children, with 100kg of luggage. Openings in the walls allowed last glimpses of loved ones waving… and then they were gone. Roots were yanked out, and lay scorching in the blazing sun. The dice had been cast for a chance at a new life.

Layer after layer, the Arches paper receives the Burnt Sienna glazing to deepen the brewing storm clouds, and the sense of depth explodes with the flat-topped Acacia in the foreground. Payne’s Grey runs from deep gashes as the support is tilted – and at this point, there is a chance that all is lost. The sky is weeping. The sun has set over our time in Africa.

Torn textures expose Burnt and Raw Umber, scraped against Red Iron Oxide to form massive wooden doors. I take the chance and gouge out words of pain and truth – murder, rape, torture, brutality, cruelty, crime, lawlessness, injustice. The doors swing open on the hinge of an approved visa application, and beyond, there is a glimpse… just a glimpse… of colour. Full spectrum. Pure. Clear. Like a rainbow. It speaks of hope.

The colour wheel swings around the next enormous canvas: Cadmium Yellow to Orange to Red; Magenta to Quinacridone Violet to Ultramarine; Pthalo Blue to Green to Leaf Green and again Yellow. The vortex of light, glowing in palest Cadmium and White, beckons us forward. Overwhelmed we stand, a miniscule little family in silhouette, casting long shadows, drawn towards the light and the hope.

Leaf Green, Australian Olive and Gold Ochre are touched with bright accents as we stand as the newest members of the gum family, against a Gunmetal Blue background. This is Immigration, and we were welcomed. But we had not yet found our feet. We were not yet Australian.

I paint and paint, and push on and on, into the night, into the morning and beyond. Whenever I wilt or wither or lag, I glance up towards where I stand now, at the end of the journey. At the top of my easel, the tiny 30 x 30cm canvas proclaims victory over it all – because here we stand strong, as a family united, gum leaves the right way up. This is The Citizenship. This is where we are. We are Australian.

I collapse with exhaustion and sleep time away. How long I do not know, but when I wake I am ravenous. Graham and Kay take their chance and knock tentatively at my door and in true-blue Aussie style, invite me to lunch – with a look that changes from concern to shock as they see what has been going on in their holiday unit during the days where I have not been seen. The plastic and canvas drop sheets bear witness to the carnage.

I step into a shower and wash it all away. On the body of work, the paint has dried exactly as it should and where it should, given the chance we took together. I tidy it all up, prop up the paintings around the walls and against the furniture to show them properly after lunch, roll up the drop sheets and restore the unit to its former glory. All is well.

It has taken me seven years to get to this point of being able to go back – to step into the dark memories, and re-live it all through the paint on paper and canvas. Now my memory is raw, gaping and exposed, and needs to be soothed and settled with positive indulgence. I remember on arrival, how when my feet landed on Australian soil, I wanted to bend down and kiss the ground. I told my little ones how this very moment would change their lives, and their future. I remember how I battled to sleep the first few nights in my new homeland – not because we had no beds, but because I knew there were no burglar-bars on the windows, just mosquito netting, and that would not deter any intruder. I remember the feeling of no gun under my pillow, no trigger under my finger, no security door at the end of the passage, and no armed response at the push of a panic button. I remember the challenge of allowing my children to play with their new-found friends in the cul-de-sac, or allowing them to go to the local swimming pool for an afternoon. I remember the amazement of being able to walk along the beach without threat of losing life or limb, the miracle of a mango sorbet while the sun set safely. Beach games under floodlights, New Year’s Eve without incident. I remember that first morning, waking to birdsong my ears had never heard before, and the Kookaburra’s contagious hearty chuckle. I relish it all, every day of my life… and always will.

Now, just one primed white canvas remains. In its former life, it was teased, tortured, slashed, scarred and scraped, and this textural foundation will be strong enough to support my concept. Soft Sand merges into Aqua depths, and in the distance, the Ochres of Africa bear the Acacia-dream. In the foreground, the Eucalypt’s bark is layered in Silver, Sandstone and Peach, scribbled with highlights. Blue-green gum leaves dance overhead, and against the Eucalypt trunk, leans an earthen African pot. Seared in a wood-fire pit, incised with an ethnic design, its origins are undeniable. That vessel is me – formed in Africa from the African dust. But now I belong here. This is my journey. I took my chance. And it is here I rest, home among the gum trees.

Back in my Palmwoods studio, the surrounding forest glistens as the sunlight breaks through after the rain. Gloss Medium holds a porcupine quill in place, and Guinea-fowl feathers and beadwork edging whisper in African voices. They too, have travelled from the other side of the world – like me. Sea-sand and tiny shells from Mooloolaba create a sense of place like no other as they rest alongside local Macaranga leaf skeletons and Picabeen Palm fibres. The empty bowl holds its character humbly and honestly, with an inscribed African base and Australian gum nut and leaf rim. And it only looks empty if your eyes are not open. For open eyes, it overflows…