Setting the Right Tone

Yet again a long time between drinks.

A lot has been going on, most of which I won't blog about. Private matters that are not entirely down to me to disclose. Suffice it to say things have been hectic and quite stressful. I have, however, managed to keep drawing and painting throughout. Nothing of huge consequence, more to keep me sane than anything else.

I did get a week off (it was that or go under. I've never got to that point before so that was quite confronting), and went to my brother's farm at Murrumbateman. Took a stack of drawing pads, and also my paints, some canvases and a travel easel. I would have loved to have taken my big wooden easel I made, but it came down to that or clothes for the week, and common sense won out. Barely, but hey...

Some painting did get done, although nothing I am willing to show yet, as they are just underpaintings, and for non-figurative abstracts at that, so not terribly exciting to see at this early stage. There was a lot of drawing, quite a bit of Zentangle in the evenings when we all sat down to watch television - I am one of those people who cannot just sit. If I do you can bet I'm coming down with something. Otherwise, no, I have to be doing something. 

It was great to get away on my own, to pootle into Canberra on the odd day to see friends, to hang around the farm, go for walks down to the sheep or out to the cows. Betsy had a calf while I was there. I missed the birth by about an hour. That's what I get for not being vigilant. Nellie, because it's an N year for naming. Unbelievably fluffy, even for a Belted Galloway calf, which are normal fluffy when they're young. A-Spot is due soon, but no movement on that front yet.

By the time I got back I was on a bit more of an even keel, and better able to be the support the family needs. Funnily enough (or not so funnily), as things have improved here, I have found it harder to cope. Not with everything that needs to be done, but with everything else. My presence online has become fleeting, because feeling like you have a huge weight on your chest because of some horrible piece of world news, or because someone has sent you an email or a message that needs a reply, it sort of takes any joy out of the whole exercise. I'm also not keen on socialising as I am finding that very difficult. I was never the most social of animals as it was. Parties are my idea of personal hell, social lunches are stressful, etc., (I love seeing friends, but I worry all the time about what to say and then beat myself up afterwards about what I did say. So... fun. Not) and right now it's much worse. So I've been keeping myself to myself socially, while making sure all the medical appointments are met and school meetings are done and everything else that is required.

I know I've missed birthdays and news and other people's lives, and I'm sorry. I'm especially sorry about missing a friend's 40th. I had a drawing planned and it's only half happened because yet another crisis hit while I was working on it. It will get done. It will just be very, very late.

So what the hell am I doing on the blog today? This will make you laugh, albeit wryly. After things going well for a while and me consequently freaking out, yesterday we spiralled back down into one of the deeper levels of hell. So here I am today, writing on a blog. I know, it's crazy. Yet, it is what it is.

Where's the art in this? Are you asking that? Is anyone even out there?

My eldest is in the final year of high school and has a number of major works for subjects, including art. She wants to do a series of portraits in graphite on paper, but wants to do something a bit special. I am introducing her to the wonderful world of coloured paper and graphite with white chalk. Add a bit of drama, do something most other high school students won't even have an inkling of. Old technique, but technique doesn't seem to be something taught anymore. What do I mean anymore? It wasn't taught when I was at high school, too, too long ago. Luckily I learnt later, and I'm getting my child onto it a darn sight earlier than I did.

I grabbed about half an hour on the weekend to sit in my work room (while everyone else was asleep) and do a quick pencil sketch in a grey sketchbook. The colour is a little warmer than I'd like. There are flecks of red fibres through the paper that just kick the temperature in the wrong direction, but as this was for demonstration purposes I wasn't too bothered (it is not one of my favourite books). It was supposed to be Evangeline Lily as Tauriel from The Hobbit, but the jaw and mouth aren't right. Some days a likeness just doesn't happen, but that wasn't the point of the exercise, so again I wasn't too bothered (well, I was a bit, but I put up with it).

Tonal Study 1, Megan Hitchens, graphite on grey paper, 2017

The colour isn't quite accurate, but you get the idea.

Once everyone was up and about and breakfasted, the eldest and I sat down together and I took to the drawing with a white chalk pencil while we talked about using the paper for your midtones, how very old and very young subjects should always be on cool colours while those in between are fine on warm and cool, and why that is (it's to do with body temperature. Draw a child on a warm paper and they look older than they should), what to do with darker mids (light application of graphite) and lighter mids (light application of chalk).

After a couple of minutes (the conversation took longer than the chalk did), we ended up with this:

Tonal Study 2, Megan Hitchens, graphite, white chalk on grey paper, 2017

The paper colour is pretty much right in this one. Same camera, same room, same desk, just later in the morning. Amazing the difference a few hours can make. And amazing the difference the chalk makes too. That really is the only difference between the two - this one has highlights in white chalk.

The offspring was suitably interested and now has a pile of coloured papers from my stash and one of my chalk pencils. I tend to use actual chalk sticks, but starting out with the pencil is probably a little more familiar.

By the way, the pencil used is a Blackwing. I love my Blackwing so much. I have a stack of pencils from 4H to 6B, but I tend to use the ultra hard ones for fine sharp lines and otherwise just go with the Blackwing. I can get line variations that match everything from an HB to a 6B with the one pencil, and it is heavenly to draw with. So all that tonal variation you can see in the graphite is the one pencil.

And finally, because I can never leave well enough alone, and because I love trois crayons (although technically this isn't because it's graphite rather than black chalk), I went back into my work room for a couple of minutes and whipped out the sanguine.

Tonal study 3, Megan Hitchens, graphite, white chalk, sanguine chalk on grey paper, 2017

The hair really benefitted, but the face not so much. I'll try to do her again, because the lack of likeness is bothering me after all. And I'll do it on warmer paper. It will be interesting to compare the effect.

Getting in a Bind

Not art, but art related. I have actually been getting some drawing done, but not nearly enough, so I embarked upon a clever plan to completely distract myself (I'm very good at those. I can stay off track for days).

Despite not drawing enough, I tend to run out of sketch books, particularly small ones. Large sketch pads I have a surfeit of, but small ones get used up quickly. And finding replacements can be tough. I am very particular. They're the wrong shape, or not small enough, or too small. I like hard covers - well, they are hideously expensive. So I have decided to solve the problem myself. I'm making them.

There are about eight at the moment all cut and folded, sorted into signatures, with sewing holes sawn. I made a make-shift book press some time ago and the books have been gradually put through it, sitting for a week or so to flatten the folds.

I was making do with my old tapestry frame and my woodwork table as a sewing frame, but frankly, this was a pain and it meant I had to do all my sewing in the garage, which with the hot weather hasn't been really viable.

As of yesterday I have this:

My sewing frame. Joint effort. I love it even if it is just MDF

It's a proper sewing frame. Not a deluxe wood one, with wooden threaded screws, etc. They are very hard to come by, often broken, and often quite pricey when one does turn up. It's only MDF and threaded rod with some hexagonal nuts and wing nuts, but it will do the job.

I had seen ones similar to this on the internet, so I went through my supplies to see what I had. That's why it's MDF. The rods were for another project about which I have changed my mind (more to come on that), same with the nuts. The wing nuts were the only supplies bought specially for this.

The whole thing was going to be assembled in an afternoon, but then I made the disappointing discovery that the drill bit I needed wouldn't fit in my little hand drill. The flange was about 1mm too thick. So I took the whole thing up to my father-in-law, who is an excellent carpenter with lots of equipment. I had intended to get advice and ask to use his equipment, but he got really interested in it all, and I get uncomfortable asking to use his tools, because I know how I feel about people using mine (even though mine are really crappy and I don't look after them well enough at all).

We ended up talking through the whole thing, me drawing plans and putting measurements on them, and then I left it with him.

The hot weather has delayed this. Working in a garage in the heat and humidity is not a good idea. But finally it has cooled down. Father got a piece of scrap MDF out of his supplies to make the top bar (I'd forgotten to take mine up, but it was thicker so this has worked out nicely). And he cut the slot with the router - I'd have had to hand drill holes and then used a handsaw. I could have done it, but it would have taken ages. It's because of the slot that I was happy with MDF rather than real timber as it's fairly soft. Plus, I had it to hand, so no extra expense.

Father brought all the pieces back yesterday and I assembled them, and then I spent yesterday afternoon making keys for the cords. Again, they're just out of MDF scraps I had lying around.

The keys. I am quite pleased with these.
I thought they might not be strong enough, but so far so good.

This afternoon I spent a pleasant few hours in the dining room, sewing in comfort. Hooray!

This afternoon's efforts.

Next up is a lying press. I have the blocks all made, and my father-in-law sanded them and got them all the same length and height for me. You buy timber from Bunnings (there was my mistake in the first place) and the planks are all supposed to be the same, yet there is a difference of about 2mm from one plank to the next. And I don't own a plane, which I should, so Father to the rescue again.

The press is on the French design rather than the English, so I am looking for a veneer press screw. Once I track one down, I'll send the blocks back up to Father to get the needed holes drilled and then, with backing boards and finishing plates I can do every aspect of the covers and spines.

Distraction done and starting to get drawing ideas again.

Hard Endings

I first found Terry Pratchett about 1985, when I was 17. I picked up a copy of Strata from a newsagent because I thought it sounded interesting, and then had to hunt down Dark Side of the Sun (the newsagent near my work carried all sorts of books, including Tanith Lee. Not what one would expect). A year later I found The Colour of Magic and fell headlong into the world of the Disc.

The first two books were, by Mr Pratchett's own admission, an opportunity to tell lots of jokes, the story mainly serving as a platform for said jokes. But then it switched. From Equal Rites onwards the story was the focus and the jokes served it. Served it so well, but still served rather than ruled.

I have loved those stories. I would wait (sometimes not very patiently) for the next one to come out, and would disappear into the new book until it was read. My kids have grown up with Mum periodically doing everything while reading. Amazing how much of dinner can be prepared one-handed.

Each book was deeper than the one before, and in the meantime others would come along. The Johnny Maxwell books (Only You Can Save Mankind And If Not You Who Else, Johnny and the Dead, Johnny and the Bomb), The Unadulterated Cat (never was a truer book written about catkind), Truckers, Diggers, Wings. Good Omens with Neil Gaiman. And just recently the Long Earth Books with Stephen Baxter. But always there was the Disc, and Great A'Tuin and the Elephants. I have a copy of Where's My Cow? which I read to my youngest when he was younger, so by the time he was old enough last year to start entering the Discworld on his own he was well acquainted with Sam Vimes, and Lord Vetenari ("Please, don't let me detain you") and Foul Old Ron.

From 2000 the stories became darker, well before his 2007 diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer's, and ,in my opinion at least, the darkness made them even better. Most, but not all, of my favourites date from this time on.

I was lucky enough to meet Mr Pratchett several times over the years and always found a generous man willing to talk to fans and play in games (see? It pays to be a con nerd) and to share his love of language and observing people. The last time I met him (many years ago now), he remembered me, which still fills me with wonder to this day.

And the books kept coming, and the Disc was part of my life.

And then, about eighteen months ago (so long?), Terry Pratchett died. He had so many stories still to tell, at least 20 years' worth. We were robbed, but not so much as his family were, for whom the loss must have been devestating.

I got a special edition of the final novel, the Shepherd's Crown, in a slip case. I got it out once, to look at it and then put it back on the shelf. When the paperback came out I got a copy of that, but it has only been in the last few days that I have screwed up the will to read it, and could at first only read it in small doses. Once that was done, there would be no more.

Paul Kidby, cover of The Shepherd's Crown by Terry Pratchett, 2015, Doubleday

There had been a few unfavourable reviews "you can tell he was going downhill", "the weakest novel", "lacking", etc. Gods, people can be shits. When Mr Pratchett wrote, he wrote in pieces and then put it together, and then polished, and then wrote extra links, and then went back and reworked parts, and then added new notes, and then wrote some more. And finally was forced to give a book to the publisher even though he felt there was still more to do. And admittedly, there are a couple of passages in the Shepherd's Crown where there was a little bit of polish missing. But other than that, there is no difference in quality, and certainly not in the story-telling. Tiffany Aching is one of my favourite characters, and Granny Weatherwax another. And he did not disappoint me with either of them.

I have to admit, I cried a lot in this book. At the beginning, because I was starting the last book, and then near the beginning because it was deeply moving. Then at several places in the book because it too was moving. On the train this afternoon, coming home from a day in Sydney, the woman beside me must have thought I was a nut because I was in floods. The end of the book was beautiful and sad and uplifting. And then it was the end of the book. And truth be told I took off my glasses, put my head in my hands and tried very hard not to sob. That was it. Done. The end of it all. And a good end. A good one to bow out on. But he was made to bow out. And when you look at the shits in this world who go on and on and on, it is wrong and unfair that people like Terry Pratchett are gone. Douglas Adams too. The week Adams died, some stupid security guy saved George W. Bush from choking on a peanut. Could we not have swapped that?

I had one longstanding gripe with the Discworld books, and that was the covers. A friend of mine was commissioned to do some book covers some time ago, so I know how it works. The artist is given a brief and has to do their best to interpret it. Sometimes, if they are lucky, they have read the book, but usually not. I never liked Josh Kirby's covers. They were sexist and overloaded. Granny particularly pissed me off. In Wyrd Sisters, Granny was very well described. She was not a haggard old crone with a hooked nose and crooked back, and there was not a wart to be seen. Yet, how did Kirby draw her? You guessed it. Complete witch stereotype. What was the publisher thinking? Since Paul Kidby took over, the covers have been much more satisfying. Folklore of the Discworld has a much better version of Granny adorning its cover. Kidby clearly read and loved the books and the amount of collaberation he did with Pratchett speaks volumes about how the author felt regarding the new interpretations.

Josh Kirby, cover of Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett, 2008, Gollancz books. Had he actually read the description of Granny? I can't believe so

Paul Kidby, Granny Weatherwax from Maskerade:Patron of the Opera by Terry Pratchett, 2012. While the clothes are atypical (there are reasons for that. Read the book), this is otherwise Granny through and through. A man who knows the Discworld characters. Granny would bridle if I added "intimately", and Nanny would leer.

I think The Art of Discworld is the one thing I am now missing. Don't know how that happened. Time to pick it up.

There are drawings of Great A'Tuin upstairs somewhere, done over the years. But I shan't share them. They were drawn by me, for me, not as fan art. And anyway, Mr Kidby has done the definitive paintings of the Star Turtle, so that's that.

I wish I could say thank you to Mr Pratchett for thirty two years of wonderful stories. I really wish I could say thank you to him for many many more. As usual, Tiffany Aching helps to take the pain away. Time to go back to the beginning.

An Apple A Day

As I said in my last post, which was, I admit, a bit miserable, I have enrolled in a taster course in Natural History and Scientific Illustration. Seeing what I think about it. It's online, so not as onerous as it could be or perhaps should be. But a lot is expected of us and it is really sorting out those who are seriously interested and those who thought it would be a fun way to "learn to draw" (god help them).

I missed one homework assignment due to home stuff, but fortunately it was one of the voluntary extras. I am working on finishing it, but the submission date is been and gone.

The first few weeks were: playing with pencils, how to keep a field journal and basic observational drawing. I should have done some gesture drawings this week. I'll get round to them. Thank the gods there are no marks associated with that bit. I will get round to them.

Anyway, I've decided to share a couple of things I have done and actually submitted, because I rather like them. They are a bit amateurish, but I'm getting there. Time to practice is essential, and a bit thin on the ground.

We were asked to do an observational drawing of several objects from nature. I chose the apple blossoms from my garden. I love my heritage apples, but I don't take anywhere near enough care of them. They didn't get pruned again this winter gone. And the time to net them was a couple of days ago. If I do them NOW I may be apple to avoid fruit fly. Maybe.

They were all in bloom when the assignment came up so I got out and cut off blossoms from the four of them. Okay, so Granny Smiths are not heritage apples, but the other three are. Being a bear of small brain, and a somewhat turbulent one at the moment, I didn't think to put them in water, so the drawings became a race against time. And looking at them now, I realise I got them mixed up. The Calville Blanche d'Hiver is actually the Tydeman's Early (my variety is a russet, with a lovely honey flavour). The Peasgood Nonsuch is actually the Calville Blanche d'Hiver. And the Tydeman's Early is really the Peasgood (the flowers died before I got to them). So I got them completely mixed up. But on the bright side, my drawings were good enough that I could work out exactly which was which.

Apple Blossoms, Megan Hitchens, graphite on white paper, 2016

As to the apples themselves, once found how could I NOT grow an apple called Peasgood Nonsuch? Plus, it's delicious. The Tydeman's is a cider apple that you can eat as is, and if you know anything about Caravaggio then you have seen a Calville Blanche d'Hiver. He painted them a few times. I'd been on the look out for it for some time, and then had the opportunity to buy a tree. Quite a bumpy apple, but lovely flavour.

This past week we had to start keeping a field journal. It's different drawing out in the "wild". The wind comes up, it rains, the sun comes out, or goes behind a cloud. Insects hover and buzz and love the white page. Where has my brush gone? A familiar refrain but now I am looking for it in unfamiliar places. We had to pick our best page and post it. I got it onto the site a day late, but I'm glad I waited for this last one to be finished, as it is my best one.

Japanese Black Pine, Megan Hitchens, graphite, water colour pencils and white ink on Bristol Board, 2016

We had to do sketches and then indicate colour, rather than colour the whole thing. And include field notes. No idea if I am on the right track. I do know that I have labelled the male strobili as anthers. I'll get there.

Anyway, that's what I have been up to, in amongst the chaos.

On The Futility of Always Going Last

I saw an interview with Margaret Olley about twenty years ago. She was talking about her life as an artist, and what she said struck me then and has stayed with me every since. "If you are a woman and you want to be an artist, don't marry and don't have children".

I have had several male artist friends tell me in scoffing tones that this is not true, "not now", that Olley was talking about her experiences from another time. But by hell, it is true. You can be a woman and an artist (or a farmer, or whatever) but it is a LOT harder if you have a spouse and/or kids.

Part of this is my fault. I fall for the conditioned feelings of guilt and martyrdom that are ingrained in most women. We must put everyone else first, to do otherwise is somehow selfish and wrong. And everyone else's desires and careers are somehow intrinsically more important. Anything goes wrong in the home or needs extra attention, I'm the one who has to deal with it. Which is fair enough, given I don't have a wage coming in and I work from home. Except I see female friends who are working for a wage still being the ones to deal with all the home-front stuff, having to take time off or juggle doctor's appointments and school issues and what have you. Never their male partners. And we don't push back, or at least not very hard, because that is somehow wrong, or ungrateful, or something. I fight against this, but the feelings are strong, the conditioning deep. There are times when I really hate this society.

There has been a lot of crap going on here, just day to day, I have children crap. I also started doing some courses to see if I could keep everything going and consider going back to finish the PhD. I have somehow (and sporadically) kept drawing and painting throughout, although the blogging has pretty much gone (something had to, and it's the least vital). Recently I enrolled in an online taster course in Natural History and Scientific Illustration, just as everything here went into light-speed overdrive and became absolutely crazy. At a time when I have also started questioning a whole lot of things (not least of which is "just what am I doing?"). Everyone has needed me, all the time. And everyone's needs have been genuine. But it's been all at once. A bit like buses. You wait ages with nothing and then three turn up at once. Well, that's how it has worked out, only I wish it was just three.

By the time I get through my day, and get everyone else through their days, and hold the fort and do all the normal house duties crap that never bloody stops, and finally get a little time for myself, I am too wasted, emotionally and physically, to even think about the drawings I need to do for my course. The requirements aren't onerous, but at the moment they are too much. I'm getting my homework in, but today it was a day late. And it's because everything else comes first.

It's not just me. I am, by no means saying it is. And a lot of women have it a whole LOT harder than I do. I'm just really sick of it at the moment. No, I'm sick of it for good. I am really, really tired of it. And not just for me, for all us.

I have a friend who is a goat farmer. She is a strong, independent woman who knows her own mind and pursues her own goals. She's also a teacher and a mentor to others. I admire her greatly. Lives on her own. Why? Because when she tries living with a man, his wants come before her needs. She ended up throwing the last guy out because he really thought his wants were more important. It wasn't stated or asserted or anything, it was just demonstrated on a daily basis with the way he lived and with the way he expected her to live. She was to be there for him. Not the other way round, not even as a two-way street (apparently he talked a good two-way street). Her life was to be built around him. On her own farm. Which she owned. So she threw him out.

I'm not advocating we all start throwing out our partners. But I think I really need to start saying "this is what I need", "this is what I am doing". It's done often enough the other way, with no assertions or demands for a fair go, just as the way life works. Men do what they want, women fit in. Because there seems little concept in the world of taking turns when it comes to married women, and particularly married women with children.

And here's the really stupid thing. I am in two minds about letting this post stand. I feel like I am being unfair, having a moan, being stupid. But I'm not. My art is important. It may not pay at the moment, but if it always comes second, or even third (which is more usual), then it will NEVER pay. And I will go my grave thinking, "Shit, how did I let this happen?" And it is not the fault of my kids. They need me right now, both of them, and I can't desert them. And good parents do put their kids first and sacrifice to get them through and keep them going. But not all the time. Not everything. And it's not selfish when you say "what I am doing is important too". Or to say, "I'm sorry, but you need to step up this time". To not always put what you want or need last after everyone else. Or to spend so much energy keeping everyone else afloat that you don't notice you are the one sinking.

Every time you don't say "No" or "me" or "my time", it makes it harder to say it the next time, and the next. If you have young women in your life, be they daughters, granddaughters, nieces, friends, whatever, tell them their wishes for their life, their desires for career, their pursuits, are just as important as their brothers' or fathers' or cousins' or friends' or partner's desires and wishes. They have just as much right as the men in the world and don't have to step back or follow quietly because "he already has a job" or "he wants to study" or whatever it is that is being put forward. Just as much right and her pursuits are just as important. Make sure they know and support them in their decisions and desires.

But Margaret Olley was right. If you want to be an artist, and you are a woman, don't get married and don't have kids.

Show Yourself Out, Goat...

You sucked.*

I'll try to not make this post a bit of a whinge. Although I won't succeed, because it is, by nature, a bit of a whinge. But what it is meant to be is a bit of self-berating to get myself back on track.

2015, the Year of the Goat, sucked. It didn't suck as badly for me as it did for others, but it wasn't good.

Two exhibitions, neither of which sold a thing (admittedly one was very small, but still...). Lots of family stuff that needed my full attention, and seemed to never end. Lots of other stuff that you don't need to hear (I'm burdening you enough already). Ill. My god, ill. Every little thing going and quite a few big things too. Pneumonia is not fun, may I add.

The bloody Black Dog made his presence more than felt. I have a deep desire to chain him on the porch, but the damned thing keeps slipping his lead, getting inside and howling like the hellhound that he is. Or just sitting there, in the dark, a demon from the depths. And the wretched creature whispers. All the time.

I made a terrible mistake that hurts someone else, and it runs round and round my head. All the scenarios, all the opportunities at which point I could have chosen to do some small thing differently and avoided catastrophe. But didn't. In the end I became immobilised. Unable to do my family history, unable to paint or draw, or blog, feeling unworthy of anything that brings joy or peace or satisfaction. I have to accept that mistakes get made and constantly beating myself for every single one, and shredding myself for this one, won't change a thing. Won't help anyone. So, hard as it is, I have to let it go and make what paltry amends I can and just get on with things. Even if I don't deserve it. Because everyone else doesn't deserve to live with me like this.

And the children had a rough year. I fought for them, as any mother does, and things have improved a lot for my son, but my daughter continues to struggle. We'll sort something out, find a solution, keep it all going. Can I say I hate the one-size-fits-some education system? Her school is very supportive, but the curriculum is crap, and BOSTES needs... I don't know what it needs, but it needs it. Deliberately disadvantaging kids with reading difficulties because the head "doesn't believe" in the solution is beyond words. Well into the range of tearing fury. What would happen if she didn't believe in reading glasses? Or hearing aids? Or braille?

And the spouse has had a hard time at work this year. Lots of pressure, long hours. He hasn't been home much, and when he is, he's still caught up in it all. So, from a selfish point of view, I have had to manage the kids pretty much on my own. Which is mean to say, but hey, that's the way it has had to be. I probably haven't supported him as much as I should, but he's gotten whatever I have had left.

So maybe I should be proud that I got two exhibitions in last year (even if one was small). Because guess what I jettisoned first, in all the crap that was the Year of the Goat. It seems ever thus.

Margaret Olley said if you are female and want to be an artist, don't get married and don't have children. There are many days, and a lot of them fell in 2015, when I know she was right.

I had a long talk to my daughter yesterday afternoon, about her and what she is going through, about her future and what she wants. She is so incredibly gifted, in so many areas, but just lately her artistic streak has come roaring to the fore. She is astounding. If we can sort out Years 11 and 12, or TAFE, or something, get her through this, she is going to do some astonishing things.

It is a great comfort to me to say to her what I was never told. That if she loves something and goes for it, she will find a way to make a living from it, and be much happier in the long run. There will be no sense of disappointment from her parents if she isn't "earning" (since when is money the mark of a person's worth or ability?), or "achieving" (which always has such a narrow definition, anyway). We are there for her no matter what. And whatever she wants to do, we will help her work out how to do it, should she want that help. There are always ways.

At the end of a very long discussion, do you know what my beautiful girl did? She turned and said, "What about you, Mum? What do you want?"

I have to admit, I was a bit low because of all the school stuff yesterday (calls from support workers, while trying to help find solutions, can turn one's day on its head. Still, better to know), so my answers, while stating what I wanted, were filled with reasons why not. And my girl told me what I needed to do, gave me a plan of action, just as I had been devising action plans for her. And told me how much she believes in me and reminded me that I always say to the kids "It's never too late" ("unless," she clarified, "you've just been given six weeks to live or something. Then you'd have to say it's too late." She's quite direct). And she gave me a list of things to not focus on.

And at about three this morning, for the first time in a long time, I woke with an idea, instead of waking with worries. I've spent time this morning thinking about it, doing some preliminary sketches. Actually feeling like I can create something. Of course, after such a hiatus I am rusty, so the next few days will largely be warm up exercises, and doing other stuff like grounds and things, just to make sure I am back in the game and not drifting off again.

This year is the Year of the Monkey. More than that, it's the Year of the Fire Monkey. So maybe it will be ragingly better. That or it will burn everything to the ground. Fingers crossed for the former.

For the record, I always thought I was a Monkey (Earth Monkey to be precise). I now find out I am actually at the tail end of the Sheep (or Goat, either way a fibre animal. Go figure), and a Fire Sheep to boot. So maybe this is the year that this dag end of a Sheep finally gets back on track.

I was looking for an image for this blog, and I wasn't satisfied with my own drawings of monkeys or goats. They just didn't fit the bill for one reason or another. And the Black Dog gets enough of a look-in, so no drawings of that, thank you. In the end I googled Durer, because I like his monkey and goat drawings (actually, let's just change that to "I love Albrecht Durer"). I found this and it made me laugh. Perfect. Every drawing of the Virgin and Child should have a monkey in it. Go, Albrecht.+

The Virgin and Child with Monkey, Albrecht Durer, 1498, engraving, National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA

*The title and first sentence is courtesy of Robert Brown. He pretty much summed up 2015.

+Mark Calderwood, what's the symbolism of monkeys in this context?

Back In Black

And even longer between buses.

Finally I am back in the saddle again. Each winter I say "Wow, I have never been so sick" and each winter I seem to top the winter before.

And every time I have a hiatus with my art production I end up gripped by an irrational fear - that I have lost the ability to create. Which isn't true. Sure, skills get rusty if you don't use them. It takes a little bit to get back in the swing of things. But the ability is still there. It just needs a push. And pushing something that's rusty needs a bit more effort than if it is running smoothly.

So I tell my brain that the fear is irrational and I push myself.

This time the push came in the form of drawing on black.

Back in May I started a drawing of my favourite guitarist, Josh Goering. But then the coughing and the shakes and the headaches and the wildly swinging temperatures started. Which makes it a little difficult to draw.

As you may have realised by now, I am rather entranced by the trois crayons technique - three colours of chalk on paper, namely white, black and sanguine. You can get a staggering array of colours with just those three, depending on the colour of the paper you use. A ground closest to a vellum tone gives the best range, but changing what you're working on produces interesting effects. And then there are temperature shifts. Working on blue or cool grey, as opposed to reds, yellows and warm greys. There seems to be endless choices to explore.

And what better way to explore than on black? I was excited when I started back in May, which is just as well, because having something exciting to plunge back in with made overcoming irrational fears a little easier. It took surprisingly little to get it finished. It's not perfect. The likeness isn't as close as I would like. It's more like Pirate Jesus or Blackbeard playing the guitar than Josh, but the technique stands up well on the dark paper. Although photographing it has been a nightmare. I ended up in three different lights, with a tripod, and lots of deletions and muttering. And then there is the endless fiddling in the photo software to try to get the photo to look like the original drawing.

At any rate, here's what I ended up with. Two versions, because of different lighting. I like each but for different reasons.

Josh Goering 2, Megan Hitchens, 2015, trois crayons on black paper

Josh Goering, Megan Hitchens, 2015 trois crayons on black paper

The lower light one hasn't as much clarity and the colours are more subdued, but I do like it. The colours in the lighter one are more accurate, but the paper looks grey rather than black. C'est la vie.

Not to stop there. I like Zentangle, and I love the official supplies. The paper is particularly beautiful - Italian, 100% cotton, luscious. They have black paper too, which is exactly the same, but died black. The dye has a curious effect. It makes the paper velvety to the touch. A little more challenging to use, but so lovely. I do use it for Zentangle, but I also use it for basic drawing.

Being ill meant I missed a few birthdays for people. Often I just send a Boynton card (who doesn't love Sally Boynton? The woman is a genius), but I also like to do a drawing when I can. Which really didn't happen at all. So I have decided that at the beginning of each year I will draw a couple of images, scan them and then send them for all the birthdays that year. Well, that's the plan, but as I have said before, the best laid plans of mice and Megans. We'll see what happens.

That said, I drew a birthday image, or three actually, which I can use for the remainder of this year. For those I have missed, sorry, you'll get a copy of this in the next few days, hopefully. For those with it coming up, sorry, I've spoilt the surprise.

These are drawn on the black Zentangle paper, in white pencil, white gel pen and soap stone. So a rather different technique to the drawings above.

Balloon Flowers, Megan Hitchens, 2015, white pencil, white gel pen, soap stone on black 100% cotton paper

I love balloon flowers. They are traditionally blue. Watching them open never gets dull. My aunt gave me a plant years ago (it has since died, as has she, I'm sorry to say, although she was in her mid 90s when she went. Amazing woman. I'll have to tell you about her some time). I drew these listening to Abney Park's cover of "O Holy Night" (I firmly believe in Christmas in July), and for some reason got an image of glowing balloon flowers blooming in dark alleys of Victorian London. Don't ask why. I have no idea. They peel open, the light intensifies and then softens to a gentle glow. Given the dark mire of the modern world, how many of us are trying to bloom in the dark?

It is meant as encouragement.

Anyway, that's me and probably the product of all the high temperatures. I'm sure my brain has been a bit more cooked than usual.

Out Standing in his Field

Still not about art (there may be something later today. Depends how the flu makes me feel. Yes, my cold has become flu. Lovely). Instead, the pressing issue of pseudonyms.

We are all warned about the dangers of the internet and particularly about the dangers of the internet with regard to our children. The problem as a parent is that parents LOVE to talk about their kids, and love to show them off, because we LOVE our kids and they are a big part of our lives. Plus, my children inform my art production, not just in terms of time and access (I think that's hamper rather than inform) but also sometimes what I produce and how, ideas, inspiration, blunt blunt criticism (brutal may be a better word, but gosh it is so useful). And then there are the things they get up to, and say, and introduce me to.

My daughter loves Deviant Art and uses it to interact with her friends (it's a web forum for the arts, don't panic), and sends me links to really interesting things I probably wouldn't see otherwise (I send her links to Colossal articles in return, so it is a two-way street).

So they pop up from time to time, here and on Facebook and wherever.

I don't post photos of them (or if I do they are heavily restricted). I thought about should I post drawings of them and decided that yes, I'm okay with that. I don't reveal their names. You can call me paranoid if you want, but these are my choices regarding my children, so suck it up.

So I use pseudonyms for my children (and for my spouse, but that's just continuity). My daughter was easy. The Steamgoth fits her perfectly, it is apt and precise, and she rather likes it (which is a miracle). My son was much more difficult. He has been The Son for some time because I couldn't think of anything else. The Pokemonster? What if he finally grows out of that obsession? (I live in hope, vain though that feels) The Early Riser went out the window when he started to sleep in (ie, still asleep at 6.45 when I wake him for school).

But we have hit upon it. Actually, the Spouse hit upon it.

The White Sheep.

I have always encouraged my children to be themselves, to not worry about other people's opinions on how they dress, what they like, what they do (within reason. Manners are important, as are being polite and respectful). We are a family of strongly opinionated people, with well-formed ideas and notions. Three of us dress in black. The Spouse is and always will be a goth, with coffin rings and pentagrams and Mick Mercer's radio show constantly playing on his ipad. The Steamgoth is a steampunk goth, or a goth steampunk. I'm not sure which. I was a goth, but I want to go full-on steampunk. I'll get there.

In the midst is my boy, who fits us with a lot of things, like music and reading and film and tv tastes (Pokemon aside). We love science fiction and fantasy and science and art (we are all nerdy, go us), but he has his own dress sense. Not for him black or brown or gears or crosses (to use blatant stereotypes). Track pants, camouflage gear, pop culture t-shirts. He wants to be comfortable above all else and he likes colours, bless him. And he does it. Which is a bit mainstream. And makes me very proud. He stands against us all and is his own self.

So, given that we are a family of eccentric black sheep (I don't know what my siblings think of us) and he likes "normal" clothes, the White Sheep seems an obvious choice.

I explained what Black Sheep meant and how I am using White Sheep, and he is actually quite pleased with it. After all, this is the boy who chose the Abney Park dog tag "Expendable Crew" because he thought it would be a hoot. I was pretty sure I was on firm ground with this.

Although I have put down one restriction on his clothing choices. He may not EVER wear sandals with track pants. There has to be a limit, if only for the sake of sartorial decency. Some rules are there for a good reason. Look mainstream casual by all means, but look good while doing it.

Children and Animals: Mad Max 3 Beyond Thunderdome

So here we are at the third, and easily the best, Mad Max film. It's cheesy and odd, and a triumph of modern cinema compared to its two predecessors. It has an extensive story line with well thought out themes, a fun cast, big stunts (although none of them quite come up to the tanker chase of Mad Max 2), reasonable music score and a satisfying end.

It also has, to its detriment, more ridiculous costumes and a saxophonist.

The film doesn't start with a car chase. Petrol is gone. There has actually been an apocalypse of a nuclear nature over the fuel shortage, so alternative means of propulsion have to be sought. For Max that now means camels. A chase involving a plane, some camels and a man on foot doesn't have quite the same possibilities as cars and motor bikes, even in the middle of nowhere.

And this film is shot in the real middle of nowhere. The mid north area of South Australia, around Cooper Pedy. It is arid, without even the scrubby vegetation of Broken Hill (the Tribe;s gorge is in the Blue Mountains, but needs must). It's hot and dry and far from anywhere. People really do die out there. Max needs his camels.

Which, along with his pet monkey, have been stolen by the Gyrocaptain, Bruce Spence reviving his role, albeit much reduced. He now has a plane (for later story purposes), an actual name (Jedediah) and a child, although his girlfriend/wife seems to have disappeared - no doubt the result of a terrible accident involving her hair and a naked flame (she came from the big haired oil refiners).

In pursuing his camels Max comes across Barter Town, an armpit of a place where trading is the name of the game. Frank Thring presides over registration in the way that only Frank Thring can. He was an insitution in Australian acting circles and for good reason. Granted he only ever played the one part (there is little difference between The Collector and Pontius Pilate) but he did it so well. He understood how to make menace work and how to properly play understatement, and when to go over the top. Him sitting in the dirt, quietly despairing, when it all goes wrong, is perfect.

Barter Town is the climax of Miller's vision of apocalypse futures. It is dirty and gritty and decrepit. There is nothing shiny or clean. Everything is make-do and cobbled together. There is nothing new, nothing untarnished. No one wears white, at least nothing that has remained white. Greys and browns are the order of the day, along with lots and lots of black leather. And studs. If Barter Town has a uniform it definitely has leather and studs involved. Dust covers everything.

As has been pointed out in an article in the Guardian, this is in marked contrast to other post-Apocalypse visions. I was thinking about Logan's Run (both the film and TV series), where the "civilised" lived in a shiny dome and wore white clothes and everything was ordered and those who lived beyond in the wastes were supposed to be decayed but there was never a spec of dust on their garments and their vehicles gleamed. Makeup and hair always immaculate. Even if the idea was grunge the execution was not. Real dirt and obvious decay have always been part of the Mad Max world, right from the beginning (unless you were an oil refiner. Given most standard cleaning products are made from petrochemicals maybe that's justified).

There are two layers to Barter Town, the top part ruled by Aunty and her thugs, the bottom part, Underworld, dominated by Master and Blaster, a dwarf and his own behemoth thug. Underworld is a giant piggery (probably where the actors in the previous two films trained), kept for methane production to power the entire complex, above and below. Not a bad idea. They even refine the methane for motor fuel. Naturally enough, there is a power struggle between Aunty and Master, and naturally enough Max is dragged into it. Max is not as disaffected as he was in Road Warrior, but he's still not fully engaged. I'm not a Mel Gibson fan, but I really liked his performance in Beyond Thunderdome. Balanced, nuanced. Not stellar but solid. I could believe the way he was manipulated and his reactions to the various fates that befell him. Nice.

As to the various thugs, the standout for me was George Spartels as Blackfinger. He drew the short straw in the costume stakes, with a studded leather posing pouch and shiny colander helmet, but it didn't phase him. Play School was always going to be the natural progression from there.

The part of Aunty was played by Tina Turner. I hope she had fun She looks like she had fun. Great casting choice. And her outfit (chain mail with HUGE shoulder pads and high heels) was stunning. Not shiny, but somehow right. Oh, and of course big hair. I remember going to see this film when it first came out (the only one of the three I saw at the cinema. No sex and look-away violence meant a friendlier rating and more general release) and being sceptical of Turner's inclusion (her music is not my thing). And I remember being pleasantly surprised. There are plenty of musicians who have a go at acting, with mixed results. Some you think "please, do not give up the day job. Don't do this again". Tina Turner did a good job. She played it for what it was worth and turned in a believable performance.

And her character has a level of interest, altering her behaviour to suit her needs, and ruling Barter Town with a combination of muscled standover tactics and three-word slogans, getting everyone to chant along with her. Which sounds like the political tactics of the Liberal Party. I suppose Tony Abbott had to get his strategy from somewhere. Pity he has neither Aunty's intellect nor her appeal.

There is another group in this story, the Tribe. This is a group of kids living in a verdant gorge in the middle of the desert (well, in the middle of the Blue Mountains, but anyway...). They annoyed the crap out of me when I saw this as a teenager. I just wanted to ditch the lot of them. Coming to it now, three decades later, I think they are a great inclusion, a really interesting idea that for once is explored. Costume wise, they are clearly friends with the Feral Kid of Road Warrior, or at least shop at the same kangaroo skin outlet.

Grammar aside, the writing for the Tribe is quite something, with the representation of an oral culture that is turning record keeping into mythology. And there is a good but not laboured contrast between the hope and health of the children compared to the adult misery of Barter Town.

Max ends up being stumbled upon by these children. His presence as an adult brings on a crisis that splits the formerly cohesive unit into two, with half staying in the little paradise continuing to wait and the other half striking out across the desert in search of "Tomorrowmorrowland". While initially appearing to be a foolish move, this proves an important turning point in the story and gives Max a chance to become a person again rather than an aimless wanderer. Through their action he will find his way out of his own private wasteland.

The film's big stunt sequence is the train chase. It's impressive, but not as good as the tanker chase of Road Warrior, probably because a lot of it feels the same. It also has more comic elements, such as Scrooloose driving the truck while upside down, and Angry Andersen avoiding obstacles while hanging from a pipe on the train. There are no brutal deaths so we are spared the bulging-eyed corpses. And Max gets his moment, when he chooses to sacrifice himself in order to let the others fly to safety. He becomes the hero by choice, not by default or out of a sense of anger or revenge, as he did in The Road Warrior.

The last part of the film is strangely moving, at least for me. Entering a giant dust cloud (wave goodbye to more topsoil, Australia), they fly to the ruins of Sydney, the remains of the Harbour Bridge reaching over a dried seabed. It was gratifying to see the Opera House still standing (go, Jorn Utzon), and weird to recognise other buildings - Australia Square, the AMP Building, Chifley Square and so on. We are so used to seeing other parts of the world on the screen that it is always a little odd to be presented with places we know, even if they are crumbling ruins.

This grim reality of a world destroyed is lifted by the reactions of the children, with another fine bit of writing (grammar aside. Why the bad grammar?). And once more Max wanders off, although this time there feels like there is a purpose to it.

Mad Max 3: Beyond Thunderdome is a cheesey film, it does have quite a bit of silliness, and if I am going to watch something in this type of setting I'll go for Salute of the Jugger first, thanks (don't tell me this too is cheesey. I know. But it has Rutger Hauer, and dog skulls). But I do acknowledge that Salute of the Jugger probably would not have been possible without the Max films. They have been quite the influence on many film-makers. And Thunderdome has some depths, and interesting explorations of the notions of home and heroes and family.

I really did enjoy Beyond Thunderdome, although that could be because I had sat through the other two and this came as something of a relief. Would I like it as much if I caught it on its own? I don't know, but I am actually looking forward to watching this one with the Steamgoth and her father. I'll see what they think.

And sorry, no, I couldn't resist putting this clip here. Suck it up.

The Only Way Is Up: Mad Max 2 The Road Warrior

It was with no trepidation at all that I put the next disc in the player, There was just no way that Mad Max 2 could be as bad as Mad Max. And I was right. I LOVED this film - for the simple reason that the narration totally negates ANY need to watch Mad Max. In the first two minutes you get all the salient points (there weren't many) and then more story than number 1 could have dreamt of. No one need ever watch Mad Max ever again. Ever. Again.

And then it's business as usual with a car chase, crashes and mayhem. So it goes.

Don't get attached to the puppy

There was clearly more money spent on this film (the budget was $4 million, rather than $350 000). They hired more real actors for starters, and had actual sets and costumes, and hair dressers. Lots and lots of hair dressers. They also spent more time on the story, as in there are probably three lines of plot, rather than a mere loose description. And stunt men. How much of that $4 million was spent on stunt men, stunt choreographers and vehicles?

As was pointed out in my review of Mad Max 1 (you can read it here) this was all before CGI. All the stunts were real. They had to actually be done by real people and real vehicles. This includes the rolling of Max's V8 Interceptor, the chase and rolling of the tanker and, of course, the motorcycle rider hitting the buggy and hurtling 20 metres through the air. Why are we at all impressed by action films these days? They can't compare.

Road Warrior has some of the problems of the first film. The bad guys still seem to come from the piggery school of acting, or an amateur dramatic society led by a mad declaimer. And the writing, though much improved, is still clunky, But the musical score is better and everyone seems to be making a genuine effort. And the stunts are spectacular.

Miller has learnt about pacing. The film is 96 minutes long but unlike the first it feels shorter than its time. The action drives the story (one could say it is a lot of the story) and the violence, while still graphic, is not constant. There is a building to the climax of the tanker chase (the actual sequence is well enough planned that it doesn't feel 13 minutes long) and then the film comes to a suitable end. As in it really finishes. Same ending, Max disappearing, but this time it feels complete.

There's also better direction of the actors. Instead of being expressionless and vacant, Mel Gibson is now allowed to act broken and distant. Not a lot of difference, but enough. There is at least the sense that he is doing something, that there are undercurrents even if we can't see them.

Bruce Spence gives Steve Bisley a run for his money as stand out character actor. He imbues the Gyrocaptain with great verve, brings him to life. What the captain lacks in depth he makes up for in dogged persistence and cheerfulness. Here is a man who makes the most of what life throws at him, even though the sheer awfulness of it all sometimes gives him pause. From the captain to the Mouth of Sauron Spence's delight in his craft remains unchanged. He always gives it his best.

The setting has become more conventionally post-apocalyptic, which is understandable, but kind of a shame. Still, entropy and all that. Society has collapsed and those left fight viciously amongst themselves, mainly for remaining oil supplies. The only law is that which you can enforce yourself. The strong survive, the weak die. In "the Wasteland" where the film takes place this is especially true, and Miller makes sure we know it. More bulging-eyed corpses. He can't be accused of subtlety.

Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior was shot out around Broken Hill and Silverton, in outback New South Wales. I have been to these places. There is a weird beauty about them, but I couldn't stand to live there. I'd be terminally depressed within days. The heat and dust alone are enough to do me in. But the sky is huge, the landscape vast and the sunrises and sunsets spectacular. If you want somewhere that looks like the world has ended and makes humans insignificant, it's a great location.

The action in the Wasteland centres around a seige of an oil processing compound by a group of crazed leatherclad mohawked loons lead by a masked man known as The Humungous. He wears a studded leather posing pouch and some leather straps and not much else. As the Steamgoth said, "they're in the desert. How does he not have some kind of skin cancer?" The other side, those in the compound, are equally bizarrely dressed. All in creams and beige (refining oil is such a clean job), with big 80s shoulder pads and big 80s hair. Some wear cricket pads and gloves (well, it is Australia). Then there is the Feral Kid, in kangaroo skins with a metal boomerang.

Of course we work in an oil refinery. Can't you tell?

It was interesting watching the desert shift in colour from red to green. It was nice that they had a rain sequence in there to explain it. Everything blooms very quickly when the rain comes, and vanishes almost as fast. But I am glad that they shot the last sequence with the green still there. There is something reassuring about it. No matter how stupid people become, the earth continues to do its thing, completely ignoring us and our petty squabbles. Everyone's actions are meaningless.

Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior is not a great film. But it is not terrible. And it is not boring. The narration at beginning and end works really well, and is some genuinely lovely writing, the art of storytelling beautifully delivered. Max's reluctance to be a help, let alone a hero, is a nice antidote to the typical action character. However, I can't help feeling there is an uncomfortable homophobic undertone to parts of the film, although I could be reading too much into it. It's difficult to say. But on the whole, it is much  much better than Mad Max.

Mind you, that's not difficult.

If you can stand it, Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome is reviewed here.

Committing Cultural Suicide (aka I Hate Mad Max)

Not a post about art, but a post about a consequence of not producing art. I have actually been doing things, but it's been paid commission work (which is great, but not stuff I can share - other people's family trees and the like). And then there was the storm, which saw the kids home for an extra week of holidays (like they complained). And then everyone seemed to walking around coughing and spluttering. So guess what? My suppressed immune system did its usual trick of not protecting me and I have a cold.

At least I hope that's all it is. You know the sort of thing - face feels like it's going to explode from sinus pressure. Head full of cotton wool. Non-productive cough. And so, so tired. Sleeping two or three hours in the day and STILL sleeping right through the night. Given I am generally an insomniac, this is a little weird.

I seem to be over the worst of it, but the last few days have had to be written off in terms of actually achieving anything (other than the usual things a mother has to do, like get the kids to and from school, make lunches, make dinner, do housework, moan like a demented zombie and so on).

To be quite honest, I spent two days collapsed on the lounge (when I wasn't doing all the mother stuff) watching Blu-Rays. The Mad Max Collection, to be precise. So you are getting three film reviews. Stop reading now if you want. I won't be offended.

We went to the cinema for Avengers 2: the Age of Ultron (such fun, despite some silliness). There was a big ad for Mad Max: Fury Road, which the Steamgoth expressed a strong desire to see. Her dad and I talked about it and we felt that some idea of what Mad Max is might be in order before she sees Fury Road (she told me TWICE that Robert Brown has given it good reviews, so she has to see it). Up the escalators to JB and there was a boxed set of all three films on sale. With an R rating. Oops.

The deal was I would watch them first, decide if and what she could watch and then we'd talk about it again. We made the mistake a couple of weeks ago of watching Hardware with her because we thought we remembered what it was like. Um, no. So now when we talk about films and series she asks "more inappropriate than Hardware?" My dear, just because that horse has bolted doesn't mean the gate stays open.

Finding time when I have the leisure to watch films without children around or other things happening isn't straightforward. Nice to know there is a use for the common cold after all.

So the other morning, after taking the kids to school and sleeping for two hours, I put on Mad Max. Now before you start, I mean MAD MAX. As in NUMBER ONE. As in NOT the Road Warrior. Mad Max was made in 1979 on a shoe string budget and filmed in and around Melbourne, Victoria.

Mel Gibson struggles to remember a line while Steve Bisley worries about his career

I had never seen it before. And I never want to see it again.

I know why it was rated R. But really, if I am to be honest, it should have been rated B (for Boring) or D (for Dull), or most probably ID (for Inexorably Dull). The Steamgoth, when she got home from school and found out how I had spent my day, asked if she could watch it. I told her no on the grounds that it is not worth the time or effort. Her time could be better spent watching grass grow, or staring at the wall, or sitting with her eyes shut.

What was wrong with it? Where do I start? The violence is gratuitous and nonsensical, the script risible, the acting laughable and the musical score irritating and domineering. Was there a plot? Beyond "a highway patrolman encounters bikie gangs. His family is murdered, he goes on a revenge rampage"? By the way, those last two take up the final ten minutes of the film. And no, I don't think they are spoilers because they are so telegraphed as to visible from the moon. Did I say there was a real pacing problem?

Don't get me wrong. There is a lot of action in Mad Max. It starts with a mad car chase (actually, no, it starts with another highway patrolman perving through his rifle scope on a couple having sex, but that is immediately followed by a mad car chase). But the action is tedious. And repetitive. And often ridiculous.

The lines the actors were asked to deliver - I suppose they deserve awards for actually saying them, but then the desire to eat and pay rent can motivate one to do all sorts of things. The acting ranged from more ham than a piggery to so understated as to be non-existent, with understatement clearly mistaken for menacing (yes, Bubba, I'm looking at you). I now understand why everyone raves about Steve Bisley as Goose, because he was the only one who actually turned in a performance. He took his part and made it believable and fun and meaningful. Well, as meaningful as he could. He really is the standout in the whole thing.

As for Mel, the members of International Rescue have a wider range of expressions. There is one moment where he finally shows emotion, and completely over does it, when he goes to visit Goose in the hospital and sees his friend burnt to a crisp. I laughed and then groaned at the sheer ridiculousness of his extreme reaction, and wondered if he was going for broke because he was finally allowed to have a reaction. It wasn't till later that I realised he probably wasn't acting at all. It was just that the terrible truth dawned on him that the only other real actor in the film had done his last scene and he, Mel, was alone in the mire. Cue look of shock and horror. I wasn't too thrilled either.

The real surprise for me was that the film was 88 minutes. It felt much, much longer. I kept thinking "is it going to end?" (when I wasn't thinking "gods, get on with it"). I kept thinking, "will it pick up when his wife and baby die?" (seriously, you knew it was going to happen from the second you first saw them). No. It didn't. They died and within ten minutes all the bikie gang were dead and Max was driving away, and that was it. Stop. And I mean stop. The film didn't end, it didn't finish, it just... stopped. Woeful.

At the beginning of the next disc, Mad Max 2: the Road Warrior, Leonard Maltin gave a brief history of Max 1 and 2 (I suspect the boxed set has been specially brought out because of Fury Road). He talked about how it bombed in the US (he put it down to the stupid decision by the studio to dub American accents over the whole thing) and how well it did in the rest of the world and especially in Australia. And he revealed that this was the first film Kennedy and Miller had ever made. I cannot say it was a surprise (more a relief really. Explains a lot).

He also made the point that all the action in all the films was well before CGI, meaning everything had to be physically done. So there is a good point for Mad Max. There were some brave stunt men doing some crazy driving. Still not enough.

There are two things that really, really bother me about Mad Max. Firstly, it was the highest grossing Australian film at the time. Box office records tumbled before it. Given its rating, those who loved it looooooooved it, enough to see it multiple times. Other films to come out that year were "My Brilliant Career", "The Odd Angry Shot", "The Last of the Knucklemen", "Dimboola", "Tim", "The Plumber" (all from Australia), "Alien", "Frisco Kid", "Love at First Bite", "the Muppet Movie", "Star Trek the Motionless Picture", "Life of Brian", "Apocolypse Now", "The Lady Vanishes", "Hanover Street", "The Quatermass Conclusion". I could go on. All this and more to choose from, and Australians were going to Mad Max.It made about $5.4 million in Australia and about $100 million world wide (see? you don't need to succeed in the US market to succeed. Another point in its favour).

So what does this say about Australian audiences at the time that they would pay so much for something so second rate? Was it just the sex and violence, of which there was plenty? Was it the unashamedly ocker tone of the whole film, at a time that Australians were throwing off the cultural cringe? The clearly Australian setting? Our ongoing and increasingly obscene love affair with the car? Did some clutch it tighter to their chests because word got out of the US studio dubbing? I can't say. Maybe it's because I have never been mainstream "Australian" I find the embracing of this film opaque and bewildering, and, in light of its blindingly obvious shortcomings, embarrassing. So throw me out of Australia, ostracise me from mainstream Aussie culture. See if I care.

The other thing that bothers me about Mad Max is the squandering of a great opportunity. Mad Max is NOT post-apocalyptic. If you think it is, I suggest you have it confused with Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior. Mad Max is set in a time of societal decline. There are still structures there, attempts at order in the chaos, people and things don't look any different, but something is amiss. Things are on the slide.

Let's face it, fun as an apocalypse is, it has been done to hell and back, particularly lately (okay, fair dos, that wasn't the case in 1979, at least not to the same extent). Here is something much more interesting - disintegration. And it is used just as a backdrop. Okay, there is a sense of it there, but no exploration of it. Maybe I am being unfair. Maybe the pacing of the film is reflective of the pace of entropy, slow at first and then speeding up until, when Max's family is killed, it reaches light speed and tears the world apart, just as Max's life has been ripped to shreds. And maybe I am reading way too much into it in an attempt to find something, anything nice to say about this film, given it started Kennedy and Miller's careers. But I can't. Bring on the apocalypse.

If you can stomach my rantings, stay tuned for "The Only Way is Up: Mad Max 2 The Road Warrior".