jazz at 11 (accidental portrait of the artist’s parents)

September 14, 2021

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 September 2021].}

'til death do us part

June 27, 2021

She wondered to herself - not for the first time - how many other's parents had set the bar for romantic relationships so high. So high that their children's expectations for their own relationships seemed a pipe dream. That anything less than what their parents had was a pale imitation. Anything else left them feeling wanting.

Her parents had shared everything. They had no secrets from each other. They trusted each other implicitly and loved each other unconditionally.

They supported and encouraged each other. Cared for each other and lost sleep worrying about each other.

They talked about everything, and they made decisions as a couple, as a partnership. All the way through their marriage until her mother's dementia meant she couldn't make decisions or talk about things in the same way.

Neither of them dictated anything to the other or made the other feel bad for asking questions. Indeed, most questions were answered before needing to be asked. Their relationship was one of open dialogue and transparency. Always.

There were never any power games. Never the sense that one made the other feel they were being given or denied a treat by being able to see the other more or less. When, how and where they met was a mutual decision. They wanted to see each other equally and showed no restraint from either side.

Her mother became part of her father's family and vice versa. She came from a very affectionate family into one less so. But her mother gradually coaxed her husband's family into the habit of hugs rather than handshakes. Growing up with an aunt whose catch-cry was "kissy-up, kissy-up" on arrival and on leaving her home encouraged her mother to engender that level of affection in her father's family. Though she saved kisses on the lips for her husband alone.

She grew up with the example of intimate and affectionate parents. Even as they grew older, she watched them reach for each other's hands as she walked along the streets of London with them. Instinctive and natural.

Their friends were their friends. Not her mother or her father's. The friendships may originally have been made or found through one. But they became mutual friends her parents spent time with, both together and apart.

There was never any compartmentalisation in their relationship, their relationships with others and their lives. They even worked together side-by-side for about 10 years.

Their weight gains and losses were irrelevant. They were the same people beneath the flesh and bones, so what did weight matter?

As her mother's dementia took hold, she saw how it broke her father's heart. His best friend, lover, partner and confidante of almost fifty years changed. Her mother saw him as a stranger, and he recognised the real her only in glimpses of lucidness. But he has never stopped loving her.

In her own life, she felt she'd never truly experienced what they had. What they have.

Others might argue that what she sought was a romantic fantasy. But she'd witnessed it growing up, so she knew it wasn't just in her imagination.

Sure, she knew their marriage wasn't perfect. Their relationship wasn't perfect. None are. But they worked through anything that might have created an issue. And came out stronger together on the other side.

But what she witnessed of their relationship over more than forty years of her life was always one of love, trust, openness, communication, honesty, affection, adoration and longevity. Damn near perfection, in her eyes.

And so far, she'd only had glimpses of pieces of what they had in her own life. Samples. Tasters. But nothing that stood up to the same tests. Nothing that lasted long enough or brought as much happiness as that she'd witnessed watching her parents as she grew from a child to a teenager, a teenager to an adult.

Everything she had experienced felt like a shadow of what she'd witnessed.

When it came to her own relationships, she viewed the possibility of something even three-quarters as good as what they'd had as a chimaera. Something she hoped for but felt she would never achieve or realise. The stuff of dreams. A fantasy.

Except she knew it could be real.

So she kept seeking it out. Hoping against hope. Believing that maybe, just maybe…

But again and again, she returned to the thought that maybe her parents had set the bar too high. Raised her expectations of what love and "forever" might be to something only achievable for a select few; for people of previous generations, perhaps. But not for her.

She thought, not for the first time: maybe she should just let go of all expectations. And forget 'til death do us part, even if it didn't involve any formal declaration or ceremony. Clearly, it wasn't meant to be.

040 two pounds

March 12, 2021

Day forty of The 100 Day Project for 2021.

Yesterday was one for the books. I don't even know where to start. And so I won't start.

But it felt fitting to draw something irreverent (in my mind) to distract from things.

So here's an illustrated rendering of a £2 peepshow neon sign from God's Own Junkyard. Another place I'd like to return to once lockdown has lifted.

Sketched with a 4H pencil, then traced over with an HB.

graeme and margaret hyde (photographer unknown)

fifty years

August 14, 2020

It’s still an hour or so away from 15 August in London, but it’s already my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary in Australia.

Unfortunately, my brothers and I can’t celebrate the day with my parents in person. My parents are in Tasmania, my brothers are in stage 4 lockdown in Melbourne, and I’m on the other side of the world.

They may not even be able to celebrate the day together after all. Though it would be hit and miss as to whether my mum would know my dad today if he can visit her in her nursing home.

So today is bittersweet. But still cause for celebration of the half-century of love, laughter, family, travel and more that my parents have shared and that I’ve been a witness to for 43 years.

Unfortunately, I don’t have access to any of their wedding photos here in London. My brother, Peter, snapped a pic of this photo from their albums a couple of years ago.

If I recall correctly, it was taken at a dinner party while they were dating or around the time they got engaged.

My dad appears to be in mid-blink, but it captures their happiness for all that.

Happy 50th anniversary Mum and Dad

I love you both xxx

lockdown: day 1,984

July 8, 2020

Day ninety-three of The 100 Day Project.

Has anyone put forward a law similar to Godwin’s Law that describes the likelihood of a discussion on the internet about coronavirus guidance/regulations/restrictions leading to comparisons to George Orwell’s 1984 or Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World yet?

I’m seriously tired of people perceiving protecting themselves and others from needless death in the current situation as comparable to situations in these (admittedly brilliant) novels.

All I see when I see those posts is entitlement, selfishness and people unable to understand the sacrifice of even basic pleasures for the safety of themselves and others.

Illustrations:

Couple on couch by Paul Gavarni from Œuvres choisies de Gavarni, volume one