Fiona Farrell
In June this year, six years since Christchurch was shaken awake into a new understanding of the city and the geology beneath it, I published a novel. Decline and Fall on Savage Street was prompted by that event, and the years that succeeded it as the city shimmied then settled to a kind of peace, or as close to peace as this country can manage. (There have been a couple of quakes already today; yesterday there were seven, though they have been tiny and distant, barely discernible. A reminder, however, that this is not perhaps the most tranquil place to perch, above the interface of a couple of major tectonic plates.)
Writing about this event and the political and corporate activity it unleashed has been a curious business.
I can’t remember where I came across this cartoon, but it’s one that irritates me. The teenage bird with the cool-dude-backwards-cap assumes the stance of a seasoned raconteur. With one deliberate wing gesture, he begins: “Actually” (proclaiming absolute authority on the matter), “my species is not nocturnal: I’m just a teenager”. Of course I’m just assuming he’s a he-bird, but even if he’s a she-bird, it doesn’t matter. The cartoon sends the wrong message. It labels all teenagers as being rebellious on the matter of sleep.
It always seems impossible until it is done.” – Nelson Mandela.
For years, as as an art educator and artist, I’ve had an ongoing preoccupation with body parts, especially with anatomical systems and human organs as artistic imagery. This fascination has lead me to research a variety of vintage anatomical illustrations by scientific and medical artists such as Georg Stubbs, William Braune, Nicolas Henri Jacob, Anton Nuhn and Leonardo da Vinci.