Final Version

Re-examine a painting.

Walking up Redfern Street, east to west

to Redfern Railway Station.

Three stops to Stanmore.

To collect a painting,

newly conserved and re-framed…

one of my mother’s own art works

painted under a superbly-trained and practiced,

but not untypically forgot/ten

woman.

Some family myths

surround this youthful work

of 1946 perhaps.

Surface now restored to lush oil glow,
and placed under the latest

clear glass technology

to extend its possible family discussion.

So now I may re-examine

my own dismissive distaste,

try for re-consideration

in light of life’s ongoing education.

I am more relaxed, to fathom, to question

aspects, impacts, attitudes.

What struck me, up to a certain age,

was emotional power holding sway,

pouring out. 

Now I see some good technique,

traditional principles

within dark colours and contrasts,

which would be, I believe,

early experimentation in extremes.

Until later, it irked my senses in what I saw

as  crass, and I was unforgiving. I wanted to hide it away.

Which I did, placing it carefully, but covered and in its

heavy, re-cycled ornate Victorian frame, amongst other

family works including my own, re-situated, unseen in each

house and apartment as I’ve travelled around the State.

A white-wigged lady stands,

dressed in an immense gown,

Hollywood-style, MGM?

And pseudo-French court etiquette.

Her prop, an open fan, held in her right hand,

to parallel her left.

Her body is slightly turned, or is it turning?

I see again, she’s definitely distinctly determined.  

She is centre-stage, in front

of a grand arch.

All is within the Golden Rule,

And a ballroom crowd moves about behind.

A friend notes today,

a lady and a man, in the crowd behind,

speaking together, behind another fan!

I am amazed,

I’ve missed that fact, 

being more involved

in

my own Family mythologies!

And times and tribal mores.

It seemed to me, by 28, 

to be only

an 18-year-old’s silly Cinderella fantasy,

reflections of unrealistic post-war dreams.

I’ve laughed, in arrogance.

But more, I strongly admire

the focus and talented technique,

even the subject,

coming from where it does.

It commands my full respect,

Interest and compliment.

Half her talent

added to my received opportunities…

I think it all demonstrates

her hidden frustration,

unselfish albeit in no good position,

when she stepped out strongly

every day

despite everything,

to do what she thought was best

under the circumstances.

I don’t feel I am less.

But I see I am different

while equally the same,

and still it’s not a competition nor a game.

But then,

that is what it is,

true feminism,

which is massive change.