I moved to Italy for love...

... what the hell was I thinking! I mean, sure things with the boy are going better than ever, but how could I be so ignorant to think that a culture that is so based on the romantic notion of love, could harbour and support a workaholic like myself!! I bet the word doesnt even exist in Italian! I should have done my research more... or attempted to learn the language. I wrongly assumed that because I moved here for love that naturally the language of love would evolve, like a budding rose or a butterfly. But it continues to evade me - as if to tell me that my skeptical ideals of love are not welcome here, and therefore its secret language of 'amour' cannot be mine to express.

I can only say for those that I have come across - but the modern Italians appear to lack work ethic. Paired with the recent economic downturn, Florence businesses (with the friendly exception of pubs and bars) in winter are barely alive. Shop after shop are either closed or vacant, so one would assume that taking over a lease would be a piece of cake....

Its not like I dont have solid references, relevant visas or sound financials, Im not even creepy looking, but these agents and owners are giving me a hard time. What happened to a fair go, mate?

So its back to bed than. drawing paper, vogue, harpers bazaar, scissors, fabric, pens, pencil shavings, laptop and another sleepless night doing what I love

The Man I Was Taught to Fear

There are people we grieve twice in a lifetime. Once for who they were. And once for who we were never allowed to know. My father is one of them. When I was a child, my mother told me he was a paedophile. She didn’t whisper it. She didn’t hesitate. She said it plainly, as fact. As warning. As control. When we misbehaved, she would drop us at the greyhound station and force us to spend sleepless weekends with him. I remember the noise of the station. The way my stomach would knot. The terror that would sit in my chest at night when the lights went out. I was absolutely terrified to sleep. He was a workaholic. Twelve-hour days. Long hours. Absence disguised as provision. He would leave cash on the bench, stockpiles of food in the fridge, and the television on - a wild luxury I couldn’t enjoy because fear had already moved in. At home with my mother, we weren’t allowed a TV at all. Looking back now, my father was unemotional, but never unkind. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer hims...

Versions, and “Versions”

I’ve already written about The Wiiyaan as a journalist. That piece lives in the Tweed Weekly . It’s careful, respectful, measured. It honours Bundjalung origin story, place, and the quiet authority of listening. It was written for a broad audience, many of whom - like me - come from settler families, carrying our own histories alongside the land we now call home. But after filing that story, I knew I wasn’t done. Some stories ask something back from you. This one did. So this is the version that doesn’t fit in a newspaper column. This is the version that explains why that exhibition cracked something open in me - why listening to Kyle Slabb speak about holding one version of Country, with care and restraint, felt like a mirror I wasn’t expecting. Kyle spoke about perspective. About how this telling is not the story, but a story - shaped by lineage, responsibility and law. He was clear, careful, and deeply respectful of other versions held...

The Painter on the hill

I went to meet Scott McDougall deliberately underprepared. This is not how journalists are usually meant to begin. We are supposed to research, cross-check, read the biography, study the exhibition history, arrive with neat questions and enough knowledge to sound vaguely authoritative. But Scott had been recommended to me by artist Hobie Porter, who told me he was someone I might find interesting. That was enough. I did not want to arrive with the internet’s version of him already sitting between us. I wanted to meet the man, see the work, stand in the room where it happened and absorb it without the corruption of other people’s opinions. I am not an art writer. Not really. But I am an artist at heart. A fashion designer by training. A lover of light, texture, form, fabric, structure, composition and the controlled drama of a perfectly judged line. Becoming a journalist has opened a new lens. It has also made me realise how often I underestimate people. My general disappointment in hum...

Rada Priya

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