The phone rang and woke me again today. “Were you asleep?”, my mate asked me probably already knowing the answer by the way I’d ignored the home phone, but had responded sleepily to the mobile when it rang. It was about lunchtime, I guess, and he had some pretty amazing news he wanted to share right away. Since then, I’ve been a little sleepy on and off throughout the day. Slowly but surely my body is returning to normal.
I called briefly in to work today. Ostensibly it was to pick up my card-reader so I could transfer some more photographs across. Actually, I just felt like catching up with the gang to see how they all were. “You’ve lost weight and you’ve got a tan” was the universal consensus, which made me feel great. A colleague and friend who has been overseas is also back and we made plans to catch up in the next week. Also, one of the blokes at work is playing his first live gig in quite a few years, so I’ll probably go along to that tomorrow night. And then on Friday there’s a farewell drinks for someone. It’s kinda cool being able to socialise with everyone, which is great, without actually having to go into work.
As it happened, there was a delegation of European broadcasters visiting including a Swedish woman. “Why are you wearing that shirt?”, she asked at first, totally confused about why I was wearing my “Sverige” t-shirt. I explained that I’d been there and had a wonderful time, and had enjoyed the summer, and wished her the same for her time in Sydney.
Tonight I caught up with the guys at the pub, which was great fun. Again, everyone commented on how much weight I’d lost, which was a nice boost to the ego. Clearly I must have been really fat and unhealthy looking before I left.
I’m in catch-up mode again. I don’t remember much from Monday. I really need to be a little more disciplined about this blog. After all, it was a bit of a resolution several months back (last July) that I would endeavour to blog daily. I’ll get there, I’m sure.
“Take That Look Off Your Face,” the opening song of the musical “Tell Me on a Sunday,” was only a moderate hit song in Australia. Wikipedia tells me the song peaked at #61 on the charts, though it was a song I liked very much at the time. As a teenager, I pored over the lyrics printed on the album cover, and remember them to this day, over forty years later.
“Tell Me on a Sunday” was the first solo endeavor for Andrew Lloyd-Webber without collaborator Tim Rice. With lyrics penned by Don Black, the musical tells the journey of an English woman as she navigates the complexities of life and love in New York City.
Through the lens of her unsuccessful personal relationships, and through a series of letters to her mother back home in England we get to know her. As she grapples with the highs and lows of romance and ambition, you get to know someone who seems to think her personal happiness will be achieved through her relationships with men.
In 2024, the plotline and attitudes seem a little dated. But when I saw it advertised, I decided it was time to revisit an “old theatre friend”. I’ve never actually seen a production prior to this, and I think it almost fits into the category of a “forgotten musical”.
The intimate setting and minimalist staging of the Hayes Theatre really allowed me to really deeply connect with the innermost thoughts and feelings of the lead character. Noticeable, wwe never actually get to know her name!. From the highs of new love to the crushing disappointments of heartbreak and betrayal, “Tell Me on a Sunday” offers something which is still poignant and relatable forty years later.
The album is only 43 minutes in duration (as was the case back in the days of vinyl), but tonight’s production came in at around 65 minutes, with a few songs with extended and different lyrics, and even a song that brigns the musical to a conclusion. It’s worth noting the musical on vinyl ends somewhat suddenly, and you never really get to know what happens next.
My personal favourite from the musical is the song, “Tell Me On A Sunday”, which is how the woman wants to be told about the end of her relationship.
Don’t leave in silence with no word at all Don’t get drunk and slam the door That’s no way to end this I know how I want you to say goodbye
Don’t run off in the pouring rain Don’t call me as they call your plane Take the hurt out of all the pain Take me to a park that’s covered with trees Tell me on a Sunday, please.
I enjoyed tonight’s production very much witn a good singer/actor, and a live orchestra on stage. It was a preview night, so there are plenty of opportunities to see it over the next few weeks.
Holding The Man
In contrast, I also went to the theatre on Sunday night, to see final performance of the current season of Belvoir Street Theatre production of the play “Holding the Man,” based on Timothy Conigrave’s memoir.
In 1995 I read the book, published only a months after Tim’s death from HIV/AIDS. A few years later I was fortunate to attend the opening night of the first production, attended by a number of Tim’s friends from the Sydney theatre scene. Since then, I’ve also seen the movie and a subsequent documentary, as I’ve written about here previously.
When I first moved to Sydney one of the things that most impressed me about the place was the late night book-store, Ariel. Having spent all of my life in the country (I include my four years in Brisbane in that), I’d found myself suddenly living in Australia’s largest city. And one of the great things about that was that I could walk up to Oxford Street and purchase a book at the oddest hours.
I swear it must have been about nine o’clock on a Tuesday night when I bought, “Holding The Man”, because I’m pretty sure I was late for work the next day. It was sometime in 1995, though I’m not exactly sure when, when I walked to Oxford Street, bought the book and came straight home to read it. It must have been three or four am when I finished reading the book.
In such a short period of time I had never experienced so much laughter and tears, as the story of Tim and John was revealed to me. From their furtive teenage sexual encounters to their deaths from AIDS in the early 90s, it was such an incredibly well told beautiful story, made incrediblY strong by its absolute authenticity. Indeed, it was an authenticity which cut a swathe through the emotions of so many of my peers.
The play tells the story of the enduring love between two men, Tim and John, from their school days to the onset of the AIDS epidemic. The play delves deep into their relationship, capturing the challenges they face as they navigate family pressures, personal struggles, and the devastating impact of HIV/AIDS.
The play documents the evolution of Tim and John’s love, from its beginnings in high school to the complexities of adulthood. Despite everything they went through, their bond remains seemingly unbreakable, a testament to the power of love in the face of adversity.
As the impact of AIDS takes its toll, “Holding the Man” confronts the harsh realities of loss and grief, yet it also celebrates the resilience and strength of the human spirit. As I wrote, after seeing the first production…
By the play’s end, however, I was in tears. But as emotional as it was for me, I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like for those who knew Tim and John. I was sitting next to Noel Hodda, for example, one of the founding members of Griffin Theatre Company which Tim was a part of. Also in the audience was Penny Cook, a close friend of Tim’s, who was referred to in the play. As the play deals graphically with the impact of HIV/AIDS – “a footballer who loses his body and an actor who loses his mind” – it must have been quite harrowing for them to go over some of those experiences again. Or maybe it was cathartic?
But for me it was probably one of the best nights of theatre I’ve ever enjoyed, with a tremendous ensemble cast and faultless direction and staging, including the use of puppets. Yes, puppets! The care that has gone into making this such a beautiful production is clearly evident.
I know it’s not good of me to say this or think this, but I’ve always thought of John as “the innocent one” in the relationship. John remained largely monogamous, while Tim had a gay old time, having sex with multiple partners in the days when there was little information and lots of incorrect information about HIV/AIDS. Having such thoughts about good and bad, innocent and otherwise is something which I recognise as bad now, but back then there was an awful lot of judgement even within the gay community.
Thus, I’ve never really had much sympathy for the character of Tim. However, seeing this latest production I developed a much deeper understanding of the character, and for me, this was a good enough reason to see it again.
Going to see the play again, almost twenty years later was a much different experience than opening night in 2006, especially as it was the final night of the production’s current season.
I found it interesting to see this play in a theatre of much younger people who would have had little or no personal experience of HIV/AIDS.
When we attended the first production in 2006, there were people who were contemporaries and friends of Tim and John in the audience.
On Sunday night, there was a male/female couple to my right (maybe early 30s, and by her response, I think she might have known an older family member who died from HIV/AIDS). On my left, there were two young gay boys (late teens) who possibly viewed the play more from the perspective of a gay love story than anything else.
Mostly, the audience seemed to really love the play, and so did I, with a deeper understanding of the characters that comes from having some time away from the book and the play. I might pull out the book and read it again.
Photograph taken before the production commenced, as the actors stand around on the stage in anticipation.
Holding On
Attending the theater has always been an important part of my life, from my teenage years on. Going independently to these productions in the wake of last year’s lower right leg amputation was a bit of a challenge.
Theatres are by their nature difficult to navigate for someone in my position: there are many stairs and the seating is often very tight. Thankfully, Belvoir Street has a lift that allows you to go up and down to the theatre, while Hayes Theatre doesn’t. In both cases, staff working there and patrons attending were very willing to help. At Hayes, someone working there took me via stage entrance, which offered less stairs.
“It’s okay I work at the hospital,” one woman said to me at Hayes, as she reached out her arm as I climbed the stairs. As part of my rehabilitation, I learned to be self-reliant, and note that people will often innocently extend their arm to help, but in fact that can be a problem, as they’re not strong enough to hold you in the event of a fall. Telling me she worked at St Vincent’s Hospital, gave me the assurance to accept that help. For all I know, she could have worked in administration :) At the end of the play she came to check on me, and organized for one of the staff to take me back via the stage entrance. I was touched.
People were also very willing to stand up and allow me to get through to my seat, and, thankfully, to hold my glass of wine, as I made my way to the seats.
While the rest of Sydney headed into the CBD for the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Parade, a couple of friends and I headed west to the Penrith Regional Art Gallery. One of the guys I was travelling with has a work in the exhibition “Wonder Mountain”. Through my friend Kate, I’d also met a couple of the other exhibiting artists.
The first thing I noticed on arriving at Penrith was the smell of a country town. Even though Penrith is on the outskirts of Sydney, it’s very much a country town in lots of ways. The river dominates the landscape. Housing on the streets varies considerably: the McMansion and the old weather-board cottage can sit side-by-side. But overwhelmingly, what distinguishes where I live now (in the centre of Sydney) from Penrith is the smell. As we arrived at the the gallery, I jumped out of the car, headed straight over to the river, and I could “smell” I wasn’t in Sydney anymore.
What followed was a brief moment of wondering “why did I move to Sydney, when I could have stayed living in the country”. It’s been several months since I’ve felt that way, as I haven’t been home to Lismore in over twelve months. But every time I have the experience of being in a country town I have similar feelings. For a good part of the exhibition opening, I sat in the garden and simply enjoyed the environment. In particular, it was great to simply sit there and watch the live art by Hua Tunan (画图男).
Live art by Hua Tunan (画图男)
It was raining on and off for a while, and although the heavier rains forced me inside for a while, I was also happy and content to get a little wet. Growing up on the North Coast has clearly had an influence on me – turned me into a bit of a hippy. :)
Over the next few hours I chatted with a few people, including a local couple who had also lived in a number of the country towns towns I’ve lived in. We chatted about some of the “lost jobs” no longer evident in country towns. We chatted about the “black pubs and the white pubs” in places like Bourke where we had both lived. In so many ways it was a stark contrast from so many of the gallery openings I’ve attended in the inner city of Sydney, taking me back to the many years I’ve lived in the country.
As for the exhibition itself: there were works I really liked, and works I didn’t like so much.
The work I enjoyed most was by Sydney artist, Peter Nelson. The mixed media work by Peter included porcelain and a video which I spent quite a long time watching.
After the exhibition a whole bunch of us enjoyed dinner at a local Thai restaurant where the food was suprisingly spicy. Quite often in country towns, the local Thai and Chinese restaurants tone down the level of chilli they use. That was not the case this time. So yeah, a really nice experience.
Mud Maps
Although we had a vague idea it would be fun to make it back in time to see at least a small amount of the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Parade, we never made it. I’ll make it next year, I’m sure. I mean, it doesn’t vary much from year to year, does it?
Riga is NOTHING like I expected. To be honest, I was expecting just a larger version of Tallinn. In common with Estonia, Latvia is on the Baltic, and has been dominated over many hundreds of years by foreign powers including Germany, Sweden, Russia (and of course the USSR). But it’s so incredibly different from Tallinn in so many ways.
First, there’s the language. While Estonian is actually quite close to Finnish, Latvian is more of a language you would associate with Central Europe. And on top of that, you have a greater percentage of Russian speakers. As you walk around town, a significant number of signs are in Russia, and you can hear a lot of people speaking Russian.
These are the people who were either left-behind when the Soviet Union collapsed, or who were born and raised here, and who consider themselves to be Latvian, albeit Russian-speaking Latvians.
Second, the people look different. While in Tallinn there was a significant number of people who you would describe as “Nordic looking”, here there’s a far greater number of people who would say “look Russian” or “look Central European” (if you know what I mean). It’s a clumsy way to describe someone as “looking Russian” because of the large physical diversity that represents, but I hope you get my meaning.
The town also looks quite different to Tallinn. There are a lot of buildings still standing which were created in the last years of the nineteenth century and the first years of the twentieth century. These grand buildings escaped much of the damage of the Second World War bombing. You get the impression from the architecture that Riga was once a very grand city, and probably quite wealthy.
Whereas the Old Town dominated Tallinn, here it’s also just a part of a much larger city. Riga has much more of a “Western” feel to it, with many more of the trappings of Western society including a lot more street advertising, and more modern buildings including a few sky-scrapers.
After arriving on the bus this morning, I checked into my hostel. It’s on Barona Street and is called Barons Hostel. It’s a decidely English language variation of the street name, possibly because the owners are Australian (and the building is also the home to the Australian Business Chamber in Riga). We’re on the top four of an old building, with reasonably large spacious rooms, free internet, free tea and coffee. And there’s hardly anyone here. I’m sharing a 6-bedroom dorm with just one other person, a young French speaking woman. It’s dinner time now and I haven’t seen another person, aside from the woman who checked me in. At a cost of about $25 Australian per night, I think it seems like exceptionally good value.
View from my bedroom, Riga
Riga’s tram system isn’t that modern, but still better than Tallinn
Outside the Latvian National Opera
Wedding locks on a bridge, Riga
Russian culture in Riga
Not a Soviet sculpture
There’s something a bit odd about this sign…
Church in Riga
Latvian Technical University
City view, Riga
What the locals probably eat in Riga
The Australian connection at Barons Hostel
The bus tour was similarly under-utilised today. For a while I was the only person on one of those hop-on/hop-off tours. The tour I went on cost $25 Australian for a 90 minute audio -guided tour. And if I want to, I can hop back on again tomorrow. Also quite good value, I think.
I thought it was a good way to get an introduction to the town. Of course I also did some unguided sught-seeing too. In doing so, I I saw a wedding underway at the Russian Orthodox Cathedral which spectacularly dominates the area in which it’s located. I also learned of a really great local wedding custom where couples attach an inscribed lock to the bridge where, presumably, they have their wedding photographs taken.
For lunch today I risked having a pizza. “Risked” because I haven’t been all that lucky so far with “ethnic cuisine”. But the Proscuitto and Parmesan pizza I had at Velvet Cafe and Nattklub was quite good. “We don’t have local beers”, the waitress told me, so I had a Heineken to accompany.
Compared with the last few days, food seems a little more expensive here, so I’ll have to think hard about how I spend my money. By the way, the Latvian Lat is actually worth more than the Euro. The exchange rate to Australian dollars is about two and a half to one.
I’m gonna head out for a bite to eat shortly, and then maybe have a look at one of the local bars. The gay scene here is quite underground, even compared with Tallinn where things were much more open. When they first attempted a Pride Parade a couple of years ago, it was stopped by Neo-nazi and Christian protestors. The following year it was banned by the government as a “threat to national stability”. The parade is back on track, according to what I’ve read, though the guide books advise discretion.
Another local guide book warns of the high rate of organised crime (something I’ve neglected to mention to my family for obvious reasons). And in one of the magazines I’ve read today, there’s about half a dozen venues the United States Government has warned its citizens against going to. Mostly they’re strip joints and they weren’t high on my list of priorities anyway…
I was sitting at a local pub, drinking a beer, and reading the book, “Gaysia” by Benjamin Law. It’s a book about Ben’s experiences travelling throughout Asia and getting to know more about “gay life” in countries as diverse as Japan and India. Ben is Australian-born Chinese, and the whole idea behind the book, he says, was for him to get a better understanding of the kind of life he might have led if he, as a gay man, had grown up in Asia, not Australia.
The book covers just about every story you might imagine, some with humour, others with tenderness and poignancy. In Indonesia, for example, he struggles with going nude at a gay resort. In Thailand, he meets the contestants in a so-called “Lady-boy Beauty Contest”. In Japan, he reflects on the high rate and intensity of the pornography on sale, compared with the closeted lives many gays and lesbians must lead. In China, he meets gays and lesbians who marry each other in an effort to appease their parents, often leading to comical, farce-like activities. And in Malaysia, he meets a charismatic religious figure who grew up and lived as a gay man, who later married a woman, and then founded a religious organisation to “help” people “overcome” their homosexuality.
As sad and awful as all that sounded, it was the chapter about Burma/Myanmar that moved me the most, and brought me close to tears as I sat in my local pub on Sunday afternoon. I’d been trying to finish the book for a week or so, and so yesterday I decided I’d take myself to a quiet spot, leave the mobile phone at home, grab a beer and knock off the remaining three chapters.
I’m not sure why but I wasn’t quite prepared for the sadness I would feel in reading this chapter. Like most people, I knew about Aung San Suu Kyi and the human rights abuses, but that was about the full extent of my knowledge of the country. I didn’t know about the poverty, I didn’t know about the high rates of HIV, I didn’t know about the rape and abduction of children that can sometimes occur, and I didn’t know about the prostitution (particular underage prostituion often involving Western men) where you can “secure” someone for as little as sixty-five cents for an hour. Ben’s introduction to the country was thanks to a Medecins sans frontieres aid worker. MSF is an organisation I’ve supported financially for a number of years. I hope they’re doing good work there.
Despite the sadness of many of the stories, there are also moments of great humour where I laughed out loud. Ben writes well, and is a little Louis Theroux-like in the way he is both an observer and part of the story. One of the best, most interesting books I’ve read in quite a while.
It’s as the whole world is a photographer now. Or at least that’s what you might conclude from spending Friday night wandering around at The Vivid Festival at Sydney’s Circular Quay. I took a few photographs myself, of course. But for me, Vivid isn’t a photographic assignment. It’s a wonderful cultural experience.
In my role at 702 ABC Sydney, I was involved in Vivid from the very early days. The station was asked to come on board as a media supporter, which we gladly did. Since then, Vivid has grown and grown and grown, as it’s become a terrific experience for a broad range of people from across the city to experience some wonderful public art.
Vivid Sydney 2015
We were expecting the crowds to be “worse”. I’m not one for crowds at the best of times, and the idea of slowly chugging along in a mass event, compared with walking around in a fairly solitary manner leaves me cold. For the last few times, Sue has often been in Sydney around Vivid time, though sadly it’s often rained when she has been here. Now, living in Sydney, we had more flexibility about when we would visit. Thankfully, the rain held off. And as we walked around, the crowds didn’t seem too bad at all.
Vivid Sydney 2015For both of us, our favourites were the projections on the Museum Of Contemporary Art. Varied, beautiful, and very much in keeping with both the insides and outsides of the building.
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Clearly I must have been really fat and unhealthy looking before I left. I’m sure you weren’t. Probably just looking stressed and in need of a nice long holiday.
Clearly I must have been really fat and unhealthy looking before I left. I’m sure you weren’t. Probably just looking stressed and in need of a nice long holiday.