Camera Roll Catchup
Though I have some other stuff I’ll blog about later, here’s a few of the photographs I’ve taken in the last week, and the stories behind them.




Though I have some other stuff I’ll blog about later, here’s a few of the photographs I’ve taken in the last week, and the stories behind them.




I read the other day that, although Swedish and Norwegian are quite different languages, native speakers can mostly, easily understand what the other is saying. Although “Kitchen Stories” (Salmer fra kjøkkenet), which I’ve just finished watching on the World Movies channel on Foxtel, is spoken in both Swedish and Norwegian, it wouldn’t really matter, however, if you spoke neither language, since the great communicative strength of this film is the body language.
Although the basic premise for the film sounds odd, it also sounds “very Scandinavian”. We’re led to believe that in the post-war period, an institute was set up to improve the efficiency of kitchens through better design, based on observing the movement patterns of housewives. As a follow-up, a group of researchers are then sent to Norway to observe the movements of single men.
Perched on a high chair in the corner of a kitchen, Folke (played by Tomas Norström) has the job of observing, never interacting with Isak (played by Joachim Calmeyer), a man living by himself on the outskirts of a small Norwegian town. Set in the run up to Christmas, there’s abundant snow and the nights are long.

Just the type of weather that leads Scandinavia to have a major problem with depression, Isak’s only friend appears to be his horse (whose health worsens throughout the film, leading to its death). He’s also fairly set in his ways. He’s also fairly eccentric by modern standards. “I must have a bath next week”, he declares at one point. We also discover the fillings in his teeth allow him to pick up radio stations, including “foreign ones, when I hold on to the drain pipe”. And his answer for a small case of the flu is a feral cat fur around the neck, whilst sleeping on the back of a horse. Yeah, that kind of eccentric. And although he signed up to be part of the study, at first, he won’t, for example even answer the door.
But he does eventually open the door, although at first, the invasion of his privacy is almost too much. At one point, whilst eating chocolate, Isak gets up and turns off the light for just a moment by himself. Hilariously, their response of Folke is to adopt one of those miners’ lights which he flashes in Isak’s face. After a while, though, Isak begins to relax, going about his life setting mouse traps, cutting the hair of friends and so on.
Meanwhile, back in his caravan, Folke eats chocolate, throws the papers on the floor and listens to music on his portable radio. The music, by the way, is just wonderful, with lush jazz orchestrations, often based simply on bass and saxophone. There are also some wonderful old variety-style numbers sung in Swedish or Norwegian, I’m not sure.
Inevitably, the men begin to interact, although it’s the non-verbal communication that tells you more about their friendship than anything else. For example, as Folke falls asleep in his high chair, Isak places a blanket on his knees. Their friendship becomes such that, when Folke is asked to leave, to take on the observation of another participant (as the observer has started drinking heavily with the participant there, breaking the rules), he asks to stay, assuring his supervisor that “things are just starting to get interesting”.
Crossing the boundaries, however, interferes with the experiment. And as one by one, other observers disappear, the success of the experiment becomes more and more dependent on Folke, with increasing surveillance by his supervisor. Will their friendship be identified? Will he lose his job?
Well of course, he does lose his job. But for them both, that doesn’t matter as they’ve become good friends, evident clearly when spring arrives and Folke has found a new home living with Isak. The contrast between the seasons could only be found in Scandinavia, though I suspect you might find similar characters and situations in the Australian outback.
Nonetheless, this is a very Scandinavian film with some very Scandinavian references. For example, the film touches on the Swedish transition to left-hand driving and on the imprisonment in Norway of Jews during the Second World War. Drawing upon history to explain the circumstance of the two men, Isak declares “You Swedes don’t understand that. You were observers only during the war too”.
It’s a nice film.
“Forty-three is one of those kinds of ‘nothing’ ages”, I told Damien over dinner the other night. 18, 21, 30, 40, 65 etc are all momentous birthdays in many ways. Even thirty-five is also quite a momentous one, as I think it’s probably the real marker between “youth” and “adulthood”.
And then you have odd number birthdays like 37 and 41 which have been celebrated in song. In her song, “The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan”, Marianne Faithfull sings about the woman who… “At the age of thirty-seven, she realised she’d never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair. And in her song, “Delta Dawn”, Helen Reddy sang of the woman who “was forty-one and her daddy still called her ‘baby'”. I can’t find think of a single song where the age of forty-three is celebrated.
Still, I’m pretty happy with life at the moment and I had a really great birthday.

I spent a fair day listening to music, watching a little bit of television, and surfing the net. I got a lot of really lovely messages from people far and wide through Facebook who wished me well, with one declaring she would listen to some ABBA today in recognition of my birthday. Another suggested a dose of “schlager” (Swedish pop) was just what the doctor would order. I didn’t need much convincing.
And then late this afternoon I met up with a group of friends (with Neil making a brief “guest appearance”) at the recently refurbished “Beresford Hotel”. You may recall, it’s the place with the really weird men’s toilets which certainly sparked a lot of interest among my friends. The hand dryers also sparked a lot of interest. I’m not sure if the developers had realised the most talked about part of their 30-40 million dollar renovation would be the bathroom.
But of course there’s a lot of interest in “The Beresford” as a re-opened “party” venue for Sydney’s inner-city crowd and the place was packed. “Oh my God, I’ve never seen so many poofs in one place before”, commented one friend as she looked at the courtyard area out the back.
Our group stayed inside where, and although it was quite noisy due to all the tiles, it was also air-conditioned. “They really should have spent some of the money on soundproofing” noted one friend, as we looked around at the fully-tiled walls. And while one friend noted it was “kinda like having a beer at ‘Museum Station’, another thought it was like sitting in one of those old-style public toilets.
When the noise got all a little too much we went looking for somewhere else to have a beer. “We’re like a bunch of eighteen-year-olds walking around a country town after closing hours”, I commented to a friend, as we wandered around the streets of Surry Hills and Darlinghurst. Upstairs at “The Cricketers Arms” was our salvation, though the contrast between the toilets there and those at “The Beresford” cannot be underestimated.
What was supposed to be a couple of quick beers late in the afternoon turned into dinner for four at one of my favourite little Thai restaurants “Thai Tha Poh”. And thus ended a really great, happy birthday.
It’s over 18 months since the last time I visited Hobart. Sue and I visited during November 2013, around Melbourne Cup time when the weather was glorious. Though I was anticipating some rather bleak weather this time around (rain and perhaps snow are forecast) the weather was absolutely delightful when I touched down this afternoon. Though expecting some cold wind from the Antarctic, it was actually really pleasant walking around the waterfront tonight, where I snapped these photographs. Let’s see what the week ahead holds, weather-wise.
“Are you alright there, mate?”, I was asked by one of the workers (presumably the supervisor) chopping down trees on nearby Cleveland Street earlier today. Along with about a dozen others, I was there simply waiting for a bus. He was obviously mindful of the potentially political and social impact of chopping down trees, these days. As it was a significant local event, I told him I took a couple of photographs, primarily for this blog, and because I like history-making events.
As previously blogged, the Surry Hils Shopping Village is currently undergoing a transformation. The smallish shopping centre is being transformed into something much larger, which will also include residential apartments.
“No worries”, I told him, adding that I was a long-term local.


I shared the photographs with friends via email, and on a Facebook group site of interested locals.. The group is primarily concerned about changes to the speed limit on Cleveland Street, to the ability to turn off Cleveland Street, and to the impact on neighbouring streets.
Comments varied from this…
This really gives me the sh*ts- I believe as part of their DA they’re required to replace trees on a 1 for 1 basis, but there’s no way a sapling can replace a 40 year old mature tree- I’m surprised the city didn’t push harder for them to be preserved (on that note, I believe the remaining trees on Baptist street are city owned so they should remain)
…to this.
Sacrificing a few gum trees is a small price for this overdue development.
By the time I got home from work, the trees were all gone.
Later, I reflected on this being the second time in the last few days when I was “in the right place at the right time”.
On Sunday night, I was sitting alone having a beer at Stonewall Hotel on Oxford Street. The rain was tumbling down, and I was staring blankly at the passing parade outside, enjoying my beer.
At about 8.30pm, I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I suddenly saw a naked man walk past. Yes, absolutely, completely naked. He was walking quite briskly, and so at first I thought my eyes were deceiving me, and maybe he was just wearing shorts. Though I could be wrong, he looked 60-something in age, and had one of those all-over tans.
But yeah, he was absolutely naked. I knew for sure when I saw the shocked reaction of someone standing outside having a cigarette. I jumped to my feet and rushed outside to take a photograph to document this other “history-making” event.
This was the best I could do.

Even though I’ve walked past it several hundred times (if not more), I didn’t know there WAS a Cleveland Lane, Surry Hills until earlier today.
Anxious to try out my new camera, and engaging in my ongoing photographic project – taking random photographs of various streets and laneways in Surry Hills – I set out to look for somewhere new. That’s when I decided to try a laneway I’ve walked past many times, but have never actually been down before.
And what a pleasant surprise it was. Cleveland Lane has greenery, terraces, some new apartment blocks, some street arts, and a very intriguing backyard to the hardware store on the corner. I love the hardware store. It’s one of those great “old fashioned” (pre-Bunnings) hardware stores. And behind it is a large forest-like backyard you might not otherwise expect to find in Surry Hills. It’s great. It gives Cleveland Lane an interesting level of depth that you find less and less with the so-called “gentrification” of Surry Hills.
It’s Thursday night and I’m feeling a bit “hairy”. I’ve been experimenting with a goatee this week, but although people have told me it looks good, I honestly don’t think it works for me, especially as there are a few grey hairs here and there. I’m also desperately in need of a hair cut before the weekend, so I’ll do my best to see if I can fit one in tomorrow or Saturday.
Work of course has been busy this week.
Howevever, it’s also een a reasonably social week. I caught up with Michaela for some “wine time”, as we reflected on our lives, our loves and our work and last night, I went along to ABBAMAIL drinks at the Huntsbury Hotel, welcoming American visitor, Ryan Cameron.
One of my favourite moments, a real magic moment, however, occured on Sunday when Kate and I went to see the Margaret Preston retrospective at the Art Gallery of NSW this afternoon. Margaret Preston is best known for her still life work of Australian native flowers. Although I understand the historical context in which she was painting, there was not a lot to my modern eye, aside from the occasional beautiful work. What really caught my eye was her later work, undertaken in the 1940s and 1950s, when she discovered Aboriginal art through her visits to Central Australia.
What also really surprised us both most was the similarity of some of her later work to that of Chris O’Doherty (aka Reg Mombassa), especially since Kate was at the National Art School at the same time as Reg. Although I had a camera on me, I thought it was wrong to even attempt to capture the moment when Reg, himself, viewing the exhibition, looked at the “Adam & Eve” works by Preston. The moment was an incredible one that I hope will remain in my memory for some time to come as “one of those magic moments”. So if you’re thinking Margaret Preston is just lovely flowers, think again. Although most of those attending the exhibition were, as Kate observed, “women of a particular age and a particular class”, there’s a lot more to Preston’s work than you might instantly imagine.
The big ABBA weekend is on this Saturday, which I’m looking forward to.
And then next Tuesday, it’s the Sydney Blog Meetup which, I’m sure, will also be good fun. Speaking of this blog, I’ve been laboring under the impression that no one ever reads it, but it seems they do. I received an email this week from Cellobella from Perth, who wrote, Wow in one day – 11 people came from your site to mine – so thanks for the link! I get a list of referring websites on my site through this website: http://www.truefresco.org/referrers.htm. Amazing. So if you read this and have never commented, please leave a comment this week, so I can find out how many people actually pay a visit. Or is it just the same person 11 times over?
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.
You didn’t say that the music from the record sounded better, or more alive or more natural. I wonder about the record purists. MP3 is good enough for me. I can only remember scratchy old records, clicks, pops, cleaning dust from the needle. We were at an art exhibition last week, and I had so forgotten the album cover of the Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers, which was featuring among the works on show from MoMA.
It was a $49.99 turntable, so it was never going to sound amazing, but it was surprisingly good, when you consider all the crackles. MP3 is good enough for me, too. Oh yes, that album cover. I was about 13 or 14 when it was released. OH MY!
Great photos as ever!
I bought Don a cheapo turntable for our first Xmas together (12 years ago! where did that time go?) and having long decluttered our respective collections, had a blast collecting albums from charity shops, markets and of course ebay. We sent it off to the charity shop when we moved here, but it was loads of fun while we had it.
I’m a total wanker, but I love the crackles and pops on records – and I’m very likely deluding myself, but I do think records sound a little warmer than CDs or mp3s. Cassettes on the other hand were (and are) the devil’s own work.
I visited a few op shops today looking for lps