Dear Geelong, You are my hometown. Even more, my home. I’ve left you and moved to other cities, cities where the roofs almost touch the sky and public transport is more abundant than here.
The saddest thing in art is when an artist is debilitated unfruitful by the ruling of an over-grown Inner Critic.
Should you only write when you’re inspired? Only write when you’re feeling positive? Should you only sing when you feel good? Only put hand to key when you are happy? Should you only paint when you want to? Dip brush into water when you feel a joy bursting out of you?
Two Fridays ago, it was raining really heavily. June the 8th it was.
Inside the little town (dramatised for nonsensical purposes) of Geelong, there lies many artists. Many painters, photographers, writers, musicians, illustrators, people who draw on both canvasses and serviettes: you get the picture.