Tag Archives: photography

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Where the Light Found Us

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You wear an elegant, off-the-shoulder sequined dress—sparkling, even in monochrome. In your left hand is a small bouquet of white roses. Your right hand rests gently on mine.

We are gazing at each other with affection, both smiling softly—it’s a candid and heartfelt demonstration of connection.

The setting is outdoors, beside Kapunda’s duck pond. In the background gum trees contemplate while the island’s soft, weeping branches add to the serene, almost dreamlike atmosphere. Late afternoon light filtering through bathes everything in tranquil reverence.

As kids, how many times had you and I walked, rode or driven here? It was always evocative but I dared not imagine it as a setting for such a photograph.

You exude warmth, elegance, and joy. Even in the black-and-white image, you are catching the autumnal light. Your hair is styled in soft waves, loosely pinned back with a natural, graceful finish that frames your face with an artful, effortless beauty. As you look up at me, beside you, you have a luminous smile and your expression is one of affection and contentment. Your face, as well-known to me as my own thoughts, is wholly familiar but somehow brand-new.

With this, my world is remade.

Your posture—relaxed, leaning slightly into our embrace—conveys ease and deep correlation to this instant. The sparkle of the dress, paired with the tenderness in your eyes, contributes an almost cinematic glow. There’s an attractive balance of glamour and surrender in your appearance, making the scene striking.

We had a timeless and profound minute—the photo’s composition accentuates love and natural beauty.

Your face is turned slightly toward me, and you’re looking with a warm, affectionate smile. There’s a calm confidence in your gaze—you look truly content and immersed. You are muse and memory, myth and moment.

For this moment, my life had been a faltering, often uncertain rehearsal.

On this day of orchestration and meticulous planning and staging it is an improvised tableau. A reverential moment at a childhood location. Late afternoon you and I drove past and were drawn to this poignant place. An intermezzo between the ceremony and the reception. It is a place that catches the magical narrative of our wedding.

And here, in this quiet place, is where the light found us.

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Meet Me at the Malls Balls: Life and Phones

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We talk about it every now and then. How, before mobile phones we’d make an arrangement with somebody and just have to stick to it.

‘Meet me at the Malls Balls at noon.’

Done.

‘See you tonight at the pub.’

Sorted.

Technology now allows us to break these agreements. Some might say mobile phones encourage rudeness. Or maybe they’ve made us more responsive to life’s twitchy demands. Is constant communication healthy? The social landscape has shifted.

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‘I’ll meet you at the finish line,’ I said to Claire.

‘About 9,’ she confirmed.

It was the morning of the City Bay Fun Run. Same as the year before, we’d a plan. Claire would be easy to spot in her pink jacket. I also liked to think that there’d be some mysterious, undeniable connection, a marital telepathy that would bring us together, despite the swarm of 25,000 runners and their innumerable hangers-on.

Exhausted, ruddy of cheek, and hands on hips, I was funnelled along Colley Terrace, peering about, trying to spot the pink jacket.

Where was she? Maybe over by the roundabout. No, she wasn’t.

Continuing to the race village in Wigley Reserve, I hunted among the marquees and food trucks and bibbed joggers. No luck. Back to the finish line. Same. No pink jacket.

What to do? That’s it! I’d borrow a stranger’s phone to ring Claire.

5AA had a MC at the music stage, and away he honked. He was pleased with himself and pleased with his voice. ‘Well done to all the participants. It’s been a great morning. Up soon we’ve got the Flaming Sambuccas who are going to play for you…’

I wondered if he might help me, but he barely drew breath, so I walked off.

A safety of blue-uniformed police officers (nice collective noun) stood at a display, chatting among themselves. Approaching an officer I said, ‘Hello there. Hoping you can help me…’

Now, we don’t usually need to remember phone numbers. Who knows anybody’s number, beyond their own? It’s a redundant skill. How would I call her?

On the friendly officer’s phone, I pressed the buttons. How had I memorised the number?

Claire’s the holder of the Dan Murphy’s membership and if I pop in late Saturday morning (as I sometimes like to do) the cashier will say, ‘Do you have a membership?’ to which I reply, ‘Yes, I do’ and then I recite Claire’s phone number.

I’ve now heard myself say this dozens of times; just like my Grade 5 class learnt by heart, ‘Mulga Bill’s Bicycle.’ There’s an everyday intimacy in it and it’s a little prayer. And what better place for this oration than Dan’s?

Shortly after, heading towards me I saw a pink jacket.

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Later Sunday I was at Adelaide Oval, while Claire attended day two of a conference at the convention centre on North Terrace.

The Tigers and Dogs were in a close one and I moved restlessly around the ground trying inanely to escape the foghorn chant. ‘U Dogs! U Dogs!’

Just after half time Claire called to say that her phone was about to die. What to do? We’d planned to head home together. Ordinarily, we’d sort this much later.

So, again we made an arrangement. Two hours before hand! Then followed two hours during which we had no contact! I watched the footy and Claire did conference things at the conference.

It seemed pioneering and almost dangerous. But there we were in this psychological uncertainty, both adrift, both untethered. Miraculously, we just went about our afternoons. It was thrilling and magical.

We’d decided on a time and place to meet and after a gap of a few hours, we were going to have to honour it. Just like it was 1987 and we were meeting at the Malls Balls before going to Brashs to buy an Uncanny X-Men CD.

Leaving the footy a few minutes early, with Glenelg off to the grand final, I made my way over the sunlit footbridge, up through the majestic railway station, across North Terrace and into the Strathmore Hotel.

Just as planned, Claire was there. Sitting on a stool, smiling, with an espresso martini in hand.

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Three Moments of Beauty

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Trundling along the murky esplanade, dawn was hiding behind the Adelaide Hills. To the west the ocean lay as if it too were asleep making me the sole speck of animated life. Some mornings are crisp and the world’s in sharp, razored focus. Today, the sky was fuddled and uncertain.

A distant, descending plane hung silently; its light frozen against the darkness like a lamp. Looming over the seascape, the burning, off-white moon threatened as if in an old horror film. The ghostly glow illuminated my plodding path and connected night and day.

Considering nature’s ravenous fire and the minuteness of human life, I kept running.

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As is my happy habit I’m eternally re-reading The Sportswriter series and am on the final novel. The prose is often startling in its magnificence and makes me inwardly gasp. I forever find literary diamonds in these and Be Mine offers this scene at Mt. Rushmore:

Just now, as if propelled from the mountain itself, a helicopter- tiny- materializes down out of the marbled heavens, high-tailed and insect-like, and for all of us along the viewing wall, soundless. It passes on string through the grainy air, tilts to starboard, seems for a moment to pause, then slides away, changes course and makes a dreamlike pass close to the presidential physiognomies, comes about again, tail swaying, makes a pass the other way, so that whoever’s inside get the fullest view up close.

The author, Richard Ford, has a rare sensitivity to the splendor and joy of words.

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Originating in Athens, Georgia, REM was primarily a guitar band, and courtesy of singer Michael Stipe’s lyrics, they presented the world opaquely. Their jangling sounds were, for example, sometimes accompanied by a mandolin and sometimes by arena-sized grungy bombast, but REM’s most gorgeous track is one of which acclaimed keyboardists, Elton John and Ben Folds would be proud. ‘Nightswimming’ is a piano delight, penned and played by the band’s polymath bassist, Mike Mills. The circular motif is at once fragile but also driven, serenely.

It features on the album Automatic for the People, a meditative, melancholy record that gave opportune shape and meaning to my West Coast life when it was released three decades’ back. ‘Nightswimming’ is a prayer to nostalgia, friendship, and summer’s end. Spending time with the song this week, its embrace is that of a dear, old companion.

Nightswimming, remembering that night
September’s coming soon
I’m pining for the moon
And what if there were two
Side by side in orbit around the fairest sun?

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We’re Submerged in Sunlight

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After the insistent, whipping squalls and sullen clouds, our fretful phone calls and the unending wiping down of the rows of plastic chairs, we’re submerged in sunlight. It streams through our hair as we amble back down the aisle beneath the soft serenity.

I love how we’re laughing at someone off-stage. It’s a mystery starring an unseen, comedic protagonist. Is Lukey saying something brash? Or is JB making a quirky quip? Can you remember? Will we ever know?

I’m in the middle of a guffaw and you’re on the edge of chuckling. It’s an affirmation, the reassurance of our world’s axis spinning as it should, a sunny instant in an impeccable day.

Kapunda High, our joyous, kindly school, is in the background watching approvingly, nodding in wise appreciation having stood witness to our teenage lives and then from both near and afar, our adulthood. A mere twelve months after this special occasion the beloved building, Eringa, was devoured by those diabolical flames and we impatiently await its reconstruction.

See the fluttering flower petals caught delicately in your curled, tumbling hair, as it cascades onto your dress: impossibly pretty, bold and deeply considered, the turquoise an exquisite, arresting hue.

With hands clasped, we’re hitched triumphantly, at ease and brightly expectant, stepping into our afternoon.

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Max. fourteen.

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Happy 14th Birthday!

Smiling, I regularly think of the note you’d leave on the fridge whiteboard – a small yet significant gesture that speaks volumes about your character. Your ability to infuse humour into everyday life, coupled with your thoughtful nature is always a delight! The simple declaration became more than just a message; it’s a testament to your wit, your creativity, and your unique perspective on the world.

the cordial is pre-made

Watching you blossom in drama has been a joy. I like you telling me about the acting challenges you’ve been set and how these are progressing. I’m excited to see you on stage later this year, playing a character and entertaining the audience. Keep embracing those opportunities to express yourself and develop your skills.

And let’s not forget about basketball – a sport in which you truly have ability. Your talent on the court is undeniable, but what sets you apart is your understanding of teamwork and being able to bring others into the game. Of special interest is your ability to navigate both victories and defeats with grace. Remember, it’s not just about winning games; it’s about the lessons learned along the way, the friendships forged, and the growth that comes with every season.

Regrets are mostly not about the things we’ve done but rather the things we didn’t do. Given this, I believe you should keep playing basketball. You can do it!

In June I’m keen for you, Alex, and I to explore Bali together. Investigating new cultures, tasting exotic foods, and experiencing different landscapes will broaden our horizons. I hope during your life you’ll keep seeking out those adventures for it’s through travel that we learn about the world and ourselves.

Your imagination is limitless, and your ability to craft immortal expressions never fails to make me laugh. Hold onto that youthful spirit and sense of wonder, for it’s what makes you extraordinary. Lastly, I want to reminisce about that moment in a Singaporean swimming pool when you made that legendary declaration to me that you were

cooler than a robot, older than the wolf

As you embark on another year of new experiences, new challenges, and new triumphs, always remember how loved and cherished you are. You have a heart of gold, a mind full of dreams, and a spirit that’s destined to soar. Happy birthday, dearest Max.

Love Dad