Melbourne Indigenous Arts Festival Numba Wan

The first ever Melbourne Indigenous Arts Festival kicks off on Friday 10 February 2012. Maybe this will inspire me to revive this blog. Carolyn Webb's article Roach's musical road to recovery appeared today in the lead up to the festival.  Here are my festival picks that I may or may not review here soon:

• STRAKE@ - An exhibition by Arthur A Cole
• James Henry's composition for the Giant Theremin
• Arika Waulu's projections at Signal
• Troy Casser-Daley
• Radical Son
• Bart Willoughby
• Skin
• Patrick Mau
• Lady Lash
• Liz Cavanagh
• Corranderrk - We Will Show The Country
• Koorioboree
• Indigenous Laneway Commissions
• Incident at Swanston Street
• Indigenous Writers' Talks
• Indigenous Visual Artists' Talks
• Mad Bastards
• The Tall Man
• Toomelah

Which is pretty much the entire program, but no one said I couldn't pick as much as I like. Just goes to show how much talent there is out there.

Lisa Bellear’s 50th Birthday

Today we celebrated the 50^th birthday of warrior woman and mighty poet, Lisa Bellear. Melbourne friends and family gathered for a bittersweet celebration of our friend, cousin, role model, mentor, advocate and artist.  Bitter because Lisa passed away without warning almost five years ago at age 45. Sweet because the occasion called for the telling of stories, the looking at photographs, the eating of favourite foods, the recitation of poetry and the playing of spoons.

The guest list was compiled from a quick whip around of friends from her hundred walks of life – poets, artists, activists, survivors, warriors, dancers, educators, writers, broadcasters, the babysat and the mentored.  A last minute do, but one that had been brewing amongst a group of us who think almost daily about Lisa. A graveside party was contemplated, but the distance was prohibitive. What then?  A do would certainly do.

All the elements were there. The tender lamb chops, bottles of Queen Adelaide, Dionne Warwick belting out Walk on By, poetry and poets, photographers and photographs. Even the barbecue played its part, erupting into a flaming urban campfire – Lisa’s pyromaniac spirit was saluted.

At first I wanted to read Maya Angelou’s tribute to Michael Jackson, We Had Him to kick off the poetry. Maya is a national treasure for good reason. A poet who can capture a mood, the feeling of a time and pot it. Just like Lisa. A poem which tells the loss of a star gone too soon, but lingers on the brilliance left behind.  I will post the full poem in a separate post in case the link above ever expires.

But as we started the readings, her book, Dreaming in Urban Areas (UQP, 1996) fell open at Tanna Man, and so we started with this. A fine beginning, one of connection, roots and a need for justice.

Tanna Man

(for Faith Bandler)

Cuts cane

As white men

With long slim noses

And whips

Curse him.

Faster “nigger” harder.

Each piece of cane he cuts

represents and islander from home,

kidnapped, black birded, stolen.

Mango trees echo vision,

Freedom, isn’t meant to be

a luxury for idle white boss men

To contemplate and dwell.

June 1993

The poem was met with cries of ‘Strong ay!’ and the crowd rallied to the call for more readings.

Brunswick poets read more poems and sister Kylie read  A Suitcase Full of Mould, one of Lisa’s most poignant, prophetic and painful.

Technology failed us on a few fronts as we tried to show a slideshow of photos of Lisa but we saw footage of her comedy routine from Natives Getting Funny!, and her cameos in Destiny Deacon’s video work.

But suddenly one of her writing buddies, Christine Gillespie, popped on screen and read one of the favourite poems, changing the words slightly from Koori woman, to Warrior Woman:

Chops ‘n’ Things

(for Eva Johnson)

I can’t wait to curl around

a lemon scented tree

light a fire and

watch it burn down to

the embers as the sun

floats away, far away

our ancestors are

yarning and laughing

at this Koori woman

and through the

flames, the embers

and the burnt chops

and charcoaled

potatoes wrapped in foil

they’re saying, tidda girl

you’re okay.

keep on dreaming

keep on believing

September 1991

The night ended in hilarity including ukulele renditions,  dancing and spoon playing but one of the highlights was definitely Ardy Tibby’s poem, written a year after Lisa’s death.

LISA

Quickly, and often late, she'd arrive

In a flurry of curls

With much clanking of equipment and

rummaging about

in an ever enlarging carry bag

Would plunk down in a heap with a glass

of plonk

To be reclaimed later.

Laughing and running about to photograph

everyone and everything.

Then a lift home,

Gone with a smile and a wave.

Then

GONE

June 2006

But between the dancing and drinking, uncontrollable fire and comedy routines, the fine dining and the fine words, it was like Lisa was there, and the spirits and ancestors were yarning and laughing too.

On Turning Seventeen (in collaboration with mentioned Teenager)

This week the usual day to day objects - homework, moulding apricots, to-do notes and the bits and pieces one* never knows what to do with, were removed and the table was scrubbed and made ready for the traditional birthday table. A collection of missives from various Elder stateswomen were at the centre. Letters and cards, wise words and bon mots from Great Aunts, Grandmothers and others brought a sense of worth and belonging to the occasion. The neat, delicate and florid handwritings, next to stamps of Kookaburras and ‘Par Avion’, the carefully chosen words, that confirm connection and celebrate, remind us of our strong culture and history across continents.

These sat next to the heady scented roses from the yard, picked fresh that morning, which sat quietly next to a contented (and yummy) looking chocolate rabbit and other gifts.  The table was completed with a pot of tea and fresh pancakes served with strawberries and cream, lemon and maple syrup. Disconcertingly a birthday card from the Electoral Commission reminded The Teenager to enrol to vote. They’ve got her number already! Another rite of passage, or an alarming intrusion by Big Brother?

The rituals continued. The Numbawan Aunt rang and streamed Stevie Wonder’s Happy Birthday down the phone and we danced around until the dining room was Hotter than July. I recounted the oft** repeated story of how The Teenager was considerate enough to be born in time for me to watch Wheel of Fortune(bring back Burgo).

Technically The Teenager turn 17 at 5.07pm. The thought was relished. There was enough time to watch Sixteen Candles after school one last time before turning 17.  Pancakes were scoffed, a few were wrapped up for lunch and we headed out the door. (Later I was told pancakes, three hash brown and chocolate cakes were eaten for lunch. Not bad birthday fare, really).

Seventeen is so much cooler than sixteen. Sixteen has too many connotations of bad songs written by wrong old men.  Seventeen is not as hung up as sixteen. Sixteen has so much riding on it. So much pressure to be this or that. Sweet. Or not. While there are still dodgy songs Seventeen is more about settling in to your own skin. Seventeen rolls nicely off the tongue, even in German (Siebzehn). Sinuous but not serpentine. It has its own sense of self.

Not to say it’s been a straightforward birth and everything is settled. All this week tongues have raged and minds have clashed. Angst about who should do what and how and when. The pushing and pulling from dependence to independence. Looks quite neat on the page, but off its a ragged-edged wound that is constantly worried and requiring attention.

An Italian restaurant was chosen to reflect The Teenager’s wish for maturity (not the regular, with the favourite spaghetti de la Nonna that has served so well until now) and comes replete with an appearance by Mick Gatto much to the titillation of a self confessed ‘crime-slag’ Aunt. Goodbye childhood. A satiating meal of figs wrapped with prosciutto and gorgonzola, Coniglio, Scallopini, and Prosecco. Followed by an awesomely gooey chocolate cake baked fresh by another Aunt and covered with raspberries and served with ice-cream. Yum.

The birthday festival is rounded off by a chocolate tour of Melbourne’s laneways, graced with another celebrity spotting, some dude from Think You Can Dance. The Teenager, walks on, unfazed. Much the same reaction as elicited by Mick Gatto. See? Seventeen is cool.

Chocolate tour evidence

Birthday festival closing thoughts on being 17 from the source: ‘Whatever. It’s just one step closer to the grave’.  Not original, but much cooler than “OMG I’m totes in love with Edward Cullen!”***

* DISCLAIMER: The Teenager’s grammar, not mine

**DISCLAIMER: My choice of word, not The Teenager’s

***DISCLAIMER: This statement did not and never will pass the lips of The Teenager in question