Museum of old and new

Last Wednesday, Farmdoc and I visited the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA), Hobart's controversial new art gallery designed by Nonda Katsalidis. I've been dying to go but this was our first visit to Hobart since the museum opened in January.

The whole visit is an experience, from having to walk across a tennis court to get to the entrance, and being greeted at the door and herded into a group to have the O thingies (more about those in a minute) explained and demonstrated.

The building is reputed to have cost over $100 million and is owned by David Walsh, who apparently earned his vast fortune from gambling. Well, better him than the casinos and their rapacious owners, I say.

From the entrance we headed down a staircase  that encircles a glass elevator and plunges down into sandstone cliff. At the bottom of the steps we were met by a bar and a long line of seating that looks like it belongs in someone's formal sitting room. Bewildering, to say the least.

The art. Where to start? There's so much, and it's arranged in apparently no order, all chosen and arranged by Walsh according to his taste and whim. There are also no signs on the walls, not even the names of the work or the artists. You press a button on the O - an mp3 player you are now wearing around your neck - and up come pictures of the art nearest you, complete with details. Pressing further buttons lets you read reviews or explanations of the piece and sometimes there's audio, which you play through head phones. This can be interviews with the artist or just a piece of music to look at the art by.

When I tried to decide what the highlights had been, it felt impossible - it's all highlights. Sydney Nolan's vast Snake; ancient Egyptian tombs; Chris Ofili's controversial The Holy Virgin Mary; work by Damien Hirst, Brett Whitely, Juan Davila, Marina Abrimovic. How do I remember all this? I don't. When I got home I received an email setting out all the works I'd seen, as recorded by my O, and a list of all that I'd missed.

Farmdoc and I spent four hours there, including 30 minutes for coffee and a vegie baguette in the cafe on the top (ground floor) level. It was a little disconcerting to eat the same food we'd seen fed to 'Cloaca' earlier.

'Cloaca' is a room-sized digestive machine by Dutch artist, Wim Delvoye. It turns food that is fed in at one end through a garbage disposal into faeces that are excreted at the other end via a series of large glass containers. I think it has to do with demonstrating the pointlessness of life. We watched the thing being 'fed' at 11.00 but we didn't return at 2.00 for the defecation. I've seen enough poo in my day. I think I'd be more impressed by a machine that can clean it up. Still it is a spectacle.

And that seems to be the point - spectacle. It's art as spectacle, like a rich kid's toy box - the excess leaves you dazzled and dazed. It's Australia's largest private museum and it's stuffed full.

We emerged into the daylight, dizzy with all we'd seen and felt. Amazed, entertained and spat out.

There's no committee that chooses the art - it's all David Walsh's taste - and I felt very aware of that. The individual pieces don't actually have much opportunity to shock or inform. There's too much.

Overall I think it's amazing. The gallery is set in the grounds of the Moorilla Winery on the bank of the Derwent, with lovely views across the river. You can stay there too: there are four quite stunning one- and two-bedroom pavilions. There's an upmarket restaurant and a wine bar as well as the cafe, and beanbags are spread out over a large lawn area, so you can relax with a glass of wine in the fresh air and recover  from your subterranean adventure.

Entry to MONA is free - at least for the moment. There's talk of charging in the future though.

For all my misgivings I'd definitely recommend a visit or three. Hobart's such a pretty city and you can  take a ferry to the gallery, enjoy a day there, and then eat at one of the many restaurants around town in the evening.

Farmdoc and I will be back in Hobart in a couple of months and I'll definitely be returning to MONA. You shouldn't miss it.

The Race

Brett Hoffmann's not very popular around here at the moment. Or rather he is with me but not with Farmdoc.

I just got hold of Brett's new book - his second thriller involving Australian Wall Street analysts, Stella Sartori and Jack Rogers - and I can't put it down.

'Are you ready?' 

'Mm...Coming...'

'Did you hear what I said?'   

'Mm...Stella...'

‘We’re running late.' 

'Mm...Jack...'

'Can you put that book down for a minute!' 

'Mm...coming...'

Well, you get the picture.

About two years ago, when Brett's first book, The Contract, came out, I worried that I wouldn't like it and wouldn't know how to tell him. I was so relieved that I loved it. This time I didn't worry. I knew this novel would be at least as good as its predecessor. I think it's better. 

I was engaged from the first scene, lulled into a state of mellow enchantment by the prose. A postcard photographer is hovering in a helicopter above Nice. 'It wasn't a hot day but the sun had the freedom of the sky...' How lovely, I thought, and then wham! an explosion rocks both me and the book and I was hooked.

That explosion destroys a private jet carrying the heir to the Aretino empire, and in the aftermath of that and other disasters to befall the family and its businesses, the Aretino's bank calls on Stella and Jack to investigate why the family is losing money.

The Aretinos are an ancient Italian family with an ongoing link to the Order of St John and an involvement in Formula One racing.  This is a case that calls for skill and discretion, which makes it ideal for Jack and Stella’s new consultancy. But a series of murders shakes everybody, and Jack and Stella find themselves under surveillance, their own lives now at risk. There is obviously a dangerous conspiracy behind all these events, but they have no idea who’s responsible.

Jack and Stella’s fight to save themselves and discover the truth is told in spare prose, with just the right details chosen to set the scene and portray the characters. The settings and background are all obviously meticulously researched. We are whisked back in time to ancient Malta and then forward to the Grand Prix at Monza.  The book’s not called The Race for nothing!

The story is intricately plotted, with seemingly loose threads picked up and woven back into the story in ways that I for one didn’t see coming.

I could feel my heart thudding as I sped along narrow mountain roads or battled alongside Stella (not that she needed my help!). The ending was unpredictable enough to surprise me but at the same time it felt very satisfying. I was sorry when the book finished but now I’m left wondering about Jack and Stella’s relationship and what they'll get up to next. I know Brett's hard at work on the next novel in the series: The Cure.

The Race would make a great Father day gift. And if you buy it at Dymocks they have a buy The Race get The Contract free. How could you resist?

‘Ok, Farmdoc, what was it you wanted? Farmdoc? Farmdoc?...Oh bloody Brett Hoffmann and that infernal book! Can’t you read it later?’

No Sting in this Tale

I've been dying to make stinging nettle pesto ever since I came across it in wholelarderlove.com, which is the blog of a photographer friend of Number One Daughter's.

To begin with I pulled on some gloves and strolled a little way up the drive, where I picked a colander full of nettles, trying for the youngest and tenderest looking.

Back in the kitchen, I boiled the nettles for a couple of minutes, just long enough to wilt them and get rid of their sting. Then I drained them (keeping the water for use in soup) and threw them, stems and all, into the food processor, together with a clove of garlic, a big handful of pine nuts, some grated parmesan, the juice and grated rind of half a lemon, and salt and pepper to taste. Finally I trickled in enough olive oil to blend.

It turned out the most amazing shade of green. It tasted wonderful too, very fresh and citrusy.

I thought it would be delicious on pasta but Farmdoc had baked a loaf of bread so we just spread it thickly on large slices of that and it went in a flash. Next time I'll try to save enough for pasta.

Celebration at Cradle

Well, the 12-week cardiac rehab period is officially over this weekend. Farmdoc now graduates back into his own life - or rather into the new life that has been granted to him by a team of doctors and the everyday miracles of modern medicine.

Physically, Farmdoc's almost back to normal, but emotionally...looks like that'll take a little longer.

We talk about it all the time but I'm not sure we're any closer to truly grasping what happened - how bad his heart disease was, how close to dying he was really, and what was done to him to repair it.

And then there's the whole idea of a fresh start. I wonder if we'll ever take that for granted.

Farmdoc the scientist is obsessed with the physical aspects of this new life. He's bought a pedometer which he wears all the time, and every day he walks for at least 30 minutes. Even today in the rain we strode out in rain gear, leaving behind a warm, cosy house. And he watches his diet obsessively.

I, on the other hand, am obsessed with what it means to have a second chance. I look at the long scar on Farmdoc's chest and it seems so strange. I don't associate it with operating theatres. It seems more symbolic to me somehow, a sign that something within has changed.

This week we took Daughter Number Four to stay at Cradle Mountain for a few days. The trip was a celebration and a thanksgiving, a time to immerse ourselves in Mother Nature's offerings at their most sacred and sublime.

It feels too soon to write properly about this experience and what it means, but I do know it feels to me that there's something holy about the responsibility of making a new life count. Cradle Mountain seemed the right place to set out on this undertaking.

Six and Six

Eight weeks down, four to go.

On the evening before Farmdoc's bypass surgery, the surgeon sat on the end of the hospital bed while he told us about the twelve-week recovery process.

During the first six weeks, progress would be measured week by week. There'd be bad days and slightly better days, but overall there'd be forward movement. Farmdoc should expect disturbances in every area of his life, including concentration and even taste and smell. At the end of this time, he'd be allowed to drive again.

In the second six weeks, progress should speed up and be measurable on a daily basis. And at the end of twelve weeks he should be able to do whatever he wanted.

This was when we could have made the piano joke. Do you know it? The patient asks the surgeon if he'll be able to play the piano after the operation. 'Of course you'll be able to play the piano!' says the surgeon. 'That's amazing,' the patient replies. 'I couldn't before.'

My guess is that the surgeon's heard that one plenty of times, so it's just as well we didn't bore him with it again. At this point we didn't understand what lay ahead, but we were grateful that he was so generous with his time. We would cling to his words through those difficult first six weeks ahead.

Most weeks it didn't feel that there was any progress at all. Farmdoc would drag himself up and down the corridor outside our apartment a couple of times and then fall into bed, exhausted. It was wet and cold, so we walked around and around the shopping complex at Melbourne Central. We joked that the security people must have wondered what we were up to, never entering any of the shops, but religiously circumnavigating every floor before taking the escalator to the next one.

Farmdoc couldn't read. His eyesight was blurry and he couldn't concentrate. He slept for hours. He was even fussier than normal about what he ate. His voice was husky, he had a persistent cough, he was often short of breath. It was impossible to imagine he'd ever be normal again - let alone play the piano, which he couldn't do before!

But then, after six weeks, we left Melbourne and returned to Onemilebridge, and sure enough, progress sped up. After two weeks here he's striding up hills as well as he ever did. He can sleep on his side without discomfort, and those scars that will forever tell the tale of his surgery are already fading.

The surgeon's advice was that if it hurts while he's doing something, then he should stop, but if it 's painless while he does it but hurts afterwards, then that's just a sign of his muscles being brought back into action, and he should continue. He's doing most normal farm chores, and in about a month he'll begin to see patients again. I think at the end of this six-week period he'll be as fit as he ever was.

When I was looking for an illustration for this post, all the photos I could find show a hollow-eyed and gaunt Farmdoc, looking like the survivor of some harrowing ordeal. I guess that's what he was, but I couldn't bear to look at those, so I have chosen a picture of the six of us, four weeks after the operation, celebrating Farmdoc's birthday - and his new life. May it be long and happy.

A Week In The Life Of

It's been a long, long seven days. This time last week we were trying to make time go as quickly as possible. While Farmdoc was in the operating theatre the rest of us were trying not to think about all the things that could go wrong.

On Monday he had a quadruple bypass and woke in Intensive Care at four am on Tuesday with no idea what day it was. He wiggled his fingers and toes and tested his brain. Yep, all intact. He'd survived.

On Wednesday he was transferred to the ward, feeling fine. We called it Walking Wednesday because he walked for the first time. But then his heart, swollen from all that had happened, went into fibrillation, pounding so fast and so hard that the bed shook. He was returned to the ICU.

He came back to the ward on Friday morning, the fibrillation somewhat controlled, but he was confined to bed. He was white with exhaustion and too sick to eat.

Then yesterday, Sunday, he made his physio debut - out of bed and walking around the ward. Afterwards, he was flattened from the exertion and still had the occasional fibrillation episode, but it was a start. Today was even better. He had his first shower in a week and the last of his tubes was removed.

It's been a weird week. I haven't been able to concentrate on anything. I wanted to record this experience but I couldn't write. When I had a chainsaw accident I sat up in bed and wrote down every awful moment, every variation of pain. When my mother slipped into dementia I recorded her loss, minute by heart breaking minute. I can always write. Not this time.

And it's funny too how when something big happens you fixate on the small things. Last Monday, when Farmdoc woke from his operation his wedding ring was missing. No one seemed to know where it was. I was distraught.

I knew it didn't matter. He could go without a ring or we could buy a new one. Just as long as he was all right. But I couldn't shake the feeing that it was important.

 We asked about it almost every day but it didn't appear. Then this morning he told someone that because his operation was on a Monday today might be a good day to check again on the operating theatre floor; perhaps some of the same team would be on duty.

And down it came. In an envelope labelled with his details. It's foolish of me I know, to care so much, but it seemed catastrophic that it was lost and it seems like a good omen that it was found.

I was 19 and Farmdoc was just 20 when I slipped that ring on his finger, 43 years ago, though he wasn't Farmdoc then - just a skinny medical student. And he hadn't planned to wear a ring. Neither of our fathers was a jewellery wearer. But one day we came across my mother's late parents' wedding rings in a box of trinkets and we decided we'd have them resized for us. So these gold rings have signified love and commitment in our family for a long time.

I was emptying his bottle of pee into the toilet the other day and the words 'for better or for worse' sprang into my mind. Is this what they mean? I wondered. But it didn't feel so terrible to me. Not nearly as bad as seeing him sunk in misery, too exhausted to care. That was truly the worst.

What a week. I'm glad it's over. The surgeon told us the recovery is in two stages and that the first six weeks will be the hardest. I guess that's one down and five to go.

A Change of Heart

I had planned to follow up my last post with one about life in the very slow lane. Autumn is so mellow and lovely in Mole Creek. But then our lives took a strange turn. Strange for us though at the same time very ordinary. Banal even.

For many months now Farmdoc has been complaining of intermittent indigestion when he exercised. A kind of dull ache behind the breast bone. He has a family history of heart disease - his father died at 56 - so his first thought was that now it was coming to get him. I knew better. I was positive it was his hiatus hernia. So when he had a stress test I wasn't even concerned, though I knew the thought of it was keeping him up at night.

In the end Farmdoc was right. He has the disease. And the angiogram he had ten days ago showed that although on the outside he is lean, fit and healthy, on the inside he has the arteries of an obese junk food eater. His arteries are so blocked that he needs coronary bypass surgery.

Now we are back in Melbourne with the surgery scheduled for Monday. I'll spend the afternoon of Mother's Day by his side as he's admitted to hospital. The next day he'll be on his own. Apart that is from a team of highly trained and experienced professionals who will take him apart, replumb him and then put him back together again.

The hardest part will be on Tuesday morning when he wakes to his newly broken body and must begin the process of healing and rehabilitation. This is especially apt for him because rehabilitation is one of his special interests. He used to say its aim was to turn patients back into people. Now he will have to do the same for himself.

His family and friends will be there for him every step of the way. We wish you well, Farmdoc.