I come from a sparkling Sydney foreshore, high on blood orange gelato and the memory of my little girls radiant dance in a botanical gardens pavement puddle. Thankful that moments into the Annie Liebovitz exhibition she fell asleep and I was able to immerse myself fully in the ambient light and potent intimacy of the still impressions, and vignettes. Yet of all the bold, powerful and celebrated portraits I come home moved by a tiny image nestled near the bottom of the pin up boards replicating the artists studio. Compelling in it’s simplicity. A black and white kitchen, with a framed drawing by Leibovitz’s young daughter hanging on a background wall. I listened for a long time. Heard scraps of domestic conversations and the imagined stories that inevitably fill spaces inhabited by children. Pondered our many hidden makeshift galleries and the bedroom archives of our offsprings renderings. The voices of our children.
Tonight I am struck by the significance of the fledgling artist living in our suburban homes. Small hands unhindered by knowing. The fridge is gallery enough. Archetypal stories told with new characters in drips and shapes. Birds with triangular bellies and fears unveiled in superheroes and fallen thrones. Mysteries celebrated and revered. Life inside the secrets. Drawn in.
Among us are the voices we long to hear, unbridled in child rapture. We are listening.