The Fine Art Of Plastering

I spent my summer holidays kneeled on a tarpaulin, wearing glue-coated rubber gloves and a mask. All the while I could hear my family splashing in the pool. But I persisted with the thin pages and enough runny glue to give anyone a bit of a high, closed in their bedroom.

This was artistic transformation. An art from of decorating created by pasting cut-outs on an object and coating it in layers of lacquer or clear varnish. Decoupage is one of the easiest and oldest forms of decorating. It is thought to originate from the Chinese and Japanese, who in the 12^th century were using paper cut-outs to embellish windows, lanterns and other objects. In the 17^th century, oriental lacquered furniture became very popular in Europe and the fashion began.

I’m avid reader, I love my books and I was so bored with my plain white bookshelf I couldn’t handle it anymore. So why not take a chance, use a bit of spare change and cover it with the pages of my favourite book, The Hobbit? After spending $14 on two secondhand copies of the novel, and $25 on a litre of glue, I buckled down to work. Before long Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf were very present in my bedroom.

The process:

1. Cover your work area with painting sheets, tarpaulin or newspaper.

2. Chose an area of the object to start with and brush on a thin layer of glue.

3. Press the cut out onto the object, make sure there are no bubbles and it is securely glued down.

4. Tessellate the cut outs, ensuring there are no bare sections and cover the entire object.

5. Brush a layer of glue over the top and let it dry.

6. Apply another four or five layers of glue, waiting for it to completely dry between each layer.

Decoupage is terribly easy and because there are no rules, the possibilities are endless. You could have your own original piece of furniture within a few days of hard work.

And who needs to wait for the movie when the words of Tolkien can be shared as art?

Blow

You kiss the air

and push it my way

It doesn’t fly

or float

or flutter

With heads

hung out windows

the blurred trees

and mustard clay

sting eyes

Plucking and sucking

My eyes have cotton mouth

Your mouth has tears

Sat Night

High heels

lay limp

thrown

around the room.

Glitter eyes

and fingers

stumble to the

smooth faces

and aftershave.

Pulse

on the balcony.

Weed

in the bathroom.

Heineken

on the couch.

Lindauer

in the kitchen.

Scarlet tights

are dancing

in the lounge,

on the table

and outside.

The music

stops

for seconds

while iPods

change the mood.

Strobe light smiles

and bubbling giggles

turn into

deck chairs

splashing

in the pool,

wine bottles

smashing

through the window

and

vomit.

Greenwood Medical Centre

Phoebe stood naked in the shower. She looked down at her pale, speckled body and grimaced. She watched the drops splatter onto the glass. She pretended she was still a child, curled up in the backseat watching the raindrops race each other on the window. The water panged cold against her shoulders. Phoebe gasped and spun around to turn the tap.

~

Mark sat on the couch. He stared bleakly at the television and ripped open the Up & Go straw and slurped. The cool Choc Ice façade dripped over his swollen tonsils and slid into the deep. He swallowed. A groan burst from his lips. He forced himself through the last of his drink and left the carton scrunched on the coffee-table.

His mother’s slippers padded down the stairs.

“How are you feeling this morning, honey?”

He turned from the couch and looked at her. He shook his head and mumbled, “Pretty crap really. Shit, I can hardly breathe, Mum”. Rather than comment on his language she left Mark with The Simpsons re-runs and searched for the phone.

She pushed in the numbers off the fridge-magnet and waited for the dial-tone.

~

She sat in the green waiting room. She crossed her legs and flipped the pages of an empty magazine. A mother sat in the corner with her coffee in hand and baby at her feet, playing with a big, red, toy car. The room smelt of disinfectant and cheap air-freshener. Phoebe tried to ignore what it was masking. She reached the last page of the magazine. Total rubbish. She hadn’t read a word.

The baby stopped playing with the car. He looked up and stared at Phoebe with round, blue eyes, like the buttons on his cardigan. Phoebe smiled and poked out her tongue. He giggled at her and went back to the tattered toy box.

A door opened and closed down the hallway and Phoebe heard mumbled voices. Footsteps led to the waiting room. He loomed over the small chairs, “We’re ready for you, Miss Brown.”

~

They arrived at the doctor’s and made a beeline for reception. The greying woman tapped his name into the system and signalled to the worn chairs in the corner. His mother had just chosen a magazine to skim through when the white coat swung down the hallway.

“Mark is it? Follow me to my office”.

His mother was up in seconds. She skipped behind the doctor to keep up. She interjected her concerns every few moments as the woman tried to read the notes. They passed the waiting room. Mark caught a glimpse. There was a girl, staring at a baby playing on the floor. She looked ready to cry.

~

At the receptionist’s desk she rested on her elbows and waited while the small, pink, woman chattered into her headset about flu injections and insurance prices.

“Sorry, darling. So, no cost, but would you like to schedule your next appointment?”

She shook her head and turned to walk through the automatic doors. It was raining outside. She paused to rummage through her shoulder bag for an umbrella. Her hands came out empty. She flicked her hood up over her ponytail and left the building.

Her khaki canvas bag bounced off her hip as she walked. She wasn’t plugged in as usual, and instead, listened to the rough hems of her jeans and sneakers splash into the dirty puddles. Cars whooshed past and Phoebe wondered if any of the drivers noticed her. She was the only pedestrian, bundled in the wind. She kept her head up and walked into the rain.

~

Mark sat rigid on the cold leather. It was like a dentist’s chair. The specialist pushed a lever and Mark flung back. A bright lamp shone above his face. Without a word the woman pried open his mouth and stashed cotton balls around the edges to keep it ajar. Mark watched her pull the gloves over her fingers and let go so they slapped back tight to her hands. Then she reached for the syringe. The needle was longer than Mark’s index finger. He scrunched his eyes closed and tried not to think about the horror movies he loved where sick and twisted doctors sowed people together, creating a Human Centipede.

Mark felt the cool metal pierce his gum and then the anaesthetic spreading through his mouth. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the woman clinking her weapons on the tray next to him.

~

She stopped next to a jagged rock wall. She rested against it and pulled herself up to sit on the uncomfortable edges. Phoebe sat across from the high-school. She could see through the windows of one of the classrooms. The teacher stood at the front of the class, animated. Phoebe watched him opening and closing his mouth. She laughed to herself. He looked like a goldfish.

Her eyes wandered away from the windows. She watched the small hand of her watch creep forward.

The school bell rang loud. The boys behind the glass jumped from their desks and left the room before the animated teacher had finished teaching. Phoebe sat still on the wall and scanned the crowd. He emerged from the sea of Grammar boys. His smile crossed the road without looking. He kissed her on the mouth and held his hand against her stomach.

~

He woke to a thick, refluxed cough coming from the bed behind the drawn curtain. Mark opened his eyes to the pale room. The walls were a supposedly calming green, but the reek of disinfectant ruined any chance it had of succeeding. He slowly grew used to being awake. He pushed himself upright and stretched out to yawn. As Mark opened his mouth, he felt the tight rip of searing pain. He pulled his fingers up to fumble over his face. He felt the large lumps of new stitches.

Wonderland

She opened her puffed eyes and sat up in bed. The washed out grey duvet folded around her. There were puddles on the pillows and her book lay open on the carpet. She was a chapter away from the end. Falling half out of bed, she reached for the book. Her thumb held it open to the page she had been at the night before. It was spotted with wrinkles. Even with the blinds closed, there was enough light to let the words form. She settled back against the pillow and ventured on.

The bedroom died around her. And she jumped head first, down the rabbit hole. If time let her, she would have tea with the Mad Hatter for hours.

A door slammed. And the colours crumbled around her.

“Babe?”

She threw the book under the covers, leaving it to mould, and tripped out of bed. It was cooler without the sheets beneath her. She pulled her t-shirt loose and tugged at her boy-leg briefs to cover her thighs. All the while, tumbling down the stairs. Her feet burned bare against the iced tiles. She was oblivious. Even to her hairs, nipples, and goosebumps standing on edge, begging for warmth in cuddles.

She followed the waft of cologne as he wandered around the lounge opening the curtains. The sun was heatless and flooded the room with a fake yellow hue.

“Your ‘rents aren’t home till Sunday. Right?”

She nodded and curled her leg around his. He laughed confidently, throwing her onto the couch and kissed her neck till she dug her nails into his back.

They had been painted Heartbreaker peach the night before.

She was crouched on the couch, brushing her nails with the polish. Three strokes per nail. Her parents were hurling their things out the front door and herding them into the boot of the hatchback. Her mother sprinkled the usual throughout the room before she left; “be good”, “behave yourself”, “feed the cat”, “I’ve put some money in your account”, “no parties”, and a slopped kiss on the forehead. As the car disappeared down the driveway, she continued onto her toes.

Once all twenty matched, she flicked off the TV and slunk into her bedroom. Her mum had made the bed before leaving, but as she snatched her book from the bedside table, she flung the covers from their tight places. The clean edges were picking up dust from the carpet, like shirt cuffs browning on the ends. She sipped her herbal tea and unfolded the corner of the page, straightening the crease with her ironing fingers.

Succumbing to the letters that waltzed over the pages was like giving into sleep after weeks of insomnia. She licked the letters clean from the paper, finishing many chapters of the book.

She laughed as her favourite characters stumbled into jokes and paired with their unrequited lovers. She cried when they died.

And fell asleep with puffed eyes.

Two Hours On Low Battery

The first time

was in the car.

My Vodafone

black box

vibrated off my leg

and hit the floor

buzzing.

My brother

jumped for it as I did,

but my fingers

folded around the cold

surface

first.

1 Unread SMS.

The second time

was in the

two double seven

food court.

Upstairs

with our legs stretched

out on the

trashy black leather.

McDonald’s fries

on the floor,

and chopsticks

on the tables.

1 lulled conversation.

The third time

was a lot like the first.

My phone

was on the

bedside Kauri,

vibrating in circles.

I was pulling the strings

on my glossy

black pieces of nothing.

1 incoming call.

JK Uses Image To Good Effect

In 1884 the first New Zealand representative rugby team was formed. Ever since, the All Blacks have been the male icons of New Zealand. They are muscular, toned, tough and invincible. Young boys and men all around the country aim to be just the same as Richie McCaw, Jonah Lomu, Colin Meads, John Kirwan, and Sean Fitzpatrick. The list of macho sportsmen is huge and under our noses all the time.

When the All Blacks win a game it’s front page news. More important than any other event, worldly or national. The highlights of an amazing try or tackle are replayed for weeks after the game. And the stars of the match sell endless products on TV. Whether they are flexing their biceps to sell bottled water or pushing cars to promote Powerade, they are strong, tough blokes who let nothing get them down.

For decades we have lived in a country where our males are expected to be the epitome of masculinity. And only recently are our men being allowed to have a softer side. No longer are they just burping, belching, burly brutes. The Ministry of Health’s recent depression ad campaign featuring John Kirwan has revolutionised the expectations of men in NZ.

John Kirwan was an all star All Black who had ‘lived the New Zealand dream’. He was staunch and strong. The ultimate bloke. It wasn’t until the ad campaign, in which he talked about his own personal battle with depression, that the country realized he wasn’t just a beefy, black t-shirt running around the field.

The main message of the television ads is ‘Depression. There is a way through it.’, but the usage of John Kirwan, a role model for so many boys and men in NZ, has meant a nationwide shift in what is acceptable.

The statistics show that there are significantly more male deaths by suicide than females. And a main reason for this is the way society puts the walls up around men. You can’t cry. You can’t talk about your feelings. Don’t be a sissy. Harden up. Be a man. Get over it. But finally, these walls are being broken down. In the five adverts featuring Kirwan he swings the mallet himself, ‘I went to a mate of mine and he said ‘harden up’. Hardening up is not what you need to do’ and ‘You need to tell someone…just reach out.’ For a man of such prestige in NZ to say these things, it is evident that social acceptance is taking a real turn for good and for once, we can applaud the media for their influence.

The Ministry of Health’s research report shows that only 11% of men had either negative or neutral feelings towards the campaign. The wide positive reaction to the ads shows that one campaign has been able to change the view on men who need help dealing with stresses and pressures in life, thus counteracting the masses of adverts that show men exercising, building, drinking and driving cars; anything tough and physical.

No longer do males have to hide their emotions. They are allowed to cry and they are allowed to talk about their feelings. After all, if the big man in black can, any man can.