A Gift From The Melbourne Botanicals. Oil On canvas. 24 by 30 inches.
Driving into the center of Melbourne, I am dazzled by the clouds, the light, the gardens and the trees. Am I remembering scenes and impressions from my childhood, or is it a shared memory that transports me? As children we only visited Melbourne every second year, but two of my four grandparents were born here, and both my parents grew up in this city.
The last twelve years have definitely been an adventure. But as an Australian in Pakistan, I have never felt at home in Karachi, or even truly safe. Alienated and often alone, sometimes the only place I felt at ease was in my basement, on my yoga mat. It wasn’t easy for me to make friends, or to be one. And when my eyes closed, in bed, most nights I tossed and turned, struggling to fall asleep.
Here, it is a different story. Things feel both remarkable and recognizable: the clatter and clang of the trams, the rush of leaf-blowers, the song of the currawong. As we drive into town, my husband and I decide to take the children to their first-ever Beethoven concert. We last heard the Eroica performed in the Sydney Opera House, and were most disturbed by a gentleman seated behind us, wearing a yellow plastic suit, which rustled loudly each time he moved.
After a short journey, we reach the National Gallery of Victoria. At the entrance there’s a reddened wall of water, which I vaguely remember from my last visit, before my fourteen-year-old daughter was born. Inside, there’s a huge black and yellow sculpture that I’ve never seen before. We don’t have long, so decide to head straight to the sixteenth-century European paintings. I linger in front of flowers from the Netherlands, and three Rembrandts. Two self-portraits were almost definitely painted by him while a third, which I find the most enigmatic, was perhaps the work of a student. We quickly buy postcards from the shop, before walking to the Melbourne Botanical Gardens. Ducks swim in the brackish water, surrounded by clouds of ducklings, and I take picture after picture of golden and purple gladioli, perhaps my favorite flowers. We pass peaceful Melbournites, walking in twos and threes, often accompanied by little dogs. Pippa and Max are getting married in the café, and well-dressed but tardy guests stand apart from more relaxed garden-visitors. It’s all too lovely: the sun and the shade, a hungry grey and cream bird sticking its beak deep into a crimson flower. Just near the gates, as we are about to leave, I find these pods, fallen by the path. They make a satisfying rattle when you shake them and to me, they are imbued with the beauty of the whole park, and this special Sunday.
