But for me his work has never been about the Eldorado cabaret posters of Bruant, or the cynical twisted grin of Mlle Weber as she enters a restaurant on the arm of her sister. It has always been about his fascination with the demi-monde and his - and I mean this - respect for the girls who made their living sleeping with men for money.
The Bluebird of Happiness, as I remarked to a friend, was well and truly back in Bluebird of Bitterness territory, and any attempts at landing on my shoulder and singing a happy tune would undoubtedly have ended in me giving it a lesson in just how unlucky it is for a bird to crap on someone, despite beliefs within the Jewish faith to the contrary, as there's no good luck in having your feathers used in a new and interesting headpiece for the racing season.
But as I lie here now, post Weekend of Whoah, mulling over this pile of Prussian blue plumage-related poo, and daring that bloody BOB to whistle anything other than Johnny Cash's 'When The Man Comes Around', I recognise the following self-evident truths.
Despite all the sorrow, all the anger, the truly heart-shattering words, encounters, and elements that made up the last 72 hours, I couldn't say I didn't find gratitude in them... nor grace.
Because both were present in so many small gifts I am grateful for.
Look at that photo. That is (fairly obviously) my mother and father on their wedding day. I would like to say that my dad looks as dashing as my mother looks beautiful, but basically he just looks naughty. It's quite possible that he was also feeling extremely hungover or even inebriated, but as that's not my story to tell I won't tell it - oh wait, I just did.
I have never understood, I admit, how Diana Prince just had to undo her hair and turn around really fast to become Wonder Woman. Maybe the dudes were distracted by her golden lasso? Smirk. It's like Clark Kent - a pair of black rimmed glasses is a truly craptacular way to hide your secret identity. Yes, people are a bit on the thicky side sometimes, but seriously...
Batman on the other hand - how the hell would you know who was under that rubber blankie? Kudos to you, Bruce Wayne, on actually wearing something which could be considered under the definition of an actual 'disguise'.
The best friends are the ones who give you a hard time when you talk rubbish. Who don't roll their eyes (too badly) when the 3 a.m. text comes through saying 'I need to talk to you now'. Who catch your eye at a social gathering when things are a bit tricky biscuit and make you bite down on the inside of your lip so that you don't snort with inappropriate laughter.
They are the ones who catch you when you fall. And fall hard.
I realise this may sound too twee for words, but seriously - we get so wrapped up in whether we ourselves are happy or unhappy that at times, we tend not to celebrate our friends and families' exciting moments in a way that does them justice. I am not talking about hiring a blimp or skywriting 'CONGRATULATIONS ON TURNING 38 AND THREE QUARTERS' across Sydney, mind you - I am just saying when there's something big going down, let them know how fantastic you think it is. Take time out from your own blather and bullshit for just a moment and say 'Squee!' Or, in the immortal words of Babe the Pig, 'la, la, la!'
Those who read this blog (thank you, all three of you. You know who you are, and I love you very much) may have noticed a fall off in the number of posts recently. There's a very simple reason for this.
I have been ill. Wretchedly, horribly ill.
It's a common malaise. Many people suffer from it. It's endemic to those who profess to put words on a page for a living, it is heartbreaking in its severity and can cause symptoms as wide ranging as glugging wine straight from the bottle, headbashing on desks, throwing laptops across rooms and screaming randomly 'sod THIS for a joke!' and storming out of the room.
I refer, of course (I don't even want to say the words) -
To Writer's Block.
Sometimes the muse deserts me. Hell, she doesn't just desert, she goes on a bender in Vegas, wins big at the tables, gets comped a suite at Wynn and next thing I know she's married Prince Harry and I never see her again.
For those who write, the need to put words on a page, or a screen, or on the back of an envelope is overwhelming. They need to get out of your brain somehow before it turns into the Woolworths parking lot on Christmas Eve. But that doesn't mean they are worth sharing with the world. And for me, the last little while has been a case of frosty wind making moan in my thoughts - every topic which has sprung to mind has ended up in the mental shredder.
Until last week, when thankfully, discussions with two witty and wise friends brought the neurons back into a semblance of cerebral celebration.
The relief at feeling words starting to flow again cannot be underestimated. And this is not about thinking 'maybe someone will enjoy reading this' - because quite frankly, I don't actually write for anyone but myself, and I think the day you do start concentrating primarily on what other people think, then the words will dry up for good. Nope, it was 'man, I am really loving just getting this out of my noggin'.
And that is why this is a gratitude post.
Gratitude for two people understanding that sometimes words - they don't come easy to me, to quote an old(ish) song; and even more gratitude that with a bit of verbal Drano, the blockage was no more.
Whether others will be grateful remains to be seen, but as for me...
I'm lying here in bed this Friday morn feeling very grumbly. Not only do I have the flu (and yes it is the flu, Mum, not just a bad cold, I'm not playing Hypochondriac Heaven) - but I've just read through the magic of Facestalk that juniper berries are being threatened with some weird disease. So not only am I sick, but there exists the possibility of NO MORE GIN.
Time for a strategic retreat under the Doona of Destiny methinks. Unfortunately without a gin in hand, but eight o'clock in the morning would be pushing it.
This has not been a good week. It may be the Winter Solstice, but there will be no naked skylarking to celebrate this fact. It's too bloody cold, even in Golden Queensland. And sniffles and nude frolics don't really go together, so again doona downtime wins out.
What else can I grumble about? My hatred of telecommunications behemoths? Hmmmmm. Possibly not. That would take up more time and space than a dozen blog posts, reduce people to tears and/or yawns and make me so cross that I might get a bit vigilante-ish and end up in the news on Facestalk myself.
So maybe I will just say this.
Yesterday was a bloody awful day for a lot of people out there it seems. This week and in fact 2013 in general seem to not be on the money for many of my loved ones; and I'm buggered if I'm going to be the one saying 'turn that frown upside down' when their crises are real and significant.
For me, I know that my grumbles are (mainly) just that; grumbles. They are the product of feeling physically heinous and frustrated with said condition. This year could be dubbed 'The Year Of The Sick As A Dog' if the Chinese horoscope felt like breaking with tradition, and yes I'm fed up with it.
But I will stand tall - or lie tall, as I can't get out of bed without fainting - and be positive. Ish. When it comes down to the crunch, I am grateful for so many things. Not least of which is the fact that I have people to care for me when I am sick (grammatical pats don't really count Dread P, but I'll take what I can get) and that I have friends and loved ones to rely on when things are tough.
That's a privilege, not a right, and my gratitude for these people is very wide and deep.
So perhaps I shall stop whinging for a little while at least, and count my blessings instead. As a wise friend said just a few moments ago on the ever present Facestalk, Mother and Father to us all:
"When life hands you over-ripe bananas, make strawberry-orange-banana smoothies."
I am, I realise, more and more every day, a fortunate woman.
I am living where I wish to live.
I am, if not healthy, on the path to health.
I am able to do the work that I love.
And above all else, I am truly blessed in the amazing women that I am lucky enough to not only plot and scheme with on a professional level, but also call my friends. This has been very much brought home to me in the past few months, when times have not been so great, and the solidarity and support which they have shown me has been beyond description.
And the standout sister - for me, and I know for so many others - of these fabulous females, is having a birthday today!
Happy Birthday Janine.
When I thought about writing this post, and saying how grateful I was to JG, I thought "oh, this will be simple - I know how much she means to me, I'll just say it". But as it turns out I'm a little bit flummoxed. How do you express your gratitude to someone whom you have so much respect for without sounding cheesy? How do you say that their guidance, and enthusiasm, and simple passion for what they do manages to lift you up when things are really grim, without it being just words on a page?
I suppose I can only say what I feel, and hope Janine doesn't roll her eyes (not that she would, because she's far nicer than me), and understands the message behind the meanderings.
Janine, I don't think you understand the impact you have on so many, many people. And yes, especially women - of all walks of life. You give out absolutely everything, without expecting anything in return. I'm constantly floored by your energy and fire for making things better. It's extraordinary. You make me laugh like an absolute idiot (I'm so not going there with the stories), and you make business fun. You and your rock star hair!
I am grateful for your friendship. I am grateful for your grace. I am grateful for your strength. I am grateful you are you. You have taught me more about being a strong woman, without lecturing or bossiness, than anyone I have ever met before. The gratitude is ever present, and always will be.
If you are lucky enough to be a part of this extraordinary woman's life, don't undervalue her. And make sure you tell her how fab she is.
Because I guarantee she tells you on a regular basis.
So. I am living in Queensland, yes? Yes. And in theory, that means several things. Slower voices. Strange words like 'port' for suitcase. A sudden overwhelming urge to support the Reds in the Super 15s. Banana bending. (Just kidding, large mob of angry Queenslanders coming towards me with pitchforks). Endemic to where I am living, of course, lots and lots of fake tan, fake hair and fake boo- uh... body parts.
And I assumed, glorious, glorious warm weather. Sunshiny days. Mild evenings. A winter of blissful non-frostbitey 'ha-has' to my Southern sisters.
Yes. In theory... yes.
There is no denying that the people watching is amazing around these parts. It's a veritable smorgasbord of 'come as you are, or perhaps as you always wanted to be, but didn't have the guts to be anywhere else'. I feel bewilderingly normal, and thus stand out like a sore thumb, because I have no image. None. I need to develop one, but as everything I have seen so far involves heavy body inking, tandoori tanning, bleaching and/or inserting of silicone, it might take a while and involuntary anaesthesia before it happens.
As for the weather?
I arrived back home Sunday night from an unexpected weekend away, and it was, as our lovely pilot cheerfully informed us, eight degrees. Apparently the night before it had been four; the second coldest night in Gold Coast history.
This is not what I signed up for.
My ugg boots were supposed to stay firmly in the back of the wardrobe; I was only to pull my coat out of same wardrobe when going to more southerly climes - I actually gave away the more substantial layers of style that composed the House of Kate. Winter? Winter, to misquote A Game Of Thrones, was not coming.
Last night I actually had to put socks on. This will not do.
I would like Queensland to get its act together please, and turn on the sunlamps. OK, so I may be the palest person on the planet, and my skin tone may somewhat resemble a speckled trout's tummy, but that is beside the point; I like to feel warm whilst I am sitting in my straw hat and thirty plus. You can be sun smart and smugly happy at the same time.
You may well ask, as I have just spent the last zillion paragraphs whinging, where the gratitude is in this post.
It's quite simple really.
It may be a touch frostier than I was expecting up here in the not so sunshiney state, but when it comes down to it, I am massively lucky. Unlike a hell of a lot of Australians, I am sleeping in a lovely warm bed, and if I need to, I can grab as many extra covers as I want to put on said bed. I have, for that matter, a warm coat.
If you want to get down to brass tacks, I have socks.
Things are a bit rough for me health wise at present, and it has made me more than usually aware of a few things. Every time I think about what I don't have, I am constantly reminded of what I do have. It makes me feel humble, and grateful, and very, very thankful despite all of my groaning and moaning about feeling a slight chilliness in the air, and I know how trivial my complaints are compared to what so many people are facing on a day to day basis - simply trying to survive.
I don't wish to sound preachy, but if you are lucky enough to be a 'have' this winter, take a moment to be grateful, and think about the 'have nots' - and actively do something to help.
You may just find the sun will come out if you do.
It has been, to put it mildly, a
very trying week. I am not even going to pretend otherwise. There are
times when it is better to lay down one's arms, stop trying to rule the known world and simply admit defeat; to say to the dragon 'come out, come out wherever you are' and let it
flame you for a few moments before taking up shield and sword again.
Even princesses in shining armour need a break every so often.
I was talking last week about not sucking it up. And yet again, I may
sound as though I am having a bit of a whinge. In a way I suppose I am,
because I am talking about being in physical agony. But I am also
talking about gratitude, and how I feel about normally having it - well,
normally having it pretty damn good.
Pain. It stinks. It is not a nice place to be - at all. I don't like
visiting, and I cannot believe that I used to basically live here on a full time basis.
What I also cannot believe is how much I take for granted now in terms of how well I am generally, and how grateful I am for the progress that I have made, and continue to make, in terms of staying healthy and fighting what my body and brain would quite like me to give in to at times.
I am also grateful that I know the reasons behind my pain this week, and that I know there is a 'most of the time I am fine' end in sight. For so many people whom I know who have Parkinson's or Dystonia - or both - they are not so lucky. They hurt all the time.
All. The. Time.
Imagine being 30 years old. Or 35. Or 40. And you wake up in the middle of the night and your back is twisted, and your feet are in cramps so severe that they form circles, and your jaw is trying to make its way through your collarbone just for the hell of it. And it just won't stop. Not just for minutes, or hours; but days. Or weeks. Or months.
I have only faced days at a time.
My beautiful Rogers - and in fact so many people I know - face, and have faced, the latter.
Sometimes I underestimate her bravery because of her silly sense of humour and because she is so gorgeous that you forget about the lean-over. And she doesn't talk about the pain.
But then whenever I end up as a pretzel I remember.
And I think all over again about how amazing she is. How amazing all of the wonderful people that I know are.
And how grateful I am for their strength.
I will say this, and it is something it has taken me a long time to learn; if you are in physical pain, don't be afraid to admit it. I am not talking about sitting there and constantly griping 'I'm hurting', because believe me, people will get sick of it pretty bloody quickly. But - if you don't speak out, then nobody will understand just what is going on, and when you are irritated, or sharp, or simply aren't coping, they will be puzzled, and perhaps angry, because it will be out of the blue. If you are factual and admit to what is going on with your body, then understanding from those who care about you will be there. Not from everyone - but from those who care for and love you, yes.
I am constantly and consistently grateful for those who express empathy to and for me. Not in a 'keep me in an illness box' way, or a pitying way - but in a 'let's get you better, constructive, slay that goddamn pain dragon' way. Particularly the Dread Pirate who has been very good (in a piratey fashion naturally).
It helps me put the armour back on, however heavy it may feel, and get ready to fight the good fight again.
Last Mother's Day I wrote about my grandmother because it was very close to the date that would have been her hundredth birthday. Not out of any lack of love or respect for my Mama - quite the opposite - she would I know agree that without my Gran'ma she would (literally, ha, ha) be half the person she is.
But I definitely owe the P a post. She is going to kill me for putting this photo in, so I may as well go hell for leather and embarrass her totally.
She is my best friend. If you are a grown up (or semi grown up in my case) woman and you are able to say 'my mother is my best friend' consider yourself very, very fortunate indeed. As a teenager - forget it. You are going to scorn everything your mum says, wears and does - and then as an adult probably end up saying, wearing and doing all the same things (in my case yes, sort of and yes). You will scream 'I hate you' and then if you are smart, apologise.
But as an adult - yay. The thought of not talking to P on a daily basis is one that frightens me so badly that I stick my fingers in my ears and go 'la, la, la' until the bad men go away. She is the still, calm voice in the centre of the hurricane that constitutes my brain.
She is my inner eye.
My mother is an amazing woman.
She would be the first to scoff at this. She is incredibly unassuming
and very modest. She has no idea of the quiet impact she has on all
those she comes in contact with. Her employees, her friends, her family.
Me. Always me. Even when we have fought. If I am in a strop, I really
do try to stop and think 'how would P handle this?' - because invariably
it would be with better grace and humour than myself.
has handled blows that would fell strong men. She has watched her
children mess up time and again - and sadly had to watch one of them go
through illnesses that I know in her heart she blames herself for, despite
there being no reason for it. It's not her fault. As the one going
through said illnesses, I say this with certainty. But I hear that little
voice inside her saying 'yes it is' and as that same voice ticks inside
me I will not attempt to shut it up, but simply say this.
Mumsy, Mama, Big P.
are my sanity and my succour. You are the first person I turn to -
always - even if I am narky with you. You are the snort at the other end
of the phone when I need to let off steam. I laugh til I cry with you
about stuff which nobody in their right minds would find remotely
amusing, or understand, and that is fantastic. The fact that we have had
a running joke of one word for well on twenty years is testament to
both our combined sense of the ridiculous and what can only be called
deep, deep love.
find it hard to put into words the respect that I have for you, both as
a mother and as a woman. So let me just say I am grateful for you, I
will continue to be grateful for you, and I will try to show it every