the restless main

Radios Appear!!

2011-11-06T23:04:00.000+11:00

It's not everyday that you get the chance to meet and chat with one of your all-time rock heroes face-to-face, but midday on Saturday saw my little bloke Byron and I briefly hanging out with the one and only Deniz Tek and his lovely partner Anne at his exhibition opening at Sydney's Hand Of Law Gallery .

Deniz was/is in town for a few gigs and to present some of his latest paintings. A good friend of mine, Peter Wise has done some photographic work for Deniz on some of his solo albums and I was happy to chat to Deniz about that, some recent adventures of his State-side as well as his work and the reissue Radio Birdman posters by Warwick Gilbert available at the Gallery.

Always a man of action, (I'll resist the obvious Flamin' Groovies one-liner!), Deniz' work ranges from the representational to examples clearly influenced by modernist abstraction and the action-painting of the late great Jackson Pollock.

As my own digs are already chock full of art nd objects already, I opted to purchase just three small works done on ceramic tiles by Deniz as a memento - two organic abstracts and the Birdman Logo.

Big thanks to Deniz, Anne and Dave from Hand Of Law Gallery!!

© felix ratcliff 2011 (and respective artists)

Surf City (Slight return!)

2011-10-20T21:51:00.000+11:00

Have had a few nice sessions lately. Beachies mostly, late afternoon and early evenings up the Northern Beaches, and Southside closer to home.

Nothing really sizeable but high on the smile scale nonetheless.

Nice little sunset-lit high-tide cover-up on dusk last night had me beaming from ear to ear despite the saltwater rinse cycle that followed soon after.

Another thing that has left me with a big grin recently is:

SURF CITY: COLLABORATIONS BY ARTIST LUKE TAAFFE & PHOTOGRAPHER RYAN HEYWOOD - NAVIGATING OMNIPOTENT SEASCAPES & PSYCHEDELIC SURF ICONOGRAPHY

now showing at The National Grid Gallery

Had the added pleasure of meeting the talented Mr Ryan Heywood who agreed to let me take and post a few photos here. As his artistic collaborator Luke Taaffe was not on hand, Mr Heywood chose to not claim the laurels alone and opted for the shaggy veiled pseudoportrait you can see here. Thanks Ryan!

© felix ratcliff 2011 (and respective artists)

On The Beach: A Mother remembered

2011-06-12T11:22:00.000+10:00

Patricia Mary McGrath

Mordialloc Beach, Victoria, Australia, late 1940s

It's been just over a year now since my dear Mum - Patricia Ratcliff - passed away at the age of 82 in my home town of Launceston, Tasmania. Originally from Dandenong in Victoria, Mum was a keen waterwoman all her life, and swam, snorkelled and frolicked in the ocean and fresh water until well into her late 70s.

The photo above shows her as a beautiful young single woman on Mordialloc Beach, halfway between Melbourne and the Mornington Peninsula in the late 1940s.

Mum told me a story once about travelling to Torquay a little later than when that photo was taken with a bunch of friends and surfing on a sixteen foot 'toothpick' wood and plywood board. She had a wonderful time she recalled, until a clubbie with a metal tipped surfski hit her broadside and completely splintered her narrow streamlined craft!

In 1959, due to a more than passing resemblance to Ava Gardner, troubled star of On the Beach, Mum was asked to play a small role in the filming of that movie. Her response was typical and was to be repeated many times throughout her event-filled life: "I'm not going to pretend to be anyone else, I can only be myself!"

Author, historian, conservationist, mother, grandmother, retired mermaid! We miss you Mum.

Russet history

2011-04-16T19:46:00.000+10:00

I've been putting a collection together for a while now: boards from the 60's, 70's and 80's though to the present day. Most of them are pretty well-used and show the scars and evidence of their previous lives clearly. My latest addition is an early 90s 6' Rusty, shaped and signed by Mr Preisendorfer himself for former Aussie pro Rob Bain. I don't know Rob personally but do hope to find out a more about the life of this particular stick.

5'6" x 23.5 x 3 + Greenough 9.5 4C

2011-02-24T12:27:00.001+11:00

Late to rise today today but still snuck in a fun bodywhomp up the north end before leaving for work. Briefly enjoyed a beautiful offshore-caressed shorebreak with a hell of rip running. A little later as my bus headed work-ward a large clean set marched imperiously in at the south end, stood up and peeled off nicely.

I've been inspired by Mick's recent acquisition of a beautiful hull as pictured in his last post over at Safetosea but for dollar reasons have decided to improvise:

My solution(?!) - 5'6" x 23.5 x 3 + Greenough 9.5 4C = Mint 80's kneeboard plus the fin from my Mick Mackie 8 footer.

Hope all goes well . . . but reckon I'll have to add side-biters!!

;-)

© felix ratcliff 2011

Saturday last . . .

2011-01-25T16:40:00.000+11:00

No network and no headphones. Just a broad, curved window and high speed gravity feed on steel rails south to the coast. Air conditioning and engines hum low in fluorescent brightness, blinking eyes narrow to reduce the brilliance as a standing man states his case:

"That's exactly how it went down . . . I can't believe that you can actually think that you are somehow in the right! You made it abundantly clear that I was unwelcome in the house and that you would not tolerate a contrary opinion . . . I want an apology for this, and that is all I'm going to say."

A sudden glimpse of blue gold across the green of the national park: a shimmer of light too bright to view directly . . . like those memories that match.

© felix ratcliff 2011

Seasons & Flux

2011-01-12T16:45:00.000+11:00

Storm Sketch January 2011

So another year begins, and with its inception the La Nina phenomenon continues to bestow its mixed blessings and curses upon this part of the world. In some parts of this southern continent, devastating floods have exacted a horrible toll, while in other locales much-needed rain has slaked the thirst of long thirsty dams and reservoirs.

Closer to my home, holiday crowds, awe-inspiring skies, cleansing rains, stiff easterlies, stinging bluebottles and shifting sandbanks offering both pain and pleasure to the unwary and experienced alike have been the order of these recent days, weeks and months.

Here, all is in a state of perpetual flux, as it has always been.

For Andy

2010-11-05T11:00:00.001+11:00

'Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honours out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.'

A.E. Housman - 'To An Athlete Dying Young'

Landlocked; but pumping!

2010-08-18T10:33:00.000+10:00

The photo above is of a favourite mural in my hometown in Van Diemen's Land that for some strange reason I just can't resist photographing at every opportunity. It sits adjacent to colonial architecture, beautiful churches, parks and fountains. Landlocked; but pumping!

On a related subject and apologies for the shameless plug, but the latest print issue of Kurungabaa includes a piece of mine. I'm extremely happy that my work will be sharing the pages with so many fine writers! A big thank you and thumbs up to Alex, Clif and staff and all the writers, artists and contributors.
Special thanks are also due to Peter Solness for his generosity and support. Peter's photographic career kicked off in Surfing World magazine as a teenager in the mid-70's with a photo of his late brother Geoff surfing at Cronulla Point, a photo I first saw leafing through my older cousin's surf mag collection when I had barely hit double figures.

On a sadder and more sombre note, my heart and thoughts go out to the wife and children of Nicholas Edwards who tragically died after being attacked by a shark near Gracetown in Western Australia yesterday.

© felix ratcliff 2010

A field of blue, white and yellow

2010-08-04T15:19:00.000+10:00

Have been offline for a while. Significant shifts, changes and rearrangements of lives, loves and living arrangements. Having relocated to new digs I tend to ride the north end of my local more than the middle and south these days, when time permits (see above pic!). Thankfully the little bloke gets me up and 'going for the Gusto' with his insistent laugh and bright-eyed brilliance. He is charging forward in his own special way and I'm enjoying showing him as much as I can of the coastal and greater world around him. We walk the beach and surrounds as often as we can. A couple of weekends ago we saw what looked like a mad cavalry charge across a field of blue, white and yellow. In the clear early morning light, scores of dolphins were making a beeline for the point upon which we stood, their bow waves blown by the brisk steady offshore. Sheer magic.

Vintage foam & steel horses

2010-04-12T20:11:00.000+10:00

Spent the day like a pig in clover at Deus in Camperdown surrounded by vintage foam, steel horses and a varied cast of thousands. Had the pleasure of meeting Gentleman Jim from TCSS and fibreglass junkie Damion. No luck on the selling front but fell in love with a couple of old S-decks that have got me keen to try one out. Am already looking forward to the next gig.

Needle-nosed & Channelled Steeds!

2010-03-31T20:22:00.000+11:00

Two fine 80s rides from my collection that will be up for grabs at the

DEUS SURF SWAP MEET2 on Saturday April 10 2010.

All photos are pre-repair.

Tom from Manly Surf Board Repair:

Unit B 1 Campbell Pde, Manly Vale, NSW, 2093 (02) 99076385

is restoring them even as I write.

I hope everyone has a wave-filled Easter break!

Icons: Free In The Streets

2010-03-23T08:52:00.002+11:00

Photo courtesy of http://www.tbonephoto.com/

We all have our own iconic surf images tucked away in our memory, hot-wired to our hearts or sandblasted onto our souls. For some it may be that full rail split second of Michael Peterson from Morning Of The Earth; George Greenough's paradigm-shifting views from the tube; Peter Townend's layback cutttie or Tom Carroll's casual slash under the lip at Pipe. For me, it is a poster of an unidentified rider pushing through the cascading lip on a triple-stringered shooter at Dee Why Point sometime in the 70's. I don't own a copy of it but can see it clearly in my mind each and every time.

Back on land I have another set of images etched into my psyche, perhaps none more so than the Independent Trucks advert above first spotted in Skateboarder Magazine in 1980. Here Steve Olson's gravitationally low-centred monochromatic madness - as masterfully captured by photog Ted Terrebonne - was a veritable teenage coffin-nail in my previous surf-styled skating approach, one instantly supplanted by an urban ethos of urgency and aggression perfectly in tune with that then new decade and the trials and tribulations of high school.

I came across Steve's email in Juxtapoz magazine recently and and broadcast the following out into his ether:

'Low, fast, impending gyrational redirection with friction factored prior to weight redistribution. What else could a landlocked adolescent hope for? And there it was in print. No Bertlemann fro this time, nor Buttons' crazy quiff mid-snap in some some North Shore Kodak Reef moment. Instead: black and white, monochrome clarity and conformity confounded (at least in that instant). Reaching for the other side, across those lines, across the tracks, Nothing else required, solitude, four wheels and a whole damn universe to explore. On one's own terms. Salute.'

A hearty thanks to Ted Terrebonne for permission to reproduce his photo of Steve Olson.

For more of his magic please check out:

http://www.tbonephoto.com/

I Continue

2010-03-18T23:14:00.009+11:00

'The crowded future stings my eyes
I still find time to exercise
In uniform with two white stripes'

Moon Over Marin - Dead Kennedys

Well strictly speaking, that description does not neatly dovetail with my own lived experience, at least not for many years now. For starters my shorts were corduroy cut-offs, not silky sweatshop polyester. The T-shirt was black, non-descript and bore no logos. My feet: unshod with rubber or spike. The cool sand was strangely yielding yet gave little back in return for the effort of each stride, but the benefits, like the workload required are double and twofold. As I moved along the beach I focussed on the miniature landscapes that I trampled with each step. I imagined myself as ant-sized as the sweat began to flow, a minute creature faced with mountainous dunes and endless unforgiving slopes. Passing the pavilion I was struck by the opening bars of a Metallica tune achingly played by a lone busker silhouetted by the steps with an amplified Spanish guitar. "Never opened myself this way", I hummed in unison with the played melody, "Life is ours, we live it our way", I continued, as I moved steadily away, knees working well now, step by step, in semi-darkness.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Circus Postscript

2010-03-15T22:08:00.001+11:00

Bailed for the city to catch up with a mate I haven't seen for a couple of decades so didn't see Sunday's action.

The Uge did though:

'So you all know Owen Wright, the sky pilot from Lennox took the $25k loot in finals yesterday. He was awarded a 9.8 with a massive front side punt. Huge crowd banked up all the way to the top of the grass. What a great atmosphere...lucky the waves came good for the finals, as Saturday was embarrassing how bad it was - onshore week 2 foot slush...'

Check out pix etc at:
http://www.aquabumps.com/

Skyward

2010-03-13T10:31:00.002+11:00

7:30am: pairs of teenage girls wander expectantly, Warhol's big screen flashes Red, Green and Blue, corporate standards impale the sand but the bigtop fails to pierce the sky. The empty bandstand faces inland, while behind it it's two, maybe three, feet onshore and closing out. 1.5 turns to the beach . . . if you are lucky. Perhaps looking skyward is the only option in such conditions, though the liquid jump ramps are barely up to the task. The circus has arrived.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Chasing Demons (for Mick)

2010-03-11T23:07:00.001+11:00

The little bloke was late to bed tonight. That reality, in conjunction with the steady shortening of the days saw me miss my evening session.

To compensate, I took the maple and urethane longboard out instead, whisping almost silently through empty streets and then along the foreshore, carving and hotdogging imaginary walls and sections and soul-arching up behind unsuspecting slalom-cone pedestrians lost in their headphones or head down engrossed in their precious mobile conversations.

Thinking gets lost, thankfully, in those moments of quiet motion with nothing but the soundtrack of the waves washing though your ears. Anger and the day's events dissipate with each smooth arc described, as childhood memories of similar scenes blend seamlessly with much older muscle-driven digressions.

On the homeward run I stopped for a break in front of the pavilion, and watched entranced as a stocky young woman attired entirely in white strode purposefully up off the beach onto the concrete and, not far from me, began to move this way and that in a series of deliberate feints, thrusts, lunges and back-pedalling motions, all the while using her right hand as if it held an invisible racquet of some type or another.

For her as for us, it is all about the dance: the rhythmic and repetitious honouring of the body in opposition to the inevitable advance of its limitations; an undeniable celebration, the giving of bodily thanks for the daily miracle of movement.

© felix ratcliff 2010

2010-03-07T22:47:00.000+11:00

A favourite shot of mine from two winters back.

Consonants and Vowels

2010-03-03T23:30:00.006+11:00

As they passed by, the wives were lagging a good twenty paces behind, but by the homeward run had opened up an unassailable lead over their portly husbands. Both sets of couples walked and talked as they went, gesticulating and nodding in time as they swapped thick Russian accents, consonants and vowels.

Just off the concrete promenade to their left, a few energetic souls were lifting their knees high by necessity as they traversed the beach barefoot and puffing. Farther out, a diminishing swell broke noisily in small sets and rolled toward the moist pale sand.

Seemingly in an instant, as if from beneath a darkened, silken tabletop, a swollen orange moon made itself known, misshapen by the curvature and refraction of the distant horizon. " It looks like a fucking balloon, it's amazing!", quoth one highly articulate gent. "Damn straight!", my silent rejoinder.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Autumnal (for Pete Lewis)

2010-03-01T23:26:00.000+11:00

First day of Autumn, the summer is gone, a death of sorts I guess, or, from another perspective, merely a logical linguistic outcome: an arbitrary example of that all too human need to neatly periodise and classify everything around us. There will undoubtably be more sunshine, though it rained steadily today, new swells will arrive and winds and banks will be favourable again if only we can bear to wait. We just need to be patient. The ocean shows us this again and again. Perfection is always the exception, not the norm. Those that cannot see that are perpetually doomed to frustration, anger and sadness. The coolness of the water will thin the crowds and the cold offshore westerlies will sort out the wheat from the chaff. Bring on the new days to come, with all their pregnant possibilities, regardless of the challenges they may bring with them too. Life is always present, waiting to be wrested from each day, each hour, each moment. Bring them on, each and every one.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Reciprocity II (slight return)

2010-02-25T23:56:00.000+11:00

Reciprocity

2010-02-25T22:29:00.000+11:00

I buried them as usual, hoping to safeguard my ownership for another week or two at least, but it wasn't to be. Some enterprising soul must have seen, or sensed, the dark rubber sticking just out of the sand and dug them out and claimed their prize. I've lost countless pairs in similar circumstances over the past few months and it's a sure bet I'm not the only one. "As long as they've gone to someone who genuinely needs them it's okay", I usually tell myself, after ten minutes of seemingly drunken wandering along the beach, head down as if deep in thought.

To a passer-by I must have appeared like one of those types who wander and pore over the sand with their headphones and metal detetctors, seeking their own strong return for just a few hours work. I'd be pretty miffed if they had been nicked by some bored bright young thing who has a rubber footwear fetish, but it's more than likely that one of the visible homeless round these parts has scarpered with them. If so, then fair play to 'em. There's enough broken and crushed glass around here anyway and you can't go barefoot all the time.

But that's just what I did on my way homeward this time and headed across the grass behind the beach to rub some of the accumulated sand off my feet. As luck would have it, en route I found a fiver fluttering in the steady onshore easterly and, smiling, accepted my own fortuitous find.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Alchemy

2010-02-23T21:17:00.001+11:00

Quite by chance I had, on an earlier occasion, taken a polaroid at that self-same location. Looking almost perfectly southward, the small instant photograph had depicted a broad expanse of of water, with a foreground detail of the reclaimed concrete wharf upon which I had stood with my - then young - son and, more distantly, in the background, the smooth grassy curves of the hills on the eastern shore of that broad deepwater harbour.

Some twenty years prior to that, myself but a small boy, I had gazed out at what - from a similar vantage point - had appeared to be a small boat anchored some way off midstream, but which in fact was at that time one of the largest warships in the world. 'The Big E', was the caption I had inscribed in ballpoint pen on the bottom of a monochrome print of that scene, despite a strong magnifying glass being required to aequately discern the subject of the picture.

Many ships have come, dropped ballast and cargo and departed again from that harbour for fresh ports since then, myself included. Gone, gone for the anonymity and allure of the larger centres to the north with their promises and possibilities in direct proportion to their sizeable populations and geographies. In particular, their headlands and coastal zones where the twin alchemy of salt and water transmutes daily rigours into wave-washed delights that transform knotted muscle and mind to more gently grounded and softly energised stuffs.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Waft and wash

2010-02-21T10:38:00.000+11:00

Had you taken a lit candle and waved it to and fro allowing the dusty smoke to waft and wash against the surface of a freshly dampened sheet, such that soft impressions and marks approximating billows, delicate skin, flesh, silk and other gently woven fabrics were permitted to appear, then you would know yourself how the stormladen sky showed itself to me that afternoon . . .

© felix ratcliff 2010

Succulents and Shadow

2010-02-15T23:56:00.000+11:00

Gull

2010-02-15T23:35:00.000+11:00

If there's a crust involved then they're just like us at our worst in the lineup: snarling; self-interested; pecking, fading and snaking those around them to get the crumbs down their gullet before the next bloke gets a look in. But, en masse, on dusk, the greyness of their wings blending almost seamlessly into the oncoming night; a grey gradation down wings, white-feathered fuselages find again avian nobility in effortless soaring on gentle thermals just off the beach. Coordinated, choreographed, with just a hint of the arrogance of youth in the angle of their heads and beaks, they manoeuvre weightlessly without malice or forethought. Suspended, simply, in their moment.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Recall

2010-02-12T22:42:00.000+11:00

I stepped off the bus tonight straight into persistent rain, raising my collar in a feeble attempt at maintaining dryness and warmth. I needn't have bothered. The stickiness and heat hit me the moment I alighted. I was in no danger of getting cold, merely soaked.

Instantly my thoughts sprang to a related scene; an evening session earlier in the week. Watching garfish broaching the surface in silver flashes, describing arcs and following trajectories that we can only hope to replicate on our clumsy craft. Silver flashes illuminated by headlights from the carpark, a reminder that it was well into feeding time for many a predator in this particular foodchain into which we willingly place ourselves.

I had instinctively raised my feet to my board and effected a strange push-up like pose, aware that my rising anxiety was being broadcast to any fish in the near vicinity as I peered into the gloom at the darkening rising shapes that were materialising in front of me almost silently and without discernible speed given the almost total absence of natural light.

"One more", I told myself, knowing full well that the tide was wrong, the banks were rubbish, the backwash heavy and that the next closeout barrel would be a fun but short trip to hell given the shallowness of the water.

Two strong strokes, tail lifts, rail catches, go!!

© felix ratcliff 2010

Morning Whiteout

2010-02-11T19:16:00.000+11:00

Ritual

2010-02-08T21:20:00.000+11:00

From the South they come,
straight lines to the Norfolk Pines.

Yet no wooded winter landscape yet,
this day sang salt-lashed songs
of sun remembered and rain
softened reflections of foam
and delight:

the early before work,
and the late one;

at night.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Delicate body english (for Nick Carroll)

2010-02-07T23:29:00.000+11:00

Sometimes I wonder if I haven't just paddled out there just to be away from all that is predetermined, prescribed, proscribed and constant.

Despite my need for silence and solitude however, I can't sit still for long. Scratching over near vertical faces and splashing down the other side in a fine whip of multicoloured salt-laden spray, all around is rushing movement and flux and there is a definite limit to how many sets you can dive or swim under without burning up the precious energy our bodies contain. It's a no-contest on that score. Those trains of distant ocean-born swell hold all the cards.

Even a break in the sets can't be enjoyed for too long. Suddenly the horizon shifts and what you thought was a zone of relative safety instead becomes a site of potentially hazardous impact. Lose your board or snap your leggie or get rolled and tumbled by a few and suddenly those ever-present submarine rivers eagerly grasp your ankles, waist and lungs sending a spike of fear, adrenalin and mortality down your spine. How your respond next can make all the difference.

One wise bloke reckons the ocean is but a mirror reflecting nothing naught but our own angles and projections and offering none of its own, or as one long dead philosopher categorically maintained; mere phenomena under law.

But in the end it's an arena of sorts and no mistake; gladiators, mystics, oddballs, thugs, all looking for that sweet moment in the pocket or the weightless thrill of the slide and glide - maintained with just the bare minimum of delicate body english.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Blood-Orange.

2010-02-04T10:31:00.000+11:00

Through blood-orange skies filtered

your breath inwardly rails

against your own internal fires,

thin red line platelets stand

staunching white sobriety numb.

Though the conflict to come

may need more than Dutch courage,

recall indeed who sailed these waters

emboldened, emblazoned; insignia, ensign.

© felix ratcliff 2010

Water's Edge.

2010-02-02T22:51:00.000+11:00

I had hesitated at the water’s edge.

It wasn’t the prospect of possibly having to deal with some of the drunken revellers further down the beach by their bonfire that caused me to check my stride and halted my seaward progress. It was something else all together.

Despite the unseasonable warmth of that night, a combination of the uncommon stillness of the water and certain unexplained wavelets and sudden shifting shadows in the water at the limit of my night vision had urgently whispered “no further”, to my limbs as I began to wade though the cool shallows.

There was also, of course, the cultural memory from three decades previous. You know the one: mutually attracted drunken boy and girl peel off from the playful nocturnal crowd and run to the water’s edge. He passes out, incapacitated by drink, but she, she continues on and out to another doomed rendezvous, this time with the great predatory fish.

From that screenplay there are a couple of key scenes that persistently stick in my memory. A disembodied hand being picked over by the crabs in the bright sunshine of the following day’s action and the compelling character of the marine biologist narrating his finds as he conducted his grisly inspection of the scant human remains.

Two incidents from the original book upon which the film was based stand out even more clearly: a description of teenage boys grinding their groins into the warm summer sand of the endangered beach, and; the marine biologist’s eyes rolling back to the whites as he arched his back in climax during the throes of an illicit sexual union. As the writer so cleverly emphasised, that character’s involuntary ocular (and other) gyrations mirrored perfectly the occlusive movement and protective function of the eyelids of the great fish at the very point at which it finally launches its attack on its prey.

Was that then what I was also truly thinking of? Of a smooth gentle face, barely chin deep in the cool water, limbs outstretched, breasts tracing narrow ovoid shapes in the moist dark sand while I plundered and plunged exultingly and endlessly from behind; driving into warm depths, matching the hiss, ebb and flow of other night waves and feeding rituals, losing myself to the old sensations?

Pelagic and predatory, was that how I had regarded myself? Was that how I appeared to others? Just how many straits, how many waters had I previously plunged and surged blindly forward into, oblivious or wilfully ignorant of the dangers waiting just below the surface?