I leave the garage door open when I paint and there is a sign out on the lawn saying ‘Art Studio Open’. Most people walk by without even looking up, others smile at my Labradoodle on his red beanbag and some eventually walk in and comment on the art work. Yesterday, a lady commented on how good my painting of David Bowie was and today, another lady said, ‘Oh, you are painting Michael Jackson, aren’t you?

To my delight, a five-year-old and an eleven-year-old, both from India, walked in to tell me that my painting looked really really good. They proceeded to analyse the bats, the insects, the two faces, the trash can, the Jesus figure, the angel’s wings, but mainly the insects. The little one asked why one of you is sitting in a trash can. How does one answer such? Which made me wonder how you would explain your journey to your grandchildren.

Donald from Buenos Aires, who is terrific company, spent time with you before and after a gig in the early 80s. He said you were absolutely feral when you were young. How do we become who we are?

I too am a free range child who roamed the countryside, went to church, got communion, was perfectly happy to play cowboy and Indian until dinner time, jumped into lakes, went to concerts, red books, drank and smoked secretly at festivals and fought imaginary wars with the neighbourhood children.

How did I become so broken that I yearned for the quiet routine of a Zen monastery in which I would sweep the forest floor of leaves every day anew? How did you get into this little cocain routine?

I used to find it irritating, but now I find comfort in that neither Buddhism nor Christianity claim to know how we transform from one state to another. How horrific would life be if we had a remote control for everything! But how do we change? Where do these quantum leaps of the soul originate?

I am still not sure what this painting is supposed to show, but I thought about metaphysics, trickery, transformations and disconnectedness. Disconnectedness of body, mind and soul, purpose and utility, drugs and religion, sex appeal and emotion, identity and illusions, grandiose ideas, indulgences and self-loathing. It does not offer a resolution, but I hope there is an element of grace in there- even if it is only hanging as if by a thread. I also hope the floating Jesus figure looks familiar. I took inspiration from the cathedral in Wangaratta.

Paint is dripping over your wings. It took so long to flow to its natural end, I almost cried. I guess I got that from the Mutiny in Heaven song I listened to earlier. By the way, I can’t take too much of your music at the time- too intense. I am listening to meditation music today. My garage feels like a church with butterflies flying through the air and I am meditating in front of dripping red paint on some strange forlorn angel’s wings. I would like to hug you. That must have been such a shit show- waking up from all that drug induced- whatever it was. I can’t begin to fathom. My own nightmares were intense enough at the time.

Much to ponder, much sky to push away and much to paint.

Cordula