24 Friday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
Well,
It’s on for young and old. The running of the shoppers is on. Madness at Aldi’s. Limping shoppers being hit by trolleys. Sobbing customers not finding parking spots. Boxes of prawns wrenched out from trawlers. Total mayhem, concentrated bedlam.
It must all be running out.
Boxing day, most shops will be open.
Here something to sooth all. Enjoy.
Ot this, a bit later on: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DeHIspyAtGs&feature=related
19 Sunday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
The grinding together of the economic tectonic plates seems to have subsided and aftershocks are generally easing with even the ban on naked or covered short-selling of stock market shares lifted. Australia came out tops and is the envy of the world. We did not even blink. Mr. Confidence is back in town and swaggering wildly…
Yet, is this very success also not the cause for our complacency on the thundering locomotive of climate change, bearing down on us with ever increasing speed? The proof of our relaxed state of mind could not be better demonstrated then that both sides of our political arena are being dominated by politician’s hell bent on staying in power and failing to grasp the significance of climate change. Do they really think we can go on as before and that a world will survive just on hope and that all will be kissed better, doing too little too late?
Where are the ‘wise men’ at this time, having the wisdom, courage and political strength to point out, that repeating what we have been doing will make things worse and hasten the demise of the world that we hardly ever knew. Surely, we don’t want the same old economic growth again? Where are the brave that will deliberately and cogently argue for an economy based on saving the world and finally go for different kind of profits rather than mere outdated money profits? Doing better with consuming less is not getting much attention here.
The economic downturn all over the world, except in lucky Australia, should be seen as an advantage in turning the tide of terminal materialism. Save the world from this manic obsession with compound economic growth, year after year. They are the very reasons the continuance of our planet is now being threatened. It is outdated.
By reducing energy use and decrease our over-consumption we would improve the likelihood of the world rearing up again and secure a future for our kids. We are now on record of having the largest houses in the world, holding forth our selfish right to use and consume and dump even more CO2 into the word’s open sewer. How does it feel that Bangladesh is now one of the world’s most threatened countries and we are deliberately encouraging rising sea levels for 160.000.000 million including 44.000.000 children between 0 and fourteen? Do our aspirations really not go further than living in dwellings that have multiple living areas, 4 bedrooms, spare rooms, office, game room, three bathrooms, and three garages with 2.20 kids?
At least, Bangladesh, despite being one of the poorest nations in the world, still managed to produce three Bengal Nobel Laureate Prize winners, turning adversity in a triumph for mankind and the rest of the world. Another overpopulated country have managed for a large part to live below the sea level and appear now to grasp the challenge and plan to continue with floating green houses, genetically improving and growing salt liking produce and taking advantage of the situation. Please look at: http://www.smh.com.au/environment/climate-change/a-deluge-of-dutch-courage-20091204-kb3f.html?skin=text-only
A future Government can’t possibly continue on the old promise of bringing back what caused problems in the first place. We, for once could become a ‘first’ in something more than just sport. Our climate and over abundance of sun is crying out for solar panels on every roof top and on all those derelict industrial areas in our major cities, even on farm paddocks. Why haven’t we embraced that? What are we so reluctant about? Our housing could become the envy of the world. They might even get designed by a combination of the best of architects, planners and even scientists. Perhaps more compact for a better use of space and our families, but still with a garden for kids and vegies. Townships and suburbs could have centralised cooling and heating. It is being done elsewhere and is far more energy efficient. Why not here?
The very least our homes should all be self sufficient in power, even better, be exporting power back into the grid more than importing it. Just as important are the roofs being used for catching every drop of rain water that falls on it. We are the driest and yet the most wasteful with water. How can this be allowed to continue? A good and fast public transport together with penalising of large cars together with encouraging bicycles with matching bike paths.
The present Government trumpets the subsidising with insulation bats our homes and yet don’t have the guts to legislate and make homes more energy efficient. Not only not have the guts, but allow hundreds of thousands of homes being built with black roof tiles, the worst of coloured material in absorbing heat. Is this just to allow ‘freedom’ of choice? What kind of freedom is it when we take so little in consideration in the squandering of energy trying to keep cool? I doubt many countries in Europe would queue up to be that uncaring and neglectful in design. Or is our obedience to the overriding dogma of allowing unfettered freedom to the detriment of a life for the future of our children and grandchildren allowed to override all?
Man shall know commonwealth again,
From bitter searching of the heart,
We love the easy and the smart,
But now with keener hand and brain,
We rise to play a bigger part.
Part of a poem. (Leonard Cohen)
15 Wednesday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
Agfa Clack.
There must have been some spare money about but when about twelve or so I had a Kodak box camera given by my parents. It was a simple box and had two little mirrors in which to focus on the subject. The film was wound on an empty spool two and a half times and then inserted in the camera; the box would be closed ready for the 8 or 12 photos that it then could take. What a glorious gift it was. The photos took about a week to get developed and sleepless nights would be followed by euphoria when the big day would arrive to get the photos. Money for the development was earned by collecting old newspapers and rags after school.
After the go-a-head for migrating I had spotted a camera far advanced to the Kodak Box. It was an Agfa Clack. Forty five guilders. A small fortune. Many times I stared at the shop window. As I remember, it had two apertures and two shutter speeds and was flash capable. The approval to migrate coincided with parents taking me out of school in order to work to help and fatten the communal Oosterman wallet. Something at least for the totally unforseen and unfathomable future.
It was all a bit shaky and nervous during that time. Friends would be left. No more handball games on a Sunday with girls and budding breasts…. Eric Nanning, Anton Van Uden, Louis Gothe, all would disappear within a few months. The same for our street, the ice cream (between crusty wafers) shop, and hot ‘patat de frites’ as well, soon be gone. What need for a good camera, etched the good times in photos’ eh?
The job was delivering fresh fruit and vegetables to the very top of The Hague’s society and its burgers, Including royalty and most embassies. The delivery was done by carrying the goods in a huge wicker basket fastened above the front wheel of a sturdy and large steel framed bicycle. I peddled like one possessed. There were lots of orders and the boss was strict. No loafing and it was winter.
The stingiest of tippers are The Hague’s wealthiest, the best tippers the staff of embassies. They all had jars of money to be tipped to deliverers of goods. The US embassy was unbelievably generous. My earnings were always tipped into the parental wallet, ‘for our future,’ I kept being assured. All tips were mine and at times they eclipsed earnings, especially after a delivery of imported black grapes to the Yank kitchen at the back of the Embassy, the tradesman entry… A ten guilder tip gave me almost a quarter of the Agfa Clack in one scoop. Not bad, considering I had filched a couple of those grapes from the delivery. Geez, they were those black ones as well.
I soon came to that glorious walk to the camera shop and bought my camera. A couple of weeks later, a leather case with carry strap. Soon after that a battery operated flash with 6 globes. Even sooner came the day, just after Christmas on a bleak and rainy day that it came about, that we all walked the dreadful walk up the gangplank and boarded our ship to Australia. Goodbye all. And that was that. My Agfa around my neck.
12 Sunday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
A few evenings ago I was totally sucked in by a TV program on weddings. We were taken for a long ride through all the various aspects of ‘wedding planning’. Who would have thought, even remotely, how simple weddings could turn into those outrageous levels of commercial exploitations as shown during the evening. I was astonished to hear that in America (where else?) the 2 to 3 million costing wedding is accepted now, and indeed something that we should all aspire to. Alas, here in Australia, one of the wedding consultants lamented, we are still stuck on the $ 200.000,- to $300.000.-wedding.’’We are getting there, it just takes more time’, she enthused.
The best part were the wedding preparation workshops called ‘seminars’ and run by a savvy looking bloke, competing against a young ambitious woman. Both were expert wedding consultants. Towards the end of the program, all the consultants confessed that none were interested in marriage. Perhaps they were also running a lucrative private post marriage counselling service as well!
The sums just in running the seminars were phenomenal, held in prestigious Melbourne exhibition palaces. Rows and rows of white stretch limousines, endless groaning racks of bridal gowns, table settings, acres of seductive lingerie. At one stage future brides, as a special promotion, were seen to dig into a huge wedding cake that had a $ 4000.- ring hidden inside. All this part of an exhaustive programme with the throngs of thousands future brides queuing and paying up big already just for the tickets and the ‘grooming up’ by consultants for spending fortunes for the ‘big day’, not far off. Bridal faces were flushed with regal expectations and future grooms were fixated on the tables exhibiting shapely plaster torsos and busts encased and eclipsed with frilly minimum lingerie and intimate apparel with pale pink satin lace stitched around the edges. I had to suppress a strong desire to compare lambs to the slaughter analogy and took a biscuit break.
‘ The attention to detail is what we specialise in’, the daughter and mother marriage specialists uttered during the evening. Indeed, there was a bit of a problem with the butter being served inside the foil wrappings that could possibly be seen as lowering the standards a little. Cool as a cucumber and with an expert hawk eye cast over the wedding participants, the mother specialist consultant, cheque in handbag, herded the entourage, couple by couple and equally spaced apart inside the church. The lovely and obligatory Bach’s ‘Ave Maria’ was carefully being played by real players with cellos, violins and singers. I almost expected the arrival of castrati to have flown in from Italy, just for the occasion. The weddings were grand affairs.
Someone mentioned, somewhat desultory, ’ it is the marriage that counts, not the wedding’. Far out!
Lying awake, tossing and turning, reflecting on the last remark by this cynic I wondered late at night about the prospect of starting a business on ‘reality- wedding seminars’. Perhaps consultants of wiry age and experience, matrons of multiple divorces and inequitable property settlements, those hardy souls having survived it all, could be engaged in running them. Hire a large hall, fill it with rows and rows of washing machines, the latest in ironing hardware, babies screams amplified a hundred times and DVD’s on large screens showing close ups of projectile vomiting. The soiled nappy essence wafting through aerators and sprayed on dainty bridal wrists. Cane laundry baskets and competitions of underwear finding their way inside without prompting from anyone. Tired simulated love making after a bout of horrific credit card bills screaming for attention on the bedside table. Those details can all be worked out. It might have to involve a couple of days in the toolshed, tinkering with routers and small sledge-hammers.
For those not so well off; pre-marriage ‘reality wedding workshopping’ could be done by trips to supermarkets. The visit to the dairy section divisions with special attention to the patience of the male groom participant when a choice of margarine or cheese has to be made by the future wife. Foster a deeper understanding of the subtle differences between Persil or Omo washing powder. How will the couple cope with the men choosing the ‘home brand’ but the future wives ‘a haughty, no way ever’, only the best for me, you Dutch uncle skinflint..?.. This is the stuff of future marital battles and possible divorces.
It is all very well at those ‘other seminars’ for the groom to lust, linger, and even finger the lingerie, but how well will he take to a resounding ‘NO’, coupled with a midriff elbow or a kick in the groin? The couple need to take special care with the NO issue and the male participant perhaps to compensate for the NO and take on extra lessons in ironing, showing what a real iron-man is made of. For a small extra fee, a tour and Q&A’s discussion with celibacy practising religious orders would be strongly advised.
For a fraction of the cost, slowly but surely, conversation topics could be touched upon. Simulated continuing discussions by men with future partners lasting at least for ten minutes in one hit might be envisaged.
And now last but not least. During the finals of whatever, cricket, football, rugby, even Olympics, the male has to practise switching off the plasma or small screen. (does it matter?) in mid stream. Watch facial expressions of male participants. Any expletives, a clear sign of storm ahead. How will he take to having to sooth baby, clean the cat vomit, missing out on his favourite sport?
Weddings and divorces. They cause massive GLOBAL WARMING.
10 Friday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
Some years ago, when the giant FordHook Silver beet was still in vogue and beautiful girls would dress in string tied dyed dresses, listen to Carole King while sitting on doorsteps and pleating their hair; there passed a time when Sweet Peas were abundant in people’s gardens.
All gone now, haven’t laid eyes on Sweet Peas for ages. Not even here in Bowral; a traditional haven for lush gardens, thick with superannuated retirees with green fingers and red cardigans. Many have special knee pads and shuffle about tending lovely gardens.
I went through a stage of keenly growing those lovely climbing Sweet Pea flowers. You knew summer had almost arrived when the Sweet Pea was climbing a foot a night and the flowers were coming faster than you could pick them.
What has happened to them? Is even the world of growing things now so fickle as to be subject to fashion as well? What next, will roses disappear? I have noticed that the Boxes are all the rage now. English box (Buxus sempervirens) or Japanese box (Buxus microphylla Japonica. Rows and rows of them with many shaped into submission by electric shears that shriek away almost in every street here in the Southern Highlands. There are round boxes, pyramid boxes, square boxes, and even double layered boxes. It is all firmly in hands, don’t worry. But, not a Sweet Pea in sight.
Perhaps, the very strict instruction on how to grow Sweet Peas might have had something to do with their demise. I was amazed at the time that the ticket dangling from the Sweet Pea seedlings had me somewhat intimidated. I ended up buying stakes and chicken wire, all according to the instructions. I nervously planted them and absolutely forced them facing north.
I also did an etching.
07 Tuesday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
After finally having a dry day and the visitors departure, we decided to use the lull during the last very hectic few weeks, to sneak in and do a shop at Aldi’s. We wouldn’t cook anything, just a piece of fresh salmon, perhaps left for a half hour in a mixture of mirin, ginger and some soya sauce, before frying for a few minutes. Perhaps with micro-waved spuds and some butter. That’s all.
Anyway, after spreading our items on the conveyor together with the green bags to prove we were not stealing, I found an utterly deserted and lonely shopping list at the bottom of the stainless steel trolley .
It had: Fruit,sardine,mince, ice cream, salami, apple juice, salami.
Of a curious nature, especially about the shopping and dietary habits of others, I read the list. Of course, I noticed the doubling up of salami. The list was written on a winning NSW lottery ticket receipt of $ 14.25
It was made out to a Mrs Kafka. This explained the twice mentioned ‘salami’. No one with a Kafka name background and nationality could possibly risk going without salami. They invented salami.
05 Sunday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman, The Dining Room
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To pare a perfect pear.
There is nothing quite like the perfect pear. Of all the fruit, surely the pear is king amongst all of them. Some might argue the durian is better. That choice comes from mainly the southern hemisphere. I remember a long arduous sea voyage where many Indians had taken with them enough durians to last them all the way to Freemantle. People, especially the 10 quid poms almost jumped ship well before landfall. Of course, even the smell of soap can make some poms feel sick.
Anyway, back to the pear. The flesh is grainy and unlike most fruit, it has a luscious sheen, a certain gloss that the apple for instance lacks. While the verb ‘to pare’ can be applied to some other things, I believe that the usage applied to the pear is what it was meant for. Verbs are ‘doing’ words and the paring of a pear conjures up mum with a long perfect unbroken pear peel in the kitchen of food and eating pleasure. The peel was not only unbroken but it still had spring to it and was curled up as if wanting to get back onto its host. Too late for that though. The glistening fruit, dripping with juice was eaten, core and all, but not the stem.
And so….partake to peel and pare of the pleasing portion of a plump ripe pear!
Lehan and others; here the etching I did after seeing a pear picture on a poster, somewhere, many years ago.
02 Thursday Dec 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
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Going through all those boxes of collected remnants I found some pictures taken when, for brief period, I had made a dark room in our garage and mucked around with taking pictures and developing them.
Here are some of people that I used to see regularly when strolling through Sydney’s back streets on my way to Argyle Cut and a studio somewhere above it. Was it Harrison Str.? 
I would not mind if some of you still remember these men in the pictures. This one is of a news paper seller. An unusual character, totally focussed on spotting the next customer. He was to be seen at the entrance to Botanical gardens or Hyde park, especially during those ‘concerts in the park’ events. Note his special bag and coin storer.
The second picture is of a more mysterious nature. For many years he was to be seen pushing a kind of large covered stroller. Perhaps it contained his whole world? Perhaps a refugee from Belsen or Auswitch, still unsure if the world had become a safer place. Perhaps a doctor whose qualifications were not recognized. Who knows?
The third picture gazing at the Opera House is of course from….?
And then an etching of a nude (woman), for some light relief.
24 Wednesday Nov 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
23 Tuesday Nov 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
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The plight of adequate shelving inside homes is generally solved by buying shelving from shops. I will never understand architecture that supplies multitude toilets but no shelving. We, after our move from a place where the owner had installed so many shelving one could almost have sub-let to small Turkish families all the space taken up by it. Acres of book shelves!
After initially storing most of our books in milk crates, finally got some second hand antique bookshelves. Take the antique with a grain of salt, merely some dark stain applied to a light coloured background giving an aged look where perhaps only about thirty years might have passed. None the less, many books were hopefully shelved on those during its history and I have no reason to believe that only Car magazines or Playboys ever adorned those wooden surfaces. Here and there an attempt at patching the framework showed up, further proof that they had been used and that at least some time had passed. This is a great consolation and a good omen when buying book shelves.
After many hours by Helvi of unpacking the milk crates, many books now found a more substantial, and hopefully final resting place. The milk crates were also a remnant of past history when I used to roam the Inner West, at the crack of dawn, for milk crates when I was making home brew beer in the garage.
The space for books on those shelves was still somewhat scarce and we went for another hunt. This time we drove again to ‘Dirty Jane’ where we had secured the previous shelving.
I noticed a couple of boxes that had a ticket written and pinned to them, ‘bee boxes, and kauri pine’ and ‘dove tailed’, thirty dollars each. I suppose, the bees, not in their wildest dreams, could ever have thought that their homes would end up shelving books. There you have it though. No more honey just books.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 