My big bold beautiful project

Dear friends, I wrote this on the sixteenth of June. For three months, I have held back from publishing this because it feels too real and too raw to announce my project to the world. But tonight, on the eve of what would have been my son’s eighteenth birthday, I am putting this out there. For myself. And for Cameron.

It is Monday, and I’m back at my surrogate office away from home—the popular Paramount Coffee Project in Surry Hills.

I’ve been here for almost two hours, trying to write. It is chilly and overcast, but not rainy, which is nice. The house pigeon is nowhere to be seen, and weirdly enough, I sort of miss it.

I’m dressed in my comfort winter attire today: my thick grey turtleneck, my pleated beige trousers, and my khaki trench coat thrown over the top. I bought the coat from the Uniqlo men’s department about four years ago, and it is easily my favourite thing to wear in the colder weather.

Two young girls are seated across from me at the big communal table. The Japanese one has slightly permed hair with a fringe. The other girl has straight hair with a side part. One has a black hoodie; the other has a grey one. They order sandwiches and lattes. They are animated and lively, and the sound of their chatter is lovely. They both have perfect skin.

Around quarter past noon, I realise I’m hungry too. I pretend to glance at the menu, but I already know what I am ordering.

‘Can I get a B.K.E. roll?’ I ask the waitress with the effortless messy bun. She smiles at me. ‘Of course,’ she says, as she enters the order into her iPad.

I continue to type away in Scrivener. Another pair of girl friends sit down at the table, chatting away happily in Mandarin. They both have on cozy-looking sweaters—one wears a white quarter-zip with a cable pattern, while the other has a lilac mohair crew neck with a matching lilac scrunchy in her hair. The latter has tiny sparkling studs in her ears, and she reminds me of my friend’s ex from university. For a moment, I wonder if it’s actually her, but I soon realise this girl can only be mid-twenties or younger, which would put her in primary school when we were at university. Okay, so definitely not my friend’s ex.

The blond waitress serves up their coffees, and they take out a small toy bunny to photograph next to their beverages. The girl with the lilac sweater catches me watching, and we grin at each other for a brief moment.

My B.K.E. roll arrives, and I close my laptop. I take my first bite, and the crispy kale goes flying. I spot bits of it on my pants, and I have to flick them off quickly, careful not to stain my pants. I take my second bite, and the same thing happens. I decide I need protection, so I reach for the napkin and place it over my lap. I look like an idiot, but I don’t care. I’m forty-four, after all. Laundry comes first.

When I open up my laptop again, I realise with a start that it’s the sixteenth of June. Which means it is exactly three months till Cameron’s eighteenth birthday. Or, more precisely, three months away from what would’ve been his eighteenth birthday.

Last Wednesday afternoon, my son Jake came into the studio after school and asked me point blank how many pieces of art I’d completed so far for my big bold art project in honour of Cameron. I did a quick count and gave him the answer. He took a few minutes to do the maths, and told me loud and clear, ‘Mum, you’re going to need to make about two pieces of art a day if you want to get it done in time for Cameron’s birthday.’ I pretended not to hear him.

His words now come back to haunt me. I am somewhat panicked, to say the least. Can I seriously complete Cameron’s art project in just three months? After all, I’ve only managed to finish forty artworks to date, which means I have another one hundred and forty to go. Is this even humanly possible?

The short answer is: maybe not.

The long(er) answer is: Maybe yes. I honestly don’t know. But if I quit now, it definitely won’t happen. Which means the only option is not to give up.

Which means the only answer that matters is: It doesn’t matter. Because no matter what the odds are, I have to keep going.

The waitress with the high ponytail comes over and clears my plate away. She asks if she can get me anything else. I glance at the menu and decide I need more time to digest. ‘Not right now, thanks,’ I say with a big smile. (Read: ‘Please don’t hate me for taking up space here.’).

It still feels strange when I tell people about my project. Almost like when I told people I was attending art school three years ago.

Will people get it? Will they think I’m crazy? Will they think I’m wasting my time Obviously, it doesn’t matter a single hoot what others think, but these questions still fly through my mind each time.

Rick was the first person I told. I didn’t need to explain why to him at all. He understood straight away. He’s my person and always will be.

I told the boys next. They didn’t question it either, because they know me, and they know Cameron.

‘How many pieces are you thinking of making?’ Ewan enquired.

‘One hundred and eighty pieces,’ I said.

‘How big will they be?’ he asked.

‘A5 size,’ I told him.

‘Oh, that’s easy!’ he replied.

That’s my second youngest son for you. Nothing is too hard, and art is a no-brainer for someone like him. Like, why would making art even be hard? Why, indeed. If only I had his brain, his fearlessness, and his enormous heart for all things creative.

My parents’ response was quieter, though no less supportive. As I beckoned them to come into my studio one day, mum quietly shuffled her way over to where I was standing, with dad just a step behind her. I’d already explained to them that my plan was to create one hundred and eighty pieces of art in recognition of Cameron’s eighteenth birthday. As I held up the tiny paper studies and a few of the finished works for them to look over, I studied their faces in silence: a mixture of sadness, grief, love, and wonderment. They listened to me as I explained some of my thinking behind the art. They nodded as they listened and never once asked me ‘Why?’. I loved them so much for that.

After telling the most important people in my life, I started sharing my project with a few artist friends on Instagram. And by a few, I mean two (here’s looking at you, Inge Flint and Julie Battisti). They were both so sweet and kind and encouraging in their replies, it genuinely made me tear up. When people who you know are artists say that they also think you’re an artist, it means the world. When those same people cheer you on because they know how scary and hard it is to create something from nothing and then to put that out into the world, it is doubly special and powerful. I once wrote that kindness is an art fuel, and I still believe this to be true with my whole heart.

I decide I do need another drink. I scan the menu and realise I’ve never tried their matcha hot before. The friendly blond waitress takes my order, and before long, I have a steaming cup of green matcha in my cold hands.

I take my first sip, and I’m in love with a drink that will never love me back. The matcha is rich and full of flavour, and the sweetness is just right.

‘That is such good matcha,’ I tell the same waitress as she wipes down the table in front of me. She probably doesn’t have time to chat with the likes of me, but I can’t help but express my appreciation out loud. ‘Yes, I know,’ she kindly reciprocates. ‘I’ve only had the cold one, but it is very good matcha.’ We banter for a minute before she returns to the counter. I really must stop bothering the staff.

I flip open my sketchbook and make some quick plans for the next two days’ worth of artmaking. I check the weather app as well and see that it will be sunny tomorrow and on Wednesday. This makes me smile, as I love a warm sunny day in the studio.

I grin even more when I remember that Andy is on study leave. Because it means I’ll get to show him my artworks as I go.

One of the things I love about my oldest is that he’s always so thoughtful and so inquisitive when we talk about my art. He never dismisses it, and he always gives helpful feedback.

In fact, I love gauging feedback from all of the boys, and it’s always amusing how different their responses are:

‘How do you make your lines so straight!?’

‘I think I could do that.’

‘I loooooooove them, mummy. They’re soooo good. I love them. I think I love that one the best. And that one. And also that one.’

‘Are you going to sell them or not?’

This last response was courtesy of my middle son—ever the pragmatist slash entrepreneur.

‘I think so,’ I’d told him.

But as I think about it now, I am not so sure. Understandably, each piece has become a part of me. And in a very real way, each piece has become a part of my connection with Cameron.

I glance out the window and see that the light is falling. There are only a few customers left at the cafe, and the staff are beginning to clean up.

I finish my matcha, pack my things, and pay the bill.

As I step outside and begin the journey home, I send myself a text.

‘Keep going. Don’t give up. You can do this. For yourself. And for Cameron.’