Some years ago I discovered that I had been saying my name wrong all my life.

I’ll get to the story of my mis-pronounced name another time. For now, let me backtrack a bit. I was raised in a very multicultural environment. We think we have that in Australia, but in Penang, where I grew up, this was the cultural chaos from which I sprang:

I had ethnically Indian parents who didn’t speak their mother tongues, and even if they did, they wouldn’t have understood each other as they didn’t share the same language!

Their parents migrated to Singapore, from India, at the very beginning of the twentieth century, when Singapore and India were … well, outlying provinces of England. My parents therefore, being loyal citizens of the British Empire, were brought up speaking The Queen’s English. Some parts of their childhood recollections sounded a lot like they grew up in England, rather than in South East Asia.

Growing up surrounded by Chinese people (our housekeeper, my best friend,  my first boyfriend, all my school mates, my favourite food, just about everyone I knew was Chinese), the language, other than English, that I was most fluent in, but was too shy to speak, was Hokkien, the most commonly used Chinese dialect in Penang.

Adding to this complex cultural backdrop was religion. Before I was born, both my parents, from good Methodist families, became members of the Baha’i Faith. So, instead of being taught an Indian language and encouraged to connect with my ‘cultural heritage’, I was taught the oneness of humanity and encouraged to have world-embracing vision. If they instilled any thought of cultural heritage at all, it was that it was almost irrelevant in the face of all the wondrous diversity around us.

The Malaysia of my childhood was a beautiful, riotous, yet strangely harmonious blend of three main racial groups – Malay (the majority), Chinese and Indian (the minority). Back then, there was a relaxed-ness between the cultures, a fellowship and friendship that was particularly evident in the sharing of food and festivities. So it wasn’t too hard for me to extrapolate the ambiguous cultural identity I had grown up with to something that I thought everyone sort of had. Then I left Malaysia and went to University in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Cultural identity was about to get very tricky.

My first experience of living overseas was a year spent in Suva, Fiji. You’re thinking…aaah, that sounds idyllic, sunny beaches, tropical paradise, how cool is that? Well…firstly, it rains a lot in Suva. Secondly, there were no beaches (but I got to study mangrove swamps close up).

And thirdly, I was soon to become, at the tender age of seventeen, a social outcast.

I was the only ‘foreign’ student in the University of the South Pacific.  But here’s the strangest thing. I looked just like anyone else, as I shared the features of fifty percent of Fiji’s population, who are ethnically Indian. However, before long, it was made clear to me that a young Indian girl, armed only with English, a smattering of Malay and a perfect comprehension of Hokkien had absolutely NO business calling herself Indian in Fiji! I had never been among so many Indians in my life (a minority in Penang) and yet, I was a pariah to them! Fortunately I had no trouble making friends with the islanders from all over, including the far-flung nations of the Solomons, Samoa, Tonga and Kiribati, so I wasn’t lonely. But it was a somewhat bewildering experience to someone previously been unaware of ‘difference’.

I arrived in Australia for the very first time, a year later. I was eighteen.  There was something about this place that that was so vast and clean and clear that made me feel like I could breathe. And rest.  Yes, it’s clichéd, but it felt like I was home.

Finding art more than twenty years later was a bit like that, like coming home. Identity has always been a ‘chameleon-like’ thing for me. I took on the identity of whatever environment I was in. That strategy didn’t always work, as you saw in another story.

Even in my fantastic five years of in art school, it wasn’t all smooth sailing.

Not all of my lecturers were like the Jim I wrote about here. In fact, during the last year of my studies, I was given a terrible assessment by a respected lecturer. It felt like a public flogging, and it devastated me. And in the aftermath of that flogging, I responded like countless others would have.

 I contemplated giving it all away. Art. Studies. Creative pursuits. Everthing. If this was what making art was about, then I was never going to cut it, and perhaps now was the best time to leave, before I made a complete fool of myself in the art world.

Fortunately I came to my senses. It took me a long time to recover from this public flogging, but when I did, what emerged what a very clear understanding of the sort of artist I wanted to be, what sort of art I loved making, and why. It was even hugely instrumental in shaping what sort of teacher I would later become. This ‘forging by fire’ forced me to ask myself all sorts of questions, which had at their core this one:

Who Am I, and what do I have to offer?

Interestingly, it was, and still is, the fundamental first step in every single creative offering, every single piece of art I make, every journey into the creative unknown that starts as a blank canvas.

I believe we are all here to create. As we each stumble along our less-travelled road, I am somewhat comforted by this thought:

We all have potential, and none of us has reached it yet.

Oh oh. What did I say? Day one, lesson one, and I’ve gotten on the wrong side of the first lecturer, AND the coordinator of the course. This is going to be hard.

It was my first day in art school. We had left Perth for the beautiful coastal town of Albany, seeking a sea-change and a balm to my body and soul after years of struggling with chronic illness.

After much soul-searching, walks on the beach (and long conversations with myself!), I finally decided to be brave and take the plunge – and enrol in Visual Art and Design at Great Southern TAFE (it stands for ‘Technical and Further Education’).

It was a big deal…I had invested years of education in the Medical Sciences and was about to turn my back on it all for good.

When classes started, I was excited and enthusiastic, but also felt very much out of my depth. But this was ‘just’ a technical college, right? Should be a piece of cake after four different universities and three degrees, right?

So wrong! It was all this creative stuff, unstructured, un-boundaried and more than a little scary. And I was oh so very keen to ‘get it right’. Probably a little too keen :)

Jim was the first lecturer in my very first class. And after he did his thing, I asked a question, obviously not a very good one – it wasn’t exactly welcomed – and that’s when I got his curt response. And what the heck did he mean, anyway, “there’s one in every class”?  I decided we were NOT going to be the best of friends. I resolved to grit my teeth, hang in there and tolerate his lectures. It’s all I could do, Jim was distant, inaccessible and … well, a little grumpy. Not, in my opinion, the qualities of a good teacher.

Man, was I wrong! We took awhile to warm to each other after that but I’m happy to say things improved considerably between us. In fact, it was Jim’s instruction, during that first year of what became five years of art studies, that turned out to be the single most defining influence of my entire art education.

Jim was not your stereotypical zany, fun-loving, enthusiastic art teacher that inspired all their students with their passion for art. No, no, no. And he wasn’t the sort that doled out praise and encouragement. He wasn’t even particularly friendly. He rarely smiled, and he certainly never shared anything about his personal life. In fact, Jim was a bit of a mystery to most of us.

What he did have was that indefinable quality of a great teacher that makes a student actually WANT to learn. Day after day, I would watch as he would take each question asked (of course many of them were mine!), give it due consideration, and answer it precisely and accurately, never leaving anyone feeling they should have known better.

Did I mention he didn’t smile? Well, Jim had the best POKER face around, rarely did he let on whether he liked or hated our work … But he had the ability to take each of our precious bits of creativity (and with them, our fragile little art-student-egos) equally seriously, and treat each piece with respect – even though it may have been the worst thing he’d ever seen, and probably often was.

His poker face was quite frustrating, because an interaction with Jim would go something like this.

You would nervously show Jim your work. He might then say, “Are you happy with that?” You would um and ah, and try to scrape around for some intelligent response that didn’t make you sound big-headed or overly critical. Then there would be a long silence. And then perhaps, if you were lucky, a very quiet, understated, barely audible, “I am.”

And you were left with a weird mixed feelings of being deflated (why hadn’t he cheered and clapped?!), and a bit elated that he had actually, actually paid you a compliment.

The thing is, no matter how much you wanted his approval, Jim somehow turned things around, and directed his students to rely on our own analysis rather than to rely on someone else’s approval. This was gold – a HUGE lesson for would-be artists to learn.

I still remember the first drawing I showed Jim. I was so excited to have done it – painstakingly copied from some picture in a magazine. I know now that this is THE most UNCOOL thing to do in art school! I can think of at least three other lecturers who would have quickly made that clear to me there and then. But Jim didn’t flinch, he just studied it carefully, giving me considered feedback and quiet encouragement.

When Jim left TAFE, he had worked there for 22 years. I put together a farewell book with messages from students. We had a little farewell do, and I presented him with the book and said a few words. Jim approached me afterward with very bright eyes and gave me a hug. I nearly dropped dead on the spot! It was a special moment, and I’m glad we marked the occasion for him in a meaningful way.

I had no idea then that I was going to have students of my own one day…

I marvel at how different our approaches are – like chalk and cheese, Jim and I. He was introverted and valued his privacy. I share openly and often with my students. I never saw him laugh. I joke around a lot – my cackle, unfortunately, can be heard for miles around! Jim was never, ever effusive in his praise, I go into raptures over my student’s work, and often want to take them home with me! But my intensive workshops are now peppered with an assortment of artful gems that I picked up from Jim, mainly in that first year of my five years of art school. In other words, much of what I teach, I learned from Jim.

I had a lot of really great lecturers in my five years at Great Southern TAFE. But Jim was the one I showed my first tentative, stumbling drawings to, the one who guided my very first paintings, the one who first showed me how to throw a pot, the one who painstakingly taught me the finer points of form and function, the one who expounded most insightfully on the most about the principles and elements of design, and the one who truly nurtured my nascent skills in visual art with his steady, methodical and excellent teaching skills.

And if not for Jim, in that very first year, I may never have realised that I had reached that very important milestone in my journey, the one that said, “Aaaah, this is where you’re meant to be”.

My head was alarmingly blank. My stomach was a mess. There was a full blown war in there – between my nerves and my gastric juices. Just for a few seconds, I felt a warm comforting hand placed gently between my shoulder blades…A fellow performer giving me support.  It helped for a moment. But then it was gone…and I still couldn’t remember a single line of the songs we were about to sing!

I thought to myself “once I connect with the audience I’ll be fine”.

Then the music began, the curtains opened, and the lights hit my eyes. I always forget how bright stage lights are. Behind them is a pitch black space full of people you are trying to connect with but can’t actually see!

It didn’t take too long before I relaxed into the performance with everyone else on stage. That was until the third act, and the first of my solos. And there it was again. The panic. I was certain that when I opened my mouth, nothing would come out.

It wasn’t like I was new to the stage. It’s just that it had always been this way. I’d been singing on stage since I was nine. They say that even the most accomplished of performers can get so nervous that they often throw up backstage, but the ‘high’ they get from performing makes it all worthwhile. Well, it didn’t, not for me! At least, that high didn’t cancel out the fear I felt in the weeks that led up to it, or the sheer terror in the moments before.

This time, I was playing the part of ‘The Lady in White’ in a musical written by my husband, Greg, called The Face of Glory. It was a fantastic production, and who knew Greg could write musical theatre? We had rehearsed for months, and ‘The Lady in White’ was loosely based around the real life character of a nineteenth century Persian poetess, Tahirih.*

I gathered myself and focussed on a blue light I could see in the back of the theatre. “Tahirih”, I thought, imagining she was that blue light. “Help me do justice to your memory.”

I calmed down immediately.  After that experience on opening night, each time I felt the panic well up inside, I would turn to the blue light and ask her for help. I felt a little silly, terribly unworthy and rather in awe of the role that was inspired by a woman of matchless courage, heroism and purity. But it worked. I felt Tahirih close to me, and I kept going.

Being on stage and performing before a live audience is an exceptional experience. Within the eye of the ‘storm of nerves’, there is a kind of serenity envelops you as its magic works its way through your system. It captures your heart and if you’re very lucky, it moves your audience in a way that nothing else can. Especially if what you are conveying is meaningful, entertaining and elevating to the human condition. I’ve always felt that if you were fortunate enough to be given a talent, then it was your responsibility to use it, and if possible, to serve humanity with it. Otherwise, it’s just a waste.

When I married Greg Parker, musician extraordinaire, it all seemed clear. Our voices blended such that we sounded much better together than either of us did apart (Greg may not agree with this, he was a pretty good singer all by himself :)

It seemed that our destinies were set – this is was what we were meant to do together. It didn’t seem to matter that performing was agonising for me. Being with Greg gave me ample opportunities to serve humanity with my voice, as our common beliefs led us to share many adventures both here and abroad.

The trouble is, Greg was blessed with an unshakeable faith in his own skills. I was blessed with an unwavering doubt in mine. He didn’t get pre-performance jitters, he lived for the spotlight. I felt nauseas every time I thought of it.

Nevertheless for years and years I kept at it, I sang, throughout my post grad studies, my first job, my pregnancy, I continued to sing. I had my beautiful baby, Mary, and I kept at it. I started to manage our stage productions, all the while maintaining a presence as lead vocalist in the cast. I even formed, with Vafa Ferdowsian, a dance theatre company, Dizzy Dance Theatre, and co-wrote COLOURS, our first production, staged at PICA.

Dizzy’s Dance Theatre’s next big production, The Seven Valleys, was at the Playhouse Theatre, and it toured Western Australia. Then Greg’s new show, Awaken, did a massive Australia-wide tour. Dozens of performances in cities all over the country with over thirty performers on a bus. A logistical challenge. I put so much work into that show, that my back gave way and I ended up in surgery shortly before the bus took off… without me. The tour was a fantastic success in many ways, including the two marriages that sprang from it! (There is nothing quite like sharing the intensity of performance in its capacity to forge bonds of friendship).

By this time, it was becoming clear that something was wrong with me. It took me awhile, but I finally read the signs and realised that this life was taking its toll on my health. These signs weren’t subtle. I couldn’t walk without aid, sometimes, didn’t have the strength to hold a cup. (It was around this time that I came upon The Question that Changed Everything). My life was shortly going to become very different.

“If you are irritated by every rub, how will you be polished?” Rumi

I’ve identified seven milestones that led me to becoming an artist. This was milestone number 2, I call it the one that said, “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you must”, and it took years, surgery, numerous doctors, and a lot of pain, to decipher it.

When I did, I realised that just because I was good at performing and managing productions, and even enjoyed a great deal of the work, didn’t mean I should spend the rest of my life doing it. (I still sing, but interestingly, performing no longer has any impact on my gastrointestinal function at all!)

Back then, there was a piece of the puzzle missing, and its absence had a profound impact on my wellbeing. That piece was using my own creativity, finding my own ‘authentic voice’ and ironically, it wasn’t to be in music. I found that authentic voice in a beautiful coastal town called Albany.

Another story.

*Tahirih was a phenomenon unparalleled in her time. She was a renowned poet, quick in argument and eloquent of speech, in an age when women remained veiled and secluded, denied education, and dominated their whole lives, first by fathers, and then by husbands. Tahirih was killed for her uncompromising demands for the emancipation of women.

“I really don’t can’t do this anymore”.

This was my first thought every morning, and frequently, my last thought at night. For five years.

I was working for the University of Western Australia’s Dept of Medicine, and studying for my Masters in Medical Science. Here I worked with some of the finest minds in the country, perhaps in the world. I loved some of these people, and I respected all of them. I loved medicine, the buzz of being in an environment of where everyone was dedicated to higher learning, the discipline of scientific research. I loved being around brilliant, driven people.

It’s just that every day something was becoming increasingly clear. I wasn’t one of them.

I couldn’t think like they did. I couldn’t speak like they could. Nevertheless, after five years, I managed to finish my research, write up my thesis, submit it (and to my great surprise, get a very positive response from my examiners!), and then – I enacted my complex life-enhancing plan.

I left the field of medical research, and never returned!

Do I regret those years? ABSOLUTELY not! Time spent in the ‘wrong profession’ taught me a whole lot, and even though it was painful (much of the time), I can easily list five things I gained which were to be pivotal in shaping my future and eventually, in helping me find a more authentic voice:

1. Friendship.

There I met my beautiful and treasured friend, Susan, and we sat side by side through all our years of postgraduate study. Just having her in my life (for the twenty four years since) has made those five challenging ones worthwhile.

2. Yearning.

By experiencing the struggle every day, I really learned that this wasn’t my calling, and I yearned to find what was. Knowing there was a part of me that was missing, was a key factor in later finding it. I think yearning can be really positive, for it pushes us away toward where we’d rather be (even if, for a very long time, we don’t know where that is!).

3. Self-awareness.

I stepped into Science early in my education because I didn’t know any better. I continued in Science in higher education because no other options presented themselves. But five years of feeling like I didn’t know what I was doing really sharpened my self-awareness. These words have taken on a new meaning for me:

“True loss is for him whose days have been spent in utter ignorance of his self.” -Baha’i Writings

4. Intellectual Discipline.

Having to push everything through the fine sieve of a ‘randomised double blind placebo controlled study’ has a way of making you think a little differently about – well – everything. The process of medical research and its rigorous adherence to testing, evaluation and review was a wonderful gift for a ‘spaghetti brain’ like mine.

5. Stick-At-It-Ness.

I nearly gave up. Many, many times. There were long periods that seemed tortuous.  And just as I was poised on the edge of jumping off the cliff of ‘That’s-it-I-don’t-care-how-close-I-am-to-finishing-I QUIT!’  my supervisor, Professor Ian Puddey, sat me down and kindly talked me into completing what I had started. (Ian, I’m so glad you bothered). So I kept going. And now I have a Masters in Medical Science, but more importantly, I learned that by choosing to keep going through a kind of fire, and coming out the other end, an amazing thing happened: I started to see myself as someone who finishes things.

I think back to that time as ‘the lost and found’ years. Feeling such extreme discontent was a key factor in redefining myself and later experiencing a kind of self-acceptance and worth I had never known.

I’ve counted seven milestones in my journey so far. I’ve found that not all milestones pointed the way – sometimes they just stated the obvious!  This was the first one that I identified, and all it said was ‘Malini, You’re Really, Really Lost’… Call it the prequel to the story which started with The Question That Changed Everything.

So, take heart if you feel like you’re not really doing what you really, really love, if you wonder if there’s something missing and you’re not even sure what it is, if you feel like you haven’t found your way.

I say, ” Great!”

Change is coming – if you want it :)

Not me.

I became an artist by accident.  It was a strange journey, via the Medical Sciences, full time motherhood, a long stint in the performing arts followed by a few years of debilitating illness, a move to the country, and then, equipped with three (non-art) degrees and several (non-art) professions, I finally started studying art…

But we’re jumping ahead. About a year before I got to that point, I recall a ‘changing moment’ in my life. Of course I didn’t recognise it as such then.

I had been ill with severe chronic fatigue syndrome for some time and was sitting with a yet another doctor in the hope that he would be able to help make me better. After the usual medical stuff, he leaned forward and looked intently into my eyes, for what seemed like a ridiculously long time. Just when I was starting to feel decidedly uncomfortable, he sat back thoughtfully, and said:

“Malini, do you have an outlet for your creativity?”

‘What an odd question!” I thought.

I mumbled something, faintly annoyed at his (rather non-medical) intrusion into my private life, and promptly dismissed the whole event. In fact, I took at as a sign that here was yet another GP that couldn’t help me and I never went back to see him.

Fast forward a few years.

I’m still sick, but I’ve left Perth and taken myself and my family to Albany, seeking the proverbial sea change. There I take the plunge and enrol in art school and it’s exhilarating! So much so that I keep thinking, “So this is why I was an appalling scientist!”

Remember that feeling when you fell in love for the very first time? For me, the discovery of art was just like that. It was all I could think about – first thing in the morning, last thing at night. Making art for the first time was a beautiful and consuming feeling and it was almost a struggle to do anything else. The year I had my first solo exhibition (while I was still a student), was the year I remember thinking “I’m well.”

Of course, it wasn’t just making art, a lot of things had changed to make me well but really, that GP was on to something.

The thing is, it was adversity that first led me to art. It was only because I was no longer able to hold down a conventional job that I turned to art studies.

There were days when I couldn’t walk without a walking stick, didn’t have the strength to hold a cup and had to be carried to the toilet by my husband. But on the days that I could, I got to my classes and I made art.

Eventually, making art helped change both my life and the way I defined myself. I went from a mediocre scientist (who was terrible at mathematics) to a chronically-sleep-deprived-mother to an 0verwhelmed-by-the-adrenalin-of-constant-performance-singer to where I am now: a very contented exhibiting artist.

I am also a workshop presenter and teacher, one who guides absolute beginners down the path of ‘making art’ via my intensive art workshops. In fact, helping others explore their own creativity through my workshops has become a ‘consuming passion’ for me.

Someone once said, “making art is a gesture of hope”. I now regularly get to witness that hope in my students’ eyes. And it’s an honour and delight to take that journey with them.

When I tell someone I’m an artist, I can almost guarantee that the next thing I’m going to hear is “What sort of art do you make?” It’s a simple, polite question. One for which I haven’t yet worked out a simple, polite answer.

What I DO want to say is something like this:

“Well, it was adversity that led me to art, and ever since, it is adversity who has been my constant companion. So it’s become the theme in most of my work – I try to paint the journey from adversity to ‘the other side’ and all that happens in between.”

See what I mean? This is not a simple answer to “What sort of art do you make?”!

Adversity is never what it seems. I once heard it being referred to as ‘a gift that is wrapped up in sandpaper’! It is a strange phenomenon – the fact that humans need tough times in order to become tough. I find it is expressed rather eloquently in a passage from the Baha’i Writings, where the Divine declares,

“My calamity is My providence. Outwardly it is fire and vengeance, inwardly it is light and mercy.”

It goes on to suggest that we should embrace all the hard stuff, as eventually, it leads to eternal strength.

So I paint these intriguing, yet universal ideas: that beauty and growth arise from periods of darkness and despair.

If do it often enough, maybe I will finally ‘get it’. Someday, when crap happens, as it regularly does, my first thought won’t be “I need to escape to a paradise island!” but will instead be

 “Bring it on. Only good can come from this!”.

So I’ll leave you with this little suggestion: Go over to the closest mirror, take a long look into your own eyes and ask yourself,

“Do I have an outlet for MY creativity?”

That creativity – when it finds its expression – may not change your life completely, but it will help complete your life.

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Love is in the Air…twenty five years later

Who’dve thought? I can barely believe it, but yep, we’re celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary this Sept 28th! (That’s us on our wedding day!) Actually, to be fair, this goofy picture was banished from our wedding album, but kept on as favourite of the mother-in-laws. Greg and Mary found it recently and the faded photo has taken on a new lease of life (…as we fade…!)

So what’s the plan, Gregory ? (hint, now may be a good time for that engagement ring I never got!) And friends, family and students…I’m not fussy, I’ll accept flowers and chocolates from anyone :)

Special Days Ahead (men, read the last line carefully!)

I was thinking just recently how much of a privilege it is for me to take anyone through this my Beginner’s Workshop. It’s part of my profession, but in truth, it feels more like a gift (to me). At the risk of sounding sappy, it really is such an honour to be a part of someone’s creative journey.

Father’s Day coming up and there’s Spring in the air and of course there’s our big 25th Wedding Anniversary. All this made me think of  MEN. You don’t have to be fathers. Come explore your creative side at my Beginner’s Workshop on Sept 18th for HALF PRICE. This is just a once off gift for men, never done before, probably never to be done again! So send me an email to book your half price place (or for your husband, brother, boyfriend). Come on men, be brave like the ladies :)

A little snippet of what you might learn…creating texture

Texture is very important part of my work. Before I introduce any paint onto a canvas, texture is laid down first and then I add colour to it. It’s all part of the 7 Step Process I teach. This is one of my student’s lovely paintings, created in a Beginner’s Workshop in July. I think it’s stunning!

Texture drives my paintings, it directs where I place colour and light. It is my metaphor for adversity. And from that adversity, I am driven to find ways to express the growth and transformation that stem from it. If a work is only about texture, or its only dark, then it doesn’t interest me, because contrast is what makes many images powerful. And this can also be said about life. The joy one feels in good times is heightened by how one may have felt in the really dark times. If these ideas resonate with you, I’d love to share my painting process with you in a workshop, where we’ll have fun with texture, colour and light.

Sharing a ‘Dance in the Park’…

My first large work in a long time - it was a delight to make and at times, I felt like an observer as the painting emerged on the canvas from red oxide dust, paint and gesso. It was alsoa very different experience working with Greg close by, watching me as I painted. I couldn’t leave him, as he was too unwell, so I set up my ‘studio’ next to him. He lay there, bravely battling with the pain and discomfort that cancer brings, half watching me and half watching the telly, and I kept an eye on him and an eye on the canvas! Dance in the Park is very textured with lace and leaves and has all the contrast I referred to earlier – in a way, joy and adversity were co-existing within the same room, and this image arose directly from those ideas.

It’s currently hanging at the Vic Park Art Awards in Park Centre foyer opposite Target, until this Sat Aug 27th. Lots of great artworks on display from many artists. You can even have your say and vote for your fav painting to win a prize.

Are you ready to take THE NEXT STEP?

Some of you already know of my new class THE NEXT STEP – a crazy FUSION of ‘Taking it Further’ and ‘Focus on Colour’ into one intensive follow up workshop! As always, it’s a jam-packed-bursting-with-content workshop, but this one is REALLY intensive, as it’s 2 classes merged into one.

THE NEXT STEP is only open to those who have attended Painting for Beginners. So if you would like to take THE NEXT STEP, click here and book your spot on Sat Oct 22nd or  SUN OCT 23rd. Early bird discount price: $195, full price $220. The first person to book a place will get a very special surprise! Email me to see if that’s you!

Unsure of what to do next?

I have 4 suggestions: If you’d like to find out more about whether my art or workshops are for you, visit my website . If you’re READY to take the plunge and explore your creativity email me  to book a place in Painting for Beginners. If you’ve already done Painting for Beginners , take THE NEXT STEP in October (be first and win a surprise gift!). If you’d like to share this with your friends – click on ‘forward this email to a friend’ below, I’d be ever so grateful!

Sun Sept 4th: Father’s Day (last minute gift?)
Sun Sept 8th: Mukinbudin Workshop (if you’re out in the wheatbelt)
Sun Sept 18th: Painting for Beginners (Men come for half price!)
Sun Oct 2nd: Painting for Beginners
Sun Oct 9th: Painting for Beginners
Sat Oct 22nd or Sun 23rd: The Next Step

The Creative Habit

I’ll leave you with an excerpt from my current favourite book – Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit: “There is a process that generates creativity – and you can learn it and you can make it habitual. Everything is raw material. Everything is relevant. Everything is usable. Everything feeds into my creativity. But without proper preparation, I cannot see it, retain it, and use it. Without the time and effort invested in getting ready to create, you can be hit by the thunderbolt and it’ll just leave you stunned.”

PS Find me on Facebook - my brand new page !. I invite you to wander around it and see the beautiful albums of photos from various classes (you might see yourself there!) and also images of my art. I’d love to read your comments, and click on LIKE at the top right hand side of the page. All photography by an awesome new talent.

  ]]> http://www.maliniparker.com/newsletters/newsletter-wednesday-24th-august-2011/feed/ 0 http://www.maliniparker.com/news/tapestry-exhibition/ http://www.maliniparker.com/news/tapestry-exhibition/#comments Sun, 17 Jul 2011 12:37:13 +0000 Malini http://www.maliniparker.com/?p=309 Exhibition runs from March 28 to June 27 at the
NAKED FIG Cafe, 278 Marine Parade, Swanbourne

ALL PROFITS donated to charity

On Monday, while I was running an intensive workshop, my latest solo show, Tapestry, was being hung. Its a large collection of paintings that is now showing at the spectacular Naked Fig Cafe, overlooking the ocean, in Swanbourne. ALL profits from Tapestry are going to disaster relief in Japan and other places. When I told Greer and Lorna Marns, the owners of the cafe, that I wanted to do this, they were moved to donate their commission on each sale as well!

This exhibition didn’t start off as a fund raiser.It happened like this…

A few weeks ago, I began cataloging my work… it’s always a bit of a struggle (a massive task when 53 pieces from many different venues come together), I was grumpy because there was no proper space to do it in…! And Greg, my husband, who is engaged in a courageous battle with kidney cancer, was very, very sick. Things were looking a bit grim.

Then I thought about the thousands of people in Japan, who had lost everything, and I thought, “Malini, get over yourself, and stop being grumpy. Just be grateful that you even have paintings to catalogue, and a house to do it in!”

And the idea was born – they lost everything – how about I give them what I can – all these paintings ? After that, things seem to take on a different perspective.

Then, best of all, scan results came back showing that Greg’s tumours had shrunk and despite his un-wellness (which was a result of an infection, not the cancer) he was doing really well! That clinched it for me – I REALLY needed to make a gesture of thanks to the Universe for all the good things in my life, and Tapestry was it!

The interesting thing is that all my paintings are inspired by the ideas of triumph over adversity, so it seems really fitting that this entire show is going to help people facing extreme adversity.

So… I’d love for as MANY people as possible to go have a look, and if they like what they see, to buy a painting, knowing that they are, not only acquiring a thing of beauty that will grace their home, but also sending money where its needed, to people who have lost everything.

Exhibition runs from March 28 to June 27 at the
NAKED FIG Cafe 278 Marine Parade, Swanbourne
Western Australia 6010
(08) 9384 1222