Relocating from the U.S. to
Christchurch (9years ago?) I was full of newcomer enthusiasm. I had, as is my
nature, a surfeit of gas-filled ideas. Ideas about what I thought possible in
Christchurch ... what cultural potholes could be gainfully filled. When I
chatted up such ideas on CCH’s 'Cultural Circuit' (I make a little joke there)
I was almost universally met with expressed doubt and prophetic discouragement.
Ōtautahi oldsters wouldn’t have much to say in response … but seemed to be
sizing me up sideways. But the young, in particular, would come right out with
it; about my enthusiasms, about my ideas, they'd say something like, "aye,
reckon that won't fly ". When asked why not they'd uniformly opine – well
mate, they’d intimate, that's just "fucking Christchurch".
I did what I often do when I don't
understand something. I made a painting from my confusion. I did
several...pretty much alike. My understanding didn't bloom, but one of these
particular pictures sold at a Christchurch Art Gallery fundraiser ... creating
an awkward auction moment for the then new Director, Jenny Harper. I gave another,
a paper version, as a birthday gift to my good friend Paul Strangwick - a man
who claims agreement with the image’s sentiment. I still have the one -
pictured above.
Now uncounted quakes later, a divorce, multiple
domestic displacements - the result of
marital and other, more literal, tectonics.
Interminable work-disarray catalyzed by no-end-in-sight reorganization
at the art school. All of the assorted public and private chaos, and its
aftermath … accompanied by countless, publically cheery, kia kahas, Babbit-like-media-exclamations of
faux-wonderment, at Garden City ‘resilience’. Municipal and university happy
talk - platitudes about new beginnings and bright futures. Etc.
So now, finally, I'm on board (y’all) with
this here regional disbelief. With the well aged and well known Canterbury
malaise. The neuro-degenerative condition I encountered early on, in this overgrown
farm-service town of yours. Now, like you, small squint-eyed probabilities have
displaced big wide-eyed possibility.
So, if someone comes up to me honking (as I
once did) about the infinite possibilities of place, I’ll look them wearily
(and warily) in the eye when they ask ‘why not’. I’ll greet their callow query
with a wizened 100-mile gaze, and the Great Canterbury Chestnut: the one
welcomed me when I first fell off the interstellar turnip truck…
Well sir, I guess that’s just “Fucking
Christchurch”.
Now ain’t it?
