In 1965 my parents drove me to Benalla train station and pinned a name tag on my jacket lapel with travel instructions to guide me safely to summer holiday camp in Anglesea, a summer camp established for migrant children. That was me, a migrant child, wog, bloody new Australian, bolt, boy from the camp. My folks fled the putrid atmosphere of racial hatred in South Africa in 1962, crossed the Indian Ocean in big ocean liner and landed in the lucky country down under. We never looked back, although my sister returned to spend time with our frail grandfather. Our new life continued to unfold and memories of burglar guarded windows, gunfire, sirens and a constant sense of being spooked by unseen spirits was gradually being erased from mind, as new friendly experiences took hold, thus I learned the power of positive over negative, good over evil. Like the man with hate tattooed on the knuckles of one hand and love on the other demonstrates how love overcomes hatred. Now I was learning early lessons in the art of crossing cultures, something that I would repeat countless times through out my life.
I desperately wanted to dispel those memories of disgusting violent actions amongst humans, and the spiral into degradation of those who plunder another mans rights to live by his beliefs. My parents always warned against harbouring such thoughts of race hate; to always show respect to elders regardless of race, colour or creed and that as sure as there is evil in us all, so to there is good. One should seek out the good in fellow man and judge accordingly.
So I enjoyed a warm happy relationship with the Native women who would stop for refreshments atop of the long hill upwards to their shanty town. Sitting beneath a big Silky Oak tree out front of our house, my mother would offer them large chunks of white bread with lashings of strawberry jam accompanied by enamel cups filled with hot black tea. I would make my entrance and soon be fondled affectionately by these black women with very large braless breasts and massive backsides; they joyfully tossed me around like a toy doll, tickling and jabbering in Zulu and broken English. I loved the warmth of their huge bodies; I felt secure and great love for these nameless black ladies.
Childhood experiences bare relevance to the rest of your life. The things you learn, getting fingers burnt, loosing the bait from the hook and the big fish gets away, winning at marbles, hitting a six off the middle of the bat. Instincts that help over come uncertainty and keep fear at bay, but, the early gathering of confidence sets the stage for future performances, instinctively knowing how to navigate to unknown destinations without the aid of parents, learning how to shop for food and cook on a campfire, winning a boxing bout at the Police boys club without getting a bloody nose. All the experiences that build confidence, it’s like investing in the future, building a foundation through instinct. You become strong, intuitive and in tune with life around you.
Quite honestly it’s almost like having an extra sense, an early warning device that sets alarm bells ringing and a whispering voice inside your head says danger, so you instinctively listen to the warnings and take action to avoid potential hazards.
Standing alone on a platform to fend for myself did not evoke fear, or sadness as my parents disappeared from view, I felt no loss, only excitement of life’s journey ahead. Confidence built a fortress in my mind, keeping danger at bay. At the ripe young age of twelve I yearned to learn to cope with the big bad world, to set the foundation for the rest of my life, to draft an invisible map that only I new where X marked the spot, no challenge would be too great, no fear insurmountable, no one would pull in the reins on me, freed by a dogmatic will to seek adventure, discover, conquer, learn, grow and change like the shifting tides of the ocean, the wind in the trees, the sand in a desert storm, the river winding its way the ocean, constant, surging forward, never looking back.
Once my parents had finally cleared the deck I removed the name badge and travel instructions and tossed them in the bin confident that this information was not required for me to complete the long journey ahead.
My leather suitcase at foot and calico bag over my shoulder Tweed jacket and tie. I surveyed the distant horizon and there, billowed black smoke from the chimney stack of the steam engine hauling the Southern Araura train shunting closer to the beginning of my new adventure. It was like a dream that I had dreamt a thousand times, a boy on a platform, waiting for a train to take him to new horizons, far across the divide, spanning large rivers, traversing mountain passes, gathering speed across open flat, grassy plains, watching the horses gallop along side, the shimmering sun across the lakes water, the snow caped mountains. All the imagery of dreams, fairy tales, picture books and postcards come together, all the wild boys’ imaginings
My leather briefcase at foot and Samsonite micro over my shoulder I surveyed the platform at Chippenham station on the mainline to London Paddington. There was no smoke billowing from engine stacks, or shunting, steam power is traded for diesel electric power and baring down at great speed the screaming sound of massive engines. The train would not take me south to Anglesey, rather east to London Paddington. I was far removed from my childhood world in Australia, now residing in England and about to embark on another train journey.
When I observed my situation standing on the platform, my tweed jacket and tie, my leather case and shoulder bag, the feeling of great anticipation, confidence and joy, ironically simulating in many ways standing on a platform in similar attire in another life, with travel bags and patient stance waiting for the steam train to take me to Angle Sea. The journey of a child to manhood began.
In two hours I would be meeting with Cressida Bell a renowned textile designer. My goal was to negotiate purchase, copyright and licensees agreements to produce a number of her textile patterns. Once this was finalised I would be in the fortunate position to manufacture new silk tie designs under the name Patrick McMurray. This would give me adequate grounding in the complexities of licensing for future reference. And award exclusivity over textile patterns with the authorisation and signature of a well connected London based artist.
It was a perfect plan, and journeying in the comfortable, quiet rail carriages, which sped across the English country side ever closer to my destination, the foundation of confidence became more resistant to subsidence and further supported by instinct. All stemming from the learning’s of my childhood years. It seemed like such a long time ago, but then again the things I am doing now, are similar in principle to the things I did as a child, so I still carry a boyish innocence and fearless motivation.
As the train negotiated a long sweeping bend I caught my first glimpses of the steel arched trusses of London Paddington Station and felt a rush of excitement in the pit of my stomach. The same was experienced forty three years ago, entering the grandeur of Spencer Street Station Melbourne aboard the steam driven Southern Araura. I am still fulfilling child hood dreams.
Welcome to the home of finely crafted designer ties handmade from fine Italian and English silks. And, purveyor of exclusive luxury Italian Leather Wallets
Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/fashion-articles/my-silk-fabric-design-expedition-1488745.html
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