Art and Creativity

Forty-two Years of Friendship

The day before, I had taken a monumental step: moving out of my parents’ home and into a place of my own. Today was all about gratitude—a chance to host the friends who had helped me move and thank them with a home-cooked meal. There was just one problem. My new flat came with a gas stove, and no matter how much I fumbled with it, I couldn’t get it to light. As the clock ticked down, panic began to set in. Desperate, I decided to seek help next door.

Our fifth-floor apartment was split down the middle by a shared hallway that housed a shower on one side, a bathtub on the other, and a toilet nestled between them. On either side sat a separate kitchen and bedroom. The girl who used to live on the right side had recently moved out, leaving the remaining tenant to choose her new neighbor. She had chosen me.

I crossed the threshold and tapped softly on the frosted glass of her door. Moments later, a silhouette glided toward the glass. The door swung open, and there stood Ellen—completely, unapologetically naked.

I just froze there, eyes wide, utterly speechless. Ellen took one look at my stunned face and burst into laughter. “I don’t even have a gas stove—just two electric hot plates,” she chuckled. Taking me by the hand, she walked me back across the hall to my kitchen. Together, we finally coaxed a flame from the burner.

The food was still simmering on the stove as the first visitor rang the doorbell. That wild, unexpected afternoon encounter marked the beginning of a forty-two-year friendship—one that endured until the day God did us part.

*Janine McAullay-Bott, Train Engine, 2011, palm fronds, palm branch, kurrajong seed pod . Photo Josh Wells. Image supplied by MAC Inc.*

This morning, it felt as though her spirit were in the room with me. A photo popped up on my phone showing a tiny locomotive woven from twigs, and I knew instantly how much she would have adored it. She was an avid collector of toy trains and locomotives. Seeing it, I could almost picture her riding high atop that wooden train, her short hair tousled by the wind, laughing whole-heartedly—and, of course, stark naked.

I miss her dearly. She was the best friend I ever had.

Just Thinking

Today, I realized that it is far easier for me to think and write in a foreign language than it is to speak it. I can’t help but wonder why that is! As an exercise for today, I decide to dictate my thoughts directly into my phone. What a hassle! It feels clumsy and difficult, but I regard it as a creative challenge. So, practice it is!

Do I actually think in words? I don’t believe I do. My thoughts take shape long before the words arrive, and the specific language I choose depends entirely on whatever linguistic environment I happen to be immersed in at the moment.

Language is powerful. The Gospel of John famously begins with, “In the beginning was the Word,” casting the word as the ultimate creative force. On the other hand, Ulysses S. Grant once wrote, “I think I am a verb.” I deeply resonate with that observation. I am always active—a doer, a feeler, a creator of my own world. I am an active piece of the universe around me, or at the very least, my actions ripple through it.

I also think in images, a trait I consider quite important. Being the daughter of a photographer, this visual instinct is part of my DNA. As an artist, I spent a long time expressing my feelings, observations, and ideas through multidimensional, tactile visual works. Learning to describe both my inner and outer worlds through written language is an entirely new journey for me.