The Storm

I painted this picture when I was 17 years old. I remember the moment vividly. I had just returned to Los Angeles, from Australia after a very significant moment in my life. It's title; ‘The Storm’.

When I was 15 years old, I boarded an Air New Zealand flight back to Australia, feed up with LA life, wanting to go home. I was a confused little girl, unclear about the direction of my life. It’s silly now, looking back, because who really knows their direction when they are 15 years old – or 45 years old for that matter….. They served me alcohol on that flight and let me smoke cigarettes. I felt so grown up. No one ever believed I was 15 years old, people that met me always assumed I was older. I guess that’s what I projected- I am a grown up, street smart and and speak the adult language.

When I landed at the Melbourne airport, my grandma and grandpa picked me up in their little white car, with red vinyl seats. I could not even tell you the make and model of that car, because that’s exactly what it was..... A Car. Four tires, two seats in the front and a row for three in the back. it had a gearbox with faded numbers and letters on it, 1, 2, 3, 4, R and N on it. Not the way they make them these days, all fancy, literally, just a stick, with a knob on it. My grandfather taught me how to drive in that car…….. I must have been 13 years old when he first let me in the driver’s seat. My grandparents lived at the top of a huge hill and my grandfather said to me, “Trisha, when you can get this baby in gear and get her to the top of that hill, you have graduated and can drive me anywhere.” I will always be fond of that memory because he made me feel so responsible and I was determined to impress him. I must have tried and failed that hill many times, but the day I made it to the top was victorious. My tongue was probably sticking out of my mouth, in deep concentration and determination. I would not fail or let him down. I was in control of this machine, this white “no name car” with red seats and a stick. I got it into 1st gear, let out the clutch without stalling, then, with a steady heart, slipped it into 2nd gear and prayed I wouldn’t roll backwards. This time I made it…pure exhilaration and a sense of accomplishment and trust in my own ability. I love my grandfather for giving me that gift – the gift that I can do anything if I put my mind to it.

My grandmother was 4 foot 2 inches tall, grey short hair, cute as a button and a heart of pure gold…...no joke…..her heart was made of gold….She did not have an indecent bone in her entire body. She was made of sugar and spice, and all things nice. My grandfather, a handsome man in his younger years, now, bald on top, with a few grey stands popping up here and there, was always smiling, telling jokes or war stories. When I arrived in Melbourne, they were waiting for me. For some reason I remember wearing red Levis and a red and white stripy shirt. I had a perm….oh my….the perm….a topic that should be avoided at all costs….I thought I was so cool then, but now when I look back at photographs, I want to gasp and gag myself with a spoon……… Anyway, I remember how happy they were to see me and welcomed me warmly. Their love for me was pure and unconditional, it’s hard to comprehend this kind of love sometimes, but they had it, for me.

After living with them for a little while, I became restless and lacking independence I had become accustom to from a young age, I decided to enroll in Art School. So, I moved out and into a halfway house for reckless teenagers. I loved it there, for a while, I loved the freedom, until the drug art scene quickly consumed me. Not something, I am proud of today, but I have learned to accept that this experience has somehow shaped me into the person I am today, a person I am proud of. My grandparents would show up from time to time - to this house, in The Car, and bring me health food and homemade baked breads. I never invited them inside, because I was ashamed, but that never stopped them from showing up.

Knowing that this environment was going to eat me up and spit me out, I came back to LA, to try finding a better path. LA was not a place that was going to embrace and love me, but the only other place in the world I could think, where I had friends. I am omitting many aspects of this story, because frankly it was traumatic and unpleasant and not want I am trying to write here, what I want to say is this; This painting ‘The Storm’ is a representation of my grandmother holding my hand through my storms and never wanting to let go, because she loved me, unconditionally. Her name was Catherine. She passed away two weeks before my daughter was born, in November 1999. I wish I could have flown to Australia to hold her hand and weather her storm, but my doctor would not let me go in my condition. I regret that decision and wish I had been my reckless 15-year old self and gone anyway…I miss her and the safety of her love…….She was always my shelter from the storm. I hope that one day, someone will remember me in this light….the shelter from their storm, the one person that would never let go of their hand, no matter hard the wind was blowing……..that’s the kind of love that is pure, simple and unconditional….