Rosa Fedele's Blog, page 4

Gargoyles, and other fluffy things

In which everyone gets excited about gargoyles and Flemish tapestries …

“Gordana replaced the handset gently into the cradle.

‘Don’t bother staying up,’ Richard had said to her, ‘I’ll be working late. You’re not upset, are you?’

She wasn’t upset.  In fact, she didn’t mind one bit. Let him bury himself in his tiresome paperwork: fat dossiers of documents bound in red ribbon, tangled contracts, covenants and affidavits. Disagreeable old goat. She was much calmer when he wasn’t around. And it also meant she could stay in the Tower as late as she liked.

Tomorrow she planned to show her newest purchases to Maurice, who was returning to film a whole segment on gargoyles. He seemed to be very excited about the ugly stone lions which adorned the Tower, telling everyone who would listen that they had actually been stolen from St Mary’s Cathedral by its principal builder, and smuggled over to The Seminary in the back of a dunny cart.

It seemed Maurice was the only one who matched her passion for The Seminary and the splendid transformation which was taking place. He was the only one who really understood and shared her enthusiasm for the beautiful treasures she had amassed: hand-blown glass pendants – a dozen of them – as she hadn’t yet decided which ones to suspend above her white marble benches, swathes of silk and taffeta and linen from Mokum and Pongees and Designers Guild, offcuts of golden oak and Kauri pine and delicious, dark Jarrah for the floors, the Fersa door hardware and the Catchpole and Rye double ended antique bath, both which had arrived simultaneously that morning from Buenos Aires and London, the stiff white boxes, marked with the distinctive Les Verreries de Bréhat logo and filled with finger pulls and finials and levers and, oh! the pièce de résistance, a 19th century French Louis XV bronze and crystal chandelier.

She hadn’t told Richard about the chandelier yet.

The gentleman at the auction house had been very excited about the piece, stating it was circa 1880, and would look magnificent as the centerpiece of the new ballroom.

She hadn’t told Richard about the Louis XVI painted screen or the 19th century Flemish Verdue tapestry, either.

There was that one second where she paused before signing the $154,000 cheque for the three items, but then scrawled her name hastily at the bottom before she could change her mind.”

MY SPECIAL OFFER ON PET PORTRAITS (Only ’til June 30, though!)

REMINDER TO ALL FUR BABY MUMMAS AND PAPAS!

Because I adore paws & whiskers too, I’m offering Pet Portraits created from your photos until 30th June:

Pencil on Paper 30cm x 42cm $149*

Pencil on Paper 42cm x 59cm $199*

* Plus GST & Postage, one subject only, unframed.

Other sizes & oil portraits available too, don’t hesitate to ask

A Return Journey #BookTwo #RawandUnedited

I’m often being asked: “When will the next book be finished?” “Patience, Grasshopper,” I reply. (No, there are no grasshoppers in the story. Or any other insects, for that matter. There are a couple of worms, though).

Actually, I’m loving the whole process, plugging away and no idea what I’m doing half the time; a career as a novelist doesn’t come with an operating manual and detailed instructions. I must send out a big shout of thanks to my Mikey, though – for his forbearance (and own special brand of patience), for bringing me tea and chocolate, and for laughing at the sign which hangs on the closed door of the studio which reads: “PLZ GO AWAY!”

Here’s another sneak peek:

“She stood by the front gates, uncertain and chewing on her thumbnail, and peered into the courtyard. The place looked exactly the same. Well, maybe not as large as it used to, nothing ever did when you returned to look at it through an adult’s eyes. It was still impressive, though.

The row of magnolias now reached out over the wall and shaded the footpath, the fat white blossoms dropping lemon myrtle-scented petals onto the ground. Wisteria, profuse with tiny violet buds, was draped extravagantly across the porch. The olive tree had grown, too; its silvery grey leaves, heavy with black fruit, waved in the breeze. A driveway had been laid, allowing cars to enter through the gates, drive around the fountain and park in the carriage way.

She hesitated, wondering whether to turn and walk away back to the main road. It had been five, nearly six, years. How would she be greeted? Would she be welcomed back after leaving it so long? Her stomach gave a worrying lollop.

After a few months she’d stopped writing. There had been no point, not when there was never a reply. It had become too distressing. She had poured her heart out in those letters; documenting her days, talking about the few friends she had made at the school and expounding on what she intended to do the moment she could leave, sometimes peppering the letters with outbursts of rage at her circumstances, and sometimes leaving traces of smudged ink on the paper where she had wiped away a melancholy tear. With a savage twang of bitterness, she had finally accepted she was forgotten, and the rest of the world had moved on. Still, she’d always nursed a secret hope that one day she would be able to return, grown and confident, and independent. When she heard that Mr Munroe was looking for a volunteer for the large project in Sydney, she leapt at the chance, immediately planning her reappearance, imagining all the scenarios and playing them out in her mind. And now, at last, she was here.

She hovered her finger over the keypad. Was the passcode still the same? Surely not – it couldn’t be, not after all this time. Funnily enough, it had been her own birthdate which was originally programmed into the lock. How pleased she was, and flattered, when she was told the code. She was made to promise that she would never to disclose the numbers to anyone, and everyone knew that a promise was as good as a blood oath.

Swallowing the anxious knot which had lodged itself in her throat, she punched the familiar digits into the keypad: the mechanism buzzed and the latch clicked as the gate unlocked. It had never been changed! The nervous lollop was joined by a warm glow – maybe she hadn’t been forgotten, after all. She crunched over the gravel and stood in front of the glass doors. All she could see was the reflection of her own anxious face looking back at her. She cupped her hands against the pane and squinted. There she was, hunched over, in her customary position. Her gloriously long hair had been cropped a little shorter and swung forward almost covering her face, but her fingers were pressed against her upper lip in that familiar expression of intense concentration that she remembered so well.

She knocked gently on the glass and assumed the confident, almost haughty, Oh, so sure of herself! posture that she had rehearsed so many times in the mirror. The woman looked up, surprised at the intrusion. Her eyes narrowed, then widened in astonishment.”

#BookTwo #DailyLines #remindyouofanything

In which Maurice Ellis, presenter of Dream Home Australia, interviews the owners of the old Catholic Seminary about their plans to restore the magnificent, but derelict, building …

“The film crew hovered, alert and quietly efficient. An expectant silence fell over the building site. The clapper came down.

‘Hello Richard. Hello Gordana,’ Maurice Ellis walked with the Lemanns towards the tower, hands in pockets and handsomely relaxed. His eyes crinkled and his smile gleamed. ‘Fantastic place, this. Absolutely beautiful!’

‘Thank you, Maurice. It is, isn’t it?’ Gordana answered brightly.  ‘Especially on a day like this, you can see straight across the Harbour!’

She looked smashing today – Dimi had plaited an intricate French braid into her hair, she wore stylish cargo pants purchased from a store in Beverly Hills during her last visit to Los Angeles and her blindingly white tank top matched her new hard hat; she certainly wouldn’t wear the hard hat, but it looked quite fetching dangling from her freshly manicured fingers.

‘Indeed, it is quite stunning. And that’s your front door key, is it?’

As rehearsed, Richard handed Maurice the massive ring laden with ancient keys. The largest key, wrought iron with an intricately traced bow and oversized protrusions on the blade, was the one which opened the tower door.

Maurice waved it joyfully at the camera. ‘And this is what you get when you buy a house like this!’

‘Do you want to come in and have a look, Maurice?’ Richard gave his most cordial and welcoming smile and led the way in. The camera followed the trio through the arched wooden doors and recorded their chit chat as they moved around, making a tour of the property.

‘Wonderful space, really. The light. The space. And the old beams.’

‘A lot of windows! Is that the original glass?’

‘So what’s this area going to be, then?’

‘Maurice,’ Gordana gushed, ‘it’s going to be a sunken courtyard, with a central fountain. Then, we will have stepped terraces leading up to the stables which will be converted into garaging for the cars, with guest quarters above. Over there,’ she gestured gracefully, ‘will be a swimming pool and spa.’

‘Marvellous!’

Gordana’s laugh tinkled. Being on television was much easier than she had previously thought. It came naturally, in fact. She was a pro. Imagine if she was asked to guest star in another programme …

‘So, what’s this?’ Maurice asked, as they stood next to the old stables looking towards the back of the block. A barricade remained around the decaying remnants of the separate building, affixed by a safety-conscious estate agent long ago, and a magnificent old Red Bloodwood reached its arms protectively over the old edifice. ‘It was the old kitchens, you say?’

Pulling a section of the barricade away, they stood under the massive stone lintel of the crumbling door and peered into the dark empty space, down at a pit of what looked like oily black sludge.

Maurice laughed and gestured to the cameraman to move closer. ‘More like the Great Dismal Swamp, isn’t it? What’s that black goo, d’you think?’ He kneeled down, reached in and dipped his finger into the sludge and held it up. Gordana shuddered.

‘We don’t know what happened here,’ said Richard. ‘Gordana hopes to build a cabana here … for the pool. It will have to be drained, I suppose.’

‘And new footings set down, I’d imagine,’ added Maurice, ‘a concrete pad …’

‘You could lose someone down there,’ Gordana interrupted, ‘couldn’t you?’ She gazed intently at Maurice, her eyes wide and glistening. She dropped her voice, hoping to sound dark and mysterious:  ‘I hope all our builders behave themselves … don’t be surprised if one of them suddenly disappears into the pit. Anyone could be buried under the concrete pour, and no one would even know!’ She giggled shrilly.

There was a moment’s awkward silence, and then Maurice laughed along with her. He turned around and moved smoothly on.

‘And are these cobblestones I see?’”

#BookTwo #DailyLines #NotAnotherFrontDoor #NoItsNotRed

Well … um … thankfully this week I was able to resume Book Two. Hurrah! Here’s a little bit:

 

“Pale yellow is the colour of betrayal and deception.” – Degas

“The door of the cottage was painted pale yellow.

She would have called it a “nearly Naples Yellow” – not the Naples Yellow that was made by Winsor and Newton, the pigment just wasn’t rich enough, or Archival Oils, which was far too raucous. No, it was definitely the Naples Yellow made by the wonderful Dutch paint makers, Old Holland. Smooth, creamy, almost buttery, she couldn’t help but raise her hand and touch the wooden surface to run her finger down the paintwork, almost expecting it to indent under the pressure, as would a pat of cold butter.

‘Y’know, I love the colour of your front door,’ she said.

‘I re-painted it just a few years ago,’ I smiled. ‘I must admit though, I still feel a bit guilty about it. Grandmama hated yellow, you see.’

In fact, Grandmama refused to have anything in the house which even resembled the colour – no sand or saffron, no bunches of sunflowers or daffodils. Even the lemons were stashed deep within the vegetable drawer of the fridge.

‘What a horrible thing yellow is,’ Grandmama would decry loudly. ‘Degas once said: “Pale yellow is the colour of betrayal and deception!”’

‘What I think it was, though,’ I confided, ‘is that one of those painters she used to gang around with – most probably one of the fellows from Julian Ashton’s – must have made a comment at one time or another; a sweeping proclamation by Sidney Long or Joshua Smith, likely blurted out in a drunken haze and with no basis to it whatsoever. And it stuck in her head and refused to budge. Grandmama was like that, she became fixated with those she idolised.

‘But Norman was the one she really loved. She talked about him till the day she died. But he didn’t love her – he loved his wife Rose, always had. To him, Grandmama was only a model; a beautiful and voluptuous creature to adorn with headpieces and filmy gowns and feature as part of his tableaus. The only thing he loved about her was her breasts!’ I laughed. ‘He was quoted as saying, “She had the loveliest breasts I ever painted, and they drove me to despair. No crude combination of colour extracted from the earth can hope to capture the pearly shimmer of light on her youthful feminine breasts.” Norman Lindsay loved all his women, but she wanted him to only love her. In the end, it was he who drove her to despair. Poor Grandmama.’”

 

The Red Door on Linda’s Book Bag

I was absolutely delighted to be asked to guest post on Linda Hill’s book blog – it was published last night in the UK. Here ’tis: The Red Door on Linda’s Book Bag

The Red Door by Rosa Fedele
FEBRUARY 21, 2016LINDASBOOKBAG

It gives me great pleasure to bring you a book with a difference today. The Red Door by Rosa Fedele was published on 1st October 2015 by MoshPit Publishing and as well as being a crime thriller, it is beautifully illustrated too. The Red Door is available on Amazon UK and Amazon US. I have a fascinating guest post from Rosa Fedele linking writing and art that I think will appeal to readers and artists alike.

About The Red Door

What would you do if you began to suspect one of your tenants could be the perpetrator of a vicious double murder committed over thirty years ago?

It is 1983 and the new owner of the beautiful old Sydney mansion ‘Rosalind’ begins to believe she is being watched by the mysterious resident in Number Three, a reclusive man who happens to share his name with two teenage sisters, victims of a sinister and brutal murder. Her peace of mind slowly erodes as a fascination for the crime becomes obsession – consuming her life, shaking relationships with her new found friends and leaving a trail of devastation.

From Artist to Writer

A Guest Post by Rosa Fedele

The first reaction I encountered at the announcement of my first novel was: “Why? Why ever did you decide to write a book?” The question is usually accompanied, even now, by the scratching of heads, and incredulous or uncomprehending looks.

Well, really, is it such a leap from creating pictures with a pencil or brush, to conveying images with words?

“But, is this something you’ve always wanted to do?” they persist.

Funnily enough, when first I started to write, I had no idea what I was doing. In fact, I was so embarrassed that I started the project in secret, waiting until the house was empty and I was sure to be completely alone.

But, quite simply, yes. I have always known I would write and illustrate my own books; it was a natural progression. I grew up on a rich diet of illustrated stories – the works of C.S. Lewis, Tolkien, Beverley Nichols, Hauff’s Fairy Tales, E.C. Pedley’s Dot and The Kangaroo and this – newly rediscovered during our recent move – Norman Lindsay’s “The Flyaway Highway”. Lindsay, a master of portraiture not well-known outside our country, had a wonderfully silly side, unapologetically writing his own jolly and deliciously nonsensical stories, generously laced with illustrations and innuendo.

See how disrespectful I was as a child, wantonly defacing this lovely old book by colouring in Norman’s drawings!

Now, the thing is: I love old houses. A lot.

Sometimes my heart aches profoundly at the sheer beauty of a building and I will stop and stare dumbly at the shimmering tarnished Gothic copper roof of a turret, the sun flashing off stained glass windows or the swirling ochres and russets of a Sydney sandstone wall, wishing desperately for the owner to appear at the door, smile and welcome me in for tea and biscuits.

One day, I was strolling through Glebe (one of the oldest suburbs in Sydney), admiring the old mansions, and I happened upon one house in particular. But it was more than a house; the magnificent old building riveted and mesmerised me and in the following weeks I was drawn back to the site over and over. The mansion is fronted by a brightly painted door, a glossy façade, and I imagined what the door might mask and what it could have concealed over the last 150 years: nasty, shameful secrets, possibly a poor family’s misfortune and tragedy, rotten crimes and heaven knows what other unholy messes … and a story began to form.

I researched the origins of the house. I drafted thumbnail sketches of my main protagonist and her beautiful new home and, slowly, she came to life. Very soon, I was hosting a whole colony of characters in my head.

Set in 1983, The Red Door is about the new owner of an old Sydney mansion ‘Rosalind’, who begins to believe she is being watched by one of her tenants, the mysterious resident in Number Three, a reclusive man who happens to share his name with two teenage sisters, victims of a sinister and brutal murder which took place in the 50’s. Her peace of mind slowly erodes as a fascination with the unsolved crime becomes obsession – consuming her life, shaking relationships with her newfound friends and leaving a trail of devastation.

As the story unfolded, I’d paint a picture to illustrate exactly what the chair in Beadles’ window looked like or how the iconic old Balmain Garage used to look before developers tore it down.

A reviewer recently said of The Red Door “… I found the observational style reminiscent of Henry James’ novels – fine detail and expertly written dialogue …” After I collected myself up off the floor and back into my chair, I thought: Wow! I’m glad I was able to successfully convey the language and landscape of inner city Sydney with words because, quite frankly, it’s far easier to turn to a No. 10 Filbert and a tube of paint when I’m struggling with commas, clichés and characterisation!

Does it help to observe with an artist’s eye? I think so. We are taught not just to look, but to see. Just as Amsterdam has its own pearly and intimate light, perfectly captured by Vermeer and de Hooch, and the English countryside its own gentle grey-blue drifting clouds, so masterfully interpreted by Constable, Sydney has a particular atmosphere of its own. The sky’s blue is so startling it can burn retinas, the edge of every leaf is knife-sharp, the heat can singe nostril hair and our birds don’t twitter or chirp – they screech.

I suppose having a portraitist’s eye also helps: I watch how people integrate with their environment and each other, the inter-personal dynamics, mannerisms, the tilt of a head, a finger rubbed nervously across a philtrum. Another peculiar thing: characters will take on a life of their own – just when you’ve got the plot sorted, the little buggers wander off and do anything they bloody please! Halfway through the story, my main girl’s behaviour was infuriating me. So, I tore up all the old sketches and painted her as I preferred her – a no-nonsense woman with tenacity and resilience – and slowly she started to come around and see it my way …

It was a joy to write and illustrate The Red Door. Readers who also love the pictures can easily hop online and order their very own limited edition print or giclée.

Yes, there’s a sequel. Yes, it’s again based around an old house in Sydney. No, I won’t tell you much more, but here’s how I’m developing one of the characters on canvas:

I certainly hope one day someone will love my books well enough to handle them until dog-eared and tattered, or gleefully take to the illustrations with a packet of coloured Derwents.

And, lovely readers, if you ever see me lurking in front of your beautiful old mansion, please do invite me in for tea.

Rosa x

We certainly will Rosa!

Writer, Interrupted

D’you like our new lights?

A very belated happy new year, everyone!

So, we decided to move … not a jot of writing has been done, and the only painting consisted of slathering Deep Ocean and Antique White USA on the walls!

… and, while I’ve been absent & utterly consumed with moving house, some lovely reviews of that little book I did write have appeared on Goodreads – a soothing balm for my paint-clogged & packing box-filled senses, thank you!

Oh, and an ouchy 3-Star review just to keep things real

Here they are: The Red Door on Goodreads

 

Merry Christmas to you all!

Merry Christmas to you all, lovely readers and art lovers. Thank you for being utterly brilliant and for your wonderful support of my very first literary offering.

So many of you have told me you’re planning to read the book over the holidays … I’m imagining Kindles propped up on poolside deckchairs and paperbacks on fireside wingback armchairs, pages covered in wet fingerprints and spines filled with sand on striped beachtowels, and dog-eared, coffee-stained copies left behind in bustling cafés … and, quite simply,  I can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

Looking forward to throwing myself into the second (sequel?) next year

Until then, sending you all love and hugs,

Rosa

Dear Potential Reader – A Satire by Earl Chessher

Dear potential reader,

Rest assured that you will find some of the words in this novel offensive, unclear or below or above your reading level. You will be driven to skim over, or find ridiculously short, certain passages, and may be upset with how the story ends, or the possibility that there … is no perceived ending. It is not the author’s intent, but you may also be dismayed with the overly even, way too long, extremely short, or inconsistent chapter lengths.

Some of the content of this totally fiction book may be politically incorrect, may have resulted in injury to trees or other plants, animals, people or the planet, and is possibly the design of a sick individual in dire need of a psychologist or incarceration. There are misspellings, typos, incorrect punctuation, intentionally or accidentally strewn throughout, with the purposeful intent to destroy your concentration and induce you to write a scathing, mean-spirited and over-the-top review or critique on any and all available outlets—utilizing your own collection of misspellings, typos, incorrect punctuation or incorrect words.

In the event you believe the writer has made fun of, or cast aspersions upon your race, color, creed, physical abilities, mental abilities, religion, faith, lack of faith, sexual orientation, intelligence, educational level, political party, social disinclination, hairy underarms, shaved pubic region, head gear or mode of dress, athletic ability or lack thereof, physical stature, hair color, or any other element, real or perceived, please keep a tissue handy and employ as needed during your pity party.

Rest assured, there is something wrong with this book.

Insincerely, The Author

 

Earl Chessher is a 35-plus year career journalist who has been the reporter, assistant publisher, publisher, editor and owner of news publications. He is also a professional video services provider specializing in celebrations of life, focusing on the preservation and sharing of people’s stories.

Nearly four decades of interviewing people, covering news and events, mentoring and writing has helped him develop more than 25 titles and popular stories in a range of anthologies. He is the administrator for Fiction Writers Group on Facebook, which started out nearly four years ago with 350 members, and is now more than 8,000 members strong.

He has established a number of business and writing websites, including a blog that now focuses on writing and publishing. Other titles can be found at Earl Chessher at Amazon.com

 

 

Another taste of Book Two, Untitled and Unedited

 

A little bit manic here at our own house, with builders and painters and sparkies working furiously away. Trying to look at it as inspiration – fodder, if you will – for Book Two. Here’s another tidbit, lovely readers. Enjoy.

 

“Lights, Camera, Action

 

Maurice Ellis was poised at the beginning of the long walkway which ran in front of the cloisters. All eyes were trained on the presenter, squinting against the mid-morning sun which flashed off the decorative stained glass windows in the tower and its shimmering tarnished Gothic copper roof. The camera man waited in the cherry picker, the vehicle’s arm extended to its furthest reach. It was the perfect opening shot.

Maurice stretched his arms above his head and took three deep breaths. Lucy darted out from behind the mullion, patted another layer of powder onto his forehead and vanished again.

The clapper came down.

Maurice began to walk forward, slow measured steps and shoulders relaxed, and with a genial smile he looked engagingly up to the camera.

‘This week on Dream Home Australia, new meets old as we follow the restoration of one of Australia’s oldest and most iconic buildings, here in the leafy and prestigious Sydney suburb of Hunters Hill.’

He paused.

‘When professional couple, Richard and Gordana Lemann, acquired the magnificent ruin known as The Seminary they realized it wasn’t just the fabric of the building they would fight to preserve, but its incredible history too.’

The camera began to zoom out.

‘Richard and Gordana have always enjoyed penthouse living in a waterfront high rise. Until, that is, they found this disused Catholic Seminary, which they purchased at auction five years ago. This imposing building has been uninhabited for almost twenty years and sadly has fallen into a state of neglect. Richard is a barrister with a top Sydney law firm. Gordana, an interior designer from Chelsea, London, will be in charge of the painstaking project in conjunction with Zachary Monroe, Melbourne architect and a specialist in heritage restoration.’

Another pause. The camera panned further out.

‘Gordana’s plan is to establish her office in the tower during the construction period, giving her a perfect vantage point from which to command the project.’

Pause.

‘Join us, as we follow Richard and Gordana’s journey as they try to preserve this building’s unique character, while transforming it into a modern family home.’

The final frame encompassed the entire building, including the stables, turrets and the impressively gleaming spire.

And, cut.

‘How was that?’ Maurice looked down at the director. ‘One more?’

The builders, perched on their eskies, munching on sandwiches, drinking tea and watching the spectacle, couldn’t believe their luck. They hadn’t even had a chance to start on the job and were already pulled off the site. It wasn’t every day they got paid to sit around and watch a film crew for hours on end.

Sour faced with disappointment, Gordana stood on the footpath. They wouldn’t be interviewing her and Richard today. She had shopped specially – finding a crisp, white ruffled Carla Zampatti blouse and camel linen trousers. Her hairdresser, Dimi, had turned up at six o’clock to wash and blow-dry her hair, ready for the seven o’clock start. Gordana almost felt like bursting into tears. Richard hadn’t cared and left for work without a backward glance.

She decided to call Maureen and see if she was free for lunch. At least the new outfit wouldn’t be completely wasted.”