Drab, ugly, or mismatched colours hurt me. Physically. Whenever my eye falls on them I flinch inside. And in our brutal sunshine, the brash orange of 70s brick is one of the rudest kicks Brisbane regularly delivers to my poor retinas.
Irritatingly, until last week I had to put up with this around our home. Every time I looked out the kitchen window to the back patio, ow. Rude, it was. An offence to not just the eyes but to my whole sensibility: the need for shelter, shade, cool, for hidden secrets to explore, for subtlety and shadow, were all affronted by the harsh plain of glary, baked terracotta. Ugh.
So if I say, ‘the back patio used to be just plain brick, and I hated it with an unholy passion’, please read into that statement ten years of retinal abuse every time I poured a glass of water, hung the laundry out, or watched the kids in the pool.
That’s probably why I failed to take ‘before’ shots. It was just so feckin’ ugly.
I’m quite happy with it now. Now it’s a place where the Skeptic and I sit of an afternoon to catch up on the day and eat chocolate digestives. It’s still going to get unbearably stinking hot, but at least it won’t look like we’re on Mars.
Finally, after ten years, it’s got enough of our artworks to feel like we’ve made a mark, but it’s not finished yet. Not by a long shot. Watch this space…