Physiognomies and counternances (show us yer kisser)

"At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy, when he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall" Old Deuteronomy, T.S. Eliot.

Old Deuteronomy is one of my favourite poems and thanks to Cats, also one of my favourite songs. I can just imagine his furry old face relaxed in a deep sleep behind the vicarage, while burly workmen tip-toe past him in fleecy shirts and clunky boots. Eliot has so poetically allowed me to open this blog with my current topic: faces.

I have just finished sorting almost 20,000 digital photographs, many of those framing faces of those I love. Some of them are of me in all sorts of poses and contortions. This is because I decided last year that I would post a new profile photo weekly on Facebook (those of you on this social networking site would already be aware of Christine's jibes about me taking photos of myself in the bathroom). I did this partly from creative boredom and partly to keep my hand in Photoshop; that incredible piece of photo editing software in which the advertising industry makes Penélope Cruz and Giselle Bündchen (and others without grave accents and umlauts) even more gorgeous than they deserve to be.

Kirsten has the face bug too, and is madly completing her third pencil portrait for her schooling. Elle McPherson and Halle Berry now grace her folio and I am trying to encourage her to look at craggier, and less Photoshopped (yes it is a verb) characters for more interest. In fact I believe that Kirsten has a latent artistic talent that she may well unleash on the world if she feels the need.

I think the prize for best fizzog goes to the woman I met on the train on Friday. Not only because she had such a fantastically interesting face, but because she lightened what is normally the equivalent of sitting in a dentist's waiting room: train travel on the Pakenham Line. For those unfortunate enough to travel it, you know exactly what I mean. For those who don't, it is a cramped, rickety and soulless journey that takes place for an hour, generally twice every weekday. Trains are regularly cancelled or delayed and the manners and/or tempers of some of my fellow commuters might have rivalled Genghis Khan's disposition if he had access to Methamphetamine in the 12th Century.

The best way to describe this woman would be in a single name: Yoda. I'm not trying to be funny or cruel, this woman looked just like the Jedi master in the Star Wars saga. She was extremely short, wizened and very old looking. If she had sported a green complexion I would have placed my bets on a light-sabre in her handbag. The shape of her ears was in question as they were covered by a shawl, although this gave her that hooded robe look to complete my bizzare mental picture.

She originally sat across the isle from me with two very pretty, bored and vacuous looking gum chewers (how come they are always pretty? Is it their accessorised and make-up versions of Photoshopping?)

I must admit she caught me looking at her amazingly Yoda-like countenance. The best I could do to cover my guilt at being so rude was to smile. A reasonably toothless grin was returned and she moved to the seat across from me (I was waiting for "Ooh, take this seat I shall" but it didn't eventuate). Maybe she felt I was better company than the 'Buffys' she first sat with.

I need to digress for a moment and explain the term 'Buffys', so named after the Sarah Michelle Gellar character Buffy Summers, in Joss Whedon's clever series about a beautiful young vampire slayer. My friend Ivanka coined the phrase in regards to several very pretty girls in our TAFE Editing class. They were all fashion model material, but their only interests were: themselves, boys, themselves, the Herald Sun gig guide, themselves, oh and themselves. If they ever learnt anything about editing it would have been through an accident.

My new commuting friend and I shared a brief conversation where neither understood a damn thing the other said (but nonetheless felt happier for the interlude) and then she promptly fell asleep mashing her almost toothless gums in the process. I am reading an interesting text at the moment, but I had my friend to engage my attention this trip. This woman's face was straight out of National Geographic with crags crisscrossing her face in every direction. Her skin was like leather and her Asiatic eyes were jammed into tight slits in her repose. I would have loved to have the courage to ask to photograph her. In black and white I believe her portrait would have been award winning.

A young man sat next to her. Tall, slim and slightly pale, he served as great visual contrast. Furtive glances in their direction kept me amused for most of the trip to Clayton station, where this woman departed from us. However the thing that clinched it for me, and really made my day was when she fell asleep on the man's arm. She really snuggled in and in desperation he tried to concentrate on his graphic novel. In the end it was too much for him and he started giggling. Silently, but almost convulsively. Of course this woke the woman up and she sat bolt-upright. Rather than outward embarrassment she opened her mouth into a wide grin and giggled as well. Both myself and the guy next to me nearly lost the plot and all four of us ended up, nigh on hysterical at the situation.

After Clayton I put my nose full-time back into my book, but I really couldn't concentrate on British history. All I could think of was the lines:

And the oldest inhabitant croaks:
"Well of all things,
Can it be really,
Yes, no, ho-hi, oh my eye..."

I don't know why, I just did.

In the Spotlight

I love stageshows, big, small, Lloyd Webberesque, or amateur. I found this out when I was about fifteen and my sister took me to see Evita at the Adelaide Festival Theatre.

Jennifer Murphy and John O'May lit up the stage as Eva and Che. Andrew Lloyd Webber described this coup for the AFT as the best Evita he'd seen. I can neither deny or confirm this, however I was definately transported to a Rice / Lloyd Webber Argentinian parallel universe for two hours. The vibrancy, colour and movement mesmerised me, while the emotive lyrics and evocative music stirred something basal within me. I once knew all the lyrics by heart and would secretly play the soundtrack when my mates weren't around (It was a staple diet of Acca-Dacca and Cold Chisel in those days). My girls and I joke about this having something to do with my 'gay genes' that come out in the presence of New Romantic music and Hollywood musicals.

Since then I have seen many productions, both big-ticket and small-time. I have loved them all: oohed at the heroines, ahhed at the heroes and booed at the baddies. I have whistled, clapped, woo-hooed at each and every one. If I knew the words, and as quietly as possible, I would sing at least the chorus (and sometimes not quietly, but always off-key). Actually there was one exception and that was Mamma Mia. I think it had something to do with the ABBA overload in the seventies (here I must apologise profusely to my friend Flash, who was kind enough to buy us the tickets).

In April I shouted the girls to see Billy Elliot. I would have gone myself, but for three reaons: 1) I could see the $109 being put towards a new camera bag; 2) I liked the movie soundtrack for music of The Clash, The Style Council and other great British bands of the time, all of which would not be present in the stageshow; 3) I'm not a big Elton John fan (my 'gay genes' don't extend that far). Instead I gave the ticket to our house guest at the time; although I'm not too sure it was money well spent as when I asked her if she enjoyed the show, the reply was: "I liked Wicked better". Anyway, my three girls loved it and I got a great new backpack for my camera gear.

The latest foray into the theatrical universe was to see Annemarie's school's production of The Wiz. As much as I cringe at the thought of school Christmas concerts, I've always looked forward to school productions. I think it is because they weed out people such as myself, that is: those totally bereft of any musical or dramatic talent. Unfortunately the audiences of Christmas concerts are not given the same courtesy. Fortunately both girls have taken after their mum and have been involved in theatrical productions. Annemarie prefers crew, but Kirsten will get up on the stage and is quite happy to be the 'third stormtrooper from the left' or a hapless plumber in the midst of a murder mystery.

The entire cast and crew of The Wiz put on such a grand performance that Kirsten went back for an encore at the Saturday matinee. We were very proud of Annemarie's efforts in keeping the backstage running to the exacting timing demanded by the troupe. I hope other parents were as proud of their offspring, as the kids deserved them to be. The girl that played Aunt Em punched out a tune with a voice far beyond her years and Dorothy bravely sung an entire song alone on the stage without musical accompanyment. Sharnika, aka The Cowardly Lion, who I was fortunate enough to meet on the Saturday, had a comedic talent akin to Amanda Bynes; not bad for a girl who has been nowhere near a Broadway coach. The Tinman had the coolest attitude and the scarecrow had us in fits. The Wiz himself delivered a monologue that I would have been lucky to have remembered the first paragraph of, before searching for the prompt cards. Of course, the supporting cast played their parts beautifully and the whole show was a complete success.

So whether you've splashed out on an $850,000 budget (Evita 1980) or run on a shoestring, the heart and soul of a production lies in the talents of those who put so much into it. As an appreciative audience member I thank you all (and will continue to sing your songs off-key).