Manifesto of Peter Peryer

In 2006, I spent an afternoon with photographer Peter Peryer and wrote this feature for the long-defunct Nakid magazine. As a tribute to a man who always made a point of saying "hi Virginia" as we brushed shoulders in Ozone, here is that story. Yes, it's out of date, but it's a snapshot of a moment and a colourful zoomed-in life. 

Photographer Peter Peryer has clear views on his vision for the Govett-Brewster Art Gallery. VIRGINIA WINDER finds herself writing his manifesto.

Peter Peryer is pacing.

His brown leather shoes creak on the matai floor of his New Plymouth home as he walks and talks.

The photographer is a lecturer on the move to an audience of one.

“I’m talking aloud while I’m thinking, but also trying to give you something of a manifesto,” he chuckles.

When Peryer sits at his dining table, he writes on a big desk-pad placed vertically and a little tilted. A diamond between us.

One slowly filling with Peryer gems, bullet points, comments passed, ideas to be explored.

“I’m quite iconoclastic,” he says.

The cherished beliefs he’s most apt to attack are those of the contemporary art world.

And yet, this is the world he walks in.

Some of his photographs are in the Govett-Brewster Art Gallery latest show, Viewfinder.

This exhibition showcases many artists whose works are part of the gallery’s collection.

He also has works at Pataka museum and gallery in Porirua as part of the Contemporary New Zealand Photographers exhibition. 

The show has an accompanying book celebrating 20 of this country’s greatest photographers, including Marti Friedlander, Anne Noble, and Laurence Aberhart.

There are also Peryer photos now showing in the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra.

In 1985 he received the Fulbright scholarship to travel to the United States and has been included in the Sydney Biennale twice. Peryer was awarded a Laureate Award in 2000 by the New Zealand Foundation for the Arts and is also is an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit (ONZM).

Patrons of boutique bar Powderoom will also know his photographs because they have been part of the interior design on and off for the past few years.

They include Isabella, the realistic model baby; Lake, with a yellow and blue slide; Wrestlers, two torsos and arms entwined.

Calla lily petals

And he’s had a drive-by exhibition in the empty Regent building on the corner of Devon West and King streets, where Verge Gallery now resides.

Peryer moved from Auckland to New Plymouth five years ago. At the time he was working with former director Greg Burke on the solo show, The Left Hand Raised.

“I came down for three months… but if you are interested in the arts, because of the Govett-Brewster, this is a good provincial city to be in – that’s a fact.

“There’s art traffic,” he says, prompting images of papier mache cars parading along Devon St.

“Particularly the artists.”

Ans Westra, Lee Bul and Michael Smither wave from the garish vehicles.

Puke Ariki’s library is another plus. Peryer and his personal assistant Paula Frost visit about three times a week, pausing for coffee at the Daily News Café.

Frost is an elegant woman who holds herself like a ballet dancer, while Peryer appears to be a serious man of strong physique and mind, who often looks at life through thick, dark-framed reading glasses.

“I’m not bad for 64,” he says.

In person, he is actually a man full of humour, with an ability to laugh at himself and the world.

“I’m quite jolly aren’t I?”

And later. “Peryer, it rhymes with merrier,” he says a glass of Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc in one hand.

Lily

“Peter and Paula” also has a ring about it. He and Frost are obviously a couple.

“She’s got a light about her,” Peryer says.

But their relationship is opposite to the traditional.

“We work together and live in different houses.”

His home is a weather-board, painted the palest blue, and perched on the brim of a gully that looks over towards Frankley Rd.

“This is the age of post-provincialism – no, I didn’t make that phrase up. This is the age of the Internet. I probably couldn’t be living in New Plymouth if it wasn’t for the Internet.”

Peryer has a strong historical connection with Taranaki.

“In the late ‘30s, before I was born, my parents ran the Breakwater Hotel,” he says.

His father, Milton Archibald Peryer, also had a photographic leaning and took many pictures of the port. There are now copies held in Puke Ariki.

“On my mother’s side, I’m from some of those old Coast families – Power, Lawn, Brophy, Fleming,” he says.

His mother was Louisa Florence Brewer, whose mother was a Coaster.

“I do like the way I have got relations here.”

Yet he’s not certain if this is the place he belongs. “I don’t know where my home is really. But I’m not anxious to move on.”

Passionfruit flower

Born on All Souls Day at Auckland in 1941, Peryer was raised mostly in rural Northland. He was a strict Catholic, but is no longer a Christian, although religious objects do appear among his works.

A former teacher – he’s working at primary, secondary, and tertiary levels – says he doesn’t work in series.

In fact, Peryer reckons if he were to take photography at secondary school his approach would be unacceptable.

“I would fail,” he says.

“I was 33 when I started photographing.”

He is self-taught and feels sad for others who feel as if they have to go to art school or do a course to have the confidence to follow their dreams.

“I want to try and give people hope… technically photography has got easier. Courses should be concentrating on the art, meanwhile, courses get longer.

“The craft is simple now,” he says.

Peryer is, of course, talking about the disappearance of darkrooms due to digital cameras. He got his first in 2000 and is now on to his fifth because of the rapid evolution of technology.

One discarded camera has been dissected by the photographer and laid out on a tray, like a miniature city, for close examination by the science-minded man.

In fact, that’s where his photography began.

“I got very interested in science when I was at secondary school and I did some science subjects at university and one of the skills I picked up at university was how to use a microscope.”

Peryer has a Bachelor of Arts in English, a Masters in Education, and “quite a bit of a science degree”.

“That was my problem – I couldn’t find out what I liked most,” he says.

“I think I’m most interested in biology. And that is reflected in a lot of my subject matter.”

Looking through his online archives, it’s clear what he means.

Peryer often focuses on single specimens, like a yellow rubber frog hand puppet, a monarch butterfly captured in profile and in black and white, a feather, a cape gooseberry, a caterpillar, a cloud and even Mt Taranaki. They are clear, uncluttered pictures.

A cape gooseberry

“I edit it down to the best statement…”

He’s even tougher on what he allows to be shown. “Some years I might pass only two to three.”

Isn’t he harsh on himself?

“If I was Colin McCahon you wouldn’t say that,” he says.

His latest photo is of a Peryer-grown tomato on a carved wooden foot from Bali, which is actually an incense holder. It’s called The Holy Tomato.

This was inspired by his studies of Spanish surrealist Salvador Dali.

The previous work was taken in August. It’s a collection of colourful shapes made from sponge and laid in an oval.

It’s called Matisse and hangs on the wall behind Peryer, like a thought bubble.

One that describes the man’s wildly whirring brain

“There are four to five months between that photograph (the Matisse) and that photograph (the jolly tomato) and nothing in between but a lot of reading,” he says.

On the table beside him is a book titled What’s Wrong With Contemporary Art? by Australian art critic Peter Timms.

“It rarely leaves my knee, because he’s one of the few people… such courage,” he whispers the last words in awe.

“It gives me courage too.”

So what’s wrong with the Govett-Brewster?

Peryer doesn’t like the question and explains he would rather be upbeat about the gallery. It could be a case of not biting the hand that feeds him.

But he can’t help himself.

“They are on track – that doesn’t mean to say it’s a perfect model.”

Monarch butterfly

“It’s known nationally, internationally as a place where there are ideas thrown around; where there’s discourse.”

Then he mutters to himself, “I’m probably being a little over-generous.”

He pauses, his head up and turned like the lion statue he caught on film at Copenhagen, Sweden, in 1997.

“There is room for improvement.”

Here come the bullet points.

• Get a website that works.
• Get their collection online.

“If they are going to pay all that money for a Lee Bul shouldn’t it be online?”

Peryer pauses. “What they show…”

He looks out the window towards Frankley Rd.

“…the gallery has to be very careful that it’s not developing a house style. It’s a particular take.”

That’s why he thinks Greg Burke stayed two years too long. Five years is enough for a director, but Burke was in New Plymouth for seven years before taking the helm of Toronto’s Power Plant art gallery in August last year.
“Greg Burke is getting married,” he says.

Apparently he is engaged to manga video artist Hye Rim Lee from Korea, who has shown works at the Govett-Brewster.

“It’s a fact,” Peryer says.

Then he’s back on his gallery improvements.

·         Don’t collect works.

“It’s expensive, the costs are ongoing. Sooner or later if you collect work, you are going to need a bigger building.”

He misses the irony of his comments, considering his latest works on show at the gallery hail from its own collection.

·         Invest in bringing artists to Taranaki.

“I would rather have seen the gallery put money into resources for visiting artists,” he says. “In my travels I meet many artists who would love to come to New Plymouth.”

And he’s back on art traffic and the sharing of ideas.

Weta

“We don’t make it very easy for artists to come and stay in New Plymouth for a week, or a month, or a year.”

When he arrived in the city, he suggested to Burke that instead of adding to the collection, the gallery could invest in an apartment for artists in residence. But with the rising costs of housing, he wondered if that opportunity had now passed.

Peryer does think the former director did a good job during reign at the Govett-Brewster.

“He brought a lot to us and we have to be very careful who the next incumbent is.”

Could be it be Peryer himself?

“No, no, no! I couldn’t stand all the meetings. Saving up the minutes and throwing away the hours – it would drive me demented.”

He also has fears about the impact of the proposed World Centre for Len Lye.

“I’m completely behind there being a Len Lye centre here,” he says.

But he would prefer it was completely independent of the Govett-Brewster.

"Already it will have affected who has applied for the new director’s job; the new position,” he says.

Peryer is pacing again, his shoes squeaking on the turn beside a table topped with metal Leggo sculptures of the Eifel Tower and the Empire State Building.

He has his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, and he talks like a businessman dictating a letter to a secretary.

“New paragraph,” he orders, to giggles from the shorthand scribe.

 “Anyone who applied may have considered that in the all likelihood they might have to be a project manager.

“It’s a fact – why do you think they are taking so long getting a new director. The World Centre for Len Lye is such a massive project and such an ongoing one that it could easily distract the Govett-Brewster from its true mission, which up until now has been right on course.”

He paces into the kitchen, pours himself another wine, and turns back for his dramatic delivery.

“I fear that it is a Trojan horse

Ludicrously, visions of artists dressed in armour from Troy in 1193 BC and wielding blades of flashing metal from the Len Lye collection appear unbidden in the scribe’s mind.

“I think this is a big danger. I really do think it could bring the Govett-Brewster down.”

This definitely is the manifesto of Peter Peryer.

A community's manifestation of love

By Virginia Winder

Sitting on a bed in the Lodge at the Taranaki Retreat, I caress a handmade quilt and fossick through a complimentary container of toiletries.

These are not little things. Someone made the beautiful quilts that adorn the beds and brighten the lounges, someone donated money for the hair and body products.

In fact, everything in the Retreat has been given by somebody or bought from donations. Everything.

There’s a chapel for quiet time, meditation

Maunga Taranaki watches over he Taranaki Retreat.

or time sharing your heart with a volunteer support worker.

There’s the exercise and art “cave”, bristling with machines for training on and filled with art supplies.

Outside the Lodge are tables and seats, a low-slung hammock and an area for children’s play equipment. There’s even an attractive covered area for smokers, which shows huge respect for those in need of tobacco. Instead of being treated like pariahs they are given dignity at the Retreat.

This is also a lovely place to observe the world and the maunga beyond, framed by shaggy macrocarpa trees.

A couple of goats amble along through the middle of the Retreat grounds, but anybody spooked by the idea of these caprine animals can rest assured they are enclosed. Halo, a moose-sized goat (a wee exaggeration perhaps) is gentle and loves to be fed a handful of grass and scratched behind his blunted horns. The other, whose name escapes me, is less likely to stick around for rubs.

On wanders around the grounds, smiling at the flowers, I marvelled at the idea of each step and every path being formed by donated materials and made with kindness and generosity. I meandered up and down these steps and sat on seats looking up at the sky through unfurling ponga fronds. In one spot I sat enjoying the rush-tinkle of a stream and ducks agitating each other. There are chickens too.

There are peaceful places to rest in nature.

We, the guests, stay in The Lodge, a warm and welcoming place where there’s a full database of movies and TV series, a record player beside an old vinyl collection, and a kitchen full of food for us to enjoy. There are two lounges with comfortable couches.

At 6pm each night, we assemble at the main house, where Suzy and Jamie Allen live with their family.

At restaurant chef speed, Suzy makes dinner for us four guests, an American couple on the Work Away programme and a Retreat assistant, who is a gentle soul with a spring in her step – she literally leaps gates.

The lovingly prepared main course is always followed by dessert, often delectable tarts, cakes and slices provided by Taranaki cafes. I was blown away at their generosity.

The Taranaki Retreat is the truest, most powerful manifestation of a community’s love I’ve ever seen.

It doesn’t stop with what I’ve described – there’s a whole flock of people constantly giving their time to help others.

There’s a wonderful woman who offers her life coaching skills and that helped remind me of all the good in my life. Each of us was paired with a personal support worker and mine was a delightful woman, who listened deeply and also laughed loudly with me.

Another colourful woman filled the Lodge with her peaceful personality and the sweet smells of home baking, with each guest’s needs catered for.

Outside, another volunteer gardened in gumboots, shorts and gusto.

One day we had meditation with Jamie, who used music as a focus and showed us a way to let go of heavy burdens.

Another day, a man with musical flair and a poet’s soul, took an art session.

A woman with magical fingers offered massages and the guests raved at her body-soothing abilities.

Every fortnight another woman takes Pilates or yoga, I’m not certain which, but I think you can see that the generosity of spirit is overwhelming. There will be more people I don’t even know about.

The Retreat was hugely healing for me, for two main reasons – writing and talking.

Every day, the joyful gate leaper had the daunting task of reading my daily blog, a personal ramble of epic proportions that flowed from my fingers most nights.

Volunteers have planted bright flowers. 

There is a computer set up for those of us who wanted to pour our hearts out through a keyboard and those wanting to pen their feelings are provided with pens and journals.

I started off the week thinking that I wasn’t worthy of being at the Retreat, and I admit I was a bit cranky at first. But everything I had been thinking and feeling for months, maybe years, came pouring out and I found a great sense of healing from those words.

While I had access to a computer, the only thing I could use it for was writing the blog. There’s practically no cell coverage and limited wifi at the Hurford Rd property. I literally went into withdrawal but did manage to keep up with important emails. Whew!

Finally, I have to pay tribute to a man, who to me is one of the purest, most giving human beings I’ve ever met. He glows with love.

Jamie Allen is the only person who’s ever got me thinking about the idea of a creator, of a loving force. Not because he preached at me – the Retreat is a safe place for all people, whether they have a faith or none.

But because I sought an appointment with Jamie to talk about a whole bunch of stuff, but specifically, at my behest, spirituality. That conversation is ours, so I won’t share it.

But I will say that great healing came for me.

It’s almost miraculous that a place like this exists. But it does because of Jamie and Suzy, who had a vision and the people came – the volunteers and the donators to provide free time out for guests in need of tender loving care at a time of mental distress, exhaustion, heartbreak or loss.

We have a space to breathe.

Full house of mayhem and mirth

By Virginia Winder

Who knew such a full house would be on the cards.

These days our cup runneth over with animals, Boomerang children and now builders. But not water.

The bathroom is getting a makeover and my job today has been to keep tabs on our new dog, our daughter’s kitten and our two older cats.

The water main was turned off for eight hours, the old toilet is out by the letterbox and the jug was empty. Damn it.

I spent the day pretending I was rehearsing for a natural disaster.

On that front, we’d fail big time. We have no water stored in plastic containers, no first aid kit and the camping lantern needs to be recharged. I know where the candles are, but not the matches. At least the dog’s bowls are filled to the brim. This lack of emergency planning will be rectified once our water is back on and the bathroom is back together.

In the meantime, there was a genuine emergency - I couldn't have coffee.

The loo has also been a major problem. I had to go wild. There’s a private spot in the garden I’ve claimed for inelegant relief, but I nearly got caught.

“Virginia, are you there? Are you decent?”

A journalist mate of mine came to visit, but thankfully the builder told him I was in the garden having a pee. I don't normally discuss my toiletry habits (OK, peeing in the garden is not a habit) but me and the handyman discussed loo logistics and decided out back was best.

Also tried visiting the neighbour, but he wasn’t home. Although desperate, I refrained from watering his backyard.

I can’t stay away for too long because I have to keep the youngest animals safe.

The kitten, who is hated by Izzy, our grey and white cat (oh the dynamics) loves to race out the front door. This is scary because beyond the front fence is a main road that has claimed a couple of our beloved feline friends.  

Luna in a restrained moment

And then there’s the dog. She’s new to us and hasn’t quite learnt the house rules.

She is a one-year-old white mongrel who is part naughtiness and part gazelle. She is a leaper and a chewer.  

In our absence or when she thinks we’re not looking, she springs on to the kitchen bench, boing, like her legs are springs, and grabs things. So far she’s taken a chilli (not chewed, which may have put here off further stolen spoils), apples, the pot scrubber, a packet of pig’s ears, and a steel cloth.

She’s chewed one remote control (still usable), been caught with another in her mouth, and stolen my Yoda slippers, her dog brush, Warren’s jandals and a variety of sports shoes.

But she is adorable.

Our son Nelson decided our home didn’t feel right without a dog so he went to the SPCA and fell in love.

We have named her Luna, after Luna Lovegood from Harry Potter. She is moon-like with short white hair and crater-like spots of black.

She is a delight. Naughty but nice, affectionate, pretty good with the cats, although our black and white boy, Scoop, has attacked her twice and so Luna is terrified of him.

Izzy smooches with her – she has a thing for dogs – and Draco the kitten and Luna tumble about like lion cubs, supervised of course. 

And then there are the Boomerangs.

Clementine and Nelson – with his girlfriend – have moved home to save up to go overseas. Both have achieved tertiary success, a degree for one and a diploma for the other, so have the world before them.

In the meantime, they are our housemates.

Our children’s favourite game is called “Mock Mum”. Luckily, my self-esteem is solid otherwise their “loving” teasing would bring me down. It doesn’t. We laugh a lot and that’s good for the soul.

Who could resist these boots?

One grown-up child has decided my online shopping needs to stop, although I know some much worse than me. I do admit I may have a wild boot thing going on. 

The other adult child teases me mercilessly about my divided attention, questionable memory and lost words. Sometimes, ordinary words just don’t come out.

“Pass me that hair thing,” I say to my bemused husband.

“You mean your hairbrush?”

I am at times woolly headed and that’s not just my hair when it’s humid.

“It’s my stage in life,” I say, slightly defensively.

I’ve even researched it (OK looked it up on Google) and there are definite links between memory loss and perimenopause. Apparently it won’t last – neither will said child if the derision continues.

So, life with the Boomerangs is interesting, challenging and best of all, loads of fun.

We had a house meeting in the beginning, assigned rooms for people to look after, and talked about things we found annoying that needed to be addressed.

Clementine with Draco and Luna

No 1 was hanging up towels in the bathroom because one Boomerang somehow missed that simple life lesson. However, this child now has an accomplice. After cursing at find damp towels crumpled on the floor, I discovered I was too quick to point the finger.

Draco, who would obviously be in Slytherin house, is an acrobat. His specialty is the towel act. While sitting on the loo other day, he treated me to his death-defying act of leaping on a towel, climbing up to the rail and then swinging precariously to bring the whole thing down on top of him. It was a dazzling display of kitten dexterity and I would have applauded except I was busy with the loo paper. A roll, which, sigh, was perforated with kitten claw marks.

This was a different roll than the one he pushed into the hallway the other day for him and the dog to battle over. It was only just salvageable.

So today I have been confined to the kitchen craving coffee, dog and kitten alternating between tumbling around the floor and lying asleep in the sun, while banging, whirring, clanging and cracking sounds emanated from the freshly gutted bathroom. 

Tomorrow there will be coffee – the jug will be full – and, alas, more necessary trips behind the orange tree.

At least that’s sure to herald another surprise visitor to our extremely full but happy house.

Farewell to our warrior princess

By Virginia Winder

I had to throw my crusts to the birds today.

It’s the first time in nearly 11-and-a-half years I’ve had to do that.

You see, my crusts have always been fed to my dogs. Plural. I grew up with Cushla and Tina, then in our marriage of 27 years, we’ve had Ella and Xena.

In fact one of my verbal pre-nuptial agreements with my then-to-be husband was that we had to get a dog. He grew up fearful of canines, so it was a big ask. But Warren grew to love our girls as much as our kids and I did.

Yesterday, we said goodbye to our darling Xena, a black Labrador-kelpie cross. She was nearly 13.

We got her as a rescue dog and it was love at first sight on all sides. The day we picked her up from Waitara, she was so strong I had to sit in the back seat of our stationwagon to fend off her attempts to jump over.

That’s why she had to have a name to match her power. Xena fitted perfectly.

Sometimes her strength was tested by her zany human mother. I used to wind her up and then wrestle her on the lounge floor. I was completely undignified, ridiculous and fearless. Xena never hurt me as we rolled about trying to pin each other down and growling. Yes, me too.

Our children watched on with amusement and possibly embarrassment. I’m not sure.

Xena used to have a bed in the kitchen, but one stormy night when she was barking, Nelson saved her. Or it could have been the other way round. From then on, probably about 2009, she slept on his bed nearly every night, giving him company and security.

That was the same time we swam in the sea every single day of the year. Clementine, who was learning to drive, was often our chauffeur. Warren, Nelson and I, with Xena at our heels, took the plunge in wind, rain, high and low tide, at sunrise and sunset. 

It was a great year for Xenie Weenie (our cutesy nickname for her) because she loved the beach with complete tongue-lolling abandon. She also loved going to her favourite black-sand beach with surrogate "auntie" Callie, our treasured friend and house-sitter.

Photo: Callie Boyle

The last time I walked with Xena on Back Beach a few weeks back, her hind legs kept giving way. In the end she plodded slowly – a far woof from her days of running at me, full speed, ears back, tongue out and swerving at the last second.

Often, depression is described as the “black dog”. It couldn’t be more opposite in our house – Ella was a black lab-cross too.

For me, Xena was many things, but never a symbol of the blues. I work from home, so she was always with me. She was my shadow, following me from room to room, even when I just popped down to the bedroom to get something.

She nuzzled me, licked me, greeted me with joy and was my every-day, all-day harbour of peace.

When Warren went away, I stole her from Nelson and she used to sleep next to me on top of the bed, head on the pillow.

In the days I got super fit by walking, cycling and swimming, Xena came with me on the first leg. She was great to walk, except when she saw a cat and lunged. Not great for shoulders.

At home though, she was a comfortable companion with our two cats, Izzy and Scoop. Izzy used to rub herself against Xena and lie close to her on the mat before the heater in the lounge.

We now have Draco, a grey kitten who, in the past few weeks, constantly attacked our ever-patient dog. She didn’t react – our girl became even more placid with age.

Watching her get old filled us with a slow-growing sadness. First she couldn’t run with Warren anymore, then she couldn’t jump on the bed, or in the back of the stationwagon.

Our next-door neighbour has a Harley Davidson and when he revved it up before a ride, Xena would go nuts, racing up and down our adjoining fence barking ferociously.

Then one day she didn’t. We realised her hearing had gone.

Her eyes, started to go too.

But never her appetite.

Yesterday, I kept pieces of hot cross bun to feed her and she willingly scoffed them down while lying in the bean chair in my office. That was her last supper.

When the vet came, we lay our girl on her bed in the sun on the deck and all held her as she faded away. It was so quick, so peaceful. Then we buried her next to Ella.

I woke this morning with a deep ache in my chest and a feeling like something is missing. On this cloudy day, I know what it is – my shadow.

And a loving, brown-eyed, soft-eared friend to eat my crusts.

Living in the now - trendy or truth?

By Virginia Winder

“Live in the now,” is the catch cry of everyone from Oprah to psychologists, self-help specialists to Buddhist leaders.

There are books about it, YouTube videos on it and social meme expounding “be present”.

They are shared so often that they are in danger of becoming clichés, if they haven’t already.

So what is all this “be in the moment” movement all about and is it just a trendy thing to say? 

But it’s not a new idea.

Back in 500-something BC, Buddha said: “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”

His words couldn’t be more relevant than now. Today we live a social-media-cell-phone-switched-on-selfie world, where our attention is constantly scattered. Let’s have a look at a familiar scenario.

Two friends, a man and a woman, are sitting in a café drinking coffee. Beside the man is his phone, which is constantly lighting up with alerts. Each time it does, he pauses and reads the screen, ignoring his old schoolmate. Then a text comes through and he answers it quickly, shutting her out as she shares about her job woes. In the face of his preoccupation she feels unimportant, annoyed and hollow.

   

On the other hand, her phone is on silent in her handbag. All of her attention is on her long-time friend and she leans forward as he talks about his latest break-up. She blocks out everyone in the café, even though she knows she’ll know a heap of people there. As a result, her buddy feels listened to, valued and replenished.

I’ve been guilty of being the bloke in this situation. Too often my children have complained I’m not listening to them and my husband has told me things I swear he’s never shared with me. I’ve been absent – immersed in reading something on my phone or being lost in my thoughts. I do dream a lot.

However, I would like to say that sometimes I can’t win when my son gets frustrated with me for not immediately answering a text. Like I don’t have a life. Like I couldn’t be driving, in the shower, at a movie, or god forbid, having a good time. But I digress.

So, to be a better wife, mother and friend, I’ve decided that when I’m with people I will fully focus on them. It’s a way of honouring these relationships by giving them all of me.

It’s not just about my phone and social media (which I am addicted to – oh the world it opens up for me in terms of news and stories), it’s about not drifting off in the middle of a conversation. It’s about being there. Totally.

And it’s about doing the same for myself.

Image: tattoos_by_zip

Sometimes getting lost in my thoughts can lead to downward spirals because I invent terrible scenarios that could happen in the future. Other times, I agonise over bad things that have happened in the past. Neither are helpful.

Living in this moment immediately stops the spiral. 

But again, what on earth does being present actually mean?

Alright, here we go. If I’m in the shower and start to get anxious about the day ahead, I focus on the warm water falling my body, breathe in the perfume of my shower gel, and open my mouth to taste the water. I am focused on my senses and suddenly the shower becomes a joyful experience.

When I write, I’m 100% present. Nothing else exists except my fingers tapping on the keyboard, the muse-releasing music in my ears and the words flowing on to the screen. There’s no place for yucky thoughts.

Doing art is the same, so is the process of making coffee and even driving. How many times have you followed the same route and got to your destination and not remembered any of the journey? That’s trance driving and not particularly safe. 

But I do allow myself to dream. Thoughts about writing are allowed to swirl through my mind, but only when I’m alone or in bed. I have a notebook with me all the time, so I can write down thoughts. You’ll see me at cafes in the next few months, pen scribbling over pages as I capture what I see.

Other places for total immersion in the now are swimming in surf, when the only thing that matters is the next wave. Or watching a TV programme or film with sub-titles (no time to play on your phone). Or at a dinner party with friends enjoying good food, great company and solving the problems of the world or belly-laughing. Or taking a flower photo.

Other ideas are to read a book, sit and listen to a whole music album, meditate, go walking or running, or dance at a concert. Soak it all in.

When I do an interview I’m totally there, full focused on my subjects and their story. Every single time I’ve done an interview, I have left feeling uplifted.

So my pledge to you is that, unless I meet you in the street and I’m running late, I will be with you. Now. In the moment. Present.

To me this idea isn’t a cliché, but a practical tool to live mindfully and well.

When you think about it, living in the moment means throwing yourself into every situation and being totally involved. None of this half-hearted living for me.

Fighting stigma around mind medications

By Virginia Winder

One of the biggest stigmas about living with experience of a mental illness is taking medication.

Everywhere I’ve turned lately, I have come up against the belief that being on medication is some sort of cop out and you’re a hero or heroine if you give it up.

Please, never encourage people who have diagnoses of bipolar, schizophrenia or depression to quit – especially if the medication is helping them.

Talking about suicide, the website Bipolar Lives says: “Dramatic reductions, both for attempts and completions, is one of the most striking impacts of lithium and other effective mood stabilisers.”

One of the most compelling aspects of living with bipolar is the temptation of going off my meds. Why? Because I miss the manic highs. They are amazing and you feel like you can conquer the world.

But these highs don't last.

When the mania erodes, like the slow shattering of a glass-made world, there’s the plunge – I call it the drop zone – when you find yourself at ground zero. All memories of what that “high” felt like are gone and often there’s huge embarrassment about the things you may have done or said “up there”.

The depression is made worse because the difference between the high and low are so acute. A large number of people with bipolar complete suicide – a rate of 15%. Of those living with bipolar, 50% will attempt to take their life and 80% will think about it. 

Those are horrifying statistics.

Images like this feed the stigma around taking
life-saving mental health medications.

For me, lithium keeps me stable – I don’t have the huge mood swings I used to. Yes, I still feel joy, have wildly creative thoughts, and also feel great sadness and anger.

But if I went off my medication, the outcome could literally kill me. So please think carefully, before you congratulate someone going off their meds or even worse, make them feel bad for being on them.

Would you applaud a diabetic for going off insulin? Or a person with powerful migraines to just tough it out? Or an asthmatic to give up their inhaler during an attack. Two of these scenarios are life-threatening.

Going off mental health medication can be exactly the same.

I came across a person once who had had a lung transplant – a huge medical procedure that required drugs so the organ wasn’t rejected.

This same person had a sibling on medication to help live with the debilitating illness of schizophrenia, and raved about how their loved one shouldn’t be on these drugs.

Weird that it’s OK to have all the medical intervention in the world for something physical, but not for a mental illness. I’ve talked with people who hear voices, who live with psychosis and paranoia, and know it’s heart-breaking and terrifying. Can you imagine walking around with a voice talking in your head the whole time, which you can’t switch off?

What many of those people don’t know is that for some people, like myself, medication is a life saver.

Yes, I tried St John’s Wort, but it caused me to have mini seizures. So that’s crossed off the list. However, it can work wonders for some people. 

Advice: Don’t ever take it at the same time as antidepressants, because you could end up with a nasty temporary condition called serotin syndrome. Yes, you can have too much of a good thing.

The thing about mental health medications is you need to get the right drugs. You need to work with your doctor or psychiatrist to do that. Unfortunately, it can take time and patience and, sometimes, you may suffer a raft of unwanted side effects before the ideal drug or combo is found. The same goes for medication for physical conditions.

I was put on lithium after I became one of the 50% (see above).

Nearly three years on, I have been stable, with one short dip on the way. Lithium has changed my life and my life expectancy.

So please don’t hassle people on mental health medication to get off and be wary about supporting those who stop taking their pills, especially those with a long history of extreme mental illness.

If it’s you who’s quitting, ask yourself why? Is it the stigma, do you miss the highs (if you’re bipolar), or is it a push from the natural health advocates that’s shaping your opinion? Could it be side effects? If so, work with your doctor to try something else.

For those who are suffering and won’t even look at mental health medication, think carefully about why. Do you think you deserve to suffer? Is depression a familiar, almost comfortable place to hide? Are you frightened of medical intervention? Would you feel the same if you had a heart attack? Or meningitis? 

This is a great book full of
mindfulness tips. 

Then there are those people who won’t go on medication – or go off it – and instead self-medicate with alcohol or drugs. This is extra harmful because both can make the illness worse, feed into depression and/or mania and may cause psychosis.

Believe me, medication isn’t the only answer. For me mindfulness is my cornerstone, along with Acceptance Commitment Therapy, creativity, family, friendship, love, laughter, meaningful work, good sleep, healthy food and exercise. Staying well takes a lot of hard work.

Every now and again, I look at my rock-of-a-husband, and say: “Sometimes I really feel like going off lithium so I can feel that exquisite high again.”

“I’d rather have you alive,” he replies.

Warrior of words

By Virginia Winder

It's time to stand up. 

For too long I've been lying down (quite literally lately), hiding behind my journalistic shroud of impartiality. 

Enough. It's time to speak out on the things I care about. On people, our planet, mental and physical health, creativity, peace, equality and spirituality. 

It's time to be a warrior of words. To interview, to research, look deeply, to save the world - all the reasons I became a journalist in the first place all those 30-plus years ago. 

This is my New Year's pledge. 

Also, 2017 will be a time to improve my writing style; to dance with words, to try new techniques and become a more exciting and moving storyteller. I'm doing an online course through Future Learn, which is at all of our fingertips for free.

The aim is to write this blog once a week because regular schedules work for me.

There will be features, opinion pieces, personal stories (mine and yours), music and film reviews - anything that moves me in some way.  

Expect VW's Vibrant World to challenge, inspire and be filled with people.  

They could be you. 

So don't be surprised if you hear from me with a request to tell your story or to comment on a compelling issue.

We're all the good guys and we need to save the day.