Rockhampton has a hidden underbelly, a soft layer of art and craft and creativity within.
Often seen as a cowboy town and a cultural backwater, (where even my 3year old nephew mimics the rodeo riders – I’m buckin! I’m buckin!) Rockhampton holds its serious creativity deep inside, for fear of mockery, fear of ridicule, and delights in a secret celebration of passion and drive.
I’m sitting in the quiet semi-darkness, waiting for my writing class to begin. On the second floor, around the corner, past the Creative Embroiderers and diagonally opposite the Spinners and Woven Fabric Artists, is where you’ll find me.
A giant red circle is speared with long purple arrows pointing to the centre of the building; a disused and re-energised warehouse, at the far end of East Street.
In my Writers Room, there are photos of this building on fire (1912), a photograph of the building in flood (1918) and a photograph of the magnificent building in it’s heyday (1919) with 2 bicycles, two small boys and a horse and buggy passively looking to the camera.
In my Writers Room, the colour of the walls matches exactly the colour of the coffee mugs.
Deep jacaranda purple.
I wonder which came first, the mug, or the walls?
“Here, this is the colour”, and the newly purchased mug is held up and turned this way and that.