Looking beyond the square glazed window and on into the bush, I can see Mount Wellington in the distance. This is the southern tip of Tasmania and, for all intent and purpose, the bottom of the earth. Clouds float by at the same speed as anywhere else, while life, in the affectionately named and nearby “Slowbart” floats by at its own sweet pace. The convivial lubricant to life in this part of the world, and dare I say Australia as a whole, is “grog”, and the sidewalks along Salamanca that connects the state Parliament to its constituents are packed with bars, people and the proverbial slosh.
Vintage cruisers, tall ships and sailing yachts slink in and out of the harbour, whilst Hobart residents drink away the shining hours on the quayside, Boag’s or 9th Island in hand. From the colonial-style ex-customs house to the 1930s office blocks, Hobart is a patchwork of new and old, where tradition and style fastidiously remains, for new money or old, and where any man or woman can ply their trade and win or lose a fortune. Via the arterial veins of Davey, Macquarie, Collins and Liverpool that run through the heart of Hobart, to the winding lanes that take you up through the beautiful Battery Point and Sandy Bay, the city itself bristles with history; a sense that every dweller pays their respect to on a daily basis, but who knows for how much longer. Like the coffee palaces and temperance hotels long since gone, nothing quite lasts forever, and in spite of the centuries-old raw history that has stuck around, and perhaps could be said to bind generations past together through a shared sense of fate, the impact wanes.
Like the mountains that contrast with the low-rise, low-impact buildings of the city and its sprawl, the state of being in Hobart always stands in stark opposition. This might be the new world, but around here there is no easy passage from old to new, from the traditions to the notion of reinvention. Big and disruptive ideas jostle for position in the minds of the locals, and all too frequently get beaten down. Seemingly immune from the troubles that beset the rest of the world in these times of big economic woes, Hobart, and Tasmania as a whole faces its own cultural and social battles. The likes of MONA, painted as one man’s folly to the island state, to me seem like the perfect gift, fought tooth and nail as a rear-guard action by the aged, blinkered and conservative population.
Ragtime floats through the summer air in downtown Hobart adding its own colour to the canvas that is a city beset by troubles past, but which is slowly but surely being forced to change. Yet, for every last bit of change, Tasmania has an unchanging heart of natural beauty. The neo-mythical Kookaburra bird laces the days with it’s own unique song, whilst with each dieing day of summer, the sun casts its most beautiful yellow & orange hues over this island state and the Bass Straits that “connect” the island to the mainland. Nature’s bounty is in abundance here and the quality of life is certainly a lot greater for it; from the oyster beds at the not too distant Barilla Bay to the dairies and vineyards found just offshore at Bruny Island, and on to the awesome and majestic views atop Mount Wellngton at sunset.
I suppose the sense of Tasmania that you perceive, much depends on the angle from which you look, and your own sense of place on this planet. Hobart is a comfortable and quiet place with much to offer on many levels, and it’s peripheral part in a big regional player is slowly changing, for better or for worse, but I would like to think that it is destined for bigger and better things, should the right economic, social and cultural forces win out. Perhaps a big “if”, but change will most certainly come to this place, no matter what.
Not one to sit around and twiddle my thumbs, I have been keeping myself busy and helping friends as per usual. So hot off the press is a new 
This past week has showed me that I can be the luckiest bastard on the planet. Love me or loathe me, you can’t take it away from me. True to form, and not one to rest on my laurels, I have decided to do a write up and a “take away” from the 7 things I learned about life in the preceding 168 hours.
Web-head & art collector, living in East London and huffing on the fumes of the planet since '78. Here are my thoughts.
