Dusk at Millthorpe is enchanting. The western sky, dappled in mid-level cloud, plays with a palette of yellow, orange, pink and bruised plum. The colours layer on top of one other like an extravagant celebratory cake. The initial yellow and orange hues are followed by an intense pink reminding me of specimens in the Bathurst begonia garden. In part it is like pink tulle draped across the sky, lifting in intensity, and for a few glorious minutes, the sky lights up just as its embers are about to die out.
The soft duck egg blue above this showy palette is slowly transformed to lavender, plum, mauve, and violet before the sky changes yet again before my eyes. Blues now dominate the sky. Moving from azure to cerulean, delft and finally to navy before turning into an inky black sky, I gaze as if into the eyes of a lover. Slowly, stars emerge, first one then another, and before long hundreds fill the night sky. Away from the city lights, they illuminate the firmament and light the way, even on this moonless night.
I have long been fascinated by celestial bodies and as a child could name many of the constellations until my northern sky was replaced by the southern cross and new shapes for which I had no name.
I am intrigued by the Australian Indigenous way of viewing the stars. The images I look for are formed by lines connecting star to star while they look for images in the spaces between. This reminds me of those optical illusions where you see either a young or an old woman depending on your perspective, until you can see both images and move between them with ease. I’d like to learn more about Indigenous astronomy and move between the two skies with ease.
It is too cold to stay outside. The temperature drops fiercely once the sun withdraws. I shiver and take a last look at the night sky and still can’t tear myself away from the spectacle before me.
From Quill to Quote 