ceramics, jewellery and spew

I’m out the door and I’m alone. I’m showered and dressed. I am wearing lipstick. My handbag contains not a single nappy. It’s early afternoon and what a rare treat to find myself in a small gallery, one that I’ve driven past a zillion times and always thought I should visit.

Woodpapersilk sits near a busy intersection on an ugly road in Petersham. From the car, I’ve only ever been able to make out a large painting hanging in the window above a ‘50s Parker-style couch. The painting changes regularly and I often find myself gazing at it as I wait for the lights on Crystal Street to change. I’ve never really known what was inside. Today I venture in for the first time, feeling ambitious and grown-up and a little bit like someone (or two or three) is missing.

It’s my kind of gallery, filled with beautiful ceramics and silver jewellery. On the wall are large-scale canvas paintings of flowers, one a magnolia, another a pair of poppies, their colours muted against a dark background. Against another wall I flick through unframed etchings and lino prints, imagining this one above the piano at home, another in the hallway. The prices are far from steep and I’m tempted – it must be the dizzying freedom I’m feeling in this brief respite from nappies and breastfeeding.

But what tips it over for me are the textiles – felted brooches, silk scarves, hand-knitted arm warmers and a pair of felted bowls that look like oversized gumnuts or something you’d find on a coral reef. Art galleries are usually a little lofty for me, displaying things to aspire to but remain apart from. But this place makes me want to race home and get out the knitting needles and fabrics and start making stuff.

My gaze falls on a collection of ceramic beakers. I pick one up – it feels heavy in my hand. I imagine how much better a cup of tea will taste in it. There are different designs and it’s hard to settle on one, so I choose two – one for me and one for Aimee, who had a birthday recently. I’ll let her make the decision.

I wander back to the car with my little brown bag, stopping for a takeaway latte in a nearby café. I’m feeling great, on top of things, a bit bulletproof. In the car I glance down and notice for the first time the baby vomit on my black shirt. It’s been there the whole time.

And it's straight back down to earth.