A Night at Notes From Home

Words: Faith Thurnwald 
Photos: Zac Moynihan

I attend Zac Moynihan’s Art Gallery opening at Leithbridge Gallery Paddington. After a crash out about not having anything to wear – yes, clothes on the floor, questioning if I should even go, the works. I settle on a dress I haven’t worn for 10 years, with gum stuck on the ass and death heels, can you imagine the GRWM! It’s raining and cold, but arriving at the Gallery I immediately have to remove my Faux Fur Coat, there’s a lot of bodies producing heat here.

I don’t get to see too much of the art. Now this isn’t because I’ve had too much champagne and I’m a terrible journalist – although both are usually true – rather it’s packed. There is hardly room to move, let alone digest the brilliance of Zac’s work.

‘Notes From Home’ is a love letter to our little slice of city heaven, Paddington. Zac captures the moments of beauty that can escape you in a cityscape haze. These are the moments I fall in love with the city: driving over Red Hill at sunset, the afternoon light dappled across old Queenslanders, traffic lights and 9-5ers disappearing into the quiet of the valley. Zac sets up his easel on these hills, observes, and paints. This is evident in his use of light, so visceral in its physicality. It’s modern impressionism, showcasing nature in an urban landscape, and it’s fuck off good.

For me Zac’s work is like The Little Book of Calm, if only I could swallow it whole, absorb it into the blood stream (in medical terms, it’s gone). I could’ve really used it earlier during my crash out; Add a drop of lavender to your bath and soon you’ll soak yourself calm. 

I leave the Gallery, there’s a brief respite in the rain, and I hope I don’t slip in my heels, walking with a friend and making drunk plans that are yet to come to fruition.

I arrive at my local; Hope and Anchor, as Zac and I are both connoisseurs here, this is naturally where the night continues, and let me tell you, if I hadn’t had too much to drink at the Gallery, I soon remedy this.

I sink South Sides with the usual suspects like they’re going out of fashion, and embarrass myself scribbling in a notebook dedicated to boozy sketches; my lack of artistic prowess is evident.

The night ends as it usually does – it doesn’t. I invite people back to mine, for kick ons.

For More: ‘A Night at Three Artists One Family’