Still life paintings must be the slowest paintings in the NGV. What could be slower than stopping so completely that you're actually still? In the middle of a city of people on the go, I slowed right down to step inside the NGV, and then stood entirely still in the Joseph Brown Collection to ponder Brett Whiteley's Still Life with Cornflowers (1976).

There is something very calm and meditative about the painting: it's spare and full of white space, but this accentuates the vividness of the blue cornflowers in a vase, the richness of the burgundy cherries, and the voluptuous curves of the pear and garlic bulb.

Whiteley painted this work during the period in which his main subject became his immediate surroundings: the inside of his studio or the view from his widow. There's something wonderful about being able to appreciate ordinary and domestic objects that stand right in front of you; something as simple as a piece of fruit or a flower.

Nearby in the same collection, Margaret Preston's still life Flannel Flowers (1939) is one of ten the artist painted of Australian flora. Preston argued that 'rather than seeking inspiration solely from European and Western sources, Australian artists should find knowledge closer to home from both Indigenous and Asian cultures.' Forget about the grandiose, the epic and things that are considered 'important'. Celebrating the ordinary, and finding new ways to see the beauty in familiar objects is the key to still life - and to a slow life as well.

By Beth Hall

It is rare thing to be alone when you live in a city.

In her Age column, Kate Holden recently recounted the story of her passing by the Domain gardens at midnight, and stopping to 'walk just a little way into their dark expanse and sit for a moment in rare, total solitude'. Holden admits being a little nervous - a woman alone in a garden at midnight - but she also cherished sitting there in 'this eerily still open place, where no one was looking and no one knew I was...breathing in a sense of wonderful strangeness'. Familiar places when stripped away of their colour and life become strange to us. The peopled daytime world of trams, offices, caffeine, ipods and mobile phones is what we're comfortable with; we're used to being plugged-in and switched-on. But perhaps the best way of connecting with ourselves is to unplug from the world. As Holden found, sometimes it can be profoundly rewarding to stop, and to silently, simply 'be'.

I read Kate Holden's column in the cafe of the NGV's Ian Potter Gallery and then, in one of those moments of serendipity, found myself standing in front of Domenico de Clario's series of night paintings: Twenty-two paintings - Breathing for Biagio Walking (2005-6). Like Holden, de Clario had put himself, alone at night, into the landscape. He was interested in exploring 'the exchange between the inner world and the outer' - what our eyes see, and the ambiguities that are brought on by darkness and 'unknowingness'. His series of paintings were created by driving along the road between Perth and Kellerberrin at night, and stopping every 10km to paint what he saw. At first glance, the canvases are black, but as your eyes adjust, you become aware of the layers of blackness in the paintings and can make out shapes: trees, horizon lines, buildings and (perhaps) a gravestone.

In these cold winter months, darkness surrounds us - the days get shorter and the shadows longer. We turn inside, to our homes and whatever other cosy corners and warm places we can find. But next time you're alone at night, take a moment to accept silence and solitude - even for just a moment - and find some clarity in the unclear, ambiguous darkness.


By Beth Hall

Ride the escalator up to the first floor of the NGV and the tops of the water windows reveal themselves. Upon alighting, there is a decision to be made between watching a video playing continuously on a large screen in a space to the left, or proceeding straight ahead into a small anteroom leading to the Asian Art exhibition. Choose the latter option and remember that life is about experiencing the journey rather than simply being fixated upon arriving at the destination. Linger a while with the lacquered Buddhist monk who resides there, instead of racing on through to the main display space.

The soundtrack playing on the other side of the wall is reduced to a soothing sibilance. Together with the soft and continuous sound of the falling water it becomes an unfathomable and barely audible mantra. All conspires to invite you to pause and consider. The occasional measured footfalls of the attendants speak of sandals and cloisters; the hum of the air-conditioner is the hum of the Universe. On his black wooden plinth the gently golden monk is lost in his meditation: his hands in prayerful repose, his face enigmatic. The red of the wall behind him is no chaotic crimson. It is rich and profound.

By guest: Lex Tucker

I can still remember the first time I saw Giovanni Tiepolo's The Banquet of Cleopatra. It was during a gallery tour with my HSC art class and I was mesmerised. The detail, the colour, the sheer magnificent size of the thing, learning that Cleopatra was fair-headed(!), and puzzling over her decidedly un-Egyptian dress.

I remember the guide explaining the painting: the story of the Queen threatening to dissolve one of her famous pearls in a glass of wine (I think) as a result of an argument (possibly) with Mark Anthony - the details are a little hazy some 20 years on.

Ever since, whenever I have wandered the gallery I invariably drift back towards The Banquet.

When my daughter was two-and-a-half, we spent a day in the city and the gallery was one of the places I knew I wanted to take her. After all, she loved painting and I couldn't wait to see how she reacted to being surrounded by so many paintings, a good number of them many times larger than her.

The dimly lit labyrinth containing early Egyptian, Greek and Roman sculptures caught her attention first but she quickly decided that a bowl was just a bowl and a vase was not nearly so interesting without sweet-smelling flowers inside. The concept of mummification was something I didn't want to go into and so we moved on.

When we reached the cavernous room containing the 18th century paintings, she was suitably thrilled - although more with how much space there was to run than with the pieces adorning the walls.

"What do you think about this painting," I asked, guiding her towards Tiepolo's masterpiece. She stood like a little button in front of the two-and-a half-metre-high painting - exactly her age, but in metres.
"Good," she answered simply. I tried again.
"Isn't it gigantic," I exclaimed.
"Yes."
"Isn't it colourful," I prompted.
"Yes."
I made one last attempt. "So what do you think about it?"
"It's good," she said.

Quite right. And until she's accumulated her own ideas about Egypt (which may or not include black bobbed wigs and the Bangles), what else needs to be said?

by guest: Julie Pugh

Big institutions generally get a bad rap. And state institutions, like the NGV, can appear conservative - especially in a city well endowed with artist-run initiatives. But I regard our fine gallery as that favourite old teacher from school with whom you credit (to some degree) for being who you are now. The one that saw your talent before you did.

On a recent visit to the permanent collections, the NGV re-presented me with the nuts and bolts of traditional art-making: displaying exemplary skill in drawing and painting. Without it, there would be no foundation for the relatively new mediums of photography, film or installation.

Robert Hughes once described the necessity for the traditional arts in the following way. 'A good drawing says: "not so fast, buster". We have had a gutful of fast art and fast food. What we need more of is slow art: art that holds time as a vase holds water: art that grows out of modes of perception and whose skill and doggedness make you think and feel; art that isn't merely sensational, that doesn't get its message across in 10 seconds, that isn't falsely iconic, that hooks onto something deep-running in our natures.'

The NGV's permanent collection preserves milestones of Australian culture that would otherwise leak away and be lost. Its being represents an ever-evolving lesson for artists. And one of the better ones. Like excursions or electives...

by guest: Molly Grasson

I've never been so sick that I couldn't go to work. But today I took a sickie anyway. Instead of heading for the couch, I headed to the Ian Potter Centre. I picked up a guide at the entrance. Fanning through it was like having my head over a bowl of steaming Vicks, as the heady scent of coloured inks cleared my nasal passages. After a glance and a sniff I put it back. Sometimes you don't want to know exactly where you're going.

Each archway I walked through revealed more walls strung with surprises. I was happy to be lead around the walls by the gallery's orienting information cards and way of ordering works by eras, collections and even patrons.

The gallery's collection of Australian works had me experiencing the gamut of emotions and states of being: from feeling young and excited looking at the traditions referenced in the Indigenous gallery to old and sentimental looking at a Walter Burley Griffin's chair that I desperately wanted to sit in. This gallery visit beat watching trashy daytime telly hands-down.

I used the exquisite wooden benches often to rest. They're not as comfortable as my couch, but far better looking. Overall, I felt healthier for not going to work. And for getting out amongst it while most of Melbourne was holed up in an office.

by guest: Liam S