INTRODUCTION CONTRIBUTORS ABOUT

Reflections in Still Water

Ben Yuill

We often don’t explore our own surroundings, perhaps because the familiar becomes invisible to us. In our longing for the exotic, for experiences that promise transformation, we overlook the richness of the ordinary. We dream of faraway lands, of the Guggenheim and the Louvre, chasing visions of grandeur. But in doing so, we risk missing the quiet treasures of our daily life—the beauty of a city street or a park we pass without thought. Melbourne, with its intricate dance of nature and urbanity, had for me become a collection of overlooked treasures. Only in stillness did I begin to see its hidden layers.

I first came to Melbourne at the turn of the century—a phrase that always makes me pause, as if I’m speaking of some distant, almost forgotten past. Yet, it wasn’t the 1900s, but the twenty-first century, the dawn of a new millennium. My family relocated due to my dad’s work with the New Zealand Navy—he was tasked with managing a joint operation of some sort involving Australian and British forces. I was in my final year of high school, caught in the tension between adolescence and adulthood. Too young to grasp the depth of Melbourne’s culture and too preoccupied with teenage concerns to explore its streets with curiosity. The city was vibrant, yet I was oblivious to much of it. However, some places have a way of etching themselves into your memory even if you don’t recognise it at the time. Melbourne, with its subtle mix of European influence and modernity, quietly imprinted itself on me. I didn’t realise it then, but the city had already begun to pull me in, and I would return, again and again.

Only a year later we moved to Perth, a city that, for all its beauty, never captivated me in the way Melbourne did. Perth’s vastness felt empty, its rhythm slow, as if it was always on the edge of a great pause. Yet Melbourne called me back, time and again, like an echo I couldn’t ignore. I had friends in Melbourne, and many of my Perth friends spoke as if it were a beacon of culture and vibrancy in an otherwise quiet existence. Every visit felt like returning to a place where the pulse of life was more immediate, more urgent. But as time passed, something shifted. 

Despite now having lived in Melbourne for just over a decade, I stopped seeing it with those curious eyes. Familiarity has a way of dulling our senses, casting even the most vibrant surroundings in muted tones. The city has sometimes seemed to shrink around me, its magic slipping into the everyday. Once more I turned my gaze outward, seeking inspiration from distant places—Europe, Asia, and back to New Zealand—or turned inward, revisiting the paths of my personal history in search of the enchantment I had once found so effortlessly.

And so, on a mild Friday afternoon, as winter was loosening its grip on Melbourne in 2024, I made the effort to see a part of it I had until now neglected, and finally visited the National Gallery of Victoria. I went alone, unburdened by expectations. I had lived just a short distance away for years, yet somehow, I had never crossed its threshold. I knew where it was—how could I not? I’d passed its towering façade many times on my way to the theatre, or on my way south to see friends, but the thought of exploring within had never pushed me beyond my routine. That day felt different. The air was crisp, with a hint of spring’s promise, but the cold still hung heavy, keeping most people inside. On this side of the city, the streets were sparsely populated, a stark contrast to the bustling footy crowd I crossed closer to home. For the first time, I stood at the gallery’s entrance, finally ready to discover what I had long ignored, eager to see if this familiar exterior held something I had been missing all along.

Barely inside and my senses were overwhelmed with the voices and bustle of hundreds of people with a similar idea. Not wanting to be absorbed by the noise, I coat-checked my backpack and slid in my noise-cancelling earphones. They would be my shield, a silent defense against the clamour around me. The voices and footsteps faded into a distant hum, like the murmur of waves against a far-off shore. As I wandered through the halls, the gallery’s atmosphere enveloped me in its quiet chaos—crowded, yet somehow serene. I stood apart from it all, feeling like a quiet observer, standing in a river’s flow.

The upper floors of the NGV hold its permanent collection, an eclectic mix that surprised me with its diversity. I expected classical works, but the first few rooms featured modern pieces that didn’t immediately resonate with me. Yet, amid the bold abstractions, one painting by Mark Rothko captured my attention. It wasn’t just the vast expanse of colour that drew me in—though Rothko’s mastery of deep reds and muted tones was undeniable. It was the familiarity. My partner has a smaller piece in her living room, a similar wash of red that I’ve spent hours looking at during quiet evenings together. Standing before this larger canvas, I was struck by how much I missed her. The texture of the paint, the way it absorbed light, reminded me of the warmth of her home, and her absence felt palpable in that moment. The painting became more than art—it was a connection to her, a fleeting yet profound reminder of intimacy across distance.

But as I stepped into the next room, everything seemed to shift. Here, I found myself surrounded by the familiar comfort of art that resonated with me on a deeper level. A delicate sculpture by Degas captured motion in stillness, his ballerina poised in the softness of bronze. Nearby, a pastoral scene by Cézanne drew me in with its quiet depiction of the French countryside. Yet, it was Monet’s ‘Vétheuil’ that truly stopped me in my tracks. The painting seemed to glow with an ethereal light, the kind of light Monet could conjure with just a few strokes of his brush. It felt like a window into another world, one where time moved more slowly, where the soft, rippling waters of the Seine mirrored the pastel sky. In that moment, I was transported, standing not in a gallery but on the banks of that serene river, lost in the beauty of a distant, tranquil landscape

I’ve always felt that I could spot a Monet from across a crowded room, his ability to capture light so unique that it shines like crystal, even in a gallery full of masterpieces. There’s something about the way light interacts with his colours—how it doesn’t just illuminate the scene but becomes part of the composition itself, almost dancing across the canvas. ‘Vétheuil’ was no exception. Despite being one of the smallest Monets I had encountered, its impact was powerful, visceral. From a distance, the painting resembled a window, opening to a tranquil countryside bathed in soft, pastel hues. It was as if I could step through the frame and hear the distant chime of a church bell, feel the cool breeze coming off the river and breathe in the fresh summer air. The scene pulled me back to another time, another Monet I had encountered years earlier, in a different gallery, in a different city. The memory, much like his painting, was a reminder of the timelessness that art can evoke.

Standing before ‘Vétheuil’ memories of Paris rushed back, particularly a moment from ten years earlier that still lingered in my mind. I had spent a week immersed in the city’s artistic grandeur—wandering through the vast halls of the Louvre, losing myself in the abstract chaos of Picasso’s works. Yet, none of those experiences compared to my first encounter with Monet’s ‘Water Lilies’ at the Musée de l’Orangerie. The vast scale, the tranquility, the way the paintings enveloped me in their soft shadows of blues and greens—it was a world unto itself. Nothing in the bustling streets of Paris prepared me for the peace I found there, suspended in time and colour.

It was a cold, quiet winter's day in Paris, the kind where the city seems to slow down under the weight of the season. It seemed never to stop raining, but a gentle sprinkle that made the paving stones glisten and the streetlamps shine like stars. The Seine flowed steadily beside me, its dark waters mirroring the heavy grey skies, deeper and more turbulent than the Yarra back in Melbourne. As I walked along its banks, the air was thick with the scent of wet stone and the faint hum of distant traffic—a rhythm unique to Paris in winter. Approaching the Musée de l’Orangerie, the world outside felt heavy and bustling, but inside, everything changed. Stepping into the gallery felt like stepping into another realm. There, ‘Water Lilies’ stretched out before me, its vast panels of a hidden world beneath unseen canopies, the dark quiet water swirling endlessly. I was overcome, feeling almost weightless, as though the immensity of Monet’s work had swallowed me. In that moment, I felt small—insignificant in the face of such beauty and scale.

At twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine, life had seemed full of possibility. I was healthy, traveling the world, surrounded by new friends and working a job that afforded me freedom. On the surface, everything was in place. Yet beneath that, there was a loneliness I hadn’t acknowledged—a sense of detachment that came with being constantly on the move, never rooted. It crept in quietly, much like the soft shadows beneath the surface of Monet’s ‘Water Lilies’. I didn’t recognise it at first, not until I found myself alone in the stillness of the gallery. Sitting in front of ‘Water Lilies’, the quietness of the room mirrored the quietness within me. For hours, I was absorbed by the painting, its deep vibrant embrace swallowing me, much like the emotions I had kept submerged. In that moment, I realised that I wasn’t just lonely—I had been hiding from that loneliness. The painting didn’t just stir me; it held up a mirror, forcing me to confront what I had been avoiding.

Now, ten years on, I stood in front of another Monet. But this time, everything felt different. Life had changed in ways I couldn’t have imagined a decade ago. I was older, my body no longer as strong as it once was, chronic illness forcing me to slow down, to live within narrower boundaries. My social circle had shrunk, leaving fewer friendships, but the connections I had now were stronger, more meaningful. And despite the uncertainties that came with this new phase of life, I felt an unexpected calm. As I gazed at the soft, serene hues of ‘Vétheuil’, I realised I felt something I hadn’t felt in Paris: peace. It wasn’t just the painting that brought it—it was the quiet acceptance of where I was, who I had become, and the love that now grounded me.

The brushstrokes that once evoked a sense of loneliness in me now seemed to offer comfort. The river in ‘Vétheuil’ flowed gently, its waters calm and unhurried, much like the Yarra running just outside. Unlike the Seine, whose darker, busier waters had mirrored my own restlessness in the past, both the Yarra and Monet’s painted river felt peaceful now, imbued with quiet purpose. In their reflection, I saw the stillness that had settled within me. I no longer felt the need to chase the vibrancy of foreign cities or seek the thrill of constant motion. Instead, I found contentment in the steady rhythm of my own life—in my home, my relationships and even in the imperfections of my body. I was finally at peace with the ebb and flow of me.

Leaving the NGV, I stepped into the cool embrace of Melbourne’s evening air. As I walked along its bank, the Yarra flowed gently at my side, its surface rippling beneath the fading light, reflecting the deepening shades of dusk. I felt the quiet contentment from the gallery extend into the world around me. The sounds of the city—the distant hum of trams and the soft chatter of pedestrians—blended into the background, as if the city itself was settling down for the night. The river’s gentle flow mirrored my current state, calm and unhurried, contrasting with the intensity of the Seine from years ago. The Seine had been full of turmoil, its currents heavy and forceful, bustling with the energy of a city that never sleeps. Back then, its motion had matched my own inner restlessness—the uncertainty of being in a foreign place, the constant push to experience more, see more. My memories of Paris lingered, but they felt lighter, like old friends whose presence had grown comforting.

Those few weeks had shaped that era in my life, but they no longer anchored me. I was home now, in this city, with its quiet moments and familiar rhythms. Walking alongside the Yarra, I felt a stillness, a sense of peace that resonated with who I had become. The Yarra’s quiet presence reminded me that life, like the river, doesn’t need to rush. I was no longer chasing something outside myself. Instead, I was content in the flow of the present, ready to face whatever the future might bring, with a deeper sense of acceptance and calm.