I feel a kinship with anyone who feels that their road, their life or who they really are is not good enough. I really relate to that.
Sydney is rather like an arrogant lover. When it rains it can deny you its love and you can find it hard to relate to. It's not a place that's built to be rainy or cold. But when the sun comes out, it bats its eyelids, it's glamorous, beautiful, attractive, smart, and it's very hard to get away from its magnetic pull.
All good, clean stories are melodrama; it's just the set of devices that determines how you show or hide it.
Australia, to the rest of the world, is just far away, and Australia in the Thirties was the faraway of the faraway.
I feel funny about owning art. I don't really want to say: 'Wow, come and see my Monet - it's in a dark room at the bottom of my cellar.'