THE good

neighbour

When I moved into my house in Leichhardt in 1994, the ​first person to knock on the door was Norm... and when ​we left in 2013, the last person to wish us luck was Norm.

who is Norm anyway?

Well, Norm was a Lebanese migrant who had been living ​in Leichhardt for close to 50 years. He had raised a family ​there, divorced, and continued to potter and tinker with ​the second-hand cars that he collected. I often used to ​wonder if he ever drove them, as they were constantly up ​on blocks with Norm under them.

Norm was a good neighbour. Quiet. As soon as he ​ascertained that I could speak English and write a ​sentence, he became my 'best friend’, and eventually ​came protestations of love as he came to rely on me to ​write his correspondence.

constantly in the wars

Norm was constantly in the wars, with the Council, with a ​particular neighbour, and with the world in general. But ​he never was a problem for me when I was living alone or ​for Robin when he became my partner.

It became apparent to me that Norm was a man who had ​been treated with so little respect and his lack of basic ​English skills meant that he was often shabbily treated by ​those in authority. Let me give you an example.

His next-door neighbour on the other side developed his ​block and made it into a Daycare Centre. Along their ​common boundary at the rear of the house, he built a 6ft ​high brick wall. All good, you say. Well, yes, but the wall ​was built on Norm's land without a proper footing, so in a ​storm one night, the whole wall came crashing down into ​Norm's property. It could have killed him.

Daycare

The police were called, and they chose to do nothing. ​Neither did the Council take action against the owner of ​the Daycare Centre. And another thing, when the Daycare ​Centre was developed, all the drainage from the roof was ​directed to run off straight into Norm's property.

left unconscious in gutter

Again, the Council turned a blind eye. My many letters ​written on Norm's behalf went nowhere. And when Norm ​was assaulted one night out the front of his house and ​left unconscious in the gutter (he knew his assailant), I ​called the police and an ambulance. (They took 45 mins to ​respond).

The neighbour over the road had witnessed the assault ​and told the police. They responded by saying that he was ​an unreliable witness as it was dark and he was too far ​away to identify the assailant. So Norm was taken off to ​hospital and left to his own devices.

And on and on it went

At one point, Norm was very interested in obtaining a ​mail-order bride... mainly for doing laundry, ironing, ​cooking and washing up. He booked to go on a seek-and-​obtain a lady in Southeast Asia. He was even shown a ​photo of the lady who had been picked out for him, and ​he was happy with the selection.

So off Norm went on his search for, well, I was going to ​say, love, but a more domestic role was envisioned. ​Wedding bells for Leichhardt and Norm? Well, no. Norm ​returned empty-handed. The intended apparently was not ​the lady in the photograph that drew Norm to Vietnam.

Love had long gone

Norm's assessment was that she wouldn’t be able to do ​the housework that he had hoped would flow from the ​liaison. Love had long gone out the window. Norm took ​pity on the lady, who no doubt was hoping to escape from ​some domestic nightmare of her own, and he gave her ​$300. (A lot of money in those days)

There was never a day that went by when Norm was not ​telling us something of interest or having me write ​another letter. And actually, I felt a bit of a heel when we ​had to tell Norm that we were upping-stakes and moving ​to Hobart. Through another neighbour, we kept tabs on ​Norm, and sadly, he passed-away not long after our ​move.

As far as neighbours go, Norm was a goodun...

Immediately, Robin

posted on Facebook

lock, stock and barrel

Once the decision was made that Hobart would be our ​new location, we put the house in Leichhardt on the ​market and began the task of thinning out the contents ​of the house as there was no way that we were going to ​move, lock, stock and barrel.

Books and art were in need of a severe thinning out. I ​chose the National Art School to be the recipient of ​hundreds of Art books. The reason for that is that after ​earlier gifts to the University of Sydney and the ​University of New South Wales, I had never received as ​much as a thank you from those august institutions.

An earlier donation to the National Art School was met ​with warm and heartfelt thanks. The Librarian at the ​National Art School said that she would send a car. “No ​car,” I said. “Send a truck.” Done. Great to see them going ​off to a good home.

The choice of agent

The choice of agent to sell the house was instructive. We ​approached two real estate agents in the Sydney Inner ​West area, and both told us that there was no chance in ​hell that we would get the price we wanted.

So, on a recommendation from a good friend, we ​approached a slick young team of real estate ​professionals. Two young gents and a female companion ​arrived, looked at our property, and announced that they ​would be very confident of securing our desired price. The ​house was sold to the first 'looker' on the first day.

the Sunday sales

The art that wasn’t coming with us to Tasmania just ​walked out of the door into the homes of many happy ​folks. An article had been written in the Daily Telegraph ​about our move and signalling our intent to hold Open ​Sales each Sunday from 2 pm.

When I opened the door on that first Sunday, there were ​30 or so people waiting. No one went home empty-​handed, and many people were finding works that they ​would be happy to live with for the next life of the ​painting.

These Sunday sales went on for three weeks, and just ​about everything that we were not taking to Tassie found ​a new home. I remember one young girl who wanted to ​see if there were any art books for a dollar. "Take your ​pick, love," I said.

I’m not sure why we picked Grace Removals to arrange ​the transfer of our belongings, but they were chosen. I did ​most of the packing myself of books and art, and three ​young Islander lads (Grace employees) did a fantastic job ​with the wrapping and packing of the larger items of ​furniture and white goods.

The full Pantechnicon

The full Pantechnicon was beautifully and carefully packed ​and sent on its way. We were going to put everything in ​storage in Hobart and rent a furnished apartment while ​we looked to secure our new home.

So, for the next three months, we paid a storage fee, and ​once we had taken ownership of our new home, then, we ​arranged for Grace to bring our treasures out of storage ​and deliver them to us here in Hobart.

Great excitement as the Pantechnicon moved into our new ​driveway. But that's where the excitement ended, and we ​entered the operation disaster phase. Whereas in Sydney, ​we had three hulking Islander lads, here in Hobart, we ​had two men who could have passed for old-aged ​pensioners.

"No worries mate,

we'll bring it later."

Not only that, one of them was so severely hung over that ​you endangered your health by being too close to him. ​And so I had no option but to muck in and unload the ​truck.

It was immediately obvious that our very valuable Afghan ​rug was not in the truck. This item had been packed ​separately in Sydney. I reported that to the removal man, ​who said, "No worries mate, we'll bring it later." And so ​the unloading continued, but I did have some funny ​feelings that not all was right. And I was right.

Bit by bit

We had measured the length of book shelving we would ​need and had the shelves custom-built and installed, and ​when the books were unpacked, there were empty shelves ​to spare. Bit by bit, I realised that certain books were ​missing. The rug had not yet been delivered, kitchen ​utensils were also missing, and the furniture was ​scratched, dented, and, in one instance, a table leg ​sheared off.

I contacted Grace immediately. They assured me that all ​things would be located and put to right and even told me ​not to contact them again as they had the matter in ​hand. How foolish was I to believe them?

Days went by, and there was no further response from ​Grace. I called them again, and they told me they were ​looking for the missing rug in Melbourne and Perth. The ​mind boggles as to how the rug could be in Perth. STOLEN ​obviously. As the rug was a gift that had been purchased ​over 50 years previously, there was no paperwork from ​the seller as to its value.

buy a few paperbacks

When I told the people at Grace that many of the missing ​books were signed first editions of novels, the operative ​told me that I “should go out and buy a few paperbacks.” ​I kid you not.

And I told them that I would be putting in an insurance ​claim. He told me to forget about that as I had not ​itemised, photographed and supplied the invoices for the ​missing items. And, out of the goodness of his heart, he ​was going to give us $2,000.

warming to a fight

Immediately, Robin posted on Facebook detailing the way ​we had been treated and asking people to give Grace a ​wide berth. Within a couple of hours, Grace contacted me ​and said that vicious lies were being posted on Facebook. ​“Not lies,” I said. “The truth.” He immediately said that we ​would receive $5,000 if we signed a form to clear the ​Company of any further liability.

We were so upset by how we had been treated, and ​normally, I would warm to a fight, but on this occasion, ​we took the money as we just wanted to get on with our ​lives here in Hobart.

We had a beautiful home, our artworks were safe, and all ​other damage could, if we wanted, be repaired or ​replaced. Life was too short to be involved in worrying ​over possessions.

However, I did look to see where I could write to Grace's ​head office to detail our experience, only to find that the ​company was split and had no contact details easily ​identifiable. So, in the end, we just put it down to ​experience and moved on.

Introducing Joy Storie

Joy has been a close friend for over 50 years. A trained Librarian, Joy has held senior posts in the State Libraries of ​Victoria and New South Wales. She has wide cultural interests and was a founding member of The Glebe Readers. We ​speak on the phone most days...

Our lady bowlers

By Joy Storie

BOWLED OUT...

The Sydney Festival in 1983 included a revue at Kinselas ​honouring the work of John Alan McKellar with a nod to ​his previous revues. It was titled ‘Four Lady Bowlers and ​a Golden Holden’.

Peter Fay, a mutual friend, Rhona Ovedoff and I were ​there, seated at a table cabaret style with our drinks and ​nibbles. Sharing our table was an elderly mother and her ​middle-aged daughter dressed up for a good night out.

We introduced ourselves, and they told us with pride that ​they were both lady bowlers, thrilled that their kind were ​to be recognised at the Sydney Festival. We sensed a red ​flag but said nothing, and the show began.

None of the items in the program's first half mentioned ​lady bowlers, although the four women in the show were ​dressed in their whites and appropriate hats, and there ​was an actual Golden Holden on the stage.

At the interval, our companions expressed their ​disappointment. The only reason they had come was ​because they thought it would be a serious show about ​lady bowlers.

There was a fair bit of coughing and nose-blowing by we ​three, we were rescued by the start of the second half of ​the revue, which included the spoof act that gave the ​revue its title, ‘Four Lady Bowlers and a Golden Holden’ at ​last. (I regret that I didn’t succeed in tracking down the ​words or anything useful on YouTube.) It did not put lady ​bowlers on a pedestal.

The end of the revue received a hearty response from the ​audience. Our lady bowlers were not happy. They felt that ​they and their kind had been insulted.

Thinking to placate them a bit, I asked the daughter (who ​was significantly younger than the usual bowling lady, ​especially back then in 1983 when it was always regarded ​as the oldies’ sport,) “how did you get into Bowls?”

“Well,” she said, “I started by playing with my husband’s ​balls at home, but they were too big for me to get my ​hands around, so I had to get a set of my own.”

It was too much; we made appreciative noises, bid them ​goodnight as best we could, and bolted. Out in the street, ​we doubled up and bellowed with laughter.

What a disgrace!

Aunt Joan’s

Final Act of Kindness

Joan’s Dementia

came on slowly...

My father's youngest sister was Joan. She never married ​and worked as an assistant Editor of the Australian ​Women's Weekly. She was a cooking demonstrator for ​the Gas Light Company and later managed a Kiosk in ​Sydney. Joan was not what you might call a prude, ​though she could “tisk-tisk” if someone in her hearing ​said "bloody" or "bugger".

Joan’s Dementia came on slowly, and she was able to ​live alone with the care and attention of her neighbours ​in the Sydney suburb of Randwick. I think you could say ​that she lived on beer and cigarettes.

What with the burn holes in her clothes and the same ​outfit worn constantly, she had a bag lady look about ​her. And her dilly bag was her constant companion.

Her other activity was shopping for and then making ​boiled fruit cakes. She would make up to four at a time, ​and when cooked, she would distribute them to people ​passing by and to the neighbours near and far.

I knew we had a problem when the nearest neighbour ​rang me to say that Joan had left four fruit cakes on ​her doorstep that morning. “That would be OK,” she ​said, “but I have 14 fruit cakes in the freezer already, ​and there just isn’t any more room.”

Joan told me that he had come in as he heard the ​tennis, and Joan never locked the front door. Usually, it ​was left wide open to let in a breeze. Joan told me that ​she did not have the heart to tell him to leave, and she ​commented that "not everyone has our breeding". Well, ​no.

And so it became obvious ​that we would have to find ​a 'home' for Joan where ​she could be looked after.

With the help of the parish priest, we found a spot for ​her at Nazareth House in Turramurra, run by the good, ​holy Mothers. Joan was delighted to be going to a place ​where the nuns were in charge.

We had hardly gone a step when Joan dropped her dilly ​bag and, in doing so, let out a loud "FUCK". At this, I felt ​sure the good, holy Mother would terminate her offer to ​take Joan in.

The good, holy Mothers were still trying to match teeth ​with gums even as Joan's coffin was leaving out the ​front drive. Joan was a lot of fun and a loving Aunt to ​my brother and me.

crossing the ​Shoalhaven

dropped off in the wilderness...

One of the most popular reality television shows these ​days is where a group of contestants are dropped off ​into the wilderness, and the one who can last the ​longest wins a handsome cash prize. They are isolated ​and must battle against the elements, the wildlife, and ​their personal demons.

The next day, we set out early to walk to an old shale ​mine. This hike required us to cross the Shoalhaven ​River two times, going up and twice on the return trip. ​The Shoalhaven has a strong current, and there are ​signs posted that care must be taken at all times. ​Common sense.

Well, The King's School was the inventor of such a ​scenario... it was called The Five Day Hike. It involved ​taking a large group of 14-year-olds into the bush for ​five days.

There was a long hike taking several hours through ​rough terrain, and the lads had a real struggle as they ​had to carry everything they would need to survive for ​the five days: tent, food, clothing, cooking utensils, and ​toiletries, just for starters. As did the staff who ​accompanied them.

I had a friend make me a supersized backpack, as we ​staff found it necessary, in addition to the basics, to ​have a tipple at night and a few other delicacies.

The boys were about seventy in number, and they had ​organised themselves into groups of five, usually with ​five staff members. And on this particular year, we set ​off, and our camp destination was a beautiful spot right ​on the shores of the mighty Shoalhaven River in ​Southern New South Wales.

About an hour into the trek to the campsite, one of the ​lads went down, unable to go on, as his pack was too ​heavy. So I took his pack and carried it on my front to ​balance the monster pack on my back. (I don't want to ​suggest that I am some Superman; I just got to the ​campsite knowing that another couple of yards and I, ​too, would have gone down in a heap.)

As the staff had done this hike many times, we knew ​the best camping position and were quick to claim it, ​instructing the lads to disappear into the bush and set ​up their campsites. They were told that we didn't want ​to see them from our site. (This was in days of ​innocence when work safety issues and due care had ​not been invented. Maybe they had, but we were not ​letting them get in the way of a wonderful five days of ​camping and hiking and swimming and relaxing.)

The drill was that each night, one of the staff would ​wander through the lads' campsites to see that all was ​in order. We had drilled into them that nothing was to ​be left in evidence of their presence after the five days. ​Burn and bury was the mantra.

On that first night, I did the rounds as I was particularly ​keen to see how the young lad who had 'gone down' ​was faring. And there he was gnawing on a piece of ​Roast Chicken in good Henry Vlll style. When I quizzed ​him about the chicken, he told me, “I had it in my ​backpack, Sir. Frozen!” No wonder that pack was so ​heavy. I had to return to our camp and a dried food ​meal.

In our cohort this year, there were a couple of Thai lads, ​and at the water's edge, they told us that they couldn't ​swim. “Not a worry. Just lock your arms around my ​neck, and I'll swim you across. Easy peasy.” I said. ​(Please note: the statute of limitations has well passed ​and no correspondence will be entered into. I'm sure ​that lawyers and parents would have a field day today.

Our motto: all care, no responsibility. Not.)

And so the five days went by without any drama, and ​the lads learnt much. One day, when we hiked to a lake, ​we arrived to find a group of skinny dippers frolicking ​and having fun. They didn't last long, with our seventy ​lads entering the fray.

I am reminded of the entry that Barry Humphries listed ​in the Who's Who: self-educated, attended Melbourne ​Grammar School. I'm sure that over the five days, the ​lads learned things that have stayed with them. Oscar ​Wilde knew a thing or two about Education: it is an ​admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to ​time that nothing that's worth knowing can be taught.

On the last night of the camp, a bonfire was built on ​the river bank, and each tent group had to perform a ​skit, and of course, that included the staff. So my ​colleague JDMB and I decided to perform the One-​Legged Tarzan applicant interview, a sketch from a ​Peter Cook and Dudley Moore performance.

We had the lads in stitches. There was no disclosure as ​to where we had sourced our act. But when the ​applause died down, one lad calmly announced that we ​had stolen the script and thus had broken the rule that ​the material had to be original. We fessed up.

So that year, we survived our days in the wilderness, ​and everybody agreed that it had been a grand ​adventure and so much better than a week of school.

The words of Lord Halifax were never more apposite ​when he wrote that: education is what remains when ​we have forgotten all that we have been taught. True ​learning had taken place. I look back on the many five-​day Hikes that I experienced as some of the best days of ​my life.

Big White-fella

history

like a colourful rainbow...

When teaching English at The King's School, I instigated ​what came to be called, rather prosaically, the Poetry ​Trolley. This was a standard library trolley that was ​filled with collections of poetry books, and the idea was ​that teachers could wheel it into their classroom and ​have it there to be used as they saw fit.

I pointed out to the lad that everything he had written ​was a lie. I suppose I should have taken some ​consolation from the fact that he spelled “MY” correctly.

This lad went on to receive a PhD from Oxford ​University in the UK. I'll say no more. I often wonder ​what happened to the Poetry Trolley after I left the ​King’s School—possibly it’s being used to carry sporting ​equipment.

PS This is A follow-up to making a title page. In primary ​school, we constantly made projects: The Wool Trade, ​The Snowy Mountains Scheme, Gold, Wheat, Water, The ​Pyramids, and The Explorers. You get the drift.

Big White-fella history. The Aboriginal inhabitants never ​got a mention. Not even in passing. I think I sent Burke ​and Wills to Darwin and back (almost) without so much ​as a passing nod to any Aboriginal person. They were ​invisible to us; no teacher ever tried to correct this.

I suggested that six would be the minimum of quotes. I ​was not wanting to be too prescriptive in setting a ​minimum.

Well, the day came for their hand-in of folders and ​notebooks and most managed a few interesting ​excerpts. I was not setting out to persuade the lads that ​a life of writing poetry was the way to go. On many ​Parent/Teacher nights, I often heard the comment, “his ​sister just loves poetry and Shakespeare", as they were ​forced to confront the fact that their lad lacked a bone ​of creativity or imagination.

And then, I came upon a folder with a well-worked title ​page that proclaimed loudly and confidently;

SIX OFF MY FAVORITE PEOMS.

The folder opened to reveal ....nothing.. ..blank.. ..empty.. ​..nil.. ..zero... When I questioned the lad, he told me he ​had spent all his energies on the title page. It did look ​beautiful, like a colourful rainbow.

“Certainly,” he said, and I handed over my blank ​notebook We waited and waited for it to be returned. ​Little time was left for me to fill it with all the 'stuff' I ​had gathered about the Wool Trade. Then it came, Oh, ​but the title page! It felt like it was inches thick.

It WAS inches thick. It was as if the notebook had a bad ​case of the mumps. It was textured and painted in full ​colour; I was thrilled. I thought it was a real winner. ​But, as I said, there was little time left for the contents. ​I handed my project in.

And back it came. My project received a Tick, and the ​comment;

“More facts and less effort on the title page.”

6 out of 10.

best of

the ReveREnd

canon Kurrle

straight from the horse's mouth...

It's time to draw together some of the best Kurrleisms ​for your delectation and, no doubt, delight. Canon Kurrle ​was the Headmaster of The King's School for most of ​my time on the staff. I had very little to do with him, ​and he did not attempt to enquire after my classroom ​experiences. Nor did he heap praise on one when, I felt, ​praise or encouragement was due.

One year, three of my students in advanced English ​were placed in the top ten in the State in the HSC, with ​one lad, Michael Moore, coming first in the State—silence ​from Kurrle. Not even a note or a word was spoken as ​we passed in the corridor.

So here are four memorable comments spoken by him ​in staff meetings. We had a weekly lunchtime staff ​meeting where the Headmaster would outline things he ​was concerned about and mention events scheduled for ​the coming week.

He introduced his talk as "looking through the week." ​There was much speculation from those of us on the ​receiving end that it would be better styled as "looking ​through the weak."

With a computer system being installed in the Library, ​Kurrle thought it best to have the Librarian talk to the ​staff about how the new system worked.

Toni gave a succinct and knowledgeable account, and ​when she had finished, Kurrle felt the need to comment ​on her performance: "Well there, ladies and gentlemen, ​you have it straight from the horse's mouth."

There was a time when the sons of well-known drug ​dealers and enforcers were enrolled to board at The ​King’s School. And they habitually paid the whole year's ​fees in cash. One got the feeling that management was ​keen to grab the money no matter what.

There had been a few lean years on the land, and many ​parents were asking for some leeway in paying their ​lads tuition. So Kurrle was happy to tell the staff how ​good it was that some boys were paying, upfront, in ​cash. From the gathered staff, someone said: ​"Laundered money, no doubt" "No," said Kurrle. "In fact, ​when he counted the money, the Bursar commented ​that it was dirty." Guffaws from the assembled.

On one Monday, Kurrle was late for the staff meeting. ​He rushed in, red in the face, and apologised, saying he ​had been delayed in Parramatta as he had to “step over ​a man in the gutter." A wit on the staff, sotto voce, ​wondered if the headmaster would be taking the ​parable of the good Samaritan as his text for his ​Sunday sermon.

On another occasion, the good Canon was telling us that ​some Old Boys, with newly minted law degrees, were ​finding it hard to find positions in Sydney law firms ​and that they had to resort to driving taxis. "Just doing ​a bit of conveyancing," quipped a staff member. "No, ​no," said Kurrle with irritation, “they were having to ​drive taxis."

Enjoy...

From The Collectors Archive of

The Art Newspaper

Peter Fay

Australia’s Champion of the Outsider

The Peter Fay Collection...

The collector of works that are knotty, passionate, ​perverse and ​deeply personal talks about his tastes ​and his gift to the nation.

Peter Fay chuckled politely at the National Gallery of ​Australia’s ​tentative suggestion that it market the ​current exhibition of his ​collection by labelling him ​Australia’s answer to Charles Saatchi. ​Mr Fay is many ​things, but he is no advertising guru; nor is he ​​independently wealthy, nor can one quite see him ​cosying up to ​Nigella Lawson.

Nonetheless, his impact on Australian art has been ​quietly profound ​and carries the potential to become ​more so as his forcefully ​idiosyncratic take on art is ​given an airing in the country’s most ​prestigious ​museum.

A former English teacher at the King’s School, a leading ​boys’ ​boarding school in western Sydney, Mr Fay came ​to art relatively ​late. His voracious collecting of ​homegrown, domestic-scaled and ​utterly individual work ​has assisted and even influenced some of ​Australia’s ​best contemporary artists. His ongoing support has ​​meanwhile had the effect of unearthing rare talents ​that few ​curators or critics would be brave enough to ​champion.

Much of what he collects looks distinctly ​unprepossessing. It is ​local, raw, humourous, freshly ​shucked. “That’s part of my ​interest,” he told Nigel ​Lendon in an interview for Australia’s Art ​Monthly, “that ​idea of finding something that is treasured and rare ​​and precious, usually in surroundings that are anything ​but that. ​So much of what masquerades as art comes ​from the other end of the ​spectrum—people with huge ​studios and expensive equipment, hangers-​on, the lot. ​You look at what they’re doing, and you think, well, ​​bully for you, but it does nothing for me; it’s just a ​commodity, ​whereas these unrecognised people are ​really going hammer and tongs ​at something they ​love.”

The Peter Fay Collection, exhibited at the National ​Gallery of Art ​under the title “Home Sweet Home” (an ​acknowledgment of its abiding ​connection to a ​domestic, rather than an institutional, space), ​proposes ​that we remove the signatures and labels that do so ​much ​to mediate our reception of art, and see creativity ​for what it is: ​in the case of most of these works, ​knotty, passionate, perverse ​and deeply personal.

Mr Fay has a booming voice and a skittish, yet ​imposing, ​temperament that veers between acidic satire ​and forthright ​generosity. He has formed close, mutually ​supportive friendships ​with some of Australia’s greatest ​artists, including the late ​Rosalie Gascoigne, whose cool, ​Japanese ikebana and Modernist-inspired arrangements ​of road signs and found objects ​earned her an ​unassailable reputation at an unusually advanced age.

Other well-established contemporary artists to have ​benefited from ​his encouragement and collecting have ​included Mikala Dwyer, Peter ​Atkins, Noel McKenna, ​Peter Cooley, Robert Macpherson and Ricky ​Swallow. ​Many of these were relatively unknown when Mr Fay ​first ​came across them, and their works continue to ​form a key component ​of the collection.

But just as important has been Mr Fay’s discovery of ​artists with ​no prior connection to the art world at all. ​Many fit into the ​category of “outsider artists”, but Mr ​Fay prefers to see art as a ​kind of fantastic mongrel ​rather than an abstract dispensation ​neatly divisible ​into insides and outsides, highs and lows.

In 1997, he discovered Art Projects Australia, a ​studio/workshop ​for artists with disabilities in ​Melbourne, and he has been ​collecting and closely ​following the production of several of the ​artists ​connected with it ever since.

“I have a strong belief in rattling the cage,” he said ​recently. “I ​want to get people asking, ‘Why is that ​here? Why is that art and ​that not?’ Outsider artists ​have as much to give as established or ​insider‚ artists.”

In the 1980s, Fay met an old woman living in the Blue ​Mountains ​west of Sydney called Merle (Mick) Blunden. A ​friend had offered ​his services to her as a lawnmower. ​Norman Lindsay, an enormously ​popular “bohemian”, ​though dreadfully kitsch Australian artist, had ​been her ​husband’s patron.

“She had been part of an artistic world,” Fay recalled. ​“Mick was ​one of the most beautiful people you could ​ever hope to know. I ​went up there every weekend, and ​one day she said, ‘Why don’t you ​come up here and ​we’ll grow flowers, be involved in art, the whole ​thing?’”

There were many earlier sparks and epiphanies, but the ​move to the ​Blue Mountains seems to have been a ​profound turning point in Mr ​Fay’s life as a collector. ​When Mick died, he built a large timber ​house and ​continued growing and selling proteas, daffodils and ​​jonquils.

Mr Fay would frequently invite artists up to the house ​for lunches ​and occasionally hold exhibitions of their ​work. Visitors would be ​given a list and invited to find ​the selected works among the ​domestic clutter. A ​succession of bushfires eventually led Fay to ​move back ​into Sydney’s Italophile inner west.

In his enthusiasms as a collector, he has gone from ​adoring ​painting, of the thickly clotted self-advertising ​kind, to ​surreally juxtaposed found objects laden with ​memories, to work ​employing words and script, and ​onto more conceptually-oriented ​work.

All of this has been provisional and intermingled, but ​much of it ​has drawn on what the co-curator of “Home ​Sweet Home”, Glenn ​Barkley, describes as a “craft ​tradition of making do‚ that is ​uniquely Australian.”

Mr Fay’s recent discovery of several hitherto unknown ​artists ​suggests a quiet return to basic mark-making, ​even painterly ​values, with child-like and sometimes ​surreal undercurrents. One of ​them, Gina Sinozich, is an ​elderly artist whom Fay discovered when ​she showed ​work in a suburban art prize in western Sydney.

Ms Sinozich is from Croatia, and a lot of her painting, ​which she ​took up when her husband became ill, relates ​to memories from home. ​But a recent series she painted ​in response to media coverage of ​the Iraq War has an ​incredibly vivid, unexpected presence and has ​earned her ​a cult-like following and a deservedly high reputation ​in ​recent months. Another, Slim Barrie, is an artist in his ​60s ​whose work was shown to Mr Fay after being ​discovered in a charity ​shop by a friend’s son.

Mr Fay’s decision to give a substantial part of his ​collection to ​the National Gallery—just the most notable ​of many acts of ​generosity concerning his collection over ​the years—is a reflection ​of his belief in a need to open ​up similar possibilities of ​creativity and responsiveness ​in others.

“As a former teacher,” writes co-curator Deborah Hart, ​Mr Fay “has ​retained a love of imparting information, ​although he is also ​deeply aware that in art, as in life, ​questions are often answered ​by more questions.”

Sebastian Smee

Originally appeared in The Art Newspaper as

'The Art Newspaper profile: Peter Fay. Australia’s ​champion of the outsider'

Blog republished from Peter’s Website

On Educating Boys

theory verses practice...

The King's School in Parramatta, Sydney, was founded ​by Bishop Broughton in 1831, the first Anglican Bishop ​of Australia. He was very much a man of Government, ​and the Church benefited from extensive land grants. He ​was implacably opposed to the Church of Rome and ​worked tirelessly to ensure that government support ​flowed to the Church of England and nothing to the ​Catholic Church.

Of course, the Aborigines were never in the mix. Nothing ​was owed to the native peoples for the loss of their ​land. Broughton thought that the best compensation ​flowed from the fact that he was bringing the word of ​God to the natives. "we are solemnly engaged to impart ​to them the glorious beams of Gospel truth to guide ​their feet to ways of peace."

Broughton was entirely unapologetic in his views as to ​the purpose of The King's School, saying: “The inheritors ​of even large properties who are after that to take the ​lead in society and to occupy a station of importance in ​the Country are too often destitute of the requirements ​which should qualify them for such a situation. In too ​many instances, I have heard of them sacrificing all ​their respectability and influence by associating ​habitually with their own convict servants.

I need scarcely remark that such forgetfulness of what ​is due to themselves and Society could not occur if their ​minds were duly cultivated.”

Those are the facts. Now, if you seek knowledge from ​the website of The King's School, you will read that ​Bishop Broughton worked for the education of the entire ​community and wished to impart to the boys of the ​school enlarged and liberal views of morals.

The guff flows from 1831 until the present day, when ​the claim is made that the school is an acknowledged ​authority on educating boys, having done so ​continuously for over 190 years. Having passed through ​the school and breathed in the air, they emerge ready to ​join the world as global thought leaders. (I kid you not. ​You couldn't make this stuff up.)

And numbered among the list of Old Boys are the ​names of the Uhrs. If you wish to know how they might ​have lent their skills to global citizens, have a read of ​David Marr's Killing for Country, where you can read of ​the savagery, murder and dispossession the Uhrs ​levelled against the native population in the second half ​of the 19th Century. Their names fail to find a listing ​under the heading of famous King's School boys. ​Statues ought to be raised. The burial ground at the ​heart of The King's School would be an appropriate spot.

In his book Killing For Country, David Marr has done a ​true service to anyone wishing to know about the ​colony's early days and the role that the King's School ​played in that history. I wonder if there will be a move ​to change the name of one of the Boarding Houses at ​The King's School, Broughton House. And to remove the ​name of Bishop Broughton from the School's Bidding ​Prayer.

David Marr's

Killing for Country,

God bless us all.

Cerberus

and the nine

Circles of Hell

good little vegemites...

For days, if not weeks, we have been putting off a visit ​to the Centre Link Office in order to try to clear up a ​problem with Robin's Medicare card. When the card was ​last presented at Centre Link, we were told it was ​invalid, even though it was clearly marked as valid until ​well into the future.

So, a new card was ordered, and they said it would be ​in the mail in a couple of weeks. Well, true to their word ​the new card arrived, followed two days later with ​another card with a different number.

That was our problem to solve. And today was the day. I ​am always on edge when visiting the Centre Link. ​Readers of this blog might well remember that, on my ​last Centre Link interview, I was asked by the operative ​if I still identified as female. That question certainly ​took the wind out of my sails.

When I answered in the negative, the lass informed me ​that she did not have the necessary authority to make ​an alteration of that magnitude to my details in her ​computer and that it would have to be passed up the ​line. My mind boggles about what new status they ​might have come up with for me. I am not game to ask.

So today, we were feeling strong. The sun was shining, ​and as we pulled in right out front of the office, we ​were met by the first line of defence. A Brown Bomber ​was lurking and anxious to check our Disability Parking ​Permit.

(The term Brown Bomber will tell you that I am an old ​Sydneyite where that was the name given to the ​parking police. I continue to use that terminology, ​though here in Hobart, the parking police look like they ​have been kitted out with Tommy Hilfiger rejects.)

Passing that test, we entered through the silent sliding ​doors and into the inner sanctum of Centre Link. Did I ​fail to notice the sign over the door: Abandon hope all ​ye who enter here.

Now, if Cerberus, with his two heads (no Tasmanian ​jokes, please), guards the gates of hell (and the poet ​Hesiod claimed that he had 50 heads), we had to make ​do with two Security guards.

The decor needs a comment: Teal...teal...teal...and gum ​leaves etched into the glass petitions. Was this a ​political statement or just a case of lack of style and ​imagination?

With the thick carpet, the place is soundless, and I have ​the distinct feeling that my spirit and my energy and ​my very life forces are being sucked out of me. The staff ​makes no eye contact, and they seem to move at a ​speed off the slow radar.

We must have been jolly good little vegemites today as ​we were subjected to a very speedy call-up to discuss ​our problem. And, as luck would have it, no one in the ​office that day could discuss Medicare problems.

Our paperwork was taken, and we were told someone ​would ring us.

The only positive in the experience was that, on exiting, ​we were NOT told to "have a nice day."