He of the Never-Never

A book by John Bradshaw

Beautiful and picturesque...

My good friend and former colleague, John Bradshaw, ​has seen his life's work published. It is a fantastic ​narrative looking at the exploits of Aeneas Gunn in the ​Kimberley and Northern Territory region of Western ​Australia from the 1890s to his death in 1903.

The timing of this publication could not be more ​fortuitous, coming in the wake of the defeat of the Voice ​referendum, for so many of the issues under debate are ​seen to be playing out in real-time in Gunn's life.

In Gunn, we see a man wrestling with the issues ​surrounding the encounter of white men with the ​Aborigines, the issues of land title, and the clash of ​cultures. And Gunn is the perfect conduit where these ​issues play out in his day-to-day life. He is a man of ​towering intellect, a man of deep reading, conversing ​with literary lions while immersed in the poetry of ​Whitman, and a prolific correspondent.

John quotes in its entirety a letter that Gunn wrote as ​he was about to leave (1894) the first settlement he ​made and moved on to another venture south of Darwin. ​I will quote two sentences that shine a light on so much ​that the book explores:

“Beautiful and picturesque are tame terms to apply to ​the bizarre grandeur of the scene, and soon, the wild ​things that trembled at the echoing report of the rifle, at ​the ringing so of the axe as it smote the tree, fled from ​the evidence of pioneer civilisation or were terror-​stricken at the exotic animals, will soon regain their ​confidence and wing or wander where of yore they used ​to do. The stalwart aborigine will stalk his game without ​fear of the merciless ping and sting of the rifle.”

John, your scholarship and meticulous research have ​given us a book that will become required reading for ​those wanting to understand an important era in our ​history. To my readers, I urge you to read this ​handsomely produced book.

He of the Never-Never

John Bradshaw (Arden Publishing. Melbourne.) 2023.

Blog republished from Peter’s Website

My Process...

my obsession with images...

The term collage covers a wide variety of ​practices, and ​over the course of years of ​making collages, I have ​refined my way of ​working. In this latest series of ​works, I have ​been interested in the way in which a ​​photograph may inform a painting and vice ​versa.

So in Ned's Tree (1), the photo component is ​taken from ​a section of a photograph of the ​suit of armour worn by ​Ned Kelly and the ​painting forms the background. ​Convict Tree (4) ​works on the same principle.

Another approach is taking an image and working it ​from a different perspective. In this way, ​certain ​features can be highlighted or given a ​new reading. Just ​Good Friends (10) is an ​amalgam of several photos by ​the American ​artist Disfarmer. This method can lead to ​quite ​humorous readings.

The wrappings of Christo and of Man Ray have ​given ​me a chance to reveal something by ​covering it up. (46) ​(48). Then, there are ​famous stand-alone paintings that ​I see as a ​target. They don't need to be handled with kid ​​gloves, and I can stand whatever I choose to do ​with ​them.

Many works on the site start off with an image ​of the ​Mona Lisa. I feel that it becomes an act ​of homage to ​see how these masterpieces can ​take any kind of rough ​handling. (30) (37) (46) ​(48).

At other times, I notice that my catholic ​background ​plays a part, and I find myself ​trying to keep the ​sarcasm, irony and sense of ​rage in check. But this is a ​field with rich ​pickings The range can be seen in a ​comparison ​of (3) to (239). That last one might need to ​​come with a warning: likely to offend. But then ​again, ​that's just me.

Every now and again, I put the scissors aside ​and pick ​up the paintbrush. Usually, it is used ​to highlight a part ​of a painting or a ​photograph. This leads to adding ​parts of a ​painting by numbers, which becomes a way ​of ​highlighting the beauty of the original ​painting. (240) ​(51)

And when all else fails, I find myself coming ​back to ​draw inspiration from some of my old ​favourites: Nolan, ​Matisse, Cezanne, and ​Magritte, to name but a few. And ​to work again ​with obsessions with images and ​paintings of ​horses, of the human face, and the ​Australian ​landscape. I am sure that I will never tire of ​​this treasure trove of material.

To Loud applause...

Like so many others, I had a bit of a soprano voice as a ​young lad and even managed to earn a shilling or two ​singing at weddings and funerals. The standard ​repertory: Wings of a Dove, Last Rose of Summer and ​Macushla.

Though I doubt any of these would have been called for ​at a funeral. The voice eventually broke, and what came ​in its place was nothing short of unmusical. Still is.

But my Aunt Veronica (Nock) had a love for singing, ​and, as a special treat in 1965, she took me to The J.C. ​Williamson's Season of Opera with Joan Sutherland ​appearing in La Sonnamula.

She had recently returned to Australia after a triumph ​at Covent Garden in Lucia di Lammermoor. It was the ​first time I had heard opera, either live or in recordings.

We were seated front and centre in the dress circle at ​Her Majesty's Theatre in Sydney. Sutherland enters ​early in the opera. Loud applause. Prolonged.

Will I ever forget that first phrase? It was as if a wall of ​sound hit us fair and square, and I felt as if we had ​been blown through the back wall of the theatre and ​were out in the street.

I could not believe that a human voice could have such ​power, such beauty and such clarity. I was hooked on ​opera and on Joan Sutherland in particular.

And down the years, I was fortunate to hear her in so ​many opera houses around the world in many, many ​roles.

What is of more than passing interest in this 1965 ​season was that in the cast was Luciano Pavarotti, who ​was almost unknown at this time.

He is listed in the press release as an Italian. That's all. ​The rest would be history.

Being Bert’s

Daughter

By Kay Flugelman

part 2.

part 1.

My dad (Bert Flugelman) made life an adventure; his ​exploration into art, literature, colour, design, objects, ​philosophy, theatre, and music laid the groundwork for ​endless experimentation and a long line of interesting ​people visiting our house.

Bert attended Art School in the 1950s (From 1948 to ​1951, he studied at the National Art School (East ​Sydney Technical College) in Sydney, where he studied ​painting under Frank Hinder. Bert worked as a painter ​for about ten years, gradually developing an interest in ​sculpture.

He experimented and worked in stone carving, relief, ​sand-casting, ceramic hand-building, wood-carving, ​welding and casting in metal, etc.

He was open to all possibilities but continued to paint in ​acrylic, oils, and watercolours for the rest of his life. ​Bert used anything and everything he could find to ​build, discover, explore, design and create art. ​Discovering and making art was as essential as ​breathing; he could not stop.

By the mid-sixties, his attitude towards the Arts had ​changed; he resolved to abandon the notion of self-​expression and being a Capital A “Artist” and started ​playing with the platonic solids, irreducible and ​absolute.

There followed an exhibition at “Strines” Gallery in ​Melbourne with six Tetrahedrons and canvases. After ​many journeys, the Tetrahedrons finished up being ​buried in Commonwealth Park, Canberra, as part of a ​Science and Art Festival.

My father told the man he could buy the sculpture, but ​they would have to remain buried in Commonwealth ​Park, Canberra. (Bert was addressing the issue of ​ownership and public art.)

Do the Tetrahedrons still exist if we can’t see them? ​Does ownership change a piece?

Flugelman's Earthwork consisted of six polished ​Aluminium Tetrahedrons. (Supplied: Archives ACT)

Today, in the grass behind Stage 88, is a plaque that ​sits close to where the sculpture lies.

The Canberra Times wrote at the time: “Let the scoffers ​depart to their conventional galleries and other ​established sites for visual sculpture. But let those with ​imagination spend creative hours gazing at the ​bulldozed earth in Commonwealth Gardens. Given only ​the slightest prompting, they can begin to imagine the ​$10,000 the sculptor, Mr Flugelman, says his works are ​worth.”

It's not known precisely where the Artwork is ​located/buried, but a map from the Australia 75 ​Exhibition shows it sitting around 50 metres away from ​the current plaque.

The artist Bert Flugelman stands next to his Tetrahedrons, 4.5 metres below ​topsoil. (Image Supplied: Australian Information Service)

Bert continued to make public art for the rest of his life. ​He wanted his work to entertain and entice the viewer. ​His large stainless pieces reflect their surroundings and ​invite the viewer to play with their reflection amidst the ​setting and discover a new view, a new way to see.

Often, children bang on these sculptures to elicit sounds ​and make their own music and sound landscape. Bert ​was serious and playful at the same time.

He always discovered and created works, from found ​objects to using traditional tools; the world was one big ​art supply store for him; everything could be utilised.

Bert also had a huge passion for teaching; he loved ​assisting and encouraging students to discover, ​adventure and find solutions in the world. During the ​1970s, Bert did a number of performance pieces; he ​used to say that art and science were similar as they ​were both about making new discoveries.

He loved all mediums and tools that could be used to ​create; possibilities were always endless.

Summer of ‘68, Lithograph,

1968, Private Collection

part 1.

Not a Pretty Sight!

One of the Perils ...

...that a new member of staff often has to face when ​joining the private school sector is the obligatory dinner ​at the headmaster's house. The invitation often comes ​early in the school year, and old hands will tell you it ​comes but once. It is just something that will pass.

My first experience of such dining came at Ashville ​College, in Yorkshire, when, along with another 'new ​boy', we were invited to join the Southam's after ​Sunday Evening Chapel. I remember it as a freezing ​night, so finding the house heated like a sauna was a ​pleasant surprise.

My fellow dinner guest was another young 'bachelor' ​who came from a very wealthy Harrogate family with ​impeccable breeding. Much of the conversation at the ​dinner table centred on singing the praises of the ​Southam's young daughter, Shelagh. Unmarried. A ​Spinster of the Parish. There was even a photograph of ​Shelagh on the dining room sideboard—stimulus ​material.

The stodge of the meal matched the awkwardness of ​the dinner table conversation. And the heat in the room ​was becoming unbearable. But the meal did pass, and ​we retired to the sitting room, not for port and whiskey, ​but to continue what was all too obvious, something ​akin to a cattle market, where Shelagh was the only ​beast on display for our edification.

The Southams sank into a torpor and were soon both ​sound asleep, issuing forth grunts and snorts. I looked ​at John, and John looked at me. What should we do? ​Leave? Wake them? Cough? Carry on a conversation ​between ourselves?

Now, I have forgotten to tell you one distinguishing ​feature about Mrs Southam. As a result of a medical ​condition, she was completely bald and so wore an ill-​fitting wig, which had a tendency to go somewhat ​askew. And as she slumbered, she had managed almost ​to dislodge said wig. It was not a pretty sight.

And then, as if by divine intervention, the Southams ​woke up in unison and continued the sales pitch as if ​nothing had happened. I reckon they were 'elsewhere' ​for a good ten to fifteen minutes.

The evening did end, and I never darkened their door ​again. To the best of my knowledge, Shelagh continued ​as an angel of mercy in Edinburgh, and the Southams ​(Ron and Eth) continued the selling pitch down their ​remaining years at Ashville.

So when I came to the King's School, I was prepared for ​the dinner invitation. And, come, it did, right on cue. ​Though it was for a weekday evening, we were spared ​the obligatory Chapel appearance before dinner. On this ​occasion, my dinner companion was a young French ​teacher, Inge.

A divorcee. Her appointment, the first full-time female ​member of staff, had caused 'problems'. The plumbing ​of the staff toilets was somewhat lacking. The question ​was asked: where would she change for sporting ​activities, and where would she store her ​soccer/basketballs? Problems indeed. But the need for ​an excellent French teacher won the day, so Inge was ​with me as we entered the Kurrle's home.

Dinner conversation was a tad forced, as there was an ​absence of wine that might have loosened tongues—the ​Reverend Kurrle solved the problem of the absence of ​alcohol by telling us that Mrs Kurrle made a lovely fruit ​punch. So, fruit punch it was, for four. (I might add that ​many years later, I was teaching at Philip's Academy in ​Boston when the Kurrles were on a world-fact-finding ​trip! they did call on me. I took them to dinner, and ​they both quickly ordered large gin and tonics. And ​seconds.)

Like Ashville, this proved to be a singular invitation, and ​I don't think I darkened their door again.

in the rush

of farm life

By Jenny Bell

Walking out the door...

...and hopping in a ute loaded with paints, boards, and ​brushes was one way of dealing with the multiple ​problems that confront the person compelled to make ​the experience of being alive visually. For twenty years, ​this is what I did almost daily.

The vehicle stops, and instead of wondering about your ​subject – there it is. You have left distraction behind ​and committed to four hours - so there is no escape; ​you are often a little uncomfortable and have to react to ​the elements, the sun, the wind, the shade, the change ​in light as the clouds come across - and although you ​are barely conscious of this happening – it seems that ​over time the work records something of this ​experience.

I did begin, though, after art school – following several ​false starts in inner city spaces - in a studio on a farm, ​and for want of knowing where to begin, I looked in a ​mirror and painted what I saw, as Peter describes it, the ​resulting self-portrait emits a sense of strong, bold ​confidence and perhaps buried deep within, truly reflects ​that person of thirty odd years ago, although as he also ​says – she was clothed in insecurities.

But from the moment I picked up a brush at the age of ​19 at the local TAFE, I was home - and wherever life ​takes you – you know you have that capacity within you. ​I am not speaking here of talent necessarily. However, a ​dose of that is required, but more about a certain ​receptivity to what that brush can do, where it can take ​you, a sensitivity to visual stimuli and an unrelenting ​desire to go on until it feels right.

Circumstances returned me to the land I grew up on in ​the late 1980s, and after that self-portrait, I began the ​slow process of finding out where I was. For reasons of ​necessity, I didn’t travel far – just far enough to be ​distracted from the every day – and somehow managed ​to combine every day with paint – hopping from the ​sheep or cattle-yard to the brush when there was a ​pause, and this too was a valuable tool because we are ​always trying to shut down our conscious, critical mind ​– and in the rush of farm life, dealing with life and ​death and essential jobs - this often happened ​inadvertently in those ‘grabbed for’ moments.

After some years of drawing and painting my ​immediate surroundings in this way, a certain staleness ​set in. This took care of itself when I looked out the ​window of the local hall and saw something that would ​hold me for the next five years.

The small cemetery with its white crosses and black ​marble monuments cast against the hill behind. I set to ​work drawing and then painting, revelling in the stone ​and the straight lines and the feeling of contemplation ​in the atmosphere. I was a couple of years in that ​graveyard before I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, ​the plastic flowers that were on so many of the graves – ​I was shocked I hadn’t seen them, and it opened another ​perspective for me.

I can almost remember curling the paint of that lower ​yellow flower against the blackness of the grave, ​wondering about the faded plastic that stood in for the ​ephemeral petal - and the joy it gave me. When the ​paintings were shown at Mori Gallery in 2005, there ​wasn’t a blink in accepting this deviation into ​apparently sombre territory; they were seen as part of a ​continuum.

Almost twenty years have flashed by since Peter and I ​had a conversation where he lamented that the painting ​with the painted yellow flower had gone elsewhere – we ​know not where, but we both see that its power is intact ​today.

I’ll finish here, remembering how vital Peter's support ​was in those early years. A perfect stranger walks into a ​gallery and buys a self-portrait that still hangs on his ​walls today, and work from other exhibitions joined her. ​His words of insight still bolster. His interaction with ​artists and the art world, informed by his own studio ​work, has made and continues to make a lasting, ​meaningful contribution.

Artists profile australian galleries

goulburn regional art gallery

Compared to What..?

There's always a media storm and frenzy when a new exhibition of a significant artist hits the gallery. And none more ​so than Cindy Sherman. She has been making outstanding work for decades, and now comes, in 2024, her latest. When ​I looked online to see what she had been up to, you can imagine my wry smile as I thought, Cindy, have you been ​peeping into my website?

Here, I have picked just four works of my works that

speak to me of Cindy's. What do you think?

domestic violence

Peter Fay

most wanted

Peter Fay

MOTHER & SON

Peter Fay

painting marilyn

Peter Fay

Untitled #652

Cindy Sherman

Cindy Sherman

Untitled #647

Cindy Sherman

Untitled #632

Cindy Sherman

see more

Untitled #654

Cindy Sherman

My work is much rougher and lacks the polish of Cindy's, but I feel she would give me

a nod and say, good on you, all power to you...

see more

Reality is our

IMAGE

of the world

By Robin

"Reality is our image of the world; it appears in every ​mirror, a phantom that only exits for ourselves, which ​comes, gesticulates and disappears with us"

-Jorge Luis Borges

The other day, Peter handed me a neatly typed quote by ​Jorge Luis Borges, and it struck a chord deep within me. ​It wasn't just words on paper; it was a reflection of the ​essence of my ongoing journey through life.

You see, Borges speaks of reality as our own creation, a ​subjective image of the world that dances with us and ​then disappears when we do. As I read those words, it ​felt like he had reached into the very fabric of my ​thoughts and pulled out the threads that weave ​together my current understanding of existence.

Throughout my life, I've been a seeker, driven by a ​lingering scepticism and mistrust of the world. I don’t ​think it was a totally pessimistic outlook but rather a ​catalyst for my relentless quest for understanding. I ​delved deeply into the teachings of A Course in Miracles ​(ACIM) Osho and the cosmic perspectives of the Urantia ​Book, each becoming a unique lens through which I ​viewed my reality.

In quiet moments of reflection, I've realised that this ​reluctance to fully trust the world has been the driving ​force behind my profound exploration. These teachings, ​like mighty companions, accompanied me on a journey ​that shaped not only how I perceive the world but also ​who I am.

Recently, in the past few years, something remarkable ​happened. Terrence Stephens' talks on YouTube on Non-​duality have brought all these contrasting teachings ​together in a most unexpected way. It felt like the ​culmination of a lifetime of searching as if the wisdom ​from ACIM, Osho's insights, and the cosmic narratives of ​the Urantia Book found harmony and disappeared in ​Non-duality.

They were heroic stories that brought me comfort and ​joy in the isolation of the human world. But Terry made ​the point over and over that they were all just STORIES. ​They had no more substance or reality (except in my ​imagination) than Santa Claus. In Non-duality, thoughts ​are ephemeral, understanding that there is no order of ​difficulty in thinking; One thought is not “harder” or ​“bigger” than another. They are all the same.

All the stories of my life have pointed to this singular ​idea of freedom from self-imposed isolation and lack. ​By training my mind to a Non-dual way of thinking, ​well, I could write and write about this stuff... But I’ll ​say this now, there is no order of difficulty in my life ​anymore!

Consciously slowing down became essential in this ​process. Walking, working, cleaning, watching telly, etc., ​all became opportunities to practice. I learned early that ​(an untrained mind can accomplish nothing). So after a ​lifetime of looking critically at thought, I applied myself, ​allowing myself to absorb the nuances of Non-duality ​and begin to integrate its profound implications.

Terry’s teachings, coupled with my own experiences, ​formed a rich tapestry of understanding that is uniquely ​mine; I Am a personal philosophy that unfolds more ​with each passing day. I Am conscious awareness, ​period.

A deep sense of clarity and resonance marks this ​moment in my journey. It's a period of profound self-​discovery and integration, where the wisdom ​accumulated over the years converges into a very ​simple understanding.

As I continue to explore and reflect, I feel a profound ​connection with the core truths that have guided me ​throughout this remarkable quest for stable awareness ​and accord...

unsuitable for

school boys.

In Canon Kurrle's defence...

The old maxim is, "You should never put your daughter ​on the stage, Mrs Worthington." A couple of ​Headmasters I taught under had some strange ideas ​about the theatre, and once or twice, I was in the firing ​line from their prejudices and hangups.

When I was teaching at Ashville College in Yorkshire, UK, ​in the 1960s, if I wanted to take a group of lads to any ​event outside the school in out-of-school time/hours, in ​those days, one had to put in a written slip to the ​Headmaster outlining your excursion, times and date. If ​he approved, the slip was returned to you with an ​attached left-handed backward big green tick.

So, a classical music concert, big tick. A ​performance by the Royal Shakespeare ​Company, an even bigger tick. The ​Mousetrap by Agatha Christie, tick, tick, ​tick.

So, when I saw an advanced notice for Joe Orton's Loot, ​I lost no time submitting my request slip. (Orton was ​often mentioned in the same breath as Oscar Wilde. ​Orton was a favourite playwright of mine, and I got the ​lads all geed up about the coming theatre excursion.)

Back came my request slip. Not only was there an ​enormous cross through it, but the Headmaster added ​his own response. "The day that Joe Orton was ​bludgeoned to death by his homosexual lover was a ​great day for British theatre." I pleaded my case, but ​the Headmaster stood firm. Yet another example of the ​way he bullied the staff. So often, the boys missed out ​on the thriving theatre scene in Leeds and York.

Back in Australia, at the King's School, censorship took ​a different form. At staff meetings, the Headmaster ​would pronounce ex cathedra, which shows like Hair and ​The Boys in the Band were strictly off-limits to any boy ​who was boarding.

Headmaster Kurrle, on one occasion, informed the staff ​that there was a current play in Sydney where there ​was simulated sex behind a screen. The Archbishop had ​sent him photos from the production and that if any ​member of staff was interested in seeing the degree to ​which the theatre had sunk, they were welcome to come ​up to his office and see for themselves. It's a bit like not ​being able to define pornography, but you would know it ​when you saw it.

A very reputable Sydney theatre company used to put on ​short plays that ran for about an hour down in ​Parramatta. Plays by Pinter, Ionesco, and N. F. Simpson ​were often performed. I would order sandwiches from ​the school kitchen; we would pile onto the bus, take in ​the play, and be back at school in time for afternoon ​lessons. Wonderful stuff.

Many years later, I disagreed with the Headmaster, ​Canon Kurrle, over some incident. He supported his ​argument by calling for my file and producing a letter ​written by a member of the public who had attended a ​lunchtime play in Parramatta, and she was shocked to ​see King's School boys there, and they were not in full ​school uniform.

They were not naked. No. It was just that they were not ​wearing their 3/4 military jackets. She professed to love ​the King's School; her brother had been a boy there ​aeons ago; she also expressed the opinion that the play ​on that day was unsuitable for school boys.

Her message was written on a sheet of lined paper, and ​she signed it with Mrs Margaret MacArthur (73). I told ​Kurrle that I had no problem with the boys at the ​theatre that day, that they went straight from the bus ​into the theatre, then back on the bus and back to ​school for afternoon classes.

I noticed a pinhole at the top left corner of the letter, ​which suggested that Mrs MacArthur's (73) letter had ​been answered. I asked how he could have replied ​without having the courtesy of asking me for an ​account of the event. He said he would not be showing ​me his reply. Impasse. But I felt that Theatre was the ​winner.

I should say one word in Canon Kurrle's defence. There ​was no opposition when I produced Joe Orton's Loot at ​the King’s School. It played to good houses for a week, ​and I scanned the audience each night to see if any 73-​year-olds were present. I think not. Canon Kurrle did not ​attend.

For all the plays that I produced at The King's School ​(Macbeth, Loot, The Inspector General, Benjamin ​Britten's Noyes Fludde, The Birds, The Resistible Rise of ​Arturo Uri), I never once received a note from Canon ​Kurrle offering congratulations to either myself or to the ​boys in the casts.

Introducing Ivett

You never know where an introduction might lead you these days. A couple of weeks ago, ​we had an email from Martin Mischkulnig wanting us to meet a colleague of his who is ​living in Hobart. Of course. And so, one-day last week, Ivett Dodd walked into our lives. ​Martin had mentioned a book project that Ivett was working on, so I supposed we would ​talk about her project and maybe give her one or two ideas from our experience.

We saw that day that Ivett had all but completed her massive tome, looking at the work, ​life, and studio practice of 24 Artists living here in Tasmania. Ivett has photographed each ​artist at work, and there are interviews accompanying her photographs.

Ivett has focused on Makers, Designers and Artisans: Weavers, Foundryworkers, ​Woodworkers, Shell Workers, and so on...It has been a colossal undertaking, and she is ​now at the finish line, with two publishers very keen to publish her book.

There will be a more comprehensive blog closer to the publication date, and for now, we are so happy to introduce Ivatt Dodd to ​you through this poetic and imaginative prose poem.

Enjoy.

walking in forests

By Ivett Dodd

the resilient snow flowers

of Eastern Europe

She has never been so empty all her life. Her mind was ​like a vast ocean beyond softly rolling hills on an ​autumn day. There is nothing dramatic about the ​lighting, just a diffused brightness through the not-so-​heavy clouds.

In this place it is easy to see things in perfect detail ​without having to squint into the reflection of the sun ​or straining to recognise outlines against a darkening ​evening. It is calm and eventless.

This emptiness isn’t something that just happened by ​chance; she cultivated it carefully year after year by ​staring into the abyss and courageously examining all ​the terrifying creatures within.

Some evaporated just by being dragged into the light. ​Some were like the roots of ivy popping up over and ​over again, at times least expected until the antidote ​was found.

Some took painfully long hours by the day and by night ​and resulted in hundreds of poems, days of walking in ​forests, countless nightmares and the constant hope ​that change would burst forth like the resilient snow ​flowers of Eastern Europe.

Some took painfully long hours by the day and by night ​and resulted in hundreds of poems, days of walking in ​forests, countless nightmares and the constant hope ​that change would burst forth like the resilient snow ​flowers of Eastern Europe.

The Plague Made

Them Rich

The Young 'Jeff' Chaucer

Of late, several of my blog musings have been ​concerned with the days of my youth, looking at the ​highs and lows and maybe thinking about how the ​ancient me developed out of those earliest experiences. ​I'll leave those who know me well to make their own ​conclusions.

I am currently preparing a talk on Geoffrey Chaucer, ​with particular emphasis on The Pardoner's Tale. It is ​always a great pleasure to return to Chaucer, a poet I ​studied in my final year of English Literature at Sydney ​University. And on one or two occasions, with the right ​class, I have introduced my students to the delights and ​wonders of The Canterbury Tales, guaranteed to open ​hearts and minds.

So, currently, I am delving back into Chaucer's early life, ​and I want to share some of the things that the young ​Jeff (excuse the familiarity) would have experienced in ​his daily life.

Born in 1342 or possibly 1343 into a well-to-do London ​family. For the Chaucer family and most people, time ​was measured with the Liturgical day and the reign of ​the monarch. We could thus surmise that his birth ​would be recorded something like this: Born on the ​Wednesday after the Feast of the Translation of St ​Thomas the Martyr, in the fifteenth year of Edward the ​Third’s reign.

Chaucer's father was a Pepperer, and they lived in a ​district of London primarily concerned with the spice ​trade. The small square mile of the walled city ​supported 108 parish churches. I'll say that again—108 ​parish churches. The air would have been heavy with ​the town's smells and its inhabitants' aromas. Incense ​burning in the churches, people defecating on the street, ​and offal, blood and dung were transported out of the ​city upon open carts.

Chaucer's parents and grandparents were present ​during his younger years, and his cousins, uncles, and ​aunts lived nearby. Chaucer's home would undoubtedly ​have private spaces, even a privy. The house would have ​been furnished and decorated with tapestries, drapes, ​hangings, family portraits, comfortable beds and ​cushions, and display objects like fine silver plates, ​cups, candlesticks, and other paraphernalia on polished ​wooden cabinetry.

Being well-to-do, the family might have employed a ​'rocker' to rock the cradle in the nursery. Manuals were ​written with hints for new mothers. Parents were ​warned not to tie a baby into a cot and not to leave ​them unattended for long periods of time. Chaucer ​would have been cossetted, protected and cherished.

Chaucer would have been baptised very soon after his ​birth. The father and the godparents would have ​presented the baby for baptism at the parish church. ​Chaucer's mother would not have been allowed to enter ​the Church at this time. She would have had to watch ​from the porch, and until she underwent a Churching ​Ceremony (cleansing the blood of childbirth), the Church ​was out of bounds. The godparents often supplied the ​name for the new babe. The Church would have been a ​constant part of Chaucer's life, a place for worship and ​instruction and a place for gathering and belonging.

We don't know if Chaucer had any siblings. Infant ​mortality was high. But he would have played in the ​street as everybody knew everyone who lived nearby. ​Toys from these times would bear witness to the ​essential similarity of children across the ages: cooking ​sets, dolls, and knights on horseback showed that ​children enjoyed playing the activities of those adults ​around them. Children played dice, backgammon, ​draughts, chess and cards when inside.

In 1347, Chaucer's father, John, was appointed deputy ​to the King's butler in Southampton, and the fact that ​the family now lived both in London and Southampton ​was possibly a factor that saved them from death when ​the plague, known as the Black Death, arrived in ​England. Living was not as crowded in Southampton. ​Half of the population of England died.

The Plague made the Chaucer family become even more ​wealthy as estates were willed to them. Death became ​front and centre in people's lives.

His Mother would have taught Chaucer his alphabet. ​When it was time for him to go to school, he would ​have worn a long gown and carried his writing ​materials in his hands. Corporal punishment was rife in ​the schools. (A wry smile from me when I read that an ​Oxford teacher fell out of a tree and drowned while ​cutting rods to beat his pupils. Poetic justice...)

Latin was the focus of learning. At this time, English ​was slowly replacing French as the language used in the ​classroom. Books were plentiful in the classroom. The ​teacher would have sat on a raised platform in the ​centre of the room, with the pupils on benches around ​the walls. The boys would have had to learn to parse, ​translate and paraphrase, write commentaries, and ​debate morals. Aesop's Fables sat at the heart of the ​medieval school curriculum.

I want to leave you with one final observation I will refer ​to in a later blog. At about 14 years of age, Chaucer left ​home and school to become a Retainer in a great ​household. So a new uniform was needed. Wealth was ​often measured by the lavish clothing that the Lord ​dressed his household. And the style of the clothing told ​what fashion ruled. What was new, and what was old ​style?

And Chaucer comes into view not as a fashion follower ​but as a fashion leader. His tunic, we are told, was so ​short that his genitalia was prominently displayed in his ​hose as he showed himself to his best advantage.

Commentators of the day described the new fashion as ​causing the wrath of God to descend on England in the ​embodiment of the plague. "They go about with their ​loins uncovered, with their tunics failing to conceal their ​arses or their private parts."

More about this in blogs to come. Stay tuned. And be ​smartly dressed.

Being Bert’s

Daughter

By Kay Flugelman

part 1.

Write a book, they said. What a life you’ve had. I look back and see a life of survival against ​the odds. The fallout of surviving an “interesting” childhood is a constant battle to stay present ​and not fall back into the abyss of memories that can drag one under and darken one's day. 

Don’t get me wrong, I have not suffered like so many other fellow humans. I’ve not lived in a ​war-torn country; I’m not a refugee (although my father was); we have always had food and ​shelter; my parents were middle class, and I went to University and Art School.

My father lectured in Art, and my mother was a stay-at-home mum who looked after my ​sisters and me while navigating a suspected drinking problem amidst the trials of being the ​partner of an artist. We eventually lived in a large house by the water near the bush in the ​southern suburbs of Sydney, Australia; one would think it picture-perfect.

The surface was presentable, a little eccentric, maybe even enviable, but just like an iceberg ​floating serenely on the ocean, the real danger was beneath the surface. A long history of ​generational family tragedy and trauma infiltrated into the lives of parents and their children, ​mirroring past transgressions without explanation. This does seem like a gloomy introduction. ​It was not all fear, flight or fight. There have been generous amounts of humour, adventure, ​learning, friends, children, art and opportunities littered throughout this recollection, resulting ​in joy, happiness, and, at times, peace.

I arrived in this world in the month of April 1955 at Manhattan Public Hospital in the state of New York. My father tells ​me I was “dropped off” when my parents were travelling around the world. I was not planned; I was going to be ​abortion number 3, but my mother refused to go through the procedure again. I was the wanted, unwanted first child.

About 30 years after my mother passed away, I found letters she wrote to her mother when she was in hospital after I ​was born. She refers to me as ‘the baby’ (and did for the first few months) and writes that her greatest achievement ​was that she did not make a peep whilst giving birth.

It seems to me sad that she felt that this was what was expected of her. My father tells me he was in shock after my ​birth and has since regaled me with stories of how he was stopped by police driving the wrong way down a one-way ​street. His retort to the police officer was, “I’m only going one way”.

We stayed in New York for six months while my parents applied for my passport and visa. When we did try to leave, we ​were stopped for another week; my parents were suspected of trying to steal an Asian baby and were asked to provide ​birth certificates and identification to confirm I was their child.

To be fair, I did look very Asian (my dad tells me it is because of our genetic links to Genghis Kahn; he always liked the ​idea of being connected. My friend has since said it could be Genghis Cohen, as my father’s family are of Jewish ​heritage).

We caught the boat to Australia, disembarked in Sydney, and ​immediately moved to Caringbah, an outer southern Sydney suburb, into ​my grandparents’ house (my father’s father and my father’s stepmother, ​Annie). It was a small double-brick home in a large, undeveloped new ​suburb.

The dynamics of this grouping, I am told, were intense. A small 2-​bedroom house, four adults, one child, one dog, a hidden drinking ​problem, traumatised refugees (my grandparents and father) and the ​dilemma of the two males who had little or no respect for each other’s ​choices in life.

I suspect the baby’s existence in this scenario was necessary for civility ​and compromise. After two years, my father put a deposit on land, and ​we moved to the bush and lived in the traditional DIY Aussie tin shack. It ​was a one-roomed abode with a curtain creating two spaces.

There wasn’t a bathroom. We had a tin shed out back with a hole in the ​ground toilet, and occasionally, a tin tub was produced, half-filled with ​heated water from the pot on the open fire, and we bathed outside.

It was a pretty ideal existence for a kid. Lots of adventures and make-believe in the bush, my dad was a great playmate. ​We were always making “art” or building something. My memory of my mother at this time is minimal; I know now her ​life was difficult.

My mother worked in Caringbah as a hairdresser; she ​battled her own demons and tried to be a supportive ​partner while looking for a creative life that would give ​her a purpose other than being an artist’s wife and a ​mother.

I remember not long after we moved to the bush, Dad ​used dynamite to demolish some rock outcrops that ​were in the way of his plan to build a road; he blasted ​and dug out a road of sorts that made easy access to ​our shack.

My father was not just driven to make art (being creative was like breathing for him); he had an inquiring mind and ​was interested in everything and everyone; he was gregarious and well-read, and it seemed to me at age three that he ​could do anything.

I remember (my mind is fuzzy on exact dates) those 2 or 3 years in the bush as an ​adventurous time. We had neighbours who lived further down the bush who had two ​sons who would sometimes come over and play, but usually, my companion was my ​dad or my sausage dog called Henri.

I was forever trying to help Dad do whatever it was he was tackling next. One day, ​Dad decided he wanted an indoor fireplace and used the stone that he had dynamited ​from the road to build a chimney (I requested it be made big enough for Santa to ​climb down). The chimney can still be seen today as an outdoor BBQ; the bush is long ​gone, and a burgeoning suburb replaced the bush of 40 years ago. I am rarely ever ​out that way, but occasionally, over the years, I have driven by to see the chimney ​still standing in what is now someone’s backyard.

My memories have faded with time, and I sometimes wonder if it really happened as I ​recall or if I am embellishing it by only looking through my own window; it is the only ​window I have now as my parents are long gone, and their perspectives with them.

My dad once told me he could clearly remember being around two years old and crying in his crib; he was very clear and ​never wavered on what, for him, was a fact. My memory is an elusive friend influenced by feelings, fears and desires; I ​regard it with dubious caution.

My dog Henri (named after the great artist Henri de Toulouse Lautrec) was my shadow and playmate. Unfortunately, ​Henri was bitten by a black snake and died after a frantic dash to the vets at Kogarah. It was my first experience of ​grief, love and loss, and I would get to expand on this experience over the years more often than I ever thought possible; ​it seems I accidentally became the companion and comfort for the people I loved as they became ill, I held their hand ​and hearts.

After 3 or 4 years, we moved a few miles down the road to a suburb called Oyster Bay; our house looked out onto an ​idyllic body of water, a perfect playground and a landscape to explore. My parents bought a large two-storey house; ​there was a secret passage between two rooms through the wardrobes, an absolute winner for any hide-and-seek game, ​especially with kids who were unaware.

My father had a large studio at the top of the block, and underneath his studio was a ceramic studio for my mother. ​The house previously belonged to a family that made ceramic pots and figurines. I was recently contacted by the now ​owners of the property, who unearthed a large 8 feet x 4 feet cement wall panel with glass and tile inlay that my father ​made and installed in the early 1960s.

It was surreal going back and having a peek at what was left. Elegant new structures had replaced all the buildings. All ​that was left of our life was a large white sandstone sculpture on the front block of land and the 30-foot sandstone ​wall my father built inlaid with bits of tile, pots failed sculptures and found objects.

The beautiful, big old house that I remember as a child had long gone and been replaced by a smart, functional, ​fashionable house. It is most fortunate that the new owners have taken it upon themselves to not only restore the wall ​and the panel at great expense but have also documented the pieces and involved Wollongong University, which ​maintains an archive of my father’s work. The restored panel was initially a test panel for a series of 3 wall panels Dad ​made and installed for the gas works at Kurnell.

Life at Oyster Bay had its own “Huckleberry Finn” charm, building cubby houses in winter and taking them apart in ​summer and using the same recycled materials to build rafts to float on or jump into the mud and then sunbake on the ​rafts and feel the sun-dried clay crack as we rose like an Egyptian Mummy only to jump into the water and repeat the ​process all over again. My dad dug out a large hole in the backyard and welded corrugated iron panels to make a ​swimming pool of sorts. It was a prestigious addition to have, as the local kids were very impressed, which made me ​feel accepted a little.

Herbert Flugelman

Oyster Bay was a small, established, conservative suburb. Our house and activities stood out; ours was not a ​conventional lifestyle. My dad was teaching art at a technical college, and the boundaries of a suburban life were tested. ​Oftentimes, there were wild parties held in Dad’s studio on the weekend. These events were both frightening and ​exciting, resulting in very “out of it” behaviour by the adults.

Children were pretty much left to fend for themselves. Often, the next day, in the early morning, when I walked around ​the ruins of the previous night, One could find the wrong parent in bed with the wrong parent. The sixties were alive ​and well; free love, drugs, jazz and rock and roll prevailed at our house under the heavy burden of trying to assimilate ​into suburbia and function as a traditional family of mum, dad and the kids.

The move to suburbia brought me a new set of challenges; becoming part of a local school community was baffling as ​there was a whole new landscape and language that I never really figured out; I always felt on the outside. I started ​attending Oyster Bay Public School, a little school at the end of our street.

I gradually met the other kids in my street, and friendships were formed as we walked to and from school. Kids would ​emerge from their homes between 8.30 and 9.15 and dawdle down the road chatting, making plans and plotting forays ​into the “haunted” vacant house that had imagined hidden secrets we expanded on over the years yet never actually ​ventured onto the property.

The afternoon trip home would often take longer as adventures were had fighting imagined dragons and dropping into ​each other’s house. Life was full of adventure.

Part 2.

Australia Day

Invasion day

a Day for the World...

On the eve of the so-called Australia Day, I want to take ​a moment of your time to consider the following.

It was James Joyce who wrote in The Portrait of the ​Artist as a Young Man that "When a man is born, there ​are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight." These ​are the nets of nationality, language and religion. These ​nets are still being flung at us, and a few more have ​been added.

From almost day one, we are conscripted into clubs, ​societies and environments in order to keep us in line. ​The earliest being the family unit. Then comes school, ​where badges, colours, and war cries are used for ​demarcation and branding.

Religion quickly gets in on the act, with ceremonies of ​inclusion, medals of holiness, beads and raiments and ​rigid structures of authority. The country gets into the ​act with flags, medal counts, and anthems, which are ​all used to hold and corral the citizens.

First World and Third World are terms to group and ​exclude. Ethnicity and skin colour are further ways in ​which one is held together or apart.

And so, on 26th January of each year, we here in ​Australia are subjected to language and ceremonies that ​exclude many, reinforce division, and draw down on the ​lowest common denominator.

What I want to advocate for is to replace these days of ​division and exclusion and recognise the fact that there ​is only one thing that unites and joins us and offers us ​hope: we are all living on a planet that is under ​constant pressure and that we are often seen to be ​doing our best to destroy.

So not Australia Day, not any day that celebrates ​disharmony, but a Day for the World. Call me naive, ​but it is worth a Shout-Out.