the unanswered

question

My aunt had a dressmaker, Mary Falon, a lady who led a ​very sheltered life. Her dressmaking clients came to her ​house in Bondi Junction. I would guess that in the ​1950s, Mary was about 60 and was very much a single ​lady.

At this time, David Jones, the large store in Sydney, held ​a festival of Italy featuring all things Italian throughout ​the store. Ranging over the store's five floors, there ​were fashions, furniture, designer goods, and food: in ​fact, it was a massive intervention, and the publicity ​was enormous.

My Aunt Veronica decided that she would take Mary to ​see the latest in fashion from Italy. They entered the ​store from a side door, took the elevator to the top ​floor, and slowly made their way, floor by floor, down ​the escalator to the ground floor.

Now, the centrepiece of the whole display was the life-​sized David statue. It's not the original, but it's a lifelike ​copy. There had been much ado when the exhibition had ​opened in Melbourne at the DJ's store. The good citizens ​of Melbourne were outraged by the naked David, and a ​fig leaf was hurriedly put in place.

But Sydney was having none of that, and so David was ​there sans fig leaf, displaying his all.

Now, picture it. Huge crowds were flocking to the store, ​and now my Aunt and Mary were taking the escalator ​from the first floor down to the ground floor. There was ​no way of dodging the sight of David as the escalator ​swept passed within feet of the statue, gliding by from ​top, middle, to bottom.

I need to tell you that Mary was profoundly deaf. She ​gave my aunt a nudge in the side and bellowed loudly, ​"What's that between his legs?" Aunt Veronica tried to ​pretend that she hadn't heard Mary's enquiry. So it was ​repeated, this time louder. Possibly, the gales of ​laughter from their fellow escalator riders gave my aunt ​a little cover as they were disgorged at the end of the ​ride and made a hasty rush for the exit.

I am sure that Mary went to her grave with her question ​unanswered. My aunt would have possibly sought ​absolution for such a vile image in the confessional. ​Three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys would have ​wiped the slate clean.

the self-portrait of

Jenny Bell

When you have a large art collection such as we have, ​you are constantly juggling and moving pictures, ​putting some into storage and finding wall space for ​long-forgotten works.

But there are some pictures that are never off the wall, ​and I want today to talk about one of them—the self-​portrait of Jenny Bell. I have lived with this picture for ​well over 30 years, and it has always taken pride of ​place, with a wall to itself. It demands that. I can ​remember vividly my first encounter with this artist's ​work.

There was a gallery in Sydney called First Draft with ​Commonwealth funding, with the brief to show the ​work of young artists without gallery representation. It ​was always a must-visit space and almost always ​introduced one to artists who would become firm ​favourites.

On this day, Jenny Bell's work was being featured. I did ​not know the artist or her work. In fact, I did not at first ​realise that the work that immediately took my interest ​was a self-portrait.

It was a large canvas, and there was a great deal of ​space around the painted head. The paint was thickly ​applied. Strong brush strokes in bold colours. It had a ​sense of strength and confidence in the handling of ​paint. There was a sense of risk-taking, maybe painted ​quickly—a need to capture the person in that moment. ​And the eyes peering out of the mask of the face. ​Looking to the future. Strong and confident.

The telephone call eventually came, and Bonython ​rushed to the studio. He was not happy with what he ​saw. The painting was small, head and shoulders, and ​there was no cap on his head. He badgered Brack to at ​least add the cap. "There's plenty of empty space for ​that," he said. "There is no empty space," said Brack.

Bonython was like a dog with a bone. Much protest ​about the absent cap. Brack stood his ground and ​painted the cap in a separate frame.

And that is the insight that I take to looking at Jenny's ​portrait. There is a large, unpainted space but no empty ​space.

The other portrait that takes me back to Jenny's portrait ​is the portrait of Gertrude Stein, painted by Pablo ​Picasso. First started in Paris in 1905, it gave Picasso ​lots of problems. He eventually scraped the paint off the ​face and, under the influence of the African masks that ​he had seen, he repainted her face with what looked ​like a mask.

And that is the way the picture has remained for me. ​And when I got to meet the artist, I found a painter ​with all the usual uncertainties. But the picture told me ​of another side of Jenny.

She has remained a great friend; we are fortunate to ​live with three of her works. More about them another ​day. And this great self-portrait reminds me of two ​other portraits. There are strong affinities.

The South Australian art dealer Kym Bonython ​approached the Melbourne artist John Brack to paint his ​portrait. Brack said thanks, but no thanks. He didn't do ​commissioned portraits. But Bonython pestered him and ​wouldn't take no for an answer. In the end, he wore ​Brack down, and Brack agreed to paint his portrait.

So Bonython dressed himself in his finery, including his ​trade mark racing driver’s cap. The initial sitting ​occurred, and Brack said he would contact him when ​he’d finished.

Finished in the following year. The portrait immediately ​came under much criticism, with people saying that it ​did not look like Stein. Said Picasso, "No. But it will. She ​will grow to look like my portrait of her." And today, ​that image is the one that has come down the century. I ​see a mask-like face in Jenny's self-portrait, and the ​Jenny I know has certainly grown into her portrait.

smashing

Australia's dealing with some pretty big stuff on ​the Ableism and Disablism fronts – these terms ​perfectly sum up the challenges and unfair treatment ​people with disabilities face. So, let's dive into them ​together, check out some examples of Ableism and ​Disablism, see how they differ, shine a light on ​internalised Ableism, and get honest about Disability ​Discrimination.

Let's Break Down Ableism:

Imagine Ableism as a set of unwritten rules that ​unintentionally give perks only to people without ​disabilities. It's like saying the "normal" way of life is ​only for those without physical or cognitive challenges. ​In an Ableist world, the needs of non-disabled people ​come first, and there's this weird belief that they're ​somehow more valuable.

What's Going on Inside with Internalised Ableism:

Internalised Ableism is all about how living in an Ableist ​world messes with the minds and emotions of people ​with disabilities. When you're faced with a society that's ​biased against you, it can mess with your head. One big ​result? Feeling not so great about yourself, you may ​even be ashamed of your disability.

Let's Get Real about Disability Discrimination:

Disability discrimination is when you get mistreated ​because of your disability. It could be a one-time thing ​or an ongoing issue because of messed-up policies, like ​missing out on jobs, facing barriers to entering ​buildings or people talking down to you.

It's not just about individual actions; discrimination ​messes with the different parts of life, from work to ​accessing public places and personal interactions. Fixing ​this means making people aware, shaking up societal ​norms, and pushing for rules that recognise and respect ​what people with disabilities can do. It's all about ​creating a world where everyone can shine, no matter ​what.

Workplace Dramas Down-Under:

In Australia, discriminating against someone at work ​because of their disability is a big no-no. Thanks to ​laws like the Disability Discrimination Act 1992, it's ​illegal to discriminate against someone based on having ​a disability, thinking they have one, or being connected ​to someone with a disability.

The Social Model's New Perspective:

The Social Model of Disability flips the script by saying ​disability isn't something you're born with but ​something society creates. According to this view, ​people with disabilities face roadblocks like physical or ​communication barriers that keep them from fully ​jumping into society. The trick is to smash these ​barriers and make society more inclusive. By ​questioning the norm and eliminating biases, we can ​create a fairer and more welcoming world for everyone.

In a Quick Wrap-Up:

Australia is jumping into the ring to tackle Ableism and ​Disablism, working hard to build a world where ​everyone, no matter their abilities, gets a fair go. It's ​about understanding the ins and outs of these ​challenges, admitting change is needed, and actively ​doing things to make it happen.

It's not just about ramps and stuff; it's also about ​changing how people think, showing respect, and giving ​everyone a fair shot. Australia's commitment is all ​about dreaming of a future that's fair, open to ​everyone, and where people with disabilities are seen ​and valued for what they bring to the table.

What's Ableism in Action? Let's Keep it Real:

• Designing buildings without ramps for wheelchairs.
  
• Forgetting about accessible formats for information.
  
• Saying someone "doesn't look disabled."
  
• Picking a non-disabled job candidate just because ​of lazy assumptions about productivity.
  

What's the Deal with Disablism?

Now, Disablism is all about our not-so-great attitudes, ​behaviours, or even the abuse aimed at people with ​disabilities. It's treating someone differently or being a ​jerk because of their disability. Think offensive slurs, ​talking down to someone, or assuming they can't handle ​particular stuff.

(Remember a certain US President and how he treated a ​disabled journalist?)

Examples of Disablism – Yeah, It Happens:

• Using offensive slurs against disabled people.
  
• Ignoring or talking over or down to someone with a ​disability.
  
• Thinking a disabled person can't do something ​without even knowing what they can do.
  

Spotting the Difference – Let's Keep It Straight:

Sure, Ableism and Disablism overlap a bit, but Disablism ​is a newer word that some activists like. It's to make it ​clear that – Disablism isn't about a person's abilities; ​it's its own kind of unfair treatment, like racism, sexism ​or antisemitism.

Ableism talks about society leaning towards non-​disabled folks, while Disablism is all about direct acts of ​being mean or discriminating against people with ​disabilities.

PWDA

People with disabilities in australia

she had to leave hurriedly...

It's commonplace that the staff manning the front ​desks of the galleries in New York are rude and hostile ​to the casual viewer just intent on looking at the art. If ​you want to ask a question about any of the works on ​display, I would advise forgetting it.

The pictures just kept appearing, and Shafrazi wanted ​to know which ones he should send around to Ann's ​loft. I might add the Bacon pictures we were looking at ​were large canvases. No prices were ever discussed, but ​they would have been in the millions.

I was staying with Ann Lewis in her New York loft, and ​we would often walk through the many art districts in ​the city. This particular day, we were doing a gallery ​crawl through the most recent hot art district, SoHo.

We visited the Tony Shafrazi Gallery, where there was ​an exhibition of paintings from the estate of Francis ​Bacon.

It just so happened that Tony Shafrazi himself came ​into the gallery and almost did a double take on seeing ​Ann; we were immediately ushered into a large space ​downstairs, and Tony began barking orders at his ​minions to bring in this picture and that picture to show ​to Ann.

I could feel Ann's awkwardness as she desperately ​sought an exit strategy without losing face. Needless to ​say, it was as if I did not exist. Just not a known player ​in the great game of art as practised in New York.

Ann asked for one to be sent, saying that she would ​contact the Gallery to arrange a day and a time.

Talk about Exit, pursued, not in this case, by a bear, but ​by an art dealer. We had a good giggle out on the ​street, and then Ann made a quick telephone call to the ​gallery to tell them that she had to leave hurriedly for ​Australia and would contact the gallery on her return. ​Phew.

What a phenomenal memory he had, for Ann's Gallery A ​(Melbourne) had been the conduit for the purchase of ​Blue Poles. Tony Shafrazi was a small cog in the wheels ​at the American end of the negotiations. No doubt, he ​was hoping that Ann was on another such mission.

I could not get over the fact that Tony Shafrazi was now ​running a gallery. He had gained notoriety many years ​earlier when he spray painted across Picasso's Guernica ​'Kill Lies All', which was housed at MoMA. He was ​sentenced to 5 years probation.

Enter Mr and Mrs Williams...

As a teacher, parent-teacher interviews can be a ​pleasant and worthwhile thing. But having said that, ​there are also dangers and moments of great tension.

Only weeks at the school, the place and the institution ​held no sway over him. He was out to make whoopee. ​Trouble. Even sent to detention. Quel horreur.

At The King's School, it was the custom that the ​students were not present at these interviews. During ​the course of a year, there was a night set aside for ​each of the forms in the secondary school. This meant ​that one form's interview night came very early in the ​new school year.

The year in question was Form 7 (Year 1), with the ​interviews set down for six weeks into the year. I had a ​Year 1 class that year, as I had had in many previous ​years.

Young lads coming into the School were usually very ​meek and docile and still in fear of the so-called great ​institution that the King's School presented as. So there ​was not much in the way of insight you could convey to ​the parents about their young lad.

Often, if they were new parents with a first-time lad at ​the school, they too often felt they were walking on ​eggshells, not wanting to put a foot wrong and wanting ​to present as the model family. So all this is ​background, or, as we say these days, context.

In my Year 1 class, there happened to be two boys with ​the same surname. For the record, I'll call them ​Williams...Hamish and Angus. New to the class, I often ​took quite a while to put names to faces, and I would ​often think that I would never get them sorted out. But ​it does suddenly all drop into line.

And so when the parent-teacher night for Year 1 came ​around, I was ready to let Mr and Mrs Williams know ​just what a nasty piece of work their son was. I would ​pull no punches.

Enter Mr and Mrs Williams. And I gave them both ​barrels. They were shell-shocked. Ashen. Struggling to ​speak. And when they did, they could only manage, over ​my continuing tirade, to tell me that their boy Angas ​was the most docile, sweetest and obedient lad. Did I ​hear them say Angas? God help me; I had the wrong ​boy in mind.

How could I get out of this? It went something like this: ​“Mr and Mrs Williams, when I said that your son was ​disruptive, I meant it in a most positive way. Never ​content to let something I said pass unchallenged, he ​would suggest I take another look at the subject and ​maybe see the error of my ways. All in the quest for ​authenticity”.

“And when I said that he was insolent, it was more ​about his belief in the righteousness of his argument ​and a way to reinforce his scholarship”.

On and on I went, trying desperately to dig myself out ​of the deep hole I’d dug. At long last, I saw a smile and ​an ease come across the faces of the parents in front of ​me. I had convinced them their son was an angel, a ​model student and one destined for greatness.

This year, I had no problem with the names and faces of ​those Williams boys. For Hamish was possibly the ​rudest, the most insolent, the most disruptive, the most ​...etc...etc...etc...boy, I had ever encountered in one so ​young.

Pity the poor parents of Hamish, for now, I was set on ​revenge. A demolition job. What a brute I could be. I am ​joking. But I did give them the rounds of the kitchen.

I can't remember what fate awaited either lad in their ​The Kings School days. I hope I learned a lesson or two, ​though.

unencumbered

by strings

For days, I had been struggling in the studio with a photograph by Tina Modotti 'Hands of the Puppeteer' 1929. But it ​just would not let me in any way I moved; the result would not add to the original work. So I put it aside.

There was also another photograph by Modotti, 'Louis Bunin ​with Dancing Puppets' 1929. And again, this defeated me. I felt ​close to making a collage, but too often, I could only see a ​fragile result. The Modotti images just wouldn't let me in. So, I ​moved on to other work.

I had recently given a collage work to an artist living just ​around the corner, and she called me to say that she had a ​small gift for me. The gift was two books, one of which was a ​manual about how to make marionettes. Self-published in ​1946, the book gave simple instructions for use in the ​classroom. And so once again I was fired up about those ​Modotti images. But alas, once again, nothing came. ​Frustration. But a determination not to be beaten.

And then yesterday, we were invited into our next-door ​neighbour's place for a cuppa. As I sat drinking my tea, with ​the tea bag still in the cup, I saw the solution to my Modotti ​problem in the tea bag thread. And here it is (below)

Ironically, it was the finding of a photograph of another pair of hands, unencumbered by strings, that I found the room ​to work. So a simple threading of the strings from the tea bags and hey presto, the work was complete. The process is ​what it's all about. And maybe, one day, those Modotti photographs will come back into play. They sit, ready.

'Hands of

the Puppeteer'

'Louis Bunin with

Dancing Puppets'

I couldn't get there

fast enough

I would often go to the Royal Easter Show in Sydney, and visiting the Arts and Crafts pavilion to marvel at the craft ​skills on display was always the top priority.

So, when I received a phone call from a friend saying, "You have been to the Easter Show this year, haven’t you?" I ​wondered why he had said that because I had not been. When questioned further, "Well, there's a knitted nativity scene ​with a red sticker on it, and only one person in Australia would buy that."

Needless to say, I made a quick trip to see said nativity and wished immediately that I had been its buyer. I made a few ​inquiries from the Show Officials and learnt that the nativity had been knitted by Pauline Hall from Cronulla—a quick ​phone call and I arranged to visit Pauline.

When I arrived, Pauline was busy knitting some baby carrots. She was making a birthday card for a keen gardener ​friend, and the carrots would go into the wheelbarrow with other knitted vegetables. Her knitting skills were incredible, ​and I immediately saw an opportunity to free her from the instructions and pattern books she followed.

I was preparing to take a show of young Australian artist's work to New Zealand, so I challenged Pauline to knit me a ​bowl of fruit that could be included in the exhibition.

Undaunted, Pauline said that she would have a go. A couple of weeks later, she telephoned to say it was finished, but ​there was hesitancy in her voice as she told me that the girls in her Craft class had not been impressed.

What I saw that day was a knitted bowl of fruit, bowl, oranges, bananas, grapes, pears.....and an apple with a worm ​emerging from its interior. Amazing. "Don't you worry about those girls at Craft. You have skills that should be ​celebrated." The bowl of fruit was the first work to be sold from the New Zealand exhibition.

I was determined to reveal to Pauline that she had true artistic skills that needed to be celebrated. So I took a deep ​breath and said, "Pauline, I want you to knit me a baked dinner." Pauline blanched, took it on board, and said she ​would have a go, but if she did not feel happy with the final work, she would not show it to me. My parting words were, ​"Don't go near those girls at Craft. Trust your Art."

A couple of weeks later, I received a telephone call from Pauline: "Do you want bread with your baked dinner?" "Of ​course," I said. "What type?" she replied. "Wholemeal," I said. "I knew you would say that." End of conversation.

A couple more weeks, and then another telephone call. "Do you want the candles lit or unlit?" "Lit," I answered. "I knew ​you'd say that. That means I have to knit the wax."

And so, about six weeks after my initial challenge, the call came. "I have finished. You can come and look. But I will ​understand if you don't like it." I couldn't get there fast enough.

What I saw was a Masterpiece. Pure and simple. Set out on her dining room table was the finished artwork. Baked ​dinner, yes: leg of lamb. infused with garlic and rosemary, baked potatoes, pumpkin, parsnips, and sweet potato. Peas ​and beans in a side dish. A gravy boat with gravy. a bottle of mint sauce. Slices of wholemeal bread and individual ​butter pats, it was a triumph.

There were six knitted wine glasses with red wine and a bottle of Grange Hermitage with dribble. And two slender ​candles, lit with wax dribbles. Not content with that, she had knitted six dinner plates, six settings of knives, forks and ​spoons, and serviettes and rings.

I was speechless. All done without a knitting pattern. It would have blown the girls from Craft out of the water.

When I had Pauline’s work set up at home, a friend with connections to the Royal Easter Show suggested that I invite ​the people who run the Arts and Crafts Pavilion to come and see the knitted-baked dinner in situ.

They came to my home and immediately decided to have a special room constructed in the Arts and Crafts Pavilion to ​show the work. So my dining room table and chairs went off as the prop to Pauline's knitted-baked dinner.

Just before the Show opened, an article appeared in the Daily Telegraph with a photo of the Baked Dinner and a few ​words about Pauline. As a result, the Show Authorities had to have a leaflet printed and available at every entrance, as ​there was such a demand to know where show-goers could see the knitted baked dinner.

Pauline would make several visits to the A&C Pavilion that year and quietly stand in the room observing the reactions of ​the crowds to her Masterpiece. I don't know if the girls from Craft ever came to see it. Possibly not. I offered the work to ​The Powerhouse Museum but to no avail. What a loss.

My next challenge was for Pauline to knit the finish of the Melbourne Cup as a wall work. The usual freehand knitting ​preconditions were applied, and the finished piece was a gem. Pauline told me later that she had great difficulty ​syncing the Jockey with the horse's rhythm.

But I had run my race, and Pauline said she wanted to get back to knitting from a pattern and rejoin the girls at Craft. ​But no one could take away the fact that she had shown her true artistic skills, with the knitted baked dinner her ​Masterpiece.

Say hello to the girls at Craft Pauline. Not.

literary thoughts

and observations

It's that time of year when there's every chance you’ll ​receive a book or two. Permit me to comment on two ​books that came my way in 2023. One I loved and one I ​loathed.

Firstly, the fab read: The Bee Sting by Paul Murray. Yey, ​another great writer from Ireland. They have so many ​good writers these days. Then, they always have. Think ​Swift, think Joyce, think Yeats, think Wilde, think ​Heaney, think Banville. That's enough for now, though ​there are plenty more.

The Bee Sting, all 600 pages of it, never for a moment ​caused me to lose focus. I couldn't put it down, and the ​shifts in time and character meant that there were ​constant re-imaginings of events from the novel—and ​the ending...oh, the ending.....a bravura piece of plot and ​writing. Enough said.

Now to the dud, dud, dud. Although it came with loads ​of praise and excitement. The Fraud by Zadie Smith. I ​have to admit that many of her books I have never got ​to finish. And this one was like wading through mud.

The prose is so heavy and convoluted. The plot jumps all ​over the place. It did not take me too long to say no. ​Enough. There are just so many books waiting to be ​read, and I'll not waste my precious time with Zadie ​Smith.

Every morning early, I take Robin for his morning walk. ​We drive towards the city, and I drop him off eight or ​ten blocks from the Post Office, where we meet up ​again for coffee.

I collect the mail while waiting for Robin; of late I have ​been dipping into a volume of letters drawn from all ​sorts of famous and not-so-famous people.

I am reminded that I have long been a fan of the ​collected letters of literary figures in the main. And ​when I have a cull of the bookshelves, there is never a ​chance that a volume of letters will be moved on.

One of my favourite collections is the letters of Patrick ​White, who said of letters, "Letters are the devil, and I ​always hope that any I have written have been ​destroyed."

Some folk followed that instruction, but fortunately, ​hundreds did not, and we have a treasure trove of ​White's thoughts on so many topics.

Among the many such collections, I treasure the letters ​of James Joyce, Philip Larkin, and Hugh Trevor-Roper's ​letters to Bernard Berenson, Sylvia Plath, Vincent van ​Gogh and Rainer Maria Rilke.

With email replacing the letter in so many instances, I ​fear that, in a few years' time, a volume of letters will ​be a red-letter day for those of us who love the intimacy ​and the confidence they so often display.

Let me finish with a letter I came across while waiting ​for Robin this morning. It was written by Sir Archibald ​Clerk Kerr to Lord Pembroke in the Foreign Office, UK, in ​1943.

My dear Reggie,

In these dark days, man tends to look for little shafts of ​light that spill from Heaven. My days are probably ​darker than yours, and I need, my God, I do, all the light ​I can get. But I am a decent fellow, and I do not wish to ​be mean and selfish about what little brightness is shed ​upon me from time to time.

So, I propose to share with you a tiny flash that has ​illuminated my sombre life and tell you that God has ​given me a new Turkish colleague whose card tells me ​that he is called Mustapha Kunt.

We all feel like that, Reggie, now and then, especially ​when Spring is upon us, but few of us would care to put ​it on our cards. It takes a Turk to do that.

Archibald.

(That letter is in Letters of Note, compiled by Shaun ​Usher. In reviewing the collection, Stephen Fry wrote, ​"This stupendous compendium of letters ancient and ​modern is my book of the year. You will never tire of ​it." And as Mrs. Slocombe from Are You Being Served ​would opine, "I am unanimous in that.")

meeting Les & Milly Paris

The road to Les and Milly Paris' home in Wellington, ​New Zealand, began with my buying a Jeff Thomson ​sculpture at the Ray Hughes Gallery in Surry Hills, ​Sydney, in the late 1980s. Before that day, I had never ​seen Jeff's work in the flesh, and this day, the colours in ​the iron sang to me, and I kept being drawn back to ​look closely at the large sculptural head made of many ​layers of iron.

What shone through was the sense of character, and I ​knew I had to make a purchase. The next day, I met the ​artist, and I could see immediately that the head was a ​self-portrait—a case of knowing the man before I met ​him.

An immediate friendship developed, and before long, ​Jeff had invited me to visit him in Auckland. He ​suggested he would take me on a tour of the North ​Island in his Holden car, which he had clad in ​corrugated iron. How could I refuse? For the occasion, ​Jeff had fashioned a map of Australia out of a wire ​coat-hanger to function as the car aerial, even including ​the map of Tasmania. (The car is now in Te Papa, The ​Museum & Art Gallery of New Zealand.)

Jeff introduced me to so many of his artist friends on ​that trip; we had a wonderful time. And in the true ​biblical sense of the word, we left the best wine until ​last.

Our final stop was to have morning tea with Les and ​Milly Paris in Wellington. Jeff had told me a little of his ​relationship with Les and Milly, but he said that he ​wanted me to experience something so special and that ​he didn't want to spoil the surprise.

I knew Les and Milly had been collecting New Zealand ​art for many years, which was about the sum total of ​my knowledge of the couple.

We turned into Bentinck Street, and Jeff said, "Do you ​see anything out of the ordinary?" "No," I said. I saw a ​street with almost identical-styled houses. "Wait a ​minute,” I said. “There's one house that's been ​elevated." Then, Jeff told me, "That's Les and Milly's. ​They filled the house with art, and needing more room, ​they jacked it up and created a gallery space ​underneath, which they have also filled with art." ​Amazing. I was so excited to be here.

Ring. Ring...

The door opened, and there stood Les and Milly. Joined ​at the hip. A couple totally in sync."Come in. Come in." It ​was hard to focus. Wanting to show respect for our ​hosts, but at the same time, my eye was darting hither ​and thither as the vestibule was floor to ceiling hung ​with art. And front and centre, a large double-headed ​cow. (Joanna Bratitwaite. The artist, not the cow!) And a ​wall of photos of Neenish Tarts (Peter Peryer). ​And....and...and...

I had been ushered into what turned out to be one of ​the country's most comprehensive collections of New ​Zealand art.

On this and subsequent visits, I was to learn about the ​collection, the artist's encounters with Les and Milly, and ​so much of the history held in that home. But on that ​first day, it was a matter of trying to get my eyes to ​focus long enough on what were masterpieces of New ​Zealand art.

I remember my first encounters with the work of the ​following: Joanna Braithwaite, Peter Peryer, John Johns, ​Don Driver, Colin McCahon, Toss Wollaston, Richard ​Killeen, Gordon Walters, Tony Fomison, Pat Hanly, ​Michael Smither, Jeffrey Harris, Philip Clairmont, Ralph ​Hotere. Not a bad list, eh?

I had arrived in New Zealand with very little knowledge ​of the art of the past 50 years. And now I was leaving ​totally immersed in art and knowing that my next job ​was to educate myself for the initial response was that ​here was work that was speaking to me. From that day ​forth I always thought of Les and Milly as my New ​Zealand art parents.

Jeff had been particularly quiet. For the reason that I ​was soon to find out. As we were leaving hours later, ​cups of tea, lunch, stories, art in cupboards, on every ​surface, in every nook and cranny, Milly gave Jeff a wink ​and, turning to me, said, "Peter, what do you think of ​my curtains?"

Now, I was well brought up never to comment on what ​people had in their homes, and certainly not the ​curtains. I looked at the curtains framing the bay ​window overlooking the street. "Lovely," I said. "Yes," ​said Milly, "We have spent all our money on art now we ​have to make do with a bit of old corrugated iron for ​the curtains."

What was she talking about? Has she lost the plot all of ​a sudden? "Touch them." And like Thomas plunging his ​finger into the wound of Christ, I touched the curtain. ​"Bloody heck. They’re iron." For I was looking at Jeff's ​masterpiece. Once seen, never forgotten.

When Milly moved to Sydney after the death of Les to be ​near her son Zalman and his family, the curtains came ​with her. And today they hang in her room in her ​residential care home. The great news is that Milly is ​well into a massive writing project about her life history ​and her life in art.

There was a massive auction of the collection before ​Milly left for Australia, and it broke all records. Well, not ​everything was sold. Milly has walls to fill, and fill them ​she has. And, as I said, the curtains hang in pride of ​place, framing Milly's view out into the world.

Les & Milly Paris Auction PDF

dining with

Margaret OlleY

I was the +1 accompanying Ann Lewis to Margaret ​Olley's home for dinner. It was the night before ​Australia Day, and at 7 pm, the temperature was still 32 ​Celsius having been over 40 degrees earlier in the day.

Inside Margaret's home, it was like a blast furnace. It ​felt like windows had not been opened in years, and ​everywhere, there were still life tableaus in various ​stages of decomposition.

The centrepiece on the dining table was a bowl of ​rotting pears. And everywhere there was stuff ​...paintings, fine furniture, rugs, ceramics, object d'art, ​sculptures: it was a veritable Aladdin's Cave.

The one essential that seemed to be missing was air. ​However, in her domain, Margaret moved naturally and ​was quite the gracious hostess.

We numbered 10: Ann Lewis, +1, Roy and Betty ​Churcher, Peter and Nancy Underhill and their adult son ​John. (I forget who the other guests were.)

This will play out later, but Ann Lewis took a bottle of ​champagne. I thought this odd, as Ann would normally ​have a more personal gift for the host.

I took a large bouquet of Proteas freshly picked from my ​garden in the Blue Mountains. It was a welcome gift, ​and Margaret dropped everything to get them into a ​vase and, no doubt, to think about a painting.

The evening was full of lively conversation, and I was, ​for once, content to sit back and just listen. As often is ​the case, a knife-sharp silence punctuated a sudden ​cacophony, and at that moment, John was heard to ask: ​"Mum, can you get AIDS from a sheep?".

Alas, a back story was not provided as Nancy rapidly ​changed the subject. (It remains one of the great lines ​from any dinner party conversation I have heard.) Ann ​and I left at about 1 am. The champagne was never ​opened.

I stayed over at Ann's and came down to breakfast early ​the next morning. The phone at Ann's was ringing off ​the hook. Call after call after call. I knew Ann had an ​extraordinarily large number of friends, but this was ​something else.

In a lull, Ann asked me if I realised it was Australia Day. ​“Yes.” And that means Honours are announced. "Yes," I ​said, "I'm not interested. They go for the most part to ​people who are only doing their job and being paid ​handsomely, or else to crooks and thieves and ne'er do ​wells."

Ann handed me the morning paper and said to look ​down the list. And there, high up, was the name Ann ​Lewis for extraordinary generosity in the arts. I wanted ​the floor to open up.

Ann had been told she would receive the honour, and ​she assumed I had been responsible for putting her ​name forward and arranging the list of supporters. Not ​so.

Now I realised that the unopened bottle of champagne ​was there for me to open and toast Ann as midnight ​struck. We laughed and laughed at our absurd situation. ​Ann continued to do mighty things for the visual arts ​community after receiving her Order of Australia so ​rightly deserved.

And two footnotes to this: years later, at a reception at ​Government House in New Zealand, Ann and I were ​waiting in line to be introduced to the Governor General. ​Ann was wearing her Order of Australia medal. My chest ​was bare. A lady standing in the line said to me, "You ​are so kind to let your wife wear your medals." I ​hastened to put her straight.

Years later, Ann and I were at the theatre, and Margaret ​Olley was sitting in the row in front of us. I had not ​seen nor spoken to Margaret since that evening in her ​blast furnace.

Ann said good evening and went to introduce me. Said ​Margaret, "No need. How could I ever forget the man ​who brought me such a beautiful bunch of Proteas."

Amazing...

Lola Ryan

Her Life - Her Art

Meeting Lola

The events leading up to my meeting with a new artist ​are many and various. My first encounter with the artist ​Lola Ryan came when I was at a dinner party and ​noticed that my host had a small display of little boxes ​and baby doll shoes. They had been carefully covered ​with fabric and decorated with tiny shells and a sprinkle ​of glitter. Sweet.

More out of politeness, I asked about the works and ​learned that they had been made by Lola Ryan, an ​Aboriginal woman living and working at La Perouse, ​Sydney.

Lola had given some classes in shelling at the ​Powerhouse Museum, and I was told she often showed ​work on a Sunday, sitting on a blanket near where the ​Snake Man of La Perouse gave his demonstrations.

But my host, who had a part-time position at the ​Powerhouse, gave me Lola's details, and I decided to ​make contact to see what other works she might have.

I telephoned Lola, and she invited me to visit her any ​day, any time. I soon found her suburban home.

The front door was wide open. Knock. Knock. There was ​no answer, though it was obvious that people were in ​the house. Knock. Knock. Knock. Louder this time and a ​call "Lola".

Lola came into the hallway and called out, "Come in. ​Come in." I later learned that the door was always open, ​and one just entered.

Lola lived in the house with one of her daughters and a ​grandchild. I introduced myself and asked Lola if I could ​see some of her shell work. She disappeared into her ​bedroom and returned, dragging two hessian bags full ​of stuff all wrapped in newspaper.

She started to unwrap the various works. There were ​the tiny shoes and decorative boxes, sailboats and ​boomerangs, and the Sydney Harbour Bridges.

The bridges immediately won my heart. While they were ​all roughly the same size (a small shoe-box in size and ​volume), they each had a special magic, and not one ​was the same.

I knew immediately that I was looking at something ​pretty special. I had to hear her story. I had already ​decided that if Lola were willing, I would organise an ​exhibition of the works. I was told by Lola that there ​were plenty more in the cupboard.

A Bit of Back Story

Shelling was a craft taught to the Aboriginal girls by the ​nuns. The main objects to be shelled were crucifixes for ​decorating graves. The shells could be sourced from the ​beaches at La Perouse and other Sydney beaches.

Lola's bridges were made from a template that her ​father had made, which she used for all of her shelling ​life.

The beauty of Lola's bridges was found in the slight ​variation she hand-made as she cut out the cardboard, ​lined it with fabric, and then shelled the surface. Her ​signature was the glitter that she sprinkled lightly over ​her finished work.

Lola would sit on her blanket on the weekend at the ​Snake Man's Show pit and hope to have a few sales. At ​Easter time, she would sit outside the entrance to the ​Sydney Show Ground and display her works.

I gathered that sales were never brisk, but Lola was not ​deterred. She had given some demonstrations at the ​Powerhouse in Sydney, but little came from that, so Lola ​felt she was at the dying end of a long tradition of shell ​work. I was determined to bring her work to a larger ​audience.

Lola’s first Show

I approached Gitte Weise at her Paddington Gallery to ​discuss my proposal. Gitte was on board straight away. ​A date was set, and I had no problem in getting Lola to ​make the work.

I had suggested that one of the gallery walls would be a ​showing of about 40 bridges. Arranged in a grid-like ​pattern, I knew it would cause a sensation.

We soon had a problem. Lola was running out of the ​required shells, and her local beaches were bereft of ​shells. Days went by, and still no shells to be found.

I was starting to panic. Lola was calm and said we ​would find the shells. She rang me to say that she had ​been talking to a lady at a funeral and was reliably ​informed that a beach on New South Wales's south ​coast was deep in shells.

"Right," I said, “let's head down there tomorrow." ​"What's the name of the beach?" I asked "I don't know, ​but there is a tree and a track nearby." said Lola, and ​with those essential directional clues, we set out.

We drove for hours, stopping off along the way, but the ​beaches were without shells. We pushed on, and I had ​visions of Melbourne looming on the horizon.

Nearing Bega, Lola cried, “There's the tree and the ​track." There was a steep dune between us and the ​beach, and when we climbed it, we found a beach ​ankle-deep in shells.

Bags, buckets, and boxes were filled, and I knew our ​exhibition was done and dusted. It only required Lola to ​shell like crazy.

She did, and to wild enthusiasm, she had a sell-out ​show. Galleries and Museums were buying, and the ​public just couldn't get enough of Lola's work.

Anne Loxley wrote a wonderful review of the exhibition ​in the Sydney Morning Herald. Under the headline,-​Tradition comes out of its shell, and it's a glittering ​creation - she wrote: "The gallery is ablaze with ​colourful, sparkling objects and wall pieces. There are ​sculptural Sydney Harbour Bridges, miniature shoes and ​heart-shaped boxes, kookaburras, and boomerangs. ​Welcome to the work of shell artist Lola Ryan. While ​this is an exhibition of multiples, each piece is ​gloriously unique."

After that show, I pointed out to Lola that she could go ​on making bridges until kingdom come, but I wanted to ​issue her with a challenge to think of how the shells ​could speak in their own way.

Just shells laid out in grids, and they could work their ​magic with the advent of paint. She took a short ​moment to think, then said, "Yes, Gubber, you're right. ​Let's get to work."

So, a collaboration was born. I cut the plywood 'tiles', ​and Lola embarked on a project to represent the birds of ​Australia. I researched maps drawn before the white ​settlement/invasion, cut them out of plywood, and Lola ​shelled their surfaces. The earliest map is Arab from ​about 900 AD. The National Maritime Museum bought ​all five of the maps.

Sadly, Lola was not well, and her health deteriorated ​quickly. At her passing, the bird project remained ​unfinished, but she showed that such a project held ​seeds of magic and that she held her creativity and ​work ethic right up to the end of her life.

Bless her, for she was a great friend and a grand lady ​who worked with her shells to create worlds of beauty.

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