Blog:

This narrative isn't meant to follow a strict format; ​instead, it's an unbridled exploration of my personal ​reflections and encounters. My initial engagement with ​Tasmania was somewhat inauspicious. In primary school, ​in an attempt to sketch Australia by hand, my focus on ​accurately rendering the mainland, I inadvertently left ​Tasmania out. This oversight was a testament to my lack of ​connection with this island.

Tasmania drifted back into my consciousness during an ​educational assignment on Australian industries. I stumbled ​upon the fact that Hobart was home to the Cadbury Chocolate ​Factory, and that serendipitous discovery led me to delve into ​the world of chocolate manufacturing for my project. For a ​brief period, Cadbury's presence in Tasmania loomed large in ​my mind until environmental activism took centre stage. The ​fight to protect the Franklin River galvanised my attention, ​symbolised by the defiant 'NO DAMS' slogan I scribbled on my ​ballot paper.

As time progressed, the cultural landscape shifted with the ​coming of the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA) in ​Tasmania. This institution reshaped my perception of the ​island as a hub of contemporary art. All the while, the iconic ​Tasmanian Devils and perhaps the mythical Tasmanian Tigers, ​along with the rugged wilderness and the prestigious Sydney-​Hobart Yacht Race, played a subtle, continuous tune in the ​background of my awareness.

However, it was a pivotal moment of personal reflection on a ​beach along Tasmania's east coast that crystallised my ​connection to the island. The untouched sand, the crystal ​waters, the mountains standing sentinel in the distance, and ​the sun melting into the horizon spoke to me. That experience, ​that moment of clarity amidst such natural splendour, was ​decisive. The decision to relocate was as clear as the waters ​before us. In less than a year, we made the profound leap, and ​Hobart became more than a place—it became our home.

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Off to

Tasmania

Upon arriving in Devonport, we immediately ​drove to Hobart for an appointment with a real ​estate agent to find a short-term furnished ​rental.

Surprisingly, all the properties they showed us ​were unfurnished, which was not suitable ​since our belongings were in storage.

Fortunately, after a plea, the owner allowed us ​to stay with our cocker spaniel, Milly. We ​nicknamed our small but clean rental 'the cell', ​and it spurred our search for the perfect ​Tasmanian home.

Finally, we discovered our dream house at ​Pottery Road in Lenah Valley. Unfazed by its ​tenancy agreement, we explored Tasmania ​while waiting to move in. Tasmania proved to ​be very dog-friendly, offering memorable ​experiences for us with Milly.

After finding no furnished options in Hobart, ​we learned about an organisation named Rock ​in North Hobart. They had one furnished ​property available but with a strict no-dogs ​policy.

That January, we settled into our new home, ​which had a bare backyard. Over the next 11 ​years, I transformed it into a garden that now ​draws admiration from friends and visitors ​alike.

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Greatest Tassie Shames:

• The destruction of the waterways by the ​Salmon Industry
  
• The constant logging threat of old-​growth native forests
  
• The state of our public schools and ​public hospitals
  
• There is a high rate of illiteracy in the ​Tassie population.
  
• The death of public housing.
• The moves at the State Govt level to ​build an AFL Football Stadium.
  

Tassie Heroes:

• Bob Brown
  
• Jacqui Lambie
  
• Grace Tame
  
• Andrew Wilkie
  
• Richard Flanagan
  

Living in Tasmania is a true joy, with the fresh ​air and stunning scenery. The Island boasts an ​extraordinary diversity of flora and fauna that ​will take your breath away.

Stay tuned for my next ramble, where I'll delve ​more into Tassie's amazing features.

et tu Brute.

In an examination paper question, the students were ​asked to comment on the significance of Caesar's words ​"et tu Brute" uttered when he saw that Brutus was ​approaching with a dagger drawn to stab his one-time ​friend.

A student wrote that Caesar was so surprised when he ​saw what Brutus was about to do to him he lapsed into ​Latin.

Teaching & Travel

After completing my B.A., Dip.Ed., on a teacher's ​scholarship, it meant that I was beholden to the ​NSW Dept Education for a first placement. I spent ​nervous days waiting for the telegram that would ​tell me where I was to be sent. Being a first-year ​teacher, I was expecting some distant posting in ​outback NSW.

I could not believe it when I read that I was to be ​placed at Fort Street Boys' High, one of the best ​public schools in the country. It boasts a who's who ​of alumni, and it has deep traditions of scholarship. ​It turned out to be a wonderful experience for me as ​a young teacher.

The boys were, for the most part, keen to work hard ​and to appreciate our efforts to make the classroom ​a fun place. And the staff boasted some of the ​finest teachers I have ever taught with. Several ​remain dear friends to this day.

But I was ever anxious to get away and to explore ​the world. And so, after two years at Fort Street, I ​was off and away. To a Librarian's post in a school ​in Taber, Alberta, Canada. I had done a bit of ​document forgery to give myself some library ​qualifications.

When I arrived in Taber in January 1968, it was 45 ​degrees F BELOW. It had been 101 degrees when I ​flew out of Sydney. I knew immediately why I got ​the job.

It turned out to be a large regional school where ​most of the students were bussed to school. The ​rule was that if the recorded temp at Moose Jaw (I ​kid you not) was below minus 40, then the busses ​were not able to run, and school would be closed for ​the day.

I can't tell you the number of days Moose Jaw ​recorded minus 39, which meant I had to shovel my ​pathway and walk to school. I managed to get ​frostbitten on my lungs and fall over many times on ​the ice.

And suddenly, Spring came, and I knew that I had to ​find a new school. One interesting thing about the ​Taber School was that a majority of the staff were ​Americans who were escaping the draft for the ​Vietnam War. There were more PhDs on the staff at ​this rural high school than in most University ​faculties.

I was appointed to a position at The University ​School in Victoria, British Columbia. A wonderful ​school, but I knew that my flight from Sydney was ​always taking me to England. After a year at the ​University School, I headed for England....the home ​of Chaucer and Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Dickens ​and Larkin, Graham Greene, and so many more. ​These were my heroes, and I wanted to tread where ​they trod, breathe the air and see where they lived ​and worked.

And then there was the theatre in London. I was in ​heaven and remained so for the next five years.

It All Fell On

Deaf Ears

I came across a hilarious scene in the Prado in ​Madrid. It involved a coachload of Japanese ​businessmen and a Museum guard. The guards ​in those days were always seeking to prevent ​photography, especially the use of a flash.

You can imagine the guard's concern, becoming ​angrier as the Japanese men formed a neat, ​straight line in front of the nude figure and, one ​by one, stood beside it, handed his camera to ​the next in line, who snapped, handed the ​camera back as the next man stepped forward.

Now come with me to the room in the Prado ​where Goya's two Maja figures, one clothed and ​the other nude, hang side by side.

I estimate there were 20 men in the party. By ​about the third snap, the guard was becoming ​apoplectic, screaming at the top of his voice for ​the men to cease and desist.

It all fell on deaf ears. Each and every one of the ​men got their photo taken, their head lined up ​nicely with the exposed 'rude bits' of the Maya. ​No one paid any attention to the clothed figure.

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a bon mot and a ​not so bon mot

Headmaster Kurrle, in a staff meeting, was ​bemoaning the fact that several old boys who ​had studied law were finding it hard to get ​positions in law firms and had resorted to ​driving taxis for a living. Quick as a flash, ​Rodney Bevan quipped that the old boys were ​“engaged in conveyancing.”

On another occasion, Headmaster Kurrle called ​the staff together so that the Librarian could ​outline the changes that were being made in the ​library with the introduction of a computer-​based catalogue system.

The Librarian gave a detailed and comprehensive ​outline of the changes and how we could best ​work with the new system. When she had ​concluded, Headmaster Kurrle turned to the staff ​and said, "Well, gentlemen, you've heard it ​straight from the horse's mouth."

Exit Librarian in tears.

mastering the art of

argument?

A structured debate was organised for the lads in ​their second form year of high school (ages about ​13-14) to sharpen their arguing skills.

They could be discussing the pros and cons of various ​school-related policies like uniforms, hairstyles, or even ​the contentious issue of corporal punishment.

The objective was to master the art of presenting and ​countering arguments. After the initial presentations, it ​was time for the second proponent to take the floor, but ​he was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming ​nervousness and couldn't speak.

As the tense silence stretched on, one young audience ​member offered reassurance and assistance; "Don't ​worry, Sir, I'll write him a speech." He eagerly began then ​and there to pen a speech that promised to rival the ​Gettysburg Address.

My Part in

Julius Caesar

In our final years of high school, it was tradition that ​the Leaving Certificate class present, at Speech Night ​in the Sydney Town Hall, a scene from a ​Shakespearian play. The boys in the 4th Form would ​play crowd members if required.

Back in 1958, during my time in the fourth form, the ​senior class was rehearsing a scene from Julius ​Caesar - specifically, Mark Antony's oration over ​Caesar's body. As part of a crowd scene, we were ​instructed to bring a sheet that would serve as our ​toga. The director, Brother, made this request.

So I told Mum that I needed a sheet. Mum decided ​that the sheets in the house were old and patched, so, ​dipping into the household money, we set off to buy a ​brand new sheet.

The Fay lad would be a standout in a brand-new ​sheet. This was the time when colourful sheets were ​starting to come into fashion, and I persuaded Mum ​that a nice pink one would do the trick.

I lied through my teeth that Brother wanted colour ​and movement from the crowd. So come the night, in ​a sea of Persil white sheets, I was the only one not in ​white.

At the gathering, my parents sat in front of a group ​of folks who whispered, "Can you believe they don't ​have a white sheet?" Little did they know, their snarky ​comment fueled my acting dreams, and I landed the ​role of Macbeth the following year.

When I Moved

to the Shack

I can honestly say that I enjoyed every day I spent ​being a teacher of English....in Australia, Canada, ​England and the USA.

I was working only part-time because I had ​moved to Kurrajong Heights in the Blue ​Mountains west of Sydney, where I was living and ​growing flowers. In 1975, I was introduced to ​Merle (Micky) Blunden, and that was to signal a ​change so profound when it came to fruition ten ​years later.

My good friends, The Milne family, John and Enid, ​had moved from Dural to Bilpin, and Enid had ​met Micky at a garden club event in Bilpin. When ​she visited Micky some weeks later, she realised ​that there was an elderly woman living alone on ​a property of some 20 acres.

The landscape was moving in on her, and she ​was desperate to have some help with the ​garden. Enid knew that I was living in very ​cramped quarters at The King's School and that I ​had helped out with the gardening when they ​were in Dural.

So she volunteered my services to Micky, and it ​was thus that I arrived on the doorstep of her ​shack (no running water, no power, no nothing). ​But it was paradise, and I fell in love with the ​place and with Micky right there on day one.

On that first day, I did no gardening. We just sat ​and talked. It was as if I had known her all my ​life. She told me stories of her life with Norman ​Lindsay, William Dobell, Douglas Stewart, Walter ​Pidgeon, and Margaret Coen, and I was able to fill ​in some of the details of the Sydney literary and ​art scene.

Micky had lived a solitary life since the Second ​World War when her husband remained in France ​with another woman. Micky was a true artist who ​painted and sculpted and wove and lived as one ​with nature.

And so it was to this property that I went every ​available moment for the next ten years until I ​resigned from The King's School when I moved ​into the shack with Mick and so began my life ​growing flowers, building a home and starting ​the life of an artist.

Finding Ann

It's not every time that a visit to the dentist can ​change your life, but for me, one such visit did.

I had forgotten to take a book to read while waiting ​for my appointment, so I had to do a deep dive into ​the piles of magazines on offer: Reader's Digest, ​Home Beautiful, Vogue, New Idea, Women's Weekly, ​House and Garden to name but a few. And in one of ​them, I came across an article on a home and ​collection in Sydney: the home of Ann Lewis.

The article highlighted the art that Ann had collected ​and displayed in her home. It was an extraordinarily ​diverse collection of paintings, sculptures, textiles and ​photographs, even having a painting covering the ​ceiling of her dining room. I then realised that I knew ​this lady.....I was teaching her son.

So I rang Ann and asked if I could come to her home ​to view her collection.

She invited me to join her for morning tea, and so ​began a friendship and an adventure in the art world ​that was to last for the next 20 years.

Ann opened so many doors for me, and she sowed the ​idea that a life in art was possible. And all that from ​a magazine in a dentist's waiting room.

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I Was Transfixed ​by the Paint.

Until I returned from England in late 1974, my ​experiences in the art world were limited to ​visiting art galleries and museums in London ​very much as a tourist.

There would be some scandal about how much ​The Tate had paid for what the press called a ​'load of bricks' or a painting that looked like a ​page from a comic book, and so I would hop ​along to see what the fuss was all about.

At this stage, my first love was the Theatre, ​and I was living in London, or near to it, when ​the British theatre was at its zenith....Royal ​Shakespeare Company.

The Old Vic, The National Theatre, the West ​End... Pinter, Stoppard, Beckett, Shaffer, ​Bond,... Maggie Smith, Judy Dench, Lawrence ​Oliver, John Gielgud, Ralph Richardson, Peter ​O’Toole, Richard Burton....on and on and on. ​And so I was living in heaven.

When I returned to Sydney in 1974, a friend ​asked if I would take him in my car to a ​gallery in Paddington where he was to pick up ​a painting he had bought.

While he was conducting his business in the ​office, I wandered through the gallery and ​came across a painting by John Perceval, 'Swy ​Game'. I was transfixed by the paint. My life in ​looking at art, collecting and making art had ​begun.

In the shadow of the great and glorious Mt. ​Wellington, also known as Kunanyi, our home is a ​constant battleground where we guard our garden ​against a host of wild creatures capable of ​devastating our carefully nurtured plants in a blink.

Among the culprits are the feral chickens, not to be ​mistaken with Tasmania's cherished native species, ​which are commonly referred to as 'turbo chooks'. ​These feral chickens, thanks to Tasmania's ​fortunate lack of foxes, find sanctuary in the dense ​gullies and untamed wilderness, thriving without ​any natural foes to keep their numbers in check.

Then there are the rabbits, infamous for their ​reproductive prowess and the havoc they can wreak ​on a garden.

They're a well-known nuisance, capable of turning ​a verdant paradise into a desolate landscape if left ​unchecked. But overshadowing their destructive ​capabilities is the paddy melon wallaby, an ​adorable menace.

Despite their charming facade, these creatures ​have a particular penchant for decimating rose ​bushes and other prized plants, leaving a trail of ​botanical carnage in their wake.

To protect our cherished garden, we've erected a ​sturdy fence, creating a sanctuary where our ​flowers can bloom in peace, safe from the jaws of ​these garden marauders. Interestingly enough, ​while our defences keep out the aforementioned ​invaders, we've somehow been spared the attention ​of possums.

These creatures, often seen as unfortunate victims ​on the roads in our vicinity, have left our garden ​oasis untouched for reasons unknown to us. It's a ​curious anomaly in an area where wildlife ​encounters are as common as the changing ​seasons.

Back in my younger days, I recall the excitement that ​coursed through me as I prepared for my first visit to ​Berlin. My friends raved about the city's cultural ​jewels, particularly urging me to see the Pergamon ​Altar—a marvel not to be overlooked.

In Berlin, my days were a whirlwind of cultural ​immersion as I soaked in the splendour of its many ​galleries and museums. Alas, on my final day, it ​dawned on me that the Pergamon Altar had eluded ​my gaze. With time scarce, I hastened to the ​Pergamon Museum, allotting a mere few hours to ​explore its vast corridors.

Now, I must confess, my upbringing amidst the rituals ​of the Catholic Church had shaped a certain ​expectation of what an 'altar' should be, having beheld ​countless such altars. Yet there, amidst my frenzied ​search from chamber to chamber, not a trace of the ​altar I anticipated could be found. The Ishtar Gate ​stood proudly; Babylonian relics abounded; the aura of ​Nebuchadnezzar permeated the air—yet the altar ​remained elusive.

With time against me, I sought the assistance of a ​guard. Our exchange unfolded:

I asked, "Could you kindly point me towards the ​Pergamon Altar?"

"It's right here," the guard affirmed.

"Yes, I understand, but where precisely?" I pressed, still ​confined by my own imaginings of an altar.

"It's all around you," he replied.

And there, in the heart of that grand space, my eyes ​were finally drawn to a sign that revealed the truth: ​the magnificent expanse before me, with its towering ​marble edifices, was indeed the altar. At that moment, ​it became clear that I had not been burdened with a ​too-classical education.

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My artistic practice is anchored in the art ​of collage, which often serves as a ​foundation for further creativity. This ​process may include the addition of ​painting or drawing, as well as the ​incorporation of various textured ​materials to create a multi-dimensional ​surface.

Faces are a recurrent theme in my work, ​where I delve deeply into the essence of ​the individual to bring forth their unique ​character and spirit through my ​portraits.

The vast and varied Australian terrain ​frequently provides the backdrop for my ​pieces. Against this natural canvas, I ​infuse a touch of the surreal, challenging ​and engaging the viewer's perception ​and interaction with the art.

Humour is a vital component of my ​artistic expression. I enjoy infusing my ​work with subtle sarcasm that can elicit ​a spectrum of reactions in order to ​induce that wry smile or, at times, a ​deep belly laugh. I take particular delight ​in reimagining classic masterpieces with ​a contemporary twist, a process that is ​as fun and entertaining as it is ​rewarding.