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Book 9 – Exhibitions 2

Men at Work | Setbacks Shattered Dreams

After the warm reception to the In Praise of Australian Women exhibition, I knew I could spread my wings and fly.

To balance the ledger, I turned my attention to pioneering men and the difficult, and often dangerous work they did. So, Men at Work was conceived.

And, staying with the pioneering spirit, the trials and tribulations of living on the land is showcased – the resulting exhibition – Setback Shattered Dreams.

Chapter 87: And the show goes on

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Chapter 88:  
MEN AT WORK
Timber-getters

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Chapter 89:  
MEN AT WORK
Drovers

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Chapter 90:  
MEN AT WORK
Fettlers

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Chapter 91:  
SETBACKS - SHATTERED DREAMS
Prickly Pear

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Chapter 92:  
SETBACKS - SHATTERED DREAMS
Bushfire

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Chapter 93:  
SETBACKS - SHATTERED DREAMS
Drought

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Chapter 94:  
SETBACKS - SHATTERED DREAMS
Flood

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Chapter 95:  
SETBACKS - SHATTERED DREAMS
Rabbits

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Chapter 96:  
SETBACKS - SHATTERED DREAMS
Renewal

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 106: Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history

In 2003 I visited both the United Kingdom and the United States of America on a Churchill Fellowship. The purpose of the journey was to meet other artists working in similar ways.

Whilst I was travelling, I used a small Dictaphone to detail my daily activities. Keeping a record of my doings over the twelve-week adventure was necessary for a final report, to be written and lodged with the Churchill Trust, not later than ten weeks after I returned. 

With the report out of the way, I was now ready to embark on the most confronting subject matter I’d tackled in any one of my seven thematic touring exhibitions to date.

The Subject:

I planned to describe the shocking event that took place on the 10th June 1838 at Myall Creek Station, near Bingara in northern New South Wales.

Map showing Myall Creek Station in northeastern New South Wales
Image: Weebly

I was well aware of this massacre, and had previously considered making a series of artworks, using drawings and text, to describe the events leading up to, and the aftermath of, this dark moment in Australian colonial history – one of many, as the early waves of British colonists fanned out to take First Nations lands for grazing their cattle and sheep.

My awareness was the result of my friendship with a former Findhorn Foundation member and academic, who, in 1998, had left Scotland to live in Bingara, not far from the massacre site.

She quickly became involved with the newly-formed Myall Creek Memorial Committee. The Committee’s plan was to erect a permanent memorial of the massacre, not far from the Myall Creek Station homestead complex, on the Bingara-Delungra Road.

The memorial, a huge three-metre-high wedge of granite, with a simple brass plaque, was unveiled on 10th June 2000, 162 years to the day since the massacre. I was fortunate to attend the gathering which began with a traditional smoking ceremony, conducted by the Gomeroi custodians, near the two basalt rocks, that marked the entrance to the site.

Smoking ceremony
Image: Living Culture

After being smoked, we slowly walked the serpentine granite path leading to the memorial rock. The path was flanked at intervals by seven etched plaques describing the events that led up to the murderous rampage that took place that day in 1838, and what came after.

The plaques were made by Dharawal artist Colin Isaacs, based in nearby Inverell, who told the story in both Gomeroi and English.

Myall Creek Memorial plaque—one of seven by Dharawal artist Colin set into granite boulders
along the path that leads to the memorial stone
Image: Tripadvisor

Myall Creek Memorial plaque—one of seven by Dharawal artist Colin set into granite boulders along the path that leads to the memorial stone
Image: Tripadvisor

The Myall Creek Memorial at Bingara northern New South Wales
Image: National Museum of Australia

The first gathering was attended by the descendants of both the massacre victims and the perpetrators. This gathering was a tangible act of reconciliation, driven by both Gomeroi and non-indigenous individuals, determined to commemorate the horrific events of the 10th June 1838; the repercussions of which linger to this day.

I returned to Toowoomba with my mind buzzing. The question was, how best to use textiles to tell this story?

But before I could begin, I needed to check with Gomeroi friends to see if it was appropriate for me, a first-generation Australian, with no connection to either the victims, the perpetrators or the land, to make art about the murder of their people; one man and 27 women and children, in a premeditated attack.

But my plan was cut short, because my focus shifted to the Churchill Fellowship application.

To my amazement, in mid-2002, I was awarded a Fellowship, after which planning the trip took up every skerrick of my time and energy. As a result, the Myall Creek massacre project was shelved.

After touring the United Kingdom and the United States of America as a minor celebrity, I returned to Toowoomba in August 2003.

I was even more determined to pick up where I left off with the Myall Creek massacre project, spurred on by the overwhelming response my work had received overseas.

I’d been back in Toowoomba for about a month when, one sunny afternoon I found myself driving a Gomeroi friend from A to B. As we drove, she raised the topic of the massacre project; insisting I continue with it. When I realised I’d been given the green light, my heart leapt. An honour I hoped I could live up to.

Yes, I was super-excited to receive my friend’s blessing on behalf of her mob and, to be absolutely sure, I also wanted the blessing of the Myall Creek Memorial Committee. The convenor at the time suggested I send each committee member a set of the proposed panels, and, to my delight, I received their unanimous support. What a relief!

I also sought on-the-ground cultural support from yet another Gomeroi friend. I did this because I realise how easy it is to be wrong-footed when tottering around in someone else’s culture. She and her mother were prepared to watch my back. As a result, I began to feel more comfortable and therefore more confident.

Next, I needed a venue.

I approached the gallery closest to the memorial site, the Inverell Art Gallery. The upshot – I was invited to launch the exhibition on Friday, the 11th of June 2004, the evening before the annual gathering at the memorial. Now with a booking and a firm deadline, the research phase began in earnest.

I read everything I could find.

In 1838 Myall Creek Station was owned by Henry Dangar, a wealthy Singleton-based squatter who employed William Hobbs, a young single Englishman to manage the station.

A friend sent me copies of the transcripts for both the first and second trial, held at the Supreme Court in Sydney. The detail these transcripts provided was invaluable. Also, Bruce Elder’s book Blood on the Wattle and Roger Milliss’ Waterloo Creek: The Australia Day massacre of 1838, George Gipps and the British conquest of New South Wales Chapter 10—The Massacre at Myall Creek, and lastly, Russell Blanch’s Massacre: Myall Creek re-visited.

For me a field trip to the massacre site, a four-hour run from Toowoomba, was vital.  At the site I met with a local historian to walk the country and photograph it.

Walking the country was an unsettling experience, even though it was a beautiful sunny day. We skirted what the historian believed to be the massacre site, before clambering through a five-strand wire fence onto Myall Creek Station, where we were met by a mob of fat Hereford cows with young calves, knee deep in grass. A chorus of mooing greeted us as we wandered down to the creek.

I realised that back in the 19th and early 20th century, if we’d been Gomeroi, we could have been accused of ‘spooking’ the cattle, a criminal offence punishable by death. On the other hand, European strangers like us wandering onto the station unannounced, at worst would’ve been questioned, and, at best, would’ve been invited in for a cup of tea. That day, there was no one home, so we missed out on tea.

I returned to Toowoomba feeling strangely unsettled. To visit the place where this well-documented atrocity had taken place, was a very sobering experience. Because of this, I realised how important it was to make a respectful series of artworks describing the players, the events leading up to the massacre, and its aftermath. The question was, how best to do it?

In my exhibition-making career to date, I’d not made ‘proper art’ in the accepted sense; that is, artwork behind glass and framed. I decided to address this by producing 14 panels, measuring 600 mm x 700 mm, comprising computer-generated copperplate text and line drawings, screen-printed on calico.

A friend made a trial screen but the ink clogged the screen, giving a patchy print requiring hours and hours of touching up. Even then, the result was likely to fall short of the clean, crisp print, I’d set my heart on.

What should I do? Abandon the project? I was reluctant to do this because I already had a booking for the exhibition.

As luck would have it, I heard that Orford’s Refrigeration had a non-drying ink used for printing ‘T’-shirts. The ink was heat-set afterwards. Orford’s saved the exhibition.

The text for each panel was refined by an editor friend. The trick was to strip away the unnecessary wording without weakening the narrative. I then made line drawings to go with the text.

To make the artworks, on my front verandah I set up a simple light box and fixed a clear acetate template to the glass. Over the template I placed another sheet of acetate, onto which I taped the text and images; a separate sheet for each artwork. At the bottom of each, I drew a line, under which I wrote the title, the date and my signature.

My next challenge was to source a quantity of pre-shrunk calico for the panels. As I was chronically short of cash, the cheapest option was unwashed calico. But, before I could print on it, I’d have to wash it to remove the dressing, then iron it; always leaving a lattice of tiny creases. Not ideal. The solution arrived in the form of a gift—a 50-metre roll of pre-washed calico—smooth and creaseless. Much, much more than I needed for this project, but calico was always handy.

With the calico problem resolved, I began to steadily work my way through making the artwork for each panel. Fortunately, I had just drawn the line at the bottom of the last panel, written the title, the date and signed it, when disaster struck. It was midafternoon. As I moved away from the lightbox, I overbalanced, taking my full body weight on my left wrist. I screamed as I hit the floor.

Dazed, I collected myself and asked my neighbour to drive me to the doctor. X-rays were ordered, and, within the hour it was confirmed I’d fractured my radius. As I’m left-handed, this was an unmitigated disaster as I had one more artwork to make. I persuaded the doctor to splint my wrist so I could complete it. In spite of the painful crunching each time I moved my hand, overnight I finished the 14th panel.

Next day, Good Friday, the doctor picked me up from my house, drove me to his surgery, set my wrist and afterwards took me home – a fine example of old-fashioned doctoring.

Because I’d be out of action for six weeks, I doubted my ability to complete the exhibition in time for the launch. Yes, the artworks were done but there was still so much more to do.

In desperation, I phoned the Inverell Art Society to see if the exhibition launch could be postponed until the following June. I was told in no uncertain terms that it was to be June of 2004 or not at all, due to art gallery politics.

To meet the deadline, I rallied the troops to help me do what had to be done; framing the panels with perspex instead of glass, banners; didactics, exhibition essay; catalogue; comments book; education kit; and the crate with divisions; each slot to hold an artwork in its own padded calico bag.

With so much ground to cover, I continued to drive and became very proficient at changing gear with my right hand. Thankfully I wasn’t pulled over by the police.

Towards the end of the fifth week, the plaster cast was cutting into my thumb. The doctor agreed to remove the cast a week early. Afterwards, my wrist was weirdly floppy for a few days, but, before long it strengthened, just in time for the last big push.

There are numerous stories associated with this exhibition, but sourcing an essayist for the catalogue, is one worth telling. It’s the story of my brush with fame.

Over the years I’d read the writings of respected historian Henry Reynolds, describing the generations of mistreatment experienced by First Nations Australians. Therefore, it seemed logical, though cheeky, to approach him to write 1000 words for my exhibition catalogue. He politely refused, recommending another historian, who did a splendid job.

I decided to base the catalogue design on The Sydney Herald broad sheet of 1838. The broadsheet incorporated a jumble of fonts that would be fun to work with. It would contain the essay, a foreword written by the convenor of the Myall Creek Memorial Committee at the time, my artist’s statement, with sections of my line drawings. And I had 750 units, printed black on cream stock.

In early June the exhibition was delivered to the Inverell Art Gallery.

The show opened on Friday the 11th of June 2004, alongside the work of Gomeroi artist John Weeronga Bartoo. The gallery was packed with the descendants of both the victims, the perpetrators and the heroes of the massacre. The standout of the evening for me, was a conversation with a descendant of Police Magistrate, Edward Denny Day, who visited the site, after the massacre was reported. He systematically investigated the massacre and prepared the evidence that was used in both Supreme Court trials.

On the other hand, I was taken to task by a First Nations woman for appropriating a Gomeroi story. I was gob-smacked not knowing how to respond. Fortunately, my Gomeroi support person, who’d driven from Toowoomba for the exhibition opening, overheard the conversation and rescued me. It was a deflating experience, and I was instantly saddened that my work had upset this woman and anyone else.

 Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history exhibition banner with panels  l, ll & lll
Image: Bob Lethbridge            

Tap any of the framed images below to display full-screen

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history l (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history lll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history V (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Vll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history lX (2004) 

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Xl (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Xlll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history ll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history lV (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Vl (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Vlll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history X (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Xll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history XlV (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history l (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history ll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history lll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history lV (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history V (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Vl (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Vll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Vlll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history lX (2004) 

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history X (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Xl (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Xll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history Xlll (2004)

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history XlV (2004)

I returned to Toowoomba both elated and chastened.

As each day passed, I noticed the weight of emotional pain, associated with all aspects of producing Line of Blood, gradually lessened; helped in part because I had another project in mind. I planned to revisit the subject of food.

The new exhibition’s catchy title was Rise-cooking up character, and I was excited to get started.

 

ON REFLECTION:
As a first-generation Anglo-Australian, I became aware of our hidden history in the early 1970s when I was in my early twenties. Like many others, I have no recollection of lessons at either primary or secondary school, explaining the decimation of First Nations people and the land grab that followed. But I do recall learning about the exploits of heroic European explorers. Their ‘discoveries’ often made possible by First Nations guides, who had a deep understanding of their land.

Preparing for this exhibition I read W.E.H. Stanner’s 1968 Boyer Lectures, titled After the Dreaming—Black and White Australians—an anthropologist’s view. I also read Henry Reynold’s numerous publications on the subject. The horror of their research affected me deeply and I often had to take a break from reading; due to the intense bouts of empathetic emotional pain I experienced as I worked my way through their writings.

Between bouts of gloom, I mused on what it would be like to be considered ‘lesser’ in your own country. To have everything you value stripped away: land; language; customs; family and wages. For First Nations Australians, upping stakes to live in another country when things get rough, is not an option because they have cultural responsibilities to the land and the flora and fauna it supports. Theirs is an unbroken connection, underpinned by 8,000 generations before the arrival of Europeans. After ‘settlement’, cultural connections were difficult to maintain.

The inaugural gathering at the Mayall Creek memorial in 2000, offered me the opportunity to confront head on, the subject of white on black violence in colonial Australia. Foolish? Possibly, but I felt compelled to try. And the rest as they say, is history. From witnessing this remarkable act of reconciliation, came this installation, Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history.

Had it not been for the Myall Creek Memorial Committee’s determined effort to erect a memorial to the catastrophic events of the 10th of June 1838, I, and many other Australians, would still be completely unaware of the systematic murder of First Nations Australians by those newcomers who wanted to appropriate their land and exploit its resources.

I was able to bring my cache of art skills to the story and use them to produce fourteen elegant panels. The refined aesthetic of each, draws the viewer into the work, before delivering the hard-hitting facts. These facts may explain why this exhibition has only had three outings, fewer than any of the other touring exhibitions I’ve produced.

A number of friends, whose opinions I respect, believe that this exhibition, is the one for which I’ll be remembered. This is a tantalizing thought and I guess time will tell.

Some twenty years on, I’m delighted to see First Nations artists making work that describes the injustices of the systems under which their people lived, and in some places, continue to live. I believe making confronting work that interrogates the multi-generational horrors of their people’s lives, is vitally important. They have many powerful stories to tell after decades of oppression.

Fracture: To fall and fracture my left radius was inconvenient in the extreme as I hurtled towards the deadline for the exhibition launch, with my emotional pendulum violently swinging between anger and despair. I was mystified by the bone-breaking episode that almost derailed the project because I am, by nature, very careful.

As I worked my way to the deadline, I thought long and hard about this unexpected turn of events. The only explanation that made any sense was that this temporary disadvantage gave me a taste of the disadvantage First Nations Australians experience every day of their lives in their own country. A disheartening experience.

STOP PRESS:
10th March 2021: The Premier of Victoria, Dan Andrews announced a Truth Telling Commission for Indigenous Australians. This Commission is seen as the first step towards a formalised Treaty with the First Nations people of the State.
https://www.yoorrook.org.au/

FACTS:
The Gomeroi: also known as Gamilaraay, Gamilaroi, Kamillaroi, Kamilroi, Kamilarai, and Koomilroi, are an Australian Aboriginal people whose lands extend from New South Wales to southern Queensland. They form one of the four largest Indigenous nations in Australia.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gomeroi

The smoking ceremony: is an ancient and continuing custom among most Aboriginal Australians that involves smouldering native plants to produce smoke. This herbal smoke is believed to have both spiritual and physical cleansing properties, as well as the ability to ward off bad spirits. Traditionally, smoking ceremonies have been performed following either childbirth or initiation rites, involving circumcision. In contemporary culture, elements of smoking ceremonies have been incorporated into Welcome to Country performances and other events held for the general public.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smoking_ceremony

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Outline of events leading up to and beyond the Myall Creek Massacre 10 June 1838

Chronology

1824   August—September—rising of Wiradjuri people in central west NSW suppressed by newly formed Horse Patrol on the orders
of Governor Brisbane

1825   June—Mounted Police corps created from Horse Patrol to deal with bushrangers & Aborigines

1827   May—Allan Cunningham crosses & names Gwydir River at Bingara

1837   15 November–two shepherds killed on John Cobb’s Anambah station, Gwydir River, in revenge for attacks by settlers downstream
6 December—Commissioner of Crown Lands, Liverpool Plains, urges the government to suppress Aboriginal outrages on Namoi & Gwydir Rivers
19 December—Lt-Col Snodgrass orders Major James Nunn to repress aggression ‘as far as he has the power’
31 December—Nunn leaves Jerry’s Plains with at least twenty-two troopers

1838   24 January—following report from Edward Denny Day, Police Magistrate, Maitland, Snodgrass orders Nunn to ‘pursue & capture’ the Aborigines responsible for killing two settlers in the New England region
26 (?) January—Nunn’s party attacks Aborigines gathered on
Snodgrass Lagoon (Waterloo Creek)—between 200-300 massacred
21(?) February—Nunn’s party returns to Jerry’s Plains ‘after
fifty-three days’ duty’
23 February —Governor Sir George Gipps arrives in Sydney
27 March—Gipps demands an inquiry into Nunn’s encounters with Aborigines
10 June—twenty-eight Aborigines massacred by stockmen at Henry Dangar’s Myall Creek station, near Gwydir River
15 November—eleven stockmen accused of murdering one
named & one unnamed Aborigine—acquitted by a Supreme Court jury. Attorney General, John Plunket, prepares new charges
26 November—seven acquitted stockmen retried for murder of other Aborigines at Myall Creek station
29 November—all found guilty of murdering ‘unknown’ Aboriginal child
5 December—seven stockmen sentenced to death by Judge Burton—remaining four face fresh charges
18 December—seven stockmen hanged in Sydney Gaol

Adapted from Roger Milliss Waterloo Creek: The Australia Day massacre of 1838 George Gipps and the British conquest of New South Wales (McPhee Gribble 1992 pp.xv-xix)

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Myall Creek Memorial plaques wording: Gomeroi language, paraphrased in English

  1. Giirr ngurrambaa, walaaybaa nhalay Wirrayaraaygu Gomeroigu. 
    From time immemorial, the Wirrayaraay tribe of the Gomeroi lived here, caring for the land and harvesting the animals, fish, root crops, grains and fruits in a seasonal cycle. The identity of the Wirrayaraay derived from their spiritual relationship with the land’
  2. Yilambu Wandagu dhaay dhimba milambaraay gaanhi. 
    In the 1830s European squatters began to send their servants into the district to establish cattle and sheep stations, occupying the land and using its grass and water resources to feed their stock.
  3. Yilaa Mari Wanda bumalalanhi; balunhi burrulaa Mari gulbirr Wanda.
    Conflict soon arose as the Europeans forced the Wirrayaraay off their ancestral lands, drove them away from creeks and waterholes and seized Aboriginal women. The Wirrayaraay retaliated by spearing stock and attack­ing the stations and their personnel. Revenge killings began.
  4. Burrulaa Mari gandjibalu, bawurragu bumaay.
    Towards the end of 1837 parties of European stockmen and station hands, encouraged by a puni­tive expedition of Mounted Police sent from Sydney, embarked on a bloody rampage throughout the region, hunting down and killing any Aboriginal people they could find. Hundreds of Aboriginal people were slain.
  5. Wirray bumalalanhi gulbirr Mari Wanda; ganunga maliyaa ginyi. 
    In May 1838 a band of Wirrayaraay people took refuge from this onslaught on Myall Creek station below, at the invitation of one of the station hands. For the next few weeks they lived in peace around the station huts, and con­vivial relations were developed between them and the four-man staff.
  6. 10 Djun 1838-ya burrulaa Wirrayaraay yinarr, gaay, wayama balun­hi; giir bilaarrdhalibaa nhama mari.
    On 10 June 1838, a gang of stock­men led by a squatter rode into Myall Creek Station and brutally murdered about twenty-eight unarmed women, children and old men. The younger Wirrayaraay men were away cutting bark on a neighbouring station.
  7. Nhama gagil Wanda gaabamandu bumaay. Yilaa Wandagu burrulaa Mari bumaldanhi.         
    Eleven of the twelve men who carried out the mas­sacre were arrested, tried and acquitted. In a second trial seven of them were found guilty and executed. The squatter involved was never brought to trial. This was the first time that white men had been executed for murdering Aboriginal people. However this did not end the massacres. They continued throughout the continent, often unreported, until the 1920s.
  8. Ngiyani winangay ganunga 
    In memory of the Wirrayaraay people who were murdered on the slopes of this ridge in an unprovoked but premeditated act in the late afternoon of 10 June, 1838.
    Erected on 10 June 2000 by a group of Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal Australians in an act of reconciliation, and in acknowledgement of the truth of our shared history.

We remember them.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Myall_Creek_massacre

The Twelfth Man: John Fleming and the Myall Creek Massacre Patricia Mary Withycombe 30 October 2015
https://coalriver.files.wordpress.com/2016/07/patsy-withycombe-honours-thesis-final-draft-27102015.pdf

Myall Creek Massacre and Memorial site: the heritage-listed site of and memorial for the victims of the Myall Creek massacre at Bingara Delungra Road, Myall Creek, Gwydir Shire, New South Wales, Australia. It was added to the Australian National Heritage List on 7 June 2008 and the New South Wales State Heritage Register on 12 November 2010.

The characters:
http://www.myallcreekmassacre.com/Myall_Creek_Massacre/Characters.html

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PLEASE NOTE: Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history (06:46 min) video can be seen at http://127.0.0.1/morleygrainger/exhibition-videos/line-of-blood-videos/

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PLEASE NOTE:  closeups of each panel of Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history can be seen at http://127.0.0.1/morleygrainger/exhibition-videos/line-of-blood-videos/

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Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history

ARTIST’S STATEMENT

I am described as a narrative visual artist as my work is informed by both history and art. The challenge for me as the creator is to make it work as both. I prefer to work in series; finished works are then prepared for touring through regional galleries and museums in Queensland, NSW, ACT and Victoria.

Line of Blood-Myall Creek Massacre 1838-our shared history is the seventh such project.

The first was In Praise of Australian Women (1995), which uses the ‘wagga’ rug or ‘bush’ quilt to explore aspects of the Australian woman’s experience. The installations make observations and raise questions about identity, our relationship to the environment, multiculturalism, Aboriginal women, Chinese women and the effects of World War II.

Next was Men at Work (1996), is a tribute to the original ‘wagga’ makers, Australian bush workers—timber-getters, fettlers & drovers—men working hard and living rough. Then, Setbacks-Shattered Dreams (1997) reflects the difficulty Australians face in superimposing European dreams of a ‘green and pleasant land’ onto the driest continent on earth. Six strikingly graphic installations—Bushfire, Flood, Drought, Prickly Pear, Rabbits & Renewal—confront the dramatic effect on both rural and urban Australians.

The fourth exhibition, Aprons (1999) looks intimately at women’s lives, the installations comprising original dresses, aprons and associated objects. Close inspection provides a sub-text to the ‘secret’ thoughts of women stitched delicately into the fabric. Next, Washing (2000), an installation celebrating the weekly wash—bane of women’s lives, set down for Monday by well-known bossy-boots of household management, Mrs Beeton. And finally, Well Preserved! (2002), a challenge of meticulous stitchery, a photo realistic still life of the Australian institution of ‘bottling’. Generations of Australian women used the Fowler Vacola method to preserve fruit and vegetables, and provide for their families. This display is a simple pine cupboard, perched on a remnant square of old linoleum, its doors open, to reveal a cornucopia of brilliantly coloured jars of ‘faux’ fruit and vegetables. It dares you to see things ‘domestic’ in a different light.

On the strength of these works I was awarded a Churchill Fellowship to locate artists working similarly in the UK and USA. My travels included a visit to the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore Maryland where creative, multimedia work of a particularly in-your-face, uncensored nature is regularly exhibited—themes such as addiction, old age, love and the struggle between the power of good over evil in one’s own heart and soul are powerfully described by invited artists.

The experience was profound and emboldening.

I have been on the periphery of the Myall Creek Memorial Committee’s activities since 1999 when, through my friend Carol Riddell, I was fortunate enough to be able to attend opening ceremony at the memorial site on 10 June 2000. I was moved to find descendants of both perpetrators and victims gathered together in a tangible act of reconciliation.

This exhibition, Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history, grew out of a number of seemingly disparate events and experiences and has been produced in consultation with the Myall Creek Memorial Committee, through convenor, Rev. John Brown, and friends of Kamilaroi descent, living in southeast Queensland.

In my previous exhibitions I have obliquely referred to the effects colonization has had on our earliest Australians. I felt it was time to bring this story to a wider audience in the hope that this portrayal of our past will help to bring greater understanding of the forces at work at the frontier in the early years of settlement expansion. The Myall Creek Massacre of 1838 is one of countless massacres of Aboriginal people as the newcomers fanned out to appropriate land for grazing the animals they brought with them.

I chose to make an exhibition from the story of this one massacre documented with many others by Bruce Elder (in his book, Blood on the Wattle: massacres and maltreatment of Australian Aborigines since 1788) because this event is irrefutable. In these times of revisionism, the trial transcripts provide unquestionable proof this massacre did occur, leaving no room for disbelief or denial.

There are many people to thank for their help in bringing this project to life. I thank you all.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba
June 2004

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OVERVIEW—Bruce Dennett

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history

There are as many ways of knowing, as there are ways of feeling and understanding who we are as a people and a nation.  One of the keys to understanding is an awareness of history—a sense of the past and its power. For some, power of the past flows from personal memory; for others, it flows from family history, epic tales, or academic discourse.

Morley Grainger’s exhibition, Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history—is another unlocking of our past. Both cognitive and emotional, it occupies an artistic milieu that expresses itself in the visual—film, theatre, dance, painting, photography, sculpture or any of the new cross-media formats. Grainger’s art has consistently made social and political comment, ranging widely across the landscape of Australian social issues, past and present. Her work is a sharp, sometimes wry, and always stimulating view of what is informing her own sense of self and place. She has now returned from several months of overseas travel, under the umbrella of a Churchill Fellowship, and is emboldened to take on more difficult subject matter.

This will place her work alongside artists who have used their skills to tell the story and make pertinent comment about the relationship between the original people of this country and the new comers.  These artists are the people who have most powerfully recognised that a shared history of Australia can well mingle indigenous and non-indigenous notions of reconciliation, adding to the distinctive palette of ideas and emotions that make us Australian.

As Jeremy R Beckett has pointed out,1 conceptions of Australian nationalism and Aboriginality are cultural constructs, nonetheless authentic, but distinctly ‘products of human imagination’.  The arts, also products of the human imagination, have always reflected and moulded our perceptions of Australia. The words of Henry Lawson, Banjo Patterson, CJ Dennis and Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s We of the Never Never, did much to define our identity. Painters like Tom Roberts captured images of an emerging sense of ‘Australian’. Our early filmmakers offered black and white representations of the relationships between black and white people. By the 1920s films like Robbery Under Arms (1920), The Pioneers (1926), Trooper O’Brien and The Birth of White Australia (1928) and many more, all depicted aspects of the clash of cultures that was fundamental to Australia’s identity and history.

Artistic discourse is arguably more pervasive in the creation of a sense of identity than academic historical discourse. There are of course, meta-narratives, national histories written, but it is questionable whether any of these is more powerful in influencing and defining our national psyche than the arts.

Australian artistic discourse established itself early on, as a national storyteller and interpreter, a role that has, if anything, expanded and diversified. Contemporary Australian writers, both indigenous and non-indigenous, like Tom Keneally, Nene Gare, Mudrooroo (Colin Johnson) and Nugi Garimara (Doris Pilkington) have all offered stories that enlightened and challenged. Since the 1970s a series of films: The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith (1978), Manganinnie (1980), We of the Never Never (1982), The Fringe Dwellers (1986) through to Rabbit-Proof Fence (2001) and The Tracker (2002) have exposed audiences to new ways of knowing and understanding ourselves and our shared past. All of the arts have therefore been part of the process of reconciliation. One of its most evocative manifestations, the song My Brown Skin Baby by Aboriginal elder Bob Randall, has become the anthem of the ‘Stolen Generations’.

Although overlooked in the past by academics, the arts have clearly been fundamental in defining Aboriginality and Australian nationalism. According to Marcia Langton2 each of these is created from ‘the intersubjectivity of black and white in a dialogue’.  Morley Grainger’s current work offers a new dimension to the artistic tradition and is a potent example of that dialogue.

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history, Grainger’s latest exhibition, is a retelling of the story of the Myall Creek massacre, at once one of the best known and least known aspects of our frontier history. Like so much in life and art, Myall Creek means different things to different people. It variously represents loss of family, atrocity, a triumph of justice, guilt, racism, invasion and survival, among a myriad of other possibilities. The power of this exhibition stems from its unique capacity to communicate the essence of Myall Creek, what it was and what it still is.

Myall Creek is about land, race, invasion, settlement, brutality and justice—but it is also about the people and their individual stories, which live on in our national history and in the hearts and minds of the descendants of those caught up in it. While no one can know exactly how another human being feels or what they think, much of the poignancy of Myall Creek emerges from the stories of the people.

One Aboriginal man and twenty-seven women and children were shot, stabbed or hacked to death. Pause to consider their last moments. They had come to the Myall Creek station to escape a wave of violence against Aborigines that had swept the region over the preceding months. For two months, white and black had lived peacefully side by side on Henry Dangar’s property. Then the hunters came. They were a party of armed white men, made callous by the privations of convict life and the idea that the Aborigines were somehow less than people. They claimed to be part of a punitive expedition mounted as a response to Aboriginal raids. Unarmed Aborigines were tied together and led away to be massacred.  Some of the children, too young to walk, had to be carried.

Two Aboriginal figures stand out in the records: one old, the other young. ‘Daddy’, as he was known to the whites, was a giant of a man with a striking shock of grey hair. The other was a lively and intelligent six-year-old boy, who quickly learned English and was named ‘Charlie’. Both were murdered, and their bodies—or rather, their body parts—were left to burn among the jumble corpses of their extended family. Then there are the whites. There were two convicts assigned to work on Myall Creek Station: one, Charles Kilmeister, joined the hunters; the other, George Anderson, refused. William Hobbs, the station superintendent, was absent when the massacre occurred. On his return, he began an investigation and reported the murders to Dangar (the absentee owner) and a police magistrate, Edward Denny Day.

When the legal processes had run their course through two trials, seven of the white hunters were found guilty of murder and hanged. According to the Historical Records of Australia,3 none of the hunters denied their guilt. They simply asserted that ‘they thought it extremely hard that white men should be put to death for killing Blacks’.

Afterwards, Dangar refused to keep Hobbs on as station superintendent. Why? Was Hobbs being victimised as a ‘whistle-blower’? Further questions arise. What can have been the reason for the brutal slaying of these peaceful Aborigines? There is no doubt the Myall Creek massacre was a calculated act. The hunters were ‘assigned convicts’ from a number of stations in the area. Could some of the local landowners have been behind the murders? If the assigned convicts acted under orders only, then more were guilty than simply those condemned.

The well-documented events that took place on Dangar’s Myall Creek property in 1838 reflect the best and the worst in us all. The base and the noble jostle for place in a story that mixes cruelty and courage, integrity and falsehood, self-interest and sacrifice. Grief, shame, and pride are all part of this tapestry of the frontier and the line of blood.

The nineteenth century Australian frontier was a place of conflict, and now the history of that frontier is also an arena of conflict. There are those, like historian Henry Reynolds, who strive to tell the story of the frontier as it was. Others prefer a different version of the past, one coloured, tailored and cropped to evoke national pride. School children have been taught about Myall Creek as an example of British justice. Recently, conservative journalist and publisher Keith Windschuttle used it to praise the moral foundations of British settlement. He emphasised the fact that some of the guilty were made to pay for their crimes. Still others view Myall Creek as notable and unusual because it was rare for whites to be held accountable for frontier violence. Historian CD Rowley described the events surrounding Myall Creek as ‘one spectacular occasion’ where the law was ‘actually carried out’.4 Andrew Markus pointed out that in the nineteenth century, aside from the seven men condemned for the Myall Creek murders, only three other Europeans were executed for killing Aborigines.5  It is also worth reflecting on the widespread contemporary public hostility aimed at Governor Sir George Gipps for bringing the prosecutions.

Art can speak with an eloquence denied to other forms of discourse. Viewing an exhibition of this kind opens a window on the past and focuses our gaze on an important aspect of what we see there. Reflection on the Myall Creek massacre is a step towards ending what WEH Stanner called the ‘great Australian silence’.6 It invites us to contemplate the actions of those who went before, and examine what Stanner called our ‘cult of forgetfulness’.

Reconciliation begins with an acknowledgement of the past—not as some might prefer to imagine it, but a past that can be interpreted from many points of view.

In Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history we are thrown the gauntlet, and asked to think the unthinkable—some of us got it wrong, and some of us paid a very high price.

Bruce Dennett
Sydney 2004

____________________________________________

ENDNOTES

1 Beckett, Jeremy R (ed), Past and Present: The Construction of Aboriginality, Canberra, Aboriginal Studies Press, 1994, p.2.

2 Langton, Marcia, ‘Well, I heard it on the Radio and I saw it on the Television …’: An essay for the Australian Film Commission on the politics and aesthetics of filmmaking by and about Aboriginal people and things, Woolloomooloo, Australian Film Commission, 1993, p.31.

3 Historical Records of Australia Series I:Volume XIX, 1914–1925,  Sydney, Government Printer, p. 704.

4 Rowley, CD, The Destruction of Aboriginal Society, Canberra, Australian National University Press, 1970, p. 35.

5 Markus, A, Australian Race Relations 1788–1993, Sydney, Allen & Unwin, 1994, pp. 46–49.

6 Stanner, WEH, After the Dreaming: The 1968 Boyer Lectures, Sydney, Australian Broadcasting Commission, pp. 25–26.

____________________________________________

VENUES

Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history

Toured to 3 venues between 2004 and 2006

EXHIBITED:

  1. Inverell Art Society Inc. Inverell, NSW 11 June 2004 to5 July 2004
  2. CEMA Arts Centre Gallery, Portland, Victoria 30 May 2005 to 8 July 2005
  3. Artdigenous Gallery, Toowoomba, Qld – NAIDOC Week 2 July 2006 to 9 July 2006
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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 109: Tweets from the trenches—France WW1

The ten-year hiatus between The Adorable Mrs Dennis and the spark of inspiration for this exhibition, was filled with an assortment of life-changing and mostly painful events.

EVENT No.1: 2008: whilst lifting eight litres of milk, left over from the opening of The Adorable Mrs Dennis exhibition, I crushed a couple of thoracic vertebrae. The condition was undiagnosed for weeks, leaving me in great pain and permanent curvature of the spine at the fracture site.

EVENT No.2: 2008: my mother’s death.

EVENT No.3: 2010: I missed the ladder and tumbled from my carport roof, fracturing my pelvis, after which I was confined to bed for months.

EVENT No.4: 2011: I spent a year strengthening my body with a vegan diet and megadoses of minerals.

EVENT No.5: 2012: I was appointed executor of my mother’s Estate; a bizarre turn of events as we’d been estranged for years.

In my mother’s effects I found a small cardboard-covered British Army field message book, containing 22 carbon copies of desperate messages, hastily written by my maternal grandfather on the morning of the 24th March 1918, whilst being overrun by German troops near Bapaume, in France. On that day, my grandfather, Captain Melvill Wyon, was wounded, blood splattering the cover of his message book.

Soon after, he returned to his wife and daughter, my mother, in Dublin, Ireland to recuperate. He was lucky to be alive.

My British grandfather, Captain Melvill Walter Thornton Wyon’s WW1 Army field message book marked with his blood
Image: Peter Ford

EVENT No.6: 2013: I received nine letters, written by my grandfather between late October 1916 and late April 1917, whilst he was in France. The letters were addressed to my grandmother.

How the letters came to me is a story worth telling.

One day, out of the blue, I was contacted by a distant relative, who told me that my mother had offered the letters for sale online. The relative, the Wyon family historian, snapped them up, then offered to return them to me. Of course, I gladly accepted.

Reading them for the first time, I laughed and cried; the pages offering a window into my grandparent’s lives a hundred years earlier, as the grim reaper toyed with them. I then filed both the letters and the message book and promptly forgot about them.

EVENT No.7: 2014: This year was the beginning of a string of commemorations to mark the centenary of World War 1. The Australian media began to drip-feed us War stories that we knew would increase in number and intensity, as we gradually edged closer to the final days of ‘the War to end all Wars’, 100 years on.

EVENT No.8: 2017: As War stories swirled around us, conversations inevitably turned to aspects of the drama that had played out on the other side of the world, a century before.

One afternoon, I took the message book to show an ex-military friend. Over a cup of tea, we googled my grandfather and, hey presto, up popped a document that told of his decision to take leave from his teaching job at a Dublin Grammar School in late 1916, to join the British Army. This document would be the genesis of my 10th exhibition, Tweets from the trenches—France WWI.

It was now December 2017. With the centenary of the Armistice only ten months away, I realised that if I was serious about a commemorative exhibition, I’d better get my skates on.

So, I moved into exhibition design mode.

Naturally, textiles would feature, front and centre. Possibly a wall-hung rug, made of khaki wool, reminiscent of army uniforms? With a block of messages and a block of letters?

But before I could begin, I needed to research the world of war; a world I knew nothing about. My family had no military connections that I knew of, other than my brother’s time in Malaya with the Australian Army, during the mid-1950s ‘Emergency’.

I began with the local military experts, to find that their focus was on Australia’s military exploits, rather than those of the British Expeditionary Force, fighting in France in WW1.

Determined to learn more, I contacted my grandfather’s regiment, the South Staffordshire Regiment, now called the Mercian Regiment, but didn’t receive a reply. Not long after, I discovered that many of the Regiment’s WW1 records had been destroyed in WW2.

In the meantime, I found Indiana Neidell’s The Great War documentary series online. His week-by-week video summaries were a godsend, providing well-researched historical information, describing the twists and turns of the War from the beginning in July 1914, through to the end. I was particularly interested in the weeks between October 1916 and March 1918; the period my grandfather was in France.

But it wasn’t until I stumbled upon Martin Middlebrook’s book, The Kaisers Battle, that light came into darkness.

Middlebrook’s rigorous examination of Operation Michael, gave the positions of both Allied and German forces on the 21st March 1918, the start of Germany’s spring offensive; their last-ditch stand to seize as much territory as possible, before the Allies were joined by fresh American troops.

From Middlebrook’s book, I was able to construct my grandfather’s formation-unit tree.

Captain Melvill Walter Thornton Wyon, Adjutant in Headquarters Company of 2nd Battalion, South Staffordshire Regiment, 6th Brigade, 2nd Division, V Corps of the British Third Army, based in Albert, France.

Thanks to Middlebrook, I now knew where my grandfather fitted. Later, I would stumble on the South Staff’s digitised War Diaries, many pages of which were written by my grandfather. The diaries provided invaluable detailed information of the operations preceding and including the 24th March 1918, the day my grandfather was wounded and taken from the battlefield. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

With my grandfather’s military links confirmed, I now felt confident to get going, but not until I’d found a venue. This was tricky, because most exhibition spaces in Toowoomba were booked up years in advance. I needed lady luck on my side, and she delivered.

A thespian friend suggested The Repertory Theatre Gallery—that hosted exhibitions to coincide with their performances. Between performances the gallery space was not in use. I telephoned to ask and was told I could use the space for two weeks, beginning on Saturday the 21st of October.

The Rep. Gallery offered:

  • a quality hanging configuration against pale green walls
  • good directional lighting
  • polished hardwood floors
    and
  • a small adjoining kitchenette

I’d certainly lucked it in, and set about designing the exhibition for the space. This was a luxury I’d only experienced once before, with my last exhibition, The Adorable Mrs Dennis, ten years earlier.

As previously mentioned, I visualised a rug made of khaki wool, as the exhibition’s centrepiece.

Khaki wool has been used for uniforms in both the British and Australian armies for centuries. Question was, where in Toowoomba would I find some? The owner of the local Army Disposals store saved the day, by giving me a pile of cast-off army trousers. It seemed synchronicity had struck again.

I began by washing and drying the trousers, then spent hours unpicking the tightly stitched seams. As I did so, I noticed a subtle colour variation in the fabric that could possibly be worked into the rug.

The rug design had my grandfather’s regimental badge, machine embroidered on black fabric, centrally placed. A friend, based in the USA, offered to ask her local machine embroiderer to have a go; but sadly, the results were disappointing.

The badge was essential but time was running out, and fast. What to do? Where to turn? Then I was told about a local machine embroiderer. The badge she stitched was magnificent; beyond my wildest perfectionist dreams.

The South Staffordshire regimental badge machine embroidered
Image: Ann Alcock

Next, I turned my attention to the rug.

The rug’s central diamond would comprise four blocks of even width fabric strips; representing military order: men, buildings, vehicles and stores, all lined up in neat rows.

I’d re-create the chaos of war by using curved pieces of khaki wool, surrounding the central diamond; all the pieces then anchored with red cotton stitching, a reminder of blood spilt; the truth of war.

Once assembled, I backed the rug with red cotton drill and used a leftover scrap to make a narrow, bias-cut edge for the badge, which I then blind-stitched in position.

I was thrilled with the result. A most fitting commemoration of my grandfather’s Regiment.

Tribute to the 2nd South Staffordshire Regiment from Tweets from the Trenches—France WW1
Dimensions: 1180 x 1120mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Help came from other quarters too. A friend who’d served in the Australian Army, named the exhibition, Tweets from the trenches—France WW1. He also photographed the messages and the letters, wrote the essay, and organised his mate, Brigadier Bill Mellor, to open the exhibition. But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The next artistic challenge was to devise an interesting way to display the messages.

I began by having the message photographs enlarged to the size of the originals, and printed on good quality paper.

Next, I thought of attaching an individual fabric poppy to each message, and went looking for fabric.

As the Flanders poppy is the symbol of the Great War, there was plenty to choose from in Toowoomba at this time. I bought some fabrics and began to experiment.

Fabric printed with Flanders poppies
Image: KK Fabrics

The printed poppies already had visual form, and I thought to make them even more realistic, by cutting them out and shaping the petals.

Numerous prototypes later, I achieved this by attaching a circle of fine florists’ wire to the back, close to the outer edge. I then bent the wire slightly to accentuate the curve of the petals, thereby adding dimension.

This was the perfect solution, but before I could begin mass producing poppies, I added visual interest with curved lines of machine stitching, as well as hand stitching the stamen tips in yellow, to make them pop. Afterwards, I added backing layers to stiffen the fabric, with the last layer concealing the shaping wire. Lastly, I carefully trimmed each poppy, before brushing the edges with diluted Aquadhere, to prevent fraying.

My next challenge was the poppy stems. This was tricky. I zig-zagged over wire that was either too thick or too thin, or with thread that was the wrong colour. Once I figured it out, I was off and running. I gave each stem a coat of diluted Aquadhere to deepen the colour and prevent the zig-zag stitching unravelling. When dry, I attached a stem to the back of each poppy.

I was delighted with the result, because the poppies would add another textile element to the exhibition.

Throughout the poppy-making process I took time to scour the Internet for suitable images to accompany both my grandfather’s letters home and the desperate messages he wrote under fire.

Assembling the message artworks: I placed the message on the left of a piece of heavy black A3 card; the accompanying image at the bottom right, with the acknowledgement below and the poppy in the blank space above. The stem dangling over the image. Alongside, on a separate piece of black card, I placed a transcription of the message.

The end result was striking; far exceeding my expectations.

Tweets from the trenches—France WW1—artwork W463
Image: Ann Alcock

Whilst researching Operation Michael, I discovered a map with each day of the German advance marked with a different coloured line, beginning on the 21st of March 1918. 

From the map, I could see where my grandfather was when he was wounded on the 24th of March, near Bapaume. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that the map could be a useful orientation tool for exhibition viewers, as it provided a geographical fix for the message artworks.

The Operation Michael advance with 24th March indicated in hot pink, the day my grandfather 
was wounded near Bapaume in France
Image: Wikipedia

The Operation Michael advance with 24th March indicated in hot pink, the day my grandfather was wounded near Bapaume in France
Image: Wikipedia

Once again, the super-stitcher was asked if it’d be possible to do a stitched fabric interpretation of the map?  The result was out-of-this-world fantastic and it added yet another textile element to the exhibition.

Machine embroidered map taken from the original Wikipedia image
Image: Ann Alcock

The next challenge was to make art from the photographic copies of my grandfather’s letters home.

I planned to use them to balance the business of war with the business of upper-middle-class domesticity that my grandmother was maintaining, across the English Channel, in Dublin.

I was fascinated by the items mentioned in his letters. For me there were two standouts – rich fruit cake and boots – with no mention of socks. But, as I was caught up in all things WW1, I was busting to have a go at knitting a pair of socks the old-fashioned way, using a WW1 sock pattern, four needles and 4 ply sock wool. My reasoning was that boots need socks. But was this a risky contextual stretch? I didn’t think so. After all, women knitted socks and scarves, balaclavas and mittens, gloves and jumpers for the War effort.

My socks were then photographed for inclusion in one of the Letters from the Front artworks.

Morley’s handknitted grey socks with turned heel—using a WW1 sock pattern
Image: Ann Alcock

Next, the fruit cake; made by a friend using her grandmother’s treasured recipe. The mixture was scooped into an old steel cake tin with a brown paper collar, then decorated with blanched almonds and glazed, before baking. When cool, the cake was then photographed; the photograph used in the artwork titled, Letter: dated 25 March 1917.

Letter: dated 25 March 1917 Tweets from the trenches—France WW1—including fruit cake with brown paper ‘sides’
Image: Ann Alcock

By way of introducing the ‘letters’ artworks, I made a panel that included images of my grandmother, my mother as a child, the house they were living in whilst my grandfather was at the Front, and an addressed envelope. The black and white image below the collage, also has a ‘letter’ connection. It’s of the Regents Park mail sorting office in 1914, piled high with mail bags to be sent to the Western Front; up to 12 million letters a week.

Tweets from the trenches—France WW1—Letters: Introduction artwork picturing my maternal grandmother Gertrud Wyon on the left and my 3½ year old mother, Ethel Vera, on the right. The lower image is of the Regents Park mail sorting office in 1914
Image: Ann Alcock

As I’d done for the messages, I began searching the Internet for suitable images to complement the topics covered in the letters; a number of them coming from the Grainger family photographs.

The next cause for celebration was the arrival of the 2nd South Staffordshire’s digitised War Diaries.

Entries from the War Diaries describe the drama of the 2nd South Staff’s rout, as they were pushed back by the Operation Michael advance. (21st March to 5th April, 1918.)

A friend offered to use his techno skills to access a digital map, onto which he pinned the towns, hamlets, bridges, and railway lines, mentioned in the War Diaries, as the Third Army retreated westwards.

2nd South Staffordshire Regiment’s movements 21-31 March 1918 showing the Regiment’s withdrawal to the west 
as the Germans advanced
Image: Google Earth 

2nd South Staffordshire Regiment’s movements 21-31 March 1918 showing the Regiment’s withdrawal to the west as the Germans advanced
Image: Google Earth 

2nd South Staffordshire Regiment’s movements 21-31 March 1918 showing the Regiment’s withdrawal to the west as the Germans advanced
Image: Google Earth 

With all the exhibition artworks complete, I was now free to concentrate on the exhibition banners and the labels for each artwork.

The day of the opening dawned. The event was M.C.’ed by local historian, Peter Cullen. After his introduction, it was my turn and lastly, Bill Mellor officially opened the exhibition.

The Rep Theatre gallery with Tweets from the trenches—France WW1 displayed
Image: Ann Alcock

Tweets from the trenches—France WW1—catering crew and the artist at the exhibition launch
Image: Ann Alcock

To record the event for posterity, I splashed out and had a video made of the opening.
https://vimeo.com/297412141 (9.37min)

For two weeks, I ‘womaned’ the exhibition.

It was fun to discover visitor’s areas of interest, be it:

  • WW1 weaponry
  • the British Army
  • France
  • military history
  • textiles
    or
  • medals

I listened to lots of war stories, talked a lot and shared many cups of tea, served with chunks of leftover fruit cake.

Thanks to radio, television and print coverage, more than 500 people came to visit the exhibition. To my delight, most read every word, and many were moved to tears.

On the 4th of November, I farewelled the last group of visitors, packed up the exhibition, loaded it into my car, and, as I closed the Gallery door for the last time, I drew a huge sigh of relief because I was sure that this was my last ever exhibition. I was now 70 years old, with nothing more to say, nor the energy to say it.

The final wash up: I felt Tweets from the trenches—was a fitting swan song, as it gave me the opportunity to honour my grandparents, Gertrud and Melvill Wyon, in an unconventional way—with a series of artworks.

 

ON REFLECTION:
In the making of this exhibition, I got to know my grandfather—a man I never met, because he died in 1938; ten years before I was born.

His writings offered us a window into two quite distinct aspects of his life—the domestic and the professional.

The domestic: At the outset, I was a little concerned about making art with his letters because it could be seen as inappropriate or impertinent. But I decided the fascinating historical information they contained, justified respectful public disclosure.

The content of his letters show he was a loving husband and father. Reading between the lines, I could see he was macro-managing their Dublin household from France. My grandmother carried out his instructions and was expected to support his point of view.

In one letter, he expresses his concern at the prospect of leaving a widow and a fatherless daughter to make their way in the world, should he be killed.

On the 18th of April, 1917, he wrote, “My dearest old sweetheart, this is the eve of our wedding day April 19, 1911, and I shall be thinking constantly of the event tomorrow. The fighting is very intense here and the 80th Foot are right in it. If anything happens to me in the next few days, you will remember that I love you and dear Little Vera very deeply and I hope you will make the best of things. I don’t want to alarm you, dearest, but I cannot write a formal letter when things are so hot.”

The professional: Reading a year’s worth of War Diary entries in his handwriting, as well as the 22 desperate messages he wrote on the day he was wounded, I’ve come to understand that Captain Melvill Wyon was a reliable officer. His writings offered me the opportunity to get to know him, albeit posthumously, and I’m proud to be related to this man.

Captain Melvill Walter Thornton Wyon
Image: Grainger family photographs

I’ve now arrived at the end of my creative journey. Reflecting on it, I’m proud that my ancestors should be the subject of this, my last block-buster exhibition. It’s the icing on the cake!

FACTS:
The document that primed the pump.
https://hsdwarstories.blogspot.com/p/teachers-go-to-war.html

Duration of World War 1: 28th of July 1914 to 11th of November 1918.

The Great War: Indy Neidell’s coverage of week 191 of WW1—beginning on the 23rd of March 1918. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HH0m527jkE4&list=PLB2vhKMBjSxMFBUN-T7xf-ORq9yY36EVR&index=12

Martin Middlebrook The Kaiser’s Battle, describes in detail the 1918 Spring Offensive, which led to Germany’s ultimate defeat.

Middlebrook writes:
“At 9:30 am on March 21st1918, the last great battle of the First World War commenced when three German armies struck a massive blow against the weak divisions of the British Third Army [to which my grandfather belonged] and the Fifth Army, which were decimated by German troops moving west at break-neck speed, leaving destruction in their wake.”

“It was the first day of what the Germans called the Kaiserschlacht (the Kaiser’s Battle), a series of attacks that were intended to break the deadlock on the Western Front, knock the British Army out of the war, and finally bring victory to Germany. However, the cost of the gamble was so heavy that once the assault faltered, it only remained for the Allies to push the exhausted German armies back.”

Wyon family history website:
https://one-name.org/name_profile/wyon/

PLEASE NOTE: Tweets from the trenches—France WW1 (12:01 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/tweets-from-the-trenches/

Tweets from the trenches – 
France WW1

Artist’s Statement

“This is my father’s blood,” my mother had written 57 years before I would discover it, tidying up her estate with a mixture of resigned filial duty and irresistible curiosity.  It is, after all, an opening line with Biblical gravitas.

My mother was gone, and in the completion of circles, balancing of books and chaos of emotions that follow a long and difficult relationship, I discovered a physical sample of my grandfather’s DNA, parts of which she had passed on to me genetically one of the few things I acquired from her without apprehension of motive, this time from beyond the grave. Blood is a pure transmitter of code, unaffected by family psychopathology, long-open wounds, injuries from which we try, but never truly, heal. 

Yet it was his injury, his wound, his blood which she was passing to me now from beyond death, a connection to a man I would discover represented the nobility of character, love of learning, and transmission of his learning – and at the heart of all his trials, the eloquence with which he expressed his love for his wife Gertrud and his daughter Vera (my mother) – that appeared in profound ways to atone for the opposite of those traits in my mother.  Unconsciously she had passed on his genes by bearing me, and now, possibly as unconsciously, she had passed on an actual sample of his DNA, some of which I carry within, enabling me to reconnect with my family line in a new and profoundly comforting way.

I wish I had known him while he was alive. 

So it is that with this exhibition, with a sample of his blood, and elements of his character that resonate in me as his granddaughter, and as an artist, that I tell you his story, resurrecting him and the honour and the horrors cultivated in those stinking, sewage-steeped trenches, freezing in French winters, putridly pungent in summer, with corpses of men freshly killed, many of whom were buried in the walls and material of the pits and channels they inhabited, as distant generals sent them to their fate in futile charges to gain or lose a few yards at a time.

It was in one of these trenches that my grandfather was wounded, as Adjutant of the Second Battalion, South Staffordshire Regiment, posted near Bapaume northeastern France, where a fragment of German steel slashed into his left arm, splattering his blood onto his official officer’s notebook, within which he daily wrote his orders and observations and reports to headquarters.

It is this notebook, and his words in his own handwriting that I resurrect here in this exhibition, in an attempt to not only portray for all of us the terrors and tribulations of that so-called “Great War”, but in the microcosm of all the trials carried in one man’s experience, I have endeavoured to remind us all of the carnage, of Biblical proportions and gravitas, wrought by humans, out of which the singular nobility of men like my grandfather can transmit hope for all of us as a species.

Morley Melvill Grainger
Churchill Fellow
Toowoomba 2018

Tweets from the Trenches – 
France WW1 – an Overview

We humans are the only species known to write.

It is easy to forget – in our forays on Facebook, images on Instagram, picks on Pinterest, tweets on Twitter – that we can send our thoughts from almost anywhere to anywhere in an instant, in eloquent detail, or idiotic cryptic emoticons and acronyms (RAOTFL), from the comfort of our homes and offices and cars and cafes and commuter trains and buses.

It is almost unthinkable to imagine being isolated in a hole in the ground, waiting for another human to run up to you and collect a note – which you have written in pencil on a piece of paper – and deliver it by running along a boggy, muddy trench, littered with live and dead bodies, stinking of foul water, human waste, rifle smoke, and rolling pungent clouds from artillery, sometimes edged with the choking, cutting chemicals of chlorine gas, sprinting, head down to avoid snipers, to deliver your plea for enough ammunition to survive the cold, darkening afternoon.

It is almost impossible to imagine – in our present ability to recover the most insignificant details of just about anything with Google – a time when those notes disappeared in the mud and madness of war, sinking like the corpses into the trenches, into the earth of France and Belgium and their neighbouring Low Country, evidenced today only by the notable fertility of that now-peaceful farming country, a massive, multi-national grave for millions who died here, blood and bone for the fields, rarely to be accounted for, let alone located in their last ghastly burial places.  A paper note, written in pencil so it doesn’t run in the rain and sweat and blood, could be lost forever, in an instant.

It is almost miraculous, then, to tap into a series of those notes, bloodstained as their author calmly resisted the natural urge to panic as German forces swept closer, behind their deadly firestorm of artillery, sniping with lethal accuracy from a distance, preparing to race on foot into his trenches with rifles and bayonets, and instead wrote clearly and concisely in his official British Army Notebook, the situation along his trenches, urging himself instead to stay steady and request ammunition and supplies to resist what was to be the Kaiser’s Operation Michael, the massive masterstroke to end this War to End All Wars.

Today, we almost unwittingly, hit Save to replicate and secure our notes on smartphones and tablets and computers.

Back then, you had to insert a thin sliver of dark blue paper, impregnated with semi-dry carbon on one side, between two pages of your notebook.  You wrote on the upper page, pressing down with your pencil, so that a duplicate was traced on the lower page – the carbon copy – which you kept in your official notebook, while you tore off the top page and handed it to the worthy runner, to deliver along his lethal obstacle course to your commanding officer.

You don’t remember the piece of shrapnel that hissed across the muddy, bloody plains of hell beyond your trench, and slashed into your left arm, shattering bone, so that your blood spattered over your uniform and onto your official notebook. 

It dried eventually, staining the notebook with your DNA, a brown artefact loaded with all the genetic code of your generations, a code which would not begin to be decrypted for another 35 years, when Franklin, Watson and Crick identified the double helix.  The notebook found its way back into the front pocket of your dark brown battle dress, travelled with you to the Army field hospital for eventual repatriation to Dublin, survived with you the end of the Great War, and life back in civvie street, a family, ensuing generations, inheriting some of the same code you left on that notebook, disappearing finally into a storage trunk, buried interminably, until a death, a will, a granddaughter, a discovery:  your messages from a century ago returned to the light of a peaceful day.

Threads are what connect emails into logical electronic groups: the stories we tell each other over time, over the networks, running themes and lines into a narrative.  Threads run through our histories, the great epics of human conflict – the Great War, the Great Wall – and the tiny fibres that connect our lives in logical narratives.  These family histories form a fabric that help us identify ourselves, where we came from, where we are: stretching into the future in an imaginary matrix that we and those who follow us will fill into a tapestry through time.

That granddaughter had lost connection with the fabric of her family. 

She is a narrative artist, Morley Mary Melvill St. Osyth Grainger, whose name proclaims bloodlines embedded deep in a long line of threads from great families of the past: but for a long, calculated period, she was cast out, disinherited by her mother, a broken thread, spinning alone in time.  Morley went to Glennie in Toowoomba, then escaped to Mexico to study and teach, then across to Africa to teach sewing, the fundamental skill of fabric art, constructing order out of diffusion, passing her craft to others, spinning across the planet, disconnected from her past.

Until death brought reunion in the legal formalities of executing a will.  As nearest relative, Morley was appointed by the Queensland Supreme Court as executor of her mother’s estate: a final irony in a life defined by family disunity, emotional cruelties and banishments.  It was during her examination of her mother’s artifacts, trappings, pieces of her life scattered like torn threads, that Morley found the trunk.

It contained the notebook, with the bloodstain, and like a single thread protruding from torn material, Morley reached out and touched it.

She was well-equipped to understand fabric: a Churchill Fellow who travelled the world with her accumulation of art and craft and emotional sensitivity, she had spent years developing her unique skills as an artist, reconstructing narratives in fabric.  Her exhibitions told stories, epics of human experience from devastating fires, floods and droughts to the joy of weddings and the banality of washing day, to a savage massacre of Aborigines that was so cruel and calculated that the perpetrators became the first whites in Australia to be hanged for racist murder.

Her craft required meticulously fine needlework and broad strokes of colour, light, dark, subdued, explosive, embedded in dyes and threads and fibres, mostly recovered from other materials: cast-offs and rejects in second-hand stores and military surplus depots and charity shops.  In her exile from her family, she learned the high art of rebuilding stories, connections, the fabric of human experience from cast-outs.

So, when she picked up the notebook, felt its cover, the surface of its inner pages, ran her fingers over the bloodstain that contained large pages of her own DNA book, she was examining it with decades of pure tactile and aesthetic wisdom.  In so many ways, her grandfather’s writing – that purely human ability – reached her across the chasms of time and reconnected with her, reweaving so many threads, restoring that great tapestry of their lives.

We are not the only species to leave cogent messages: bees dance to direct swarms to nectar fields, ants leave lines of formic acid to map food, dogs spray their DNA onto trees and posts to mark their territory, cats rub their musk against things and people to connect, whales sing through the oceans of the planet, but all fade organically with time.  Only humans write, specific elements of their thoughts traced on a surface to be shared with other humans, across time.

It is the cold, grey Northern Hemisphere Spring, March, 1918.  German Chief of General Staff, Erich Ludendorf, has a plan to end the virtually genocidal stalemates across the battlefields of Europe, break out of the deadlocks of suicidal charges across No Man’s Land by small, impossibly brave groups from both sides into storms of opposing machine gun fire, and launch instead a front-wide offensive into Allied territory in one last attempt to cut off General Haig’s British Expeditionary Forces from their military colleagues and win final victory before more than one million American troops enter the war to help turn the tide against his Fatherland.  Ludendorf gave orders to plan and execute four operations:

Michael, Georgette, Gneisenau and Blücher–Yorck.  Of the four, the most terrible in its explosive opening artillery and ground attacks was Operation Michael on the Somme.

In those horrendous days of doubt and terror, Captain Melvill Walter Thornton Wyon, wrote, as Adjutant in Headquarters Company of 2nd Battalion, South Staffordshire Regiment, 6th Brigade, 2nd Division, V Corps of the British Third Army. 

He could have been elsewhere, safe and warm and dry in Dublin, where he taught modern languages.  He was fluent in French and German, with a German wife, the love of his life, and a visible liability in the world of suspicion and hostility created by war with the Kaiser.

Instead, as the son of an army Lieutenant Colonel, Melvill Wyon volunteered for the Royal Dublin Fusiliers and was immediately posted to Intelligence, with an almost suspiciously intimate knowledge of the enemy’s world, ways and words.  In the often-unintelligible warp and weft of military design, he found himself in France, interrogating German prisoners, based in the relatively less hazardous locations of his new battalion’s HQ.

His situation was about to rapidly escalate into mortal danger.

At 04:35 shortly before the dawn of 21st March, 1918, the German offensive began with a massive artillery barrage along 60 kilometres of the frontline. Captain Wyon and his South Staffordshire brothers in arms felt their sloshing, stinking trenches begin to vibrate as traumatically as if the gates of hell were swinging open.

“…there rose in less than one minute the most tremendous cannonade I shall ever hear… It swept round us in a wide curve of red leaping flame stretching to the north far along the front of the Third Army, as well as of the Fifth Army on the south, and quite unending in either direction…the enormous explosions of the shells upon our trenches seemed almost to touch each other, with hardly an interval in space or time… The weight and intensity of the bombardment surpassed anything which anyone had ever known before.”  from the diary of Minister of Munitions Winston Churchill, who was inspecting the 9th (Scottish) Division at Nurlu on the morning of Michael. [Wikipedia]

It is on that devastating tapestry of war that we try to understand the enormity of the constant barrage from hundreds of heavy field guns, the terror of the earth shaking beneath the feet of hundreds of thousands on both sides, the waves soldiers, forerunners of the German stormtroopers, about to race in behind the hurricane of artillery.  Like streams of statistics, individual elements are lost in the whole.  Individual threads are lost in the broad fabric of war.  It becomes clear that clarity of experience is best defined in individual accounts, in single threads, drawn from the broadcloth.

It is in the calm, methodical notes written in pencil on the light blue grid squares of his official British Army Notebook, describing the horror of the German offensive, accounting for casualties and dwindling supplies of ammunition and stores, that Captain Melvill Wyon generated his thread of data to his commanders, advising – not pleading – the urgency of their situation, their dire need for immediate resupply, on his trajectory through time and space to intersect with that piece of shrapnel that was to shatter his arm and deposit on his notebook that splatter of blood that you will see now in this exhibition of his measured writing under extreme duress.

It is in this intersection of DNA, more than a century old now on the notebook, with his granddaughter Morley at this exhibition, as she displays for you in her media of fabric and photo, those vital messages from hell, that we see once again the restoration of her family tapestry, the rejoining of threads into their parallel narratives of what Hemingway called grace under pressure, the calm account of life and death, in single threads and full cloth, of survival and redemption across a tumultuous field of time. 

Peter Shann Ford
October 2018

VENUE

Tweets from the trenches—France WW1

Launched at the Repertory Theatre Art Gallery Toowoomba Queensland on 20th

October 2018, the exhibition ran until the 4 November.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 108: The Adorable Mrs Dennis

I’d no intention of building another touring exhibition because the demand for my work had gradually fallen away.

My former clients, mostly galleries, saved money by exhibiting local artists’ work, in both solo and group show formats, as well as student work. These displays were filled out with subsidised exhibitions on offer from various sources, a godsend for galleries and museums, eager to stretch their limited budgets.

At that time, I was one of the few, and maybe the only artist, producing, promoting, and touring my own work. When venues were asked to choose between one of my exhibitions or a subsidised one, they inevitably chose the latter.

In 2006, I began promoting my eighth touring exhibition, Rise-cooking up character, to a lukewarm response.

Rise— was, and is, the most innovative and technically sophisticated exhibition I’ve made. I spent hours talking it up to a churning cohort of gallery directors. For my effort, I managed to secure three bookings, the exhibitor fees only just covering the cost of production. I couldn’t afford to continue; nor was there another woman-related topic I was keen to explore. It was time to withdraw gracefully.

In view of the sentiments expressed in the previous paragraph, I imagine you’re wondering how this new exhibition came to pass? To explain: it began like an Indiana Jones mystery; an unexpected phone call, a summons to a dim and mysterious room…and a suitcase filled with secrets.

Early one morning in November 2006, an artist friend telephoned, exclaiming, “There’s something you must see…meet me behind 497 Ruthven Street [Toowoomba’s main street] …be there in an hour!”  

An hour later, my mind buzzing, we climbed to the top of the sagging staircase and entered. Slowly, my eyes became accustomed to the gloom and I found myself in a room that’d been locked away from the world for nearly half a century. I was overwhelmed, even before I knew how much more I was yet to discover.

What remained of the Carldenia Manufacturing workroom at 497 Ruthven Street Toowoomba in
2006
Image: Bob Lethbridge

What remained of the Carldenia Manufacturing workroom at 497 Ruthven Street Toowoomba in 2006
Image: Bob Lethbridge

I searched through bolts of fabrics, looked through collections of illustrated magazines and patterns, watched by naked mannequins standing silently in the shadows. Between them stood the executor of the building owner’s estate. He introduced himself and asked about my work, before producing an old Globite suitcase that, I was told, contained a treasure-trove of clues to the life of a Mrs Ida Dennis. Mrs Ida Dennis?

So, who was Ida Dennis? He explained that in 1948, she and Jack Carroll (aka Giannis Kalokerinos), a Greek immigrant and entrepreneur, had set up a fashion empire from this dark and dusty room.

Their story caught my imagination. “There’s a condition,” I was told, “Return the suitcase and its contents to Ida Dennis’s family, that is, if you can find them.” What a mystery—and what a challenge!

Carldenia workroom – Ida’s domain – 30 years after she retired. Part of her cutting out table can
be seen at the end of the room
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Carldenia workroom – Ida’s domain – 30 years after she retired. Part of her cutting out table can be seen at the end of the room
Image: Bob Lethbridge

I purchased some fabrics, exhausting my tiny budget, and, over the next couple of days, returned with additional questions for the executor. Each time, I left with another carload of interesting stuff that included an old-style Teledex.

I began sorting the contents of the suitcase, to discover Ida’s maiden name was King, but nothing more. To return the suitcase to her family, I needed to find them. Wanting answers, I remembered the Teledex. There, under ‘K’, I found her relatives listed; with phone numbers alongside. As it was 30 years since Ida retired and 16 years since her passing, I did wonder if any of the numbers would still be active. Donning my detective hat, I checked the Toowoomba telephone book, hoping to find a number match and, most importantly, a mailing address. And bingo. I found one.

I composed a letter introducing myself; outlining the suitcase story; included a Rise— catalogue to establish my bonafides, and waited for a reply.

As I waited, I wondered if this could be the genesis of another exhibition?

Within days, my amateur detective work paid off; I’d found Ida’s relatives. Over many cups of tea, the Kings were able to provide the details I needed to build a comprehensive picture of Ida Dennis. This information was vital if I was to make art about her professional life. Next, I was introduced to Ida’s niece, who gave me photographs of Ida in her youth and later. With the family photographs and the stuff I’d saved from the skip, I now felt confident to have a crack at telling Ida’s remarkable story.

But before I could begin, I needed to find a suitable exhibition space.

The Artist with some of the material culture rescued from the Carldenia workroom
Image: Emily Murphy

The CEO of the Kath Dickson Family Centre, came to the rescue. Her organisation had recently renovated a two-storey building in the centre of town, giving over one of the shop fronts facing the main street, for a community art space. The space was long and narrow, with high ceilings, good artificial lighting, beautiful polished hardwood floors and catering facilities at the rear. This space would be perfect.

From the outset, I realised that this exhibition would be a game changer.

For the very first time in my exhibition-making career, I had the luxury of designing artworks for a particular space, instead of being restricted to same-sized multiples, to simplify crating. It would also offer me the opportunity to celebrate ‘one of our own’—a talented woman who combined her fashion sense and clothing manufacturing skills, to build a lucrative business in the main street of Toowoomba. The exhibition would also be a fitting way for me to thank the Toowoomba community for their constant support through my 15 years of intensive artmaking.

I asked for a four-week slot, with the exhibition to open on the 18th of October 2008, 60 years to the day since Ida and Jack officially started their twin enterprises, Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing [wholesale] and Adora Gowns [retail], in Toowoomba’s main street.

Now I could begin work.

This piece, crepe – Courtaulds remembered, was the first.

1. crepe – Courtaulds remembered

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – Courtaulds remembered
Triptych of rayon crepe frills and Courtaulds continuous woven labels
Size: each 410 x 510 x 12mm
Image: Ann Alcock

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CATALOGUE NOTES
In 1816, Samuel Courtauld started Courtaulds Ltd in Essex, UK. With a family background in spinning yarn, Samuel moved into the mechanised manufacture of textiles, mainly silk crepe. In 1904 the company began their hugely successful development of cellulosics (viscose and acetate), the benefits of which were enjoyed until the mid-1950s. But the fashion industry embraces new fabrics eagerly and, when interest turned to nylon and other new synthetic fabrics, Courtaulds rayon crepe fell from favour.

The unused Courtaulds woven labels included in this work were stitched into garments made from Courtaulds rayon crepe, by Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing Toowoomba, Queensland.

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COMMENTS
This piece bore little resemblance to my original working drawings, which was unusual.

I had begun by tightly gathering torn strips of brown crepe. I then pinned them to a display wall and played around, draping them this way and that. The result was uninspiring in the extreme. Then, by chance, one length crossed another, thereby creating a chalice shape. Hurrah! Perfect!

I covered three pieces of Craftwood, with unbleached calico. Onto each panel, I placed a length of Courtaulds woven brand tape, I’d found in Ida’s storeroom.

I was thrilled with this piece, and hoped that it was a positive omen for the work yet to come, using leftovers from the Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing enterprise.

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2. crepe bodices – the 1950s re-captured

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe bodices – the 1950s re-captured
Five-piece installation on individual Craftwood backboards
1950–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal pattern No. 7638
1952–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal pattern No. 8054
1954–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal pattern No. 8342
1956–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal pattern No. 8858b
1958–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal pattern No. 5254
Size: each 395 x 505 x 70mm
Image: Ann Alcock

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe bodices – the 1950s re-captured
Five-piece installation on individual Craftwood backboards
1950–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal 
pattern No. 7638
1952–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal 
pattern No. 8054
1954–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal 
pattern No. 8342
1956–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal 
pattern No. 8858b
1958–rayon crepe bodice using Australian Home Journal 
pattern No. 5254
Size: each 395 x 505 x 70 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

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CATALOGUE NOTES
The bodices are loosely based on drawings taken from a small book, in which Ida Dennis jotted down designs for frocks and blouses suitable for mass production at Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing
____________________________________________

COMMENTS
Bodice colours:  1950—light blue; 1952—jacaranda; 1954—pink; 1956—moss green and 1958—mid-blue.

Before I began constructing the bodices, I cut five stylised female neck and torso shapes from Craftwood and painted them a skin colour. Then, onto each base, I stapled a set of bosom shapes and filled them with wadding.

Next, I used Australian Home Journal patterns for the bodices.

To each bodice I added a black glass bead necklace and a narrow black plastic belt, rescued from Ida’s storeroom.

I have to confess crepe bodices – the 1950s re-captured, is my favourite artwork of this series.

I wondered why there were so many unopened bolts of rayon crepe in the Carldenia storeroom. A suggested explanation was that these bolts were a job lot bought up around the time rayon crepe was being replaced by drip-dry, wrinkle-free fabrics like nylon, Tetoron, and Tricel. These new fabrics offered novelty and creative challenges for clothing manufacturers like Ida and home dressmakers alike, who were all eager to experiment with these new fabrics.

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 3. crepe – a sign

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – a sign
Laminated rayon crepe cut and pinned to fabric covered Craftwood board; displayed on 1950’s linoleum
Size: sign 2500 x 380 x 25mm; linoleum 1465 x 517mm
Image: Ann Alcock

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CATALOGUE NOTES
The original Adora Gowns of A’Asia sign was discovered leaning against an upstairs wall in the Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing premises, 497 Ruthven Street, Toowoomba. Re-created using laminated Courtaulds rayon crepe, matching the colours of the original sign.

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COMMENTS
The ‘Adora Gowns A’Asia’ sign, hung above the footpath outside the frock shop, for all the years Ida ran the wholesale and retail businesses. I assume including ‘Asia’ may have given passers-by the impression that they were selling garments into overseas markets. As Jack’s Greek business networks were extensive, this may have been true, and there’s no doubt his Australian networks contributed greatly to the success of their enterprise.

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4. crepe – cascade

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – cascade
Three rayon crepe drops behind cardboard pattern pieces suspended on rayon crepe ribbons
Size: 2000 x 2500 x 700mm
Image: Ann Alcock

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CATALOGUE NOTES
Ida Dennis’ cardboard patterns in various sizes were found in the Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing workroom, tied together through the large circular hole at the top of each piece. The patterns are cut from the lightweight cardboard that came wrapped around the bolts of Courtaulds rayon crepe. Such frugality was common at the time. Like others who’d experienced the 1929–1939 Depression, she and Jack, maximised the resources at their disposal.

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COMMENTS
I was delighted with this piece.

It was such a luxury to have metres and metres of continuous rayon crepe to work with. Why? Because so often I use recycled fabrics that were almost always in limited supply. As a result, I’d never had so much fabric in so many colours to choose from; I felt like a kid in a candy store.

An unexpected bonus that came with this work; when there was air movement nearby, the pattern pieces slowly rotated, creating a kinetic artwork.

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5. crepe – labelling synthetics

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – labelling synthetics
Five-piece installation on crepe-covered Craftwood backing board layered with Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing stamped
laminate under rayon crepe covered square with labels stitched in position
Tetoron and viscose rayon labels
Shikibo Mermaid labels
Exclusive labels
Dream Mist sheer inspiration labels
Tricel triacetate fibre labels
Size: 370 x 370mm each
Image: Ann Alcock

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – labelling synthetics
Five-piece installation on crepe-covered Craftwood backing board layered with Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing stamped laminate under rayon crepe covered square with labels stitched in position
Tetoron and viscose rayon labels
Shikibo Mermaid labels
Exclusive labels
Dream Mist sheer inspiration labels
Tricel triacetate fibre labels
Size: 370 x 370mm each
Image: Ann Alcock

CATALOGUE NOTES
A selection of 1950s fabric labels, provided by the suppliers in the hope they would be attached to garments made at Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing. The labels give us an idea of the number of new synthetic fabrics on offer to clothing manufacturers such as Ida Dennis.

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COMMENTS
This piece acknowledges change. The black and coloured rayon crepe background, symbolises the old; the labels for the ‘you-beaut’ synthetic fabrics, the new. These fabrics powered a clothing revolution for both women and men. Ida took the changes in her stride and remained in business until she retired in 1973.

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6. crepe – industry

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – industry
Stack of seven bolts of rayon crepe fabric, six wrapped and tied, the seventh exposed
Size: crepe stack 740 x 500 x 250mm; linoleum 1600 x 940mm
Image: Ann Alcock

CATALOGUE NOTES
To re-create a delivery of Courtaulds rayon crepe fabric to Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing, thick brown paper and jute string were sourced; as well as the help of a 1950s knot-tying expert, in the quest for authenticity.

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COMMENTS
This stack of wrapped bolts of rayon crepe, pays homage to the volume of fabric that passed through the Carldenia workroom. The freestanding installation honours Ida’s management role. In addition to designing and cutting out the garments in readiness for the seamstresses each morning, she ordered fabric, thread, notions and whatever else was needed, to keep the workroom humming.

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7. crepe – finding work

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – finding work
31 handwritten job applications backed with laminated rayon crepe, encased in recycled 
laminate envelopes and all displayed, butted together top and bottom in an inverted pyramid
design
Size: 2565 stepped to 285 x 1675mm
Image: Ann Alcock

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – finding work
31 h  31 handwritten job applications backed with laminated rayon crepe, encased in recycled laminate envelopes and all displayed, butted together top and bottom in an inverted pyramid design
Size: Size: 2565 stepped to 285 x 1675mm
Image: Ann Alcock

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CATALOGUE NOTES
A collection of letters was found in the factory, neatly clipped together with a cover sheet from The Toowoomba Chronicle dated 17 February, 1950. The letters, written between 1948 and 1950, indicate that in the early days of the businesses, finding suitable staff was a recurring issue.

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Ida Dennis’s rough draft, the focal point of this piece, is mounted on red crepe to stand out; centred
in the second row and surrounded by the letters; evidence of their bold enterprise

Ida Dennis’s rough draft, the focal point of this piece, is mounted on red crepe to stand out; centred in the second row and surrounded by the letters; evidence of their bold enterprise

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COMMENTS
Ida took record-keeping to a whole new level. I was awestruck at the outset, but have come to realise, thanks to her diligence, in this artwork, some 60 years on, I was able to acknowledge 31 Toowoomba women who put pen to paper, in search of work.

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8. crepe – decorated

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – decorated
Courtaulds wooden fabric-bolt armatures, framing rayon crepe, buttons, Semco iron on transfers
and transfer designs machine embroidered on four of seven sections by Pat Bridge using VSM
4D Pfaff embroidery suite
Size: 2540mm stepped to 485mm & 225mm
Image: Ann Alcock

The Adorable Mrs Dennis
crepe – decorated
Courtaulds wooden fabric-bolt armatures, framing rayon crepe, buttons, Semco iron on transfers and transfer designs machine embroidered on four of seven sections by Pat Bridge using VSM 4D Pfaff embroidery suite
Size: 2540 mm stepped to 485 mm & 225 mm”
Image: Ann Alcock

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CATALOGUE NOTES
Wooden armatures, from the bolts of rayon crepe fabric, salvaged from the Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing workroom, have been sanded and used to frame arrangements of shades of pink rayon crepe, buttons and Semco transfers. Sections of Semco iron-on designs have been scanned and stitched onto a square of pink fabric and positioned on the diagonal.

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COMMENTS
I was delighted with this artwork.

The elements I chose to use captured the early years of Ida and Jack’s grand adventure. The artwork also honoured the machine embroidery skills Ida used to decorate women’s frocks. These embroidered embellishments, added a touch of elegance and style that set Ida’s garments apart from the rest.

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9. Vale Ida Dennis

Vale Ida Dennis
Description: Photograph of Ida Dennis’s headstone on Craftwood backboard
Size: 403 x 655mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

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CATALOGUE NOTES
Ida Dennis was born on 6th February 1911 and died of tuberculosis on the 16th March 1990. She is buried at The Garden of Remembrance in Toowoomba, Queensland.

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Overcoat & sketch

Overcoat & sketch
Description: overcoat – 1950’s fully lined, sixteen gored woollen overcoat
Dry brush illustration – thought to be the artwork of Ida’s older sister, Maud
Size: sketch 1560 x 740mm
Image: Peter Ford

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COMMENTS
A 1950’s sixteen-gore woollen overcoat displayed with Ida’s sister Maud’s dry-brush sketch, greeted visitors as they entered the exhibition space. That the sketch survived, is astounding.

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The Adorable Mrs Dennis catalogue: Once all the artworks were completed, they were photographed. The catalogue foreword wording was provided by Phillip Collins, a Toowoomba businessman, who grew up knowing both Ida and Jack.

Next, I needed an essayist. No-one better than Toowoomba arts writer Sandy Pottinger, who had followed the exhibition production trajectory from the beginning. A 24-page catalogue was the result.

The exhibition opening took place in October 2008, at the Kath Dickson Community Art space. Tony Wigan M.C.’ed, in his sexy radio voice. Tony and my friend Peter arranged for Dianne Thorley, the progressive former mayor of Toowoomba, then based in Tasmania, to come to Toowoomba to officiate.

Afterwards, 350 people enjoyed afternoon tea with ginger biscuits made using Ida’s recipe.

The opening was a huge success. Word got around. Over five weeks,1500 people visited the exhibition, with some returning for a second look.

I was absolutely sure The Adorable Mrs Dennis would be my last exhibition as I’d been unwell, the result of fifteen intense years producing both commissions and artworks to tour. I was drained. But, in 2018, ten years after the Ida exhibition, another unexpected project appeared out of nowhere. This time, much closer to home; the subject, my British grandfather’s experience in France, during World War 1.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Adorable Mrs Dennis exhibition was an ‘out-of-the-blue’ project.

An aspect of the project I particularly enjoyed, was the detective work that took me deep into the lives of both Ida and Jack. I was helped by Ida’s family, the Greek community, former employees and customers, all of whom provided background information and insights into their association with either Ida or Jack.

Background:
Ida King was born in 1911 at Oakey Queensland. She married Ambrose Dennis in Sydney in 1937.

During World War 2, she worked as a machinist in a Sydney clothing factory. At night she decoded Army documents in the city. She worked two jobs because Ambrose was ill and unable to work. Ida’s wartime clothing industry experience introduced her to mass production techniques; for example, layering fabric to cut multiples of the same size garment using an industrial fabric cutter; a jigsaw for fabric.

Ida’s husband died of renal failure in 1945. Ida was 34.

In early 1947, Jack Carroll, approached her with a business proposition. For Ida, a young widow with an interest in fashion as well as ‘up to the minute’ knowledge of clothing mass-production techniques, thanks to her wartime sewing experience, Jack’s business proposition offered her the opportunity to return home to her extended family, living in and around Toowoomba.

After selling properties in Sydney and finalising her husband’s Estate, she returned to Toowoomba to set up her workroom with ‘state-of-the-art’ machinery for straight sewing, overlocking, buttonholing and machine embroidery.

I’ve come to realise that the critical element in the success of their Carldenia adventure, was timing. Jack’s timing was perfect. He’d identified the business opportunity a women’s clothing venture offered after six years of wartime austerity. Women were desperate to once again dress with style and flare. He could see the need for fashionable women’s clothing at a reasonable price.

Their clothing manufacturing enterprise had little local competition because Ida was way ahead of the pack in terms of design, quality and speed of production. After the War, Toowoomba dressmakers continued to make one-of-a-kind garments for individual customers wanting an outfit for a special occasion.

In terms of oncosts, they had it covered, because Jack owned the Ruthven Street building. As a result, they could undercut the local competition, as well as manufacturers from further afield.

Their enterprise also offered employment for Toowoomba women with sewing experience, or the desire to learn the business. A blessing for many, a number of whom had become the family breadwinner after the War, often with children to support.

Jack struck gold, no, diamonds, in his business partnership with Ida. She was softly spoken, attractive, always beautifully dressed, careful with money, trustworthy and totally committed to their business venture. Jack featured prominently in her private life too. Both were very private people who socialized separately; Ida with her relatives and Jack with his.

I was aware this new exhibition gave me the opportunity to make a show about Toowoomba in Toowoomba.

It was to be a ‘thank you’ exhibition—my way of saying thank you to everyone who had supported me throughout my career; and I was absolutely certain that this exhibition would be my last.

Revisiting this exhibition has been interesting. I remain filled with admiration for Ida, who totally devoted herself to her career. She and I are two of a kind, as we’re both textile tragics, driven to do the best work we can, never compromising style or quality. But I’m sure she could’ve taught me a thing or two about business!

Vale Ida Dennis.

FACTS:
Tuberculosis: a disease that often afflicts garment workers spending long hours in workrooms filled with fibre particles.

Mrs Ida Dennis – Primary source quotes:

Staff:
Glenda (Habben) Lucht employed 1952 and 1953
[Quotes from transcript of the telephone conversation on the 6.1.2007]

Glenda, a presser, ironed garment pieces before assembly:

“When I worked at Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing, there were three machinists; one would do collars, another the lace inserts, another would construct the bodices. They were all top sewers quick and good. There was a young shop assistant downstairs in the dress shop.”

“We’d arrive at work to find frocks cut out and ready to assemble. Mrs Dennis cut dresses out in stacks of twenty or so, using a cutter with a metal plate that slipped underneath the stack of layered fabric and then cut out around the various patterns.”

“I remember Mrs Dennis—as a steady, quiet, organised woman.”

“The rayon crepe came in the most beautiful colours.”

“I was on my feet for the whole day [ironing] for £3.13.00 a week!”

Shirley (Keal) Czerwinski employed 1960-63
“Petit, beautifully dressed, softly spoken—Mrs Dennis was a real lady.”

A neighbour:
Phillip Collins
In the afternoon after school, Philip would drop in to Adora Gowns to say hello to Ida.

“When a customer entered, she would pat me on the head and say, ‘You can come back and see me tomorrow.’ More often than not, I’d hide behind the displays and reappear when the customer had gone, prompting Mrs Dennis to ask, ‘Where did you come from?’”

“Jack drove an old Bedford ute. I used to think that Mrs Dennis should have been driven in a Rolls Royce, because she dressed so beautifully, but I wasn’t game to tell Jack!”

A customer:
Vasso (Karydes) Levonis
“For my wedding [in Toowoomba in 1954], Mrs Dennis made my gown, the bridesmaids dresses and four outfits for my trousseau.”

A former Mayor of Toowoomba:
Dianne Thorley AM
“Imagine if Ida Dennis had been given the opportunity to strut her stuff in Paris or London?”

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PLEASE NOTE The Adorable Mrs Dennis (11:00 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/line-of-blood-videos/

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ARTIST’S STATEMENT

This all began like an Indiana Jones mystery: an unexpected phone call, a summons to a dim and mysterious room…and, inside it, a suitcase filled with secrets.

I describe myself as a narrative visual artist. I endeavour to capture the character of Australia – the land and its multiethnic people – using textiles old and new, text, photographs and artefacts to tell stories of both hardship and success.

Early one morning in November 2006 my telephone rang and artist friend Beverley Bloxham exclaimed, “There’s something you must see…meet me behind 497 Ruthven Street…be there in an hour!”

Who could refuse? An hour later, as we climbed a sagging flight of stairs, my mind buzzed with questions. Slowly my eyes became accustomed to the gloom and I began to explore a room locked away from the world for nearly half a century. I was overwhelmed – even before I knew how much was yet to be revealed.

As I searched through bolts of fabrics, rows of work benches, fashion illustrations and patterns, dusty machines and the mannequins standing silently in the shadows, Jack Carroll’s nephew came over to me and asked about my work. He then produced an old Globite suitcase containing a treasure-trove of tantalizing clues to the amazing life of Mrs Ida Dennis – a bold woman who, sixty years ago, built a fashion empire from this dark, dusty room. Few people alive today know of her or her life and work in Toowoomba with her business partner, Jack Carroll (aka Gianis Kalokerinos), a Greek immigrant and entrepreneur who made his first money as a Toowoomba café owner. The whole story captivated me.

Ida’s suitcase contained photographs, documents, various certificates, and letters exploring her family’s history. So much history – but far more questions than answers. Who was Ida Dennis, really? Who was Jack Carroll? How did their star rise? Why Toowoomba? And how? My professional mind took over: could this be the basis of another exhibition?

“There is a condition,” I was told, “…return the Globite and its contents to Ida Dennis’ family – if you can find them.” What a mystery – and what a challenge! With trepidation, and excitement, I agreed.

I knew the Ruthven Street building had recently been sold and that all in it would soon be cleared away – probably to a skip! – so I knew that time was of the essence. I set to work.

The Adorable Mrs Dennis project had begun.

Ida Dennis died in 1990; Jack Carroll in 2004 – the factory contents of their Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing enterprise was being dispersed in late 2006. Reconstructing their entwined lives and their glorious venture took painstaking research and some basic detective work before I could begin the detailed sewing and constructing for this exhibition.

Ida’s dazzling design and fabric skills are as inspiring to a narrative artist as they were to the many admiring clients who were drawn into her retail outlet, Adora Gowns. Bringing her story to life has been a labour of love, which I hope, will excite, intrigue and inspire many and bring back memories for others who may have worn an Adora Gown – or two!

As always, I am overwhelmed by the wonderful community support for my work – this being my ninth thematic exhibition*. And to Ida Dennis’ and Jack Carroll’s families, as well as Sue and Philip Collins, Toowoomba CBD Taskforce Inc, an anonymous sponsor (mystery continues to permeate this story) and the numerous people whose diverse skills helped me bring this project to fruition, my heartfelt thanks.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 2008

* Previous touring exhibitions: In Praise of Australian Women (1995), Men at Work (1996), Setbacks – Shattered Dreams (1997), Aprons (1998), Washing (1999), Well Preserved! (2001), Line of Blood – Myall Creek Massacre 1838 – our shared history (2004) and Rise – cooking up character (2005).

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OVERVIEW

‘Tis the cut of the cloth….’

The history of textiles is, to a certain extent, the history of humankind because its manufacture parallels the human need for protection, warmth, and, yes, the individual imperative to decorate, and through decoration, to denote distinctive ownership. Clothing, its design, modification, and style tells us about our own past and how people coped with the vagaries that life thrust upon them. Ancient tombs and temples have offered a testimony to power, position, and ritual, while the humble graves of ordinary folk have documented everyday life through the mends and darns on well used garments.

Over the years, artists have recognized the significance of the outer carapace of clothing as a means to convey an emotional response to events and personal experience. Works by French artist Christian Boltanski, particularly his installations that consist of whole rooms full of old clothes, are an essay about loss and absence. Fellow French artist Annette Messager has used clothing to critique the representation of female identity. Japanese designer Issey Miyake moulded and sculpted fabrics to create wearable artworks in which the human frame becomes the secondary armature of presentation. African-American artists such as Betye Saar and Faith Ringgold have used the domestic craft skills of the quilt-maker to design story quilts that document a history from slavery to human rights.

It is this latter role of storytelling that finds resonance with the work of Toowoomba-based artist and visual historian, Morley Grainger. The research that has shaped her informative and thought-provoking exhibitions has given validation and life to the often unsung heroes who have shaped our culture. Grainger is an artist who commands respect across a range of media and who is able, through her vision and expertise, to claim a particular and unique ownership of material. In this body of work, The Adorable Mrs Dennis, Grainger has used fabric, accessories, and supports from bolts of material, patterns, labels, office paperwork and various ephemera from the old Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing Company to construct a visual narrative. She has used these objects, some damaged and sun bleached, to shape meticulously created artworks that pay homage to Mrs Dennis and the place she held in the local clothing industry. But while Grainger has established a visual archive through her own skilful techniques as a textile artist she has also allowed space for the viewer to explore their own memories and an opportunity to weave stories about the team of women and girls who also played their part in this business of fashion.

The Adorable Mrs Dennis project began with a visit to the site of the former Carldenia Clothing Manufacturing Company in Ruthven Street, Toowoomba, beneath which was the retail outlet, Adora Gowns. Both businesses were run by the redoubtable, ‘adorable’ Ida Dennis.

Adora Gowns was launched in the premises owned by local business man Jack Carroll. He saw an opportunity to develop a clothing manufacturing business with a retail outlet catering to the fashion needs of the average woman. The top floor was given over to factory space where a number of young girls were employed as machinists, while downstairs the dress shop welcomed customers. Ida oversaw the cutting and designs as well as attending to the retail business. She was careful and efficient in keeping neatly detailed records of job applicants, wages, sales, lists of measurements, client details, and fabrics purchased.

Morley Grainger has reproduced with care the Adora Gowns sign, the work, Crepe-a sign, acts as a latter day illuminated capital introducing a paragraph in a chapter about the life of Mrs Ida Dennis.

The artwork Crepe-finding work documents a vignette of working day practices in 1950s Toowoomba. It takes the dramatic form of an inverted pyramid; the squares of colour, actually made from the crepe fabric used by Ida Dennis recall the minimalist Op Art images of the 1960s. The sometimes wide, sometimes narrow borders lead the eye across the surfaces and it is then we discover that the squares upon the squares are letters. This correspondence, letters of application for sales assistants, shop girls, and machinists, offers an insight into employment opportunities of the time. There are hopeful girls just out of school with the almost insolent confidence of the very young and mature ladies with retail experience and the need to be self-supporting. Who are they? What are their stories? Grainger gives us room to consider, and maybe identify a name, or recognize an address.

Ida Dennis was more than a serious and focussed businesswoman, the hard-working consort in a successful clothing enterprise. She was an artist with a feeling for fabric. She understood the weight of fabric, how it would fall and drape, and she learned how to tame the new wrinkle-free synthetic materials.

Grainger too has a profound feeling for fabric. For her the rolls of fabric from the clothing factory have the potential to tell a story. As a visual historian, she draws the narrative from the cloth, but as an artist her role is more one of metaphorical midwife. Through her interpretation and understanding she uses existing objects and entities to generate new and original artistic statements.

The bolts of fabric wrapped in brown paper and tied with string hold true to the packaging of the time, but as an artwork the installation, Crepe-industry, situated on its remnant of old linoleum, and with the uppermost bolt flung open, is a punctuation mark that creates a cohesive element in the exhibition.

Rolls of fabric, liberated from their packaging are allowed to fall in a cascade of subtle tones where the striping from light damage adds a fluid ripple effect. Thus another artwork, Crepe-cascade links the artist with the maker and the material. The stiff brown paper patterns marked with sizes swing from colour coordinated ribbons of fabric to give an intriguing sense of mobility.

The fragile wooden armatures, the inserts around which the bolts of fabric were wrapped, have been deconstructed and reconstructed and the basic framework strengthened with aluminium to create Crepe-decorated. This work salutes attention to detail with its machine embroidered floral transfers. The black panels and edging complemented by the precision of the black buttons against tonal modulations in shades of pink reflect an almost Japanese delicacy in design.

Another work, Crepe-labelling synthetics, with its orderly composition of labels accented by rubber stamp prints is a little piece of textile history reflecting the advances in technology. The labels extol the virtues of the new fabrics of rayon and Tetoron and give instruction on the care and washing of the garments. As in all the other works, the background colour is the crepe fabric, while the formality here is softened by the free flying strings of the shaped labels.

Christian Boltanski contends that clothes and possessions left behind shape a portrait of their previous owners. The three dimensional nature of an object or piece of clothing gives a sense of form to memory that carries with it something of the history of the person. What a suitcase of remnants tells us about Mrs Ida Dennis can only be supposition, but from the dust and detritus of the old factory floor, from the residue of a life, Grainger has given us a portrait. She has translated the taste and fashion of an era and through her interpretation we are able to glimpse a shade of the remarkable Mrs Dennis.

The work Crepe bodices – the 1950s re-captured makes a fashion statement about style, accessories, and fine detail. The sculptural foundation work that contributes so effectively to the immaculate presentation is a compelling and understated part of the series. The bodices with their prim little patent leather belts and jet jewellery adornments are made from patterns found in Australian Home Journal magazines of the period.

Fashion adopts an attitude; it offers an attractive facade that faces the world and boasts a confident nonchalance. For the young brides, the matrons, the girl who just wanted ‘a nice frock for a party’ Ida Dennis was a magician, a conspirator, and a god-send. Morley Grainger can relate to Mrs Dennis on a number of levels: the obvious passion for fabric, certainly, but also the recognition of a shared skill base, and the ability through artistic intervention to turn the exotic or even the ordinary into a work of art.

How then to create a work that remains true to documenting a snippet of local history, that honours an individual’s modest but extraordinary contribution, yet distinctly reflects the hand of the artist Morley Grainger? The artwork that seems to do this with exquisite and subtle understatement is Crepe-Courtaulds remembered. In using the rayon crepe in rhythmic curves, Grainger has made a votive piece that is both heraldic and deeply symbolic. The curves suggest a chalice, a passing of the cup, while on a more mundane level the cross-over lines could be read as a bodice.

The photograph of the headstone, Vale Ida Dennis, which shows a fitting attention to decorative detail, is an appropriate finale that marks a life of quiet industry and discreet creativity.

Morley Grainger has honoured the memory of Ida Dennis. Through her response and interpretation, the body of work The Adorable Mrs Dennis, has created an epitaph written with affinity, constructed with care, and presented with respect.

Sandy Pottinger 2008 ©

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References:
Chadwick, W., 1996, Women, Art, and Society, (2nd. Edition, Revised), Thames and Hudson, London.
Colchester, C., 1991, The New Textiles, Trends+Traditions, Thames and Hudson, London.
Gumpert, L., 1996, Christian Boltanski, Flammarion Press, Paris.
Harris, J., (Ed) 1993, 5000 Years of Textiles, British Museum Press, London.
Isaacs, J., 1992, The Gentle Arts, 200 Years of Australian Women’s Domestic and Decorative Arts, Ure Smith, Sydney.

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VENUE

The Adorable Mrs Dennis

Launched at the Kath Dickson Community Art Space on the 20 October and ran until the 30 November, 2008

This exhibition celebrates a gifted Toowoomba woman’s enterprise—it wasn’t designed to tour.

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Back to Chapter Menu

Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 107: Rise—cooking up character

With my sixth touring exhibition, Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history complete, I could take a break from what had been an extremely intense experience, that is, making art about a pre-meditated massacre of unarmed First Nations people in northern New South Wales.

As soon as I’d regained my creative mojo, I was ready to begin work on the seventh, titled Rise–cooking up character.

So how did this exhibition come to pass?

To explain, in late 2004, whilst still in recovery mode, I visited Sydney to have a much-needed top-up of culture. Whilst there, I visited the Salmon Gallery at McMahons Point where, back in 2000, Washing had launched in a blaze of publicity.

I was warmly welcomed and over breakfast the gallery owner told me about a recent exhibition she’d held, titled Country Women Artists (CWA), with cakes and baking as the central theme. This exhibition was a nod to the Country Women’s Association, mainstay of rural Australia and famous for homemade treats. She encouraged her artists to feature cakes in their artworks; organised a baking competition, as well as a cake stall and fancy high tea; innovative masterstrokes that created an unforgettable event for all concerned.

My ears pricked up as she described the event, and I wondered if cakes would work as a theme for a future touring exhibition? As the idea wouldn’t go away, I began to plan. I’d use fabric and other non-edible materials to create fake food.

Inspiration for the exhibition design came from Salvador Dali’s painting, The Persistence of Memory, with its limp clock faces, described by Dali as “…soft as overripe cheese — the camembert of time.”

Salvador Dali’s painting The Persistence of Memory
Image: Wikipedia

I thought to create visual interest by taking food from the customary horizontal plane to an almost vertical one, the plane from which ‘art’ is usually viewed.

For this exhibition, as always, I began with the crates. Two crates, each containing nine artworks; three rows of three, 18 artworks in all.

The next job was to find 18 participants.

The friends I approached were keen to join in – seventeen women and one man.

Each participant agreed to:

  • cook the food
  • be photographed holding it
  • provide the recipe
    and lastly
  • answer two questions

Question 1: What are your first memories of the food?

And, Question 2: What is the significance of the food in your family today?

Next, I needed an exhibition title. I considered Let Them Eat Cake, with its supposed association with Marie-Antoinette, or, Piece of Cake; neither of which captured the essence of the exhibition I had in mind. A friend offered the solution: Rise—cooking up character; and from this point on, the project gained momentum.

Each artwork would comprise three elements:

  • the food
  • a plate
    and
  • a tablecloth

mounted on a wall-hung base, with triangular sides.

After interviewing each contributor, I set about re-creating their offering using inert materials.

 I learnt to make plaster of Paris moulds for cashews, almonds, glacé cherries and crystallised ginger. I used gap sealant for icing, cream and ice cream; polymer clay for hundreds and thousands, nuts, crystallised ginger, wedding cake decorations, glacé cherries, crumbled pastry and chocolate sprinkles. I used dental floss for desiccated coconut, balsa wood for slivered almonds and planed tempered Masonite for shaved chocolate.

Each artwork came with its own set of challenges and to get it right, I made prototypes until I felt confident to proceed.

Below, is a brief description of the artworks, including the participants story, a list of materials, as well as the technical challenges I overcame, as the project developed.

I began with the First Nations artwork, Johnny Cakes.

1. Rise—cooking up character

AUSTRALIA
Johnny cakes (2005)
Yvonne Bailey (nee Weatherall)
Born: Mungindi Queensland 1945

Yvonne Bailey’s Johnny Cakes 400 x 400 x 130mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Yvonne was the youngest of 14 children, raised on a sheep station in northern New South Wales. Her mother made bread, damper, scones and Johnny cakes for the family. Yvonne has passed down her mother’s Johnny cake recipe to her daughters and granddaughter.

Description:
For this work, three Johnny cakes are secured to a chicken wire ‘plate’, attached to the pine base through a paper bark ‘tablecloth’.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 130mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I applied areas of Liquid Nails onto three irregular cardboard shapes. The glue took days to dry. Whilst I waited, I was able to mould the lumps, before adding a layer of wadding and an off-white interlock fabric cover, tightly gathered underneath. Lastly, I painted each one, to look like the real thing.

Plate: Yvonne’s husband made a chicken wire frame for the cooking demonstration. As there was a complete fire ban that day, instead of an open fire, the Johnny cakes were cooked on the frame over an electric hot plate. Afterwards, the family donated the frame for the ‘plate’ in this artwork.

Tablecloth: not far from their house was a paperbark tree, with loose bark hanging off. I thought it would be the perfect table cloth for Johnny cakes and the family agreed. Before attaching the bark to the base, I soaked it in a solution of diluted Aquadhere glue to stabilise the bark layers.

Base: I lightly waxed the base to tone in with the tablecloth.

This was my first attempt at making three-dimensional food and I was thrilled with the result. If this was a sign of what was to come, I’d have a very exciting exhibition to offer the galleries.

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2. Rise—cooking up character

AUSTRALIA
Patty cakes (2005)
Helen Cameron (nee Phie)
Born: Toowoomba Queensland 1930

Helen Cameron’s Patty Cakes 400 x 400 x 135mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Helen’s grandmother taught her to make Patty cakes. Her family contributed dozens for fund-raising events at the Holy Name Convent and later St Thomas More’s Catholic Primary School in Toowoomba.

Description:
For this work, foam rubber is used to make eight iced Patty cakes; then arranged on a plastic plate, fixed to the base below through the check tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 135mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I shaped yellow foam rubber to fit paper patty pans. Next, from coloured polymer clays, I made hundreds of 100s-and-1000s, one by one. Then I applied a layer of white gap-filler ‘icing’ to the ‘cakes’, and whilst they were wet, sprinkled them with the 100s-and-1000s.

Making the 100s-and-1000s was a labour of love that took me hours and hours, but the end result was definitely worth it.

Plate: a moulded yellow plastic plate from the Op-shop.

Tablecloth: I also found this multi-coloured check cotton seersucker fabric at the Op-shop.

Base: I had it covered with electric blue Laminex.

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3. Rise—cooking up character

AUSTRALIA
Healthy Christmas cake (2005)
Helen Collyer (nee Cleaver)
Born: Kiama New South Wales 1946

Helen Collyer’s Healthy Christmas Cake 400 x 400 x 160mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Whilst Helen lived in Asia, Christmas celebrations came into sharper focus. She felt compelled to make a traditional Christmas cake. Recently Helen became more health-conscious and began using organic ingredients exclusively.

Description:
For this work, shaped foam rubber is covered with painted fabric. The ‘cake’ then placed on a gold cake plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth, then decorated.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 160mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I used an electric carving knife to cut the foam rubber cake circle and shaped it by gently bouncing a red-hot aluminium strip over the top. The excess foam was gradually burned away, creating a slight dome; that was then covered in hand-painted fabric.

I used a plaster of Paris mould with polymer clay to re-create the blanched almond halves.

The final touch was a sprig of grey-blue silk eucalyptus leaves, adding a cheeky touch of Australia to a traditional Christmas cake.

Plate: a gold cake board.

Tablecloth: The fabric was a fortunate find – printed with holly, ivy and poinsettia – plants associated with a wintery Christmas in the northern hemisphere. These plants are considered symbols of Christmas in Australia too, even though Christmas in the southern hemisphere is in mid-summer.

Base: I stained, waxed and polished the cedar veneer base, to give the impression of a posh French-polished antique dining table.

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4. Rise—cooking up character

AUSTRALIA
Lamingtons (2005)
June Coward (nee Putland)
Born: Mendooran New South Wales 1950

June Coward’s Lamingtons 400 x 400 x 150mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

June’s grandmother taught her to make lamingtons when she was a child. After marrying, she became a founding member of the Moonie River branch of the Country Women’s Association and made lamingtons by the dozen for fundraising.

Description:
For this work, nine rubber squares are covered with fabric, and fake coconut. Then arranged on a clear, plastic cake plate, fixed to the base through the check tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 150mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I covered the foam blocks with brown fabric I’d painted with flecks of white, to look like desiccated coconut. Next, I loop-stitched dental floss on all sides of each block, then cut the loops. It took me a while to perfect my fake lamington production technique. But the end result was most convincing.

Plate: I was given this moulded plastic plate by a friend, who responded to my plea for plates of any kind she could spare, for this exhibition.

Tablecloth: yet another Op-shop find. Yellow gingham fabric, skilfully needle-woven with matching yellow crochet thread.

Base: I stained and waxed the Silky Oak base to look like a dining table surface.

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5. Rise—cooking up character

AUSTRALIA
Cassata (2005)
Patricia Ford (nee Shann)
Born: Townsville Queensland 1924

Patricia Ford’s Cassata 400 x 400 x 185mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Patricia first tasted cassata at an Italian wedding in Brisbane in the 1960s. She returned home to Miles, to create her own version. It was a huge hit and ever-after a Ford family favourite for special occasions.

Description:
For this work, the foam rubber cake shape is coated with shades of gap sealant and decorated. Then placed on a Perspex plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 185mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: With an electric carving knife, I cut a foam rubber circle and shaped it by gently bouncing a red-hot aluminium strip around the top edge. The excess foam rubber was gradually burned away to round it off. I then encased it with interlock fabric.

I used polymer clay to make pieces of crystalized ginger and thin balsa wood to make the toasted slivered almonds.

Then I coated the sides with gap sealant, coloured to look like homemade chocolate ice-cream. Next, I covered the top with sealant to look like whipped cream and whilst it was still wet, scattered it with fake ginger pieces and fake slivered almonds.

Plate: I used a clear perspex disk that allowed the embroidered tablecloth to show through.

Table cloth: was yet another wonderful Op-shop find. A linen cloth decorated with hand embroidered lilies and hand-coloured stems; the cloth completely covering the base.

I was fully aware of its importance in this artwork, an example of a borrowed culinary tradition becoming a special treat in a Queensland family.

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6. Rise—cooking up character

AUSTRALIA
Wedding cake (2005)
Diane Welke (nee Hartwig)
Born: Crows Nest Queensland 1952

Diane Wilke’s Wedding cake 400 x 400 x 180mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Diane’s first memory of a wedding cake was at a family wedding when she was 8 years old.

At 43 she completed a cake decorating course at Toowoomba TAFE, and now she’s the ‘go-to’ cake decorator for her extended family of 72 members (in 2005).

Description:
For this work, a block of foam rubber is wrapped in white fabrics and placed on a square cake board. Then fixed to the base through the tablecloth, before adding the decorations.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 180mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I wrapped a square block of foam rubber in white cotton with an overlay of firmly fitting white silk organza to resemble smooth fondant icing, and placed a strip of silver ribbon around the base.

Lilies: Using Diane’s cutters, I made lilies and leaves from polymer clay. Florist wire stems were added to each, before I arranged them all on top of the cake. Next, I glued the arrangement in position and tied the stalks together with a generous double bow of silver ribbon.

Plate: I covered a cake board with silver foil.

Tablecloth: I covered the base with dark green drill, thereby making the white cake and its over-the-top arrangement of lilies and leaves, the focus of the artwork.

Background: I was struggling to find a wedding cake-maker for the Rise – project. A friend gave me Diane’s name, describing her as an experienced cake decorator using traditional techniques.

I telephoned to explain my project. And yes! she was willing to make and decorate a wedding cake for me to copy. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

I had some boarding school experience in formal cake decorating; but these experiences were now to be consigned to the ‘too-old-fashioned’ bin.

Wedding cake decorating had moved on, with Diane describing her creation as a ‘Now’ wedding cake.

With the photographs taken and the interview completed, it was time to leave.

To my surprise, Diane insisted I take the wedding cake home with me.

At home I placed her cake on my dining table wondering what it meant. For a woman who had chosen not to marry, the gift of a wedding cake, seemed strange.

I pondered the significance for a week or so; but with no insights forthcoming, I cut off a chunk, and tucked in!

Diane’s cake is the last of six Australian favourites in this series. From the beginning, I sensed I’d run out of traditional Australian food for this exhibition, so I topped up with the delicious baking brought to this country by our multi-national newcomers, beginning with Argentina and continuing in alphabetical order, by country.

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7. Rise—cooking up character

ARGENTINA
Empanadas criollas (2005)
Rosa Hochbaum-Rother (nee Hochbaum)
Born: Paraná Entre Ríos Argentina 1961

Rosa Rother’s Empanadas criollas 400 x 400 x 130mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Rosa was a teenager in Argentina when she first encountered empanadas criollas. Since coming to Australia, she occasionally makes them for her family and friends as they provide her the opportunity to talk to others about her country.

Description:
For this work, wadding is wrapped in fabric, then painted, stitched and glazed. Seven repeats presented on a platter, fixed to the base through the woollen tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 130mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: Reproducing empanadas in fabric was by far the most difficult technical challenge of this exhibition. I made prototype after prototype until I was satisfied. It was worth the effort as the result is unbelievably convincing, reminding me of Cornish pasties.

Plate: the simple dark brown wooden platter came from the Op-shop. It was perfect for this artwork.

Tablecloth: the fabric was yet another Op-shop find. Woven in South America from hand-spun alpaca wool and used to completely cover the base.

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8. Rise—cooking up character

BURMA (MYANMAR)
Mok lone ye baw (2005)
Charmaine Williamson (nee Min-Swe)
Born: Yangon Burma (Myanmar) 1967

Charmaine Williamson’s Mok lone ye baw 400 x 400 x 140mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Charmaine grew up in Burma with mok lone ye baw [little balls rising in the water] served for special occasions; birthdays, Christmas and Easter. Since coming to Australia, Charmaine continues to make them for special occasions.

Description:
For this work, polystyrene balls are covered with fabric and decorated. Then arranged on a bamboo plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 140mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I covered polystyrene balls in white lycra before stitching each one all over with dental floss loops; then cut the loops to look like desiccated coconut.

Plate: I was delighted to find this dark red bamboo plate, as the colour makes the bright-white balls pop.

Tablecloth: I used this piece of traditional Burmar fabric Charmaine gave me, to cover the base. The sombre colour of both the plate and the table cloth, make the bright-white balls the focus of the artwork.

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9. Rise—cooking up character

FRANCE
La brioche des Rois (2005)
Daniel Abad
Born: Oran Oranie Algeria–French Territory 1951

Daniel Abad’s La Brioche de Rois 400 x 400 x 155mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Daniel always remembers La brioche des Rois, with its Christmas associations, from his time growing up in France. Since coming to Australia, he has not continued the tradition, though his French family still does. 

Description:
For this work, a foam rubber shape is covered with fabric and stitched. Then placed on a silver tray with a paper doyley, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 155mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I cut the foam rubber cake shape with an electric carving knife. I then refined the shape by bouncing a red-hot aluminium strip over the foam surface.

The surface of the real brioche was uneven, so I re-created it by criss-crossing the foam with folded light-weight voile fabric, before stitching and painting it.

I made red and green glacé cherries from polymer clay. For sugar, I sourced small granite chips from a garden supplier and displayed the artwork on a white paper doyley.

Plate: I found an EPNS platter at a local antique store.

Tablecloth: The printed cotton fabric was a lucky find at Spotlight. I high-lighted areas of the sombre nativity scene with hand embroidery, particularly the infant Jesus and his parents, potent symbols of Christmas. I then arranged the fabric to completely cover the base.

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10. Rise—cooking up character

GERMANY
Black Forest torte (2005)
Regina Renner (nee Störk)
Born: Liptingen Baden-Wurttemberg Germany 1963

Regina Rother’s Black Forest torte 400 x 400 x 185mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Regina’s first memory of a Black Forest torte was when she was 8 or 9 years old. Her aunt used the cherished family recipe to make family birthday cakes. Regina began to bake for her family and when she came to Australia, she operated a commercial bakehouse.

Description:
For this work, a foam rubber shape is covered with fabric, coated with gap sealant and decorated. Then placed on a cake board, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 185mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I used an electric carving knife to cut a foam rubber circle. I then shaped it by bouncing a red-hot aluminium strip over the foam surface to round off the top edge. Next, I wrapped it in white interlock fabric.

I found it difficult to re-create fake dark chocolate shavings. After numerous failures, I used a hand plane to create irregular shaped slivers from tempered Masonite. Perfect!

I had no difficulty sourcing fake cherries in Toowoomba.

Decorating the cake: I began by applying a coating of gap sealant to the top and sides of the fabric-covered shape. Whilst the sealant was wet, I carefully embedded the tempered Masonite slivers all around the sides and in a central circle on the top, leaving space for the cherries. When the gap sealant was dry, I used a piping bag filled with sealant to make a series of circles, and, before the sealant dried, pressed a fake cherry into the centre of each. It was tricky because I knew I only had one go at it.

Plate: I found a red cake board.

Tablecloth: For the tablecloth, I chose red and white check gingham, trimmed with a cheerful Austrian braid. I felt the braid added an authentic European touch to this artwork.

Base: I waxed and polished the base to resemble European pine.

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11. Rise—cooking up character

GREECE
Yiaourtopita (2005)
Toula Elliott (nee Levonis)
Born: Toowoomba Queensland Australia 1957

Toula Elliott’s Yiaourtopita 400 x 400 x 150mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Regina’s first memory of a Black Forest torte was when she was 8 or 9 years old. Her aunt used the cherished family recipe to make family birthday cakes. Regina began to bake for her family and when she came to Australia, she operated a commercial bakehouse.

Description:
For this work, a foam rubber shape is covered with fabric, coated with gap sealant and decorated. Then placed on a cake board, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 185mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I used an electric carving knife to cut a foam rubber circle. I then shaped it by bouncing a red-hot aluminium strip over the foam surface to round off the top edge. Next, I wrapped it in white interlock fabric.

I found it difficult to re-create fake dark chocolate shavings. After numerous failures, I used a hand plane to create irregular shaped slivers from tempered Masonite. Perfect!

I had no difficulty sourcing fake cherries in Toowoomba.

Decorating the cake: I began by applying a coating of gap sealant to the top and sides of the fabric-covered shape. Whilst the sealant was wet, I carefully embedded the tempered Masonite slivers all around the sides and in a central circle on the top, leaving space for the cherries. When the gap sealant was dry, I used a piping bag filled with sealant to make a series of circles, and, before the sealant dried, pressed a fake cherry into the centre of each. It was tricky because I knew I only had one go at it.

Plate: I found a red cake board.

Tablecloth: For the tablecloth, I chose red and white check gingham, trimmed with a cheerful Austrian braid. I felt the braid added an authentic European touch to this artwork.

Base: I waxed and polished the base to resemble European pine.

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12. Rise—cooking up character

LEBANON
Ghraybeh (2005)
Catharine Hanna (nee Chaya)
Born: Kafarsgab Lebanon 1959

Catharine Hanna’s Ghraybeh 400 x 400 x 130mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Catharine remembers Ghraybeh from her childhood, baked by both her mother and grandmother for religious occasions. She came to Australia in 1978 as a young bride and has baked Ghraybeh ever since as a reminder of Lebanon.

Description:
For this work, eleven ‘biscuits’ are stacked on a tray, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.  

Dimensions: Size: 400 x 400 x 130mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I covered biscuit-shaped cardboard pieces with wadding and then encased each one in hand painted fabric. Next, I added a polymer clay almond. Lastly, I used a mapping pen to draw fine crack lines on each biscuit to enhance realism.

Plate: I found an incised brass Turkish tray at a local antique dealer.

Tablecloth: I chose to use ecru linen. On the border I embroidered Catharine’s hand-written Arabic script that reads from right to left. The translation: ‘Welcome to my country Lebanon’

Base: I waxed and polished the base to look like Lebanese cedar.

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13. Rise—cooking up character

MALAYSIA
Kuih lapis (2005)
Zainun binti Siran
Born: Muar Johor Malaysia 1967

Zainun binti Siran’s Kuih lapis 400 x 400 x 130mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Zainun’s parents were Javanese Malaysian rubber-tappers. Kuih lapis is made for special ceremonial gatherings in her village, where food is prepared and shared communally. She married an Australian and occasionally makes Kuih lapis for her family and friends.

Description:
For this work, foam rubber is covered in striped fabric, arranged on a bamboo plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 130mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I cut foam rubber into lozenge shapes and encased each one in pink and white striped cotton fabric, with a layer of orange organza on the top. It was tricky to get the points sharp.

Plate: I found a woven bamboo tray at the Op-shop.

Tablecloth: The batik fabric was a gift from Zainun’s Malaysian fabric collection. I used the fabric to completely cover the base.

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14. Rise—cooking up character

MALTA
Imqaret ta tamal (2005)
Helen Stumkat (nee Briffa)
Born: Sliema Malta 1945

Helen Stumkat’s Imqaret ta tamal 400 x 400 x 130mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

After arriving in Australia in 1949, Helen’s mother adored her new, modern kitchen and began to cook Maltese national dishes including fried date slice, Helen’s favourite.

Visiting Malta in 1974, Helen smelt Imqaret ta tamal frying in the street below. She immediately ran down to buy some.    

Description:
For this work, twenty dyed felt squares are arranged on an enamel plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 130mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: The felted squares were made by a local textile artist. I painted and stitched each square before arranging them on a grey-blue enamel plate. Lastly, I carefully coated the top of each square with diluted Aquadhere glue before sprinkling them with talcum powder, to look like icing sugar.

Plate: I gave Helen a choice of plate and tablecloth. Without hesitation, she chose the grey-blue enamel plate because her mother always served Imqaret ta tamal on one identical to the one I was offering.

Tablecloth: yet another fortuitous Op-shop find. Hand-embroidered linen is used to completely cover the base.

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15. Rise—cooking up character

PAPUA NEW GUINEA
Bananas in coconut milk (2005)
Eva Kimmins (nee Enos)
Born: Kokopo New Britain PNG 1960

Eva Kimmins’s Bananas in coconut milk 400 x 400 x 130mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

When Eva was a baby, the first solid food she ate was banana. Many varieties grew in the family gardens and were cooked in different ways. Eva came to Australia in 1999. Since then, bananas are no longer such an important part of her diet.

Description:
For this work polystyrene shapes are wrapped in fabric and coated with gap sealant, arranged on a ‘leaf’ plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 130mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I carved polystyrene to look like a banana cut in half longways. I then wrapped each half in grey-white interlock fabric. Next, I joined the halves and coated them with diluted sealant for coconut milk.

Plate: I found a PVC banana leaf. This was an authentic touch because leaves are often used as plates in Papua New Guinea.

Tablecloth: At the Op-shop, I found a sarong printed with a detailed map of Papua New Guinea. I couldn’t believe my good luck. The map showed Kokopo, Eva’s hometown, and Rabaul, where I went to school between 1961 and 1963. I used the map fabric to completely cover the base.

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16. Rise—cooking up character

SOUTH AFRICA
Vetkoek (fried bread) (2005)
Estelle Bancroft (nee van der Poel)
Born: Cape Town South Africa 1966

Estelle Bancroft’s Vetkoek 400 x 400 x 140mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Estelle first remembers vetkoek at a large family gathering when she was 7. Her aunt always made the vetkoek. Since arriving in Australia, vetkoek is a potent reminder of her culinary heritage, particularly for her sons and Australian friends.

Description:
For this work, polystyrene shapes were wrapped in painted fabric, arranged on a white plate with a paper doily, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 140mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I used polystyrene wrapped in wadding and covered in interlock fabric to make vetkoek. I carefully stitched each one to create small peaks, reminiscent of those formed when batter is dropped into hot oil. Once I was satisfied with the shapes, I painted each one to resemble freshly fried dumplings.

When complete, I was a little concerned that the dumplings looked more like potatoes, but my South African friends assured me they looked just like the real thing.

Plate: I used a white melamine plate with a paper doyley.

Tablecloth: I used a piece of Shweshwe printed cotton cloth, also known as German print or mygerman, I purchased in Swaziland.

Base: I stained, waxed and polished the base to resemble African pine.

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17. Rise—cooking up character

UKRAINE
Cake Napoleon (2005)
Viktoria Deutscher (nee Krasota)
Born: Dnepropetrovsk Ukraine 1964

Viktoria Deutscher’s Cake Napoleon 400 x 400 x 170mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

As a child, Victoria watched her mother make Cake Napoleon for special occasions—a tradition in the former USSR. In 2003 Viktoria married an Australian and made Cake Napoleon for their wedding reception.

Description:
For this work, shaped foam rubber is wrapped in fabric. Top and sides of the ‘cake’ are coated with gap sealant and decorated. Then placed on a plastic cake plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 170mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: With an electric carving knife, I cut a circular foam rubber ‘cake’, and shaped the top by carefully bouncing a red-hot aluminium strip over the surface. I then encased the foam rubber shape with white interlock fabric.

Decorations: I used a plaster of Paris mould and polymer clay to create fake cashew nut pieces. After baking, I painted each piece to appear more realistic. I also used polymer clay to make crumbed pastry as well as the individually rolled chocolate sprinkles.

With all the components ready, I coated the top and side of the ‘cake’ with coloured gap sealant. Whilst wet, I pressed the crumbed pastry pieces into the side. I then scattered the cashews on top and encircled them with a ring of chocolate sprinkles. I only had one go at this, raising my anxiety levels for a time.

Plate: I used a clear plastic cake plate.

Tablecloth: Viktoria gave me the rushnyk (step-on towel) I used for this artwork. The rushnyk has great significance for everyone in the former USSR. When a couple marry, it’s tied to the bride’s hand; and the bride and groom stand on it, to take their vows. Viktoria used this rushnyk for her Australian wedding.

Base: I stained and waxed the base to resemble Ukrainian oak.

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18. Rise—cooking up character

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Apple sauce cake (2005)
Margie Creek (nee Arnold)
Born: Philadelphia Pennsylvania USA 1946

Margie Creek’s Apple sauce cake 400 x 400 x 150mm
Image: Bob Lethbridge

Margie’s mother made apple sauce cake using apples grown in their New Jersey garden. In 1974, Margie and her husband came to Australia. Margie continues to bake apple sauce cake as a visceral reminder of her culinary roots.

Description:
For this work, a foam rubber doughnut is wrapped in fabric and placed on a clear plate, fixed to the base through the tablecloth.

Dimensions: 400 x 400 x 150mm

COMMENTS:
Fake food: I used an electric carving knife to cut a cake shape from foam rubber, with a centre hole. Next, I shaped it by carefully bouncing a red-hot aluminium strip over the surface. Then I wrapped the foam in interlock fabric and lastly, painted it to create the texture of the apple sauce cake. Margie explained this was a simple cake that was served without icing or icing sugar.

Plate: I used a clear Perspex disc.

Tablecloth: I found The Declaration of Independence fabric in Philadelphia – Margie’s home town and the home of the Liberty Bell – on my Churchill Fellowship trip in 2003. The fabric is positioned to maximise the drama of the text, the bell image and the Founding Fathers’ signatures.

Rise—cooking up character exhibition design drawing

Now all the artworks were done, I could move on to the other tasks.

Making the artworks represents 30 to 40% of what needs to be done to put a touring exhibition together. The other 60 or 70% is just hard slog.

The most pressing outstanding was the Rise— catalogue. I gathered together: the catalogue mock-up, the participants’ stories; the photographs of each artwork; the 1000-word Overview; the Rise song; my artist’s statement; and headed down to the printer.

The result, a 28-page full colour catalogue that captures the essence of this exhibition. It was very, very expensive, but worth every cent.

Next, two crates were constructed, as well as sturdy cardboard boxes with handles, one for each artwork.

I compiled the exhibition recipe book, the Education Kit for Primary and Secondary students; the Condition Report Manual; painted two calico banners; laminated the participants stories, the essay, the labels, my Artist’s statement and the acknowledgements list. Lastly, I made the exhibition Comments Book.

Rise—cooking up character launched at the Texas Regional Art Gallery in Queensland in early May 2006, after which I took a break. Even though I’d paced myself through the making of this exhibition, I found I was drained because I was no longer a spring chicken. In truth, I thought this would be my last—surely, eight touring exhibitions was enough?

But there was one more to come. It was an extraordinary Toowoomba story that came out of the blue. But that story will have to wait.

 

ON REFLECTION:
This exhibition brings together two universal themes, cooking and sewing.

It was my first foray into three-dimensional artworks. Even though it was a technical stretch, it was fun, in marked contrast to the previous one, Line of Blood—, which had been extremely painful, both physically and emotionally.

Some 20 years on, it was a pleasure to revisit the individual artworks comprising Rise—. Yes, I can see a few things I’d change slightly, but nothing anyone else would notice so, as a committed perfectionist, I’ll save myself the humiliation of listing them.

The exhibition launch at the Texas Regional Art gallery was an astounding community event.

The exhibition content had struck a chord with the art-minded folk of Texas. When I arrived with a photographer for the mid-morning launch, we couldn’t believe our eyes. The gallery volunteers had used the Rise— recipe book to re-create many of the cakes featured in the exhibition; presented on a crisp linen tablecloth with cup, saucer and plate sets carefully arranged in preparation for a feast.

But before we could tuck in, I was asked to talk about the work to those assembled; a group of older students from the Texas P-10 School, community members, gallery staff and volunteers. The event was photographed for an article in the Darling Downs Highlife magazine. As a result, the Rise-cooking up character exhibition opening at the Texas Gallery, was immortalised for all time.

For me, Rise— remains a potent demonstration of the power of food to build social capital and create meaningful cross-cultural connections. We know that in most cultures cooking is women’s work and that favourite family recipes are portable – memorised or written down – they can be taken from one town to another, or across the world.

Around 2005, I noticed that the bookings for my exhibitions, eight in all, had begun to fall away. Galleries began to curate their own touring exhibitions, often in the form of a ‘by-invitation’ group show. A high-powered curator would be hired to provide expertise and gravitas. These shows would have a grand launch, before heading off to selected regional galleries. This was the perfect formula to produce cheaper touring exhibitions, leaving less and less room for maverick operators like me, bold enough to have a go at touring their own work.

Touring exhibitions had been profitable for many years, but it was clear the party was over. I’d experienced a wonderful run. Fifteen unbelievably successful years with seven exhibitions, visiting a total of 60 venues. Gallery and museum staff were always keen to host my exhibitions, knowing they’d receive quality work that their patrons, who’re mostly women, could relate to. And yes, it’d been a strain on both my health and finances, but an inexplicable force drove me on—my desire to tell our stories.

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PLEASE NOTE: Rise—cooking up character (13:56 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/rise-cooking-up-character/

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PLEASE NOTE: Rise (the song) (03:54) can be heard at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/rise-cooking-up-character/

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PLEASE NOTE: The Rise—cooking up character recipe book is available in two versions for free at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/rise-cooking-up-character/

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NB: Below, in alphabetical order by family name, are all 18 participants’ stories.

RISE – cooking up character

France – La brioche des Rois

Daniel Abad

Born: Oran Oranie
Algeria – French Territory 1951

Daniel Abad’s story

For as long as I can remember, la brioche des Rois [cake of the Kings] was always part of my life back in France.

This cake is made each year to celebrate the arrival of the three, star-led kings who found the new born Jesus of Nazareth in a manger at Bethlehem.

La brioche des Rois is traditionally eaten every Sunday for a period of approximately four weeks, beginning at Epiphany [6 January in the Christian calendar]. It is sold in almost every bakery throughout France, with regional differences. I have no recollection of this cake being made at home.

In each brioche, the baker inserts a small token. After dinner, the cake is cut and handed out with coffee to each family member. Whoever finds the token in their piece of cake is declared the king or queen of the family for that day.

When buying la brioche des Rois at the bakery, you receive a glittering cardboard crown to be given to the person who finds the token.

It is customary for parents to discreetly insert into the cake an additional token, kept from the previous year. This leaves a mark. When the cake is being cut, the children watch eagerly, each one hoping that he or she will receive the token. The parents watch with wonder at the delightful innocence and joyful spontaneity of their children.

Since moving to Australia, I have not continued the French ritual associated with la brioche des Rois. However, I return to France regularly and notice the tradition is still observed in my family and throughout France.

Daniel Abad
Toowoomba Queensland
6 August 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Australia – Johnny cakes

Yvonne Bailey (nee Weatherall)

Born: Mungindi Queensland
Australia 1945

Yvonne Bailey’s story

My first memory of johnny cakes was when I was a little kid. I’m the youngest of fourteen – seven boys and seven girls. We were living on a sheep station between Mungindi and Dirranbandi, Queensland.

Mum had her own recipe. She had a special, heavy steel dish she only used for making johnny cakes, bread, scones and damper. My older sisters would help in the kitchen but making johnny cakes was always left to Mum as she made them so well.

Our johnny cakes were cooked outside on chicken wire over an open fire. There was always a pot of curry simmering and we could have the johnny cakes with the curry or with golden syrup or treacle.

In the 1970’s we lived at Gowrie Junction [outside Toowoomba] without a vehicle so I made most of the bread for the family. My kids preferred johnny cakes, damper and fried scones.

Today in our family, johnny cakes continue to be a regular treat. They are not necessarily made for a special occasion but it does feel special when we have them. The tradition of johnny cakes or fried scones with curry continues—they just go together.

If you go to a murri party, without fail there will be johnny cakes and damper as part of the shared meal. Recently my daughter went to a State of Origin football game [rugby league] in Brisbane. In amongst a crowd of 52,000 fans there was a murri lady from Quilpie [far western Queensland] eating her homemade johnny cakes.

My granddaughter, Samantha, enjoys making johnny cakes with her Nan and Pop, thus ensuring the tradition is being passed to the next generation.

Yvonne Bailey
Toowoomba Queensland
9 July 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

South Africa – Vetkoek

Estelle Bancroft (nee van der Poel)

Born: Cape Town Western Province
South Africa 1966

Estelle Bancroft’s story

My father’s family is Afrikaans Dutch; his forebears came to Cape Town around the time of Jan van Riebeeck [1652]. My mother’s family is English and Afrikaans Dutch.

Although I am of Afrikaans descent, I was raised in a liberal English home. However, my parents conversed in Afrikaans.

My first memory of Vetkoek [deep fried bread] was at a large family gathering. I was seven years old.

Every Christmas, the extended family would gather. The braaivleis [South African barbeque] was central to the evening meal and fed a large number of people. Six kinds of meat and at least eight salads were offered. Beautiful curried carrot, curried bean, and potato salads were part of the fare. Vetkoek is a traditional accompaniment to a braai and is eaten with home made, braaied sausage or apricot jam.

My Aunt Stella usually made the vetkoek. The mixture was prepared in the morning, set to rise in a warm spot for an hour and a half until it quadrupled in size. Then individual portions were spooned out and deep-fried in oil.

Although we were raised in the more liberal English tradition, cooking, customs and traditions remained very Dutch and Calvinistic—large families, large meals and large celebrations.

We now live in Australia. Vetkoek is a potent reminder of our culture and reinforces the culinary heritage for our sons.

We also make vetkoek for our Australian friends. The boys especially like to take it to parties; it’s quite different and I can see the pride in their faces.

Estelle Bancroft
Toowoomba Queensland
28 September 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Malaysia – Kuih lapis

Zainun binti Siran

Born: Muar Johor
Malaysia 1967

Zainun binti Siran’s story

I’m one of six children, four girls and two boys.

My father and mother are Javanese Malaysians who worked as rubber tappers in a small plantation not far from our home.

I first remember eating kuih lapis [layered cake] after Usrah [Quranic recitation] in my village. It was the custom to serve light snacks before people returned home.

Village life is punctuated with gatherings; engagements, weddings, births and circumcisions. Every week there is something happening which has allowed Javanese culture and language to remain strong in Malaysia.

The day before an event, women from the village take cooking ingredients and treats like kuih lapis to the host’s house. Everyone in the village contributes, even if they can’t help. Many fires can be seen outside the host’s house before ceremonies with large pots and woks for cooking. Spoons the size of a paddle are used by groups of men to stir them. Preparation for ceremonies takes the whole day and they eat kuih lapis and other snacks while they work to make the day special.

The family holding the ceremony keeps careful track of ingredients provided by the other people to enable them to return the same quantities on another occasion. This tradition allows each family to know exactly what ingredients to expect from others when organising its own gathering at a later date.

I now live in Australia. Sometimes I make kuih lapis for my family, neighbours and friends. This allows me to teach my seven children the Javanese custom of sharing.

Zainun binti Siran
Toowoomba Queensland
18 August 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Australia – Patty cakes

Helen Cameron (nee Phie)

Born: Toowoomba Queensland
Australia circa 1930

Helen Cameron’s story

My first memory of patty cakes was using my fingers to smear butter into the grooves of aluminium patty pans. This job had to be done carefully and thoroughly before being sprinkled with flour. If not, the patty cake mixture would stick to the missed bits and be difficult to remove after baking. My grandmother, who was a wonderful cook, supervised me. She taught me so much about preparing food – cakes, jams, pickles – everything.

When I was growing up, there were eight in our family, spanning three generations. Patty cakes were a family favourite, particularly during the Depression [1929-39] as the ingredients were readily available. We had our own chooks then as now, so eggs were always plentiful.

I remember patty cakes were the Phie family’s fundraising contribution for Holy Name Convent fetes.

We had an old wooden kitchen table 2400mm x 1200mm. A day’s baking would cover it with iced patty cakes. At that time there were no 100s-and-1000s or chocolate sprinkles. They came later, along with the paper patty cases I use today.

In the early 1960’s we moved to this area. I began making cakes for the annual fete at St Thomas More’s Catholic primary school, around the corner. Always my patty cakes sold like hot cakes. Some years later, my son attended this school for his primary education.

As a result of recent changes to public liability laws, home cooked food at fetes is now a thing of the past.

Today in our family, patty cakes are still a favourite together with other goodies – using my grandmother’s tried and true recipes.

Helen Cameron
Toowoomba Queensland
5 July 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Australia – Healthy Christmas cake

Helen Collyer (nee Cleaver)

Born: Kiama New South Wales
Australia 1946

Helen Collyer’s story

When I grew up in Australia, there must have been many Christmas cakes but I can’t recall any as being significant.

My husband and I then moved to Taiwan and the absence of a traditional Christmas cake was felt deeply because I was unable to find the necessary ingredients.

Being away from home, I suddenly realised that this vital element of our Australian Christmas celebrations was conspicuously absent. There was a peculiar vacuum. The twenty fifth of December was a public holiday in Taiwan – not for Christmas, but Constitution Day.

We had two small children when we returned to Australia some years later. As the result of our Taiwan experience the Christmas traditions – such as the decorated tree, the pudding, and especially the cake – became very important for us all.

On our engagement, my fiancée gave me the correspondence-version of the Cordon Bleu Cooking Course and I used its Christmas cake recipe for many, many years. If I were making an ordinary Christmas cake today, I would still use the same recipe.

In recent years, there have been radical changes to our diet – the emphasis shifting to organically grown and healthy foods. Thus, my Cordon Bleu Christmas cake recipe had to be revised and is now based on Julie Stafford’s no sugar, no egg yolks and no fats recipe.

We grind our own chemical-free flour and all the fruit is sun not sulphur dried. Everything in this cake is organic.

Nowadays, I can’t imagine a Christmas without a Christmas cake.

Helen Collyer
Toowoomba Queensland
27 June 2005

 

RISE-cooking up character

Australia – Lamingtons

June Coward (nee Putland)

Born: Mendooran New South Wales
Australia

June Coward’s story

My first memory of lamingtons was watching my grandmother making them for cake stalls. She was willing to cook for any event in our little country town.

My family then moved to St George, Queensland. In 1957, not long after I married, I joined the Moonie River branch of the Queensland Country Women’s Association as a foundation member. I was asked to make lamingtons for their fundraising cake stalls. They are very fiddly to make.

Years ago, I thought, there must be an easier way. I experimented by freezing the butter cake whole. To ice, I’d cut the frozen cake into squares, a few at a time. Then, with a sharp fork, hold each square firmly to completely immerse in the chocolate icing before being rolled in desiccated coconut. It worked like a charm.

On QCWA cake stall days in St George the townspeople would queue to buy lamingtons. My brother-in-law always asked for a tray [six lamingtons] to be kept for him.

When my children were growing up, I made lamingtons as a special treat for birthdays, Christmas or whenever they came home from boarding school but mostly for QCWA cake stalls.

The QCWA played an important part in my life for many years. We were lonely, isolated bush women teaching our own children. The tin hut where we regularly met was a lifeline for many, providing the chance for information exchange on health, education, craft and world affairs.

Since we moved in from the bush, I rarely make lamingtons. I don’t seem to have time.

June Coward
Hampton Queensland
26 May 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

United States of America – Apple sauce cake

Margie Creek (nee Arnold)

Born: Philadelphia Pennsylvania
United States of America 1946

Margie Creek’s story

My first memory of apple sauce cake was in the mid-1950s when we moved to a Victorian house in New Jersey. There was a glorious, mature, red-apple tree growing in the back yard. I was nine years old.

We children gathered the apples at the end of summer and stored them in a wicker-peach basket. Some were wormy, flyblown or bruised; we cut out the good parts and mom would pressure-cook them. The stewed fruit was put through a food-mill to make apple sauce. She liked it quite dark, with a little bit of sugar, lots of cinnamon and nutmeg. The sauce had to be used as soon as possible – these were the days before freezers.

A typical family meal consisted of oven-cooked meatloaf, green beans and mashed potato, followed by apple sauce cake baked while the oven was on. Apple sauce cake is a down-home, no-fuss cake – no icing or icing sugar.

During WW2, there was a food shortage in the USA, which threw families back onto their own resources. A can of Spam was considered a special treat. Our red-apple tree was a bonus.

My forebears came to the United States of America from Wales and England in the 1600’s.

In 1974, my husband and I came to Australia as high school teachers in search of adventure. I taught Home Economics. Thirty-one years later, we now call Australia home.

My recipes are of great importance to me; they maintain my link with family and friends. I have a card-system, each with the name of the provider. When I use a recipe, I’m immediately connected.

Margie Creek
Toowoomba Queensland
14 September 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Ukraine – Cake Napoleon

Viktoria Deutscher (nee Krasota)

Born: Dnipropetrovsk
Ukraine 1964

Viktoria Deutscher’s story

As a child I watched my mother making cake Napoleon. It was a six-hour process of baking and assembling which fascinated me.

Throughout the former USSR, cake Napoleon has historic significance. It’s considered to originate in Russia despite its French name. In 1912, the people of Moscow solemnly celebrated the 100th anniversary of Napoleon’s expulsion from their city.

A plethora of new drinks and dishes appeared for the jubilee. A special triangular cake representing Napoleon’s cocked hat was created. It was made of puff pastry with cream. Of course, this cake was named after Napoleon and received immediate acclaim.

The cake has evolved since then; custard has replaced cream between the layers.

There are subtle regional variations in the recipe and I have tasted many of these because the cake is traditionally made for special occasions throughout Ukraine. However, I prefer my friend’s recipe as it makes a richer cake.

In 2003 I married an Australian. I made cake Napoleon for our wedding and since then, for my husband’s birthdays and my English class at Toowoomba TAFE College.

The rushnyk (step-on towel), used as the table runner for this piece of the Rise-cooking up character exhibition, has great significance to everyone in the former USSR. The original rushnyk measured 33 cm x 230 cm and is tied to the bride’s hand during the church ceremony. The bride and groom stand on it to take their vows. I used this rushnyk for my wedding.

Viktoria Deutscher
Toowoomba Queensland
19 September 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Greece – Yiaourtopita

Toula Elliott (nee Levonis)

Born: Toowoomba Queensland
Australia 1957

Toula Elliott’s story

My family come from the island of Kythera, Greece but I was born here.

I remember my mum baking yiaourtopita [yoghurt cake] for us. She used the recipe her mother, my maternal grandmother (yiayia), brought with her from Greece in 1950.

When the family lived in Athens, the cake was easy to make because they had a ready supply of yoghurt, eggs and flour. It was a favourite, baked for birthdays and other family or religious celebrations.

During WW2 the family moved to Thessalonika and basic foodstuffs were hard to get. Yiayia would sometimes substitute corn meal for wheat flour in her baking.

In Australia, my family was able to re-create family groupings by buying houses in close proximity. My yiayia lived next door and her house was the meeting place for the steady stream of visiting relatives.

Today my family continues to enjoy yiaourtopita; they love to eat it and I love to make it. It’s good to use homemade yoghurt, a Greek tradition that connects us to our country of origin.

All my life my mum has raved about how beautiful the sheep’s milk yoghurt is in Athens. After fifty-four years she returned to Greece and claimed it still tasted the same. In her memory yoghurt was the only thing that hadn’t changed, as Athens had grown a lot in the intervening years.

I’m proud of the contribution my Greek culture has made to the variety of foodstuffs available in Australia today. Yoghurt, fetta cheese, spanakopita, moussaka, souvlaki and calamari are all readily available.

Toula Elliott
Toowoomba Queensland
18 July 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Australia – Cassata

Patricia Ford (nee Shann)

Born: Townsville Queensland
Australia 1924

Patricia Ford’s story

The first occasion I had to taste cassata was in the early 1960s at an Italian wedding banquet in Brisbane. That was a delicious concoction of three layers of ice-cream; one coffee and liqueur; one with fruit and nuts and one strawberry.

We returned home to Aldersyde, Miles, [south east Queensland] with our gorgeous little tulle bags of sugared almonds and I started to plan a cassata for a party lunch.

My first effort, made with homemade ice-cream, had just two layers, one with dried fruit, chopped nuts and crystallised ginger, and one coffee with a dash of rum. This was a great success.

Before my essays into cassata I had been making ice-cream cakes for birthdays – homemade ice-cream between and on top of two layers of sponge cake – ambitious back in the days of a somewhat temperamental kerosene refrigerator!

However cassata took over as ‘first family favourite’ – with a variety of interesting additives. It can be made (or composed) a few days before a party and stands as a sure-fire, stress-free, delicious dessert.

We have been introduced to cassata by our Italian friends. As well as many other exciting foods: pizza, pasta, polenta, parmesan and other cheeses and of course olive oils, to name only a few, have been absorbed into the Australian culinary lexicon.

I think each one of these has gradually assumed a unique Australian flavour, especially with country cooks. In the bush, a hostess will use them in a creative way, combining them with whatever is on hand, when unexpected guests arrive.

Patricia Ford
Toowoomba Queensland
5 August 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Lebanon – Ghoraybeh

Catharine Hanna (nee Chaya)

Born: Kafarsgab
Lebanon 1959

Catharine Hanna’s story

My family live in a small mountain village north east of Beirut. I remember ghoraybeh [shortbread biscuits] from when I was very young.

My mother and my grandmother were experts at baking ghoraybeh. They were both excellent cooks and passed on traditional Lebanese recipes to my sister and me.

The women in my family made ghoraybeh for village gatherings: christenings, first communions and weddings. They could have bought them from the sweets shop. However, they preferred to bake them at home. The home-baked ghoraybeh obviously tasted better irrespective of miniscule cracking and darkening due to a fast oven.

I came to Australia in 1978; newly married into a Lebanese family who have lived in this country since 1939.

When I arrived, I discovered my mother-in-law made ghoraybeh more often than we did at home in Lebanon, probably because they weren’t commercially available here.

We often drink Turkish coffee and prefer it without sugar. To counteract the bitterness of the coffee we eat a variety of sweetmeats: small pieces of very sweet semolina cake, baklava or ghoraybeh.

Over the years, I’ve realised how important it is for me to retain what I can of my culture now that I live in Australia. Maintaining food traditions is a prime example. This is easy for me, as I love to cook and my family love to eat Lebanese food.

Occasionally I have the opportunity of bringing Lebanese food to an Australian gathering. It is always well received.

Catharine Hanna
Toowoomba Queensland
9 August 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Papua New Guinea – Bananas in coconut milk

Eva Kimmins (nee Enos)

Born: Kokopo New Britain
Papua New Guinea 1960

Eva Kimmins’ story

When I was a child the first solid food I was given was mashed banana.

As kids, we ate bananas for most meals. Each morning my mother would cook unpeeled bananas over the open fire. We’d peel them and eat them for breakfast. For my school lunch I’d take cooked banana and vegetable greens wrapped in banana leaves. After school we’d eat bananas in coconut cream with other foods for the evening meal: taro, vegetable greens, fresh fish caught by my father or grandfather, or chicken.

Many varieties of banana grow wild in and around my village, which is situated on the coastal lands of Papua New Guinea. The common Ewa, like a ladyfinger, can be cooked when green or ripe. Calapu, a special banana used for ceremonies and bride price, must be perfect as defects are not acceptable in these contexts. Kalata, a long, skinny banana, is soft and ready to eat when green. I’d take these kalata to my toothless grandmother, as they are easy to eat.

In Tolai culture the land is held matrilineally. All women work in their vegetable gardens, cultivating taro, sweet potato, beans, corn, tomatoes, cabbage and cucumber, both for domestic consumption and for sale at the market.

I’ve come to understand that bananas are high in carbohydrate and potassium but as kids we just ate them because they were filling and readily available.

We came to Toowoomba [south east Queensland] in 1999 for the completion of our children’s education. Since we’ve been living here, bananas are not a regular part of our diet. However, on the occasion of special family gatherings, I will drive to Brisbane for the appropriate variety.

Eva Kimmins
Toowoomba Queensland
23 August 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

GERMANY – Black Forest torte

Regina Renner (nee Störk)

Born: Liptingen, Baden-Wurttemberg,
Germany 1963

Regina Renner’s story

My first memory of Black Forest torte was when I was eight or nine years old. It was a big family gathering celebrating my father’s birthday. My aunt used the treasured family recipe to make the torte.

In Germany, each family has its own method of making the basic chocolate sponge. The recipe was always passed on to the next generation – usually handwritten on a sheet of paper and tucked into a recipe book for safekeeping.

My interest in food developed in my early teens. I loved baking – sweets in particular. I grew up in a family where there was a lot of friction, but when there were nice smells of baking coming from the kitchen the atmosphere in the house changed from negative to positive. We’d sit down together as a family and enjoy a piece of freshly baked cake with a cup of filtered coffee – always coffee, never tea. It was a peaceful time for the whole family.

When I was ten or eleven years old, I began to bake for family functions such as birthdays, engagements and weddings. These were times when I had the kitchen to myself and I loved it.

Today in my family, Black Forest torte continues to be made for special celebrations. It is spectacularly sumptuous, lavished with cream, cherries and shaved chocolate.

For some years I’ve operated a commercial bakehouse, here at Prenzlau [between Toowoomba and Brisbane]. My training and culture are reflected in the choice of products, including: apple strudel, coffee butter cream torte, apple and hazelnut Danish, poppy-seed cake, a variety of breads and of course, my Black Forest torte which is a speciality. I use top quality ingredients and my fare is very well received.

Regina Renner
Prenzlau Queensland
27 May 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Argentina – Empanadas criollas

Rosa Rother (nee Hochbaum)

Born: Paraná Entre Ríos
Argentina 1961

Rosa Hochbaum-Rother’s story

My family immigrated to Argentina from Poland after WW2. When I was growing up, my mother drew on her eastern European culture in the food she prepared for us. As a result, my first memory of empanadas criollas came when I was out and about as a teenager.

The Australian equivalent of an empanada is a meat pie – a combination of minced meat, hard-boiled eggs, sultanas and seasonings encased in pastry. Empanadas are eaten throughout Latin America – mostly savoury but sometimes sweet. We would buy them from a pastry shop or I’d make them at home.

My husband, whose family are also from Poland, moved to the USA after WW2. They then came to Australia. I met my husband on a kibbutz in Israel, and some months later came to visit him in Queensland.

We were married in 1987 and as a wedding present, an Argentine neighbour presented us with two hundred of her favourite recipes and accompanying anecdotes. Each recipe was lovingly handwritten and compiled in a book. I continue to use her empanada criolla recipe with my own variations.

I enjoy making empanadas criollas. Over the years, I have introduced my circle of friends to empanadas and they love them. When they come to visit they insist I make them. I have taken them to my children’s school to share with their classmates. Empanadas criollas provide an opportunity for me to talk about my country.

Empanadas criollas have great significance for all members of my Australian family; my husband and children. Empanadas provide a strong link to my Argentine family and my life before coming to settle in Australia.

Rosa Hochbaum-Rother
Toowoomba Queensland
23 August 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Malta – Imqaret ta tamal

Helen Stumkat (nee Briffa)

Born: Slima
Malta 1945

Helen Stumkat’s story

I’m one of ten children, eight of whom were born on Malta.

In 1949, prompted by my mum, my dad came to Australia. It was a brave move necessitated by lack of opportunity in Malta after WW2. My mum followed, travelling with my seven siblings and me. I was four years old.

We moved from the Wacol Army Camp, where we were temporarily housed as part of the post war migration programme, to live in the house purchased by our dad at Windsor [a suburb of Brisbane].

My mum was so proud of her beautiful new kitchen, the likes of which she never had in Malta, that she began to bake all the Maltese national dishes – one of which was Imqaret ta tamal [deep fried date slice]. She made it for special occasions; birthdays, saints days, Christmas and Easter.

In 1964 I met and married a handsome German, my brother’s friend. In 1974 we visited Malta. From the hotel verandah, I could smell Imqaret ta tamal frying. I simply had to follow the aroma down the hotel steps, along the promenade where I found a tiny stall. There, a little gentleman sold me a dozen in a paper bag for four Maltese pennies.

Imqaret ta tamal is my very favourite Maltese food, but I only make it occasionally because it is so rich.

We had great fun making Imqaret ta tamal for the Rise-cooking up character exhibition. It provided an opportunity for me to be with my sisters and sister-in-law – enjoying companionship and laughter as we cooked and reminisced.

Helen Stumkat
Toowoomba Queensland
29 August 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Australia – Wedding cake

Diane Welke (nee Hartwig)

Born: Crows Nest Queensland
Australia 1952

Diane Welke’s story

My first memory of a formal wedding cake was at a Crows Nest wedding I attended with my family, when I was about eight years old. I remember it was a tiered cake, iced with white fondant scattered with roses made of moulding paste. I was captivated; it was so white, so delicate and so beautiful.

We married in 1979 and my sister-in-law made our wedding cake. It was plain and basic but it reignited my interest in learning how to make, ice and decorate cakes.

In 1995 I attended Toowoomba TAFE College and completed their year long, cake-decorating course. We were taught to make mounding paste flowers and colour them, ribbon loops, cake covering and extension work.

Things have changed so dramatically with cake decorating. For weddings these days anything goes. Patty cake towers, mud cake in addition to the traditional heavy fruitcake I like to use for wedding cakes. Young people are wanting to be a bit different and as a result, the traditional iced and decorated cakes have made way for the ‘now’ wedding cake, allowing greater freedom of expression.

My favourite fruitcake recipe is a modification of my grandmother’s. She listed the ingredients but there were no written instructions. She knew how to make her heavy fruitcake by heart and I’ve had to figure it out for myself.

I have a large extended family numbering seventy-two members. I am the main cake decorator in the family. Each month there is a birthday, anniversary or engagement cake to be made. When it comes to wedding cakes, I probably make an average of six a year.

Diane Welke
Goombungee Queensland
9 September 2005

 

RISE – cooking up character

Burma (Myanmar) – Mok lone ye baw

Charmaine Williamson (nee Min-Swe)

Born: Yangon (Rangoon)
Burma (Myanmar) 1967

Charmaine Williamson’s story

Mok lone ye baw [little balls rising in the water] is very much a celebratory dessert food. My earliest memory of mok lone ye baw was at Thinjan, an important Burmese water festival held at the end of April to welcome the New Year. Everyone, without exception, is doused with water. Wherever you go, on foot or by car, water is thrown over you; a way of symbolically washing away your sins and willing the rains to come.

Our family kitchen was large and inviting with all kinds of exotic aromas issuing forth. My mother, a great cook, had helpers in the house and kitchen, as we were an extended family of twelve people. My father worked in shipping so we had a great variety of foodstuffs from all over the world—fresh apples, Swiss chocolate and strawberries in addition to the fruit and vegetables we grew in our garden.

Every day, in the late afternoon, we stood in front of our house on Snwedagone Pagoda Road scooping offertory food into the saffron robed phongyi’s [Buddhist monks] bowls as they quietly walked past us in single file. Sometimes, as a treat, we served them mok lone ye baw.

My family came to Australia in 1976 when I was ten years old. My mother continued to make mok lone ye baw for us because she remains passionate about cooking Burmese dishes.

Today in my family mok lone ye baw is a celebratory dish. We make them for special occasions; birthdays, Christmas and Easter.

When my children were at primary school, I gave their classes a presentation on Burma; part of which was a hands-on mok lone ye baw making session. It was a great success. Afterwards, the students proudly took them out into the playground to share.

Charmaine Williamson
Toowoomba Queensland
11 July 2005

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RISE-cooking up character

Artist’s statement

My previous touring exhibitions—In Praise of Australian Women, Men at Work, Setbacks—Shattered Dreams, Aprons, Washing, Well Preserved! and Line of Blood—Myall Creek Massacre 1838—our shared history, all capture the character of Australia. Each one describes our country and its multi-ethnic people, using textiles old and new, text, photographs and artefacts to tell their stories of both hardship and success.

This exhibition, Rise – cooking up character, is my eighth.

How did it come to pass?

On a rare visit to Sydney in late 2004, I made my pilgrimage to Judith Salmon’s gallery at McMahons Point, Sydney. Over breakfast we caught up, with Judith briefly outlining the exhibition highlights of the gallery year. She spoke eloquently and enthusiastically of her recent cake project, Country Women Artists (CWA).

Her artists were encouraged to depict cakes in their works; as well, the gallery promoted baking competitions, held afternoon teas, thereby broadening the viewing public’s response to the art of baking. My ears pricked and my mind latched on to the theme as a suitable project for a touring exhibition. The idea simply wouldn’t go away and I began to plan. I’d use fabric and other materials to create three-dimensional food.

As my work always contains a strong, social-history component, I’d need to involve people with an interest in food, who were willing to play. The challenge was to find participants.

Many of those selected are friends who are familiar with my work and when invited were eager to be part of the project. They represent many nationalities, but there were gaps. Friends referred me to their friends and in this way the quota was filled. It was a random selection; most of the participants are or were Toowoomba residents.

There are seventeen women and one man participating. Each was willing to fulfil the necessary criteria: firstly, to provide the recipe and prepare the food; secondly, to be photographed with their respective contribution; thirdly, to taste it; and finally, to answer questions regarding his or her first memories of the food itself and its significance in their family today.

Next, I needed a title. I considered, Let Them Eat Cake, or Piece of Cake, but something essential was missing. A dear, literary friend offered the solution: Rise – cooking up character. The project was gaining momentum.

Next, I needed to make a decision regarding the number of works. As the pieces planned were comparatively small (400 x 400 x 130-185 mm), eighteen seemed to be a good number particularly for crating – nine in each crate.

Detailed discussion with each participant was mandatory; every contribution had to be re-created with inert materials – each presenting its unique complement of problems to be solved. The search for appropriate materials with which to create the facsimiles taxed me considerably.

I used gap sealant for icing, cream and ice cream; polymer clay for hundreds-and- thousands, nuts, crystallised ginger, wedding cake decorations, glacé cherries, crumbled pastry, chocolate sprinkles; dental floss for desiccated coconut; balsa wood for toasted slivered almonds and planed tempered Masonite for shaved chocolate. These new skills complemented my textile repertoire. I also mastered the use of plaster of Paris moulds for cashews, almonds, glacé cherries and crystallised ginger. This was a steep, steep learning curve.

A creative intensity accompanies the production of such a body of work. For me, each exhibition presents its own conceptual, technical, physical, social, political and emotional challenges, depending on the topic being explored. This exhibition was no exception. A project of this kind can trigger feelings of sadness, loss, dislocation, longing, as well as gratitude, connections and sharing. I feel privileged for the opportunity of working with each participant, learning about their respective cultures and in turn, sharing them with you.

I’m grateful to each person for their willingness to participate: Yvonne Bailey, Helen Cameron, Helen Collyer, June Coward, Patricia Ford, Diane Welke, Rosa Hochbaum-Rother, Charmaine Williamson, Daniel Abad, Regina Renner, Toula Elliott, Catharine Hanna, Zainun binti Siran, Helen Stumkat, Eva Kimmins, Estelle Bancroft, Viktoria Deutscher, Margie Creek, and Alan Mackey for his song. I’m delighted we are all contributing to the rich cultural fabric that is contemporary Australia.

Morley Grainger
Churchill Fellow
March 2006

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RISE – cooking up character

OVERVIEW – ALISON COTES

To raise the mundane to the heights of wonder is the chief task of any artist, and the career of textile artist Morley Grainger is living proof of this.

I first encountered her work in a tiny gallery in Wondai, in Queensland, where her exhibition In Praise of Australian Women turned those most utilitarian of objects, the wagga rugs made by women in the bush out of layers of left-over blankets, coats and hessian bags, into objects of beauty in their own right. The powerful effect of this exhibition came not just from Grainger’s exquisite craft techniques and eye for design, but by the statements the rugs made about the role of women in Australian history.

Much of Grainger’s interest is in historical and women’s issues, so over the years she has created a stunning series of exhibitions featuring aprons, bottled fruit and washing, among other topics, which reveal a wit and wisdom not often encountered in fabric art.

Her work celebrates the mundane, the ordinary, the hidden places of human endeavour, and this latest exhibition, Rise – cooking up character, is a homage to cooking, perhaps the most ephemeral of the domestic arts, and to cakes in particular.

Even when immortalised in glossy coffee table books, and no matter how proudly the chef delivers the finished dish to the table to the gasps of appreciation from admiring diners, food is designed first and foremost for consumption.

But even a utilitarian human activity can be transformed into beauty. It took thousands of years for eating to become anything more than functional, but as societies became settled, safer, and more leisured, and people had more time to appreciate created rather than natural beauty, so the arts and their offshoot, what today we call craft, began to evolve.

Until quite recently there has been a distinction between simple food and restaurant cuisine, with the former being relegated to the domain of women and the domestic kitchen, while the great chefs in restaurants who created the ornamented pastries and elaborate cakes were always men. As in so many disciplines, the distinction between art and craft was a gender distinction – if men did it, it was Art with a capital A; but women’s work, no matter how intricate, talented and beautiful, was simply craft with no capital letter.

The American artist Judy Chicago picked up on this theme with her great 1996 installation The Dinner Party, which celebrated 39 of the greatest real and legendary women in human history, from Ishtar to Virginia Woolf, through what is openly and unashamedly craft work like ceramics, china painting and needlework. The setting was an immense triangular open table covered with fine white cloth and set with 39 place settings, 13 on each 48-foot side. Each setting consisted of an embroidered tablemat, a hand-crafted drinking goblet and a ceramic plate, created to reflect the historical period of the woman being honoured. One important aspect of the installation was that much of the work was inaccessible to the viewer, as it faced the inside of the open triangle, a silent statement that much of women’s work remains hidden from the world.

In her exhibition Rise – cooking up character, Morley Grainger’s work is equally full of symbols. Even the title can be seen as a quiet call to arms, and also an acknowledgement that it is through cooking that the world is fed and given power. The cakes and their makers she has chosen to honour make a statement about the make-up of modern Australian society, too, for here are cakes from at least fifteen different cultures, ranging from the Johnny cakes of the earliest indigenous inhabitants (Yvonne Bailey) to some of the country’s most recent immigrant groups like Malta (Helen Stumkat’s deep-fried date squares) and South Africa (the Vetkoek of Estelle Bancroft), and those of our nearest neighbours as well, in the form of Eva Kimmins’ bananas in coconut milk from Papua New Guinea.

Grainger’s decision to replicate cakes, rather than any of the other types of food at her disposal, also makes a powerful statement about the role of women. Cakes represent home-baking at its best, food for the family rather than for display, but even at this level the women (and one man) who create these basic foods have invested in them all their creativity and sense of occasion. In their own way these cakes are works of art, because they rise above the utilitarian level to become things of beauty, even if it’s only in the eye of the beholder. Nobody needs a cake to look beautiful, for its only real purpose is to fuel the body, but the human urge to create beauty in every possible way has lifted the cake into another realm.

Regina Renner, for example, transforms her special occasion Black Forest torte into a sumptuous spectacular, with its layers of cream and delicate sponge cake, and its lavish topping of more cream, shaved chocolate and cherries. It’s a celebration cake, so it has to be as beautiful as possible, even though its life-span will probably be less than an hour. In the same way, Zainun binti Siran’s Kuih lapis (Layered cake) trembles with jewel-like elegance, but it too will be devoured by her hungry family within a few minutes.

Cakes can celebrate as well as sustain – witness Daniel Abad’s Brioche des Rois (Cake of the Kings) from France, and Diane Welke’s astonishing wedding cake. Viktoria Deutscher’s Cake Napoleon makes another kind of celebratory statement, and notice the background to Margie Creek’s Apple Sauce cake from the USA, set in an historical context.

But cakes can provide simple everyday sustenance, too, and from the Greek Yiaourtopita (Yoghurt cake) made by Toula Elliott to Catharine Hanna’s Ghoraybeh (Lebanese shortbread biscuits), Grainger and her friends suggest a different kind of beauty.

Simple baked goods also attest to the rich cultural history of modern Australia – the little pies known as Empanadas criollas from Argentina, made by Rosa Hochbaum-Rother, join the pantheon; while Charmaine Williamson adds another dimension to our national cuisine with her Mok lone ye baw from Burma (Myanmar).

The cakes in the photographs, where they are proudly displayed by their makers, morph seamlessly into Grainger’s ingenious fabric interpretations, so authentic that we want to touch June Coward’s lamingtons, but draw back just in time when we realise that the shredded coconut is in fact dental floss; that the 100s-and-1000s on Helen Cameron’s patty cakes have been hand-rolled from polymer clay; and that even the almonds on Helen Collyer’s Christmas cake are moulded from this clay and hand-tinted.

And as for that classic of Italian-influenced Australian party food, Cassata, Patricia Ford’s description of its evolution is as compelling as Grainger’s rendition.

A cake is a cake is a cake, as Gertrude Stein might have said, but Morley Grainger’s cakes are far more than that. They are a triumph of perfect workmanship, a document of multi-cultural Australia, a tribute to the work of both women and men, and a re-definition of an ephemeral craft as a singular work of art.

Alison Cotes
Brisbane 2006

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VENUES

Rise—cooking up character

Toured to 3 Queensland venues between 2006 and 2008

  1. Texas Regional Art Gallery, Texas, Queensland 2 May 2006 to 2 May 2006
  2. Redland Art Gallery, Capalaba, Brisbane, Qld 17 July 2006 to 11 August 2006
  3. Bundaberg Regional Art Gallery, Queensland 20 February 2008 to 30 March 2008
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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 110: Documenting a creative life

After completing Tweets from the trenches, I moved on to my next project; one, I have to confess I was terrified to start because I had no idea where to begin.

It was to be a legacy project. I planned to write about my life as a narrative visual artist, and the experiences that led me to becoming one.

At the outset it was tough going.

Why?

Because I’m afraid of committing myself to paper—conscious of the fact that my wordsmithing skills lacked flare and humour. But, as always, I persevered. Gradually my writing improved with editing help and numerous re-writes—the result, 110 chapters.

Writing done, my next project would take me into a world I knew nothing about.

Still driven by the urge to create an indelible record of my exhibitions, I began exploring the possibility of videoing my work.

I’d seen a video at the local museum, and both the shot composition and framing, caught my eye. I found the videographer and met with him to discuss what I had in mind, and if it was possible with my tiny budget.

We began with a pilot video, shot against hastily erected wall panels in the gallery space at my studio.

Success!

30 videos later, that included a Q & A session with a local broadcasting identity, Tony Wigan.

Tony was the perfect person to conduct the interview, because he’d watched my exhibition work develop over 20 something years.

The videos were then uploaded to my website.

Job done!

Next, I was offered the opportunity to use both my writing and the videos towards a Ph.D.

I was interested to explore academe, because I saw it as another way to leave a record of my work, in my own words; rather than the words of someone, who may decide to become the Morley Grainger expert, after I’m dead and gone. But the Ph.D. journey ended abruptly, six months in.

After I’d recovered from my brief adventure with academe, I wondered what I could do with the thousands of words I’d spent years writing. All the while, I was searching for a permanent home for my exhibitions. I’d searched high and low for years, to be told by every art gallery and museum I’d approached, that they were not interested.

But now I had a comprehensive video record of the work, things were different. So, I put a 12-month deadline on finding a home for the exhibitions, and if not, the crates were going to the dump.

But my luck changed when a friend suggested I contact the Australian Cultural Library, at Rosewood, not far from Toowoomba. I explained the exhibitions were on the way to the dump, unless I found a home for them before November 2024.

Two weeks later, a truck arrived in Toowoomba to pick up the crates and take them to the Australian Cultural Library, where they would be curated and stored into the future. I was so relieved to be free of the burden of caring for them.

After I’d settled into a new place to live, I wondered what to do with the 110 chapters I’d written.

Then, I had a bright idea! Maybe I could record the chapters in my own voice? I’d learnt how to do this, when I made the voiceover audios for the videos.

So, once again, enter the videographer, who set me up with the technology to record. But for some reason, this time it was a disaster because I was unable to get a single sentence out straight. I became more and more anxious, making mistakes in either pronunciation, flow or intonation.

So, it was back to the drawing board.

What to do?

In discussion with the videographer, I had a light-bulb moment. Could we use Artificial Intelligence, AI, to record the chapters? He researched the AI programs on offer, and we chose a platform called Lovo AI, that comes with a library of voices from which to choose.

We chose Amelia, who has a neutral Australian accent.

And so began the biggest adventure of all. As I am a confessed technophobe, the videographer gently coaxed me into using the technology, but it was terrifying, until I got the hang of it.

So, what are the results of our efforts—the videographer, the webmaster and me? 10 audio books! That have now joined the videos on my website. The books start at the beginning, and move through my life, marking the ‘highs’ and ‘lows’ of the journey.

In between, I’ve found time to make new artwork. As I’ve spent my career making ‘precious’ art, I wanted a change. I liked the idea of making a series of ephemeral works with recycling at the core.

I was particularly taken with the quality of the brown paper in supermarket bags, with twisted paper handles. I could use both sides of a bag as the ‘canvas’, with the catalogue images from two of my exhibitions, Rise-cooking up character and Aprons, ‘deconstructed’ and sewn on, with threads left dangling. 23 artworks in all. To my amazement, ten sold.

Why was I amazed? Because I thought the concept of ‘disposable’ art, would be a bridge too far. When I recovered from the shock, it did occur to me that the artworks may have sold to friends, who felt sorry for me? Or, maybe not.

The artist with part of the Pieces exhibition at the Wendland Cafe Gallery, Toowoomba 2025
Image: Barbara Stephenson

So, as I stroll into my dotage, I occasionally reflect on a vision statement I created, way back in 1996.

And this is how I did it.

I began by listing my qualities, talents and abilities. Next, I listed the forms I use to express my creativity, and, finally, specified the effect I wanted to make, or leave, on the world.

The result:

“My vision is to use my creativity through textile art, to bring a deeper understanding, of Australian women’s history, to fellow Australians and the world.” Dated 26.8.1996

Almost 30 years on, my vision statement has proved prophetic; in this digital age, my love affair with textiles and storytelling is thoroughly documented on my website, in moving pictures, the spoken word and text.

From here on in, I plan to continue making art, that is, until I can no longer manage it, because for me, retirement is not an option.

And finally, for those of you who are listening to this, I congratulate you on your perseverance, and thank you for taking the time to wander the road less travelled, with me.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 2026

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Dear reader, this document contains a precis of the Fellowship Final Report. Should you wish to read the Report in full, the link is at the end of this chapter.

Chapter 105: The adventure begins

To my disbelief and delight, I’d been awarded a Churchill Fellowship to, quote, “further develop my skills and vision by visiting artists working similarly in the United Kingdom and the United States of America”, unquote.

I left Australia on the 21st of May 2003 looking the part, wearing my one-of-a-kind Zipper jacket. London was the first stop on what I knew would be the experience of a lifetime.

The Zipper jacket at work with the Museum of Modern Art San Francisco in the background
Image: Esther Kooiman

Here I was met by my Fellowship interview coach, who just happened to be in London at the time. Together we travelled to the accommodation I’d booked near the University of London’s Goldsmiths College, thereby giving me easy access to their textile collection and the Constance Howard Gallery. This would be my base of operations for the two weeks I’d be in London.

At Goldsmiths I planned to meet with an Israeli artist I’d contacted ahead of time, who was completing a higher degree, as well as a number of former graduates who’d gone on to do interesting things.

These artists and others I met along the way were, like me, breaking new ground and I was excited to be invited to visit their studios. We spent happy hours drinking cups of tea whilst discussing technical aspects of our work and comparing notes on what provides inspiration for our creative process. Almost all the artists I met chose to work with recycled materials, prompted by their concern for the planet or lack of funds, or both.

I was captivated by an artist who was making thematic hooked rugs from pre-loved denim. Another, creating digital banner art, the outgrowth of her work with a pinhole camera.

The British Museum’s curator of coins, medals and dies, who cares for my relative’s considerable numinastic contribution, put me in touch with an artist who was producing hard-hitting installations using medals made of fabric to make statements about contemporary issues. She was the only artist I met who, like me, was touring her own work.
https://www.aljohnsonsculptor.com/

Whilst standing on the Museum’s entrance steps, my Zipper Jacket caught the eye of an American Fine Arts professor from Minneapolis, who asked if she could photograph the jacket for her creative garment students. It just so happened that I’d be travelling to Minneapolis to stay with an artist making wall-hung sculptural pieces from onion bags. I mentioned this, to discover my host-to-be, was none other than her mother!

My fourteen days in the United Kingdom were action-packed. A sprinkling of exciting meetings, both planned and unplanned with fellow creatives who were producing cutting edge art but now it was time to move on to the United States.

The first of 15 stops I’d make during 10 weeks in the United States, was the 12th International Surface Design Conference in Kansas City, Missouri. Here, I rubbed shoulders with the who’s who of the country’s textile practitioners, many exhibiting their work in the numerous gallery spaces, scattered around the city. It was a mind-blowing experience and I was completely overwhelmed.

At the Conference I met a number of the artists I’d visit afterwards. This gathering gave us the opportunity to meet face to face for the first time.

From Kansas City I travelled by road to Minneapolis to stay with the woman making art from onion bags and selling her work for good prices. Here I was asked to do a presentation at the Textile Centre, a well-appointed community facility catering for all aspects of fibre art production. This was the second time I’d used my Touring Exhibitions CD with a group and the response was encouraging.

Nancy MacKenzie’s Hide and Seek made from onion bags, baling twine and threads
Image: reproduced with permission

My next stop was Philadelphia where I visited a textile artist producing miniature quilts. She took me to the Fabric Workshop and Museum, where for the first time I saw original Andy Warhol prints. And a run to Baltimore to visit the American Visionary Art Museum, exhibiting work by self-taught or ‘outsider’ artists. The work was inspirational.
https://www.avam.org/

Next a short train trip to New York and then Brooklyn to stay with a textile designer I’d met at the Kansas Conference. Together we went to the Ellis Island Immigration Museum, a very important port of call for me because Australia is also a country of immigrants, and ‘from-somewhere-else’ is often referenced in my installations.

Ellis Island Immigration Museum
Image: Morley Grainger

Churchill Fellowship dinner at the Parliament House dining room Brisbane. Morley in the centre looking somewhat spaced out—overwhelmed by the significance of the award
Image: Churchill Trust

From there I visited the Rhode Island School of Design’s Museum, in Providence, to see the Tirocchi Collection, stored in a state of the art, climate-controlled facility. Blue-sky dreaming prompted my visit as I’d been thinking to create a community textile facility in Toowoomba for some time. Also, visiting RISD was pilgrimage of sorts because my mother had studied there as a foreign fellow in 1957.

Curator of Costume and Textiles at the RISD Museum in Providence Rhode Island operating their
textile storage compactor
Image: Morley Grainger

Curator of Costume and Textiles at the RISD Museum in Providence Rhode Island operating their textile storage compactor
Image: Morley Grainger

When on to Lake Erie, where I spent time with an artist who makes amazing artworks on the sand in front of her family’s summer house using materials blown up onto the shore by the fierce winter storms. I was invited to create an installation. I chose to construct a spiral by diverting the smooth slate stones that shadowed the shoreline.

Morley’s ephemeral Stones and Sand Spiral 5 metres diameter at Lake Erie
Image: Morley Grainger

The unexpected highlight of my Lake Erie stay was being part of the 4th of July parade dressed as Lady Liberty clad in a costume made from recycled blue plastic rain coats acquired at Niagara Falls.

Lady Liberty outfit re-cycled blue plastic raincoats from Niagara Falls
Image: Jamoon

It was a privilege to spend time with this woman who is commissioned to make large scale artworks using recycled materials almost exclusively.

Next, I travelled to North Carolina to join a group of textile enthusiasts at the Penland School of Crafts for a two-week ‘designing art quilts’ workshop. This workshop was one of a number the school offered over summer. And the cross fertilisation that occurred during the time we spent there was very valuable.

Morley making art at Penland during the Designing Art Quilts workshop from 5-19 July 2003
Image: Arturo Sandoval

My next stop was Iowa City where I visited an artist producing machine and hand stitched embroideries making powerful statements on a number of historical and contemporary themes. We share a heart-felt commitment to confront the unpleasant aspects of our cultural life by making art about them.

Beth Nobles Diane Nash cotton embroidery on silk
Image: reproduced with permission

In San Francisco I met with a boogie-woogie piano player who makes small hand embroidered pieces filled with humour and movement.

Caroline Dahl Terror Sampler V – Trixie and Serge Go Country Cotton embroidery & glass beads
(2003)
Image: reproduced with permission

Caroline Dahl Terror Sampler V – Trixie and Serge Go
Country Cotton embroidery & glass beads (2003)
Image: reproduced with permission

I also spent time with an innovative textile artist using machine sewn text in her work.

Along the way, I lost count of the number of Art Museums I was taken to visit. I noticed most had at least one, and often more than one painting by iconic artist, Georgia O’Keeffe as well as a dramatic Dale Chihuly blown glass installation. These super-famous American artists marketed their work in the conventional way, either represented by a gallery or an agent. In sharp contrast to my marketing strategy. The difference? I choose to work in series and tour my installation work as self-contained sold exhibition packages. And the work is not for sale.

In my final report for the Churchill Trust, I listed eight points.

  1. In 2003 the term ‘Narrative Visual artist’ was new.
    The Fellowship adventure reinforced my new identity and enhanced my sense of where my work fits in the lexicon of visual story-telling, using fabric and thread.
  2. I discovered artists share a common language that transcends culture.
    It was a constant delight to enjoy the instant understanding, both thematic and stylistic—that came from interacting with the artists I met on the trip.
  3. Only one artist I met was, like me, touring her solo exhibitions independently, thereby retaining full control and ownership of her work.
  4. Most of the artists I met have full-time jobs to support their art practice and many had family responsibilities as well. I now realise how fortunate I am to be a full-time artist.
  5. I was thrilled to find so many artists working passionately and cleverly with unusual materials including recycled denim, onion bags, shredded bank notes, driftwood – demonstrating an abiding awareness of a finite environment.
  6. The artists I met sell their work through galleries. From them I gained first-hand knowledge of how galleries operate in the USA. They found my marketing approach novel.
  7. I learned that many galleries in the USA are often funded by benefactors, giving them greater promotional and purchasing power.
  8. State of the art textile conservation methods were on show in Providence. What a treat to see a ‘no-expense-spared’ set up, aspects of which I’d utilise to protect my own touring exhibition work.

To conclude, my Churchill Fellowship trip was a life-changing experience.

I returned to Australia, my head spinning with possibilities, some realistic and some less so.

Whilst I was away, I met other artists as committed to truth-telling as I am. This was a revelation because, up until this point, I’d not met other artists telling stories using textiles, traditional construction techniques, text, extensive historical research, artefacts, material culture and recycled materials.

But the greatest benefit of the trip was for me, as a practicing narrative visual artist.

The esteem in which this Fellowship is held, gave me entre into the broader community of narrative visual artists in two countries.

An adventure of this kind is beyond contemplation without the generous support of the Churchill Trust.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Winston Churchill Memorial Trust awards Travel Fellowships to Australians striving for excellence in their chosen field of endeavour.

I had been forewarned to expect that the Churchill Fellowship trip would be a life-changing experience, and this was the case in numerous ways.

Early in my exhibition-producing career, I had difficulty defining myself or my work.

What was I?

Thanks to my friend the wordsmith, from here on in I would define myself as a ‘narrative visual artist’ using textiles, old and new, text, photographs, and artefacts to capture the character of Australia, the land and its multi-ethnic people. For the first time I felt I had an identity whilst at the same time feeling that the label sounded a bit grand.

But the label proved very useful as it enabled me to connect with others who were already defining themselves as narrative visual artists both here and overseas.

As a committed recycler, I felt an immediate affinity with the work of those artists I met in the United Kingdom and the United States of America who were / are as passionate about up-cycling as I am. Some were using pre-used materials to make public art or ‘high’ art that was exhibited in posh galleries and sold for big bucks. Others simply focussed on pushing boundaries and having fun.

I now realise how courageous or crazy I was to have had the audacity to believe I could earn my living as a textile artist in Australia. In fact, the journey has been both professionally precarious and financially tough. Through it all, I have managed to produce a series of thematic exhibitions without family money or a supportive partner. My diverse circle of friends provided the skills I needed and the support I lacked. Fortunately my audacity paid off. The icing on the cake was being awarded a Winston Churchill Memorial Fellowship.

For me, the award brought with it an overarching positive shift that included increased self-belief and confidence in the conceptual thinking my touring exhibitions expressed. Also, the novel way I chose to promote and market my artwork bypassed the conventional ways artists usually take their work to the public. There was only one artist that I met on the Fellowship trip who was touring her work independently. This was the British sculptor, Al Johnson. All the others chose to market their work independently or by having a gallery represent them.

I am pleased to report that the self-belief that was the spin-off of my Fellowship stayed with me. Shortly after my return to Australia in 2003, I embarked on the most difficult and confronting subject of my art-making career:  the massacre of First Nations people at Myall Creek Station, near Bingara New South Wales. One man and twenty-seven defenceless women and children were murdered in a premeditated rampage on 10th June 1838.The perpetrators were tried and 7 of their number were hanged. Before beginning, I sought and received unanimous support for the exhibition from the Myall Creek Memorial Committee, composed of an equal number of indigenous and non-indigenous people, all committed to truth-telling.

The Winston Churchill Trust provided: a pat on the head; a fully funded trip worth $25K; and, a medal. By virtue of my Fellowship, I had been invited to join this highly respected group of Australian men and women who continue to strive for excellence across a myriad of disciplines from blacksmithing to paediatrics. I was now one of them, thanks to my innovative approach to art-making, using textiles and material culture to tell our stories of both hardship and success. My creativity had been recognised and honoured.

To recap: the Churchill Fellowship enhanced my professional credibility both within and without the arts community.

FACTS:

CHURCHILL FELLOWSHIP PROGRAMME

Location Dates Visits / Activities
United Kingdom
Goldsmiths College of Art,
London University		 22 May – 4 June Constance Howard Research & Resource Centre, London
Anna Cady studio, Hampshire
Ben Hall studio, London
Meeting with Al Johnson, London
Winston Churchill Memorial Trust Office, Kensington
United States of America
Kansas City, Missouri 4 – 8 June Surface Design Association Conference
Kansas Art Institute
Minneapolis, Minnesota 8 – 13 June Textile Centre of Minnesota, Minneapolis
Nancy MacKenzie studio
Warren MacKenzie studio
Nancy Gipple studio
Ruth Mordy studio
New York, New York 14 – 16 June Debra Bernath studio
Ellis Island Immigration Museum
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 16 – 26 June Tina Gravatt studio
American Visionary Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland
Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia
Boston, Massachusetts 26 – 30 June Tirocchi Collection
Rhode Island School of Design Art Museum, Providence RI
Lake Erie, New York State 30 June – 5 July Alice Guffy Miller & Mars Hall summer studio
Asheville, North Carolina 5 – 19 July Penland School of Craft
2 week workshop
Tutor: Arturo Alonzo Sandoval —
Designing for Art Quilts
Iowa City, Iowa 19 – 24 July Beth Nobles studio
Astrid Bennett studio
San Francisco, California 24 – 30 July Susan Taber Avila studio
San Jose Quilt and Textile Museum
Meeting with Caroline Dahl
San Francisco Museum of Modern Art

____________________________________________

Should you wish to dip into my Fellowship adventure in more detail, here’s the link to the Final Report. https://www.churchilltrust.com.au/fellow/morley-grainger-qld-2002/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 103: Well Preserved!

This exhibition, Well Preserved!, would be my fifth. The first, In Praise of Australian Women, began touring in early 1995. Five years later, I’d produced a total of four self-contained exhibition packages that had travelled to 38 venues in four states. Making the work was both exciting and exhausting, in equal measure.

Background: To explain, I first saw bottles of preserved fruit in the Home Economics kitchen of a Toowoomba boarding school in early 1964. It was love at first sight. I was mesmerized by the rows of systematically stacked fruit in clear glass bottles and couldn’t wait to learn how to bottle fruit myself.

Years later, the skills I learned were put to good use when I lived in southern New South Wales on a large town block, with numerous fruit trees that’d been planted by the previous owner. Every summer, the trees were loaded with perfect, fruit-fly free fruit. My challenge was to use every single piece the trees produced: eaten fresh; given away; stewed; bottled; or made into jam. Over summer, I spent hours and hours in the stinking-hot kitchen. But it was worth it, because we all enjoyed the fruit of my labour, through to the next harvest and beyond.

Fast forward to 1999. I was excited at the prospect of making an installation, that gave me the opportunity to showcase yet another facet of women’s domestic work, in the time before freezers.

By way of preliminary research, I visited the Crows Nest Show, a half-hour drive north of Toowoomba. I was expecting to see a mouth-watering display of bottled fruit. Imagine my disappointment to find that there was not one bottle of preserved fruit or vegetables on display in the Cooking Section. Alarm bells sounded in my head. My intention to create an installation, honouring the art of bottling and the bottlers, had suddenly become more urgent.

Fortunately, the Royal Queensland Show was not far off, so I arranged a day trip to Brisbane, where I found the Darling Downs exhibit with a magnificent array of gleaming glass bottles, filled with perfectly preserved fruit and vegetables. It was such a relief to see them, and I wondered who’d done the bottling? I enquired; to be told it was the work of a woman who lived not far from Toowoomba.

On my return, I found her number in the phone book and gave her a call. I explained my project and asked if I could visit to photograph the bottles I’d seen at the Show. Generous to a fault, she sent me home with a boxful of straight-sided No.36 bottles for the installation.

Darling Downs exhibit at the Brisbane Ekka 2000 display of bottled fruit and vegetables
Image: Morley Grainger

The exhibition design I had in mind comprised: a shallow white pine cupboard, reminiscent of my own pantry in southern New South Wales, with four rows of bottles, each filled with a strip of fabric stitched and coloured, to look like real fruit and vegetables. The cupboard would stand on a piece of old linoleum, flanked by the bottling recollections of women friends, with a banner at each end.

Well Preserved! exhibition design
Drawing: Morley Grainger

The cupboard: was built by a retired carpenter. He sourced white pine plywood for the doors, recycled solid white pine for the frame and shelves. And ‘V’-Jointed ply backing to give the cupboard the look of an old-fashioned pantry.

The bottles: I collected twenty-eight straight-sided No.36 bottles, as well as a rubber neck ring and a stainless-steel lid for each.

The linoleum: I rescued a piece of worn linoleum from a friend’s about-to-be-renovated kitchen. The linoleum’s earth-toned pattern, was perfect for this installation, and I cut it the same size as the cupboard and backed it with canvas.

Choosing the fruit and vegetables to depict: From the photographs, I chose: apricots, grapes, oranges, peaches, pears, pineapple and plums; French beans, beetroot, carrots, celery, corn, peas and pumpkin.

The next challenge was to make the stitched fabric strip for each bottle.

I began with the apricots.

I used a photocopier to enlarge the apricots photograph to the height of a No.36 bottle. Then I used a lightbox to transfer the photocopied shapes onto the non-adhesive side of a medium-weight iron-on Vilene, before ironing it onto apricot-coloured cotton fabric.

Next, the stitching. I tried machine stitching each half individually and the result was woeful, so, if this exhibition was going to fly, I needed to come up with a solution, and fast.

When I looked closely at the photograph of the apricot halves, I noticed they’d slumped slightly in the preserving process. Because of this, each half was touching the adjoining ones. So, instead of stitching each half individually, I figured I could follow the slumped shapes in a continuous wavy line—under one, over one, under one—both vertically and horizontally.

I got the best results by stitching the traced lines from the back to begin with. Once the basic shapes were in place, I switched to stitch from the front, as multiple lines of stitching were needed. This was the technique I used for all twenty-five artworks in this installation.

With the apricot shapes stitched, the next challenge was to make each half look as realistic as possible.

To create form, I experimented with Derwent coloured pencils. I could see that the pencil colour stuck to the fabric surface, but was not permanent. At the outset, I was a little concerned about this, until I realised that the fabric strips would eventually be sealed inside a glass bottle, with no friction to disturb the layer of colour pigment. I breathed a sigh of relief.

As I continued, I discovered another advantage that came from the impermanency of the colour. If I’d taken the colouring too far, or used the wrong ones, I could wash the fabric, dry it and start again. With the colouring issue resolved, from here on in I had fun!

When I was happy with the colouring, the final step was to stiffen the fabric with a rectangle of laminate, inconspicuously machine-stitched to the back of the fabric. The laminate served two purposes. Firstly, it eliminated fabric droop and secondly, the laminate’s innate tendency to straighten out, forced the fabric hard against the inside surface of the bottle. The result was amazingly lifelike and exceeded my expectations. This was going to work!

Of the 25 individual fabric strips made for this installation, 22 were machine stitched and three were backstitched by hand, adding hours and hours to production.

Well Preserved! Apricots
Image: Ann Alcock

Green peas—hand stitched
All images: Ann Alcock

Sweet Corn—hand stitched

Grapes—hand stitched

The next task was to seal each bottle by fitting a standard Fowlers Vacola orange rubber ring into the groove at the top of the bottle, before gluing the shiny stainless-steel lids in place. Fowlers made a cheaper metal lid. But for this installation I splurged, because I wanted to elevate the process of bottling to ‘high-art’. Well, at least I’d have a jolly good go!

Well Preserved! Shelf No.1

Well Preserved! Shelf No.2

Well Preserved! Shelf No.3

Well Preserved! Shelf No.4
Images: Ann Alcock

To add authenticity, I included three empty bottles and inverted them to give the impression of a bountiful pantry of yesteryear, with a quirky twist. It looked so convincing!

Now it was time to move on to the interviews to support this installation.

I asked around, and seven friends agreed to tell their Fowler’s Vacola stories. From them I learned that there were some women who thoroughly enjoyed the bottling process and did so, long after the advent of freezers. Whereas those who saw it as a chore, got rid of their bottling gear as soon as they could.

For additional credibility, I approached Fowlers Vacola, asking to include a brief history of the company to join the other stories supporting this installation. They were more than happy to oblige.

Things had come together well and I could see the end in sight. Thankfully I still had energy in reserve to complete the outstanding elements: a catalogue, an exhibition crate and a bottle tray.

The catalogue: The full-colour catalogue design was based on the original Fowlers Vacola instruction booklet, that came with the purchase of a bottling outfit. The booklet was considered the Bible by bottlers because it provided step by step instructions for preserving fruit, vegetables, meat, cordials, and sauces.

I was thrilled with the result and once I’d the catalogue in hand, I began promoting the exhibition to the galleries, particularly the ones that had previously exhibited my work.

The crate for this exhibition, was the most beautiful I’d designed to date. Lined with high density foam, the cupboard went in first, then a layer of foam, then the red tray with 28 divisions; one for each bottle, each one protected by a foam-lined calico bag. Also, there was space for the other support material.

Well Preserved! crate with bottle tray with bottles packed with display cupboard below
Image: Bob Lethbridge

As I was putting the finishing touches to the support material, made up of: two banners; the women’s stories; an artist’s statement; labels; education kit; hanging instructions; and a media release, I had a bright idea.

I thought to make a ‘how-it-was-done’ book to accompany the exhibition. Its purpose? To demystify the techniques I’d used to make two-dimensional strips of fabric look like the real thing. And it worked like a charm.

Well Preserved! Installation — cupboard: 1770 mm x 900 mm x 170 mm lino 1700 mm x 900 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

The Well Preserved! exhibition opened at the Warwick Art Gallery, in early October 2001.

I already had several bookings for this exhibition, but when it came time to get stuck into promotion, I noticed a marked change in my attitude to the job. It may have been because I’d picked up on the subtle changes appearing on the regional gallery and museum front, but I wasn’t worried. Truth be told, I was running out of new exhibition ideas. Besides which, I’d another huge project on the go; one that would take up almost two years of my life.

What was the project?

I’d been persuaded to apply for a Winston Churchill Fellowship, and I did.

But that’s another story.

 

ON REFLECTION:
When I was growing up, we didn’t eat dessert. If visitors arrived unexpectedly, I was sent to the corner store to buy a small jar of cream and a tin of fruit to offer them for dessert. It wasn’t until the tin was opened that the jumble of fruit pieces, suspended in syrup, could be seen. This was in marked contrast to the joy I experienced each time I saw glass bottles, filled to the brim with rows of colourful fruit. Art to eat! I was enchanted.

Realism: I was surprised by the degree of realism I managed to achieve in this installation. Leafing through the catalogue some 20 years on, I’m proud of each artwork, particularly the backstitched ones; corn, green peas and grapes. I remember Corn took me 60 hours to stitch, with Peas and Grapes, only taking 40 hours each. To begin with, I tried machine stitching the shapes, but it was impossible, so hand stitching was the only option; that, or leaving them out. But I didn’t want to do that, because each one was so beautiful. I still marvel at my determination to stick at it, no matter how long it took.

Coloured pencils: this was the first and last time I used coloured pencils on fabric. As the fabric strip was to be sealed in a glass bottle, well away from direct sunlight, it was a calculated risk and one I was prepared to take. Four outings later, there has been no noticeable change.

Two decades on, I’m even more aware of the historical importance of this exhibition. I also realise that with my art training and sewing skills plus a thorough understanding of the preserving process, I was perfectly placed to make art about bottling. As a result, Well Preserved! is not merely an artistic interpretation of a woman’s domestic skill in decline, instead, a ‘forever’ record of bottling practice, supported by heart-felt recollections from women, who’d witnessed this skill being replaced by less labour-intensive methods, like freezing and dehydration.

Lastly, I feel it’s important to acknowledge the contribution made by the Fowlers Vacola Company. Their foolproof preservation method, enabled generations of Australian homemakers to safely preserve food for their families. Before the advent of Fowlers Vacola, our diet was seasonal.

FACTS:
Dimensions: Cupboard: 1770 mm x 900 mm x 170 mm
Crate: 1900 mm long x 1065 mm wide x 430 mm deep fully lined with 25m
high-density grey foam
Lino: 1770 mm x 900 mm
Catalogue: 18 cm x 12 cm

In 2025, this exhibition continues to excite; displayed at a National Trust Historic House until 2026.

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PLEASE NOTE: Well Preserved! (03:42 min) video can be seen at

https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/well-preserved-videos/

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PLEASE NOTE: Well Preserved! The ‘how it was done’ book! (01:44 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/well-preserved-videos/

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ARTIST’S STATEMENT

I’m a city girl! – born and raised in Sydney.  When I was twelve my family moved to Papua New Guinea and, like most expatriate children, I was sent ‘south’ to boarding school. This experience brought an introduction to Home Economics—Queensland style—and the wonderful art of preserving—carefully selected fruit and vegetables, patiently arranged in beautiful patterns in sparkling glass bottles. I vividly recall my amazement at it all!

At the time I didn’t grasp the significance of the skills: the preparation of young middle-class women for married life in both urban and remote Australia—anywhere fresh produce was prized and women prided themselves on using every last piece.  As jam or jelly, chutney or relish, stewed or preserved—recipes and foolproof tips were often handed from mother to daughter.

In post World War II (1939-45)  Australia, when housekeeping was primarily the domain of women, Home Economics skills were important to establish and maintain domestic credibility. Local shows and CWA competitions provided opportunities to display home-making expertise—success generated lasting community recognition.

I too, took preserving very seriously when, unexpectedly, I found myself living in a country town on a half-hectare block with seven fruit trees! Summer days, often around Christmas, were spent in a hot kitchen washing, cutting, stoning and arranging freshly picked apricots, nectarines and plums in lovely clean bottles.  They were then topped up with syrup, bubbles tapped out, and the metal lids clipped in place over red rubber seals around the neck of the bottle. Then in a preserving pan partly filled with cold water, the bottles were arranged and brought slowly to the correct temperature, held for a precise number of minutes to vacuum seal and removed to cool.  The following day, clips were removed, bottles wiped, labelled and stored in my ‘preserves’ cupboard. It is almost impossible to describe the pride and satisfaction of gazing at the array of mouthwatering ‘edibles’—satisfying the primal squirrel impulse and being part of the timeless harvest- and-store cycle of nature.

Alas, the evidence is irrefutable: improved refrigeration, efficient and dependable freezers have led to the demise of bottling. This exhibition is a tribute to all bottlers, past and present—my way of honouring a dying art.  It is especially dedicated to Wendy Macdonald of Goombungee who continues to keep the art alive. My thanks to all the people behind the scenes who helped bring this exhibition to fruition, so to speak! Also my thanks to everyone willing to share their stories—we are richer as a result.

Oh, I almost forgot! I need to explain—the WELL PRESERVED! ‘fruit’ and ‘vegetables’ are not real! As an artist with a textile preference, I’ve stitched and hand coloured each strip of cloth. Once ‘realism’ has been achieved the strip is curled into the bottle and sealed!

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 2000

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ESSAY

Preserving the Harvest (Well?)—Literally and Metaphorically

Glistening bottles reflect light each time the cupboard doors are opened, the contents of each bottle a feast for the eyes.  Curving half-moon peaches are stacked, the orange column growing higher, higher, until it reaches the top.  Mossy green and white celery wedges packed tightly, forming a vegetable tower. Creamy white pears, stripped of skin, upended with stems turned down, bob inside their glassy environment.  Plums, beetroot, peas, grapes.  Each one so convincing you’d swear they were real.

Nature captured in a bottle. Fruits and vegetables, poised at the peak of freshness and preserved behind glass, now captivate our imagination as art.

Well Preserved! is the fifth exhibition in which Morley Grainger utilises everyday objects and familiar materials to explore elements of Australian culture, especially areas that touch women. Past exhibitions have paid homage to particular groups of Australian women, the vagaries of life on the land, the phenomena of washing and the mystique of aprons. All explore art using the outward symbols of our culture.

Grainger and her art are difficult to categorise.  She has made quilts, but is not a quiltmaker.  She often uses textiles, but is not a textile artist.  Her works are three-dimensional and employ a multitude of materials, but “mixed media” doesn’t seem to describe her. Her works need to be assembled before viewing, but does that make her an installation artist?

Currently, no definitions exist to easily classify her work.  Like America’s Judy Chicago, she looks at the historical and political and interprets that look with a wide range of materials.  However, where Chicago is often considered as having a “conceptual arsenal,” the message in Grainger’s art is more subtle.[1] She is one of few artists in Australia today working with these ideas, in this medium.

Well Preserved! was created quite literally with the same copious enthusiasm that Australian women have used to preserve the harvest. Bottle by bottle, the artist has sketched, coloured and stitched on fabric to preserve the look, feel and literal presence of fruits and vegetables. When her bottles were filled, she sealed them and placed them in a cool, dark pantry cupboard, away from encroaching sunlight.

In Australia’s largely rural society of the previous century, preserving was just one component of a thrift mentality that permeated all facets of life.  When something was “in season” you either ate it, sold it or bottled it.  Nothing was ever wasted.

In his recent book on the subject, Oded Schwartz espouses:

“…the art of preserving reminds us to observe the seasons and the changes that occur throughout the year. It also helps to revive our jaded senses and, especially for those of us living in an urban environment, can bring us closer to nature.”[2]

As recently as 1979, preserving was still an integral part of the agricultural show circuit in Australia.

“The craft is not lost.  Despite the prevalence of fast food chains and instant groceries, tens of thousands of Australians still keep those jars filled year after year as every country and state show bench will testify.”[3]

In this millennium, though, many agricultural shows are considering eliminating bottled fruit and vegetable classes due to a decline in entries.

This exhibition pays homage to the women who bottled fruit and vegetables because it was what you did. The accompanying oral histories help us to understand the necessity of the practice, but the installation itself helps us to elevate simple domestic science to high art.

[1] Introduction, “Judy Chicago, Trial and Tributes,” a retrospective exhibition, hosted at www.fsus.fsu.edu/jchicago
[2] Ibid.
[3] Pounder, Nicholas, “Home Crafts:  Preserving” Craft Australia, Crafts Council of Australia, Sydney, Winter No. 2, 1979.

The impact of the Fowlers Vacola system on preserving in Australia cannot be overstated. From its introduction in 1915, it became the most used system in the country. It was reliable and precise and their mascot, Mrs B Thrifty, helped explain the process in pictures.  The company encouraged customer feedback, but quantified the encouragement with a warning:

“Owing to the hundreds of letters received weekly, especially during the Fruit Season, letters cannot always be answered promptly, but queries will be answered even though there may be a slight delay.”[1]

With the Fowler’s instruction book, the accompanying equipment and good fruit, 20th century women were on their way to receiving many accolades and increased standing in the community. The true test was entering their bottled fruit and vegetables onto the agricultural show circuit. Fowlers acknowledges this facet of bottling in its 1958 book.[2]

Whether Australian women bottled only for family needs or ventured into the competitive show arena, there is no doubt that preservation of fruits and vegetables is on the decline.  One glance at the birth dates of the women who contributed their stories for this exhibition reminds us that they are an endangered species.

Grainger notes the invaluable contribution of these women in her artist’s statement.  While other artists may use a design process that involves sketching, photographs or other visual stimuli, her design process involves talking to people around an idea or theme and then contemplating their words. From their stories, the essence is extracted, providing a springboard for making an artwork.

Here she looks at the culture of preserving by exploring its reality.  Then, she takes its basic components and reconstructs the imagery.  In this way, Grainger leads us to other ideas. We contemplate the human fear of hunger, the human desire to control nature, the human need to contain things, literally and metaphorically.

This simple pine cupboard, doors open and poised on a square of old linoleum, lined with colourful jars of faux fruit, challenges us to see domestic things in a different light.

Frances A. Kenneley
Canberra 2000

[1] Fowlers Method, Fowlers Vacola Manufacturing Co. Ltd, Hawthorne, Vic., 20th Edition, 1958.
[2] Ibid.

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VENUES

Well Preserved!

Toured to 5 Queensland and NSW venues between 2001 – 2026

EXHIBITED:

  1. Warwick Art Gallery, Warwick, Qld 5 October 2001 to 23 October 2001
  2. Wondai Art Gallery, Wondai, Qld 14 December 2001 to 3 February 2002
  3. Lismore Regional Art Gallery, Lismore, NSW 1 August 2002 to 30 August 2002
  4. Australian Cultural Library, Rosewood Qld April 2024 to August 2025
  5. Royal Bull’s Head Inn, Toowoomba, Qld September 2025 to August 2026
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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 102: Washing

It was 1999. Career-wise I was on a roll and enjoying myself immensely. My enjoyment came from having three self-contained solo exhibitions touring four states: In Praise of Australian Women, Setbacks—Shattered Dreams and Aprons, with ideas for new shows popping up weekly.

The inspiration for the next exhibition came out of the research I’d done for the fourth artwork in the Aprons series, titled Washing. I wanted to further explore laundry work, the bane of most women’s lives before automatic washing machines and dryers. So, my plan was to create an engaging installation that charted the massive changes in washing practice that took place ever so gradually, between 1940 and 2000. But, before I could begin, I needed to find a cheap crating solution for this new exhibition.

Why?

Because I was still smarting from the cost of building the huge crate for the Aprons exhibition that measured 1.515 mm x 940 mm x 900 mm, lined with a layer of high-density foam. To keep the cost down, I needed to do some serious lateral thinking.

The solution presented itself in a strange way. Whilst driving around Toowoomba, I’d often seen blue plastic barrel drums lashed to the back of Utes and it occurred to me, that a couple of these drums could be the answer. I sourced a pair second-hand for very little, with lids and lever-ring closing.

The next challenge was to design the exhibition components to fit the drums, beginning with the pieces of faux washing.

This exhibition would be the last word in up-cycled denim. In my mind’s eye, I saw a continuous line of two dimensional ‘garments’, looping their way around a white-walled gallery space. The garments would range in colour from darkest indigo through to the lightest blue, hanging right way up and upside down; with washing-related wording embroidered on each. The wording would chart the gradual changes in washing practice over 60 years.

Whenever I’m planning a new exhibition, I test the temperature by running my idea past anyone who’ll listen.

One insightful friend whose opinion I value was willing to discuss this new project. Her viewpoint was important because I was still feeling a little insecure about the radically different artwork I was producing, that she described as ‘being at the nexus of textile art and well-researched social history’.

Over a cup of tea, I explained what I had in mind. She listened attentively as I described the long looping line of faux denim ‘garments’ with embroidered text. When I finally drew breath, she paused for a time before tentatively suggesting that I bookend the long line of ‘washing’ with two pictorial banners; one, describing the ‘then’ of washing and the other, the ‘now’. Within seconds I was able to visualise what had to be done.

As the installation came together, I thought to ask my circle of women friends to share their washing stories, knowing full well that all women have them: some sad, some funny, some poignant. As I was always looking for ways to give my exhibitions greater appeal and relevance, I realised that a recording of their recollections would add another dimension. Washing Recollections, a 30-minute cassette was the result, to play in the gallery space with the exhibition.

My next task was to source denim, and lots of it, to make the stylised ‘washing’ because I knew that the success of this exhibition depended upon volume. I began by sorting through my collection of denim clothing to get an idea of how many mini-garments I could hope to cut from what I had. If I ran short, I knew I could go Op-shopping for more.

Next, I drew four simple child-size garment shapes on brown paper: a skirt, a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and a singlet. It was important to ensure that each shape would lie flat in the drum without the edges curling up. Once the sizes were established, I could begin ‘garment’ construction in earnest.

Washing stylised garments: a T-shirt, a singlet, a skirt and a pair of shorts
Image: Ann Alcock

Each one was backed with thick grey iron-on Vilene, before I overlocked the edges in tan-brown thread, the traditional thread colour used to stitch jeans. Lastly, I made a channel for the plastic washing line.

Once all fifty-one faux denim garments were made, I double checked the colour grading from dark to light, before I began embroidering words from my washing ‘poem’ onto each one. The words were carefully chosen to describe the method, materials and effort required to keep clothes clean.

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Morley Grainger’s Washing poem

Overnight soaking. Monday is washing day; paper; kindling; matches.

Hard soap: 7lbs tallow 3lbs rosin, 2lbs potash, 6 gallons water. Boil 3 – 5 hours. Cool overnight. Cut into bars.

Chopped firewood; crisp, early morning air; washboard, bar soap, scrubbing brush. Broken axe handle; splinters; annoyance; boiling water; copperstick; wringing out, galvanised tubs.

Cold rinsing water; first rinse, second rinse, blue rinse; boiled starch. Hanging out; waterlogged hands; hot sun; clothes prop breaks!, frustration; exhaustion; aching shoulders; burned skin.

Pride; satisfaction; spotless wash! Bird’s poop! Soap flakes; convenience; labour-saving devices; flooded laundry; machine malfunction; repair man.

Fabric deodorizer; liquid blue laundry brightener; cold water washing powder; liquid stain remover; antibacterial/antifungal fabric conditioner; laundry detergent concentrate; spray starch; fabric softener; tough stain penetrator; fabric refresher; pre-wash colour protection; colour safe bleach. 

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The placing of the wording was important, as was the choice of thread colour for each ‘garment’. I selected a shade of blue embroidery thread that was either sightly darker or lighter than the denim fabric. By doing this, I hoped to surprise the viewer and draw them in to the narrative.

Washing—embroidery detail
Image: Ann Alcock

Next, I moved on to the pictorial banners to bookend the long line of faux washing.

I began with Washing—Then, a narrow painted and appliqued banner, depicting a 1940s Australian backyard with a copper, a wooden post with a swivel cross-bar, supporting strands of washing line, the apparatus used for drying washing in many households at that time.

Next, I placed a layer of woollen blanket between the front and the calico back of the banner, before tacking all the layers together, from the centre out. Then I made a rod pocket top and bottom before securing the banner layers with tufting knots to the back.

I was very pleased with the result. I felt the narrow banner provided an understated introduction to the exhibition, without over-powering the pieces of faux washing.

I then began working on Washing Now. By contrast, this pictorial banner captured the view of the same backyard, from a year-2000 laundry door. This time the backyard has a tall paling-fence and an iconic Hills Hoist. The laundry interior has a tiled floor, a top loading washing machine, with a clothes dryer on the wall above it.

This banner, like the first one, was filled with a length of woollen blanket, and finished off with a backing of calico. All three layers were secured with tufting and lastly, given a rod pocket top and bottom.

Washing—Then 2230 mm x 520 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Washing—Now 2230 mm x 520 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

When all the exhibition components were complete, I did a trial hang—adding the finishing touch—each piece of faux washing secured with a couple of old-fashioned wooden dolly pegs, dyed grey-blue.

Washing—Then with 5 of 51 pieces of faux washing and dolly pegs
Image: Ann Alcock

Now it was time to pack the drums.

Drum #1 contained both pictorial banners, rolled around a length of 90 mm plastic pipe, held in place with elastic straps. The pipe end was capped. I’d used this ‘rolled’ technique previously and it worked a treat—minimising creasing.

Next, I rolled the title banners around a smaller diameter length of pipe, also capped, and strapped them securely. I made calico drawstring bags for both the banner rolls, and the metal hanging rods. The calico bags protected the contents as well as making it super easy to unpack and repack the drum.

Once bagged, the pictorial banner roll was put in the drum first. Next, the smaller roll was bagged and slipped into the space at the centre of the banner roll’s plastic pipe. Then the smallest bag, holding the metal rods, was tied off and placed inside the smaller pipe, which was also tied off.

This was my version of nesting Russian dolls!

And finally, the largest bag was tied off, before the drum was sealed.

Drum #2 held two long lengths of grey plastic ‘washing’ line; a calico bag containing 150 blue-grey dolly pegs and the faux washing, with each piece numbered and stacked in order, 51 through 1. On top was a calico envelope containing the labels, a booklet with the detailed hanging instructions, the education kit, the condition report manual, the all-important comments book and the exhibition catalogues.

The catalogue was simple. To keep the cost down, it was a folded A3 sheet, printed blue, one colour half-tone.

The artist on the Washing drums, before they left for the exhibition launch at the
Salmon Galleries in Sydney

The artist on the Washing drums, before they left for the exhibition launch at the Salmon Galleries in Sydney

Before the drum was closed, the empty space was filled with bubble wrap, to prevent the contents shifting in transit.

As planned, in early March 2000, the Washing exhibition launched in a blaze of publicity at the Salmon Galleries, a commercial gallery, in McMahons Point Sydney.

The Washing exhibition hanging at the Salmon Galleries in McMahon’s Point, Sydney
Image: Morley Grainger

The final wash up: With the catalogue in hand, I began marketing the exhibition. I wasn’t quite sure how the galleries would respond to this quirky exhibition, that was such a radical departure from my earlier ones. But I need not have worried because the touring schedule began to fill.

Once the exhibition launch was out of the way, my creative focus shifted to yet another aspect of domesticity I considered worth exploring. This time I’d focus on food, or more specifically fruit and vegetables, preserved using the famous Fowlers Vacola bottling system.

I was excited by the idea in principle, but I knew it would provide creative challenges of a very different kind. Grist to the mill.

 

ON REFLECTION:
How Washing came to be displayed for two weeks at the Salmon Galleries is a story worth telling.

The opportunity came out of a chance meeting at the Wagga Wagga Art Gallery in New South Wales, in late 1998. I was one of a number of speakers who’d been flown in for a rural artist’s seminar. I was asked to speak about my life as ‘a practicing artist who makes, promotes and tours her own work’. On the podium with me was the director of the Salmon Galleries, who was there to give artists the ‘how-tos’ for approaching a commercial gallery.

From our time together on the podium and afterwards, came the invitation to launch Washing, —a not for sale exhibition, at her commercial gallery and be paid the customary exhibitor’s fee plus freight ex-Toowoomba and return. How could I refuse?

Here I must emphasise that this was extremely unusual because commercial galleries depend on the commission from sales, but with the Washing exhibition, there was nothing to sell and therefore, no money to be made.

After the seminar, I scurried back to Toowoomba to finish the exhibition. Then, the blue crates were sent off to Sydney. I followed to install the exhibition.

As I’ve already mentioned, the official launch was a huge success and the exhibition attracted masses of local media, a plus for us both. But this was the first and last time a commercial gallery hosted one of my exhibitions.

A copper: I first saw a copper when we went to live in New Guinea in 1960. But I didn’t get to use one until 1964, when we moved to Kundiawa in the New Guinea Highlands. Here a copper was used to scour the blankets and ponchos, woven by the Simbu weavers. These men had been taught to weave by my mother, who introduced a hand-textile industry into the Highlands between 1964 and 1972.

Scouring day was a fun day out. We all piled into the Land Rover, and headed for the Simbu River, just out of town. The first items to be unpacked were the copper and the firewood. The copper was balanced on three large flat river stones, then filled with water and a fire lit underneath it.

As we waited for the water to boil, we unpacked the items to be scoured. When the water was hot, we added soap-powder and a slosh of cloudy ammonia before the items were dropped in, a couple at a time. To dislodge the grime and ‘full’ the cloth, the items were moved around with a stick. Next, each item was removed, cooled, wrung out and rinsed in the river water, wrung out once more, then laid flat to dry on the warm river stones. Between batches of scouring, we ate our sandwiches sitting on a river stone, whilst taking in the breathtaking mountain landscape that surrounded us. When all the scoured items were dry, we packed up and drove back to town.

The enduring popularity of denim: The Levi Strauss company has produced denim workwear since 1873. The enduring popularity of denim could possibly be attributed to the steady stream of hard-hitting advertising Levi Strauss generates.

As I prepared to write about this exhibition, I conducted a straw poll amongst friends, mostly Baby Boomers and older. The question I asked was, “Do you wear denim?” The answer, with only a couple of exceptions, was a resounding, “Yes!” My question brought forth a rush of denim stories; evidence that denim has maintained its popularity across the generations.

I too have a denim story. In mid-1984, I was in London for the first time. On my ‘to do’ list was to have high tea at the Ritz Hotel, and I invited a friend to join me. We dressed up for the occasion and I thought I looked pretty smart wearing a stylish shirt and jacket, trendy well-fitting designer blue jeans, a red leather belt and expensive red Italian shoes.

Imagine our surprise to arrive at the Ritz to be refused entry by the top-hatted doorman because the Ritz’s dress code does not permit jeans!

After recovering from the rebuff, we toddled off to Fortnum & Mason instead. Sadly, I never did have the ‘high tea at the Ritz’ experience, even though I was in and out of London over many years. Wiki tells me that to this day, The Ritz, doesn’t allow jeans.

To conclude, as well as pushing artistic boundaries, the purpose of this exhibition is to honour those who washed clothes in Australia. First Nations women working as laundresses, Chinese women sweating it out in commercial laundries and those women who, in addition to doing their own family washing, took in washing from outside to support their families.

FACTS:
Dimensions: Appliqued pictorial banners 2230 mm x 520 mm

Denim garment sizes: Skirt: 440 x 500 mm; shorts: 400 x 380 mm; ‘T’-shirt: 470 x 440 mm and singlet: 300 x 400 mm.

Word transfer technique explained:

  1. Print the wording onto light-weight paper
  2. Position the individual word strips in designated positions
  3. Tack the strips securely to the fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below
    and finally—
  5. Tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording.

History of denim: Levi Strauss was a German-born American businessman who in 1853 founded the first company to manufacture blue jeans in San Francisco.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Levi_Strauss

Washing using an electric washing machine with a wringer, late 1940s Britain. From the Huntly Film Archives.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZYva3khdME&t=73s

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PLEASE NOTE: Washing (06:05 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/washing-videos/

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PLEASE NOTE: Ode to washing (03:08 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/washing-videos/

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PLEASE NOTE: Remembering Washing (30:21 min audio) can be heard at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/washing-videos/

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Washing—Then at the beginning of the installation  

Washing installation
All images: Ann Alcock

ARTIST’S STATEMENT

I LOVE washing!

I love immersing my hands in warm soapy water, gently massaging frothy, soil-removing suds through a favourite garment!  I love the sunlit vista from my studio door of clothes limply hanging from the Hill’s hoist, sometimes gently moving in the breeze.  At the end of the day I love taking clothes from the line—some slightly stiff, others floppy—all with the distinctive smell of ‘clean’.

Not surprisingly I chose ‘washing’ as the subject about which to make art!

Washing, my latest touring exhibition charts the changes of method and materials used by those responsible for laundry in Australian households. The research was fascinating; talking to older women—their experiences of water shortages, props breaking and dust storms, as well as memories of the smells—of the copper fire, of soap, of starch and clean fabric. A visit to the local supermarket provided a contemporary perspective—the vast array of products available to assist the laundry person was truly astounding!

Many young women cannot imagine their grandmothers combining tallow, rosin, potash and water to make the soap for washing clothes. The weekly washing ritual took all day—hard physical work, chopping wood, stoking the fire, rinsing and wringing out the water—with the attendant risks of burns, scalds and exhaustion. Washing lines heavy with wet articles were hoisted up with wooden clothes props. When a prop broke everything had to be washed all over again!

In this exhibition banner ‘paintings’ mark ‘then’ and ‘now’, arbitrary ‘bookends’, to illustrate the technological changes affecting laundry practice over the past sixty years.  ‘Monday is washing day’ has given way to washing, day or night, whenever you get a chance, as drying no longer depends on a sunny day.

The primary challenge associated with creating an installation of this kind is to transform the mundane, to make art from an every-day activity.  Does it work?  I leave you, the viewer, to judge the success or otherwise of Washing.

Morley Grainger

March 2000

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EXHIBITION ESSAY—SUE PECHEY

POOR LITTLE JEANS—THE RISE OF DENIM

denim n. 1. a heavy twilled cotton for overalls, trousers etc. … 3. (pl) Colloq. denim trousers or overalls. [F, short for serge de Nîmes  serge of Nîmes]

dungaree n.  1. a coarse cotton fabric of East Indian origin, used esp. for sailors’ clothing. 2. (pl) work clothes, overalls etc. made of this fabric. [Hind dungrì]

jean n. 1. a stout twill cotton fabric. 2. (pl) clothes of this material, esp. close-fitting trousers. [probably from F Gênes Genoa]

twill n. 1. a fabric woven with the weft threads so crossing the warp as to produce the effect of parallel diagonal lines, as in serge….

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The fabric we know as denim seems to have come originally from India as a twill-woven heavy cotton, usually white, sometimes brown or blue. By the mid-eighteenth century it was being manufactured in the French city of Nîmes, where it was characteristically dyed indigo blue.

At that time the fabric reached its manifest destiny as the chosen medium for working clothes designed, manufactured and marketed by an indefatigable Jewish merchant, Levi Strauss. In America the garments took the name jeans from their port of exit from Europe, Genoa, or Levis, from their eponymous creator—by either name they became a symbol of ‘hope and freedom’ amongst hopeful immigrant workers (Graveline p3) and quite a lot more to baby-boomers of the mid-twentieth century.

Denim and dungarees seem to have come to Australia as early as 1798 when supplies of badly needed clothing were imported from India. One of the incoming items was described as ‘dungaree’, a twill-woven fabric, tough, cotton fabric, which was so widely worn by early working settlers—men, women and children—that they became known as ‘dungaree settlers’. (Burnard p72 and the Macquarie Dictionary)

A century later blue denim was most commonly worn as tunic and trousers by Chinese settlers, while European men wore dungarees made from grey or brown moleskin.

Poor little jeans! They were in existence but social outcasts…

Chinamen then, as they do today in their market gardens wore blue jeans, blue tunic and large umbrella-like straw hats.

Our bushmen wore grey dungarees if bush workers or moleskins trousers if horsemen, (Fitzgerald p47)

Although there slowly developed a recognisable Australia dress style, native fashion magazines were few and far between, and short lived. (Maynard p5) Working women with very little by way of discretionary spending undoubtedly removed their stays and fragile footwear, but their aspirations were usually to delicate fabrics and styles dictated by European fashion magazines for pampered women. Needless to say, the impractical foibles of the fashionable were eagerly adopted. While male dress was more likely to express bush vs town distinctions, women’s clothing reflected class distinctions, as colonial women strove to keep up with their fashionable sisters on the other side of the world—at least half a year behind and probably much longer by the time orders were placed or fabrics arrived and garments made up.

‘Lack of up-to-date fashion information meant that styles changed abruptly, albeit infrequently in remote areas. Rachel Hemming . . . commented ‘we get hold of a fashion when we go to Sydney, and wear it until we go there again’ (Maynard p177)

By the First World War, however, ‘it was becoming difficult to distinguish a born gentleman from the parvenu wage earner’ (Beagle p71, speaking about America). Women’s clothing changed beyond recognition as women went to work in factories and offices. It was not long before designers like Claire McCardell were designing clothing for women that

‘became a byword for clean, functional, casual, comfortable, relaxed and sporty . . . ‘The Popover’ . . . ‘Empire’ line . . . ‘The Shirtwaister’ . . were eminently copiable, and her preferred fabrics were cheap and easy to obtain—jersey, ticking, cotton calico and denim.’ (Finlayson p12)

This sounds very sensible and liberating but as the century progressed clothing was increasingly mass produced and

‘grew steadily less human through the 1930s and 1940s. attaining a nadir of gracelessness and discomfort in the mid-1950s … It was also, not coincidently, the great epoch of the haute couture power; of women waiting in a kind of despairing anticipation to find out what hating joke would be played on them this season by the blackmailers of Paris, who called them fools and puppets to their faces.’(Beagle p71)

Enter the great era of denim!

‘The range of goods in the Levi Strauss catalogue was wide but centred on his set piece jeans and jackets with orange/brown stitching, riveted pockets, soon to be concealed to prevent scratching of furniture and upholstery, stylised pocket trim and instantly-recognisable leather company logo. By the 1950s Levis and other brands were set to became a symbol of freedom from parental restraint, political conservatism and sexual liberation all over the world. ‘Youth culture’ was about to take the world by storm, epitomised by potent images of Marlon Brando, James Dean, Elvis and, not to be too gender biased, Natalie Wood and Brigit Bardot. Denim came into its own as jeans—to be hosed down, bathed in, embroidered, shaved, cut, grated and scalded— and were as ‘ritualised as the cutting of tribal scars’(Beagle p41)—and customised:

‘…denim decoration certainly has credentials in folk art. I can remember shy individual examples of embroidered jeans cuffs and jacket pockets from my childhood in the 1940s and 1950s; and my daughters were painstakingly adorning their own thighs and crutches and buttocks with unicorns and daisies long before Levi Strauss & Co. recognised it with its Denim Art Contest (Beagle p9).

As women poured into the workforce and universities, spending less and less time on household chores and handwork, practical denim became a natural target for the upper end of town. In Australia in the 70s and 80s it was taken over by designers like Jag. Metal studs and strong double stitching gave way to pin tucks and frills.

Denim had begun in India, taking names from two European cities on its way to America and the Antipodes. On the way it had been transformed from a strong working-class necessity, through social, sexual and political revolution to fashion statement—with prices to match linen and silk.

But its rough origins and the stigma of dissension cling to it. The writer, on a ski trip to Czechoslovakia in the late 70s, was refused entry to a night club because of her ‘teksasky’ but was then able to pay for a week’s accommodation with two pairs of old jeans.  In London in the 80s the artist, then a bright young colonial lass, feeling smart in designer jeans and Italian shoes and in search of a bit of a ‘high class buzz’, was refused entry to the Ritz!

Cultural icons are always attended by an element of ambivalence. In the case of denim its gentrification may now conceal some of its working class origins, and the sultry pout of its postwar wearers has certainly been subjected to some—ever-so-desirable—fading. One can’t help feeling, however, that its durability and devil-may-care attitude to washing and ironing will keep it in our wardrobes for a long time.

And surely we can’t really want it to lose all of that wonderful ‘up-you’ feeling of a fabric with attitude! 

 

ENDNOTES

The Macquarie Dictionary, Macquarie University, McMahons Point, New South Wales, 1981.

Beagle, Peter, American Denim: a New Folk Art, Harry N Abrahams Inc, New York, 1975.

Burnard, Joyce, Chintz and Cotton: India’s Textile Gift to the World, Kangaroo Press, Kenthurst, New South Wales, 1994.

Finlayson, Ian, Denim, an American Legend, Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, 1990.

Fitzgerald James, compiler, Mooni, from the Years of the Upper Moonie (ed Dr Maurice French), Cranbrook Press, Toowoomba, 1980

Graveline, Noel, Jeans: Levi’s story, Minerva, Genève-Paris, 1990, p 3.

Maynard, Margaret, Fashioned from Penury: Dress and Cultural Practice in Colonial Australia, Cambridge Press, Cambridge, 1994

Miller, Dorothy, ‘The story of not-quite-blue jeans’ pp 14-16 and ‘An invitation to blue and white’ pp 20-21, Piecework Sept/Oct 1994. Miller reports that indigo dye is extracted from several plants throughout the world. It has the advantage of being colour fast and is believed by some to be insect and snake repellent!

Unstead, R J, and W F Henderson, Pioneer Life in Australia, Edward Arnold Pty Ltd, Adelaide, 1971.

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VENUES

Washing
Toured to 7 Queensland and NSW venues between 2000 and 2006

 EXHIBITED

  1. Salmon Galleries, McMahons Point, Sydney, NSW 9 March 2000 to 24 March 2000
  2. Moree Plains Gallery, Moree, NSW 2 March 2001 to 15 April 2001
  3. Gladstone Regional Art Gallery & Museum, Qld 1 September 2001 to 29 Sept 2001
  4. Texas Regional Art Gallery, Texas, Qld 27 August 2002 to 28 September 2002
  5. Surat on Ballone Gallery, Surat, Qld 18 January 2003 to 16 February 2003
  6. Dogwood Crossing@Miles Gallery, Miles, Qld 1 September 2005 to 1 October 2005
  7. Hastings Gallery, Port Macquarie, NSW 8 March 2006 to 9 April 2006
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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 101: Entertaining

With four of the five stand-alone artworks for the Aprons series completed, I’d one more to make—Entertaining.

My plan for this artwork was to investigate aspects of the societal changes that those of us born after World War 2, experienced growing up in Australia. A teenager in the 1960s, my life gradually picked up speed to become a roller-coaster ride of exciting encounters.

Thinking about this artwork, I realised the topic offered me the opportunity to make art about my life as I continued to explore the world that surrounded me—an autobiographical work—a first.

Each artwork comprised six recurring elements: –

  1. A background
  2. A wall hook
  3. A coat hanger
  4. A dress
  5. An apron
    and
  6. A quote

‘Boomers’, as we’re affectionately known, were offered opportunities that our mothers could only dream of, even though their wartime experiences had included paid work and the independence that came with it. But, by War’s end, everyone was craving pre-War normality. As a result, Australian communities set about trying to recreate life as it was before the War, with married women of child-bearing age encouraged to concentrate on raising the next generation of Australians.  

Fast forward to the 1960s. We Boomers rode a wave of unprecedented change for women. At the top of the list was the introduction of ‘the pill’, offering women a reliable method to control their fertility.

We were encouraged to train as nurses, secretaries, teachers or hairdressers, with the wealthy, or those on scholarships, studying at university. But rarely science, engineering, medicine or dentistry, still considered male professions. But these were the heady days of full employment. When I’d completed three years of full-time study and with no real-world experience, I immediately got a job as a commercial artist.

In 1969, with urging from my mother who understood real estate, I bought a tiny ‘fixer upper’. It was a single storey terrace house in inner-city Sydney, and I moved in with my boyfriend.

We were openly ‘living in sin’, defying the lingering societal convention of marriage before sex, without the fear of an unwanted pregnancy, thanks to ‘the pill’. As a result, I was able to continue working in packaging design, earning enough to cover two mortgages, renovations and food.  

By the early 1970s, the tiny terrace house was fully renovated and ‘entertaining’ began in earnest.

In the charming wallpapered dining room, six of us could gather around an oval cedar table on cedar balloon-back chairs, that I’d lovingly French-polished and re-upholstered to match the wallpaper.

I remember dinner party preparation took all day Saturday. We began early Saturday morning with a run into Paddy’s Market to buy fresh, cheap produce, from which I’d create a gastronomic experience for our guests that evening. By the time they arrived, I was whacked. With a couple of drinks away, all I wanted to do was go to sleep.

But back to the artwork.

An apron: The delicate green and white ‘hostess’ apron for this artwork was given to me by a friend. Her mother made it in the late 1950s, and it set the tone for this artwork.

To be perfectly honest, I never wore a ‘hostess’ apron, the name given to a light-weight frilly half apron like this one, that was decorative rather than practical. But for many young women, a flimsy ‘pretend’ apron was a ‘must have’ for their hope chest, that contained a collection of domestic haberdashery to take with them into marriage.

A background: I chose to use ‘V’-Jointed Craftwood because ‘V’-J timber was used to line the walls and often the ceilings of most early weatherboard houses, built in Australia. Also, I’d a soft spot for ‘V-J’, because I lived surrounded by it. I decided to paint the ‘V-J’ a soft 1950s grey-green.

A frock: From my ‘retro’ frock collection came a super-cute 1960s homemade mini dress, made of lime green voile, and fully lined with a paler green taffeta. The bodice was decorated with rows of pintucks, delicate ribbon ruffles and a row of covered buttons down the centre front. I imagined that this was a dress made for a special occasion.

Aprons V – Entertaining bodice detail
Image: Ann Alcock

A coat hanger: I chose a chunky wooden man’s suit coat hanger as a nod to co-habiting.

A wall hook: I had a non-descript rusted metal double hook that related tonally to the wood of the hanger, and attached it to the background with a couple of screws.

Aprons V—Entertaining –coat hanger and wall hook detail
Image: Ann Alcock

Now, the only element outstanding was an appropriate quote to bring this artwork together.

And the perfect one popped out as I flicked through a retro women’s magazine at the Op-shop.

It’s a proud moment when you make an entrance with the perfect pie!

I couldn’t believe my eyes because this sentence encapsulated the essence of my early 1970s experiences entertaining, as well as acknowledging the supreme effort we Boomer women put into producing magnificent food for dinner party guests, hoping against hope that all the courses would be perfect.

Aprons V—Entertaining apron wording detail
Image: Ann Alcock

The widish green binding on the apron was the obvious place to put the quote, and, as a nod to a secretarial skill set, I decided to use white thread to replicate Courier font, found on many typewriters at that time.

After assembling the artwork, I placed a slab of thickish quilt wadding between the front and back of the dress to pad it out, thereby minimising creasing, before fitting the Perspex lid.

Aprons V—Entertaining 1330 x 720 x 110mm
Image: Ann Alcock

I was thrilled with this artwork as it was somewhat lighter in sentiment than the other four in this exhibition. It provided an optimistic finale to an otherwise low-key and contemplative series of artworks.

But it wasn’t over yet.

To tour the exhibition, I now had to build the huge foam-lined crate, make a padded bag for each artwork, paint two banners, write and print didactics, an education kit, a condition report manual and a media release. Afterwards I was flat broke.

But I was saved!

Some months earlier, I’d applied for a Regional Arts Development Fund grant and I’d been successful! Hurrah!

The grant paid for an editor, an essayist, a designer as well as 750 full-colour catalogues. I was thrilled with the result. The elegant catalogue did the trick – proof positive that I was a serious player.

What followed was unexpected but very welcome. A number of gallery directors began booking one exhibition after another after another, over many years. They could relax, knowing that my mostly female-centric exhibitions would be unique, well-executed, easy to hang and appeal to their visitors, most of whom were women.

All the while, my previous exhibitions In Praise of Australian Women and Setbacks—Shattered Dreams, continued to tour the eastern states to rave reviews from the viewing public and gallery staff alike.

Buoyed by the positive response to my work from all quarters, I decided that whilst my quirky exhibition ideas continued to flow, and for as long as my exhibitions attracted bookings, I’d continue to make artworks to tour.

And yes, I did have another unusual touring exhibition idea in mind—a much cheaper one this time—titled Washing. The idea came out of the research I’d done for Aprons lV—Washing. This time, I planned to come at clothes washing from a different angle. It’d be an exploration of the tremendous changes in washing practice between 1940 and 2000.

I was excited!

 

ON REFLECTION:
Aprons was my third touring exhibition and I’d now mastered the art of pacing myself whilst making new artwork. As a result, I no longer became a complete basket-case at the end, only a little weary, as I put the finishing touches to a touring exhibition package.

I’d deliberately designed each artwork in this series to appear benign. My plan was to draw the viewer in, before landing the figurative ‘killer’ punch. Each artwork had Explanatory Notes because I wanted to provide a ‘way in’ for viewers. But I was wary of being too prescriptive, as I wanted to leave room for the viewer to bring their own life experience, or that of their female relatives’, to the artworks.

For the record, I was never an apron wearer. I realise that by side-stepping the apron, I ran counter to the pervasive influence of the numerous women’s magazines, published in Australia both before and after the War.

These magazines subtly reinforced desirable female attributes in romantic stories and articles that depicted smiling women conforming to the domestic ideal. The magazine pages also provided recipes, household hints, knitting patterns and ‘ads’ with a glamorous apron-clad woman standing beside a labour-saving device, that promised to reduce the effort required to ‘keep house’.

Most women were caught up in the hype, but there were exceptions. Magazine editors with feminist leanings, endeavoured to nudge ‘content’ boundaries, right under the noses of their high-powered media bosses, who were more interested in the bottom line.

Hem lines: British fashion model, Jean Shrimpton, scandalised Australia by appearing at the 1965 Melbourne Cup horse race in a white sleeveless shift, with the hemline 10 cm above the knee. This very well publicised event was a turning point for Australian fashion. In a heartbeat, we Boomers joined the mini skirt / dress revolution, with existing dresses hastily shortened and new ones whipped up. The lime green dress in Entertaining is evidence of the dramatic change that consumed us.

In retrospect, I realise that we female Boomers were offered the greatest gift—a reliable method to control our fertility. The spin-off was access to an education that always led to better-paid jobs, particularly in times of full employment. And for women who were curious about the world beyond Australia’s shores, overseas travel was affordable.

Fast forward to Toowoomba in 1988 and my purchase of a little weatherboard worker’s cottage, just for me. This was a first, because until then, I’d succumbed to the propaganda encouraging me to make a home around a man. But I sensed something big was coming and I knew I had to do it alone. The cottage was perfect for the unusual career I was about to embark upon. When I began the intense process of producing work to tour, I had no time, space, or inclination to return to the past, even though there were a number of fellas who, over the years, suggested I should.

Food: Since I made the Aprons series in 1998, homelife has changed in so many ways, particularly in the area of food preparation, traditionally a woman’s sphere of influence.

As more and more women have joined the workforce, there is less time to make food from scratch. As household incomes increased, so did the desire for less labour-intensive food preparation. As a result, architects began to design houses with kitchens that contained every device needed to produce a meal quickly. And in many Australian households, food preparation has become a family affair, particularly for special occasions.

But between the gastronomic extravaganzas, it’s necessary to get a meal on the table fast. To do this, as well as take-away tucker, there’s another solution for cashed up folk; uncooked food, boxed and delivered to the home. The box contains cooking instructions and just the right amount of ingredients to make a meal for a set number of people: meat, vegetables, and condiments. For time-poor families, the advantage of this service is immeasurable. Family members are spared the ordeal of supermarket shopping and there’s minimal waste. I do wonder what will come next.

Re-visiting Aprons V—Entertaining in 2025, 28 years on, I feel the artwork holds up well.

It continues to exude the optimism of youth that surrounded we Boomers, in the late 1960s. We were filled with potential and promise, believing that anything was possible.

FACTS:
Entertaining dimensions: measuring 1330 x 720 x 110 mm

Aprons artworks: In order of construction:

  • Aprons l—Woman in the Garden
  • Aprons ll—Mourning
  • Aprons; lll—Reflections
  • Aprons lV—Washing
    and
  • Aprons V—Entertaining.

Contraception: ‘the pill’: Trials started in the United States of America in 1954. Enovid, was the first oral contraceptive pill, approved by the US Food and Drug Administration in 1960. It was released in Australia in February 1961 under the name Anovlar. For the first time, women could access a simple and reliable method to control their fertility.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combined_oral_contraceptive_pill

Courier font: is a monospaced slab serif font designed by Howard Kettler in 1955, originally for IBM typewriters. It’s known for its consistent letter spacing, making it resemble typewriter output.

Word transfer technique explained:

  1. Print the wording onto light-weight paper
  2. Position the individual word strips
  3. Tack the strips securely to the fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below and finally—
  5. Tear the paper away leaving the embroidered words

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: Entertaining (03:00 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/aprons-videos/

________________________________________________

From the Aprons catalogue p.14

APRONS V – Entertaining

The 1960’s provided a climate of unprecedented change for women.  Once they could control their fertility and were economically independent, women were free to explore areas of life previously closed to them because of parenting responsibilities.  For many young women, education and overseas travel provided the chance to stretch their wings in ways unknown to their mothers.  However, homemaking was still important to a lot of women.  Still, believing they would marry, many became nurses, secretaries or teachers.  Societal pressure made it virtually impossible for a married woman to to rejoin the paid workforce.

An op shop find, the lime green dress, seemed most appropriate to express this period.   Interestingly, the previous owner had let down the hem – was it deemed too short even for the Swinging Sixties?!

In 1959, two hostess aprons might still be part of the ubiquitous ‘glory box’.  Entertaining played an important part in the life of young married couples who were creating a domestic environment for social interaction prior to parenting.  This usually involved friends and colleagues rather than family.  As the variety of choices widened for women, the apron was slowly becoming more of a decorative item than the large pinafore of earlier times.  But for many the apron is an essential item.

The ‘V’-jointed background seemed most appropriate for this piece as it was used to line timber houses.  It and the 1950’s background colour are reminders that new housing styles and fashion dictates were sometimes slow to percolate though to regional areas – women’s fashion often led the way!

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 1999

____________________________________________

ARTIST’S STATEMENT

Although I went straight from school to art school it wasn’t until I reached my mid-40’s that I discovered I had something to say.

In my work as a textile artist, women’s stories provided a rich and fascinating source for my first touring exhibition In Praise of Australian Women.  I used the ‘wagga rug’ (a unique Australian textile tradition of sacking bed cover originating in the 1880’s) as a starting point for an exploration of topical subjects – the environment, multiculturalism, Aboriginal women, Chinese women and World War Two.  Then came Men at Work – Timber-getters, Drovers and Fettlers; and Setbacks – Shattered Dreams evoking the disasters of Bushfire, Drought, Flood, Prickly Pear and Rabbits.

Visualising each piece of this series, I realised their success hinged upon creating a new story of varied visual interest.  As they took shape, I became aware of a sense of moving through a house and garden – areas traditionally defined as a woman’s sphere of influence.  I pondered the inside/outside aspects of a woman’s world which naturally extended to a consideration of ‘inner/outer’ lives.

Elevating these items, once considered of little consequence or individual value, by aesthetic manipulation, and encasing the arrangements in perspex, has provided an opportunity to re-evaluate a composite history.  Women’s material culture can thus become a conduit to reinforce interconnections between the generations.

Reflecting on my work over these four series, it’s interesting to observe how the presentation of the themes has developed.  In my earlier work it was important the viewer didn’t miss the point.  Slowly, the aesthetic has combined with the technical to provide a subtlety and lightness I find quite surprising.  I feel women’s history, and an endless supply of costume artifacts, will continue to provide exciting opportunities and inspiration for visual expression.

I hope you enjoy this exhibition.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba Australia 1999

____________________________________________

OVERVIEW

Gillian McCracken

I shall speak the truth: I don’t like my daughter sewing.  When she reads, she returns all bewildered and with flaming cheeks.. . But Bel-Gazou is silent when she sews, silent for hours on end with her mouth firmly closed.. .  She is silent, and she – why not write down the word that frightens me – she is thinking.1

Aprons follows a series of exhibitions through which Morley Grainger has examined the human face of the events which have woven together the fabric of contemporary Australia.  These have variously looked at men and women and their response and resilience in the face of conditions and changes over which they have little control.  Grainger has particularly addressed women’s role in the construction of Australian identity and cultural difference.  In Praise of Australian Women saw Grainger exploiting the metaphor of the wagga (the quilt), to examine women’s layered responses to social issues such as the environment, multiculturalism, Aboriginality, as well as a Chinese Australian woman locked forever in otherness.  Setbacks – Shattered Dreams again used the layering of built up textile, in this instance to represent responses to external catastrophes, shattering the nostalgic idealised image of rural life.

In Aprons, Grainger turns much more deliberately to the inner world of the woman and she does this by looking at the external reading of their domestic and more specifically, wifely role and its tangible representation, the apron.   Dress and behaviour are crucial to the ways in which both sexes are culturally encoded.  The apron has an immediate reading of the domestic and inextricably tied in with this reading is the notion of constraint of choice, docility, even victim status. Implicit to these readings is the complicity of woman, because the domestic role is assumed to fulfil the needs arising from the female traits of nurturing and selfless mothering. Grainger challenges these notions of voicelessness and even complicity.

In his essay for the exhibition, Every Day Art – Australian Folk Art2, Jim Logan discusses the suggestions of Graham Seal:3

‘folk culture has a strong role in undercutting establishment notions and values, ‘Folklore is the hidden culture that joins the past to the present by making sense of or at least tolerable nonsense of both’

It is useful to look at Logan’s important essay when writing about Grainger’s exhibition because women’s domestic art is generally categorised under this heading and therefore marginalised from contemporary art criticism.  While Logan wrote that the fundamental concerns of folk art are utility, family, politics, gender roles, work, the natural world and religion, the examples of women’s work were decorative items such as quilts, rugs and lacework.  These were exemplary examples of women’s skill and observation; however, it is through the more utilitarian and possibly humble apron that women’s participation in cultural understanding might be more lucidly pursued and re-located centrally within contemporary cultural discussion.

Grainger chooses to look even more intimately at women and to this utilitarian item, the apron which women make for themselves but which are at the same time on display as a statement to others with whom they interact.  It is this multiple intention which the work in this exhibition interrogates.

Textiles provide tangible records of cultures, social practices and economic circumstances.  It is through textiles that a collective historical narrative of women may be constructed.  By using textiles and more particularly, the repetitive motif of the apron, Grainger moves through Australia’s history and the changing role of women.

Textile history does not provide a singular narrative for women – the narrative is simultaneously expressly feminine and conversely resistant.  Colette expresses the latter when she writes about her daughter4.  Her own mother wouldn’t allow her to sew because she thought Colette looked awkward carrying out this clichéd feminine activity.  In turn, Colette decided that she would allow her daughter to sew but was then very discomforted by the change in her daughter while she was sewing and her own inability to intrude herself into the private space created.  In The Subversive Stitch, Rozsika Parker writes that this stillness was perceived to be feminine and alluring while at the same time dangerous, and that women were often advised not to sew if they appeared emotionally disturbed.

This is the path which Grainger leads us down in this exhibition.  Each carefully constructed work, speaks of its time, its role, the careful and caring process of making and the changing external influences in women’s lives.  At the same time, each represents the intimacy of secret moments, unshared thoughts and unfulfilled emotions which could be concealed from the family through the distraction of the moving needle, and the practicality of the completed article.

Grainger is not afraid of intimacy and she addresses the personal rather than the universal.  The apron becomes a device to expose, to reveal while simultaneously representing physical protection.  To emphasise this metaphoric emblem of protection, each work is mounted within a perspex box, isolated within its role.

Each of these works has the double edge of meaning.  Aprons I – Women in the Garden is strangely romantic though the dream does not have to be personally conceived.  The pattern makers provided it and this contrast is counterpointed by the reality of the old newsprint with ‘real life’ Australian stories.

Aprons II – Mourning has respect and sobriety; inheritance suggesting the passing down of womanly skills and implements.  At the same time this work is oddly jubilant and celebratory.

Aprons III – Reflections continues to move women through the enclosed world of domesticity into an external world of pleasure; however, the apron continues to define her and encase her secrets.

Aprons lV – Washing is both pragmatic and decorative in its rugged hessian and sprigged fabric trim. It is tough and triumphant and as resilient as the woman who confronts the wood stove in the middle of a northern Australian summer.  The layering of the textile in this work can be read in reverse order – the embroidery giving voice on the surface, the edging to prolong life, residual text on recycled fabric, hessian imposed against a backing which echoes the rusted ‘lean to’ laundry, and in between, the protected neutral, flesh-pink dress.  However, the viewer may question if the embroidered message is sent by the wearer or is a mirrored image of their own thoughts.

Aprons V – Entertaining abandons the feminine, fleshly ‘pink’ – it is of its time, lime-green, pseudo-youthful in style and length.  The apron is only a residual reminder of the skill which fills the glory box.  It no longer protects or conceals; instead, it chooses to reveal, as does a negligée, to tempt and suggest.

Aprons is an historical analysis of women’s active participation in forging the character of Australia.  The viewer may choose to read this exhibition as a chronological narrative within the trajectory of our history or as the personal narrative of a woman’s secret life.

____________________________________________

END NOTES

1     R Parker, The Subversive Stitch, Colette writing about her daughter, Bel-Gazou
2     J Logan, Every Day Art – Australian Folk Art, National Gallery of Australia
3     G Seal, The Hidden Culture: Folklore in Australian Society, Oxford University Press
4     R Parker, The Subversive Stitch: Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine, Women’s Press

____________________________________________

VENUES

Aprons

Toured to 7 venues in Queensland, NSW and the ACT between 1999 and 2001

EXHIBITED:

  1. Toowoomba Regional Art Gallery, Toowoomba, Qld, 9 July to 1 August 1999
  2. Manly Art Gallery & Museum, Sydney, NSW, 6 August to September 1999
  3. Gladstone Regional Art Gallery & Museum, Gladstone, Qld, 2 to 30 October 1999
  4. Museum of the Riverina, Wagga Wagga, NSW, 20 December 1999 to 21 Jan 2000
  5. Canberra Museum & Gallery, Canberra, ACT, 5 February to 26 March 2000
  6. Warwick Art Gallery, Warwick, Qld, 17 January to 14 February 2001
  7. Bundaberg Regional Art Gallery, Bundaberg, Qld, 20 February to 25 March 2001
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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 100: Washing

I was on a roll, with three of the five stand-alone artworks for the Aprons series completed, and was super keen to move on to the fourth, Washing. At the heart of this series, was the exploration of a random set of societal anomalies that affected the lives of all women in Australia.

The inspiration for this piece was First Nations women friends, describing the lives of their female relatives who’d worked as ‘domestics’ in remote, regional and suburban households for little or no pay.

Each work comprised six recurring elements: –

  • A background
  • A wall hook
  • A coat hanger
  • A dress
  • An apron
    and
  • A quote

When I was growing up in suburban Sydney, I became aware of a regular domestic routine carried out in most well-run Australian households; with a different task assigned for each day of the week.

This poem immortalises the routine—

Monday is washing day
Tuesday is ironing day
Wednesday is sewing day
Thursday is shopping day
Friday is cleaning day
Saturday is baking day
And Sunday is the day of rest

I chose ‘Monday is washing day’ as the focus for this artwork, after which I began searching for the various elements needed.

The first of them to bob up was the quote, ‘Be submissive, cover up and serve’.

It came out of a conversation with a British feminist academic friend, who was living in Barraba in northern New South Wales. She was already well aware of First Nations disadvantage, exploitation and massacres in that area since white ‘settlement’, having recently joined the freshly formed Myall Creek Memorial Committee. The committee’s objective was to erect a memorial to the Wirrayaraay people of the Gomeroi Nation, who were murdered by a gang of armed white men, in an unprovoked attack at Myall Creek Station, north of Barraba, on the 10th June 1838.

The towering granite memorial was officially opened on the10th of June 2000; a permanent reminder of the murderous events that had taken place there, on that date, 162 years earlier. Many of those gathered that day were descendants of either the victims or the perpetrators—in an act of genuine reconciliation.

But back to the statement.

I have to confess I was shocked by my friend’s strident statement, and wondered if I was brave enough to use it for this artwork. Whilst I ruminated on the statement, more and more stories emerged of women workers, both black and white, who worked for little or no pay. It slowly dawned on me that all women, regardless of race, were usually required to provide unquestioning service, physical, emotional and sexual; an unavoidable patriarchal expectation. After days of serious consideration, I thought, what the hell, best I use the statement to confront the reality of women’s exploitation in Australia.

Meanwhile, the other elements for the artwork came together with little effort—confirmation that I was on the right track.

For the background, I was lucky to acquire the ferrous-red ripple iron from my neighbour’s recently demolished tank stand. It was perfect as it referenced the cladding often used for an outdoor lean-to laundry structure, found in both the city and the bush.

Next, a frock; though, it could hardly be called a frock in the accepted sense.

This well-worn pinky-beige ‘A’-line shift, completely devoid of style, was yet another Op-shop find. To support my fanciful narrative around this artwork, I made minor adjustments to the shift, by re-stitching the sleeves and hem with clunky bright green stitches. The stitches emphasised the rough construction of a garment worn by an imaginary First Nations laundrymaid, washing other people’s clothes, somewhere in remote Australia.

The simple shift was in sharp contrast to the dress standards for First Nations staff in posh city households, where the uniform provided was a long-sleeved black ankle length dress, with a crisp white apron and cap.

An apron: With the frock sorted, the next task was to make a ‘washing’ apron. And I had a ‘bag’ apron in mind. Thickish, tightly woven hessian bags were often used for washing aprons. Wearing one provided a degree of protection from inadvertent hot water splashes when removing heavy water-logged sheets, towels and clothing from a copper, positioned over a wood fire, either inside a lean-to laundry, or out in the open.

Fortunately, in addition to an extensive collection of ‘retro’ frocks, I also had a number of hessian and jute bags, left over from previous ‘art’ Wagga rug projects. Searching through the bags, I was thrilled to find one with the wording, USE NO HOOKS and DRIED BLOOD, printed in blue. I immediately saw how the latter could refer to menstruation, or childbirth, or domestic violence, or massacres. I reasoned that if I positioned the text carefully, it would certainly add depth and meaning to this artwork. But before I could cut into the bag, considerable planning was needed because I only had one go at it. Mindful of the danger, I remember carefully checking and re-checking the measurements before finding the courage and the scissors to cut.

When bag aprons were in common use, the rough edges were often bound with cretonne; a cheap printed cotton fabric imported from India. The binding minimised fraying, thereby extending the life of the apron.

Unfortunately, my cretonne stash was depleted, but I did have largish pieces of a medium weight linen fabric with a cheerful floral print. I used it to bind all the apron’s raw edges, as well as extending the binding to create a neck loop and the apron ties; making sure the width of both the ties and bindings were the same.

Aprons lV—Washing jute apron with printed blue wording detail
Image: Ann Alcock

Aprons lV—Washing embroidered wording detail
Image: Ann Alcock

Next, I hand-stitched the wording above the half-moon pocket, using beige embroidery thread, a couple of tones lighter than the bag, to make the viewer work for the message.

A coat hanger: I found just the thing—a wooden coat hanger with a bright-blue knitted cover and, instead of the original metal hook, a knotted piece of orange plastic. This was a perfect example of improvisation, that would reinforce my story and add visual interest.

Aprons lV—Washing coat hanger detail
Image: Ann Alcock

A wall hook: I found a rusty handmade nail to use for a hook, another a perfect example of ‘making do’. I nailed it through the ripple iron into the timber frame and glued it in place from the back.

As with the three previous Aprons artworks, to pad out the garment and apron, I placed a slab of thickish quilt wadding between the front and back of the shift. The reason? To eliminate any fabric folds that could take the viewer’s attention away from the quote.

Aprons lV—Washing 1330 x 720 x 110 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

I was delighted with the finished artwork, but I didn’t have time to slack off, because, to complete this series, there was one more artwork to make; Entertaining.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The statement for this artwork—BE SUBMISSIVE COVER UP AND SERVE—could be considered humorous, almost frivolous in a late 20th or early 21st century context. Yet the wording has much deeper meaning, particularly for First Nations people, the women in particular, who have experienced generations of exploitation, often whilst still living on their tribal land, that’s now controlled by others.

I believe that it’s impossible for those of us who haven’t experienced being overrun by an external power, to truly understand the degradation and resulting hopelessness that comes from dispossession. To lose your land, your language, your children, your culture and to feel unwelcome in your own country—country that’s been carefully managed by your ancestors for 60,000 years before white ‘settlement’—is soul-destroying. The disbelief that comes from witnessing the systematic destruction of both the country and water resources, in an environment that once abounded with edible plants and animals, is a hard pill to swallow.

Wages: When I made this artwork in 1998, I was aware that there were rumblings from both within and without concerning wages that’d been systematically taken from First Nations workers for decades. Since then, we have learned more about the entrenched corruption around their stolen wages.

Dr. Ros Kidd’s research has been pivotal in the various attempts at stolen wages reparation; first in 1996, then again in 2002 and most recently in 2019.

These court challenges have brought to light the realities of intercepted wages, bank accounts, pensions and inheritances. What has been revealed is a catastrophic legacy caused by the cold-blooded manipulation and misuse of these monies belonging to First Nations workers, by agents of, and often for the direct benefit of, the State Government of Queensland.
https://roskidd.com/
https://roskidd.com/stolen-wages-fact-sheet/

We newcomers have prospered on the back of First Nations workers, supposedly protected by various incarnations of the Aborigines Protection Board. These Boards were staffed by bureaucrats, who were charged with controlling the movements and earnings of the people in their care, the earnings later appropriated by the Bjelke-Petersen government of Queensland for major infrastructure projects, including construction of the Redcliffe Hospital in 1965.

Washing: I was born in 1948 and raised in the city, where my only experience of washing clothes was a front-loading Bendix automatic washing machine.

Advertisement for Bendix washing machines 1938
Image: eBay

That is, until 1960 when we moved to New Guinea, where I met a backyard copper for the first time. It came as quite a shock.

Colin Bisset’s Iconic Designs: The Bendix automatic
https://www.abc.net.au/listen/programs/blueprintforliving/iconic-design-colin-bisset-bendix-automatic-washing-machine/13553344

Revisiting this artwork in 2025, some 25 years on, I smile. In my view, the work remains relevant, even though there’s been some advance in the status of women since I made this artwork in 1998. Nonetheless, the sentiments expressed in this artwork, still linger.

Dried blood: Since I made this artwork in 1998, there is greater community awareness of domestic violence and its implications. Back then, domestic violence was common, but it was swept under the carpet. Rosie Batty, a victim of domestic violence, became Australian of the Year in 2015.  Her high-profile campaigning that year and since, has helped bring the issues associated with domestic violence, to public attention. Possibly as the result of her work, I understand Police are now trained to treat women complainants with greater compassion and less indifference.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosie_Batty

FACTS:
Gamilaraay people: Australian Aborigines who are also known as Gomeroi, Kamilaroi, Kamillaroi. They are one of the four largest Indigenous nations in the country; their land extending from New South Wales to southern Queensland.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gamilaraay

FACTS:
Gamilaraay people: Australian
Aborigines who are also known
as Gomeroi, Kamilaroi,
Kamillaroi. They are one of the
four largest Indigenous nations
in the country; their land
extending from New South
Wales to southern Queensland.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gamilaraay

Artwork dimensions: 1330 x 720 x 110 mm

Word transfer technique explained:

  1. Print the wording onto light-weight paper
  2. Position the individual word strips
  3. Tack the strips securely to the fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below and finally—
  5. Tear the paper away leaving the embroidered words

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: Aprons—Washing (02:50 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/aprons-videos/

____________________________________________

From the Aprons catalogue p.12

APRONS IV – Washing

With the advent of synthetic blend fabrics, washing machines and steam irons, the labour intensiveness of laundry work, has been dramatically reduced.  But washday, usually Monday, was once code for hard physical drudgery for women – the steaming copper produced hot soaking-wet sheets which had to be squeezed through a massive mangle, then hung on a clothesline and finally ironed with an iron so heavy few today could lift it.

My original impulse for this piece was to honour Aboriginal women engaged in domestic service throughout rural and urban Australia.  In researching what they wore in their role as domestics I encountered considerable variation.  Oral history stories quoted north Queensland Aboriginal women wearing a black dress with a white, starched, full apron. A photo of an Aboriginal nanny revealed a neatly uniformed woman with her charges.  A friend confided her distress at seeing her mother’s dress being worn by an Aboriginal woman.  Yet other sources assured me that the stations received bolts of fabric to be made up into simple dresses for all.  However, as the work progressed, it became less specific, eventually encompassing the lives of all women, and their ‘making do’ approach to life vicissitudes.

The bag apron, with its wash day associations, used to be made of recycled hessian produce bags often trimmed with cretonne (a cheap imported cotton cloth) to minimise fraying.

The recycled ripple-iron background, painted ferrous red, was a common building material, easy to use and light to transport.  It refers to the ‘lean-to’ laundry and also the often-basic accommodation station people endured.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 1999

____________________________________________

NOTE: The Artist’s statement, the Exhibition essay and the venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 101

Back to Chapter Menu

Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 99: Reflections

With the Mourning artwork completed; it was time to move on to Reflections, the third of five stand-alone wall-hung artworks, that addressed a random selection of societal anomalies affecting women in Australia; this time marriage. I was really enjoying the momentum of this series because everything was falling into place perfectly; always a good sign.

Each artwork in this series has six repeated elements:

  • A background
  • A wall hook
  • A coat hanger
  • A dress
  • An apron
    and
  • A quote

The quote for this one came out of a casual conversation I’d had with a friend, 25 years my senior. Over a cup of tea, we discussed how attitudes to marriage had changed in her lifetime.

She then gave an example of a widespread post-World War 2 (1939-1945) attitude by quoting her elderly Aunt Gussie, who often said, “If a girl wasn’t married by the time she was 22, she was on the shelf.”

I was stunned.

But when I’d recovered, I realised I’d struck gold. Aunt Gussie’s statement would be perfect for this artwork.

Yes, as a teenager in the 1960s, I’d occasionally heard this point of view expressed, but, in the best Baby Boomer tradition, I dismissed it as an example of a social convention, that’d been swept aside by the Women’s Liberation Movement, as it gained momentum.

Fast forward to 1998, some 50 plus years after the War, and some 30 years after the birth of the influential Liberation Movement, I was very surprised to discover that this statement was still taken seriously in some parts of Australia.

I immediately began searching for the elements needed to support Aunt Gussie’s statement.

A frock: From my extensive ‘retro’ collection came the perfect garment. It was a pink pure silk dress with machine embroidered bodice and pleated skirt, complete with Milanese silk petticoat. Both were in mint condition.

Aprons lll—Reflections pleated skirt detail
Image: Ann Alcock

As the outfit in this artwork was for ‘special occasions’, a pre-loved fox fur stole, lined with russet red pure silk, was the ideal complement for this exquisite silk dress.

Next, an apron.

Aprons lll – Reflections fox fur stole with creepy feet!
Image: Ann Alcock

I chose to use natural coloured linen fabric to make the bib apron. I pleated the apron ‘skirt’ onto the centre of the waistband that was also the apron ties, then added the bib. The borders for the bib, the skirt and the neck loop, were made the same width as the apron ties, in the hope that visual distraction would be minimised, and viewer attention would be fully focussed on Aunt Gussie’s quote, embroidered in pink on the inside of the bib.

As I worked, a fanciful narrative developed around the nameless lead character in this artwork, who, dressed to the ‘nines’, was on her way out to attend an important social gathering, possibly a wedding. But she was drawn back into the kitchen to deal with a crisis.

Aprons lll – Reflections apron bib embroidery
Image: Ann Alcock

Fortunately, she’d had the forethought to tie on an apron to protect her ‘best’ dress.

The next task was to source a coat-hanger that was in keeping with the elegant outfit I’d created.

I found a wooden one that was covered with a delicate gathering of pale green organza, with a black wire hook, strong enough to take the combined weight of the outfit.

A background: In my collection of ‘things-that-could-be-useful’, I found a roll of heavily embossed cream wallpaper, just right for this artwork. Once the wallpaper was glued to the backboard and painted a light greyish green white, it was time to find a suitable wall-hook, the last element needed to complete this artwork.

I found an old black cast iron double hook and screwed it securely to the backing board. Before hanging the outfit, I placed a slab of thickish quilt wadding, between the front and back of the frock to fill it out, with the apron resting flat on top. My intention was to eliminate fabric ‘sag’ that could distract the viewer’s attention from the not-so-subtle statement on the apron bib.

When the artwork was complete, I was thrilled with it. As I was with the first and second artworks in this series, because they were layered with meaning. There was something for everyone: textiles, innovative stitching techniques, social history, and a touch of feminist politics.

Aprons lll – Reflections 1330 x 720 x 110 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

With three of the five artworks for the Aprons series complete, it was time to move on to the fourth—Washing.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Change: World War 2 marked the beginning of major change for women in Australia. With the male labour force depleted, women were asked to step up and join the workforce. Those that could, jumped at the chance, thrilled to be earning money and enjoying the independence that came with it. But after WW2, the speed of change slowed as many married women found themselves caught up in the post-War baby boom, loyally responding to the national catchcry of “Populate or perish”.

Some fifteen years after the end of WW2, came the biggest change of all; the ‘contraceptive pill’ that enabled women to control their fertility. As a result, women of my generation, could enjoy sexual freedom without the worry of an unwanted pregnancy.

This profound change shook Australian society to its foundations. Brazen young couples were now openly ‘living in sin’, no longer needing the mantle of respectability that marriage provided.

My cynicism regarding the institution of marriage was alive and well when I made this artwork in 1998. My cynicism was in part the result of my experiences growing up, particularly the emotional pain and disruption we’d lived through as my parents’ marriage disintegrated.

Sadly, as a result, I find it difficult to trust men. This is regrettable baggage to be carrying when making an artwork about an institution many consider sacrosanct.

Catering: In the second paragraph on page 10 of the Aprons catalogue, food is referenced.

“The mind doesn’t shut down just because one is stirring the soup or, in a contemporary context, preparing the sushi!”

In post-WW2 Australia, waves of refugees and migrants arrived from Europe and Asia, bringing with them delicious foods. Some years later, Japanese sushi, small tubular servings of delicious titbits rolled in rice and wrapped in seaweed, became very popular.

I was secretly pleased to insert a spot of multi-culturalism by referencing sushi in the catalogue entry for this artwork. In reality, a sushi train for Toowoomba was years away. But adventurous ‘foodies’ made sushi at home for private dinner parties. Now, freshly made sushi is available from mega-shopping complexes across Australia.

Animal fur: I was well aware that the fox-fur stole in this artwork could raise eyebrows and draw murmurs of disapproval. But it was too good an opportunity to miss. The stole in this artwork is as important as the text-laden apron, because for well-to-do women, furs were an important status marker.

Since the 1970s, fur has fallen out of fashion, due in part to global anti-animal cruelty activism. Fake fur replaced the real thing for years but it seems real fur is popular again.

Finances: Making artwork for touring exhibitions was always a financial juggle. Where possible, I saved money by recycling. But whenever I got to the end of this series, I was skint. Even so, from somewhere I had to find serious money to produce a catalogue of some kind.

Fortunately, a Regional Arts Development Fund grant had covered the cost of designing and printing a poster-cum-catalogue and postcards for the Setbacks-Shattered Dreams, exhibition. So, with a nothing ventured nothing gained mindset, I put another grant application together, this time for a ‘you beaut’ catalogue for Aprons. I now knew that grant application processing took months, so I’d be waiting for quite a while to find out if I’d been successful. In the meantime, I’d lots to go on with.

21st Century attitudes to marriage: In 2020 I was discussing attitudes to marriage with a gaggle of ‘millennials’, the term used to refer to those reaching young adulthood in the early 21st century, most of whom use online social networking groups, including dating websites like Tinder.

In the course of our conversation, I recited the ‘Aunt Gussie’ quote and asked what they thought of it? They all roared with laughter, thinking it was a joke, because the relationship landscape had changed so radically. But in the flurry of novelty some things don’t change; that of humans longing for a committed loving relationship with another, irrespective of gender.

Revisiting this artwork some 27 years on (2025), has been most satisfying. I particularly enjoy the symmetry and the mid-pink embroidered text, that draws the viewer in close. When I make art, I always have the audience in mind, and, where possible, encourage the viewer to work for the message.

FACTS:
Dimensions: 1330 x 720 x 110 mm

Word transfer technique explained:

  1. Print the wording onto light-weight paper
  2. Position the individual word strips
  3. Tack the strips securely to the fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below and finally—
  5. Tear the paper away leaving the embroidered words

Milanese fabric: is silk fabric made in Italy and was used for making women’s underwear. It was considered sexy and comfortable to wear.

‘The pill’: Trials started in the USA in 1954. The first oral contraceptive pill (Enovid) was approved by the US Food and Drugs Administration in May 1960. It was released in Australia in early February 1961 under the name Anovlar.  For the first time women could access a simple and reliable method for fertility control.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combined_oral_contraceptive_pill

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: Reflections (03:38 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/aprons-videos/

____________________________________________

From the Aprons catalogue p.10

APRONS III – Reflections

A ‘special occasion’ provided something to look forward to – an excuse to ‘dress up’ and ‘look one’s best’, to remove oneself from the house work an apron necessarily implies.  Many women have memories of watching their mothers, aunts and grandmothers ‘titivating’ themselves for such an event.

The ‘story’ behind this work is of a woman dressed and ready to leave the house, suddenly confronted with a crisis in the kitchen.  Hurriedly she ties her apron around her waist to protect her beautiful silk dress.  No time to pull the apron bib over her head – it would mess up her hair anyway!  The ‘message’ inside the bib reflects a ‘hidden’ inner dialogue with herself.  The mind doesn’t shut down just because one is stirring the soup or, in a contemporary context, preparing the sushi!  I embroidered the wording in a paler thread so as to draw the viewer closer to decipher it.

Even though it is barely visible through the holes in the broderie anglaise bodice, the pink milanaise petticoat provided with the dress, was too irresistible not to include.  There is an ‘under world’ as well as an inner and outer one.

The ‘fox’ fur, yet another serendipitous find from the op shop, was a deceased estate remainder, with its memories of wardrobes and furs smelling of moth balls.  It seems animal liberation has saved subsequent generations of foxes from a similar fate.

My recollections of childhood include rain on a tin roof, pressed metal ceilings and embossed wallpaper.  Imagine my surprise to find a roll at the ever-reliable op shop, the perfect way to extend the atmosphere of this piece.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 1999

____________________________________________

NOTE: The Artist’s statement, the Exhibition essay and the venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 101

Back to Chapter Menu

Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 98: Mourning

Having completed Woman in the Garden, the first artwork of the Aprons series, I was keen to move on with the next one, Mourning. This one would be the second of five stand-alone artworks addressing a random selection of societal anomalies, that affect women in Australia.

This time, I planned to draw attention to an aspect of women’s lives that’s not often discussed. The repercussions that affect families, particularly women, when a loved one dies.

Each artwork in this series has six repeated elements:

  • A background
  • A wall hook
  • A coat hanger
  • A dress
  • An apron
    and
  • A quote

The inner prompting for this artwork, arose from my curiosity about other women’s experiences of familial inheritance, or lack of it. My interest was fuelled by my own sudden disinheritance when I was almost 21. In my case, this turn of events was not a huge surprise. And I saw the research phase for this artwork as an opportunity to compare notes with other women, before I began work.

In my conversations with women friends, I was surprised to discover that just below the surface there often lurked painful family stories and sometimes, more than one.

They told of disappointing experiences that came with dividing the spoils. The saying, “Daryl got the property and Mum got the pearls” was, and to a degree remains, the reality for women in cultures like ours. Here, in families with serious assets such as land, livestock, stocks, shares and investment properties, the male children, particularly the eldest son, often inherits most of it, as well as a seat on the board of the family company or companies.

When I made this artwork in 1999, there still lingered the belief that a family’s assets were ‘lost’ when inherited by a woman. Her family’s concern was that, after marriage, the husband would take control and thereby benefit from of her assets.

But I also heard of an astute businesswoman who, after marriage, had been encouraged by her husband to continue managing her inherited assets, for the benefit of all concerned.

But my women friends, who came from a cross-section of social groups couldn’t tell me one ‘happy ending’ inheritance story. Instead, they spoke of the emotional tension and bad blood that was created between family members, as a result of the asset tussle. This bad blood often divided the family forever.

Single women and widows with children, were seriously affected by World War 2. The carnage in the various theatres of War had decimated the numbers of marriageable young men. In conversations I became aware of the pressure on some single women to accept an unpaid position as ‘housekeeper’ with a family member, in return for board and lodging, because they’d nowhere else to go. When the time came, they were often needed to care for elderly relatives in addition to their other housekeeping tasks.

Now with a deeper understanding of the way it was for many single women, denied the opportunity to have children of their own, I set myself the challenge to create an artwork that sensitively interlinked three distinct subject areas: grief; inheritance and care of the elderly.

I began with the frock.

From my considerable ‘retro’ frock collection, came a grey cotton lace frock that was fully lined with grey taffeta. It was the perfect choice because black, the colour associated with death and mourning in some cultures, was sometimes replaced with grey by Anglo-Celtic women, as they emerged from their time in mourning for a loved one. Once again, the Op-shop had come up trumps.

The next challenge was the apron.

In my fabric stash, I found a length of crisp white cotton fabric, with an understated woven stripe, that’d be perfect for a bib apron with pockets and a bias-cut frill trim. The apron went together well.

The quote:

I used the straps and the top of the apron bib, to carry the not-so-subtle wording…

…but a daughter is assured of inheriting her mother’s Singer sewing machine / piano…

…the words were chain-stitched with mid-grey embroidery thread.

With the frock and the apron ready to be displayed, the next element to be chosen was a suitable background.

Aprons II – Mourning—apron embroidery detail
Image: Ann Alcock

Aprons II – Mourning wall-hung artwork 1330 x 720 x 110 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

For the background, I sourced a sheet of beautifully grained warm-brown 3-ply cedar veneer, reminiscent of wall-panelling in houses of the well-to-do. After the backboard was constructed, I waxed the plywood to accentuate the grain, knowing full well that the cedar colour would contrast beautifully with the sombre grey frock and the bright white apron.

To complete this artwork, there were two more elements to be sourced: a wall hook and an appropriate coat hanger.

Aprons II – Mourning coat hanger and wall hook detail
Image: Ann Alcock

The circular vintage cast metal wall hook, that may have been used previously as a picture hook, worked perfectly because it echoed the concentric circles of the grey lace fabric in the frock.

For the coat hanger, I found an old wire folding one that I imagined would’ve been used in a man’s wardrobe. It was just the ticket as it supported the masculine / feminine sub-text of this artwork.

To avoid garment sag, I once again used a slab of thickish polyester quilt wadding to pad out the dress and the apron. This lessened the possibility of unintentional folding. It was an important inclusion, because folds could create a visual distraction that may take the viewer’s attention away from the message.

The final touch was an antique Victorian remembrance brooch, containing a decorative arrangement of human hair, seed pearls and gold wire under bevelled glass, with a bold gold frame. I felt the brooch’s inclusion added an unexpected touch of sophistication. Then a clear Perspex lid was placed over the artwork.

I liked the sombre elegance of this artwork, which was in marked contrast to the first one of the series, Woman in the Garden, that oozed optimism and the potential of youth.

With two of the Aprons artworks completed, I was ready to tackle the next subject—mid-20th century societal attitudes to marriage.

 

ON REFLECTION:
After the fact, I realise this work was my attempt to honour the generations of women who have cared for elderly family members before death inevitably came. The passing of relatives is a fact of life and I feel this artwork is steeped in collective grief. In addition, the subject area that underpins this artwork is that of inheritance, which was, and to an extent remains, a stumbling block for many women in deep grief who then discover that they have no say in the decisions being made around them.

The Remembrance brooch: I was given this brooch by a retired teacher, in return for outfitting her top to toe for an unmissable school reunion in Edinburgh, Scotland back in 1987. Through the dressmaking process, I got to know her quite well. I enjoyed her genteel manner, the result of a cultured upbringing and years of teaching at a posh private girls’ school.

For my dressmaking efforts, she asked me to choose a piece of jewellery from her collection. I chose the Remembrance brooch because it was strikingly beautiful. At that time, I knew nothing of the quirky Victorian custom of using human hair to create meaningful decorative remembrance jewellery, that was mostly worn by women. Queen Victoria, who was widowed in 1861, spearheaded the fashion trend. With so many Britons serving the Empire overseas, a memento of this kind was a good idea, in case the loved one didn’t return.

Victorian Remembrance brooch c 1870 With Prince of Wales ‘feathers’ made of human hair
Image: Blogger.com

Inheritance: From the research phase of this artwork, I recall two poignant women’s stories.

The first story is that of the daughter of a mega-rich mining dynasty who, for many years, devoted herself to caring for her parents as they got older. Her father repeatedly reassured her that she’d be well rewarded for her efforts. But, in the inheritance tussle that followed, her elder brother got almost everything, including the large grazing property, leaving her angry and disappointed. As a result, she was prompted to mount numerous legal challenges, in an attempt to wrestle back what she believed was her entitlement.

The second story is that of a woman who was the only girl, and the youngest of four, from a grazing family with a large property. The woman, who was passionate about the land, had studied agronomy at university. When the time came, all four siblings discovered that the property had been left to them in equal shares. But before long it became clear that her brothers wanted her out of the partnership. She was heart-broken, finding it difficult to accept that they were not interested in her knowledge. Finally, she was forced out, having no choice but to accept her brothers’ below-market-value offer for her share of the property.

In both cases the deep family rift caused by the tussle, remained irreconcilable.

Unpaid woman’s work: In the days before nursing homes, women were expected to provide care for ailing relatives. In our culture and elsewhere, women are trained to fulfil domestic roles and care for family members, both young and old.

I had firsthand experience of domestic training. I studied Home Economics at a Queensland boarding school in the mid-1960s, during which time I refined both my cooking and sewing skills. These skills were a pre-requisite for married life in regional Australia, should the opportunity arise. On completion of my Senior Year, I scurried off to Art School in Sydney, after which I used my cooking skills to feed myself and my sewing skills to make art.

After World War 2, many women without husbands were caught between a rock and a hard place—the widow’s pension still years away.

Some twenty plus years on, I believe this artwork, Mourning, has stood the test of time and to a degree, remains relevant today.

FACTS:
Dimensions: 1330 x 720 x 110 mm

Word transfer technique explained:

  1. Print the wording onto light-weight paper
  2. Position the individual word strips
  3. Tack the strips securely to the fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below and finally—
  5. Tear the paper away leaving the embroidered words

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE
Mourning (03:29 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/aprons-videos/

____________________________________________

From the Aprons catalogue p.8

APRONS II – Mourning

Prior to The Married Women’s Property Act, 1882, a woman’s property became her husband’s when she married.  Only by remaining single, or, as the beneficiary of a Trust, could a woman retain control over property.  (Inheritance for women still often raises angst within families, causing long-term remorse, disappointment and despair.)

Self-employment however, provided some little assistance.  Since the mid-19th century, a man’s tools of trade could not be taken to pay a rent debt.  In 1898 the law was extended to include the mangle (for washing), typewriter and sewing machine – all defined as women’s tools of trade.

It is still a commonly held view that property is considered ‘lost’ if passed to daughters, though it is well documented that the Singer sewing machine and/or the piano are passed through the female line.  From mother to daughter, grandmother to granddaughter, aunts to nieces – jewellery, household items and memorabilia such as photos, (not to mention vital family history) are passed on.  Steeped in family memory and sentiment, they provide ‘hidden’ connections down the generations, beyond the public lives of men.

In Anglo-Celtic culture, black is the colour of mourning.  The dress in this artwork thus creates a sense of a woman emerging from her social/self-imposed period of mourning.

The brooch, a fortuitous gift, is Victorian mourning jewellery – to me, a macabre nineteenth century tradition whereby a relative’s hair, living or dead, was crafted into jewellery as a constant reminder.  It provides a poignant link between migrants and those they left behind.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 1999

____________________________________________

NOTE: The Artist’s statement, the Exhibition essay and the venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 101

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 97: Woman in the Garden

I began touring my first solo exhibition, In Praise of Australian Women, in early 1995, followed by Setbacks-Shattered Dreams, in early 1998. Both exhibitions had multiple bookings and the future looked rosy.

Awash with confidence and with my creative juices flowing strongly, I wanted to make a series of artworks that were a complete departure from anything I’d produced to date; a series titled Aprons.

I planned to use women’s material culture to make five large artworks that addressed a random selection of societal anomalies that affect women in Australia, using an apron to carry the message.

Each artwork would include six repeated elements: –

  • An appropriate background
  • A wall hook
  • A coat hanger
  • A frock
  • An apron
    and
  • A quote

For this one, Woman in the Garden, the inspiration came from my memory of a very special birthday cake—a Dolly Varden cake, lovingly made by my mother when I was five or six. And I remember it was breathtakingly beautiful. A smiling fair-haired doll’s body was perched on top of a voluminous crinoline cake ‘skirt’, that was decorated with pastel pink and blue icing.

So, who was / is Dolly Varden, and what part does she play in this artwork?

To explain, Dolly Varden was an influential Anglo Celtic icon. A slim as slim young woman, always elegantly dressed, who was sometimes pictured wandering gracefully through a well-kept garden. The underlying assumption being that Dolly was supported by a cluster of invisible helpers who were essential to sustain all aspects of this young woman’s perfect life.

Dolly, the emblem of idealised womanhood, was found all over the world the result of ‘the sun never setting on the British Empire’. My mother brought the Dolly dream with her when my family came to Australia from the United Kingdom in 1937.

For clarity, I’ll describe each of the artefacts for this artwork, in the order they were sourced.

The apron: My childhood memories of Dolly, returned in a rush when I was given an unworked Semco calico apron, with a stylised 1930s printed image of an elegant young woman standing in a garden, holding a branch of blossom. The image reminded me of an old-world Dolly and was perfect for this, the first artwork of this series.

I began by making the apron from the stencilled pieces that came with the Semco kit. Firstly, I hemmed the neck and waist straps. Next, I hemmed the apron before attaching the straps and binding the scalloped hem. Now the apron was made, the hand embroidery fun could begin. I decided to embroider a random selection of the blossoms, leaving the woman’s figure unworked, as her shape was clearly delineated by dark grey lines and neatly contained within an oval frame.

As a finishing touch, it seemed fitting to add the first two lines of the familiar nursery rhyme that references gardens…

Mary, Mary quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?

…set out in an arc above the figure; and hand embroidered in mid-grey thread.

By adding these words to the apron, I wanted to emphasise the preoccupation of the ‘well-to-do’ with gardens, ideally filled to overflowing with familiar flowering plants, that were a potent reminder of home.

Next, I needed a frock to complement the apron.

Aprons 1—Woman in the Garden—embroidery detail
Image: Ann Alcock

The frock: With my abiding interest in textiles, on my return from Scotland in 1987, I began collecting interesting ‘retro’ women’s garments in good condition, with a view to using them for a project of some kind, some time. Ten years on, I had a sizable collection, many in shades of pink. I felt sure that somewhere in the stockpile, there would be the perfect garment for this artwork, and there was.

It was a cute homemade party dress of pale pink organza, with a matching pink taffeta petticoat and sheer elbow-length sleeves. On closer inspection, I discovered the dressmaker had made two flowers from the organza scraps and attached them close to the hemline of the full-ish gathered skirt—a loving touch.

So now, with the apron and frock sorted, I needed to source a suitable ‘wallpaper’ for the backboard.

I’d been given a box of vintage women’s magazines. Looking through them, I found a copy of the Australian Women’s Day, dated the 29th of August 1949. In it, there was a long article with the headline The Station Owner’s Wife, that told her story. She’d married and moved to live on an isolated station in the Northern Territory, leaving behind everything she knew, including her family.

Once there, in addition to running the station homestead, she was required to manage a domestic staff of First Nations women and a herd of milking goats, that were pictured in the article. These pages would be perfect ‘wallpaper’ for this artwork, at the same time a nod to early outback slab huts, in which newspaper and magazine pages were often glued over the slab cracks, to eliminate dust and draughts.

The magazine article set the tone for the Woman in the Garden artwork. From it, I could construct my fanciful story of a young woman, possibly from the city and owner of the sweet pink dress, who marries and moves to the bush, where she was required to make massive adjustments. Fortunately, the magazine story began at the top left-hand corner of the page, and I placed it alongside an advertisement for an Electrolux barrel vacuum cleaner. There’s no way this labour-saving device would’ve been found on a remote station with no electricity, in the Northern Territory. I was pleased with the ‘life in the city / life in the bush’ comparison I’d created, but, because the print was small, I couldn’t guarantee that the viewer would pick it up, as I assumed their full attention would be taken by the apron and the frock. But it was worth a shot.

The coat hanger: My next challenge was to find a coat hanger to support my imaginary outback narrative. Whilst wandering through the bush one day, I found a dried-out length of slightly curved eucalypt branch. When trimmed, it’d make a perfect ‘make do’ coat hanger for this young woman in need of one, for her party dress!

After consulting with bush friends, No.8 fencing wire was recommended for the coat hanger hook and I was given a length to play with. Before long, I’d fashioned a loop-shaped hook. Next, I drilled a hole in the centre of the branch, poked the hook through and secured it by bending the wire to one side. I was delighted because it looked so homemade.

A wall hook: I found a clunky brass wall hook I knew would be perfect. In the spirit of ‘making do’, I attached it to the backboard with a couple of three-inch nails with the heads hammered sideways.

The finishing touch to the artwork was a sag-eliminator.

I cut a slab of polyester quilt wadding and inserted it between the back and front of the frock, to give the garment some padding and to keep the calico apron flat. This also offered a hint that there could possibly be a torso inside, albeit a skinny one.

To protect the artwork, and ideally elevate this collection of women’s material culture to ‘high art’, I had a clear Perspex lid made to fit over it. As well as protection, I hoped that this sophisticated presentation would send a clear message that the humble ‘homemade’ garments used for this artwork, were worthy of preservation.

Aprons 1—Woman in the Garden 1330 x 720 x110 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

I was very pleased with Woman in the Garden, the first piece in the Aprons series, and was eager to begin work on the second, in which I planned to explore the vexed matter of inheritance.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Even though I was excited at the prospect of making a new series of artworks, I was apprehensive. What I’d planned was a total departure from my first three exhibitions to date. They had comprised a series of ‘art’ Wagga rugs, each with an accompanying collage. Thankfully, after completing this very different artwork, I felt more confident.

Dolly Varden: As an artist, beauty is at the core of my being. Because of this, the stylish Dolly Varden image, symbol of youth, prosperity, potential and optimism, continues to fascinate me. I confess I’m an unrepentant follower of fashion and as such, I remain peripherally engaged with the Dolly Varden icon in all her many re-inventions.

During the 20th century, her image was printed on all kinds of household haberdashery. On aprons, duchess sets, etc for young women to embroider as they prepared for marriage. But the Dolly Varden image was also used as a propaganda tool; promoting middle-class values to a cohort of women, who could only dream of a life like Dolly’s. But change was coming.

For women in Australia, the 1960s brought the opportunity to control their fertility. As a result, young women had broader employment choices. These included professional training in nursing, secretarial studies or teaching, roles that offered women the financial independence that came with well-paid work, as well as, or instead of, marriage.

Aprons: This Wikipedia quote describes the importance of aprons for women, in mid-20th century Australia:

“Aprons in the 1950s Australia: Post-war family values made the apron the symbol of home, family, mother and wife. As sewing machines and cloth became available, aprons, both commercial and homemade, became the uniform of the professional housewife. For example, magazines from the 1940s and 50s feature apron-adorned women in nearly every advertisement that is related to housework or cooking, including those for irons, kitchen appliances, and food products. The 1950s brought out the half-aprons of highly starched cotton, flour sacks and, for special occasions, sheer fabric trimmed with lace.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apron

But, by the 1960s, aprons had fallen out of favour as women spent less time in the kitchen. They began looking beyond the home and family for fulfillment, as the Second Wave of Feminism gained traction. In response, some women chose to abandon an apron altogether, or, they wore a bib apron that was less stereotypically feminine, sometimes with ironic or sarcastic statements printed on them.

Gardens: Being of British descent, I was well aware of the loss many immigrant women felt when they left the flowers of their homeland behind, particularly the wild flowers. There was an example of this in my own family. My mother, when maudlin and homesick, would express her longing to revisit the bluebells that flowered in springtime in the woods surrounding her family home. Enterprising newcomers solved the problem by importing flower seeds and fruit tree rootstock to re-create what they had left behind. There were roses, hollyhocks, delphiniums, lupins, snowdrops and pansies—a visceral connection to home; a home that many immigrant women were unlikely to see again.

One of the most poignant stories I heard during the ad hoc oral history research phase for an earlier exhibition, was that of another British transplant, who found herself living in remote Australia, during a particularly severe drought. The only plant still alive in her garden was an English rose bush that she was determined to save. She watered it daily with left-over washing up water, at the same time hoping and praying for rain. The pathos of this nameless woman’s valiant efforts to preserve the rose bush—a tangible reminder of her homeland half a world away—stays with me to this day.

After the fact, I felt this artwork offered me the opportunity to subtly insert myself into it, as my given name is Mary and I’m undeniably contrary. Just ask anyone! And, like the station owner’s wife, I too had experienced being a guest in another’s culture.

FACTS:
Dimensions: 1330 x 720 x 110 mm

Word transfer technique explained:

  1. Print the wording onto light-weight paper
  2. Position the individual word strips
  3. Tack the strips securely to the fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below and finally—
  5. Tear the paper away leaving the embroidered words

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PLEASE NOTE: Woman in the Garden (03:33 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/aprons-videos/

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From the Aprons catalogue p.6

APRONS – Woman in the Garden

To survive during early settlement in Australia the British began to tame the bush, produce food and impose order. Carefully transported vegetable and flower seeds were planted and lovingly tended, becoming a ‘reminder of home’.  Later, gardening for the pleasure of it became an important expression of women’s creative instincts.

Over the years I have been intrigued by the recurrence of Dolly Varden images in crochet and fancywork patterns. Decorating aprons, tea towels, duchess sets, little girl’s birthday cakes, they are still available today as a toilet roll cover at Sunday markets!

The flowers – hollyhocks, lupins, pansies, poppies – provide a leisurely backdrop for the female figure, young, slim, beautiful and expensively dressed and the Anglo Celtic nature of the poem, for me, conjures up ‘help’/servants in the background to support this comfortable lifestyle.

Semco, the haberdashery suppliers, printed many apron patterns.  Carefully stitched, the embroiderers’ lives often bore no resemblance to these ‘ideal’ English images transposed into the Australian bush and suburbs.  Interestingly, 1950’s prosperity provided a social climate for women to actually aspire to the middle-class lifestyle the figure on this apron represented.

To eliminate draughts and dust blowing in through the cracks of early slab huts, newspaper was frequently used, always the right way up, so the pages were still readable.  In this way a ‘woman’s touch’ was added to an ‘alien’ environment.  Thus, I have used pages from Woman’s Day, 29 August, 1949 as ‘wallpaper’ for this piece.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 1999

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NOTE: The Artist’s statement, the Exhibition essay and the venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 101

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 96: Renewal

The Setbacks—Shattered Dreams touring exhibition was launched at the Warwick Art Gallery, south of Toowoomba in mid-January 1998.

The Warwick Art Gallery director at the time was an imaginative woman who, since taking the helm of the Gallery, had gathered around her a committed group of local volunteers who were excited by the interesting exhibitions she organized to visit Warwick. My first touring exhibition, In Praise of Australian Women, was one of them, exhibited between early January and early February 1997. The exhibition content had struck a chord with those locals with an interest in textiles or social history, or both. As a result, I made many new friends in the Warwick district.

The rug component of the first exhibition, served another purpose. It became a rallying point for the National Quilt Register, a farsighted, Australia-wide quilt documentation project that was the brainchild of my friend and founder of the Pioneer Women’s Hut at Tumbarumba in regional New South Wales. The NQR’s objective was to document quilts held in both public and private collections that were either made in Australia, or brought here before 1965. I volunteered to be the Queensland coordinator, which involved documenting all kinds of quilts including a number of fair dinkum Wagga rugs made from jute or hessian bags that came to light in the Warwick area.

But back to the opening.

There were lots of people at the launch of Setbacks—and afterwards, as the crowd thinned, a woman took me aside and quietly said, “Morley, you’ve left something out.” WHAT? In an instant, my world crumbled. This is the last thing an artist wants to hear when a new body of work is being unveiled for the first time. Trying to conceal my devastation, I smiled sweetly and said, “Oh really? Please tell me what I’ve missed?” She replied, “After any one of these catastrophes, the land comes back.”

Of course! Within thirty seconds, I’d translated this thoughtful woman’s astute observation into an add-on rug for Setbacks, and I’d name it Renewal.

Once I’d recovered from the shock, I began work on Renewal with the prophetic lines from Dorothea Mackellar’s poem, ringing in my ears.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze …

To set this rug apart from the others in this series, I chose to use a landscape orientation. Once more, I halved the picture plane, dividing the ‘sky’ and ‘land’. This was an unconventional design device I’d successfully used in four of the Setbacks rugs.

For this one, sourcing a suitable mid-blue cotton fabric for the ‘sky’ was straight forward. But the element of this rug that concerned me most, was the icon. I needed to set it apart from, but at the same time have it relate to the others. To do this I took a small but recognizable segment of the bucolic landscape print used in each of the five rugs. With them, I created a five-section composite, each segment separated by a thin black line and framed with beige ribbon. This time, I’d do away with the impact point and hand embroidered crack lines radiating out from it; and I hoped against hope I’d not regret the decision.

The next design decision to be made was how to treat the ‘land’ half of this stand-alone rug. I chose black soil country because it had not yet featured in any of the other rugs.

I began by painting an undulating landscape using tones of brown and grey and then added machine-stitched lines to create both the undulations and clusters of stylized round-topped trees, decreasing in size, to create a sense of distance out to the horizon.

To re-create Mackellar’s “filmy veil of greenness”, I planned to use Fluro-green silk embroidery thread in two thicknesses for emerging shoots, pushing up through the soil, as well as a scattering of leaf litter in the foreground. Also, Fluro-green paint to create the illusion of green shoots out to the horizon.

Before adding the shoots, I set about making lots of gum leaves from recycled pure silk in shades of tan, grey, brown and black. Into the central vein of each silk leaf, I zig-zagged a length of fine wire to make the leaf bendable and therefore easier to arrange when the time came to make the line of leaf litter. Pipe cleaner was also given the zig-zag treatment to become realistic twigs. Lastly, I lightly splattered all the gum leaves with different shades of fabric paint to look more realistic.

Whilst I was beavering away on Renewal, my dear friend and mentor, Connie Davidson, was admitted to hospital for major surgery. During my daily visits to the hospital in the weeks that followed, she always asked for a progress report on Renewal. I was surprised she was able to sustain an interest in my work despite her declining health, and I sensed we were both in a race against time.

After assembling the rug layers, tacking from the centre out, hemming all four sides and making a rod pocket top and bottom, I tufted the rug layers with the knots to the back.

Now I was ready to begin attaching the gum leaves and twigs to create the line of leaf litter in the foreground. It seemed like a simple exercise, but it became an unexpectedly painful ordeal that went on for weeks. The pain was caused by the back end of the needle piercing my fingertips as I stitched each leaf and twig into place on the rug surface. I used a leather fingertip protector, but it wasn’t enough. I tried using a thimble with no success and my fingertips began to swell. In spite of the pain, I had to keep pushing, because I knew Connie was hanging on to see the finished piece.

When I could see the end in sight, I alerted the nursing staff that the rug would be visiting the next day. All the nurses had fallen in love with Connie, and were keen to see the rug because they too had become involved in the drama of its creation. They suggested I schedule my visit to coincide with their change of shift, when both groups of nurses could gather at Connie’s bedside for the unveiling.

Getting the rug into the hospital was a two-person job. A close friend of Connie’s, helped to carry the rug across the carpark, suspended on a length of wooden dowel. When we arrived, her room was filled with a gaggle of women, reminiscent of her years of teaching at Toowoomba South Girls School.

We suspended the rug across Connie’s bed and, for the first time in weeks, she asked for her glasses to have a better look. As Connie was an avid reader, this was a clear indication she was on the inexorable slide to meet her maker.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Renewal rug 120 x 170 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams–Renewal rug leaf litter & twig line of handmade silk gum leaves detail
Image: Ann Alcock

The very next day Connie left us, and sometimes I wonder if she willed herself to live long enough to see the Renewal rug completed. Wishful thinking on my part? Maybe? Maybe not.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Renewal: This rug was created during a period of considerable emotional upheaval in my life. My dear friend and mentor was dying. We became friends through the Toowoomba Ladies Literary Society, when I was tracking the copyright status of a poem for inclusion in one of the In Praise of Australian Women installations. We clicked.

Connie ‘got’ my work and we were close friends for the last five years of her life.

As an experienced educator, she saw the value of my efforts to combine textile art and Australian social history. Somehow, as she struggled with the health challenges of ageing, she had room in her life for me and my work. Her encouragement helped to allay the insecurity I was experiencing in the early days of my career as a narrative visual artist.

Revisiting Renewal some 24 years on, has been an interesting experience. I was always a little worried about the composition of the icon for this rug, because it didn’t have the black embroidered shattered dream ‘crack’ lines, linking the ‘sky’ and the ‘land’. This design masterstroke had worked really well for the other rugs in this series. My apprehension was in part allayed knowing that this rug had to stand alone. Its purpose was to offer a serious dose of positivity to those who’d suffered the harrowing experience of prickly pear, or bushfire, or drought, or flood or rabbits at different times, when living in regional or remote Australia. I wanted the expansive carpet of tender green shoots covering the ‘land’ out to the horizon, to express the optimism of ‘renewal’, and thereby offer hope.

All these years on, I am astounded by my single-minded determination that enabled me to produce the quantity of silk leaves and twigs needed for the line of leaf litter along the bottom of this rug. Interestingly the leftovers from this project were to play a pivotal role in yet another life-changing experience—a Churchill Fellowship—but that story will have to wait.

FACTS:
Dimensions:
Rug: 1200 mm x 1700 mm

The National Quilt Register: in my role as Queensland coordinator, between 1996 and 2000, I documented 103 quilts held in both public and private hands across Queensland.
https://www.nationalquiltregister.org.au/wagga-rugs/

Dorothea Mackellar (1885-1968) poet and the author of My Country, first published in 1908 under the title Core of My Heart.

Dorothea Mackellar reciting her poem.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5bNhQrKay0
https://www.dorotheamackellar.com.au/

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PLEASE NOTE The Renewal installation video (03:35 min) can be seen at: https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/setbacks-shattered-dreams-videos/

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EXPLANATORY NOTES
Setbacks – Shattered Dreams

6. RENEWAL (1998)

This additional piece came out of a chance conversation with viewers at the Warwick Art Gallery, Queensland, this exhibition’s first tour venue.

The sentiments expressed drew my attention to the aftermath of catastrophe when the land recovers and becomes lush green and productive once more.  Within fifteen minutes I had in my mind the design format for this piece RENEWAL.  The intention to depict the film of green shoots covering the land symbolising hope and optimism.

This work also contributed to my own renewal as I had been considerably affected by the catastrophic content of this series.  At the same time a dear friend was dying.  My friend gave me great intellectual and aesthetic encouragement as I began making work combining social history and textiles.

It seemed most appropriate therefore to dedicate this piece to her as she approached her renewal of a different kind.

____________________________________________

This installation is dedicated to the memory of Constance Amelia Davidson, born Barcaldine Queensland 12 December 1915 and died Toowoomba Queensland 5 May 1998.  Rest in peace.

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ARTIST’S STATEMENT

I am pleased to be able to share with you the result of eighteen months work, this exhibition, Setbacks – Shattered Dreams.  It is part of an ongoing theme in my work celebrating the often-unacknowledged contribution women have made to the development of modern Australia.

The work is a result of a period of deep contemplation about my life.  Indeed, I have observed the unexpected effects of working on a project titled Setbacks.   All through this series I have been plagued with chronic back pain and I wonder if the catastrophic content swamping my psyche added to my physical discomfort.  In future I’ll be more careful when choosing a title!

Working as an artist can be an isolating experience.  I am thankful to have the support and interest of the Highfields Group gravitating around the studio of Kaye Marsh at Highfields, near Toowoomba.  Constructive criticism can be difficult to find – when asked many are content to tell you your work is ‘lovely’ or ‘different’.  The members of the Group are multiskilled women artists, mostly from the bush, with a collective art experience in excess of 175 years!  Each installation is dedicated to one of the group members as token of my indebtedness.

I also wish to thank Lucy Robertson-Cuninghame, Sue Henderson and the John Oxley Library, Brisbane for the photographs included in this exhibition.

Morley Grainger
Toowoomba Queensland 1997

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Setbacks – Shattered Dreams (1996-8)

An Overview

The subjects of Morley Grainger’s six-part documentary installation Setbacks – Shattered Dreams are not new, yet their relevance continues.  Grainger describes herself as a ‘narrative visual artist and storyteller’ and this broad definition reflects the scope of her works.  Constructed primarily from textiles, paired with archival materials, Grainger’s works are a form of contemporary bricolage.

From the French for ‘to tinker’, bricolage was a hallmark of Post-modern art and literature, meaning to construct a new entity from a range of sources.  In Setbacks – Shattered Dreams Grainger drew inspiration from library archives, photographs, poetry and aural histories.  Collecting and collating these source materials, she paired them with painstakingly executed textile wall hangings.  Grainger’s meticulous research coupled with her striking wall hangings brings a new visual interpretation to the archival material, reframing it for a contemporary audience.

Installations, such as in Grainger’s work, were explored by art historian and critic Hal Foster in his 2004 essay “An Archival Impulse”.  Foster wrote that artists explore archives for forgotten information, which they then collage into new forms.  He stated: “In the first instance archival artists seek to make historical information, often lost or displaced, physically present. To this end they elaborate on the found image, object, and text, and favor the installation format as they do so.”[1]  Grainger’s pairing of archival sources with wall hangings in Setbacks – Shattered Dreams expands her offering from narrative representation to installation.  Foster elaborated that artists working in this style not only reframe the archival information, but compound it, creating new forms of archive.  He wrote: “The work in question is archival since it not only draws on informal archives but produces them as well, and does so in a way that underscores the nature of all archival materials as found yet constructed, factual yet fictive, public yet private.” 2  Grainger draws inspiration from a plethora of sources, enacting a contemporary ‘bricolage’ in her signature storytelling manner, creating new versions of archive.

The installations which make up Setbacks – Shattered Dreams explore five elements which impact the land, and life, in Australia.  While the introduced menace of Prickly Pear and Rabbits are issues mainly confined to the bush, Drought, Flood and Bushfire are factors which can affect both city and bush dwellers.  To complete the series Grainger created a sixth installation entitled Renewal, a simple display which shows the land’s ability to regenerate.  Uniting the works is Grainger’s use of a central window motif.  The frame of the window surrounds bucolic scenes which, in the first five works, is rent with a starburst of cracks, representing the shattered dreams of those experiencing these phenomena.  In the final work the window is unscathed.

The issues explored in each of the installations continue to impact life in Australia today.  For early immigrants, the introduction of foreign plants and animals was an attempt to bring elements they knew into their unknown new home.  Unfortunately, in the case of rabbits and prickly pear, the consequences for the local environment were unpredicted and dire.  Likewise, the local environmental conditions such as droughts, bushfires and floods were difficult for the new settlers, as they continue to be for Australians today.  The melancholy depicted in the installations is as resonant for contemporary viewers who may have experienced these hardships recently, as it was for those in the past.

The first installation, Prickly Pear, deals with the introduced plant species which quickly spread across Queensland, rendering much of the land unusable.  The wall hanging is divided into two sections, the bottom half entirely covered in densely packed prickly pears.  Grainger hand stitched each prickly pear stem and leaf, incorporating beads and fishing line to represent the cactus’s stinging barbs.  Central in the composition is the shattered window motif.  The accompanying box montage shows a map of Queensland highlighting the proportion of land which was inundated with the pest, before and after photos of an inundated paddock, a recipe for prickly pear jelly as well as information on the Cactoblastis cactorum, a stem-boring grub which was introduced to kill the plant.

Rabbits, like Prickly Pear, investigates an introduced species which flourished and became a pest, destroying the environment.  The format of this installation, as a triptych, differs from the others in the series.  The central ‘quilt’ panel features the shattered window motif surrounded by eight rabbit skins.  These are mounted on a baby’s ‘bunny rug’ and bordered by more of the bucolic pastoral fabric.  Grainger plays with the concept of a ‘bunny rug’, a term for a baby’s swaddling rug made here from rabbit skins.  To the left is a box montage displaying another rabbit skin, a recipe for rabbit stew, a photograph of a successful rabbit hunt, blanket labels and an arrangement of a children’s nursery rhyme which mentions rabbit hunting.  These whimsical and somewhat positive aspects of rabbits mask their destructive nature and the impact they had on the land.   The third section of the installation is a rabbit trap mounted on a timber board, accompanied by newspaper clippings and information about rabbit culls.  This shows the methods employed to attempt to mitigate the exploding rabbit populations, a problem which unfortunately persists today despite more modern solutions.

Bushfire, Drought and Flood each represent natural phenomenon which impact life in both rural and urban settings.  In each of these installations Grainger skilfully manipulates fabrics to represent the theme, juxtaposing it against archival material.  In Bushfire, the flames are masterfully constructed from synthetic crystal organza, the edges reinforced with fishing line, to depict the leaping, licking, dancing tongues of flame.  Offset against a dark black/grey background, featuring the central shattered window motif, the feeling of the work is of deep foreboding.  The accompanying box montage is smudged with soot, with contemporary colour photos of bushfires, a Henry Lawson poem and an archival photo of a burnt-out forest.

Drought gives the impression of being the simplest of the works, but the atmosphere Grainger creates through her use of fabric and paint brings the suffocating heat and haze of drought-stricken land into the gallery setting.  The sky and the land blend together in a miasma of dust, the parched brown land appearing desolate.  Close inspection reveals fencing, the only sign that life once existed.  Once again there is the shattered window motif, the fabric depicting fat, happy cows grazing.  On a Perspex plinth, in front of the wall hanging, sits a parched, bleached cow’s skull.  On the accompanying box montage, Grainger has placed an archival photo of a woman desperately trying to give water to an ailing dairy cow.  This haunting image is paired with song lyrics and rainfall data from the early twentieth century.

The penultimate wall hanging, Flood, invokes a feeling of drowning.  The dull blue sky hangs above the clumping foliage of wet gum trees stencilled onto the fabric.  In the foreground, barely visible above the grey flood waters are the roofs of two houses.  The central shattered window motif depicts lush trees against green grass.  The whole work is suffused with thousands of hand-painted raindrops.  The accompanying box montage shows a high-water mark, rainfall data, a nineteenth century woman’s letter describing the misery of a flood in a leaky cabin, and an image of the Mary River in flood inundating Gympie in Queensland.  The three works representing natural disasters, while compiled of historical information, continue to resonate with contemporary viewers, many of whom will have experienced the effects of either drought, bushfire or flood.

The final work, Renewal, was created by Grainger following completion and initial exhibition of the original five works.  A viewer reminded Grainger of the earth’s ability to regenerate after catastrophe, and hence the sixth work was born.  Renewal consists of one wall piece with no accompanying display panel.  It is presented in a landscape profile, representing the broadness of the Australian continent.  Inspired by Dorothea Mackellar’s My Country, the work shows a clear blue sky and a vast landscape.  Small trees dot the land, and the shattered window motif is replaced by an intact window, featuring the same fabrics used in the other five extant wall-hung pieces.  In the foreground are gum leaves made from silk, their realistic size grounding the work and adding depth.  Finally, the landscape is liberally peppered with tiny green shoots, showing the earth’s ability to regenerate after natural disaster and introduced pests alike.  The work celebrates and promotes an understanding for the natural cycles of the land.

In this series Grainger has combined archival material with masterfully created textile works, invoking Foster’s archival impulse, in turn creating a new archive.  Information from the nineteenth and twentieth century has been refashioned at the dawn of the twenty first century to address environmental issues with which Australians continue to struggle today.

____________________________________________

[1] Hal Foster, “An Archival Impulse,” October, Autumn, 2004, Vol. 110 (Autumn, 2004), pp. 3-22
2 Hal Foster, “An Archival Impulse,” 5.

Words by Bree Di Mattina

____________________________________________

VENUES

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams

Toured to 11 Queensland, ACT & New South Wales venues between 1998 and 2005

 EXHIBITED:

  1. Warwick Art Gallery, Warwick, Queensland 13 January 1998 to 6 February 1998
  2. The Pinnacles Gallery, Thuringowa, Queensland 25 February 1998 to 26 March 1998
  3. Quilpie Cultural Centre, Quilpie, Queensland 1 August 1998 to 30 August 1998
  4. Gladstone Regional Art Gallery, Gladstone, Qld 7 October 1998 to 7 November 1998
  5. Manning Regional Art Gallery, Taree, New South Wales 27 May to 1999 20 June 1999
  6. Moree Plains Gallery, Moree, New South Wales 23 July 1999 to 27 August 1999
  7. Boonah Regional Gallery, Boonah, Queensland 19 May 2000 20 June 2000
  8. TYTO Regional Art Gallery, Ingham, Queensland 11 August 2000 to 8 September 2000
  9. Texas Regional Art Gallery, Texas, Queensland 23 April 2002 to 25 May 2002
  10. CEMA Arts Centre Gallery, Portland, Victoria 6 January 2004 to 3 February 2004
  11. Australian National Botanical Gardens, Canberra, ACT 8 December 2004 to 9 March 2005

____________________________________________

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 95: Rabbits

I was looking forward to making this installation, because it was such a radical departure from the previous two-piece artworks I’d already completed for this series, Setbacks—Shattered Dreams. Rabbits would comprise three smaller pieces that I hoped would occupy the equivalent visual space of a two-piece installation.

The planned centrepiece for Rabbits was a ‘bunny rug’. This was my feeble attempt at humour in what was, and continues to be, a fluctuating problem for the pastoral industry in some parts of Australia. I’d already sourced a mid-blue woollen cot blanket in mint condition from the Op-shop. To this blanket I planned to attach eight common grey rabbit skins. Simple.

I began by contacting tanneries in Queensland, and then further afield in both New South Wales and Victoria. The answer to my enquiry everywhere, was a resounding ‘No!’, and I wondered why? I later discovered that an iconic Australian hatmaker, was taking every winter pelt rabbit skin they could find. It was the same story with the rabbit trappers. They were contractually committed to their skin buyer who, in turn, was also committed to the hatmaker. I couldn’t believe my ears! Here I was, living in a country full of rabbits, unable to buy a single rabbit skin. I found myself on the horns of a dilemma: how to create an installation about rabbits without rabbit skins?

By the middle of 1997, I was becoming more and more concerned, as the possibility of sourcing winter pelt skins became less and less likely.

By chance, one Sunday morning, I met a woman on my neighbour’s verandah enjoying the winter sun and a warming cup of tea. I crashed the party and, as always, when I’m on a project and given the opportunity, I bang on about it to anyone who’ll listen.

Her ears pricked up at the mention of rabbits and the description of my unsuccessful rabbit skin quest to date. Why?  Because as a youngster, she’d worked with her father, in all weathers, to set and clear between 100 and 120 rabbit traps twice a night, by the light of a hurricane lamp. She told me that her father was the Rabbit Inspector for the Pasture Protection Board, based in the Goulburn-Yass district, southwest of Sydney. With a largish family, in his spare time they trapped rabbits on nearby properties, both to eat and sell.

She went on to explain that most of the rabbits they trapped were grey-brown in colour but, on one property, there was a particular network of warrens where a marmalade-coloured rabbit was occasionally trapped. These rare mutants, known as ‘yellows’, were highly prized. Each time one was trapped, the skin was salted and sent to Sydney for tanning with the intention of gradually accumulating sufficient pelts to make a stylish garment, for a family member.

She then asked, “How many skins do you need?” I told her, “Nine.” She replied, “I have nine ‘yellows’.”

Once again, I couldn’t believe my ears, but this time, in a positive way.

After we’d recovered from the shock, she kindly offered me the skins she’d lovingly carried with her since 1970, the year her father died. She’d been very reluctant to throw them out and was tickled pink to know that her father would be memorialised in my Rabbits installation.

The ‘yellows’ were beyond beautiful. Nine professionally tanned, richly coloured thick winter pelts in perfect condition.

With the pelts sourced, I could now begin to make the ‘bunny rug’.

For the Rabbits icon, I chose a section of the bucolic agricultural printed fabric that pictured rabbits and a rabbit hutch. I gave the icon the shattered dreams treatment, with embroidered crack lines radiating out from the impact point to the edge of the rectangle.

Next, I cut and folded a 4 cm bias strip of the bucolic print fabric to use as a border for the cot blanket and tacked it in place.

To give the cot blanket additional weight, I added a layer of pale-yellow wool blanket, cut 2 cm bigger all around, and bound with pale yellow blanket ribbon, carefully zig-zagged into place. Then I tacked both layers from the centre out to stabilise them. And lastly, to add visual interest, I followed the line of the cot blanket’s overlocked edge with a row of exactly matching blue wool running stitch, through all the layers.

Next, I tacked the icon to the centre of the cot blanket before tufting all the layers using pale yellow thread, knotted to the back.

With the cot blanket stabilised, it was time to add the rabbit skins. I arranged eight of the nine ‘yellows’ around the icon and stitched them down with invisible thread. And lastly, attached a rod pocket top and bottom. The result was amazing.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Rabbits bunny rug 1000 x 800 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

My next task was to make the second artwork of this three-piece installation; the collage.

For this piece, I’d assembled: the ninth rabbit skin; a length of left-over pale-yellow blanket ribbon; the music and lyrics for the children’s lullaby, Bye baby bunting; two blue and white woven blanket labels, taken from the cot blanket before its transformation, and machine stitched onto light blue handmade paper; a rabbit soup recipe, written on a lined notebook page, reminiscent of a recipe book; and lastly, the John Oxley Library Collection’s 1910 image of a pile of dead rabbits, overseen by a cheeky kid, no doubt one of the exterminating party, standing in a pit with a club over his shoulder, looking proud.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Rabbits collage 715 x 525 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

The collage went together seamlessly, so it was with confidence that I moved on to the third and final piece of this installation.

For this piece, I used a hardwood slab, found in an old shack on a friend’s property out of Toowoomba. I was most grateful, as old slabs in original condition are hard to find. I had it cut in half and the two pieces braced across the back with metal straps and metal loops for hanging, as the piece was very heavy. On the slab, I planned to suspend a rabbit trap, the teenage rabbit-trapper’s story, written on blue handmade paper, and lastly, as a nod to authenticity, newspaper rectangles, threaded onto a large safety pin.

With safety uppermost in my thinking, I had the jaws of the rabbit trap welded shut, but not before I was given a ‘how-to-set-a-rabbit-trap’ lesson in the backyard. The instructor was an old hand who considered the whole performance a bit of a laugh. But I was undeterred because I wanted to understand exactly what was involved. I discovered that setting a rabbit trap was an art. Once set, the trap was then placed in a depression that had been dug into the soil at the entrance to a warren. Then a piece of newspaper was placed over the plate before the trap was completely buried, using the loose soil that surrounded the warren entrance.

With this new-found knowledge, I was now able to put myself in my new friend’s shoes, as she helped her father set 100 plus rabbit traps twice a night, until she was sixteen. After which she gave up trapping and took up boys!

Here’s her story:

I was born and raised in the Goulburn district 
of New South Wales.

My father was the Rabbit Inspector for the Yass
Pasture Protection Board [1956-59] and trapped
rabbits in his spare time. When I was 10, I 
began trapping with him.

Property owners paid us to trap when the rabbit
numbers rose. We set 100-120 traps, clearing
them twice a night. The work was hard;
carrying and setting traps by the light of a
hurricane lamp; walking many miles, often in
freezing conditions.

We bled and gutted the carcasses, selling them
to the local rabbit buyer who picked them up
and took them to Sydney where they were
processed for pet food and human consumption.

At 16 I gave up trapping and took up boys!

Toowoomba 1997

The collage went together seamlessly, so it was with confidence that I moved on to the third and final piece of this installation.

For this piece, I used a hardwood slab, found in an old shack on a friend’s property out of Toowoomba. I was most grateful, as old slabs in original condition are hard to find. I had it cut in half and the two pieces braced across the back with metal straps and metal loops for hanging, as the piece was very heavy. On the slab, I planned to suspend a rabbit trap, the teenage rabbit-trapper’s story, written on blue handmade paper, and lastly, as a nod to authenticity, newspaper rectangles, threaded onto a large safety pin.

With safety uppermost in my thinking, I had the jaws of the rabbit trap welded shut, but not before I was given a ‘how-to-set-a-rabbit-trap’ lesson in the backyard. The instructor was an old hand who considered the whole performance a bit of a laugh. But I was undeterred because I wanted to understand exactly what was involved. I discovered that setting a rabbit trap was an art. Once set, the trap was then placed in a depression that had been dug into the soil at the entrance to a warren. Then a piece of newspaper was placed over the plate before the trap was completely buried, using the loose soil that surrounded the warren entrance.

With this new-found knowledge, I was now able to put myself in my new friend’s shoes, as she helped her father set 100 plus rabbit traps twice a night, until she was sixteen. After which she gave up trapping and took up boys!

Here’s her story:

I was born and raised in the Goulburn district of New South Wales.

My father was the Rabbit Inspector for the Yass Pasture Protection Board [1956-59] and trapped rabbits in his spare time. When I was 10, I began trapping with him.

Property owners paid us to trap when the rabbit numbers rose. We set 100-120 traps, clearing them twice a night. The work was hard; carrying and setting traps by the light of a hurricane lamp; walking many miles, often in freezing conditions.

We bled and gutted the carcasses, selling them to the local rabbit buyer who picked them up and took them to Sydney where they were processed for pet food and human consumption.

At 16 I gave up trapping and took up boys!

Toowoomba 1997

Setbacks – Shattered Dreams – Rabbits slab 715 x 525 x 100 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Rabbits three-piece installation
Image: Ann Alcock

I was very pleased with this installation. Yes, it was different to the other four, but I was convinced all five installations would work well together. The test came at the official opening at the Warwick Art Gallery in early 1998.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Whilst making this series, I had a very welcome windfall. I’d applied for a Regional Arts Development Fund grant, to cover the design and printing costs for 1500 full-colour catalogue-cum-posters and postcards for this exhibition. The grant was a godsend—one less cost for me to carry. But I still had expenses that included three crates, one for the rugs and two for the five collages and the hardwood slab. Also, I had to write an artist’s statement, background and explanatory notes; labels; paint two exhibition banners; source a comments book; make an education pack for primary and secondary students, write the condition report manual, and lastly, a media release.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams was delivered to the Warwick Art Gallery and hung by the gallery staff. I travelled down to Warwick for the opening where, towards the end of the evening I received feedback that no artist ever wants to hear. It was brought to my attention that I’d left something out. I’D LEFT SOMETHING OUT? I was devastated.

What was it?

All will be revealed in the next chapter!

Full colour Setbacks—Shattered Dreams poster-cum-catalogue 420 x 295 mm funded by the
Regional Galleries Association of Queensland

Full colour Setbacks—Shattered Dreams poster-
cum-catalogue 420 x 295 mm funded by the
Regional Galleries Association of Queensland

 

ON REFLECTION:
Rabbits: When I was a child, I was given a rabbit as a pet. I have vague memories of the experience but nothing I could draw on to help with this installation.

Eating rabbit: When I was growing up, we didn’t eat rabbit. Nor do I have memories of eating rabbit at friends’ houses nor any of the restaurants my family frequented. I have since learned that many Australian families ate rabbit regularly, because it was readily available and cheap.

When I moved to Sydney to study, I took up with a handsome young fella. When his mother heard that I’d not eaten rabbit, she invited me to try her rabbit stew. It was served with great fanfare, and I remember really enjoying it, even lining up for a second helping. But I must confess, it was the first and last time I’ve knowingly eaten rabbit.

The ‘yellows’: My chance meeting with a neighbour’s friend, made this installation possible. The beautifully tanned rabbit skins she donated to this project, were far superior to anything I could’ve sourced from trappers or tanners, even if they’d been prepared to sell them to me. The day I met the teenage rabbit trapper, was my lucky day!

The teenage rabbit trapper years later, standing between the partially constructed collage and the completed ‘bunny rug’
made with her father’s rare mutant ‘yellow’ rabbit skins

The teenage rabbit trapper years later, standing between
the partially constructed collage and the completed
‘bunny rug’ made with her father’s rare mutant
‘yellow’ rabbit skins

Promotion: From experience, I knew that if this exhibition was going to fly, I needed to set aside time to telephone galleries and museums to gauge interest. I began by targeting the Queensland venues that had already hosted my first touring exhibition and went on from there. I made calls to galleries in New South Wales, Victoria and the Australian Capital Territory. If there was interest, I immediately mailed off a promotion kit containing a Fact Sheet and a selection of images of the work, in the hope that a booking would be the result.

Discussing this installation with new friends, has brought forth stories from those, who, as youngsters caught, killed, gutted and skinned rabbits for domestic consumption and pocket money. I smile at their recollections. These included stories of rabbit pairs being left at their front gate to be picked up by the rabbit buyer each day. One quote, “The best price I ever got was 7/6 a pair.” This was very good money in the 1940s, well before the first release of Myxoma virus, which had a case mortality rate of 99.8%.

FACTS:
Winter pelt skins: The highest quality rabbit fur is obtained from rabbits over five months old and trapped in winter. Their fur is thick and soft, with no signs of shedding or patches of uneven fur that occur in summer.

European rabbits in Australia:

  • Five European rabbits Oryctolagus cuniculus arrived with Captain Phillip on the First Fleet in 1788.
  • Thomas Austin, an English settler farming at ‘Barwon Park’ in Victoria, is credited with the introduction of rabbits spread throughout the continent, readily adapting to the dry conditions and successfully competing with sheep and cattle for fodder.

Rabbit controls:

  • Poisoning with strychnine baits
  • Digging out warrens by hand
  • Using dogs and ferrets
  • Gassing
  • Trapping
  • Ripping warrens
  • Myxomatosis virus introduced in 1950
  • 1080 poison [sodium fluoroacetate]
  • Calicivirus introduced in 1996

Rabbit traps:

Diamond rabbit trap imported into Australia by the thousands from the United
States of America
Image: Blogger.com

Diamond rabbit trap imported into Australia by the
thousands from the United States of America
Image: Blogger.com

Diamond rabbit trap with jaws open—a piece of newspaper placed on the metal
plate and covered with dirt. The rabbit steps on the plate and the jaws snap tight
on the rabbit’s foot.

Diamond rabbit trap with jaws open—a piece of 
newspaper placed on the metal plate and covered
with dirt. The rabbit steps on the plate and the jaws
snap tight on the rabbit’s foot.

How to set a rabbit trap:
https://www.google.com/search?q=setting+a+steel+jaw+rabbit+trap&rlz=1C1GCEA
Note: This type of trap was banned in most Australian states in the 1980s on animal cruelty grounds.

European rabbits in Australia: irrespective of the many methods used to control rabbit numbers, rabbits were big business, all over the country. By the late 1920s, over 20,000 ‘rabbiters’, worked full-time trapping for carcases or skins or poisoning for skins. Thousands were employed in numerous freezing works, located in rural towns and cities skinning, grading, sorting, packing, and transporting carcasses by the tens of millions. Thousands more were employed by the multitude of skin-buying firms, located throughout rural areas and in capital cities. Hundreds sold rabbits on the streets of both small towns and cities, or worked in small goods shops that sold rabbit meat. Nearly 10,000 workers made felt hats from the rabbit fur, pine boxes for the rabbit export trade, gelatine from skin scraps, fertilizer and animal feed from the remains of rabbits, that were considered unfit for human consumption.

Earnings: In 1908 the minimum wage for a male worker was around £100 per annum, a wage considered sufficient to maintain a wife and three children. But a rabbiter could earn four times that amount, as rabbiting provided year-round work for enterprising men who possessed the skill set to do it profitably. To provide perspective, at the beginning of the 20th century, an inner-city weatherboard house could be purchased for £400.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabbits_in_Australia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabbit_plagues_in_Australia

References: Rae Penniquick’s book, Keeping Rabbits Out: Darling Downs-Moreton Rabbit Board: a History of the Darling Downs Rabbit Board 1893-1964, printed in 1995, provided vital information for me as a city person stumbling into yet another subject area, I knew virtually nothing about.
John Oxley Library Collection photograph: titled “Rabbits killed in a 4’6” pit trap Cunnamulla 1910”

Installation dimensions:
Bunny rug: 1000 mm x 800 mm
Collage: 715 x 525 x 40 mm
Slab: 715 x 480 x 40 mm

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams rug crate being loaded to go to the  Warwick Art Gallery for the
exhibition launch
Image: Morley Grainger

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams rug crate being loaded
to go to the  Warwick Art Gallery for the exhibition launch
Image: Morley Grainger

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 94: Flood

With the installations for Prickly Pear, Bushfire, and Drought completed, I was eager to move on to the next one, number four of five, Flood. This installation, like the others, would describe yet another unexpected climatic extreme that occasionally wreaks havoc on parts of the Australian landscape and its inhabitants. But, as a city person, I didn’t have first-hand experience of flood. The closest I’d come was seeing terrifying pictures on the evening television news of vast silent expanses of dirty water, destroying almost everything in its path.

As always, the weekly gathering of bush women artists at Highfields north of Toowoomba, provided a wealth of vital information as I endeavored to produce suitably convincing textile interpretations of their world. The women were somewhat bemused by my endless stream of questions, but nonetheless thoughtfully answered each one as I worked my way through the possible inclusions for this exhibition, just as they’d done for the previous one, In Praise of Australian Women.

Like all the other rugs in this series, the Flood rug presented a number of design challenges. And as always, I began with a drawing.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Flood rug working drawing. The roof in the foreground was not
included as it distracted from the drama of the water

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Flood rug working
drawing. The roof in the foreground was not included 
as it distracted from the drama of the water

Uppermost in my mind was to make sure I selected a colour scheme to complement those of the previous rugs: Prickly Pear with blue sky meeting a sea of green; Bushfire with red, orange and yellow flames on a background of dark grey, and Drought, with blue sky meeting red-brown land.

I decided on a predominantly grey palette for this rug. My colour choice was likely influenced by the black and white photograph from the John Oxley Library Collection, showing the 1870 flood of the Mary River at Gympie, Queensland.

I’d use warm grey for the flood water; shades of blue grey for partly submerged buildings; lighter grey for the landscape; tones of grey-green for the eucalypt leaf canopy; and a light blue sky. To this somber composition I’d add the floating shattered dream rectangle, with hand embroidered crack lines, linking the sky and the flooded land. Lastly, I planned to add a profusion of pale grey raindrops, falling diagonally across the rug from top to bottom, left to right.

My next design challenge was to come up with a visually interesting technique to depict the leaves of the eucalyptus trees, that lined the far bank of the swollen river.

Over the years I’d spent time contemplating the leaves of Australian eucalypts, particularly the formation of leaf clusters at the end of branches. The question was, how to realistically depict them for this rug? I thought to make a stencil of open parachute shapes. So, I drew a cluster of shapes on thin cardboard and then cut them out.

Flood rug eucalypt leaf stencil-marked ‘M’ for medium

Next, I placed a scrap of fabric under the stencil and dabbed screen-printing ink through the holes with a sponge. It worked a treat!

Buoyed by my success, I cut three different sized stencils. I’d use a different shade of grey green with each, to create perspective.

I planned to begin with the smallest stencil, using the lightest green out to the horizon. Below it, the middle-sized stencil with mid-green, and lastly, closest in, the largest, using the darkest green. Of course, there would be some size and colour overlap, thereby creating visual interest.

Eucalypt leaf trial stencil

With the stenciling decisions made, I searched for fabric suitable for the floodwater. I found a mid grey synthetic chiffon that I hoped would work. This was a risky decision because synthetics are not as forgiving as natural fibres, and handle differently. Though, after using synthetic crystal organza for the flames on the Bushfire rug, I felt reasonably confident, even though concern still lurked. But I knew there was only one way to find out, and that was to try it.

I assembled the rug using the controversial ‘half-and-half’ horizontal divide template and attached the floating ‘dream’ icon, before adding the embroidered cracks, radiating out from the impact point, to connect the two halves—the ‘sky’ and the ‘land’, plus ‘flood water’. It went together well.

Now it was time to begin stenciling the tree canopy. But before I could start, I placed a woollen blanket between the rug front and the back, made of pieced flour bags. After hemming the sides, I stabilised the fabric sandwich with tacking from the centre out, before securing the layers with tufting knots to the back. After I’d added rod pockets and removed the tacking, I held my breath and began stenciling. When it was all done, I added the tree trunks on the far side of the flooded river. I was pleased with the result.

The final task was to create two partially submerged buildings, using shades of grey fabric. For the rooves, I applied fabric paint to fine corrugated cardboard and ‘printed’ the corrugations onto the fabric.

Next, onto the gable ends of both buildings, I painted the lines of weatherboards. The buildings were then positioned on the rug before being hand-stitched into place.

Now it was time to roll the dice for the last time. The next make or break decision was to cover the entire rug surface with a veil of drizzle.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Flood rug 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

To create the drizzle, I painted single raindrops onto the rug surface, one by one, falling from left to right. Many of the raindrops were re-painted multiple times, to give greater definition. The result reminded me of a shower of tiny comets. Raindrop painting took me hours and hours and hours. But it was worth it.

I could now move on to the next task—making the accompanying collage.

The dramatic photograph of the Mary River in flood, was the linchpin for this installation, because it vividly captured the horror of the Gympie township’s submerged, and partly submerged, buildings, surrounded by a vast expanse of moving water—the scene viewed by a cluster of bewildered spectators, standing on high ground, who could do nothing other than watch in disbelief.

To support the image, I sourced the 1870 rainfall statistics for Gympie from the computer programmers at the Department of Primary Industries in Toowoomba, who were in the process of digitizing the Bureau of Meteorology’s rainfall records.

As well as the powerful flood image and the rainfall statistics, I needed a piece of text, that described the flood experience, ideally from a primary source.

A friend came up trumps. She had a letter written by a relative, who was living with her husband and new-born baby, on a property near Singleton, in rural New South Wales. There she experienced a prolonged rainfall event she graphically describes in her letter dated 24th May 1864, and I was given permission to include it.

 “We have had another fearful flood since I wrote last. Our old hut where baby was born was entirely surrounded by water. We are now living on a hill some distance from the creek and quite above flood reach but it is still very miserable. Imagine to yourself the delights of going to bed on a dark winter’s night, the rain pouring in torrents and the wind blowing a hurricane, the floor strewn with pots, pans, kettle, frying pans, pot lids, plates, saucers, everything in fact which will hold water and some that won’t to catch the drippings from the roof which acts like a sieve….

….a dozen fresh places have started and it is dripping all over the bed….spit, spat, a drop in your eye and another on the tip of your nose and looking up you find it is splashing in through the gable end. Standing on tip toe on the bed you stuff the offending crack full of dirty towels and with inward satisfaction at your cleverness lay down again when drip, drop, you find it coming at your ear. You get up again and stuff a pair of stockings in defiantly.”

With all the elements sourced, before I could assemble the collage, the V-Jointed Craftwood backboard needed a coat of beige paint, to match the others in this series. Whilst I was painting the backboard, I had a bright idea.

Whenever a region of Australia was affected by serious flooding, television cameras were often there, to record the event and its aftermath for the TV News. I recall seeing building interiors with walls stained up to the high-water mark. I decided to add a high-water mark to this backboard by applying a grubby pale grey wash part-way up—a visceral reminder of the flood, long after the water had receded.

Next, I positioned all four items to be included: excerpts from the letter written on grey handmade paper, a blank page taken from a 1957 rainfall record booklet, on which I listed the daily rainfall totals for 1870, and another page that provided the monthly rainfall records for Gympie that year, highlighted in pale blue; and lastly, the image from the John Oxley Library Collection, also presented on grey handmade paper.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams Flood collage 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Flood installation
Image: Ann Alcock

Flood was the fourth of five installations in the Setbacks— series, and I particularly enjoyed its understated power. But there was one more installation to be made to complete this series – Rabbits – so I needed to get on.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Flood: I have vague childhood memories of a flood. My family lived in Sydney in 1955, the year of the Maitland flood. As in every other Australian household, Maitland was the topic of mealtime conversation for weeks. Even though we were not directly affected, my family had skin in the game. At the time, my father, an electrical engineer, was working with a textile manufacturer in Maitland. As a six-year-old with big ears, I was hanging on every word as the flood situation was discussed in hushed tones. Thankfully, I haven’t ever lived in flood-prone places, that is, until Toowoomba unexpectedly produced an ‘inland tsunami’ in January 2011.

After days of steady rain that completely saturated the soil, on the 10th January, Toowoomba city received an additional 160mm in 36 hours. Fortunately, I wasn’t personally affected, but buildings and other infrastructure not far from my studio were.

The initial reaction of all flood victims is one of shock and disbelief. Communities rally to help each other with the post-flood clean-up and we often hear horror stories of insurers trying to wriggle out of paying up, which exacerbates the trauma for those who have lost everything.

It is only now, on closer inspection, that I have become aware of the subtle sophistication of this installation. And it makes me wonder how much of the art I make is the direct result of unconscious design decisions driven by my personal aesthetic.

FACTS:
The 1955 Maitland flood: was one of the most severe catastrophes to hit the region. On Wednesday February 23, 1955, heavy rain began falling in the Upper Hunter Valley and fell for five days. The resultant flood claimed 25 lives and destroyed thousands of homes as water inundated the city.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1955_Hunter_Valley_floods

Installation dimensions:
Rug: 1700 mm x 1200 mm
Collage: 715 x 525 x 40 mm

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: The Flood installation video (03:37 min) can be seen at:https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/setbacks-shattered-dreams-videos/

____________________________________________

EXPLANATORY NOTES
Setbacks – Shattered Dreams
2. FLOOD

Bruce McClish in Earth Forces of Australia writes:

“Australian pioneers established a tradition of settling near rivers, which offered life-giving water for thirsty crops and animals.  But the rivers also brought devastating floods.  These floods were often deceptive and did not always occur on a regular or predictable basis like the floods of the northern tropics.  Fifty to one hundred years could pass by without any flooding, giving settlers the false impression that an area was perfectly safe. Even if there had been a serious flood in the past, people were likely to disregard it as a freak of nature, since it had happened so long ago.” (McClish p.38, 1995)

TYPES OF FLOODING Bureau of Meteorology leaflet [no date]

INLAND RIVER FLOODING

Flooding of rivers in inland areas of central and western NSW and Queensland, as well as parts of Western Australia, can spread for thousands of square kilometres and may last weeks or even months.   Food and other vital supplies, as well as food for livestock, must be provided by air.

MOUNTAIN/COASTAL RIVER FLOODING

Flooding can occur more quickly in the hilly or mountain areas of these inland rivers as well as in rivers draining to the coast.  The rivers here are steeper and drain more quickly, with flooding often only lasting for one or two days.

FLASH FLOODING

Flash flooding results from relatively short intense bursts of rainfall, commonly from thunderstorms, and can occur in almost all parts of Australia.

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This installation is dedicated to Sue Henderson of Highfields Queensland.  My thanks to Judy Small for permitting use of her song lyrics.  I am also indebted to Connie Davidson and Hazel Putland for their oral history interviews as well as many others who provided snippets of information – anecdotes, recollections and family stories.

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NOTE: The Artist’s statement, the exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 96

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 93: Drought

With the super-positive response to Prickly Pear and Bushfire, the visually dramatic installations I’d already completed for the Setbacks – Shattered Dreams exhibition, I was eager to move on to the next one—Drought.

I always began by making the rug. For this series, I chose to use an unconventional design template. It was unconventional because I decided to halve the picture plane horizontally, which was considered an absolute no, no by the purists. But the half and half template had worked extra-well for the first two rugs, with the ‘sky’ and the ‘land’ linked by a floating shattered dream icon. It appeared that I’d disproved the purists.

I chose a mid-blue cotton fabric for the ‘sky’ of this rug. Next, for the shattered dream icon, I chose a section of a lucky-find printed fabric depicting a bucolic rural scene of fat cattle drinking from a dam filled with clear water, whilst others rested contentedly chewing their cud in lush, hock-high, green grass, somewhere in the United States of America. This image of abundance was the perfect counterpoint for drought.   

I knew it’d be impossible to find anything suitable for the ‘land’ fabric off the shelf, so I’d paint it myself.

To do this, I set up a primitive spray-painting booth in my gallery space and went to work on a couple of meters of light tan fabric. I had such fun applying numerous shades of red brown colour to create fabric that depicted grassless, drought-ravaged red soil. To be honest, my colour choice was more about the drama of drought, rather than an attempt to accurately recreate any part of regional Australia.

Whilst I was wrestling with the technicalities, my friends with first-hand knowledge of drought were happy to share their experiences and answer my endless string of drought-related questions. My friend and mentor Connie Davidson, had spent some years teaching in western Queensland. She told me that in a dry time, there is always a dust haze hovering above the horizon. This was vital information for me as I’ve had no experience of drought in the outback. The question was, how to create a subtle dust haze?

It didn’t take me long to come up with an idea that was worth a try. Maybe I could use gravity to create a dust haze?

I began by soaking the blue ‘sky’ fabric in water and then hanging it from the shower curtain rail to drip into the bath tub below. Then, from about half-way down the wet fabric, I brushed on a very dilute solution of leftover colour from painting the ‘land’ fabric, thereby guaranteeing the colours would blend. I let gravity do its work and was excited to watch the pigment slowly sinking to the bottom of the fabric, before it dried. Next, I ironed the fabric to fix the colour. To ensure that the colour gradation was just right, I repeated the process a number of times.

Once the ‘sky’ and ‘land’ fabric had been joined, I attached the floating rectangular shattered dream icon and added hand embroidered crack lines to connect the two halves.

Next, I placed a woollen blanket between the front and the back, made of pieced flour bags. After hemming the sides, I stabilised the fabric sandwich with tacking from the centre out, before securing the layers with tufting knots to the back. After I’d added rod pockets and removed the tacking, I could hang it on the wall and begin thinking about fences.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams Drought rug 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

The first person to view the almost-complete rug was a fellow artist who, early in her marriage, had spent many months living in a tent beside the fence line that her husband was building. She was the perfect person to walk me through the basics of fencing because she’d lived the life.

As soon as she set eyes on the rug, she shrieked, “I know where that is! It’s either Richmond or Hughenden and it looks just like that!” I was speechless. How weird to know that I’d so accurately depicted a region of Queensland I’d never seen. It took us a while to recover from the shock, and afterwards I was given a crash course in fences and fencing.

She explained where to put the gates and why; how many droppers between posts; and how many wires for cattle. This was vital information because I didn’t want to be caught out by a fencing contractor or grazier. If so, the validity of this installation, and possibly the entire exhibition, could be at risk.

Armed with this newly acquired knowledge, I drew black fence lines on strips of clear acetate and pinned them to the rug. By doing this, I was able to get the perspective and the placement just right. For me, this was very important because the rug had to work as art and tell the drought story. When I was completely satisfied, I took a deep breath and began painting the fence posts, the wires and the gates onto the rug surface, in shades of grey.

Whilst working on the rug, I was also searching for items to include in the collage.

I’d already sourced a powerful image from the John Oxley Library’s Collection taken in 1902, towards the end of the Federation drought at Yambercollie Station, in the Hughenden district of Western Queensland. The image shows a slip of a woman trying to coax an emaciated cow lying on the ground, to drink from a bucket. I’m told by those who know cattle, that the awkward angle of her hind leg, meant that death was inevitable.

When I began working on this series, I’d been given an unused rainfall record booklet by a bush woman who was eager to help. I realised that I could use a page from the booklet to list the rainfall figures, or lack of them, for the Hughenden district in 1902, the date on the John Oxley Library photograph. This was a great idea in theory, but where would I find the rainfall figures for Hughenden in 1902?  It was such a long time ago.

By way of background, whenever I’m working on a project, I let everyone know. If I’m asked, I explain. Often from these chance encounters came introductions to people able to provide the information I needed.

This was the case for the 1902 Hughenden rainfall data.

I was given the name of a fella who was working with the Department of Primary Industries in Toowoomba. He was one of a number of geek scientists who’d written a computer program to digitize the rainfall figures held by the Bureau of Meteorology. The purpose of their project was to give farmers and graziers the necessary rainfall data to assess risk. He sent me home with a printout of the rainfall figures for the Hughenden area in 1902. Now I had the figures, I was able to fill out a rainfall record page, which would have pride of place in the collage.

Next, I needed some meaningful text.

Some months earlier, singer songwriter Judy Small had visited Toowoomba to give a concert. I found her songs very moving. As I was fully immersed in the Drought installation, the lyrics of her song, We Know it’s Gonna Rain, with its sincere sentiments, rattled around in my head for days afterwards. The song would be perfect to include in the collage, but the question was, would Judy agree? Thankfully she did.

So, now I was all set. I had the song lyrics; the pages from the Queensland Monthly Rainfall Tables booklet for Hughenden; the rainfall figures for 1902, penned onto a blank yearly rainfall page; and lastly, the heart-wrenching image from the John Oxley Library Collection, so I arranged them on the V-Jointed backboard.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams Drought collage 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

The last addition to this installation was a gift. A weathered cow’s skull with a .22 bullet hole in the forehead.

Not knowing what to do with it, I’d placed it on a rock in the vegetable garden, where it remained for some years. Now, nicely weathered, I gave the skull a good scrub and left it to dry in the sun. It was then placed at an angle in front of the rug, on a specially constructed Perspex plinth. The skull added considerable gravitas and authenticity to this installation.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams Drought installation
Image: Ann Alcock

I was delighted that this three part installation, that told the ‘drought’ story, was greeted with such enthusiasm.

But I had two more installations to make. The next one on the drawing board was Flood.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Setbacks—Shattered Dreams: With the Prickly Pear, Bushfire; and Drought installations done and dusted, I was beginning to feel the emotional weight of the exhibition content. This was markedly different to the complete exhaustion I’d felt whilst making the first touring exhibition, In Praise of Australian Women. Then, I was bone-weary, due to the relentless pace and lack of sleep as the touring deadline loomed. Now, as I made art about the gloomy side of life in the bush, I became aware of an emotional weariness hovering, even though I thought I was keeping the catastrophic nature of this series at arm’s length.

I did what I could to counter the feelings of hopelessness and despair that go hand in hand with misfortune. I found walking in the bush to be of great benefit, as I worked my way through constructing all five of the Setbacks— installations.

Connie Davidson: a retired teacher, was a great supporter of my work from the get-go. When I began my touring exhibition odyssey, outwardly I gave the impression of supreme confidence when, in actual fact, I was feeling very insecure because at that time, I was breaking new ground in the Australian contemporary art scene.

Connie understood what I was trying to do—making art that was at the intersection of visual arts textiles and Australian social history, with women’s stories at the core.

Mentor and literature aficionado Connie Davidson seated in front of the almost complete Drought
rug. Note the trial placement of the black fence lines drawn on shiny acetate
Image: Lucy RC photography

Mentor and literature aficionado Connie Davidson
seated in front of the almost complete Drought rug.
Note the trial placement of the black fence lines
drawn on shiny acetate
Image: Lucy RC photography

Yambercollie Station photograph: I remember being profoundly moved by this image—a tiny woman bending down to offer a broken-down cow, possibly the family’s milking cow, a drink of water from a bucket. The pathos of this image continued to haunt me as I pushed on through making the rug component of this installation.

I created an imaginary narrative for the image; a woman fulfilling her role as homemaker—expected to care for everyone—including the animals. Having lived with a dog and later a couple of cats, I can empathise with her feelings for her cow. Possibly the cow was more of a family pet and could’ve been one of the last animals still alive on the station.

Of course, I am guessing here, but, over 100 years on, I realise that I was inadvertently caught up in this woman’s suffering, as she coped with the ravages of drought.

Revisiting this installation, waves of pathos wash over me. I particularly like the pared-downness of the collage; using a minimum of props to tell the Queensland drought story.

FACTS:
Installation dimensions:
rug: 1700 mm x 1200 mm
Collage: 715 x 515 x 40 mm

The Federation drought: 1895 to early 1903: was the worst drought in Australia’s history, if measured by the extraordinary stock losses it caused.

https://www.nma.gov.au/defining-moments/resources/federation-drought
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federation_Drought

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PLEASE NOTE: The Drought installation video (03:26 min) can be seen at: https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/setbacks-shattered-dreams-videos/

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Song written and sung by Judy Small and reproduced with permission

WE KNOW IT’S GONNA RAIN

We know it’s gonna rain, it’s gotta break some time
Though we wake up every morning to another cloudless sky
In our dreams the thunder rolls and the creeks are full again
We know it’s only dreaming, but we believe it’s gonna rain

I was brought up in the country, took for granted all my life
I would one day be a farmer, not another farmer’s wife
My mother worked the land before me standing at my father’s side
And together they raised the cattle till the day my mother died

I was sent to school in Brisbane worked the farm in holidays
And talked the grazier’s language and I knew the farmer’s ways
In those years of harvest plentiful we never could have guessed
That in just one generation we could lose it all in dust
Well he walks into the homestead in his dusty old blue jeans
There are tears in his eyes that he doesn’t want seen
Oh, you just cannot imagine on your quarter acre block
What it’s like to take a rifle down and shoot your starving stock

Well you people in the cities see it all on the TV
You send money to the telethons we feel like refugees
But we can’t survive without you, it’s a blow to farmer’s pride
I suppose we have to see it like we’re fighting side by side

There’s no use in getting angry, we’re just shaking fists at God
We could blame it all on Canberra but they’re giving what they’ve
Everything we are is buried in this land beneath our feet
So we take another breath and turn our backs on cold defeat

‘Cause we know it’s gonna rain, it’s gotta break some time
Though we wake up every morning to another cloudless sky
In our dreams the thunder rolls and the creeks are full again
We know it’s only dreaming, but we believe it’s gonna rain, we
believe it’s gonna rain.

Lyrics courtesy Judy Small © 1995, Melbourne

Judy Small: We know it’s Gonna Rain
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3E474nITxB8

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 EXPLANATORY NOTES
 Setbacks – Shattered Dreams 

3. DROUGHT

Dan Daly, author of Wet as a Shag, Dry as a Bone, (1994) writes:

“Our ideas about drought are shaped by what we expect from ‘normal’ weather.  We largely form these expectations from our own experiences and those of the people around us.

Take the example of Sue who grew up on a property in Longreach [Queensland] in the 1950s.  She had childhood memories of ‘plenty of rain’ and abundant feed.  In the 1960s Sue took over the property from her parents.  The 1960s were dry in that area, in comparison to the unusually wet 1950s.  Sue says they ‘managed to survive’ through that time, and there was higher rainfall again in the 1970s, but ‘still not back to normal’.  In the 1980s, the dry weather returned and she doesn’t know when the rain will ‘get back to normal again’.” (p.5)

Daly continues: “The first European settlers in Australia were from the British Isles.  Many endeavoured to re-create their ‘home’ environs here.  This seemed logical, since Australia was then part of the British Empire.  Most of the first white population laid out their farms or built their cities in the south-eastern corner of the country, one of its wettest regions where, under ‘normal conditions’ rain is plentiful and rivers flow throughout the year.  They believed they were safe from drought in their green corner.  It took over a century of repeated disasters to convince them they were wrong.  They did not understand how drought could strike at any time of the year, even in an area that is normally wet.  They also did not understand the converse – that heavy rain can fall any time of the year even in an area that is normally dry.” (p.38 & 41)

There are four main definitions of drought: one from the meteorologists (based on weather); a second from agriculturalists (based on needs of primary industries); a third from hydrologists (based on ground water levels); the fourth from sociologists (based on social expectations and perceptions).

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This installation is dedicated to Faye Kelly of Toowoomba Queensland. My thanks to Judy Small for permitting use of her song lyrics.

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 NOTE: The Artist’s statement, the exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 96

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 92: Bushfire

I’d already completed Prickly pear, the first installation for the Setbacks—Shattered Dreams series, and I was keen to get started on the second—Bushfire.

I began by making a drawing of the rug image I had in my head. Once I could see it, I set about identifying the technical challenges the design presented. The most pressing of which was, “How on earth can I make flames using fabric?”

The original rough sketch for the Bushfire rug

Whilst thinking through the possibilities, I began searching Toowoomba’s fabric stores for a suitable background fabric for the rug. I’d hoped to find something ‘off the shelf’, thereby sidestepping the need to create a bespoke fabric, which was always tricky and time-consuming.

Thankfully, my search turned up the perfect fabric—dark grey, with diagonal streaks of lighter grey and black, moving left to right, giving the impression of an eerie, smoke-filled evening landscape.

With the background fabric sourced, it was time for me to face up to the challenge of creating realistic ‘faux’ flames from fabric. I began by studying flames.

Looking closely, I could see that the flame colours change, moving from white/yellow at the hottest, out to shades of orange and red at the edge. With the flame colours and shapes firmly fixed in my mind, I was ready to attempt a flame prototype.

I began by experimenting with crystal organza as it was light, stiff, sparkly, strong, and held its shape. I cut stylised flame shapes off the grain with curved edges tapering to a point at each end, in the hope of maximising the flaring on the cut edges, to appear more flame-like. The next challenge was how to make the flared edges hold their flare. I tried zig-zagging fine fishing line along the edges and down the centre of the shape. Hurrah! It worked! And was even better with a second row of zig-zag, followed by a bit of a singe trim with a candle which, in view of the subject matter, seemed most appropriate!

With flame construction sorted, my next challenge was to find crystal organza in various shades of yellow, orange and red, as well as reels of matching sewing thread for the mega zig-zagging sessions to follow. I decided to make the flames in batches, but before I could attach them, I needed to construct the rug from the smoky grey fabric. To it I attached the shattered dream icon, cut from the locally sourced northern hemisphere landscape print fabric and framed with black. Next, I added numerous chain-stitched crack lines with black thread, barely visible against the dark greyness of the background.

That done, I placed a woollen blanket between the front and the back, made of pieced flour bags. After hemming the sides, I stabilised the fabric sandwich with tacking from the centre out, before securing the layers with tufting knots to the back. After I’d added rod pockets and removed the tacking, I could hang the rug and begin arranging batches of faux flames on its surface.

But before I began, I used fabric paint to create two lines of wild fires, that defined the night horizon and halved the picture plane. The inspiration to paint fires onto the surface of the rug, came from Henry Lawson’s poem The Fire at Ross’s Farm:

 At night along the river-side
The scene was grand and strange
The hill-fires looked like lighted streets
Of cities in the range.

Now it was ‘flame’ time. I planned to have the flames lift high on the right side of the rug, to give the impression of a fire front, driven by the hot winds associated with bushfires.

As I added more and more flames, I began to intertwine some of them to create greater visual interest. When I was happy with the density and placement, I single-stitched a point on a flame edge to either the rug, or to an adjacent flame, or to both, with great care, as I wanted to maximise the natural ‘bounce’ of the crystal organza.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams Bushfire rug 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

The finishing touch was a random scattering of small shiny red, yellow and orange beads, that created glistening ‘sparks’ high above the flames.

When I’d finished, I stood back from the rug and realised the blue-greens of the shattered dream icon were too bright for the dark, smoke-filled background. To reduce the intensity of the image, I decided to apply a wash of diluted black fabric paint. This was an insanely risky decision to make, but it worked. The image was no longer the dominant element on the rug’s surface.

I was delighted with the result. My delight was confirmed when an artist friend, seeing the rug for the first time, lifted her shirt as she backed up to the flames, as though warming her bum!

The next task was to assemble the accompanying collage.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams Bushfire collage 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

For the collage backboards in this series, I used V-Jointed Craftwood—painted beige—reminiscent of a domestic interior. This one would contain four repeats of the cane fire image, three verses from Henry Lawson’s poem, The Fire at Ross’s Farm, written on grey handmade paper, and a photograph of the aftermath of bush fire, taken by Lucy Robertson-Cuninghame. But before assembling the elements, I used dark grey paint to give the backboard the ‘smoke’ treatment, drifting left to right, to echo the smoke drift on the rug. It worked perfectly.  

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams Bushfire installation (1997)
Image: Ann Alcock

I was thrilled with this installation, the second in the Setbacks—Shattered Dreams series. With two down and three to go, Drought was the next cab off the rank.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Rough sketches: When I’m about to begin a textile work for exhibition, I do a number of sketches and choose the best of them as a guide. In the flurry of creative activity, the sketch can get lost. But in the clean-up that follows the completion of an artwork, I sometimes find the original sketch. Looking at it again, I catch myself smiling when I see how closely it resembles the finished artwork.

The Bushfire rug: When I reflect on the process of making this rug, I realise that, once again, I drew on my unconventional approach to problem-solving, most likely inherited from my father. This ability enabled me to make many complex artworks, like this one.

Walking: For all the years I was producing work for exhibition, I walked Prince Henry Drive every day, and sometimes twice a day. The Drive, a 4.2-kilometre one-way bitumen road through bushland on the edge of the Great Dividing Range, provided exercise as well as valuable thinking time. Often, I’d step onto the Drive with a problem and invariably step off it, with at least one solution. It may not have been ‘the’ solution, but I knew I was one step nearer to finding it.

Calculated risk: there is always a degree of risk associated with applying a colour wash to an already completed textile artwork. There’s no going back because a wash cannot be undone! To cover my arse, I always start light, let the wash dry, assess the result and, if need be, apply another ‘coat’ or series of coats, to get the effect I’m wanting.

Bushfire: As I write this in 2025, almost 30 years on, I realise I remain detached from the horror of bushfire. This is probably because I’ve not personally experienced the devastation of suddenly losing everything: home; pets; vehicles; stock; family photographs and sometimes, family members. The physical, mental and emotional wounds that result, can be deep and long-lasting for those affected, as they struggle to reclaim their lives.

To date, my only experience of fire is positive—an open fire, or a woodburning stove in cold weather, or a forty-four-gallon drum for burning papers, hardly life-threatening experiences. In hindsight, my detachment may have been an advantage, as I challenged myself to make art about such a confronting subject.

In the bush, volunteer firefighters both then and now, band together to protect their property and that of their neighbours. But in 30 years, things have changed. Weather cycles have been disrupted and bushfires here and elsewhere, have become uncontrollable mega-fires that burn for weeks.

I find these changes depressing in the extreme as I know First Nations people have managed this country for 60,000 years before ‘settlement’, using a patchwork of cool fires that burn at a lower intensity, minimising the damage to wildlife and the tree canopy.

FACTS:
Measurements:
Rug 1700 mm x 1200 mm
Collage: 715 x 525 x 40 mm

Poem: Fire at Ross’s Farm written by Henry Lawson; published in Sydney in 1894.

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PLEASE NOTE: The Bushfire installation video (03:37 min) can be seen at:https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/setbacks-shattered-dreams-videos/

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EXPLANATORY NOTES
Setbacks – Shattered Dreams

1. BUSHFIRE (1997)

For humans, fire is both friend and foe.  In Australia’s variable climatic conditions fire can create wholesale destruction.

The original inhabitants used fire constructively.  Maurice French in his book Conflict on the Condamine writes:

“The great strength of the Downs was the rich grasses so necessary to the food cycle and these the local natives, the ‘Gooneburra’, deliberately nurtured by the periodic burning of the overgrowth to encourage the germination of new growth and to attract the animals.  Pemberton Hodgson, an early settler on the Darling Downs of Queensland, described the sight:

‘During their travels they are continually burning the grass, and I have often seen the air for miles so full of smoke that the sun was not discernible, and the room and huts were almost impossible to breathe in.  At night the mountains and sloping hills were one continued flame, extending many miles, and bearing a strong resemblance to a large city beautifully illuminated.'” (p. 37, 1989)

Australians are very aware of the potential harm fire can cause.  When we drive the highway, bushfire danger signs remind us of the fire risk that day encouraging us to remain vigilant and careful with matches, cigarette butts and barbecue fires. In this country, deliberate fire lighting is considered to be as debase as paedophilia or murder.

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DEDICATION
This installation is dedicated to Kaye Marsh of Cooby Mountain, near Toowoomba Queensland. Kaye’s open studio gave me access to numerous women happy to share their experiences of the vicissitudes of life in the bush. This was very important as I am a city person with no experience of the ‘setbacks’ I was describing in this exhibition.

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NOTE: The Artist’s statement, the exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 96

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 91: Prickly Pear

I was heartened by the positive feedback that kept coming my way as my first exhibition, In Praise of Australian Women, continued to tour the eastern states. I’d side-stepped arts organizations and was now promoting and managing the exhibition myself, giving me more control and more money—a most important consideration, as I endeavoured to support myself as a textile artist.

I’d had fun making the Men at Work installations, using recycled blankets in shades of grey, but now it was time to get serious.

Making Men at Work had whetted my appetite to further explore the reality of life for people living in regional and remote Australia.

I began thinking about themes that lent themselves to a textile interpretation. The one that had most appeal was a series of installations describing the catastrophes that periodically afflict everyone living on this vast continent, to a greater or lesser degree. The standouts were Prickly pear, bushfire, flood, drought, and rabbits.

And to pull this off, I knew I’d need help, and lots of it.

As a city person, my knowledge of life beyond the suburbs was limited, although I did gain some understanding from reading both early and contemporary Australian authors and later, from home-grown movie classics like My Brilliant Career and Sunday Too Far Away. Fortunately, help was at hand from a group of women artists, who met weekly at Highfields, north of Toowoomba. These women had hundreds of years of bush experience between them, having either grown up on the land, or married into land-holding families.

With the subject areas decided, I needed photographs for each installation.

I already had two colour photographs for bushfire. The first was of a super-dramatic cane fire; not strictly a bushfire, but I hoped I’d get away with it. The second was an image that graphically illustrated the aftermath of bushfire. It depicted blackened saplings with a carpet of singed leaves scattered on the ground beneath. Perfect.

Next, I needed images for the other subject areas. The John Oxley library was a good place to start because there I’d found images for all nine of the In Praise of Australian Women installations, so I headed off to Brisbane. As luck would have it, I found the perfect image for each one.

Once again, I decided to repeat the winning combo of an ‘art’ Wagga rug with an accompanying collage that I’d used with great success for the first touring exhibition and more recently, the Men at Work series.

I designed a template for the rugs.

From my art school training I remember being told that the cardinal sin of ‘composition’, was to cut the picture plane in half, either horizontally or vertically. We were told over and over that this was an absolute no, no. As I’m contrary by nature and always up for a challenge, I decided to have a crack at proving the rule-makers wrong. In this series of rugs, I planned to work with 50% ‘sky’ and 50% ‘land’, and I wondered if this would prove to be a lousy decision?

Only time would tell.

I already had a catchy title for this exhibition, Setbacks—Shattered Dreams, that conveyed the essence of this tragic series.

Next, I needed to find a printed fabric that expressed the dream of success and prosperity that all newcomers bring with them from elsewhere. In the early days of white settlement, folk from the northern hemisphere were determined to recreate the verdant green landscapes, scattered with fat livestock and established buildings, reminiscent of the ‘home’ they’d left behind. An appropriate fabric was fundamental to the success of this series, and I wondered if I’d find something suitable in Toowoomba.

To my relief, I found the perfect cotton print, with farm buildings and well-fed sheep, cattle and rabbits scattered across a bucolic blue-green landscape, reminiscent of the United States of America. I’d lucked it in!

With the perfect fabric sourced, before I could begin constructing the rug, I’d two more important facets of this project to research.

Firstly, I needed to understand how glass shattered when hit by a projectile. Why? To convincingly express the word ‘shattered’ in the exhibition title. To do this, I planned to float a section of the ‘dream’ fabric in the ‘sky’, with black crack lines radiating out from an impact point. I planned to use some of the crack lines, to link the ‘sky’ and the ‘land’, making the 50 / 50 divide less obvious, in the hope that the result would be ‘art’ rather than a disaster.

To find out how glass cracked, I visited a local glazier who was prepared to let me experiment. He placed a largish piece of scrap glass on the workshop floor. Not knowing what to expect, I held my breath as I hit the glass hard with the handle end of a broom. The result was a series of magnificent crack lines, both thick and thin, radiating out from the point of impact. I committed the image to memory and raced home to draw it, then started playing with fabric. Before long, I’d created a prototype for the ‘shattered dream’ icon. That done, I could now move on to the second challenge for this rug. It involved figuring out how to use fabric to make branches of Prickly pear leaves, but first I had to find some real ones.

I knew nothing about prickly pear because I was born and partly raised in Sydney. Thankfully, a friend had clumps of it growing on her five-acre block, outside Toowoomba. She and other friends warned me about the prickles, but I chose to ignore their warnings. But I assumed they were exaggerating.

Armed with a cavalier attitude and a machete, I approached the plant, lopped off a branch and took it home in a flat cardboard tray. The following day, the prickle pain started and went on for days. In spite of the discomfort, my next stop was the fabric store to find prickly pear-coloured fabric. I carefully carried the tray containing the plant to the selection of green fabrics, where I found a perfect match. Eureka! At the same time, I discovered some exactly matching tiny green beads for the prickly pear ‘lumps’, and lastly, very fine fishing line for the prickles. Now I was all set.

I made a prototype ‘leaf’, filled with two layers of wadding, and then flattened it with my Elnapress. The result was very realistic.

So far so good.

To the leaf surface I stitched the matt green beads on the diagonal at intervals, then added multiple strands of fishing line, poking up through the bead holes, to create the ‘prickles’. It worked like a charm. So now the mass-production of faux prickly pear branches could begin in earnest.

Before I could attach the branches, I joined the ‘sky’ and the ‘land’, made from the same green background fabric that had been machine stitched with prickly pear shapes, decreasing in size right out to the horizon, to give a sense of a never-ending infestation. Next, I attached the framed shattered dreams icon and embroidered the crack lines. Then I made up the rug by placing a woollen blanket between the front and the back, made of pieced flour bags and hemmed the sides. Next, I stabilised the fabric sandwich with tacking from the centre out, before securing the layers with tufting knots to the back. After I’d added rod pockets and removed the tacking, I hung it on the wall.

It was now time to attach the pear branches. As I finished each branch, I positioned it on the rug. It took an age to arrange them because, as I discovered, it was a process that couldn’t be hurried. When I was satisfied with the arrangement, I attached the branches to the background and to each other, using press studs.

Prickly pear leaves made of fabric with beads and fishing line ‘prickles’
Image: Ann Alcock

I was especially pleased that the gradation of ‘leaf’ size from the foreground to the horizon, created a convincing depth of field. But to break up the sameness of the green and to add realism, I filled the foreground with stalks of dried grass, painted onto the rug surface and onto some of the lower branches as well. The dried grass added visual interest to the rug, with the grass colours linking to the wheat-coloured ribbon that framed the icon.

When Queenslanders came within cooee, they stopped dead in their tracks. The expression of distress on their faces made it clear that they were reliving the pain of their previous encounters with prickly pear.

Partway through the construction of the installation, I was taken to Miles, a small regional township a three-hour drive north-west of Toowoomba, to document quilts held by the Miles Historical Museum for the National Quilt Register.  On the way, we passed the Boonarga Cactoblastis Memorial Hall. My host told me that it was the only building anywhere in the world erected to honour an insect—Cactoblastis cactorum—released in Queensland in 1927, to eliminate prickly pear. By the end of 1933, the insect had steadily chewed its way through 40,000 km2 of pear plants. On our way back to Toowoomba, we stopped to photograph the building for possible inclusion in the collage for this installation.

Setbacks—Shattered Dreams – Prickly Pear rug 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

As with the Men at Work series, each of the rugs for Setbacks would depict a landscape panorama. As the ‘outdoors’ was traditionally a male domain, I wanted the collage for each, to provide a domestic counterpoint. I did this by using V-Jointed Craftwood backboards for each one—a nod to life indoors, that was, and to a degree still is, a woman’s domain.

Setbacks-Shattered Dreams – Prickly Pear collage 715 x 525 x 40mm
Image: Ann Alcock

For the collage, I collected: a poem by R.D. Dyke titled On the Track, describing the horror of the prickly pear advance and I wrote it out on light blue handmade paper; a scientific illustration of the Cactoblastis cactorum’s life cycle; a map of Queensland showing the infestation; a prickly pear jelly recipe; my colour photographs of a fruiting pear and the Cactoblastis Memorial Hall and lastly, the John Oxley Library’s photographs of ‘before’ and ‘after’ Cactoblastis cactorum, graphically illustrating the effectiveness of the insect.

Both photographs were taken from the same spot, on a small holding outside Chinchilla, in southern Queensland. The first one was taken in 1928, showing an abandoned hut with the land surrounding it completely overrun with prickly pear. The second was taken a year after Cactoblastis cactorum had been released. In amongst the collapsed pear, there are signs of re-occupation. The hut’s had a missing weatherboard replaced and the window is open. Also, there is now a small corrugated iron water tank beside the re-barked lean-to, and not far away, a cart. And most importantly, the tumbledown fence line in the foreground has been replaced. Once I’d arranged and tacked everything to the V-Jointed backboard, I covered it with a clear Perspex lid.

Setbacks-Shattered Dreams – Prickly Pear installation
Image: Ann Alcock

The Prickly Pear installation was now complete.

With this, the first installation of the Setbacks— series attracting favourable comments from trusted friends, I was energized and ready to move onto the second of this series, Bushfire.

 

ON REFLECTION
The Prickly Pear installation: was my first foray into layering three-dimensional fabric forms on a rug surface. Up until this time, the closest I’d got to creating three-dimensional artwork, was the one-of-a-kind garment commissions that were displayed on a human body.

Research: my oral history interviews turned up stories of vane attempts to kill the prickly pear. I remember an ‘against the odds’ account of one woman who spent weeks injecting pear plants with arsenic pentoxide, one plant at a time. Super-labour intensive to administer, the poison had little effect. This story is one of many that clearly illustrates the desperate situation landowners found themselves in and what they were prepared to do to save their livelihoods. But many had to walk off. In 1928, Queenslanders were thrown a lifeline: the tiny insect called Cactoblastis cactorum.

I conducted yet another oral history interview; this time with a retired Toowoomba veterinarian who explained that after the release of Cactoblastis cactorum, there were many drums of arsenic pentoxide left on both small and large holdings. Over time, the drums rusted through, allowing the poison to leak out. Stock coming in contact with the liquid suffered indiscriminate poisoning. The veterinarian told me that he was occasionally called out to see these animals, but there was nothing he could do to save them.

Also, I was told of hungry cattle with their faces and tongues coated with prickles after eating the pear leaves. And descriptions of single lane roads lined with dense hedges of pear. If a vehicle encountered a beast on a road all that could be done was slowly drive it ahead until there was space to overtake it. Car owners grumbled because the paintwork on the sides of their cars was deeply scratched by the prickles.

I remember being delighted with this installation, the first of five in this series. Uppermost in my mind whilst I was making it, was the hard lesson I’d learnt when making the last six installations for the first touring exhibition. I’d worked myself to a standstill, both physically and emotionally; and my recovery took weeks. This time around and for ever after, I made sure that I paced myself, ate well and got adequate sleep.

Once again, my organizational and problem-solving skills, came to the fore. These skills had been developed some years earlier, whilst I was Handweaver-in-Residence at the Goulburn College of Advanced Education. I produced a selling exhibition that toured to five regional centres as part of the 11-month residency. And again, for the Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition at the Wollongong Art Gallery. I didn’t know it at the time, but both of these previous exhibiting experiences were trial runs—the training I needed for what was to come.

And lastly, as we get further and further away from the prickly pear event—both the infestation itself and the release of the grub that saved the day—I see greater value in this installation because it captures the essence of this extraordinary story, almost one hundred years after the fact. It’s a fine example of art meeting history.

FACTS:
Installation dimensions:
Rug: 1700 mm x 1200 mm
Collage: 715 x 525 x 40 mm

Prickly pear: (mostly Opuntia stricta) was imported into Australia in the late 19th century for two reasons. Firstly, to use as a natural agricultural fence and secondly, in an attempt to establish a cochineal dye industry. The plant spread quickly and by the early 1920s it had rendered unproductive 40,000 km2 of farming land in northern New South Wales and Queensland.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prickly_pears_in_Australia

Cactoblastis cactorum: this insect was imported into Australia from South America in 1925.

Cactoblastis cactorum male and female moths
Image: Wikimedia

Cactoblastis cactorum egg stick
Image: ResearchGate

The egg sticks were distributed to landowners in matchboxes and later in fit-for-purpose small cardboard boxes. The newly hatched larvae burrow into the prickly pear leaves and eat them from the inside out. The last big patch of pear in Queensland was eradicated in 1933. The Cactoblastis cactorum story is cited as an introduced biological pest control success story.

Cactoblastis cactorum larvae on Prickly pear
Image: Animilia.bio

Cactoblastis cactorum is still active in Queensland. prickly pear with yellowing leaves are an indication that the insects are still at work and can occasionally be seen by the side of the roads in this state.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cactoblastis_cactorum

The Boonarga Cactoblastis Memorial Hall: is located between Brigalow and Chinchilla. It was built in 1936 and is heritage listed. It commemorates the insect that saved this country from an introduced plant that became a pest.

Australia is home to numerous introduced species that have gone feral: rabbits, cane toads, foxes, fire ants, buffalo, deer, etc all continue to be difficult to control.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cactoblastis_Memorial_Hall

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PLEASE NOTE:  The Prickly Pear installation video (03:37 min) can be seen at: https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/setbacks-shattered-dreams-videos/

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Poem: On the Track by R.D.Dyke

In olden days where pear grew thickly ‘long the Condamine,
Its spiny leaves encroached so quickly on each boundary line,
The settler waged a losing fight with roller or with plough,
With grubber, slasher, poison spray, it beat him anyhow.

And many men rolled up their swags and sadly walked away,
While others, sticking grimly on, hoped for a better day,
The thorns would cripple horses and cattle just the same,
And even men and dogs were half the time quite lame.

The settler was obliged to clear ten acres every year,
But what was harder still he had to keep it clear,
An inspector from the Government each year would make a call,
And would be very hostile if no pear was cleared at all.

At last the Cactoblastis insect can upon the scene,
And soon the grass was growing where the Prickly pear had been,
The areas that once had been abandoned in despair,
Were eagerly sought after now the land was free of pear.

Two hundred miles from Brisbane, along the Western Line,
Where land was pear infested in the days of auld lang syne,
At a little railway siding where farmers take their cream.
There’s an edifice that stands as a token of esteem,

In memory of Cactoblastis which achieved so much,
And the residents with a grateful and reminiscent touch,
Have named it with an aptitude which is approved by all,
The Boonarga Cactoblastis Memorial Hall.

Now at the dance popular which every week they hold,
Whilst younger folk are dancing, the older ones, I’m told,
Will often get together, and as the dance-band plays,
They talk of when the pear was thick back in the olden days.

Poem taken from From Cellars to Refrigerators by K. Emmerson p.144
Printed by Watson Ferguson and Co. South Brisbane 1969

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EXPLANATORY NOTES

Setbacks – Shattered Dreams

References: Dodd’s The Biological Campaign Against Prickly Pear 1940; Emmerson’s Cellars to Refrigerators 1969.

1843   Prickly Pear, Opuntia inermis and O. stricta, plants brought to the Darling Downs from Scone NSW.  Valued for its “succulence, drought-resisting qualities and possible utilization as a reserve fodder for starving stock.”

1882   A gradual spreading of the Pear.

1883   Official Act declares Prickly Pear to be a nuisance.

1887   Parliament passes an amendment declaring it a duty to destroy noxious weeds on roads reserved under Divisional Board control.

1897   The Land Act time requires destruction of Prickly Pear as a special condition of land selection.

1899   “Impervious to drought, frost, heat and rain, it spread and spread.”  Biological control suggested.

1912   Densely infested areas cover 3.5 million acres (1.75 million hectares) and the lightly infested ones 12.2 million acres (6.1 million hectares).

1916   Prickly Pear infestation increases annually by 1 million acres (0.5 million hectares). Poisoning and other known methods, would cost approximately 20 million pounds. Later, the cost of clearing Queensland is said to be 100 million pounds.

1919   Total affected area 20 million acres.

1922   Total affected area 40 million acres.

1926   Early release of Cactoblastis cactorum in Queensland and NSW.

1927   Major distribution campaign commenced, continuing until 1931.

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This installation is dedicated to Judy Emmerson James of Glencoe, Queensland.  I am also indebted to Ethel Hanrahan of Toowoomba and Ann Randall of Brisbane for oral history interviews as well as many others who could provide snippets of information such as anecdotes, recollections and family memories.

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Note: The Artist’s statement, the exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 96

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 90: Fettlers

I’d thoroughly enjoyed the process of making Timber-getters and Drovers, the first and second installations of the Men at Work series. My enjoyment had come from using large pieces of recycled grey woollen blanket to honour Australian men who worked hard and often lived rough. As a result, I was super-keen to get started on the third and last one, Fettlers.

Like the others, this installation would comprise an ‘art’ Wagga rug and a collage to go with it—the combo I’d used for eleven installations to date.

In truth, I knew precious little about railways other than taking an electric train across the Sydney Harbour bridge, twice a day during term time, to attend the National Art School in the late 1960s. Oh, and I once took a touristy Puffing Billy steam train ride through the Dandenong Ranges out of Melbourne, one Sunday in the late 1980s. As a result, to make this installation work, I needed to gather information. I went looking for people with personal or familial connections to trains who could tell me of their experiences.

A Toowoomba woman, who’d heard about my work, offered me a calendar that featured a pictorial record of herculean achievements in Australia. It contained an image of a gathering of men, proudly standing on the newly-constructed Stoney Creek Falls Bridge in Queensland in 1890. They were all dressed in their finest, with the Falls gushing down the cliff face behind them. This image would provide the linchpin for this installation.

The bridge was officially opened a year later, making it possible to take the train from coastal Cairns to the settlement of Kuranda, on the Atherton Tablelands.

Stoney Creek Falls Bridge commemorative photograph taken in 1890
Image: Source unknown

As always, I began with the rug.  

From the beginning, I knew that the design challenges for this one were considerable because I only had short and long straight lines with which to work. The short ones were a series of hardwood ‘sleepers’, that underpinned the railway tracks at right angles; and the long ones— the tracks themselves.

As with the other rugs, I planned to arrange the grey blankets onto a hessian bag backing, with an extra 5 cm on each side. The extra hessian would later fold forward to frame the rug.

But my most pressing concern was how to create an interesting composition with nothing more than short and long straight lines. In search of inspiration, I photographed a nearby railway line from different angles. The best of them was taken looking down from a raised bank alongside the line.

I planned to place the sleepers and tracks arrangement in a band at the bottom of the rug, well aware that it would take up less than a third of the overall composition, that would be dominated by an immense overarching ‘sky’.

Next, I set about re-creating my photograph of the real thing with grey blankets. I used mid-grey in the foreground, torn strips of dark grey for the railway tracks, a lighter mid-grey for the bed of gravel ballast below the tracks, then returned to mid-grey for the expanse of country out to the distant ‘horizon’. And lastly, a large piece of light grey blanket for the huge ‘sky’. The sleepers would be added later.

I turned and tacked all the layers of blanket to the hessian backing, leaving the railway tracks with raw edges. Next, I stitched the pieces in place with black linen thread. The stitching served two important purposes. Firstly, it secured all the rug layers to the backing and secondly, it added an interesting design element when the rug was viewed from close up or at a distance.

With the layers secured, I folded the hessian edge binding forward on all four sides and tacked them in place. Then I stitched them down with black linen thread, before making a rod pocket top and bottom.

The last job was to hand embroider the sleepers onto the surface of the rug, with dark grey woollen thread. That done, I could remove the tacking and hang the rug on the wall to admire my efforts. I hoped that the huge ‘sky’ in this piece would capture the vastness of the Australian landscape that was at the heart of this series. And I think it worked well.

Men at Work – Fettlers rug 1700 x 1200 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

My next task was to make the Fettlers collage.

Finding women’s words for this installation was straightforward because I remembered studying Judith Wright’s classic poem, The Trains, in English class at high school. I was profoundly moved by her words that deftly linked railways with the disruption of World War 2. Re-reading her poem decades later, its impact remains, and I wrote it out in full on grey handmade paper.

The next inclusion was an unexpected gift from a friend who worked as a shunter with Queensland Rail. His job was to move railway rolling stock from one place to another. From him, I learned that shunting was, and remains, a very dangerous occupation. All it took was a momentary lapse of concentration to have a life-changing accident whilst shunting. When I explained my project, he kindly offered to contribute one of his QR Shunter’s hat bands to add another element of interest to this installation.

But I needed additional railway-related artefacts to make this installation work.

Once again, QR came up trumps by providing a thin slice of rail line, a couple of dog spikes, two of which were used to secure the line to a sleeper, and a length of old hardwood bridge transom for the backboard. The transom was rough cut by a giant of a man, wielding the biggest chainsaw I’d ever seen.

I had the transoms cut to size, then butted and braced them with steel straps as well as chains from which to hang this super heavy backboard. Next, I had threaded rod welded to both the dog spikes and the slice of rail line before drilling holes through the timber for each rod. After the Stony Creek Falls photograph, the poem and the hat band were tacked on top of a sheet of grey handmade paper, then the metal pieces were bolted into position from the back. Finally, a Perspex lid was added and the collage was complete.

I was thrilled with this artwork because it was so chunky and dramatic.

Men at Work – Fettlers collage 715 x 525 x 80 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Men at Work – Fettlers installation
Image: Ann Alcock

With this, the third and final installation of the Men at Work series complete, I wanted to get started on yet another touring exhibition project I’d been mulling over for quite some time.

The Men at Work installations had whetted my appetite to further explore the reality of life for people living in regional Australia. The subject areas I had in mind were prickly pear, bushfire, drought, flood and rabbits—and I’d chosen Setbacks-Shattered Dreams as the title for this new series. I did wonder if the title would be prophetic?

Only time would tell.

 

ON REFLECTION:
I’d really enjoyed the freedom and simplicity of making all three rugs for Men at Work, to honour timber-getters, drovers and fettlers.

Back in 1996 when I completed this series, these occupations were in the grip of major change. For men in the timber industry, axes had been replaced by chainsaws and later, automated harvesting machines. For men managing stock, horses had made way for motorbikes, quad bikes and aircraft. For railway workers, the demand for their labour gradually fell away to be replaced with sophisticated equipment that required much less manpower to keep the trains running. Also, hardwood sleepers were being replaced with concrete ones that were precision-laid, using a massive machine operated by only a handful of men.

For this series, I wanted to source women’s words to counterbalance the blokey content of all three of these installations. For this one, Fettlers, Judith Wright’s poem, The Trains was perfect as it enabled me to juxtapose my rug’s benign landscape with the horrors of war, from a woman’s perspective.

In the poem, written in 1946, Wright describes the part trains played in World War 2, as Australia responded to an external aggressor. During that time, trains moved men, supplies, weapons, and ammunition to northern Australia to re-supply soldiers in Papua New Guinea and elsewhere.

I was pleased with the gravitas Judith Wright’s poem added to this installation. I also felt it was a powerful reminder of our geographical vulnerability, vulnerability that is often glossed over.

Since making the Men at Work series, cheeky friends have suggested other occupations that could be added to this exhibition. For example: shearers, fencing contractors, stock and station agents, and so on. But their suggestions fell on deaf ears, because I had no intention of extending this series. This was possibly an unwise business decision to make because I’ve since realised that an exhibition comprising only three installations would be of little interest to art galleries or museums, wanting bang for their buck.

Even so, in 2005, I splurged and had an exhibition essay written and a full colour catalogue printed. I also had a crate built but, due to unforeseen circumstances, I lacked the energy to promote this exhibition, and as a result, it did not tour. But I have no regrets.

FACTS:
Rug dimensions:
1700 x 1200 mm
5-centimetre edge binding

Kuranda Railway line: runs between Cairns and Kuranda. It was completed in 1891 with 15 hand-made tunnels and 37 bridges built to climb from sea level to 328 metres up the Macalister Range. The line is 37 km long and was later extended to include Herberton, Tumoulin and Ravenshoe.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuranda_Scenic_Railway

Judith Wright (1915-2000) was a much-loved and respected Australian poet, environmentalist, and campaigner for Aboriginal land rights. She wrote The Trains in 1946 and it is reproduced in full, with permission, in Fettlers.

THE TRAINS by Judith Wright

Tunnelling through the night, the trains pass
in a splendour of power, with a sound like thunder
shaking the orchards, waking
the young from a dream, scattering like glass
the old men’s sleep; laying
a black trail over the still bloom of the orchards.
The trains go north with guns.

Strange primitive piece of flesh, the heart laid quiet
hearing their cry pierce through its thin-walled cave
recalls the forgotten tiger
and leaps awake in its old panic riot;
and how shall mind be sober,
since blood’s red thread still binds us fast in history?
Tiger, you walk through all our past and future,
troubling the children’s sleep; laying
a reeking trail across our dream of orchards.

Racing on iron errands, the trains go by,
and over the white acres of our orchards
hurl their wild summoning cry, their animal cry…
the trains go north with guns.

Written while WW2 raged in the Pacific First printed in 1946
From A Human Pattern: Selected Poems ETT Imprint Watson’s Bay 1996
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judith_Wright
https://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/archived/booksandwriting/vale-judith-wright/3631582#transcript

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PLEASE NOTE: Fettlers (03:02 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/men-at-work-videos/

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Men at Work

ARTIST’S STATEMENT

This exhibition, Men at Work had its genesis in the very long and intense experience of producing my first touring exhibition, In Praise of Australian Women. After eighteen months of self-doubt associated with doing something I’d not attempted before as well as bouts of physical and emotional pain, I was ready for a change.  It began with a single installation Timber-getters.

I was anxious to get away from the fine detail of the previous exhibition. I wanted to experiment with various shades of grey blanket (from the op-shop!) to ‘paint’ with fabric! I decided to apply large areas of monochromatic tones in a minimalist interpretation of our landscape, to capture and express its essence.  This task was made more difficult by my choice of greys.  It would have been so much easier with greens!  As it happens, I enjoy a challenge.

Next came Drovers. Minimalism reduced! And finally, Fettlers.

The research required to produce each installation was considerable. Being a city person, I discuss specific topics with a cross-section of bush people. I’m only satisfied when I’ve heard the same story, from different sources, at least twice. This double confirmation, along with exhaustive checking of historical, social and technical details, is essential to the authenticity of my exhibitions.

Men at Work seeks to celebrate the contribution and honour the methods used by generations of men determined to ‘develop’ this land for better or worse depending upon your view.

As always there are people behind the scenes providing various forms of support. I’m grateful to Pat and Faye Kelly for allowing me to photocopy their cross-cut saw; Bob Gould for contributing his stock whip and Janet Anderson for horse hair used for the whip ‘cracker’.

All three installations are a tribute to the ingenuity of Australian bushmen and to their creation, the versatile and indispensable ‘wagga’ rug*.
Morley Grainger
Toowoomba 2000

* The original ‘wagga’ rug was made throughout the nineteenth century until the 1950’s, taking its name from the Riverina town of Wagga Wagga.  It was originally made from wheat or chaff bags by men working in the bush.

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Men at Work—an overview

Narrative visual artist Morley Grainger makes inanimate fabrics and artefacts speak vividly for people long gone.  She is a witness for the dead, resurrecting the threads of their lives, crises and triumphs with intricate structures of discarded cloth, precision stitching and innocuous artefacts reformed into images and icons far outside their original design.  In their new life, they tell old stories, and like all storytellers, they invest their narrative with their own genesis…

Grainger’s distinctly unconventional style of fabric narrative is based on an eminently conventional education in art, built on a childhood in which she was applauded for drawing on the walls, if the results were good.  After her first formal art classes at Toowoomba’s Glennie School for girls, Grainger entered the National Art School in Sydney, learning the artist’s laws of light, colour and design necessary for the freedom to venture constructively outside these strictures.  From there she worked at the Australian Museum’s Exhibitions department, then in graphics with the National Parks & Wildlife Service followed by a high quality, cosmetic packaging design job: a disparate repertoire of crafts and skills, uniquely suited to her emerging passion.

A narrative artist puts objects and materials together like people in a room, and draws out their stories into a new singular theme.

In her exhibition, Men at Work, Grainger uses the ‘Wagga rug’ as the central medium.  The Wagga is like her art: a construct of cast-offs and useful pieces stitched together to make a practical article, part bed, part clothing, entirely stamped with the idiosyncrasies of the character who made it.

The Wagga is a classically Australian invention, and while it has counterparts in other cultures, those that flowed together into the river of early immigrants contained elements that were entirely ours. Old woollen blankets stitched to slit-open hessian sacks for greater durability and warmth. The men who made them were masters of ‘making do’ with whatever little they could scavenge and gather in the remote places they came to work.  You can imagine the men sitting at night, stitching these rugs together (women’s work) done with a man’s sturdy baling needle.  Grainger follows their thread lines with her unique precision; but using waxed linen in place of their scrounged twine and sailor’s thread.

Grainger tells their story through the Wagga rug: three trades of men who came into Australia’s wilderness and set themselves against it as timber-getters, drovers and fettlers.  Unlike the earliest Australians who believed the land has a spiritual identity, and learned to live with its moody climates and the streams of life and food that exist above and within its harsh surfaces, these new settlers came determined to fight her.

Their stories—impregnating the fibres, rusted metal and weathered timber of Grainger’s installations—are coloured and shaped by their attitude to the land and the sense of challenge, danger, suffering and endurance they felt as a consequence.  They saw Australia’s forests and plains as foreign and hostile, and armed themselves with axe and adze, and crosscut saw and wedge and hammer.

In Timber-Getters (1995) Grainger uses sections of ironbark slabs with perspex cover to mount her pieces; a rare Plumb axe head and an adze with the jagged-toothed silhouette of a crosscut saw are used as icons recalling the mission these men undertook to cut their way into the wilderness and send the carcases of trees to build a new nation.

To underscore the theme, Grainger displays, on handmade grey paper, ‘Ricketty’ Kate Filson’s World War 2 era poem, Timber.

Through the sighing bush they bore him –
Many men and many oxen –
Chains of iron all about him:
He, the helmeted of sunsets!
He the challenger of tempests!

with its bellicose images of lances and barrels and warriors, reflecting both the battles of its subjects to fell the great trees and the battle lines to which they—timber and timber-getters—were inevitably bound.

But the little men with axes,
Full of little tawdry valours,
Stood before his giant splendour…
And they hewed with little axes
And they knew not what they did –
Yet, their little souls saluted:
“Gawd!” they said, “He was a tough ‘un!”
And they straightened sweating bodies
As he fell among the bracken.

Timber-Getters succeeded and encouraged Grainger to move on to Drovers continuing to use a graduation of dark to light grey woollen blankets to recall the vast haze-shrouded distances that hung ahead of cattlemen pushing their stock cross-country.

Again, Grainger uses native wood—this time silky-oak—in her frame delineating the interiors of rough bush homes with their relative comfort and love and the empty expanses rolling away to surrounding horizons.  The colours and long perspectives echo the haunting loneliness of immigrants entering this great quiet continent and settling onto its surface, missing home and at odds with their new environment.

Grainger uses an old image—a black and white photograph titled Drover’s Camp – Marion Downs Queensland 1914—to conjure up the harshness these men perceived as well as the tools and familiars they took with them: leather harness and equipment, water carriers, and an iconic stockwhip cracker made from horsehair, its small coil a fractal of the long, coiling plaited length of the whip that herded stock hundreds and hundreds of miles from station to saleyard.

She also employs the smoother, soothing rhythms of Henry Lawson to raise optimistic emotional echoes of a glorified drover’s life: Andy’s Gone with Cattle published in 1888 and reproduced on grey, handmade paper.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over,
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;

Timber-getters and drovers saw themselves as lone heroes battling elements they did not understand or value, but their war was hand-to-hand, an organic engagement with the environment to fell great trees, and drive great herds on horseback.

With the advent of steam, a third trade came to Australia to lay down a harder, more lasting brand on the weathered hide of the continent.  Railway lines began uncoiling from the major towns and inching out to the inland.  They were javelins of steel sutured to the ground with iron spikes.  This was the new technology of the Industrial Revolution, the advent of machines to build, span, travel and carry further and faster than men and animals had ever done.

The same kind of men who went in to the timber lines and crossed the plains with cattle were dragooned along the straight piercing lines of the new railways.  Like their counterparts, they came into the wilderness with what they could carry – the durable Wagga rug.

Grainger recalls their confinement to the railways with images embedded in the Waggas of grey lines of steel and cross-tied timber sleepers.

This is men’s work, driving steel into the land and making it strong and stable enough to carry the millions of tons of roaring steam locomotives that plied the continent’s expanses with supplies, wool and cattle, sheep and people.

But it is ultimately women’s voices, the poet Judith Wright with her cadent The Trains

Tunnelling through the night, the trains pass
in a splendour of power, with a sound like thunder
shaking the orchards, waking
the young from a dream…

and Grainger’s passionate drive to bear witness that honours these hard men, long gone into their past, by recalling their stories to the present.

Grainger uses innocuous fabric and materials to unfold her penetrating narratives, and as always in her exhibitions, the stories they display, and the echoes they raise in us as we view them, raise the dead.

Peter Shann Ford
December 2005

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 89: Drovers

Timber-getters was the first installation of this series. It comprised an ‘art’ Wagga rug and an accompanying collage. This had been the winning combination I’d used for 15 installations to date and it seemed the old slogan, “If you’re on a good thing, stick to it!” was paying off.

I was excited to go around again, this time, for Drovers.

The overall size of this rug would be the same as the others: 170 cm high by 120 cm wide. With a set size to work to, I began by constructing the hessian bag backing, with 5 cm added on all four sides. This extra fabric would ultimately fold forward to frame the rug.

Once again, my challenge was to use shades of grey blanket to produce a semi-abstract rolling landscape that a drover would immediately recognize. To create distance, I used dark grey in the foreground; mid-grey in the middle ground; a lighter grey out to the ‘horizon’; and an even lighter grey for the vast expanse of ‘sky’ above it.

Once I’d positioned the blanket pieces, I turned the edges of each, before tacking them to the hessian backing. Then, I used black linen thread to anchor all four pieces with evenly spaced running stitches. The stitches served two purposes. They secured all the layers of the rug to the backing as well as adding an interesting design detail.

Men at Work – Drovers rug 170 x 120cm
Image: Ann Alcock

Now, with the ‘art’ part of the rug completed, I folded the hessian edge binding forward on all four sides and tacked it in place. Then I stitched it down with black linen thread.

Next, I made a rod pocket at top and bottom, and lastly, removed all the tacking threads. This was the job I liked best, because when it was done, the rug was ready for exhibition.

My next task was to make the collage to go with the rug.

Whilst making the rug, I had time to think about the material culture needed to best tell the story of an early 20th century drover in Australia.

I was already off to a good start, thanks to the Mims family. From their photo album came an evocative photograph of the Mim’s grandfather’s droving camp that was taken on Marion Downs Station, western Queensland in 1914. It captures the long shadows of a cool early morning, with jacket-clad men saddling their horses for yet another day, moving cattle through the landscape.

Drover’s camp Marion Downs Western Queensland 1914
Image: Mims family photographs

Next, I needed suitable wording to tell the drover’s story. For this series, wherever possible, I endeavoured to find women’s words to counterbalance this ‘blokey’ world of bushmen, working hard and living rough. But even with the help of my literary advisor, woman’s words to describe the droving experience were elusive, so I opted to use Henry Lawson’s Andy’s Gone with Cattle—a poignant eight-verse poem, familiar to most Australians, including city folk of my generation.

The first verse sets the scene…

Our Andy’s gone to battle now
‘Gainst Drought the Red marauder,
Our Andy’s gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.

…the seventh verse is an invocation for all drovers far from home…

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over,
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;

…and the eighth and last verse prays for Andy’s safe return…

And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant ’twill bring us Andy.

My next creative challenge was how to present the photograph and the poem.

I had a vintage silky oak picture frame with a narrow gold trim on the inside edge that would be perfect to present both the droving image and Lawson’s poem, written on grey handmade paper. To make this composite look classy, I asked a picture framer to cut a matt from a grey board that matched the darkest grey blanket in the rug.

Next, my mind moved to the drovers’ tools of trade.

I knew a stock whip was the standout, but where in Toowoomba could I find one? As always, whenever I’m working on a project, I tell everyone within cooee, and, once again, the Laws of Manifestation or Synchronicity turned up the goods. My neighbour came up trumps. His elderly relative had a splendid stock whip he was willing to contribute. But the whip needed a ‘cracker’.

My research revealed that crackers were traditionally made of horsehair. Thankfully, I had a friend with lots of horses. In the holding yard, she assembled a selection from which I could choose. As I wanted the cracker to be unobtrusive, I chose the creamy-coloured horse. To my surprise, the horse stood quite still as strands of hair were pulled from its tail.

The next step was to make the cracker. I was shown how to twist the strands of horsehair, then knot them, before attaching it to the leather ‘fall’ at the end of the stock whip.

The cracker was the last piece I needed for this collage, so now I could assemble it.

For this one, I chose to use ‘V’-Jointed Craftwood as the backing board, because I wanted to reflect the ‘domestic’, the anthesis of a drover’s existence—a nod to life both inside and outside the home.

Onto the backing board, I nailed a delicate brass picture hook. From it the framed poem and image combo was hung with a length of old twisted copper wire, that was just visible above the top of the frame. Lastly, the stock whip with its authentic cracker, was arranged around a large handmade nail on the right of the frame.

Men at Work – Drovers collage 715 x 525 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Allcock

Men at Work – Drovers installation
Image: Ann Allcock

Now the Drovers installation was complete, it was time to move on to the final installation of the Men at Work series: railway workers. I didn’t know it at the time, but the Fettlers installation would provide challenges of a different kind.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The photograph: the 1914 image of the droving team breaking camp early one morning on Marion Downs, was of particular significance for a couple of reasons: it was the first time I’d been offered an historical image from a friend’s family photograph collection to include in an installation. And secondly, the photo brought into sharp focus the divide between me and generations of drovers, who’d roamed this country with large mobs of stock. Why? Because I was a Johnny-come-lately, a first generation Australian, who had precious little first-hand experience of life in the bush.

But, as a teenager, I was sent to a girls boarding school in Toowoomba Queensland, where I met the daughters of several agricultural dynasties who were more than happy to share their bush experiences with me, a blow-in from New Guinea. Because I was so far from home, whenever we had ‘free’ weekends during term-time, I was always invited home with someone, so I didn’t have to stay at school. These home stays were informative because they gave me a basic understanding of life in regional Australia. Yes, these experiences were different, and yet similar to the isolation we experienced living in the New Guinea highlands.

Revisiting Drovers some twenty-three years on, I must admit that this is the rug I like best. Even though as a ‘parent’, one shouldn’t have favourites!

So why do I like it so much? I like the sparse simplicity of the rug design, reminiscent of the vast Australian landscape, particularly parts of western Queensland that I’ve seen. In addition, it has a painterly quality I really love.

Re-reading Henry Lawson’s poem, Andy’s Gone with Cattle, I can’t think of another that would be more suitable for this installation because it’s an example of Lawson’s social conscience writ large. In the poem he describes the social class divide in Australia. The gulf that existed and still exists, between powerful and well-connected landowners, known as ‘squatters’ or ‘silvertails’, and small-time land owners, then known as ‘selectors’, battling to extract a livelihood from blocks of land that were often too small to support a family, no matter how well-run.

Lawson nails it in the fourth verse:

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy’s cross’d the Darling.

In this country, we continue to confront the fallacy of egalitarianism, that of, ‘Johnny’s as good as his master’. Here in Australia, we like to think that we live with a lesser form of social stratification than in other places. But, on closer examination class markers are still evident, if somewhat skewed, as conspicuous spending, assets, investments or money in the bank are as important as dynastic bloodlines.

Supporting myself as an artist had its financial ups and downs. In the late 1990s, driven by lack of funds, I decided to enter this installation in the Dame Mary Durack Outback Craft Awards, sponsored by the Queensland Museum, in Brisbane and the Stockman’s Hall of Fame, in Longreach.

The focus of the awards were those traditional crafts still practiced in Australia, using timber, bark, fibre, leather and metal, with total prize money of over $6,000. My work certainly met the selection criteria, and some of the prize money would’ve been a godsend.

The installation looked wonderful. It was hung on the far wall of the display space, but to be honest, the work was completely out of place and looked ridiculous amongst the conventional craft offerings that year.

Then and there, I vowed never to enter my work in this, or any other craft awards, but in 2002, I weakened. Once again, driven by a shortage of cash, I entered a stand-alone piece titled Tropic of Capricorn – Thomson River Catchment – Maneroo Station – a Dry Time. And once again, I was unsuccessful.

Tropic of Capricorn—Thomson River catchment Maneroo Station—a dry time
Image: Ann Allcock

FACTS:
Rug dimensions:
1700 x 1200 mm
5-centimetre edge binding

Collage: 715 x 525 x 40 mm

Poem: Andy’s Gone with Cattle––written by Henry Lawson and first published on the 13th of September 1888 in the Australian Town and Country Journal, Sydney.

Andy’s Gone with Cattle

Our Andy’s gone to battle now
‘Gainst Drought the Red marauder,
Our Andy’s gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.

He’s left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving.
It’s dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.

Who shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy’s cross’d the Darling. 

The gates are out of order now,
In storms the ‘riders’ rattle;
For far across the border now
Our Andy’s gone with cattle. 

Poor Aunty’s looking thin and white;
And Uncle’s cross with worry;
And poor old Bulcher howls at night
Since Andy left Macquarie. 

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over,
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;

And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant ’twill bring us Andy.

Henry Lawson

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: Drovers (03:02 min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/men-at-work-videos/

____________________________________________

NOTE: This installation was completed in 1998. However, the essay for Men at Work, was not commissioned until 2005. The Artist’s statement and the essay can be found at the end of Chapter 90

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 88: Timber-getters 

I was now fully recovered from the eighteen months of hard slog required to make my first touring exhibition and was on the lookout for a new project.

The Original Wagga Rug was the last ‘art’ Wagga for In Praise of Australian Women, and it was a radical departure from the design template I’d used for the others. It’d been fast and fun to make, and as a result, I was eager to make more.

This time I’d use the rug surface to tell the Timber-getters story, the story of strong men using steel axes to cut down huge trees in the virgin bush. As well as having fun, I also hoped that making art about bush blokes would counterbalance the exclusively feminal content of the recently completed exhibition.

For this rug, I decided to stick with the size of 170 x 120 cm. With a size to work to, I began by constructing the hessian bag backing, with 5 cm added to the overall size on all four sides. This extra, would ultimately be folded forward to create an edging to frame the rug.

Next, I selected shades of grey woollen blanket from my considerable collection. The challenge would be to use a monochromatic palette to create a stylised tree-covered landscape without being too prescriptive. I began by creating a ‘tree canopy’ at the top of the picture plane with a piece of dark grey blanket; then a background of pale grey ‘sky’. Working my way down I added a dark grey distant ‘horizon’, then a cluster of vertical mid grey ‘tree trunks’, lastly, a strip of dark grey ‘foreground’. Simplicity was the key.

Once I was satisfied with the composition, I removed each piece to turn and tack the edges, before carefully returning them in order to recreate the original composition on the hessian backing. Next, I tacked each piece in place through to the hessian before anchoring them with running stitch, using either light grey or black thick linen thread. The running stitching served two purposes. It added an interesting design element, whilst at the same time securing all the layers of the rug.

Now, with the ‘art’ part of the rug complete, I folded the hessian edge binding forward on all four sides, tacked it in place before stitching it down with black linen thread. Then I made a rod pocket top and bottom. Lastly, I removed all the tacking. This was the task I always relished, because it marked the completion of a project.

To admire my handiwork, I hung the rug on the wall.

I was pleased with the result for a number of reasons. Firstly, because I’d managed to extend the construction technique I’d developed making the Original Wagga Rug. Secondly, it paid tribute to the original Wagga rug makers, both men and women. And lastly, I felt that this minimalist rug, an abstraction of the landscape was fine art, albeit using fabric instead of conventional art materials.

I had thoroughly enjoyed making this strange piece. It was dramatic, yet at the same time understated and I looked forward to the feedback I’d receive. It was time for the reveal.

Men at Work—Timber-getters rug 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

Around this time, a well-respected artist friend was in town tutoring at the McGregor Summer School. I always looked forward to her visit and was keen to show her the new rug with shades of grey blanket used to ‘paint’ a landscape. This was a massive departure from my creative output to date and, as always, she offered insightful feedback.

On the strength of my personal satisfaction with this new rug, and the positive response I received from those whose opinion I respected, I decided to push on to provide additional ‘content’, by creating an accompanying collage thereby deepening the viewing experience. I’d already used the rug/collage combination with great success for the In Praise of Australian Women installations, so it was a no-brainer to once more utilize the combo. At that time, a childhood memory of a fly-spray slogan came to mind that fitted perfectly. “If you’re on a good thing, stick to it!”

Some months earlier a Toowoomba woman gifted me an calendar with a series of historic images she thought I could use. One of the images was of two men, posing for a photographer—each one, axe in hand, standing on planks cut into the side of adjacent trees. To get the shot, the photographer had braved the wilds of north-eastern Queensland where, at that time, high-rainfall old growth forests contained trees that grew straight and tall. One of the men had already felled a tree and the other was about to begin after the photographer snapped the shot. This photograph would be just perfect to tell the timber-getters story in the collage.

To flesh out the story, I needed an appropriate poem to go with it and thought women’s words would best counterbalance the rough, tough blokey subject matter. But I didn’t know of a poem about timber or timber-getters written by a woman and I wondered if one existed in the Australian literary lexicon. To find out, I consulted my literary advisor, who, without missing a beat, drew my attention to a poem by Kate Filson, a minor Australian poet, titled Timber.

TIMBER

Through the sighing bush they bore him –
Many men and many oxen –
Chains of iron all about him:
He, the helmeted of sunsets!
He, the challenger of tempests!
North and south the Wind Gods knew him,
East and west they called him brother;
Suns had smouldered in his branches;
Through his dark boughs moons had flowered;
Whiter than a drift of lilies
Clouds had pitched their tents about him;
Dew had swung her crystal lanterns
From his leaves in flickering legions.
He had watched dawns through the ages
Sweep like silver avalanches
Down the forest of the stars.

Up and down his mighty barrel
Once had drifted pools of amber,
Pools of orange, jade and purple,
Scattered where the shining lances
Of the daylight struck and splintered.
He had turned the spears of lightening
On a wave of silken laughter;
Sleet had sped her pointed arrows;
Fire had seared with swirling rapier;
Storm unfurled her floods about him.
But the valiant heart and dauntless
Of the Warrior Eucalyptus
Made all fibre of his being,
Wrought the scars of age-long battle
Into strength and into beauty
With the white flame of the spirit:
That intangible, unconquered
Challenger of tragic seeming
Which defeats the clay horizon;
Which defies the clay defining.

But the little men with axes,
Full of little tawdry valours,
Stood before his giant splendour…
And they hewed with little axes
And they knew not what they did –
Yet, their little souls saluted:
“Gawd!” they said, “he was a tough ‘un!”
And they straightened sweating bodies
As he fell among the bracken. 

‘Rickety Kate’ aka Kate Filson

In addition to the photograph and the poem, I managed to source rare antique examples of a timber-worker’s tools of trade. These included a rusty old adze, a highly-prized, though equally rusty USA-made Plumb axe head and a borrowed cross-cut saw to photocopy.

Onto an old timber slab backing board, I painted the silhouette of the cross-cut saw in grey. Next, I arranged: the adze, the axe, a piece of hessian, the poem handwritten on grey handmade paper and the image. When I was satisfied with the arrangement, I attached all the artifacts to the slab backing board and lastly covered it with a protective Perspex lid.

Men at Work—Timber-getters 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Men at Work—Timber-getters installation
Image: Ann Alcock

Spurred on by the success of Timber-getters, I had ideas to expand the ‘men at work’ theme by making a couple more installations. One for drovers and another for fettlers. I was confident that the good folk of Toowoomba would once again guide me, a naïve city person, through the research phase for both.

As I almost always think in series, my long-term plan was to create a small, three-installation exhibition and Men at Work seemed like a catchy title.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Whilst I was making Timber-getters, I was prompted to re-examine the long-term repercussions of extensive land clearing in Australia. Over two centuries this country was, and continues to be cleared, mostly for food production. But most of the big trees on mainland Australia are now gone. In view of my ‘dark greenie’ credentials, it was strange that I should be drawn to make art about timber-getters; but I must confess I had an ulterior motive. My creative practice was in need of a dose of male energy because I’d just come off making a series of nine installations focussing on women. I hoped a recalibration would be the result.

In 2020, some 25 years on, I continue to derive great pleasure from this gutsy installation. The perspex box montage, completed some months after the ‘art’ Wagga, offers viewers a deeper understanding of timber-getting methods and equipment before the chain-saw was king.

Whilst re-evaluating the Timber-getters ‘art’ Wagga as part of this documentation process, I have noticed how the placement of the tree trunks, both large and small, give a sense of perspective that I had not noticed previously.

I have also noticed that when standing in front of this ‘art’ Wagga, the view through the trees opens out to a vista of cleared country. This strikes me as most appropriate for this installation, in which I make reference to our obsession with making the land ‘productive’ by clearing country for growing crops or running stock.

Kate Filson, also known as Rickety Kate, wrote Timber in 1946. On my first reading of Timber, I was particularly taken with the war-related vocabulary Filson had scattered through her poem, undoubtedly the result of the reverberations being felt globally in the aftermath of WW2 (1939-1945).

To explain, in the first and second verses, Filson uses these words: bore him, chains of iron, helmeted, challenger of tempests, smouldered, pitched their tents, lanterns, flickering legions, mighty barrel, shining lances, struck and splintered, spears, pointed arrows, swirling rapier, unfurled, valiant, dauntless, scars, battle, unconquered, challenger, defeats and lastly, defies. These are all powerfully evocative words.

Coincidentally, the war effort claimed many of Australia’s large old trees and once the dust had settled, environmentalists began taking stock of the tall timber remaining. These were mostly located in remote areas that were difficult to access. I assume Filson was well aware of land clearing as it gradually changed the Australian landscape and the threat deforestation posed for future generations. I fantasise that her concern for the environment prompted her to write this forceful poem.

No doubt Filson was also aware of the numerous environmental groups that formed after WW2. These groups’ prime objective was to protect the environment from further exploitation. Environmental scientists and celebrities like Judith Wright and later Bob Brown, the Founder of the Greens political party, Tim Flannery and Ian Kiernan, to name a few, brought the rapid degradation of our landscape and rivers to public attention but they were often pilloried for their efforts. Now we are paying the price.

FACTS:
Rug dimensions:
170 x 120 cm
5-centimetre edge binding

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

I completed this installation between late-1995 and mid-1996. Construction of the work was interspersed between garment commissions that were necessary to keep the wolf from my door. For various reasons, including my unpredictable health status over the years, the Men at Work exhibition has not toured.

Wagga rug: The 1988 Dictionary of Australianisms on Historical Principles edited by W.S. Ransom for Oxford University Press defines a Wagga blanket or rug as ‘an improvised covering usually of sacking’ and quotes the Sydney Bulletin of 9th August 1906, “This is the only genuine Wagga rug. Take 3 wheat or corn sacks and sew them together with packing needle and twine. Nothing more is needed.”
https://www.nationalquiltregister.org.au/wagga-rugs/

Kate Filson (1898-1971) also known as Rickety Kate. Her poem Timber was published in Meanjin, an Australian literary journal in 1946.

Deforestation: Australia has lost 25% rainforest, 45% of open forest, 32% woodland forest and 30% of mallee forest in 200 years.
https://www.wilderness.org.au/news-events/10-facts-about-deforestation-in-australia

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: Timber-getters (03:09min) video can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/men-at-work-videos/

____________________________________________

NOTE: This installation was completed in 1995. However, the essay for Men at Work, was not commissioned until 2005. The Artist’s statement and the essay can be found at the end of Chapter 90

NOTE: the list of venues visited by In Praise of Australian Women can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 87: And the show goes on

It was early 1995. At last, my twelve-week intensive push to complete the In Praise of Australian Women installations was over and I watched with satisfaction as the exhibition crates were loaded onto a truck, bound for the Emerald Art Gallery. Emerald was the first of seven Queensland venues the exhibition would visit, sponsored by the Regional Galleries Association. As I waved the crates goodbye, I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

A couple of weeks later, having recovered from my all-consuming spurt of art-making, I was able to focus on the projects I’d put on hold whilst sewing up a storm. The most pressing of these was to complete my higher degree in Children’s Literature that I’d begun three years earlier on my return from Swaziland. Study had been a god-send as it took my mind off my failed attempt to ‘save’ an unsuspecting group of Swazi women!

For me, the best part of the subjects on offer were the independent study options. I cheekily pitched my children’s book ideas to my lecturers, who eagerly accepted them. As a result, I was able to get away from the seemingly endless written assignments and explore new creative disciplines.

The first artist’s book I attempted was a series of lino-cuts. To make them, first I needed to learn how to cut lino. Once I’d mastered the skill, I cut eleven same-size squares and incised each one with a different cat design. Then, I cut a border block with a hole in the centre, into which the individual blocks fitted, to be printed. Next, I printed each one, black on grey handmade paper and lastly, assembled the prints as a concertina book, titled Angelica…the energetic cat.

Angelica…the energetic cat lino-cut title page
Image: Ann Alcock

Of course, I wanted top marks for this project. So, to add impact and style to the presentation, I made a box and lid, covered with left-over grey paper. I then tied the book with grey and black striped ribbon, popped it into the box—all set to impress. And it worked! I was given a high distinction for my efforts.

Angelica…the energetic cat—a selection of lino-cut images printed on grey handmade paper and presentation box
Images: Ann Alcock

The second was a wordless book titled A walk along the beach, with hand painted silk pages stiffened with cardboard. The result, another high distinction. Nice!

Artist’s book Walk along the beach
Image: Ann Alcock

Walk along the beach title page
Image: Ann Alcock

Then, out of the blue, came an invitation from the Bundaberg Art Gallery. Bundaberg was the second stop on the In Praise of Australian Women’s itinerary. I was invited to give an artist’s talk at the official opening with the added incentive of an overnight stay with a well-known ceramic artist, at her fancy studio, south of Bundaberg. Naturally, I jumped at the chance.

This would be the first of many talks I’d give for this exhibition, and I was delighted with the large rollup. Afterwards, it became clear that the exhibition content had struck a chord and the feedback I received was a huge boost.

In Praise of Australian Women hanging at the Bundaberg Art Gallery in mid-1995
Image: John Rieidel

Morley at the Bundaberg Art Gallery opening with part of the Army Nurses installation in the
background
Image: John Riedel

Morley at the Bundaberg Art Gallery opening with part 
of the Army Nurses installation in the background
Image: John Riedel

When I returned from Scotland in 1987, I was introduced to Australia All Over, a popular Sunday morning radio program, hosted by Ian McNamara. As I’d returned to Australia filled with newfound national pride, the content of his live program was refreshing. Australians with a story to tell, either wrote or phoned in to share their doings with him and his listeners.

After visiting Bundaberg, I wrote to him. I mentioned the opening, and the exhibition’s itinerary. He read out my letter on air; and nation-wide publicity was the result.

In Praise of Australian Women was on the road for more than nine years. In the exhibition’s Comments Book, I occasionally found entries from people who remembered hearing about the exhibition on his program.

My idea to include a Comments Book was a stroke of genius, even if I do say so myself. It was placed in the gallery space with the installations and was always the first thing I unpacked when the exhibition returned to Toowoomba. I was moved by the sincerity of the comments strangers made about my work, their words confirming my belief that this collection of installations had something for everyone: city women, bush women, First Nations people and newcomers; and I was as pleased as Punch.

To thank Ian for the free publicity, I made him a small textile artwork titled Night Sky. I used navy silk, black tuille, tiny silver beads, smaller silver pen dots for stars and a cluster of handmade black silk gum leaves in the foreground. The artwork was well received and, from then on, Ian and I had occasional contact.

Around this time, there was yet another interesting textile-related project in the wind: the National Quilt Register. It was a bold initiative sponsored by the Pioneer Women’s Hut, near Tumbarumba. The Hut was a domestic museum with a growing collection of significant quilts, including Wagga rugs—the uniquely Australian textile phenomenon—that’d been the inspiration for all the ‘art’ Waggas in the In Praise of Australian Women exhibition.

The objective of the NQR was to document quilts made or used in Australia, prior to about 1965. This date was chosen to exclude more contemporary quilts. Naturally I offered to help and my exhibition became a rallying point for the NQR project.

To quote the registration form:

[In Australia] many quilts were beautiful and finely sewn and many were functional quilts improvised from materials whose first life was over. Most were made in Australia but many were brought here by immigrants from their home countries.

Needlework is part of the hidden language of women, the way they often ‘spoke’ to their families and quilts are a very important part of women’s heritage, from the simplest to the most elaborate.

Together we can build a national picture and we are now seeking your help. The register is a way of sharing information about your quilt whilst still retaining it, of course, in the family.

During the nine months In Praise of Australian Women toured Queensland, I was busy talking up the exhibition to anyone who’d listen. In the course of the conversation, I was often asked when the exhibition was coming to Toowoomba. I didn’t have an answer but I needed to find one.

At that time a friend was converting an old schoolhouse into an art gallery and café at Highfields, north of Toowoomba. So I offered her my exhibition for the gallery opening, thereby killing two birds with one stone; making a splash for her new gallery venture, as well as giving the Toowoomba community an opportunity to see my work.

The exhibition opening was a great success.

Some of the people that attended the In Praise of Australian Women opening at Highfields with the artist
Image: Peter Brown

The next day, I gave a talk for those wanting to know more about the work, including a

freelance arts writer who later wrote an insightful essay for Coppertails: a Journal of Rural Arts, a University of Southern Queensland publication. I was super-chuffed that my work caught the attention of an ‘art’s academic and I wondered if this was a sign of things to come?

Yes, there certainly was a lot happening in my life. I‘d completed my degree; my first touring exhibition was a resounding success; and I discovered I could make money by hiring my self-contained exhibition package to regional galleries and museums across the country. It seems I’d inadvertently stumbled on an unorthodox way to support myself as an artist and at the same time retaining ownership of my work. How much better could it be?

I was on a roll, with new exhibition ideas bobbing up weekly. But there was one project at the top of the list.

As I’d just spent 18 months working on an exhibition about women, I needed a change. I decided to shift my focus to the men. I visualized a series of installations describing life for working men in regional and remote Australia, using shades of grey blanket. I was off and running.

In a quiet moment, Morley standing beside ‘The Original Wagga Rug’ installation at the Chocolate Cottage café, Highfields north of Toowoomba in 1996
Image: Lucy Robertson Cuninghame

 

ON REFLECTION:
Between 1995 and 2004, In Praise of Australian Women toured to 22 venues in two states. Once I figured out how to promote and market this exhibition, the last 15 outings were toured from the Morley Grainger Studio. It’d been an extremely sharp learning curve, but well worth the effort because the prospect of sharing my work with country folk, especially women, who were the mainstay of regional galleries and museums, gave me great joy.

FACTS:
The National Quilt Register: In 1996 I became the Queensland coordinator for the NQR. By the end of 2000, I had documented 103 Queensland quilts and skin rugs for the project, held in both public and private collections.

These nine installations that became the touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women, were conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995.

____________________________________________

NB: In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. Between 1996 and 2004, the Morley Grainger Studio toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales.

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: All nine In Praise of Australian Women installations can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

____________________________________________

NOTE: the exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 89.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 86: The Original Wagga Rug

Thankfully, the finishing line for my art-making marathon was in sight. I was on track to have all nine installations for the In Praise of Australian Women exhibition completed and ready to tour to seven Queensland venues with the Regional Galleries Association. I was completely exhausted but, in spite of this I pushed on, knowing I had two weeks remaining, in which to complete the last installation of the series.

I wanted the ‘art’ Wagga rug for this installation to honour the early rug makers—both men and women—whilst at the same time linking this uniquely Australian textile tradition to the eight already-completed rugs. I knew I was cutting it super-fine; desperately hoping that the planets would align once more to provide whatever materials were needed to complete this installation.

Once again, the direction was set by a black and white photograph from the John Oxley Library Collection. The photograph shows a rabbit trapper’s camp, surrounded by what was needed for bush living, including: a stretcher and bedding, possibly a Wagga rug; a two-wheeled cart; and an assortment of horse harness. Less clear are the objects the man is carrying, possibly rabbit traps.

Yet again, at very short notice, I was about to explore a subject area I knew next to nothing about. This time, wild rabbits and rabbiting.

As a child I had a pet rabbit named Hopzibah by my witty father. But I remembered nothing of the experience that could help me out of my present predicament and there was little time for in-depth research. As well as producing the rug and the collage, I needed to prepare all the installations for travel. Despite my state of exhaustion, there was no room for self-doubt.

For this installation I wanted to somehow weave a woman into my fictional narrative around the man in the photograph, because Australian women were the focus of this exhibition.

As usual, I began with the rug. This one would be a ‘make do’ piece using whatever materials were at hand, albeit a more refined version of the original Wagga rugs, that were emblems of thrift and frugality. But I was determined that this rug would transcend the mundane. To do this, it would have to work as ‘art’ and tell a convincing story.

A recently constructed original Wagga rug made from jute bags, dated 1896, from the Wagga Flour
Mill in Wagga Wagga. This Wagga rug won first prize at the Adelaide Show (date unknown)
Image: Blogger.com

A recently constructed original Wagga rug made from
jute bags, dated 1896, from the Wagga Flour Mill in
Wagga Wagga. This Wagga rug won first prize at the
Adelaide Show (date unknown)
Image: Blogger.com

It would be a complete departure from the previous ones that comprised a centre panel, a border, an edge binding and a back of patchworked calico pieces. The only remaining elements of the template would be the overall size of 170 cm x 120 cm, and an edge binding. I hoped against hope that these two elements would be sufficient to link this rug to the others. This was a key consideration, because all nine installations would always be displayed together.

For the rug, I gathered two pre-loved woollen blankets, one grey and the other mid-brown with green stripes; pieces from a brown and black check Harris Tweed sports coat and a sage green hand knitted child’s cardigan.

I began by placing two sports coat pieces one below the other on the grey blanket. Next, on each side, I placed lengths of brown blanket, with the green stripes running horizontally. After which I tacked all the layers through to the hessian bag backing below. I then unpicked the side seams of the child’s cardigan and centrally placed it to create a crucifix form, before tacking it into place. Then to frame the piece, I folded the hessian bag backing forward to create the 5 centimetre edge binding on all four sides, and tacked each into place.

To my delight, I found a short emotive poem that described cold nights in the bush and referenced Wagga rugs. It would be a perfect inclusion.


Oh the days along the river
Round the fires of bleak July
And the nights of cold and shiver
In our Waggas ‘neath the sky.
From The Worker, a magazine 1904

I placed the poem, one line below the other, across the Harris Tweed coat fabric at the top of the rug, and used light green woollen thread to embroider the words onto it.

Next, to anchor all the fabric edges, I used strong black linen thread that is traditionally used for stitching horse harness. The large, even stitches served two purposes—firstly to add an important design element and secondly, to stabilise the rug. This was a major departure from the tufting technique I’d used to secure the fabric layers of all the other rugs in this series.

Original Wagga Rug 170 x 120cm
Image: Ann Alcock

Whilst working on the rug, I was able to think about the contents of the accompanying collage.

I was desperate to come up with an angle to complement the rabbit-trapper photograph that was both convincing and meaningful.

Much to my surprise, a solution came to me in a dream. I could use a hand-written letter as a story-telling device, a letter written by a fictitious wife. I fantasised that whilst the rabbiter was away rabbiting, he left his family to live in the relative comfort of a regional town or the city. I could compose a letter from his wife, I named Matilda, that expressed the loneliness she and their children were experiencing in his absence.

I quickly composed a letter filled with the heart-felt sentiments I imagined a loving wife would send to her husband, after which I asked my neighbour to write it out on pale green handmade paper. He was more than happy to oblige.

I was now ready to begin assembling the collage.

As well as the letter, I had fabrics leftover from the rug, a horseshoe and pieces of well-used leather horse harness, a gift from someone who thought I may be able to incorporate them into a future artwork. And they were right. The harness would support the narrative as the photograph included a horse-drawn cart, even though there was no sign of a horse in the photograph.

To the arrangement of straps and buckles, I added: a piece of hessian; a strip of mid-brown blanket; part of the tweed coat sleeve with a leather button; a Harris Tweed label; the photograph; and Matilda’s letter placed above it, with a matching envelope. I wondered if this eclectic arrangement was a bit over the top? Could I get away with it? I reassured myself that I probably could, as I was after all, a narrative visual artist making imaginative ‘art’ about who we Australians are, in all our diversity.

Original Wagga Rug—collage 715 x 525 x 40mm
Image: Ann Alcock

But I was much too tired to celebrate the completion of this, the last installation. I was in desperate need of a good night’s sleep before I tackled the remaining tasks. To make two calico exhibition banners; powder coat the steel rods for each rug; add a foam lining to the two newly-constructed collage crates, staple a fabric lining into the quilt crate, and lastly, paint all the crates Forest Green.

The Original Wagga Rug installation
Image: Ann Alcock

I was hugely relieved when the exhibition crates were packed, sealed and ready for the carrier. Proof positive that I’d made it to the finish line.

The In Praise of Australian Women exhibition left my Toowoomba studio on the 3rd of March 1995, headed for the Emerald Art Gallery. At last, the show was on the road, after which I slept for a week.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Ditching the rug template: I remember being very excited at the prospect of moving away from the rug template for this, the last in this installation series, because, to be honest, I was bored with it. I’d faithfully adhered to the template for almost eighteen months, the time it took me to complete eight of the installations, but I craved creative freedom.

Gifts: I was, and still am, gifted materials, mostly fabric, threads or wool and, very occasionally, strange things like horse harness or a cow’s skull! I never refuse anything because, like the horse harness, it could possibly come in handy, as it did for this installation.

Writing about the work: As I wrote about the making each installation for In Praise of Australian Women, I was surprised to feel myself re-living the all-consuming physical and emotional exhaustion I’d experienced way back when. As in 1995, it took me weeks to recover sufficiently to continue writing and I wondered if I’d react similarly to the emotional content of the nine exhibitions I was yet to make. Time would tell.

Observations: I have come to realise that the pieces of a man’s sports coat and the child’s cardigan opened out flat to use in this rug, create an intergenerational link between father and child. The link is reinforced in the collage where the children are mentioned in the heart-felt letter written to the rabbiter by his fictional wife.

I now see that the cardigan opening creates a space that could, at a pinch, be considered womb-like. But in the flurry surrounding this rug’s construction, I can’t recall if I was aware of this at the time. All these years later, my observation seems fitting, as family and children are at the heart of this installation.

FACTS:
History of the Wagga rug: Also known as a bush rug, or a Murrumbidgee blanket, or a wogger rug, or a swag.
https://theeclecticabuela.blogspot.com/2015/09/waggas.html

The letter from Matilda:

My dear husband,
I think of you often, I recall fondly our times out bush together before the children.
I found this poem and once again thought of you:
“Oh the days along the river
Round the fires of bleak July
And the nights of cold and shiver
In our waggas ‘neath the sky.”
We are all well here and look forward to your homecoming. Only another nine weeks!  When you are away, time drags.
Your loving wife
Matilda

Rabbits: rabbits were big business in Australia. By the late 1920s over 20,000 rabbiters worked full-time trapping for either carcasses or skins, or poisoning for skins. Thousands more were employed by skin-buying firms or freezing works, located in both rural areas and capital cities. Thousands more were employed grading, sorting, packing, skinning, and transporting carcasses by the tens of millions. Hundreds sold rabbits on city streets or worked in smallgoods shops that sold rabbit meat. Nearly 10,000 workers made felt hats from rabbit fur, pine boxes for the rabbit export trade, gelatine from skin scraps, animal feed and fertiliser from the remains of rabbits that were considered unfit for human consumption.

Earnings: In 1908, the minimum wage for a male worker was around £100 per annum. This was deemed sufficient to maintain a wife and three children. But a rabbiter could earn four times that amount, as rabbiting provided year-round work for enterprising men with the equipment and skill set to do it well. To provide perspective, at that time a small inner-city weatherboard house could be purchased for £400.

Poem: Author unknown. G. Wilkes A Dictionary of Australian Colloquialisms Sydney 1985, p.349. Sourced from Patchwork Rugs in Australia by Margaret Rolfe Greenhouse publications Australia 1987 p.96.

Exhibition catalogue cum poster: the A3 catalogue-cum poster for the exhibition designed and printed by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland.

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording

NB: This installation is the ninth in a series of nine, conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became the touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: The Original Wagga Rug video (03:55min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

____________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPLANATORY NOTES
[No.1] THE ORIGINAL WAGGA RUG (1995)

 A spirit of resourcefulness enabled the newcomers to Australia, both men and women, to utilise whatever materials were at hand to create some comfort in a lifestyle synonymous with hardship.

The ‘bush rug’ or ‘wagga rug’ tradition is an example of this phenomenon.  Bedcoverings were constructed of skins, jute, hessian and calico bags, as well as blankets and old clothing.

The rug takes its name from the Riverina town of Wagga Wagga and was used widely throughout Australia and parts of New Zealand.

Originally roughly made from wheat or chaff bags by men in the bush shearing, droving, timber-getting or fencing, the term has evolved to describe a more refined bed covering made by women and used both inside and outside the home.

 CONSTRUCTION:

Generally, the ‘bush rug’ or ‘wagga rug’ included some kind of sacking material, corn sacks, wheat sacks or flour sacks.  Each sack was opened out, the stitching removed, and a number sewn together.  The sacking provided the base to which either blankets, fabric scraps or old clothing was attached with a bagging needle and string. An external covering was sometimes added. Cretonne was a favoured fabric as it was cheap, cheerful and readily available.

__________________________________________

Overview—Louise Mayhew

Morley Grainger: In Praise of Australian Women, an exhibition of textile installations

If a picture tells a thousand words, a quilt speaks a thousand more. Sewn into the fabrics of a quilt is the story of its maker. Stories of who the makers were, where the quilts were made, how the makers learnt, and why they quilted. Quilts speak in secret tongues. Each stitch betrays tales of labour, as the makers’ hands moved about their work. The quilts also revealed the skills involved:  as one fumbled in this stitch; deftly made another; or circled back with patience and persistence to craft an object of beauty. In the fabric selections we observers learn of climate, industry, and international networks of trade. We can invoke narratives of luxury or necessity, as we imagine ourselves beneath their weight. In a quilt’s designs, a further suite of possibilities is held: of fashions, traditions, meanings and messages; of gender, class, and race. 

Words attuned to textile herstories tumble effortlessly from Morley Grainger’s quilts. Lean in as I share a few.

Grainger began this series, In Praise of Australian Women, with the impulse to make art about who we are in all our complexity. With each sparse bush quilt, a form borrowed from fellas, Grainger dedicates her work to Australian women. Her resulting textiles are semi-biographical, infused with childhood lessons from her mother (a textile designer and hand weaver), life out west, research, and guidance from cultural consultants. Their vastly distinct styles speak to her desire for each work to be enticing and, via their fabrics, we can envisage Grainger visiting second-hand shops, her artist’s eye searching for the perfect swatch. Finally, in each work’s accompanying text box we can infer Grainger’s overwhelming desire to say something and revel in the knowledge that needlework has always provided such a space.

Of course, Grainger’s works are both quilts and not quilts. Women at War—The Land Girls (1995) replicates the bedding’s typical shape and size. The diamond pattern of intersecting diagonal lines in Women of China—Ah Coy & Wife, St. George (1994) is also familiar in its quilted-likeness, as is its thick black border. Women of the West (1994) recycles woollen knits and linen in brown colours, floral prints and soft textures known from another era, reproducing the make-do ethos of wagga rugs with its backing made from calico flour bags. And yet, these quilts are made for gallery walls. Unlike the softly folded forms of blankets tucked away in summer months, these works are rigid and rectangular. Their flat surfaces beckon exploration with our eyes.

A woman’s place . . . (1994) opened Grainger’s exhibition. A non/quilt with bold borders and zig zags of black and red set the scene. In her accompanying textile collage, the excerpted proverb repeats: in red embroidered cursive at top left, in black pen at the bottom; and again, within the longer text at the centre of the work. Grainger’s repetition transforms the proverb into a mantra, equally an echo from centuries past (when the Ancient Greek playwright Aeschylus instructed: “Let women stay at home and hold their peace”) and a continuing annoyance in the present. Yet the text continues, stepping women’s role beyond the kitchen to artistic, educational, governmental, scientific, and religious roles. These places are dominated by men, yet they are places where women can and should be, places where women are. Combining this longer feminist incantation with the traditionally feminine form of needlework and a photograph of a woman milking a cow, Grainger simultaneously honours women’s domestic labour of the past while championing broader horizons for women now.

Movements between the temporalities of past, present, and future flow through all of Grainger’s works. In this suite, Grainger’s attention to the past is most keenly observed in her quilts that uncover women’s historical experiences. These include the working women of The 1940s—A decade of change (1994), the serving women of Women at War—Australian Army Nursing Service (1994), and the waiting women of The original “wagga” rug (1995), who lingered at home as their husbands worked the land. These works conjure women’s unacknowledged hardships and commemorate their mental fortitude. More radically, in each Grainger transforms the masculine traditions of history, art, even the wagga rug, into locales that centre women’s stories. In doing so, she continues the work of second wave feminist artists, from America’s Mary Beth Edelson to Australia’s Vivienne Binns and the Women’s Domestic Needlework Group, who also usurped the patriarchy’s artistic forms and spaces for foremothers and female friends.

Grainger’s use of text is essential to her practice. Across her works, she borrows poetry, replicates songs, and quotes letters from state archives, embedding herself within the intertextual tissue of women’s lives. Her text is sometimes playful, subverting expectations; elsewhere it is sincere, sharing her research findings and urging another vision of Australia, one attentive to the land and labour and race. In Earliest Australians (1995) Grainger deploys text to visually and linguistically set out Australia’s dark settler-colonial past. In black, she acknowledges the horrors white Australians visited upon the first inhabitants of this land: defiled, displaced, dehumanised, dispirited. In white, and in the spirit of reconciliation, the work shares a potential path for healing, through: recalling, remembering, reconnecting, and reclaiming. Celebrating Diversity (1994) displays another use of text. Here Grainger asks the open-ended question: who are we? Using the same voice as the Picture Generation’s Barbara Kruger, who also used text-based works to establish the (gendered) categories of us and them, Grainger extends her engagement with race in this work, making the urgent and lasting claim to celebrate multicultural Australia. Text-centric textiles continue to be made by contemporary feminist artists. Like Grainger before them, Kate Just, Raquel Ormella, and Michelle Hamer equally harness the form to navigate complex feminist, environmental and social concerns.

In taking embroidery into the gallery, in making quilts for the white cube, Grainger operates within a rich and growing context of women’s textile art. Before her came the Post-Minimalists, such as Magdalena Abakonowicz, whose extraordinary and enormous fibrous forms transitioned textiles into sculpture. Alongside Grainger, in practices still lesser known, Australian activists, social historians and community artists used textiles as a working art. The Daylesford Embroidery Collective took their hand-sewn banners to parties and protests just as Adelaide’s Quilting Bee and the Noarlunga Tapestry Collective promised women the confidence and opportunity to make their thoughts real, transforming elusive experiences into tangible works of art. Today artists such as Natalya Hughes continue quilting as sedition, using tufted and tactile textiles to question gendered norms.

These histories collide and coalesce in Grainger’s works, demonstrating the enduring power, familiarity, and vitality of the hand-sewn form. In each of her stitches there are so many stories. Run your eyes across them. Imagine their texture. Read deeply and remember. And see what other stories you find. 

Words by Dr Louise R Mayhew | louisermayhew.com

__________________________________________

VENUES

In Praise of Australian Women

Toured to 22 Queensland & New South Wales venues between 1995 and 2004

1995-1996—toured by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland (RGAQ)

EXHIBITED:

  1. Emerald Art Gallery, Emerald, Queensland 10 March to 1 April 1995
  2. Bundaberg Regional Art Gallery, Bundaberg, Queensland 23 April to 20 May 1995
  3. Mackay Regional Art Gallery & Museum, Mackay, Qld 25 May to 2 June 1995
  4. John Flynn Place Museum & Art Gallery, Cloncurry, Qld1 August to 29 August 1995
  5. Roma on Bungil Gallery, Roma, Queensland 9 September to 25 September 1995
  6. Crafts Council of Queensland Gallery, Brisbane, Qld 1 November to 30 November 1995
  7. Australian Workers Heritage Museum, Barcaldine, Qld 6 December 1995 to 3 January 1996

1996 & 2004—toured by the Morley Grainger Studio Toowoomba

EXHIBITED:

  1. Old Schoolhouse Gallery, Highfields, Queensland 12 January to 16 February 1996
  2. Wagga City Art Gallery, Wagga Wagga, New South Wales 4 October to 27 October 1996
  3. Warwick Art Gallery, Warwick, Queensland 3 January to 4 February 1997
  4. The Pinnacles Gallery, Thuringowa, Townsville, Queensland 25 March to 20 April 1997
  5. Boonah Art Gallery, Boonah, Queensland 23 May to 24 June 1997
  6. Albury Regional Museum, Albury, New South Wales 2 March to 31 March 1998
  7. Brisbane City Hall Auditorium, Brisbane, Queensland 22 September 1998 only
  8. Tweed River Regional Art Gallery, Murwillumbah, NSW 21 October to 15 November 1998
  9. Grafton Regional Art Gallery, Grafton, New South Wales 3 March to 4 April 1999
  10. Crows Nest Regional Art Gallery, Crows Nest Queensland 5 July to 2 August 1999
  11. Chinchilla White Gums Gallery, Chinchilla, Queensland 4 July to 28 July 2000
  12. Wondai Art Gallery, Wondai, Queensland 1 February to 7 March 2001
  13. Texas Regional Art Gallery, Texas, Queensland 17 December 2001 to 12 January 2002
  14. TYTO Regional Art Gallery, Ingham, Queensland 3 March to 22 March 2003
  15. Pine Rivers Heritage Museum, Kerwongbah, Queensland 21 August to 25 September 2004
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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 85: Women at War—the Australian Women’s Land Army

The relentless, self-imposed pressure continued as I raced to complete all nine installations for In Praise of Australian Women. This solo exhibition was scheduled to begin touring Queensland with the Regional Galleries Association in early March of 1995. I had two more installations to complete and four weeks in which to do it. Even though I was seriously sleep deprived, I was willing myself to the finish line.

For this installation, I chose to tackle yet another World War 2 (WW2) topic: the Australian Women’s Land Army.

The Australian version of the Land Army was formed in 1942, after Prime Minister Robert Menzies visited the United Kingdom where he saw young, strong British women working on farms to produce food in a country under siege. He described them as “magnificent girls in unbecoming clothes, grime on their faces but gold in their hearts.” When Menzies returned, he was quick to set up our own Land Army, with women from all over the country keen to join up.

To understand the inner workings of the Land Army, I once again drew on my Toowoomba network, their contacts, their experiences and their books. In addition to one-on-one interviews, I quickly read Mary Lowe’s book Down to Earth: The Story of the Australian Women’s Land Army in Victoria, which gave me a clearer picture of the life for the mostly single women who signed on.

The standout recollection came from a woman I interviewed, who, in 1944, was living under canvas, whilst picking fruit in the Stanthorpe area of Queensland. She’d eaten fresh fruit for both breakfast and lunch so, after a long hard day, she arrived back to camp famished. Some fifty years on, her abiding memory of that time was being greeted by the mouth-watering aroma of roast lamb cooked by the matron for their evening meal.

My challenge – how best to depict the contribution these women made to the War Effort?

As with all the other rugs in this series, I would use the standard template but this time, with an unexpected twist.

My starting point, as with the other installations, was a photograph from the John Oxley Library Collection of two smiling Land Girls picking apples around Stanthorpe. Taking my cue from the photograph, I thought to fill the centre panel with a pre-WW2 cadastral map of the Stanthorpe area, that is, if I could find one.

I contacted the Mapping and Surveying Museum in Brisbane and spoke to the surveyor on duty. He quickly understood what I was trying to do and immediately mailed me a pre-war map of the area.

From it I chose a section of the map that included the township of Stanthorpe as well as the fruit-growing communities to the north: Applethorpe, Glen Niven, The Summit and Thulimbah. The section also included the New England Highway and the all-important railway line that was the main means of transporting produce to the markets, both north and south of Stanthorpe.

Rough sketch for the AWLA rug including the section of the cadastral map to be hand embroidered

Next, to figure out a way to transfer the map details onto white cotton fabric, after which I would begin hand-stitching. To do the transfer I used old technology—an overhead projector. With the white fabric securely taped to the wall and the acetate of the map carefully positioned on the projector’s glass, I enlarged the image to completely fill the centre panel. With great care, I then pencilled the details onto the fabric. I just hoped the pencilled lines would provide sufficient definition for me to stitch to, without compromising accuracy.

And so began my stitching marathon. This involved hours and hours and hours of stitching with a single strand of black embroidery thread: careful not to miss a single word; folio or volume number; creek; road; hill; mountain; the Queensland / New South Wales border; or the New England Highway with the railway line delineated using a length of black Russian braid.

Detail of the hand embroidered pre-WW2 cadastral map
Image: Ann Alcock

Whilst stitching, I had time to think about both the border and edge binding elements to frame the map. I made a radical decision. I decided to use the border panels differently in this rug.

To explain, the design of the eight already completed rugs was graphic rather than pictorial. My rationale for the change was that I wanted to use the space to describe the Stanthorpe landscape; the environment in which the Land Army women worked day after day. To do this, I selected a range of fabrics, some of them recycled, that perfectly mimicked the various greens and beiges of the New England Tableland, stretching out below a clear blue autumn sky.

Onto the pieced ‘landscape’ I planned to centrally place the Land Army badge that I’d copied from a pennant I discovered at the John Oxley Library. It’s at times like these that I’m grateful for my commercial art training. The skills I’d acquired enabled me to accurately reproduce the badge in yellow on forest green art board. The image was then printed onto fabric, one each for both the rug and the collage.

The official Women’s Land Army badge recreated by Morley Grainger taken from an original pendant found
at the John Oxley Library
Image: Ann Alcock

The official Women’s Land Army badge recreated
by Morley Grainger taken from an original pendant
found at the John Oxley Library
Image: Ann Alcock

But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

After I’d attached the badge, I stitched the strips of ‘sky’ and the slab of pieced fabric ‘landscape’ to the map, before backing the assemblage with a recycled woollen blanket. Then I tacked both layers together from the centre outwards. Now stabilised, I was able to mark the lines of latitude and longitude onto the surface, after which I running-stitched both of them with black thread—the intersection of which pinpointed Stanthorpe’s geographical position.

Next, I repeated the lines of latitude and longitude with parallel lines of running stitch spaced six inches apart, over the entire surface. This created a grid of off-set squares to add yet another subtle element of visual interest. And lastly, I attached the back—a patchwork of recycled flour bags that was also tacked into place.

To complete the rug, I chose a cheeky red apple print fabric for the edge binding. This was not only a bit of light-hearted fun for me as I slogged my way through these installations, but also a tribute to the sense of fun the Land Army women would’ve needed to balance the physical demands of a 50-hour week, for the duration of the apple harvest.

After attaching the bias-cut apple edge binding with mitered corners on all four sides, I secured the layers with a tuft knot at the intersection of each of the handstitched lines. Lastly, I removed all the tacking to reveal the finished rug. In the flurry of non-stop hand sewing, I managed a quick day trip to Stanthorpe to photograph apples; images that could possibly be included in the accompanying collage, which was the next project on my list.

Women at War—the Australian Woman’s Land Army rug 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

As my photographs of the apples were unexpectedly good, I knew they would complement the John Oxley Library’s photograph of the Land Army girls picking apples. I planned to display the photographs with: a section of the map; left over fabric fragments from the rug; the Land Army badge and their song. I wrote the song out in full in black ink on pale blue handmade paper after which I assembled the collage.

Women at War—Australian Women’s Land Army 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Women at War—the Australian Women’s Land Army installation
Image: Ann Alcock

To be frank, I was thrilled with this installation but I didn’t have time to gloat, as the exhibition departure deadline was only two weeks away and there was still one more installation to build—The Original Wagga Rug.

 

ON REFLECTION:
I thoroughly enjoyed making this installation honouring the women, who’d stepped up to serve at home. I am often reminded of how Australian women’s lives were irrevocably changed as the result of WW2; and sometimes for the better. For example, the Land Army offered women the opportunity to contribute to the War Effort and be paid for it, whilst at the same time acquiring new skills in areas that had previously been the domain of men. For many women, their Land Army experience was a turning point, after which many went on to utilise the new skills they’d acquired.

Specialists: specialists like the retired surveyor I contacted at the Museum of Lands Mapping and Surveying in Brisbane, were essential for the exhibition work I’ve done to date. When my creative process took me into areas I knew nothing about, treasures like this surveyor, who willingly shared their knowledge and expertise were worth their weight in gold.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Museum_of_Lands,_Mapping_and_Surveying

Apple images: To echo the cheeky apple border, I wanted photographs of apple trees laden with ripe fruit to include in the collage, so I did a dash to Stanthorpe in the hope of finding some. The timing was perfect as the harvest was in full swing. And I came away with a series of colour photographs that were good enough to be included.

FACTS:
Robert Menzies: An Australian conservative politician who twice served as Prime Minister of Australia. He established the Land Army in July 1942 and it was disbanded in December 1945.

Land Army statistics: Enrolment peaked in December 1943 with 2,382 permanent members and 1,039 auxiliary members, working a 50-hour week for 30 shillings a week, plus keep.

At War’s end, many of the Land Girls as they were affectionately known, who came from the city, found it difficult to return to their former lives after their time spent in regional Australia. Many returned to the country to work, and some married into farming families as a direct consequence of their Land Army experiences.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_Women%27s_Land_Army

In 1986, the Australian Women’s Land Army Association was re-formed. Former members began compiling a history of the organisation for posterity, as all official AWLA records were disposed of after the war.
https://www.womenaustralia.info/biogs/AWE0402b.htm

The cadastral map: shows the boundaries, the survey district names, unique identifying numbers for parcels of land, certificate of title numbers, buildings, section or lot numbers and their respective areas, adjoining and adjacent street names, selected boundary dimensions, references to prior maps and sometimes as a bonus, the names of land parcel (block) owners of an area. As a result, cadastral maps are important historically as they record the gradual subdivision of land and are a fascinating reminder of how settler culture has continued to systematically carve up the country.

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording

NB: This installation is the eighth in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became the touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

____________________________________________

 PLEASE NOTE: Australian Women’s Land Army video (03:49min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

___________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPLANATORY NOTES
[No.9] WOMEN AT WAR – THE AUSTRALIAN WOMEN’S LAND ARMY (1995)

The Australian Women’s Land Army, 1942-45, was based on voluntary enlistment of women willing to undertake full-time paid rural labour.  The Australian Women’s Land Army was based on the British model observed by early wartime Prime Minister Robert Menzies in a visit to the United Kingdom.  He described them as “magnificent girls in unbecoming clothes, grime on their faces but gold in their hearts.”

Many Land Girls, as they were known, worked as seasonal fruit pickers in orchards around Stanthorpe.  This piece incorporates an aerial view in the form of the embroidered cadastral map of the Stanthorpe environs, framed by a landscape, in perspective, capturing the variety of green and cream/beige tones of the Granite Belt.  The red apple border – well, a bit of light-hearted fun – a tribute to the sense of fun the Land Girls would have to embody to off-set the demands of hard physical work day after day – their contribution to the war effort.

At war’s end many Land Girls found it difficult to return to city life.  Some returned to the country to work, marry and settle as a direct consequence of their Land Army experiences.

In 1986 the Australian Women’s Land Army Association was reformed.  Former members began compiling a history of the organisation for posterity as all official Land Army records were disposed of after the war.

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 84: Women at War—Australian Army Nursing Service

I was relentlessly working my way towards the deadline for completing all nine of the In Praise of Australian Women installations to be toured. Six of nine were done, with three more to do. The Regional Galleries Association of Queensland would be organising and managing the tour. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and even though the intensity of production was taking its toll, I knew instinctively it’d be worth it.

The next subject area on the list was Australian Army nurses.

My starting point was an evocative World War 2 photograph from the John Oxley Library Collection. It captured a group of Army nurses on board ship, farewelling family and friends as they pulled away from the wharf on their way to France or Palestine or Greece, where Army hospitals were always in desperate need of well-trained Australian nurses.

This photograph would be supported by another, a beautiful studio portrait of an Army nurse from Toowoomba, who was happy for me to include it, as well as her poignant recollections of her time nursing wounded men.

As always, I began with the ‘art’ Wagga rug.

This one would be loosely based on the ‘autograph’ or ‘signature’ quilt tradition of the past, often used as a community fundraiser in both World Wars. Locals paid to have their signature embroidered on white cotton or linen fabric in coloured thread, often Turkey red. When complete, the quilts were either raffled or donated to an overseas hospital.

This, the seventh rug in this series, would be made from one piece of fabric and fortunately, I had a large white damask tablecloth in good condition that was just the right size.

For this rug I planned to use the same template I’d used for all the others so far, comprising a centre panel, a border and an edge binding.

The first step in the design process was to make a series of rough sketches and from them, choose the one I liked best. Below are three sketches that illustrate the design progression—the last one being the one I chose to use.

‘Rough sketch #1 for Army nurses rug showing design progression

Rough sketch #2 for Army nurses rug

Rough sketch #3 for Army nurses rug—the final design I used for the rug

I began by delineating both the vertical and horizontal segments on the front of this rug with strips of one-centimetre-wide Turkey red grosgrain ribbon. I then used matching Turkey red embroidery thread for all the text and the focal point of the piece, the Australian Commonwealth Coat of Arms. I found a Coat of Arms design that’d been simplified for embroidering, with the heads of both the emu and the kangaroo facing outwards.

A hand-embroidered version of the Australian Coat of Arms—hand embroidered with Turkey red thread
Image: Ann Alcock

Next, below the Coat of Arms, towards the bottom of the centre panel, I positioned the LEST WE FORGET wording, then outlined each capital letter with Turkey red stitching.

The next task was to add the wording on all four of the borders flanking the centre panel.

LEST WE FORGET hand-stitched wording below the Coat of Arms in the centre panel of the rug
Image: Ann Alcock

In the segment above the Coat of Arms, I embroidered the lines from the fourth verse of Laurence Binyon’s poem, For the Fallen.

They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

I chose this verse because of its significance for those Australians who have been touched by war. We are all very familiar with Binyon’s words that are recited at every ANZAC Day and Armistice memorial service held across this country, and his words add an important dimension to this installation.

Top centre panel of the rug with the fourth verse of Laurence Binyon’s poem, titled For the Fallen written
in 1914, hand-embroidered in red
Image: Ann Alcock

Top centre panel of the rug with the fourth verse of
Laurence Binyon’s poem, titled For the Fallen written
in 1914, hand embroidered in red
Image: Ann Alcock

My next task was to make the best use of the white borders on each side of the centre panel. I chose to use four red-ribbon-framed triangular lozenges to carry short pithy statements describing the long-term effects of war on everyone—particularly women—the mothers, wives, sisters, aunts, grandmothers and daughters left to pick up the pieces—both physical and emotional.

I chose to incorporate the lozenge shapes into the design of this rug for two reasons. Firstly, the lozenge is linked to the laws of heraldry for women. And secondly, the lozenges obliquely connect women to the Australian Coat of Arms, the focal design element of this rug.

Below are the two quotes I chose for the left border:

For King and Country.

Both before and after Federation (1901), patriotic Australians wholeheartedly believed they were obliged to support Britain in whatever skirmishes she decided to respond to or initiate. The unspoken proviso was that Australia would be protected, if ever we were threatened by an external aggressor. A situation of quid pro quo.

We never thought to question.

As a former British colony, loyalty to Britain, the hyper-power of the time, was a given. We were still considered and considered ourselves to be a British colonial outpost. In WW1, we unquestioningly provided trained men, weapons and whatever else was requested. But WW2 created an unexpected wobble in our relationship with Britain. By the end of the War, the external locus of power had shifted to the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. After the War, we reassessed our allegiances and chose to join the United States of America to fight in both Korea and Vietnam.

Irrespective of national allegiances, in quieter moments I imagine women, the givers of life, would question the decision to send their much-loved sons and daughters to war. But, if they dared to openly voice their disapproval, they were considered unpatriotic trouble-makers, and suffered for it.

Below are the two quotes I chose for the right

It’s been a long, long war.

Families of returning servicemen, women in particular, were burdened by the lingering after-effects of war. Many of the healthy young men who departed Australia’s shores, returned home with both physical and mental afflictions including shell shock, the condition since renamed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). For many families, the war continued long after fighting ceased, with the legacy of military service forever remaining in the hearts and minds of family members.

In war who are the winners?

At the start of WW2, many of our best and brightest young men rushed to enlist, driven by a combination of patriotic fervour and the excitement of embarking on a grand adventure. These young men often chose to ignore the possibility that they may be injured and could return home with broken minds and bodies, or even, not at all. There was considerable societal pressure brought to bear on young men to enlist, and those who dared to object were castigated and shamed; the objector anonymously sent a white feather, the universal symbol of cowardice.

When the fighting was over and the survivors returned home, re-entering the life they’d left behind was difficult, having lived through the horrors of war as well as enjoying the fleshpots of Europe and elsewhere. Picking up where they left off was a struggle for many, and impossible for others. Their predicament is immortalised in the line from Walter Donaldson’s song: “How yer gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Parie?”

Survivor guilt was another aspect of war that plagued many returnees for the rest of their lives.

Back to the rug.

The last block of embroidered text was placed in the section below the LEST WE FORGET wording at the bottom of the rug.

I chose to list four of the five wars involving the Australian military that included Army nurses up until late 1994, the cut-off point for this installation.    

Our fathers: … World War I
Our husbands: … World War II
Our sons: … Korea, Vietnam
Our grandsons: Where?…When?

Bottom centre panel of the rug with wording hand-embroidered in red
Image: Ann Alcock

With the rug front complete, the next task was to assemble it by placing a woollen blanket between the front and the pieced calico back. Once positioned, all the layers were tacked together from the centre out to stabilise them. Then the red bias-cut edge binding was attached, the corners mitred on all four sides, before the layers could be tufted together using white crochet cotton, with the knots to the back.

Women at War—the Australian Army Nursing Service 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

Next, I began work on the accompanying collage.

Collecting the elements needed to tell the Army nurses story took a bit of doing. As I’ve already mentioned, the linchpin for this installation were the two photographs. The first, from the John Oxley Library, and the second, a formal studio portrait of an Army nurse in her AANS uniform. Her poignant quote was an unexpected bonus and I wrote it in black on white handmade paper:

As Army nurses we felt we were needed. We’d work twelve or fourteen hours when required to get all the men [wounded] sorted out.  We rarely complained.
Ex Old Grey Mare
AANS 1942-44

Women at War—Australian Army Nursing Service 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Fortunately, I was able to source three relevant metal badges. The Australian Returned from Active Service badge; the iconic ‘rising sun’ badge; and lastly, a curved shoulder badge with the word ‘Australia’.

With all the elements for the collage collected, it was time to assemble it.

I placed a selection of left-over fabric strips and a narrow length of red grosgrain ribbon vertically, on top of a piece of rubberised bed sheeting and a section of starched nurses’ veil. I then positioned the portrait and the quote above the waving nurses photograph; then the badges in a row and finally the ribbon bars for WW1, WW2, Korea and Vietnam. (Vietnam was the cut off for this installation because I made it in early 1995; quite some years before our involvement in Afghanistan, beginning in 2001, or Iraq, beginning in 2003.)

Women at War—Australian Army Nursing Service installation
Image: Ann Alcock

This installation was the seventh of nine installations for In Praise of Australian Women. To complete the series, I had two more installations to make before the exhibition deadline that was only four weeks away.

I continued to be seriously sleep-deprived with no choice other than to push on. I knew full-well that there would be no rest until all the installations had been completed and were ready to tour.

So now it was time to focus on the eighth installation—yet another aspect of WW2 in Australia—this time The Australian Women’s Land Army.

 

ON REFLECTION:
I was most fortunate to have had an Army sister offer her studio portrait and a quote for inclusion in the collage for this installation, thereby adding greater authenticity and gravitas.

She asked to be referred to as an ‘old grey mare’, the nickname given to Army nurses because of their light grey uniforms and stockings. A number of former Army nurses I interviewed, spoke of occasionally coming onto the ward to a cheerful chorus of male voices singing:

The old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be,
Ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be,
The old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be,
Many long years ago.

I feel this installation is a fitting tribute to the women who have been touched by War and its aftermath. As a result of Australia’s involvement in subsequent conflicts, INTERFET in East Timor, Iraq and Afghanistan, we are more aware of the intergenerational effects of conflict-acquired PTSD and the subject is now openly discussed. Despite this, the suicide rate amongst returning servicemen and women, remains worryingly high.

And there is yet another unspoken aspect of War. Whilst I was making this installation, I thought about the women—those who felt pressured to be supportive of the war effort and stoically surrender their family members to the war machine. All these years later, I wonder if, in their heart of hearts, these women were angry and resentful, expected to make the ultimate sacrifice—the life of a loved one.

For many Australian women, the death of so many young men in both World Wars had an unfortunate roll-on effect. The result was a generation of widows and spinsters; women obliged to make a life without a husband in a culture where marriage and child-rearing were seen as the traditional role for women both before and after WW2.

FACTS:
Signature quilts:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Signature_quilt

An unofficial Australian Commonwealth Coat of Arms pattern: The needlework pattern used on this rug, comes from page 94 of Patchwork Rugs in Australia by Margaret Rolfe. (1987).

 Lest we forget: is the phrase that is always quoted on commemorative occasions as well as remembrance services held in Australia and other countries with a connection to the British Empire.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lest_we_forget

Turkey red: the term refers to the permanent red colour derived from madder—Rubia tinctorum—a bark widely used to dye cotton in the 18th and 19th century. Originating in either India or Turkey, it was brought to Europe in the 1740s. Its arrival was such a relief for British and European dyers, who, for centuries, had been seeking a bright red dye that could withstand strong sunlight and frequent washing without fading.
https://www.nms.ac.uk/collections-research/our-research/highlights-of-previous-projects/colouring-the-nation/research/dyeing-and-printing-techniques/the-turkey-red-process/

Poet Laurence Binyon: Binyon was so moved by the number of British Expeditionary Force casualties in France early in WW1, that he wrote his most famous poem, For the Fallen in 1914. The poem is recited at ANZAC Day and Remembrance Day services throughout the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand and Canada.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Binyon

Publication: The Reflections of an Old Grey Mare –a salute to those who served written by Polly Underwood and self-published in Rockhampton Queensland 1987
https://sjmc.gov.au/bush-trained-nurses-go-to-war/

Song: How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paris?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgqVCJpRqWQ

Army nurses: Australian Army nurses were required to be 21 or over to enlist.

Medals: awarded to those women who served with the Australian Army Nursing Service in WW1, WW2, Korea and Vietnam.

WW1, WW2, Korea and Vietnam medal ribbons awarded to Australian Army nurses serving overseas

The Australian Returned from Active Service badge: has been awarded to all service men and women who have returned from active service overseas since 1953 (Queens Crown), and is also awarded to personnel who have deployed to postings in warlike conditions. This badge covers the period from 1953 to the present including Vietnam.

Women in heraldry:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women_in_heraldry

East Timor: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australia_and_the_Indonesian_occupation_of_East_Timor

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording.

NB: This installation is the seventh in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became the touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

____________________________________________

 PLEASE NOTE: Australian Army Nursing Service video (04:07 min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

____________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPLANATORY NOTES
[No.8] WOMEN AT WAR – AUSTRALIAN ARMY NURSING SERVICE

The inspiration for this piece comes from World War I & II Red Cross “signature” quilts created by enterprising stitchers, often Red Cross members, as community fund-raising projects.  For a fee, an individual could have his or her name stitched into the quilt, the proceeds being used to assist the war effort.  Examples of these quilts, often embroidered with red thread on a white or cream background, are to be found in a number of Australian historical textile collections.

Margaret Rolfe, in her book titled Patchwork Quilts in Australia, (1987) comments: –  

“Another probable precursor of the Red Cross quilts are the ‘hospital quilts’ of the nineteenth century.  Made in a chequerboard pattern, the quilts had texts of scripture written or embroidered on the white squares.  Plain ‘Turkey red’ fabric was used for the alternate squares.” (p.106)

The sentiments expressed in this piece are intensely personal – my own feelings regarding war from a baby boomer’s perspective – questioning war, women’s roles in wartime and afterwards, without having personally experienced the fear of an external aggressor.

A recycled white damask tablecloth has been used as the base for this piece with obvious ‘woman as homemaker’ role associations.

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 83: Woman of China—Ah Coy & Wife—Shopkeeper—St. George

My soon-to-be-toured collection of textile installations, grandly titled In Praise of Australian Women, was coming together well, even though the pace of production was frenetic to meet the early March 1995 deadline, set by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. This was a dream come true so early in my career as a ‘narrative visual artist’—the fancy title I’d later use to describe myself and my work.

The subject of this installation was Chinese women in Australia. The John Oxley Library Collection had provided the perfect photograph—that of Ah Coy, a Chinese shopkeeper based in St. George, Western Queensland, who, with his wife and baby son was snapped by a travelling photographer, sometime in 1903. In the photograph, the family, dressed in their best clothes, are seated in front of a hastily erected grey blanket backdrop. The shopkeeper with his baby son on his knee, was decked out in a western suit with all the trimmings of prosperity, whilst his wife wore a traditional Chinese silk banquet outfit and silk shoes, her feet not touching the ground. I was moved by the poignancy of this tiny woman living in the wilds of Western Queensland; far from her home country and everything that was familiar.

For this installation, once again I needed a mentor. I knew little about the Chinese in Australia, other than having read Eric Rolls’ epic, Sojourners: the epic story of China’s centuries-old relationship with Australia: flowers and the wide sea. But I was well aware that the anti-Asian attitude still held by many Australians was in part due to the White Australia policy, introduced in 1901 to curb non-white immigration. Those non-white immigrants already living here were permitted to stay, including the Ah Coys.

But I digress. I needed help.

A friend introduced me to a visiting academic from Hong Kong, working at the University of Southern Queensland. When I explained my project, she was more than happy to mentor me through the process and suggested asking her calligrapher friend, also from Hong Kong, to provide a piece of relevant text in Mandarin, to give the installation authenticity and gravitas.

We discussed suitable quotes for both the rug and the collage and I chose,

I was born homeless
Home is where my heart is at peace

The calligrapher then produced beautiful calligraphic samples on rice paper, before I made a final decision on placement and size.

That sorted, it was now time to start work on the rug, using the same template I’d used for all the others so far.

For the centre panel, I chose gold dupion silk in an attempt to recreate the opulence of Chinese high culture. I hand-quilted the silk in diagonal squares before using black thread to embroider the vertical line of characters that read Home is where my heart is at peace. Then I framed the characters with lines of black and red grosgrain ribbon because, as Tammy explained, red is the colour of good fortune and joy in Chinese culture.

Rug centre panel with diagonal hand quilting and hand-
embroidered Mandarin characters in black thread
Image: Ann Alcock

Rug centre panel with diagonal hand quilting and
hand-embroidered Mandarin characters in black
thread
Image: Ann Alcock

For the border of the rug, Chinese silk would be ideal and I had just the thing. A finely-woven patterned black gentleman’s dressing gown from the local Op-shop, and I hoped against hope that there was enough useable fabric in it for both pieces of this installation. Using re-cycled fabric can be problematic, because if a mistake is made, it’s impossible to pop down to the fabric store to buy a bit more. As a result, great care and planning is required before cutting.

I carefully cut the silk and pieced it together, then criss-crossed the pieces with lines of narrow black grosgrain ribbon and bias-cut strips of sparkly black jacquard-woven fabric, that created visual interest. The border lengths were then attached to the centre panel.

Woman of China rug 170 x 120cm
Image: Ann Alcock

With the rug front complete, it was time to assemble it. A woollen blanket was sandwiched between the front and back layer, that was made of pieced calico flour bags. All three layers were then secured from the centre out with lots of tacking, before the bias-cut black dupion silk edge binding with the corners mitred, was attached all around. To anchor all the layers, tufting knots were stitched through to the back, before the tacking was removed.

I was delighted with the elegance of this piece. My choice of pure silk fabric was perfect to tell the Chinese immigrant story.

Next, it was on to the collage.

The collage elements were: left-over gold and patterned black silk; three handmade silk frog ‘buttons’ from the dressing gown; two copper Qing/Manchu Dynasty coins; the poem with calligrapher’s red signature ‘chop’; as well as a number of important artefacts, that were gifts from my mentor. The artefacts included a pale green jade [nephrite] pendant, a calligraphy brush and a small book with printed red characters, many of which were already inked in, no doubt the brushwork of my mentor’s youngest child. The book and the brush were the linchpin of the installation, as it neatly connected back to the small child in the Ah Coy family photograph.

Woman of China collage 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Woman of China installation
Image: Ann Alcock

When the installation was complete, my mentors pronounced our collaboration a great success. I too was really pleased with the outcome, but didn’t have the time to spend enjoying it because I was compelled to push on into the next installation.

This time the topic was Australian Army nurses.

 

ON REFLECTION:
At the outset I knew little about the Chinese in Australia, other than the people in the Chinese restaurant at the top of our street, where my family would occasionally eat. At school, I learnt about a series of violent anti-Chinese demonstrations in 1860 and 1861, driven by xenophobic white miners on the Burrangong goldfields in southern New South Wales; but nothing more.

Since making this installation, I’ve become more aware of anti-Asian sentiment in Australia, and when I think about the people in this photograph, I shudder. For them it would have been hard enough to survive the tough living conditions in Western Queensland at the beginning of the 20th century without having to withstand racist jibes and the distress caused by the thinly-veiled hostility levelled against them.

Revisiting this installation has enabled me to pinpoint what I was feeling back in 1995, when I was constructing it. I realise I was concerned for the tiny woman in the photograph, who found herself parachuted into a totally foreign environment where she was surrounded by people with different food, traditions, customs and language. I realise her experience mirrored mine, as I too had lived in different parts of the world for prolonged periods of time, surrounded by unfamiliar customs and languages. But from my experience I know that one of the advantages of not speaking a second or third language well, is that many derogatory barbs missed their mark because I didn’t understand what was being said.

Since my initial research into three centuries of Chinese immigration to Australia, I’ve made a point of visiting the Chinese section of many cemeteries across this country, to pay my respects to the ‘sojourners’ that Eric Rolls wrote about. I presume that most of the graves are those of men who were unable to return to China due either to their untimely death, or because they decided to stay.

My mentors enabled me to gain a deeper understanding of Chinese customs. From the outset, both women whole-heartedly supported this project in many ways. But more than that, they understood the importance of this installation as part of the In Praise of Australian Women series of artworks—honouring all women living in Australia, regardless of race or class.

FACTS:
Eric Rolls: Sojourners: the epic story of China’s centuries-old relationship with Australia: flowers and the wide sea (1992), explains China’s centuries-old relationship with the Aboriginal people of Northern Australia, the result of very regular visits by Chinese and Macassan fishermen who came in search of trepang, also known as beche-de-mer or sea cucumber.

Chin Ah Coy: More recently, Dr Hilda Maclean’s research has provided additional information on Chin Ah Coy and family since I made the Woman of China installation in 1995. Her research has enhanced my understanding and adding more flesh to their bones, so to speak.

“Family portrait of storekeeper Chin Ah Coy, [his full name] his wife Lee Cheong and baby son Charles Luke Ah Coy (born January 1902) at St George Queensland. Ah Coy is dressed in a suit, his wife is wearing a traditional Chinese dress. Chin Ah Coy died in Kew Tow village in Heungshan District, China on 16 June 1922.”
https://www.flickr.com/photos/statelibraryqueensland/7848415060

In the course of my reading, as well as my time with mentors, I came to understand that for transplanted Chinese nationals, dying on foreign soil was considered the greatest misfortune. That Chin Ah Coy died in China may be an indicator of his business prowess in that he had the funds to return home to die, either by design or by happenstance. All around Australia, there are cemeteries containing Chinese graves, mostly of men, who left China in the hope of striking it rich but, for whatever reason, were not able to return home.

The White Australia policy: the Australian Immigration Restriction Act of 1901, was the Federal legislation that effectively stopped all non-European immigration into Australia for 65 years. The result was a racially-insulated white society. Over fifty years on, the influence of the White Australia Policy and the attitudes it created, still prevail in some quarters.

Coins: Qing/Manchu Dynasty China 1644–1912: The two coins in the collage are Guangxu Zhongbao minted between 1875–1908. The coins were a gift from a friend. Her great-grandfather brought them back from North Queensland, where he managed the Cooktown branch of Bank of New South Wales between 1881 and 1886.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qing_dynasty_coinage

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording.

NB: This installation is the sixth in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became my first touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

 ___________________________________________

 PLEASE NOTE: Woman of China video (03:36 min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

____________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPLANATORY NOTES
[No.5] WOMAN OF CHINA – AH COY & WIFE – SHOPKEEPER – St.GEORGE (1995)

This piece takes its inspiration from people of Chinese origin I have known both inside and outside Australia.

When considering the multicultural origins of this Nation I feel that the people of China are often invisible.  There appear to be few photographic images recording their presence.  Nonetheless in the oral histories of rural Australia the Chinese miner, shopkeeper and market gardener are remembered by many.

I gained a greater understanding of Chinese tradition, customs and philosophy through my friendship with Tammy Lai and her compatriot, calligrapher, Ellen Leung.  From the outset, Tammy whole-heartedly supported this project providing fabric, a calligraphy book & brush, etc., but more than that, she understood the importance of this installation in the context of this exhibition.

The characters embroidered on the quilt comprise the second half of the poem in the Perspex box (the first row of characters on the left, read top to bottom) an approximate translation:  “Home is where my heart is at peace” – an appropriate sentiment when one considers that most Chinese sojourners anticipated they would return to their homeland to die. However, the scattering of Chinese graves across Australia indicates this was not always the case.

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 82: Earliest Australians

I was two weeks into my gruelling schedule to complete all nine installations for the In Praise of Australian Women exhibition. The exhibition was booked to begin touring Queensland in early March 1995 and I had ten more weeks in which to create another five installations. In the flurry of activity, I occasionally asked myself why I’d committed myself to this crazy undertaking, but there was nothing for it, I had to keep going.

The next installation was the fifth in the planned series.

It was a brave undertaking to consider this subject area, because I knew very little about Australian First Nations cultures as I was raised on the North Shore of Sydney, well away from any Aborigines. I first saw dark skinned people in late 1960, when we upped stakes to spend Christmas in New Guinea. But before we left, I’d occasionally overheard whispered comments about ‘darkies’.

I was shocked to the core when I discovered the truth about our treatment of the first inhabitants.

Since the founding of New South Wales in 1788, they had experienced systematic dispossession at the hands of whites; military men, convicts and later, settlers with an insatiable hunger for land.

As the land grab escalated, more and more First Nations people had contact with whites. Contact that gradually destroyed their tribal laws, languages, customs, traditions and diet. The colonisers’ long-term objective was to ‘breed them white’, euphemistically referred to as ‘assimilation’.

To do this more effectively, those who’d survived the massacres, were moved off their land to mission stations, settlements and reserves where they were virtually enslaved, providing cheap labour for nearby country towns and the squatters, who now occupied their land. Each state-run Aboriginal Protection Board had its own procedures in place to completely control the lives, movements and earnings of these now marginalised people. This was a system of Apartheid long before we’d heard the word from South Africa.

Now I knew the back story, my challenge was to create an installation that respectfully told a First Nations’ story.

Having spent years in New Guinea, I instinctively understood that it was vital to have a guide when making art about another culture. As a first-generation Anglo Australian, I’d no idea of tribal protocols, but nonetheless I was determined to avoid inadvertently causing offence or making a fool of myself. To cover my back, I’d been in preliminary discussions with a work colleague, Mithaka woman Maureen McCarthy, who when asked, agreed to mentor me through the story-telling process and later became a collaborator. 

As always, I began with the ‘art’ Wagga rug. Like the others, it would comprise a central panel, a border and an edge binding.

I had no trouble deciding on the colours for this one; it was a no-brainer – black, mustard yellow and red—the colours of the Aboriginal flag, with white added for contrast.

At the outset, Maureen consulted the McCarthy family matriarch, who made it clear I wasn’t to use the dots. Thankfully I’d no intention of mimicking First Nations art as I had other ideas that began with a photograph from the John Oxley Library Collection, titled “Type of Aboriginal–female”. I was haunted by this image of a beautiful young Aboriginal mother with her baby on her back, wrapped in a European blanket standing in front of a gunyah made of bush materials; the blanket a poor substitute for a traditional possum skin cloak. The mother’s facial expression is one of resignation. Resignation borne of having to accept an uncertain future that included dispossession, coupled with exposure to introduced diseases—smallpox, measles, influenza and venereal disease—to which she and her people had no immunity.

The mother and child image would become the focal point of this rug, placed on the centre panel. I had it printed onto white fabric twice. The second image would be used in small pieces attached to the black and white strips radiating out from the centre, to describe a lifestyle shattered.

Earliest Australians rug 170 x 120cm
Image: Ann Alcock

When I added a red cotton border before assembling the rug. Next, I sandwiched a recycled woollen blanket between the front and the back, before tacking all three layers together from the centre out, and finally attaching the mustard yellow edge binding, with all four corners mitred.

To complete the rug, I extended the strip join lines with black running stitches across the red border out to the edge, thereby creating a number of interesting triangular shapes.

Finally, I stabilised all the rug layers using tufting knots to the back, before removing the tacking.

My Mithaka friend, offered to write a hard-hitting poem to reinforce the story I was endeavouring to tell. We discussed using keywords, both negative and positive, negative words beginning with ‘dis’ and ‘de’, and positive words beginning with ‘re’.

Here is Maureen’s poem.

Earliest Australians

A woman standing proud in her race
A look of contentment on her face –
And yet to others defined –
“Type of Aboriginal – female”
Defiled, Displaced, Dehumanised.

A woman, her way of life forced to discard
The things she held dear swept aside with total disregard
Deprived, dispirited, grief hidden in her eyes

A woman’s traditions fragmented, torn apart –
Her children wrenched from her heart –
To wonder, lost in their souls,
How she can ever again be whole

Remembering she wanders in time
Recalling knowledge in her mind –
Reconnecting to nurture her race
Reclaiming her rightful place.

Maureen McCarthy
Toowoomba 25.1.1995

From her poem, I took single words and embroidered them onto the centre panel in grey thread. On the black sections closest to the central image and circling anti-clockwise, the negative words, dispirited, defiled, displaced, dehumanised. On the white sections, positioned further out and circling clockwise, the positive words, recalling, remembering, reconnecting, reclaiming. This was my attempt to visualise a different future for First Nations people in this country.

Earliest Australians rug embroidered wording detail
Image: Ann Alcock

With the rug complete, my next task was to assemble the elements for the accompanying collage.

I wrote Maureen’s poem on handmade paper in black ink and placed it above the original “Type of Aboriginal female” photograph. Alongside the photograph, I arranged strips of red, mustard and black fabric leftovers from the rug, with a scattering of handmade silk gum leaves, placed in amongst pieces of bark below the photograph. Choosing to include the leaves and bark, was my attempt to recreate this woman’s environment and home to her people for more than 50,000 years.

Earliest Australians collage 715 x 515 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Fast forward to the opening of In Praise of Australian Women at the Craft Council of Queensland Gallery in late 1995. Maureen’s Brisbane-based relatives came to the gathering and immediately staked out Earliest Australians by standing on each side of the installation, as if they were guarding it. By doing so, they conveyed their unspoken message; “This is ours.” “This is who we are…and we are proud.”

I was touched that Maureen’s family came to the opening and I was heartened by their ‘ownership’ of the installation.

Earliest Australians installation
Image: Ann Alcock

Yes, the Earliest Australians installation was now done and dusted but I had no time to waste as the exhibition completion deadline loomed. I needed to quickly move on to the next installation. This time, Woman of China.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Maureen McCarthy: Maureen gently guided me through the important cultural aspects of this installation. She was always encouraging and supportive in our step-by-step consultations and I’m most grateful to her.

Earliest Australians: I continue to be very pleased with this installation for two reasons.

Firstly, I realise that in my efforts to create a sense of ‘fragmentation’ at the centre of this rug, I’d inadvertently created movement in a static field. This is difficult to achieve using fabric on a 2-dimensional surface. And secondly, this installation addresses First Nations dispossession in a non-threatening way that’s appropriate for regional gallery and museum patrons, many of whom are skittish when it comes to facing our colonial past, and reluctant to acknowledge the ongoing familial erosion experienced by these people, as a result of their appalling treatment since first settlement.

As I worked through the challenges of creating this installation, I made an interesting but worrying observation. It seems most Australians have an opinion on the subject of Aborigines and the problems they face, including housing, education, health, diet, and more, but not many people actually know one. In conversation I often detect a subtle under current that implies First Nations’ disadvantage is their own fault. Often the discussion concludes with a sigh and the final pronouncement, “If only they were more like us!”

From the get-go, I understood that this piece could be nothing more than an empathetic Anglo outsider’s interpretation of Australian First Nations’ peoples. I knew there was no way I could circumvent the horror and deprivation of the past, but I wanted to introduce a degree of positivity as I watched First Nations friends clinging to fragments of their language and customs—determined to save what they could to pass on to their children and grandchildren. In the process, I’ve come to understand that to survive, these people have had to be amazingly flexible, pragmatic, determined and angry. Their anger, often internalised, going part-way to explain the disproportionate number who are incarcerated and driven to suicide, with ‘sorry business’ being an ever-present in First Nations families.

Revisiting Earliest Australians, I am a little shamefaced as I reflect upon my attempt, as a detached cultural observer, to make meaningful artwork about First Nations people. Cheeky? Maybe not, as evidenced by the reception the installation received when the McCarthy clan came to the exhibition opening in Brisbane, where I watched spell-bound as they staked out the installation. By doing so, the family made it clear that, even though it was made by a whitefella, they were proud—proud to see their culture honoured in an art gallery—a rarefied space mostly frequented by prosperous whitefellas. For me, as the creator of the installation, the McCarthy family’s positive response was the highlight of the evening and I continue to reflect on the event with pride.

FACTS:
The Australian Aboriginal flag:

The Australian Aboriginal flag
Image: Wikipedia

The Aboriginal flag was designed in 1971 by Harold Thomas, an Aboriginal artist who is descended from the Luritja people of Central Australia. It was designed for the Land Rights Movement when First Nations people began the long and drawn-out process of obtaining Native Title over their land. Thomas held the intellectual property rights to the flag’s design until January 2022, after which he transferred copyright to the Commonwealth government. Black represents the Aboriginal people, red represents the earth and the colour of ochre used in aboriginal ceremonies and the yellow circle represents the sun, the constant renewer of life. This flag is often flown alongside the Torres Strait Islander flag.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_Aboriginal_Flag

The Torres Strait Islander flag:

The Torres Strait Island flag
Image: The Commons Social Change Library

The Torres Strait Islander flag was designed by the late Bernard Namok of Thursday Island. The flag symbolises the unity and identity of all Torres Strait Islanders. The flag has a centrally placed ceremonial Dhari (headdress) which is a symbol of Torres Strait Islander culture.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torres_Strait_Islander_Flag

Maureen McCarthy: is at present, a Director of the Mithaka Aboriginal Corporation. Their Native Title claim was lodged in 2012. Their land includes parts of the Barcoo and Diamantina Shires, encompassing the ‘ghost town’ of Betoota.

Three years later, in October 2015, the Mithaka people were awarded Native Title over a huge area of Queensland. The Federal Court sitting in Windorah in south-west Queensland, made the ruling over 55,425 square kilometres of ‘channel country’ which is only about 12,000 square kilometres smaller than Tasmania.

2015 Native title determination for the Mithaka people in western Queensland
Image: Mithaka Aboriginal Corporation RNTBC

https://mithaka.com.au/native-title/

Life for Aborigines living on Reserves https://www.environment.nsw.gov.au/chresearch/ReserveStation.htm

The 1962 Commonwealth Electoral Act: gave all Aboriginal people the option of enrolling to vote in Federal elections.

The 1967 Referendum: amended the Australian Constitution to allow the Commonwealth to make laws for Aboriginal people and include them in the census. Australians voted overwhelmingly in support of this Referendum winning 90.77% of the votes cast with majority support in all six states, necessary for the Referendum to pass into law.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1967_Australian_referendum_(Aboriginals)

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording

NB: This installation is the fifth in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became my first touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

____________________________________________

 PLEASE NOTE: Earliest Australians video (04:25 min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

____________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPLANATORY NOTES
[No.6] EARLIEST AUSTRALIANS (1994)

This installation is a tribute to Aboriginal women; acknowledging the past and the present; while looking to the future with a degree of optimism.

This work would not have been possible without the ongoing encouragement, feedback and support of Aboriginal poet, Maureen McCarthy and her relatives.  Through the challenges of creating this work, I have made an observation.  It seems most Australians have an opinion on the subject of Aborigines – their problems, their way of life, but not many, myself included, actually know one/some.  Then I met Maureen McCarthy and suggested a creative collaboration – the result, this piece – EARLIEST AUSTRALIANS.

I chose to use the colours of the Aboriginal flag for this work.  I wanted to depict an Aboriginal woman; her way of life shattered.  Using an historical photograph, courtesy the John Oxley Library Brisbane, at the centre of the work with fragments of the same image shooting out from the centre, I have endeavoured to create movement within a static field – symbolising a fragmentation of the known.

I am pleased that this piece has been created without resorting to dots or x-ray technique, styles usually associated with visual interpretations of Aboriginal culture.

Thank you Maureen McCarthy for guiding and supporting me though this project.

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 81: Celebrating diversity—Who are we?

I was about to begin work on the fourth installation of a series that was destined to tour Queensland with the Regional Galleries Association. The series, grandly titled In Praise of Australian Women, would consist of nine installations, each comprising a rug and an accompanying collage. I had twelve weeks in which to complete six additional installations, a self-imposed creative marathon of huge proportions, and I realised that instead of wasting time lamenting this hastily-made touring commitment, I’d best get cracking.

Celebrating diversity, was a risky project. Risky because I wanted to combine three unrelated themes against a background of luxurious crazy patchwork, a technique that was emblematic of the well-to-do.

The first theme was the transplanted gentry in Australia, often referred to as the ‘squattocracy’. The second, was immigration more broadly; and the third, was an attempt to describe the dualism of the human condition, by listing both the positive and negative aspects of the qualities we all share.

Japanese ceramic bowl with crazed kannyu glaze
Image: Pinterest

An example of beautifully stitched silk crazy patchwork embroidery
Image: The Sewing Garden

To begin, here’s an introduction to crazy patchwork.

In the mid-1870s, an exciting new approach to patchwork emerged, one that had its genesis in the United States of America. It took the fabric-piecing world by storm, and quickly spread to every corner of the British Empire, including Australia. The technique took its inspiration from the irregular shapes created by kannyu glaze in Japanese ceramics. At last, adventurous stitchers had a degree of freedom that came from the unconventional use of leftover fabric scraps. Once the random pieces had been joined together, silk or cotton embroidery thread was used to embellish the patchworked seams with a selection of decorative stitches, creating a fabulously rich, over-the-top textile surface.

The well-to-do used scraps of expensive fabric; favouring silk in its many forms: taffeta, satin, moiré and velvet. The finished patchwork pieces were then used to make cushion covers, tablecloths, bedspreads and children’s clothing. These exquisite pieces always had pride of place in wealthy households. For newcomers from the northern hemisphere, each piece completed was proof positive that women’s needlework skills had been successfully transplanted into this alien environment at the bottom of the world.

I was keen to start work on the Celebrating diversity rug as I had a quantity of recycled cotton velveteen in a range of colours that would be perfect for my take on crazy patchwork.

For the centre panel, I selected: forest green, purple, burgundy, maroon, apricot and a selection of blues—royal blue, mid-blue and navy. I began by arranging irregular pieces, mindful of colour placement and leaving a central space for the oval carrying the installation title, Celebrating Diversity —Who are we?

The miniature flags for this installation came from a poster like this one that included both the Aboriginal and the Torres Strait Island flags
Image: Adobe

To express the second theme, immigration, I had miniature flags from a poster printed onto white fabric. Thankfully, the flags were labelled, so I was able to select the countries I knew were represented in Australia from ‘first settlement’ and after.

Once the selection of flags had been arranged on the patchworked centre panel, I zig-zagged each one into place.

A selection of stitches suitable for crazy patchwork particularly feather stitch
Image: Pinterest

With the flags attached, it was now time to embellish the edge seams of the velveteen pieces with hand embroidery. I was really looking forward to this. Before I began, I practiced

chain, blanket, feather and cross stitch singly, and in combination, using contrasting threads to create visual interest. When I was sufficiently confident, I started stitching the centre panel and what fun I had! With the embroidery complete, I chain-stitched the exhibition title onto a burgundy-coloured oval and stitched it to the centre panel.

Next, I attached the navy-blue velveteen border on all four sides, after which I placed a recycled woollen blanket between the top and the back, made of pieced calico flour bags. Then, to stabilise the rug, I systematically tacked through all three layers from the centre out.

Lastly, I added a maroon edge binding with mitred corners on all sides.

Throughout the making process, I was refining the wording to ‘frame’ the rug. I cheekily decided to use the first two lines of our national anthem to launch into my description of who we are, in all our contradictory complexity.  

Australians all let us rejoice

For we are young and old,

free & contained,

powerful & powerless,

hopeful & hopeless,

cheerful & cheerless,

thankful & thankless,

artful & artless,

sensitive & insensitive,

thoughtful & thoughtless,

selfish & selfless,

purposeful & purposeless,

resourceful & resourceless,

articulate & inarticulate,

respectful & respectless,

harmful & harmless,

skilful & skill-less,

helpful & helpless…

as we are, after all, human.

 

To make the wording stand out against the maroon edge binding, I stitched each word in light green thread. Once again, viewers would need to neck stretch to read the text encircling the rug, a wily strategy to engage viewers and drive home my message.

The last task was to stabilise all three layers using a tufting technique—a single stitch that was knotted to the back. The tufting was repeated in rows at 12 cm intervals. When complete, I had great pleasure in removing all the tacking to view the finished rug in all its glory.

Celebrating Diversity rug 170 x 120mm requiring a neck stretch to read the embroidered text
Image: Ann Alcock

For the collage, I gathered together a selection of left-overs to support my narrative. Velveteen pieces with hand embroidered decoration; a scattering of miniature flags; a strip of maroon velveteen with the installation title embroidered on it; and lastly the John Oxley Library Collection’s image, capturing the comfortable domestic life of a successful squatter family, displayed on two layers of handmade paper.

Celebrating Diversity collage 715 x 525 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

I chose this image because it contains several important social class markers: a grand timber homestead with high ceilings and French doors opening onto a wide veranda; stylish veranda furniture, including a squatter’s chair and, in the foreground, surrounded by a cluster of family members at leisure, a female figure focussed on stitching. A most appropriate image to support the subject matter addressed in this installation.

Celebrating Diversity installation
Image: Ann Alcock

I was glad Celebrating diversity was complete but I had no time to celebrate because I had five more installations to construct in the next ten weeks, as well as the crates, exhibition banners and didactics. I was adrenaline-fuelled and running on very little sleep, all the while hoping against hope that I could maintain the pace, and make it to the finishing line.

 

ON REFLECTION:
This installation gave me the opportunity to describe a small but very influential segment of the early Australian immigrant population, those on the top rung of the societal ladder. These well-to-do folk, often risktakers, identified the numerous commercial opportunities on offer in Australia and had both the time and money to invest. For them the sky was the limit, either that or bankruptcy. An added attraction was the abundance of convict labour. This labour pool was a boon for ‘squatters’ who used convicts to occupy Aboriginal land on their behalf, long before they made formal application to acquire it.

Whilst making this installation, the John Oxley Library’s ‘squatters at leisure’ image brought me to consider the clearly delineated role of both middle- and upper-class women living in colonial Australia. Well-bred women, either married or in the marriage market, were expected to be proficient across a wide range of drawing room accoutrements: reading and writing, ideally in more than one language, playing a musical instrument, sketching, watercolour painting, sewing, and hand embroidery.

Revisiting the jewel-like flags on this rug, I realised I’d inadvertently placed the Aboriginal flag upside down. This is an unforgivable gaff for a perfectionist like me and in this case, it cannot be fixed.

Whilst I was wallowing in disappointment and regret, a friend pointed out that an inverted flag is, ‘a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property’. There can be no doubt that this is the case for First Nations Australians, who have been systematically dispossessed of their land, their language, their culture and their children. Possibly it’s entirely appropriate that their flag is upside down in this installation?

The final element was the hand stitched text on the edge binding of the rug. My desire to include both positive and negative aspects of the human condition, came out of the intense personal growth work I‘d done after my Swaziland experience. This work drew on the philosophy of Carl Jung, explaining human reactions in terms of ‘light’ and ‘shadow’.

I must confess that I do enjoy the opulence of this rug. I feel the installation successfully encapsulates the lifestyle the ‘silvertails’, a cheeky term used to describe the landed gentry, enjoyed in the Antipodes.

FACTS:
Kannyu: is a glaze often used in Japanese ceramics to create a network of fine cracks that are considered an aesthetic feature, particularly in tea bowls and teacups. The kannyu effect is achieved by creating intentional stress between the glaze and the clay body during the cooling process.

The ‘crazy’ patchwork craze: first displayed at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition in 1876. What emerged was a new textile art form that quickly spread around the world.
https://www.allpeoplerug.com/rug-patterns/history-of-the-crazy-rug
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crazy_ruging

Australian ‘squatters’: In the early years of European settlement, the word ‘squatter’ referred to a person who had ‘squatted’ on supposedly ‘unoccupied’ Aboriginal land, without having legal claim to it. In the early years of the colony of New South Wales, ‘squatting’ was a derogatory term often applied to the illegitimate occupation of land by ticket-of-leave convicts or ex-convicts known as emancipists.

By the mid-1830s, squatting in New South Wales had become so widespread that the Government policy towards the practice shifted from opposition to regulation and control. By 1840, squatters, many from well-to-do English and Scottish families, were recognized as being amongst the wealthiest people in the colony.

In Australia, the term is still used to describe large landowning families, particularly those with a history of intergenerational occupation of land. The term ‘squattocracy’ is a play on ‘aristocracy’.

Land ownership in Australia: The Land Grant system began soon after the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788. Up until 1831, the land was given for free with area provisos dependant on the status of the recipient. After 1831, land not already occupied, was sold at public auction.
https://www.records.nsw.gov.au/archives/collections-and-research/guides-and-indexes/land-grants-guide-1788-1856

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording

NB: This installation is the fourth in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became my first touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: Celebrating Diversity video (04:19 min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

____________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPLANATORY NOTES
[No.4] CELEBRATING DIVERSITY (1994)

This work pays tribute to the many peoples who have contributed to creating the rich fabric of present-day Australian society.  In asking the question ‘Who are we?’ there are two aspects to this question – ‘Who are we as individuals’ and ‘Who are we as a Nation.’ 

The flags symbolise our national diversity.  The wording ‘Celebrating Diversity’ begs that we honour the differences between nations, and celebrate our common humanity.  The border refers to universal humanness; the wording describes the dualism of human nature, which has its ‘light’ as well as its ‘shadow’ side.

The flags become decorative elements set in the ‘crazy patchwork’ ground.  The crazy patchwork technique came to Australia in the 1850’s from the United Kingdom via Japan and was enthusiastically adopted by upper middle-class women throughout the British Empire.

The objective of this work is to encourage all Australians to honestly assess and evaluate the qualities we express as a people, individually and collectively, acknowledging both our weaknesses as well as our strengths.

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 80: Women of the West

By mid-1993, I’d completed two ‘art’ Wagga rug installations, with one more on the drawing board. It seemed that I’d committed myself to the uncertainty of an artist’s life, and by doing so, was destined to trudge, or crawl, or skip along the road less travelled. No doubt time would tell if this was a wise decision.

At this time, I was haunted by George Essex Evans’ poem Women of the West, which graphically describes the life of most immigrant women living in the Australian bush. I was particularly taken with the fourth verse, and wanted to include it in this installation.

The red sun robs their beauty and in weariness and pain,

The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;

And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say –

The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away.

Before I began work, I wanted to check the copyright status of the poem. I was directed to Connie Davidson, a retired teacher and mainstay of the Toowoomba Ladies Literary Society. I was quickly given the all clear, and unbeknownst to me at the time, Connie would come to play an important part in my creative life again.

The template for this rug would be a repeat of the first one.

The template was a boon because the fixed section sizes provided a degree of visual uniformity, whilst at the same time offering me considerable design flexibility.

Next, the materials.

I already had large pieces of beautiful pre-loved Sanderson linen curtain fabric for the border as well as the edge binding, and the story of how I came by the curtains is one that’s worth telling.

Before Swaziland, I worked with the Kath Dickson Family Centre as a Family Day Care co-ordinator. There I met a retired primary school teacher who’d signed up to become a Care provider, because she wanted to continue working with small people in her own home. Over many months, I visited her regularly as she settled into her new role.

Her printed linen living room curtains depicted a tangle of leafy ‘beanstalk-esque’ climbing vines in shades of tan and russet. I fell in love with the pattern and occasionally commented on them when I visited. Before I resigned to go to Swaziland, I cheekily asked her, “If you ever decide to get rid of those curtains, may I have them?” She agreed and I thought no more about it.

Some months after my return to Toowoomba, I found a neatly folded stack of curtains by my front door. True to her word, she’d remembered my request when it came time to redecorate.

When I began thinking about Women of the West, I remembered the curtains. The pattern was reminiscent of an idyllic Arcadian paradise and would be perfect for the border and the edge binding for this rug. In addition, it would also dictate the colour palette for the centre panel and ultimately, all four corners of the rug border as well.

For the centre panel I planned to use a patchwork of recycled woollen jumpers with the seams covered with cotton tape. This was a construction technique I’d devised whilst living in Scotland.

As always, I did a number of preliminary drawings (see below) that show an interesting progression to the final rug design featuring the fourth verse of Essex Evans’ poem embroidered diagonally on the centre panel.

Rough #1: Women of the West–Wagga rug

Rough #2: Women of the West—Wagga rug

Rough #3: Women of the West—Wagga rug Eureka!

Now the design decisions had been made, it was time to get started.

I carefully cut and arranged and stitched the knitted pieces in strips to create a stylised representation of paddocks, both large and small. I then covered the seams with lengths of cotton tape to depict fence lines and roads that, over the years, slowly but surely carved up the Australian landscape.

Women of the West—rug detail of woollen sweater pieces, cotton tape over the joins and hand 
embroidered text
Image: Ann Alcock

Women of the West—rug detail of woollen sweater
pieces, cotton tape over the joins and hand embroidered text
Image: Ann Alcock

Next, I added the curtain fabric border which included four sweater and tape corners that extended the diagonal design out from the centre panel.

When I’d completed the rug top, I sandwiched a blanket between it and the back panel of patchworked calico flour bags. To temporarily stabilise the rug, I tacked all three layers together from the centre out. Next, I attached the curtain fabric binding with corners mitred, before the rug was tufted with the knots to the back.

Finally, I positioned the four lines of Essex Evans’ poem to the rug surface on the diagonal, before hand-stitching each word in mid-grey woollen thread.

Women of the West rug 170 X 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

With the rug complete, it was time to move on to the collage.

I gathered leftover fabric, pieces of sweater, cotton tape, George Essex Evans’ poem, handwritten in full on grey handmade paper, and the John Oxley Library image of Anglo-immigrant women planting corn seeds into freshly cleared and burnt ground. For me, this evocative image of slash and burn destruction, epitomises European attempts to recreate an agricultural landscape, reminiscent of the northern hemisphere, on fragile Australian soils, with varying degrees of success.

Women of the West collage 715 x 525 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Women of the West wall-hung installation
Image: Ann Alcock

At the same time there were other developments that would play an important part in my career. In the wash up from the group show that launched the relocated Toowoomba Art Gallery, each participating artist received an exhibitor’s fee. I was stunned. What? It was possible to be paid for exhibiting art? Really? Now that was something to think about.

By way of background, across Australia at that time, a regional gallery boom was underway with ratepayer-funded galleries popping up in both large and small regional centres.

Whilst I was living on the southern tablelands of New South Wales, I’d been one of a group of recent arrivals pushing for an art gallery for Goulburn.

Before I left for Scotland in 1984, I’d attended the official opening of the Wagga Wagga Regional Art Gallery, representing our fledgling Goulburn Art Gallery Committee.

In spite of my active involvement with the regional arts fraternity well before the Toowoomba exhibition, I had no idea that some artists were paid to exhibit.

With the rash of new regional galleries opening across the country, I saw an opportunity. It seemed I’d inadvertently stumbled on a way to support myself as an artist and I began to plan.

To tour my work, I would need sturdy crates. In my youth I’d worked in packaging design and the experience made it easy for me to design a foam-lined plywood crate to hold three collages; one for each of the three rugs I’d made to date. It didn’t take me long to find a fella with a workshop willing to have a go.

Whilst working on Women of the West, I approached the Stockman’s Hall of Fame in Longreach to gauge interest in my three installations to date. To my delight, they agreed to display them and offered to pay the cost of freight from Toowoomba to Longreach and back on the McCafferty’s bus. But no exhibitor’s fee was offered. They suggested two weeks in August, and I jumped at the chance.

I raced to finish this installation to join A Woman’s Place… and The 1940’s – a Decade of change for the Longreach outing. The crate for the collages was ready to go, and I made a strong canvas bag to hold all three rugs, as well as the powder-coated hanging rods, explanatory notes and labels for each and, as an afterthought, a comments book, giving viewers the opportunity to provide feedback.

The day arrived to take the installations to the bus station. I carefully loaded the crate and the carrier bag into the cargo bay under the bus, after which I felt moved to kiss the work goodbye! And on the way home I burst into tears.

When the installations returned from Longreach, I was buoyed by the heart-felt messages the Comments Book contained. So much so, that it seemed that the logical next step was to travel the work further afield. The question was, how to do this?

In late November of 1994, with a ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ approach, I pitched a nine-installation exhibition to the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. To my utter amazement, a week later I was offered a nine-month contract to travel the exhibition to seven Queensland centres, with an exhibitor fee of $2500. I couldn’t believe my good luck! But only three installations were complete. So my next challenge was to do the impossible and make six more from scratch in twelve weeks, without compromising quality. Oh, my goodness me, how would this be possible?

The only way I could see to gain more time, was to make one day into two. I did this by working a 10-hour stretch from 7 am until 5 pm, then sleeping for a couple of hours. Then another 9 or 10-hour stretch followed by three hours sleep; this gruelling schedule repeated each day until Sunday, when I crashed.

I hoped against hope that the planets would align, and they did.

On the 4th of March 1995, In Praise of Australian Women, as the collection of installations was now called, was picked up from my Toowoomba studio to go to Emerald, Bundaberg, Mackay, Cloncurry, Roma, Brisbane, and Barcaldine.

After waving the exhibition goodbye, I slept for a week.

But again, I am getting ahead of myself.

From here on in, I’ll continue to write separately about each of the six additional installations because there are interesting anecdotes associated with each one.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Women of the West installation: this was my attempt to honour the immigrant women who came to Australia hoping for a better life. But they often found themselves living in the back blocks of Australia with few creature comforts. They also endured an unfamiliar climate that affected every aspect of their lives. Despite the weather, the heat in particular, families were hell-bent on transforming this land into something that resembled a familiar northern hemisphere landscape.

I remember being moved by one story of a woman living in drought-ravaged western Queensland. I was told she saved her washing-up water for the rose bush, the only remaining plant in her what was left of her garden. This rose was one of the few tangible reminders of the country she’d left behind and, in all likelihood, would never see again.

I’ve come to realise that the Arcadian fabric used in this installation is representative of high rainfall tropical Australia. But irrespective of the landscape, the isolation was ever-present for the Anglo women who accompanied their husbands into the wilds to either flourish or flounder.

FACTS:
Toowoomba Ladies Literary Society: was founded in 1913 by Jessie Groom, wife of the Federal member for the Darling Downs, Littleton Groom, as a self-improvement society for the young women of Toowoomba. For many years, the Society conducted annual gatherings at the memorials they erected to commemorate both George Essex Evans and Arthur Hoey Davis, aka Steele Rudd. These literary giants were revered by those residents of the Darling Downs and elsewhere with an interest in literature.

George Essex Evans (1863 – 1909): His poem, Women of the West, was first published in The Argus newspaper on the 7th of September 1901 and later in the poet’s own poetry collection The Secret Key and Other Verses (1906). Copyright for this poem is held by Angus and Robertson, though I wasn’t aware of this when I made the installation in 1993.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Essex_Evans
http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/evans-george-essex-6121

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording

NB: This installation is the third in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became my first touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

____________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: Women of the West video (03:36 min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

____________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPANATORY NOTES
[No.3] WOMEN OF THE WEST (1994)

 Women of the West references the struggles of rural women and the hardships they endured pitting themselves against the vast and unfamiliar terrain surrounding them.  Some women made sacrifices in coming to Australia, leaving familiar surroundings and family behind.  Some came with their husbands, others alone in order to create a new life for themselves, their families and subsequent generations.

For many women this strange, sun-drenched landscape took its toll.   The isolation, the hardship, the climate, childbearing, childrearing and illness, were part of daily life for bush women.

Over the years, land clearing techniques used in Australia have become frighteningly efficient.  It is no longer the skill of an axe man pitted against the never-ending bush.

This work speaks of the environment and a landscape to be subjugated.  The Sanderson fabric used for the border represents the untamed bush.  The pieced centre, of recycled machine-knitted woollens, depicts the transformation of the landscape from its natural state to that of agricultural order.  The lines of ribbon can be seen as evidence of the continuation of order being imposed upon nature by humans.

__________________________________________

Women of the West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:
For love they faced the wilderness––the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces––they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains,
O’er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately-taken run,
In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun,
In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man’s unrest,
On frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West

The red sun robs their beauty and in weariness and pain,
The slow years steal and nameless grace that never comes again;
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say––
The nearest woman’s face may be hundred miles away

The wide Bush holds the secrets of their longings and desires,
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar-fires,
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast––
Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts––
They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above––
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father’s creed. No call has passed us by.
We faced and fought the wilderness; we sent our sons to die.
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o’er all the rest,
The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.

                                                                 George Essex Evans 1901

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 79: The 1940s—a decade of change

For me the year of 1993 was jam-packed because I was juggling three very different commitments—study for a post-graduate degree; intensive counselling and to save my sanity, making strange two-piece installations.

Still basking in the warm glow of praise that I’d received from exhibiting the first one at the recently remodelled Toowoomba Regional Art Gallery, I was keen to move on to the next one.

This time I wanted to explore the ten-year period between 1940 and 1950, when life in Australia was deeply affected by external factors, the most destructive of which was World War 2 (1939-1945) and its aftermath. My mother’s experience of the War would be the subject of this new piece and I did wonder if I’d be affected by the content because, this time, it was much closer to home.

My mother’s War in Sydney was troubling and stressful. When my British father was unexpectedly interned as an enemy alien, my mother was left alone to care for herself and my five-year old brother with zero familial support, as her relatives lived half a world away.

My parents had been married for six years before my father was interned and during those years, whenever my mother suggested she could get a job, my father would roar with laughter before adding, “Who’d give you a job!” But times had changed. My mother quickly found paid work as a sewing machinist in the city. Later, she moved on to collect rents for a real estate agent. Financial independence came with her jobs and, as a result, the genie was well and truly out of the bottle.

But I digress. Back to art-making.

I’d found a quantity of discarded Sanderson floral print linen slipcovers at the local Op-shop. The colours, albeit a little faded, were very 1940s but, with careful cutting, I figured there was enough fabric to use with a border of knitted squares for this rug. The squares would pay homage to the women who knitted tirelessly for their families and the War Effort.

My next challenge was to find knitting wool in 1940s colours. I had my heart set on Paton’s 5 ply Bluebell crepe, considered the crème de la crème of knitting wool, but the chances of finding enough of it in the right colours for this project in Toowoomba, some 50 years later, would be well-nigh impossible.

Very early in my art-making career I discovered that if I asked around, the materials I needed often appeared from the most unlikely places. I don’t know how to explain this other than using the ‘woo-woo’ term, ‘working with the Laws of Manifestation’ or, in a biblical context, ‘Ask and you shall receive’. An outstanding illustration of this phenomenon at work directly relates to this rug. It was a chance meeting with a young woman and her mother, who’d recently moved to Toowoomba from Melbourne. Her mother, a retired haberdashery store owner, had brought with her—yes, you guessed it—all the left-over stock of Paton’s Bluebell. From her considerable stash, I selected seven colours that toned perfectly with the Sanderson linen fabric: pale yellow and aqua, soft pink, light brown, mid-brown and two shades of beige.

I began knitting in earnest once I’d determined the stitch and the tension that’d work best. It was a mammoth task, 72 squares in all. Where ever I went, I took my knitting with me, much to the amusement of my friends and of course, there were numerous Madame Defarge cracks forthcoming as I continued to knit.

For this rug, I repeated the design of the first one. The overall size 170 x 120 cm with a centre panel, a border and an edge binding, the rug back made from a patchwork of largish pieces of calico flour bags.

For the centre panel I cut eleven floral medalions from the Sanderson fabric and used fine blanket stitch to attach them to an ecru-coloured linen background.

As with the first installation, I agonised over the wording. As I knitted, I struggled to find the right words to capture the essence of WW2 Australia from a post-War Baby Boomer perspective and I settled on the following:

A changing world

The 1940s – a decade of change for women – and men – the catalyst – World War 11 – 1939 – 1945

Many women thrust into the world of paid work in addition to family work – a flowering for some – personal autonomy, independence – women managing their lives, their resources

Australian women – doubting, adapting, surviving – their world would never be the same again

The next job was to transfer the wording onto the rug.

To do this, I printed the words onto light-weight paper. Then cut the lines into strips before carefully tacking them onto the centre panel in a gently curving line that encircled the medallions, before embroidering each letter of each word in aqua thread. I hoped that my choice of thread colour, that was very close in tone to the linen fabric, would make the viewer work for the message.

Next, I assembled the border of knitted squares and attached it to the centre panel. Then I sandwiched a recycled woollen blanket between the rug front and back. All three layers were tacked together from the centre out, before being tufted, with the knots to the back. Lastly, I used the left-over strips of Sanderson fabric for the edge binding, with all the corners mitred.

From the beginning of my ‘art’ Wagga rug adventure, I realised that to drive home my message, I needed to grab and hold the viewer’s attention, both from a distance and close up. To do this, I drew on my artistic arsenal. For example, I employed composition, placement, colour, repetition and, wherever possible, the element of surprise; and this rug was full of surprises.

The linen medallions featured clusters of European flowers, rose buds and roses, tulips, hydrangeas and irises, all potent reminders of ‘home’ for new comers, like my mother. To counterbalance this, in amongst the flowers I carefully embroidered sprigs of indigenous plants—flowering wattle, eucalypt and kurrajong leaves. This was a nod to those nature-lovers, who were gradually coming to appreciate the uniqueness and beauty of the Australian bush.

For additional visual interest, I embroidered a random selection of ants, beetles, spiders and a grasshopper; at least one insect for each medallion and one for the collage.

The 1940s—a decade of change rug 170 x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

With the rug complete, I moved on to the collage.

I included fabric fragments, both patterned and plain; a horizontal ecru linen strip with the installation title embroidered on it in aqua thread, to match the wording on the rug; my poem hand written in black ink on cream handmade paper; a pink knitted square and a partly-knitted aqua one on pink plastic knitting needles, with a small ball of wool dangling from them. And lastly, the John Oxley Library image of young women sewing army uniforms. A most appropriate inclusion, as it referenced my mother’s wartime sewing experience.

The 1940s—a decade of change collage 715 x 525 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

Lastly, to protect the collage, a clear Perspex lid was screwed to the Craftwood base. 

During the lengthy ‘making’ process for this rug, I was occasionally consumed by self-doubt, but I ploughed on. Deep down, I knew that the creative journey I’d undertaken was important, even though the destination was not clear to me at this point.

The 1940s—a decade of change wall-hung installation
Image: Ann Alcock

With this, the second installation complete, I already had ideas for a third.

 

ON REFLECTION:
‘Art’ Waggas: As I slowly recovered from my disastrous Swazi adventure, I figured I’d nothing to lose by launching myself into this unusual approach to story-telling, that combined textile art and Australian social history. I wanted each installation to work as ‘art’ and ‘social history’, in equal measure. All these years later, I’m astounded by my self-belief and against-the-odds bravery that brought me to this unconventional art-making adventure.

The 1940s—a decade of change: This installation pays homage to my mother who, like many Anglo women, came to Australia with her husband and son in search of opportunities. For some, it was a grand adventure that paid off in spades, but for others it was a continuing round of toil, accompanied by the life-threatening dangers that came with illness and childbirth, particularly in remote parts of the country. Most of the women who immigrated, didn’t have the opportunity to return to their homeland.

My father’s internment: In late 1941, my father was interned at the Liverpool Anzac Rifle Range Internment Camp, out of Sydney. He was released some seven months later; the time it took him to convince the authorities he was a loyal patriot. I’m told my father was very bitter as the result of his internment experience and, ever after the subject was ‘hush-hush’ in my family.

In all my years of ‘art’ Wagga rug production, this installation was the closest I came to making a semi-autobiographical work. From here on in, I made artworks that focused on the stories of individuals or groups at arm’s length. But, in 2018, ten years after I’d completed the nineth exhibition, inspiration struck without warning, and I saddled up for the very last time. To coincide with the centenary of WW1, I created an installation that focussed on my British maternal grandfather’s military service in France.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

FACTS:
Australia WW2: When the Japanese entered the War in December 1941 by bombing Pearl Harbour, the Australian population became concerned. With reason, because Australian ports and merchant shipping became the target of multiple Japanese attacks, 111 in all, along with the ever-present fear of invasion.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Air_raids_on_Australia,_1942

Madame Defarge: is a fictional character in Charles Dickens’ novel, A Tale of Two Cities, set during the French Revolution. Dickens takes a decidedly apolitical tone, lambasting both aristocratic tyranny and revolutionary excess—the latter caricatured in Madame Defarge, who knits beside the guillotine for days on end.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madame_Defarge#:~:text=Madame%20

Working women in WW2: 200,000 Australian women joined the workforce during the War, adding another layer to the traditional home-making role of women in this culture. Between 1939 and 1945, female participation in the workforce increased by 31%, as women took up paid positions in munitions and clothing factories as well as farm work.

Although women did the same work as men during the War, they were paid between 60% and 90% of the standard male wage and sadly the gender pay gap persists to this day, some 70 plus years on.
https://www.sbs.com.au/topics/voices/culture/article/2019/03/12/how-second-world-war-changed-game-australian-women#

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Five step wording transfer technique explained:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit designated position
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below,
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the embroidered wording.

NB: This installation is the second in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became my first touring exhibition titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

___________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: The 1940s—a decade of change video (04:13 min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

___________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN

EXPLANATORY NOTES

[No.7] THE 1940’s – A DECADE OF CHANGE

THE 1940’s – A DECADE OF CHANGE refers to the ten-year period between 1940 and 1950 when so many external factors were brought to bear on the fabric of Australian life; the most obvious factor being World War II and its aftermath.  War in the Pacific brought home to Australians, particularly Queenslanders, their vulnerability.  As a result, a sense of community spirit, a neighbourliness resulted through bonds of shared tragedy, personal sacrifice and hard times.

Women and men answered the call and were most anxious to ‘do their bit’ to assist the war effort.  For many women this was a significant time. Entering the world of paid work in addition to family work brought with it a taste of personal autonomy and independence; women managing their lives and their resources – their world would never be the same again.

The use of knitted squares for this piece pays homage to the women who knitted endlessly through this period, creating socks, balaclavas and rug squares – part of their contribution, their war effort.  The floral medallions symbolise the strong influence of ‘things European’ upon an emerging Australian identity.  The incorporation of embroidered indigenous flora seeks to symbolise the beginning of a recognition and appreciation of Australian plant life, an acknowledgement of the differences between introduced and indigenous flora and fauna.

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 78: A Woman’s Place…

On my return from a failed attempt to ‘save the world’ in Swaziland, I immediately went into therapy.

As I worked my way through the distress I was experiencing, I repeatedly asked myself what I could do with my life, now saving the world was no longer an option.

One day, I had a life-changing idea—maybe I could use textiles to make art about who we are—we Australians in all our diversity.

Keen to get started, I remembered a quantity of woollen tailor’s swatches I’d been given. I could use them to make a single-bed covering based on the Wagga Rug. This would be most appropriate because I knew tailor’s swatches were highly prized by the Wagga Rug makers of yesteryear, particularly those living in Regional Australia.

The innards of a ‘Wagga’ rug made from recycled tailor’s swatches
Image: The Pioneer Women’s Hut collection

The innards of a ‘Wagga’ rug made from recycled
tailor’s swatches
Image: The Pioneer Women’s Hut collection

So, what is a Wagga rug, I hear you ask?

My first encounter with a Wagga was at the Pioneer Women’s Hut in Tumbarumba, southern New South Wales, shortly after I returned from Scotland in 1987. It was love at first sight as the rug was a blend of frugality, thrift and recycling—the latter, a quality I already incorporated in my textile work. I stored the idea and now, some five years on, I was poised ready to begin. I didn’t know it at the time but the rug I was about to make, would be the very first artwork of what would become the first touring exhibition from the Morley Grainger Studio.

I’ll get to that soon enough…meanwhile, back to the Wagga rug that started it all.

The first decision to be made was the size.

At the outset I had grandiose ideas of using the golden ratio, that is, 1:1.618 but somewhere in the surge of creativity, the golden ratio was lost. Instead, 170 cm long by 120 cm wide became the overall size for this rug.

I planned to divide the rug front into three sections—a centre panel, a border and an edge binding, with the rug back made from largish pieces of calico flour bags.

I began work on the centre panel.

I sorted the grey tailor’s swatches from light to dark, then laid out the grey and black ones in a conventional running bond pattern both vertically (Figure 1) and horizontally, (Figure 2) but the results were most uninspiring.

What to do? Then I had a brain wave. I moved the swatch arrangement slightly to the diagonal (Figure 3) and hey presto—success!

Figure 1. Vertical running bond pattern using tailor’s swatches

Figure 2. Horizontal running bond pattern using tailor’s swatches—red dots represent tufting

Figure 3. Tailor’s swatches moved to the diagonal—success!

After the swatches were sewn together and the edges trimmed, I framed the centre with a black wool suiting border. Next, I made the rug back and then it was time to assemble the rug.

Between the front and back rug layers, I sandwiched in a recycled woollen blanket before carefully tacking through all layers from the centre out to the edges, to anchor them. Lastly, I attached a bias-cut red wool edge binding with mitred corners on all four sides.

Then all layers were secured with tufting knots that created diagonal lines on the back of the rug.

The artist with A woman’s place… rug back made of recycled Union Brand flour bag pieces with diagonal
tufting knots
Image: David Seeto 1996

The artist with A woman’s place… rug back made of 
recycled Union Brand flour bag pieces with diagonal 
tufting knots
Image: David Seeto 1996

During the long hours of sewing, I‘d found a title and composed a cheeky poem to include somewhere in the piece.

A woman’s place…

is in the home and in the garden

and in the boardroom and in the classroom

and in the cockpit and in the paddock

and in the studio and in the stables

and in the library and in the laboratory

and in the operating theatre and in the workshop

and in the United Nations

and maybe…even in the Vatican!

 

To my complete surprise, I discovered I’d found my voice as an artist.

The next decision to be made was where to put the wording for maximum effect. The obvious place was on the plain red border but how best to transfer the words onto fabric?

I devised a five-step technique:

  1. Print a computer-generated cursive script onto light-weight paper
  2. Tweak the word spacing and assemble the strips of text to fit the edge binding
  3. Tack the paper securely to the binding fabric
  4. Chain-stitch through the paper to the fabric below, in this case with exact match red wool thread
    and, finally…
  5. Gently tear the paper away leaving the scarcely visible text

Lastly, I added a rod pocket at the top for hanging the piece.

I was super pleased with the end result and decided to call it an ‘art’ Wagga rug.

A woman’s place…  rug made of woollen tailor’s swatches measuring 170 cm x 120 cm
Image: Ann Alcock

The positive response I received prompted me to create a smaller artwork to provide a supporting narrative, using a collection of bits and pieces left-over from the rug.

From the John Oxley Library’s photographic collection in Brisbane, I found an image of a woman milking the family cow in semi-rural surroundings. It was the perfect complement for my mildly subversive poem, embroidered on the border of the rug. 

For the add-on artwork, I chose to use a piece of Craftwood as the base, with a close-fitting clear Perspex lid.

I covered the base with calico before arranging left-over swatches; a strip of red wool fabric with A woman’s place… wording embroidered on it in red thread, my poem handwritten in black on handmade paper and lastly, the cow-milking image.

A woman’s place… collage 715 x 525 x 40 mm
Image: Ann Alcock

I was super-pleased with both artworks and was tickled to discover that my work had a classification in contemporary ‘art’ jargon. I was told any artwork comprising two or more pieces was called an ‘installation’. So now I had a title. I could call myself an installation artist!

I already had another installation in the pipeline when I was invited to be part of a group show to celebrate the relocation of the Toowoomba Regional Art Gallery. The inaugural show would focus on recycling, most appropriate as the gallery itself was an old building that had been given an expensive make-over, with the addition of a double-height gallery space to one side.

As a textile artist committed to recycling, I accepted the invitation in a heartbeat. The exhibition, titled Waste not—a material issue, would provide the perfect opportunity to test viewer response to my first installation.

A woman’s place… wall-hung installation
Image: Ann Alcock

So, in March 1994, roll of drums, A woman’s place… had its first public reveal. As a result of the overwhelmingly positive response to the artworks, I knew deep down that this was just the beginning.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Therapy: I continued at the Portiuncula Centre for over a year. One-on-one sessions and additional workshops helped me make sense of my Swazi experience, after which I moved on to concentrate on making the additional installations that would eventually become In Praise of Australian Women, the first exhibition to tour.

The Wagga Rug: I first met a Wagga Rug at the Pioneer Women’s Hut in Tumbarumba, southern New South Wales. As a city person, this uniquely Australian textile artifact helped me form a mental picture of Australian settler culture—the tough, practical and resourceful people, mostly from the northern hemisphere, who were prepared to pit themselves against the harsh reality of life in this strange and beautiful land. For me, the Wagga Rug symbolised the indomitable spirit of settler folk, driven by necessity to provide warmth for themselves and their families.

At this point I’d like to describe the three steps that elevated the humble Wagga Rug to ‘art’.

The ‘original’ Waggas were made by men from three or four hessian or jute bags roughly stitched together.

Next came the ‘domestic’ Wagga, which was a more refined version made by women who stitched pieces of woollen clothing onto an old blanket and covered it with cheap cotton fabric.

And lastly, the rug, with the single-bed surface used as a carrier for our stories.

FACTS:
Carl Jung: was an early 20th Century psychotherapist and psychiatrist who founded the school of analytical psychology.

The Wagga Rug: The name came from the town of Wagga Wagga in the Riverina, a major wheat growing region of New South Wales since the late 19th century.

The Australian writer and rugmaker, Margaret Rolfe, mentions their use during the 1930s Depression in her book, Patchwork Quilts in Australia (1987).

The Wagga Rug is also known as a ‘bush quilt’, a ‘Murrumbidgee blanket’, a ‘wogger’ or a ‘swag’.

Rug dimensions:
Centre panel: 110 by 60 centimetres
Border: 25 centimetres all around
Edge binding: 5 centimetres

Collage dimensions:
715 x 515 x 40 mm

Collage—a definition: Eduardo Paolozzi describes collage as “both the technique and the resulting work of art in which pieces of paper, photographs, fabric and other ephemera are arranged and stuck down onto a supporting surface.”

NB: This installation is the first in a series of nine that was conceived and constructed between late 1992 and early 1995. This series became the first touring exhibition from the Morley Grainger Studio, titled In Praise of Australian Women.

In 1995, the exhibition was toured to seven regional centres by the Regional Galleries Association of Queensland. The Morley Grainger Studio then toured the exhibition to another 15 venues in Queensland and New South Wales, between 1996 and 2004.

__________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE: A woman’s place… (04:13 min) can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/in-praise-of-australian-women-videos/

__________________________________________

IN PRAISE OF AUSTRALIAN WOMEN
EXPANATORY NOTES
[No.2] ‘A WOMAN’S PLACE…’

A Woman’s Place… takes its title from the proverb ‘a woman’s place is in the home’, a statement that has molded the lives of many women for generations. This installation pays homage to the diverse roles played by settler women and more recently by Australian women honouring their contribution to the Nation as a whole.

Technically this piece does not fit the definition of a ‘wagga’ as it is made of tailor’s swatches, even though the use of suiting swatches for the purpose of bed coverings was fairly widespread.  In most towns, tailors and dressmakers had swatches of fabric which could be obtained when they were no longer of use to the tailor.  The patches were sewn together usually by machine, the patchwork then enveloped with cotton fabric.  Occasionally these quilts had a warm filling of bags within.  Wool suiting samples were not always available to women; hence many resorted to using larger suiting pieces of much less variety; cutting down the old suits, trousers and jackets belonging to the male members of the family.  In Jennifer Isaac’s book, The Gentle Arts (1987) Joyce Pepperell recalls:

“You never threw out good suiting, the men’s jackets were always cut down for boys and the boys wore the same sorts of clothing as the men – heavy dark woollen suits with short pants. Of course, we kept the leftover scraps – these were used to make those old suiting rugs.  You never threw anything out.” (p. 78)

__________________________________________

NOTE: The exhibition essay and list of venues visited can be found at the end of Chapter 86

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 77: Crossroads

I returned to Toowoomba in mid-1992, with my tail between my legs, as the result of a failed attempt to ‘save the world’ in Swaziland, southern Africa.

My premature return marked the crushing end to my dream of a career-switch that I’d thoroughly planned out, in my head, at least.

It went like this.

After completing a super-successful posting in Swaziland, I planned to turn my back on art, and join the ranks of a Non-Government Organisation, that offered overseas travel as part of an exciting and meaningful job, facilitating overseas placements for others. But my dream was in tatters.

On my return, I needed a place to stay, as the lease on my house had three months to run. A fellow artist kindly offered me her spare room. At the time she was attending Jungian- based personal development courses at the Portiuncula Centre in Toowoomba. These courses were the inspiration of counsellor nun, Pat Quinn.

Once it’d been established that my physical, mental and emotional deterioration was not the result of skeletal damage, I realised it must be something else. I telephoned Pat, explained my situation, and was invited to visit her the next day.

Our first meeting was followed by weekly sessions, using various modalities including: journaling, mandala drawing, dream work, sand play with miniatures, movement, dance and holotropic breath-work. I clung to it all – in the hope that something would calm the terrifying volcanic rumbling in my gut.

I was very relieved when the tenant came to the end of her lease, and vacated my cottage.

Before moving back, I had white cork tiles laid throughout. As well as adding another layer of insulation, the tiles made the smallish interior spaces appear larger and lighter. Next, I retrieved my furniture from under another friend’s house, and with it, returned home, to continue my intense post-Swaziland recovery.

Between therapy sessions and workshops, I had time to consider what to do next. As an unmarried, childless woman, I wondered what my future held. I was a firm believer in ‘a life purpose’ – and I wondered if mine would bring me back to art.

Throughout the months of therapy, I continued to ask myself, “What’s my purpose?” And, “Why am I here?”

Occasionally an idea would pop up. I’d think about it, then dismiss it. Undaunted, and desperate for guidance, I kept asking the questions.

One day in late 1992, I had a life-changing idea. “Maybe I could make art about who we are – we Australians, in all our complexity?”

I thought, “Yes! I can do that.”

I could use textiles to tell our stories!

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter: 76: Death of a dream

I was having difficulty settling into the weekly rhythm of the Sewing Workshop at the Manzini Industrial Training Centre, located in the lowlands of Swaziland.

Landlocked Swaziland, circled in red, surrounded by South Africa and Mozambique.
Image: Tripant.com

As Easter approached, there was talk of a road trip to Johannesburg, over the border in the Republic of South Africa, and I was invited to join the party. At the outset, I was somewhat reluctant until it was explained that because classes ran all year long at the Training Centre, there were no between-term holidays. Now in the know, I realised that this trip was too good to miss, so I decided to tag along, particularly when I discovered a visit to Soweto was on the itinerary.

Over the years I’d heard mention of Johannesburg in conjunction with Nelson Mandela. I knew that he and Oliver Tambo had set up their legal practice there in 1952; commuting daily from Soweto, the dormitory suburb for labour, some 25 kilometres from the city. They were in partnership until 1962 when Mandela was arrested, tried and imprisoned for opposing South Africa’s apartheid system.

To get to Johannesburg we crossed the Swazi / South African border at Oshoek, where our passports were checked and stamped by an immigration official. The border post was guarded by a group of young soldiers with blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed in camouflage print uniforms, each carrying an assault rifle.

Some kilometres into South Africa, I noticed the roads widen to become two and sometimes three lanes each side of a central island, with tall pole lights, spaced at regular intervals and hardly any traffic. And I wondered why? Later I’d find out.

When we arrived in Johannesburg, our Afrikaner hosts offered us accommodation in a partly renovated house in an outlying lower-class white suburb. I was struck by the antiquated bathroom and kitchen fit out. It was as though the clock had stopped in the late 1950s. The kitchen, with its faded lime green Laminex work surfaces, its small wooden table and a cluster of chrome-legged chairs, were the lasting legacy of economic sanctions imposed on South Africa in nineteen sixty-three, bringing the importation of most things to a standstill for 30 years.

Next day we drove out to the Soweto Township. As we neared the township, tension in the car ramped up because carjacking was always a possibility. And tension was further heightened when we got caught in a queue of cars and small buses, crawling along the perimeter road. As we inched our way along, I could see past the row of portable toilets lining the road into the sprawling shantytown, with its grim clusters of small makeshift humpies. We were shocked to see the extent of poverty, evidence of Apartheid writ large. Shaken by the experience, we were eager to return to the relative comfort of our billet.

Armoured vehicles in a military parade with the three lanes clearly marked and the tall pole night lighting
in the background
Image: Digital Journal

Armoured vehicles in a military parade with the three
lanes clearly marked and the tall pole night lighting in
the background
Image: Digital Journal

Before returning to Swaziland, we popped in to do last-minute shopping at an up-market complex on the outskirts of the city. As I needed nothing, I chose to wait on a bench in the warm sunshine and watch the steady stream of people walking by. I became aware that I too was being watched, and whenever I turned my head and made eye contact, the watcher’s eyes would drop. I found this strange, but accepted it was normal in South Africa at that time.

Shopping done, we drove back to Swaziland along the perfectly engineered bitumen highway. As there was very little traffic, I was prompted to ask the question I’d been chewing over since we entered the Republic three days earlier. “Why were there so many magnificent four and six lane highways when there were so few cars?”  Then came the chilling answer, “To get troops to any part of the Republic fast, if there is trouble.” I assumed ‘trouble’ referred to a black revolt.

In 1992, Nelson Mandela was Apartheid South Africa’s worrying pre-occupation. He’d been released from prison in 1990 and, the country had been on edge ever since. I could feel the waves of pro-African National Congress energy crashing over Swaziland. This tiny country provided the perfect vantage point for the rest of the world to watch what was happening over the border in the Republic. My feelings of disquiet regarding this potentially dangerous situation were confirmed in an unexpectedly candid conversation I had with a Swazi colleague, on my return from Johannesburg.

After our weekend away, we each resumed our lives in Manzini. For me, all that remained of our visit was a collection of troubling memories.

One Saturday afternoon some weeks later, the Anglican nuns who ran the Training Centre, invited me to go with them to visit the Mkhaya Game Reserve, not far from Manzini. On the way, we passed a cluster of traditional Swazi houses with exquisite domed grass rooves, held in place by a net of finely plaited grass. I was fascinated by the construction.

A cluster of beautiful traditional Swazi houses made of locally grown grass, 
the roof held down with a net of plaited grass
Image: Alarmy

A cluster of beautiful traditional Swazi houses made of
locally grown grass, the roof held down with a net of
plaited grass
Image: Alarmy

Arriving at Mkhaya, we ordered high tea which was served on the verandah overlooking the large, muddy wallow. A rhinoceros ambled down to drink, followed by a group of noisy warthogs and a dust up seemed inevitable.

From the safety of the verandah, we watched fascinated as the rhinoceros charged the warthogs, scattering them. When the kerfuffle was over, we returned to sip Earl Grey Tea, nibble our cucumber sandwiches and make small talk.

The viewing verandah of the Mkhaya Game Reserve outside Manzini
Image: Tripadvisor.com.hk

Rhinoceros at Mkhaya Game Reserve outside Manzini
Image: Source unknown

A sounder of warthogs at Mkhaya Game Reserve outside Manzini
Image: Source unknown

Another weekend excursion was to visit a resort south of Manzini, that was patronised by the local elite as well as tourists from South Africa. Comfortable wooden chairs were grouped around a largish swimming pool that was framed by closely mown lawns. It was so strange to see the picture-perfect swimming pool and lush green grass juxtaposed against the backdrop of bone-dry hills as far as the eye could see. But this resort setup was understated compared to the swank, multi-storeyed casino and brothels near Mbabane, the capital of Swaziland. Gambling and prostitution were against the law in Calvinist South Africa, so neighbouring Swaziland provided the necessary facilities.

The longer I spent in Swaziland, the greater my disillusionment as I heard unsettling stories about financial aid received from developed countries. Until then, I’d seriously considered a career change. My long-term plan was to turn my back on art, make a huge success of my Swazi assignment and return to Australia to find an exciting job with a Non-Government Organization. Sadly, my plan was slowly disintegrating.

It was becoming more and more difficult for me to run the Sewing Workshop because I was in constant pain. My boss, suspected something was wrong and asked me, “Are you happy?” to which I replied, “No.” So she suggested an alternative. She’d give me two competent stitchers who’d make up my designs to sell. This initiative would provide income generation of a different kind for the Centre. I considered her offer but it seemed my initial impulse to ‘save the Swazis, had all but evaporated. I realised I’d come a long way to discover that the Swazis were just fine, but I was the one with the problem, so I declined the offer.

When things were at their lowest ebb, my friend from Toowoomba who was temporarily living in South Africa, decided to drive to Manzini to check out my situation. I gave her a tour of the Sewing Workshop, after which she took me aside and quietly said, “Morley, I think you’d best come back to Toowoomba and do a Master’s degree.”

I was tempted, but as I was only three months into a two-year contract it wasn’t possible. But as my physical, emotional and mental health continued to deteriorate, I realised I could no longer carry on and it’d be best for me to return to Australia whilst I could still walk. My boss then phoned the Overseas Service Bureau to make the necessary arrangements to get me home.

Before leaving Swaziland, I did a quick dash to an art gallery in Mbabane to buy a couple of Zulu beer baskets…

Handmade Zulu basket used for fermenting beer
Image: Source unknown

…a length of hand-woven silk Kente cloth from Ghana

Silk Kente cloth woven in strips and joined
Image: source unknown

Kente cloth strip being woven
Image: The Conversation

…and an exquisite Xhosa women’s shawl, decorated with strips of black bias binding, pearl buttons and black, white and red glass beads…

Xhosa woman’s shawl detail worn with a skirt
Image: rugrabbit.com

…all beautiful mementos of a misguided but life-changing adventure.

I was so relieved to return to Toowoomba, high up on top of the Great Dividing Range. The city’s established trees and green spaces were in marked contrast to the drought-ravaged country I’d just left.

A string of medical appointments followed, and I was thankful that the X-rays showed no skeletal damage. So, if there was nothing wrong with my body, it must be my psyche that was in need of help to make sense of the Swazi experience. To do this, I needed to find a good therapist and fast.

 

ON REFLECTION:
World Service: I may have picked up on the notion of ‘world service’ well before my time at the Findhorn Foundation because my parents were both world servers of a kind. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, my father was working with the United Nations International Labour Organisation in Kenya and my mother with the Department of Trade and Industry in the New Guinea Highlands. They both set up useful projects, but there was definitely an element of ‘self-service’ in the mix, as well as the status that came from their successes.

But things had changed.

Fast forward to 1992 when an Australian Volunteer Abroad with a university degree like me, was paid a Swazi university graduate’s wage. This was enough to live on but buying a vehicle was out of the question.

Managing trainees: Before Swaziland, I’d functioned as a ‘one woman band’ both before and after the advent of my Goulburn production studio. I’d taught textile skills to adults but had zero experience organising a group of beginner stitchers into a cohesive income-generating operation. The managerial aspect wasn’t mentioned in the various briefings I’d had before accepting the placement and came as a huge shock.

My future career plans had been completely shattered. Before Swaziland, I had it all worked out. I would use my hugely successful two-year placement as a springboard into a job with a Non-Government Organisation somewhere in the world. But the best laid plans sometimes come to nought. Little did I know that there was something even more exciting in store for me, but before I got there, I needed to make sense of my Swazi experience. To do this, I spent twelve months in therapy.

FACTS:
Black revolt: When I was in South Africa in 1992, the threat of a black revolt was an ever-present concern for the ruling class because disenfranchised black South Africans made up more than half of the country’s population.

Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela: was imprisoned for conspiring to overthrow the State. He served 27 years, split between Robben Island, Victor Verster Prison, and finally Pollsmoor Prison, south of Cape Town. Moving him to Pollsmoor made him more accessible to discuss dismantling Apartheid with Presidents Botha and de Klerk.

In 1990, amid growing domestic and international pressure and the rising fear of a racial revolt, Mandela was released. Working together, Mandela and de Klerk negotiated an end to Apartheid and in 1994, Mandela led the African National Congress to victory in the country’s first multiracial general election. He became the Republic of South Africa’s first democratically elected president.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nelson_Mandela#:
https://www.ool.co.uk/blog/imprisonment-nelson-mandela/

Economic sanctions on South Africa: The imposition of sanctions threw the country back onto its own resources.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comprehensive_Anti-Apartheid_Act

Traditional Xhosa woman’s clothing: These Xhosa woman’s outfits are recent examples. The skirt and shawl were traditionally made by firstly, rubbing ochre into white blankets—then attaching lines of black cotton bias binding before stitching on rows of glass beads and pearl buttons in a decorative pattern.

Modern Xhosa outfits with beading and pearl button 
decoration on ochre coloured cotton blanket.
Image: X

Modern Xhosa outfits with beading and pearl button decoration on ochre coloured cotton blanket. Image: X

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 75: Saving the world

It was 1992, and I’d been living in Toowoomba for five years, but I was restless and longing for adventure. So, I accepted an Overseas Service Bureau posting as a sewing instructor at the Manzini Industrial Training Centre in Swaziland (since renamed Eswatini). I was brimful of creative ideas and the idealistic verve necessary to implement my self-appointed task, to save the Swazis, one stitch at a time.

Map of Southern Africa showing tiny little land-locked Swaziland circled in red, near the east coast of Africa
Image: tripant.com

Breaking camp took a bit of doing. I found a tenant for my house. I’d hoped for a two-year lease, but she was only prepared to sign up for six months, with the option of a further six. This wasn’t ideal but, as it turned out, it was just perfect.

I flew into Melbourne with two huge suitcases containing what I thought I’d need to get started in Swaziland, as well as my tiny sewing machine, as I couldn’t contemplate living anywhere without it.

Before we left, the Overseas Service Bureau provided a three-day intensive pre-departure training for the next group of volunteers off to Africa. It was a high-energy affair fuelled by our collective excitement, fear and apprehension about where we were headed, and what we’d find when we got there.

We flew out of Melbourne, with a two-hour layover in Perth and then on to Harare and finally Manzini. It was a painful trip, as I’d strained my back lifting my super-heavy suitcases in and out of vehicles getting to the airport. Because of this, whilst in Perth awaiting the Harare flight, I spent most of the time lying flat on the floor of the terminal, in an attempt to relieve the pain. This wasn’t a promising start.

Manzini, circled in red
Image: www.thoedora.com/maps

After overnighting in Harare, I took a smaller aircraft into Manzini, the second largest town in Swaziland. I was met there by Sister Judith, a visionary Anglican nun who’d set up the Training Centre with the blessing of her friend, the King of Swaziland. The facility was similar to an Australian Technical and Further Education College, where young Swazis received training in a variety of trades.

I was straightaway taken from the airport to meet an Australian couple, Ellie and Jack, who’d been with the Centre for almost a year. At the outset, there was no accommodation available for me in the staff compound, so the Australians were asked to put me up until a unit became available. I was very lucky to have these people provide an introduction to the rhythms of what was to become my working life in Swaziland.

Ellie was a ‘foodie’ of some repute from South Australia, who had come to Swaziland to set up a pilot pickle project making ‘atchar’, a spicy condiment eaten throughout southern Africa. They’d invested in a four-wheel-drive vehicle for their own use and for her project, as she needed fresh ingredients for atchar and the Manzini market sold plenty.

‘Achar’ the spicy condiment eaten in most
households in Southern Africa
Image: ShopriteZA

Jack had a management background and ran the Printery. He’d designed and printed classy labels and caps for Ellie’s pickle jars. His design was a lift from the Harrods Food Hall in London. The result was an up-market presentation of a quality product, targeting the moneyed visitors of Kruger National Park, north of Swaziland.

On my first day at the Centre, I looked in on Ellie’s project and afterwards wandered the campus to visit each workshop. The campus was a hive of activity, offering training for men in plumbing, carpentry, panel beating, building, agriculture, printing and mechanics, with sewing for women.

At the Sewing Workshop, I met my Swazi counterpart, and the trainees. I familiarised myself with the facility and the equipment, at the same time watching the trainees at work. As I walked around the space, I noticed two racks of garments pushed against the back wall. On closer inspection, the quality of construction was of concern and I could immediately see sewing straight was a challenge. I was told that once a month the garment racks were lifted onto the back of the Centre’s truck and taken to the Manzini Markets, where a group of trainees spent the day selling the garments. This monthly exercise was part of the curriculum, giving the trainees important retailing experience.

I hadn’t been at the Centre long before I was asked to interview the next batch of hopefuls wanting to learn to sew. Strangely all the interviewees gave the same answer to my question, “Why do you want to learn to sew?” Their answer, “I want to help my country and learn to make children’s clothes to sell at the market.”

My first challenge was to teach the trainees how to sew straight. Because both fabric and thread were in short supply, some urgent lateral thinking was required. With Jack’s blessing, I scrounged a quantity of light card offcuts from the Printery and took them back to the Sewing Workshop. Using an unthreaded machine, I showed the trainees how to use the left or right side of the machine’s ‘foot’ to follow the edge of the cardboard. I explained that the trick was to watch the edge of the foot, not the needle. Each student’s success or failure was gauged by the rows of needle perforations, straight or otherwise. When each trainee had mastered straight lines, I upped the ante and introduced curved ones. Success!

After a week or so, I realised that in addition to teaching sewing to thirty women with zero sewing experience, I was also expected to attract sewing jobs to cover the cost of running the Workshop. This involved costing and quoting, then supervising hardly-capable stitchers to fill the orders. This assumption was an unexpected bombshell. At no time during the placement briefings do I recall being told that I’d be required to make the Workshop pay for itself. I understood I was recruited to teach sewing. After I’d recovered from the shock and taken time to reassess the situation, I decided that as I’d come all this way, I should give it my best shot.

The Reader’s Digest Complete Guide to Sewing I’d brought with me was an absolute godsend, as it covered every sewing skill in the Centre’s curriculum. These included smocking and lampshade making, which struck me as surprising inclusions but I kept my views to myself.

The hills of drought-ravaged Swaziland
Image: Sense Earth

On my arrival in Swaziland, I discovered that the country was in the second year of drought. I was well acquainted with drought, particularly the crunch of parched grass underfoot and the smell of withering dryness. But the smell of drought took on a completely different guise at the Centre. As Swazi men piss anywhere, the smell of stale urine was ever-present and not surprisingly, the sewing building filled with women, was a favourite target. Occasionally I found myself gagging involuntarily as the slightest breeze could bring with it an unexpected whiff of stale piss. I hated it but there was no escape. All I could do was pray for rain.

Away from work, I discovered making friends was tricky. Yes, there were other English-speaking volunteers living with me in the staff compound. They were mostly men; a wild bunch of skilled misfits, bouncing from one volunteer placement to another, hooked on the excitement of life in the developing world. Finding folk with similar interests outside the compound was also difficult because I didn’t have my own transport.

In the wider community, I noticed volunteers were viewed with suspicion by everyone. I discovered that the Swazis were wary of Europeans. This was understandable as their forebears had been colonised by the British for decades, whilst entrepreneurial Europeans saw volunteers like me, as pesky ‘do-gooders’. As a result, I found myself wedged between a rock and a hard place.

Fortunately, I had one contact in South Africa. A South African Australian whom I’d met in 1983, when we both moved to Toowoomba to lecture at the Darling Downs Institute. As newbies, we bonded because we shared an interest in art and textiles and our friendship continued on my return from Scotland in 1987. She was in South Africa to complete the research for her Doctorate through the University of Pretoria and I telephoned her occasionally. Sometime later she threw me a lifeline, but I digress.

My strained back continued to be troublesome, affecting my ability to walk long distances. This was a distinct disadvantage in a strange country without a vehicle. I found a massage therapist in Manzini and a chiropractor in Mbabane, 40 kilometres up the road but getting to either was difficult. Ellie kindly drove me to and from appointments a number of times, but there was little improvement in my condition for our efforts.

In an attempt to enter wholeheartedly into Swazi life and to take my mind off the pain, I found a SiSwati language tutor. As I’d already mastered a couple of other languages in addition to English, I assumed another one wouldn’t be too difficult. How wrong I was! SiSwati is a Bantu language made up of prefixes and suffixes, creating incredibly long words and it wasn’t long before I had to admit defeat.

This was the first of a series of defeats. But I soldiered on, doing the best I could under the circumstances.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Saving the Swazis: I was on a misguided mission to ‘save the world’ and I planned to begin with the Swazis. Not long after I began working with the sewing trainees, I realised the Swazis didn’t need saving but I did! I was the one with the problem. My world began to crumble and I was forced to ask myself what was I doing in Swaziland.

Sewing Instructor/Workshop Manager: I came to realise that in Africa, it’s assumed that all Europeans possess business acumen and labour management skills. Unfortunately, I didn’t possess either skill and as a result, I found myself floundering. Before too long it became clear that I was on a road to nowhere.

Stale urine: As I have heightened olfactory sensitivity, I was extremely distressed by the smell of stale urine I’d unexpectedly catch both inside and outside the Sewing Workshop and when walking the Manzini streets as well. There was no escape. That disgusting smell is my abiding memory of my time in Swaziland.

FACTS:
Swaziland: is a small land-locked country in Southern Africa. It’s 200 kilometres long by 130 kilometres wide. In 1992 the population was almost 900,000. By 2025, the population had risen to 1.25 million.

For 62 years, between 1906 and 1968, Swaziland was a British protectorate.

In 2018, 26 years after my short stay and 50 years after Independence from Britain, the King changed the name of his country to Eswatini.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eswatini

The Reader’s Digest Complete Guide to Sewing: This publication was my bible for the time I was teaching sewing in Swaziland.  I photocopied many pages from it for the trainees.

The Reader’s Digest Complete Guide to Sewing—the publication that saved my life in
Swaziland
Image: Etsy

The Reader’s Digest Complete Guide to Sewing—the
publication that saved my life in Swaziland
Image: Etsy

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 74: South America

I’d settled back into the rhythm of life in Toowoomba with relative ease, after living in the United Kingdom for three years. This was in marked contrast to my re-entry experience in 1976, following three years in Mexico. This Garden City was a very beautiful and tranquil place to live. On the home front, I’d almost completed the renovation of my small timber Queenslander and had a good job with the Kath Dickson Centre working a nine-day fortnight, with weekends free to explore other things.

I hoped that once I’d mastered the many facets of Family Day Care coordinating, I’d be able to utilise my art training within the parameters of my job. Before long, I discovered an opening for age-appropriate art/craft kits for the carers to use with their charges. Feedback was enthusiastic, prompting me to continue creating them now and then, for my time at the Centre.

For the Playgroup, I dreamed up an interactive tiny table with a series of small doors, closing with bolts, hooks and toggles. In addition, I produced numerous fundraisers including Christmas cards, a calendar of children’s drawings and other bibs and bobs I’ve since forgotten. But the strangest gig of all was outfitting a Board member to play Santa Claus for the Centre’s Christmas party.

Two of Morley’s Christmas card designs for the Kath Dickson Centre C1990
Image: Morley Grainger

There were unexpected perks too. The occasional conference or workshop, often held at resort-type facilities down on the coast. I really enjoyed these professional development junkets.

Away from work, the outstanding renovation jobs were being ticked off, one at a time.

My ears pricked up when I heard about a Local Energy Trading System operating from Crows Nest, a small town north of Toowoomba. I’d been introduced to the concept of LETS whilst living in Scotland. It was and is a locally initiated, not-for-profit community enterprise, where members exchange goods and services using a locally created currency. The system allowed people to negotiate the value of their hours or services and most importantly, kept the wealth in the locality where it’s created. The system was intended to work alongside the national currency, rather than replacing it.

The Crows Nest group called themselves LETSNest for obvious reasons and traded their labour by calculating an hourly rate in Eggs, with one Egg equalling $1.00. A computer-savvy record-keeper kept track of trades and managed the Noticeboard, listing the skills on offer. I offered: one-of-a-kind garments, graphics, artwork and interior decoration advice. Others offered: plumbing, sewing, cooking, electrical work, healing, massage, editing and more. At that time, I had two fences constructed by a retired grazier, who insisted on using ironbark posts, rails and palings. And thank goodness he did because thirty-six years later, the fences were showing no signs of deterioration. Our last job was to close in under the house with vertical hardwood battens.

From my widening circle of friends there were some who were happy to help with the renovations. One woman, a manual arts-trained violin teacher insisted she paint the back of the battens. This was unheard of. A slight woman, clad in over-sized overalls, she crawled in under the house, clutching a pot of paint and a brush. I followed her from the outside. Working together, we chatted whilst catching each other’s paint drips. How satisfying it was to work with a fellow perfectionist!

Over the years, a number of people I’d met in Scotland made their way to Toowoomba. One couple liked it so much, they decided to buy a house and settle here. I did wonder if this was the beginning of another Findhorn-inspired community in the Antipodes?

By 1990, I’d been working long enough to have five weeks holiday on full pay, only the second time in my chequered employment career. And I’d somewhere to go because I’d been invited to visit a Findhorn friend, who was now living in Argentina. Always up for an adventure, I bought a return ticket and headed east to Buenos Aires.

I flew into Buenos Aires, and later to Santiago, then a bus from Santiago to Vina del Mar
and Valparaiso, on the west coast of Chile
Image: WordPress.com

I flew into Buenos Aires, and later to Santiago, then a
bus from Santiago to Vina del Mar and Valparaiso, on
the west coast of Chile
Image: WordPress.com

Once there, I walked the streets of the city, often called the Paris of the South, where I was struck by the look of hopeless resignation on the faces of those folk of European heritage, as they walked towards me. They were suffering the after effects of the latest coup de état and hyperinflation, our wallets stuffed with paper money that was worth practically nothing.

I took the opportunity to explore the crumbling elegance of the Teatro Colon, a reminder of Buenos Aires’ past glory, attended a tango performance and visited the Recoleta cemetery to see Eva Peron’s final resting place. I travelled to my host’s family ranch in the Pampa Seca and spent a week in Chile, visiting the capital Santiago, the Atacama Desert, Vina del Mar and Valparaiso, after which I gladly returned to the political and financial stability of Australia.

Chile—fishing fleet at Viña del Mar with the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean & Australia over the horizon
Image: Source unknown

Chile—Valparaiso Old Town awarded UNESCO World Heritage status in 2003
Image: Wendy Wu Tours

Chile: Valparaiso trolley car
Image: Pinterest

Chile: The Atacama Desert
Image: Live Science

My time in South America had reminded me that beyond Australia there was an exciting world to be explored and as a result, on my return to Queensland I began to think about what I could do next that involved overseas travel. Yes! I was really enjoying all aspects of the life I’d created in Toowoomba—my job, my friends and my interests, but I was feeling the urge to be stretched.

Whilst living at the Findhorn Foundation, I became aware of the concept of ‘world service’ in its broadest sense and I wondered if my skill set could be useful in another country.

The obvious place to start my enquiries was the Overseas Service Bureau’s Brisbane office. I phoned to discover the CEO was none other than my former Toowoomba boarding school English teacher who, late one night had dragged me out of a funky downtown coffee shop. I was certain I’d be expelled, but for some inexplicable reason I wasn’t. All these years on, I wondered if my adolescent naughtiness would be a black mark against me, should I apply for an overseas placement. No doubt time would tell.

I decided to give it a go, but needed a reference from my boss. She refused my numerous requests but I kept on asking, only to discover her reluctance stemmed from her concern about my intended career change. But at the eleventh hour, she acquiesced.

After a series of interviews in Brisbane, and a fabulous multicultural training in Melbourne, I was offered a posting in Botswana—a choice of Gaborone or Francistown. It was to set up a pilot project to create a range of products using tanned leather, an underutilised by-product of Botswana’s cattle, sheep and goat industries. Alas, this placement didn’t eventuate but I’m certain I’d have enjoyed it.

Not long after, I received a second offer. This time in Swaziland as a sewing instructor with the Manzini Industrial Training Centre. I was told the Centre could be likened to an Australian TAFE College, offering training in plumbing, panel beating, printing, mechanics, agriculture and woodwork for Swazi men, but only sewing for women. I accepted the posting, and in preparation, bought a copy of the Reader’s Digest Complete Guide to Sewing, resigned from my job, rented out my house and headed to Melbourne for a final in-country briefing, before flying out to Africa.

The Swaziland adventure had begun.

 

ON REFLECTION:
LETS: LETSNest was a godsend. I was always very careful with money, as the result of not having had much, over many years. What I liked best about LETS was using Eggs instead of money to pay for the labour component of a job. For me it was easy to balance my account as there was a steady demand for my skills, particularly the Morleymade one-of-a-kind woollen sweaters.

LETSNest monthly Trading Days were held at Crows Nest, a 45-minute drive from Toowoomba. It was well worth the trip as there was always a lot on offer including fresh garden produce, jams and pickles, also baked goodies, as well as a cup of tea. Trading Days offered the membership an opportunity to touch base with like-minded folk, all of whom had heard of the Findhorn Foundation, and because of this I became a reluctant minor celebrity.

The Kath Dickson Centre: I’m remembered for two incidents in particular. The first: for knitting under my desk in a frantic attempt to complete an extraordinary garment. The second: for falling asleep on the floor of the main office during a staff meeting. I was left there to wake up in my own time and afterwards, felt mightily embarrassed.

South America: Visiting South America in 1990 was an unnerving experience. As I walked the streets of Buenos Aires, I noticed the numerous basement ventilators at footpath height. I’d been told that during the military coup, many city basements were used to torture opponents of the dictatorship. As I wandered the streets, I imagined the sound of screams rising, to be ignored by terrified passers-by.

Visiting Chile was also unnerving as the Military Coup of 1973 was still in place, but tourist dollars were welcomed.

World Service: Whilst living in Scotland, I became aware of the concept of ‘world service’ and returned to Australia with the concept deeply etched into my being. My Swazi adventure was the manifestation of that concept in combination with my thinly veiled neo-colonial attitude of, ‘I have something I think you Swazis need.’

Overseas Service Bureau: I already had a post-Swaziland plan worked out. I’d do the obligatory two years ‘service’ in Swaziland then find a job with a Non-Government Organisation somewhere in the world. As a shameless ‘culture junkie’, a job involving overseas travel and/or living overseas was still high on my list of priorities.

FACTS:
LETSNest fizzled in 1999. It was replaced by Toowoomba-based RangeLETS, with many of the LETSNest members moving across to continue trading until 2005, when it too, fizzled out.

RangeLETS Trading Day on the back deck at Pitt Street
Image: Morley Grainger

LETS has since morphed into online systems like the Community Exchange System that uses the Internet to connect members across the world.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Local_exchange_trading_system

Argentina: between 1976 and 1983, the Guerra Sucia, or Dirty War, was waged by the right-wing military dictatorship against suspected left-wing political opponents. It’s estimated that between 10 and 30,000 citizens, were ‘disappeared’ that is, seized by the authorities and never heard of again, including my host’s parents and their Cessna aeroplane.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1976_Argentine_coup_d%27%C3%A9tat

Eva Peron: María Eva Duarte, better known as Evita, was an actress, politician, activist and philanthropist, who was the wife of President Juan Domingo Perón. She served as First Lady of Argentina from 1946 until her death in 1952, and is buried in the Duarte family mausoleum at La Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eva_Per%C3%B3n

Eva Duarte de Perόn speaking to demonstrators on behalf of her husband, President Juan Perόn on the
28th August 1951
Image: Wikimedia

Eva Duarte de Perόn speaking to demonstrators on 
behalf of her husband, President Juan Perόn on the
28th August 1951
Image: Wikimedia

Chile: the 1973 a Military Coup overthrew the democratically elected left-wing government of Salvador Allende. The Military were still in charge when I visited in 1990.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1973_Chilean_coup_d%27%C3%A9tat

My reference: When my boss finally agreed to write me a reference, as part of the application requirements for the Overseas Service Bureau, it was a cracker. (See below)

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 73: Another renovation

I’d been back in Australia for eight months after a three-year stay in northern Scotland, where I’d been living with a group of folk endeavouring to live in harmony with nature and each other. Leaving the Foundation had been surprisingly painless and I was particularly glad to be beyond the reach of the bleak Scottish weather.

In early 1988 I bought a small wooden Queenslander cottage in need of a top-to-toe renovation. This would be my fourth complete house renovation. I’d learned a lot from the first three and this time I knew exactly what I wanted to achieve and how to achieve it.

Closed-in front verandah at Pitt Street in 1988
Image: Morley Grainger

The house was in the historic Caledonian Estate, an early residential subdivision of Toowoomba. Conscious of the historical significance of the area, I was determined to restore the architectural character of the building when viewed from the street with a single-storey extension at the rear. To do this, I needed a builder as my renovation plans were way beyond my physical or technical capabilities.

A friend came to the rescue. She introduced me to her builder who had a network of tradie mates, all with full-time jobs but prepared to work on weekends for cash. Thus, as soon as the Toowoomba City Council approved my plans, work could begin.

The backyard at Pitt Street looking east with a twin-tub washing machine left behind by the former tenants
Image: Morley Grainger

The back of Pitt Street in 1988 looking south west
Image: Morley Grainger

The back of Pitt Street in 1988 looking south
Image: Morley Grainger

The back of Pitt Street in 1988 looking south
Image: Morley Grainger

My renovation design included three sets of French doors, opening off the kitchen-dining-living space, out onto a north-facing deck. I knew the cost of new doors would be prohibitive, and the chance of sourcing three matching sets second-hand was pie in the sky. Undaunted, I began my search at the local demolition yard, where to my utter amazement, I found exactly what I wanted. I was over the moon. In time, three external wall openings would be made to fit these doors.

French door with three ‘lights’—similar to mine
Image: Source unknown

Monday through Friday I worked on the house. I began by demolishing the outbuildings and stripping the kitchen. On weekends the builder and his crew did the construction work. Before leaving on Sunday afternoon, they’d make sure the house was secure because I was living in it, even though the amenities were extremely basic.

Very early in the piece I tackled a major project—to restore all seven double-hung timber windows that had withstood sixty years of wear and tear. I began by removing the window frames, then chipping out the old putty before burning off countless layers of paint, back to timber, before sanding, priming, undercoating, reglazing if necessary and finally applying two coats of paint to the external surfaces.

Double-hung windows on the front verandah at Pitt Street
Image: Morley Grainger

Each set of windows took me a week from start to finish. Whilst each set was removed, the cold winter wind gusted in, adding to the discomfort of the already basic living conditions with no hot water. To remedy this, I took a residential housemistress job at my old school.

The job was terrible, but the hot water was plentiful. I continued to renovate during the day and then returned to the school at night to enjoy long hot showers and a warm bed. But as soon as a hot water system was installed at the house, I quit.

In the foreground a window part-way through the restoration process. The east-facing ¼” plate glass 
window was a recycled shop front.
Image: Ann Brown

In the foreground a window part-way through the 
restoration process. The east-facing ¼” plate glass 
window was a recycled shop front.
Image: Ann Brown

I’d arrived back in Toowoomba with two suitcases, two Elna sewing machines, two Persian carpets and my dowry—a full set of Rena Ware saucepans.

Rena Ware saucepan set—similar to my dowry
Image: Source unknown

As I’d nothing in the way of furniture, generous friends helped out. I was given two single beds, a gas camping stove and four bentwood chairs. Fortunately, the property came with a number of very useful items: a wardrobe, a huge crowbar and a selection of gardening equipment.

My first splurge was an upside-down fridge for the ‘dream kitchen’ yet to materialise. The kitchen cupboards would be designed around the fridge. For safe-keeping, I put it in a bedroom—well away from the building action.

The renovations continued day in and day out for many months. One afternoon I met a plump woman at my front gate. She was the Liberal Party candidate for Toowoomba North. As the Queensland state election was only weeks away, she was on the hustings. Whilst chatting we established common ground—the New Guinea highlands. As she was leaving, she said, “I’m sure we’ll meet again.” A prophetic statement as she later became my boss!

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Renovation costs were rising—confirming my belief that renovations always take twice as long and cost twice as much as originally anticipated. Fortunately, I had a valuable asset that I was reluctantly prepared to liquidate.

For my 21st birthday, my adopted aunt offered me a Danila Vassilieff painting from her stash and I chose one from his Fitzroy (Melbourne) series. I found a buyer, the Melbourne-based art collector and academic who’d written his biography. Whilst I was in Scotland, I’d left the painting at the Wollongong Art Gallery for safe keeping. I picked it up on my way through to Melbourne where I delivered it, and returned to Toowoomba with more than enough cash to complete the renovations.

Collingwood Lane (Melbourne) by Danila Vassilieff from his Fitzroy series - similar to the 
painting I was given for my 21st birthday
Image: Deutscher and Hackett

Collingwood Lane (Melbourne) by Danila Vassilieff from
his Fitzroy series - similar to the painting I was given for
my 21st birthday
Image: Deutscher and Hackett

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I spent countless hours preparing the V-Jointed timber walls and ceilings for a fresh coat of paint. This involved a thorough sanding, then a wash down with sugar soap and, lastly, filling the cracks between the boards with No-More-Gaps.

Preparation complete, I was now ready for paint. I headed down to the paint shop with my heart set on a warm buttermilk colour and when the time came, something unexplainably strange happened whilst I was there. It seems the house had its own ideas, so instead of buttermilk I came home with 10 litres of Barely Pink. And the walls and ceilings have been Barely Pink ever since.

But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Towards the end of the renovation, I had an accident—an awkward jump off a trestle. The result was serious tendon and ligament damage in my left shoulder, a disastrous injury for a left-hander mid-way through a major renovation. Determined, I kept working, pushing through the pain but when I completely lost the use of my left arm, I was admitted to the Base Hospital and put in traction. On the ward, I made the mistake of ticking the vegetarian box on the hospital meal sheet and as a result, I was served Textured Vegetable Protein twice a day for ten days. It was more than I could stand, so I discharged myself and Meals on Wheels filled the gap. Right out of alternatives and against my better judgement, I phoned my mother who offered to come to Toowoomba to help out. But she didn’t stay long as the strain was too much for both of us.

Morley sanding the walls of the new extension before painting—note French doors & recycled V-J walls,
Cyprus pine V-J ceiling; also note the stylish renovating ensemble—the ‘bee’ suit!
Image: Ann Brown

Morley sanding the walls of the new extension before 
painting—note French doors & recycled V-J walls, 
Cyprus pine V-J ceiling; also note the stylish renovating
ensemble—the ‘bee’ suit!
Image: Ann Brown

Morley applying the first coat of Barely Pink paint to the bedroom walls and ceiling at Pitt Street
Image: Ann Brown

Whilst my shoulder slowly healed, I was approached by the livewire operator of the Spinning Parlour, a retail outlet that stocked textile materials and equipment of all kinds for craft enthusiasts across the region. She suggested I run a six-week, one night a week class at her shop. I jumped at the chance as working with her was always fun. Also, it was an opportunity to focus on something other than renovating.

With the renovation almost complete I began thinking about a job. I was open to either paid or unpaid work, because I was beginning to suffer the negative effects of isolation. I remembered my chance meeting with the woman who was pre-selected to stand for Toowoomba North. Her political aspirations unfulfilled, she continued in her position as CEO of the Kath Dickson Centre, a highly respected organisation offering quality child-care.

I telephoned the Centre and was invited in for a chat. In the course of the conversation, I was told that a volunteer was needed in the Toy Library which, I was told, was overseen by Miss Kathleen Dickson, founder of the Centre. Next, I was taken to meet Kath after which I agreed to work with her for two afternoons a week.

Kath Dickson Family Centre Toy Library Toowoomba
Image: The Seattle Times

Some months later, it was suggested I apply for a recently vacated Family Day Care Coordinator position and my application was successful. I don’t know how I got the job because I had no early childhood experience, nor nursing training, nor was I a mother. Instead, I brought with me six years of arts training and a teaching qualification. Later I discovered it was my art skills they wanted. Everyone seemed quite confident that I’d quickly master the intricacies of coordinating, and they were right.

Family Day Care Coordinator Morley with Day Care mums in the park opposite the KDFC building in
Lawrence Street Toowoomba C1991
Image: Source unknown

Family Day Care Coordinator Morley with a Day Care
mums in the park opposite the KDFC building in
Lawrence Street Toowoomba C1991
Image: Source unknown

My new job was a completely unexpected change of direction in my professional life. I knew the job would provide yet another series of challenges and I was excited at the prospect of exploring a new career path. Time would tell where a position of this kind would lead.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The renovation: This was my fourth major house renovation. Unlike the others, it was not a ‘nest-making’ exercise involving a partner. This time I was renovating around my own needs as a single woman.

The Kath Dickson Centre: As I had no younger siblings, nieces, nephews or cousins, I knew nothing about children. In fact, I was quite afraid of them, not knowing how to relate. In hindsight, I realise that my job gave me the opportunity to discover that children are small people.

I loved my job and likened it to falling into a soft pink cloud each day. I particularly enjoyed the freedom and the variety which included telephone work, visiting Day Care providers and the children in their care, updating files, interviewing prospective parents and children, then matching their care needs with an appropriate care provider.

I was grateful for the regular income that came from working a nine-day fortnight. I was able to live well and gradually complete the renovations. And, I was also able to save enough for a return ticket to Buenos Aires, Argentina, to visit a woman I’d met in Scotland.

FACTS:
Danila Vassilieff: was a Russian émigré painter and my adopted aunt’s partner, between 1937 and 1944. She had many of his oil paintings hanging on the walls of her Sydney house. In addition, she had wads of his paintings on butcher’s paper stored flat in the bottom of cupboards and under beds. We assume that Vassilieff gave her these artworks when they split up in 1944.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danila_Vassilieff

The Kath Dickson Family Centre: established in 1975, was the brainchild of retired headmistress Miss Kathleen Dickson and is a not-for-profit, community-based organisation that focuses on the wellbeing of families and children, particularly in the crucial early childhood years. It was established in response to the emerging need for quality childcare options in Toowoomba. The organisation has grown and diversified but continues to remain true to the vision and values of the founder, Miss Kathleen Dickson.
https://kdfc.com.au/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 72: Re-entry

After spending three years in cold old Scotland, I was thrilled to be back in Australia because I was craving sunshine, clear blue skies and the companionship of Sas the Wonder Dog, who’d been living in Toowoomba whilst I was away. I had no idea what shape my life would take from here on in, but I was open to all possibilities.

I flew into Melbourne where I spent a couple of weeks finding my feet and to my complete surprise, I noticed I was now filled with an uncharacteristic sense of nationalistic pride. Yes, I was born in Australia but I’d always considered myself a citizen of the world, the result of visiting my parents in far-flung countries for many years. But something had changed as the result of my time in Scotland, where sustainability was the cornerstone of the community in which I’d lived. Now, I secretly dreamed of a self-sufficient lifestyle on a small block of dirt, where I could implement what I’d learned.

On impulse, I purchased a super-expensive classic grey-black Driza-bone raincoat and a black Akubra hat to go with it. I now looked the part—ready and suitably outfitted for country life.

The iconic Driza-bone raincoat worn by people living in the bush
Image: alhudapk.com

I headed north into southern New South Wales to visit my friend Wendy, who was raising cattle at Horse Creek. Back in late 1978, I’d helped build her an enormous mud brick homestead, and now, some eight years on, I was keen to see how the building had settled into its isolated location.

It was here at Horse Creek, that my dream of a ‘back to nature’ lifestyle came to a shuddering halt. No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to keep the fuel stove alight. I was mystified by the fire-tending routine—the firebox requiring regular feeding from a pile of specially chopped billets of wood. As a city person, up until now, I’d only ever cooked with gas or electricity at the turn of a knob, and it showed.

Between the recurring bouts of disappointment that came from the collapse of my idyllic pioneer lifestyle fantasy, there came a lightbulb moment at the Pioneer Women’s Hut.

The Hut is a rural women’s museum, founded by my host, in the nearby township of Tumbarumba. Her intention was to create a museum that was dedicated to interpreting and documenting the work of local women. She began collecting both functional and decorative examples of women’s material culture, and where possible, recording the makers’ stories.

A suitable building was obtained to house the ever-growing collection that included fine examples of aprons, knitted clothing, crocheted doyleys and milk jug covers, hand and machine-sewn bed coverings, all displayed under catchy headings such as ‘Coping with the Flies’, ‘Pins and Needles’, ‘A Stitch in Time…’ and ‘Making Do’.

The Pioneer Women’s Hut outside of Tumbarumba New South Wales
Image: NSW Government

Pioneer Women’s Hut ‘Coping with the Flies’ display
Image: NSW Government

Pioneer Women’s Hut ‘Pins & Needles’ display
Image: NSW Government

I first set eyes on a Wagga rug at the Pioneer Women’s Hut. The rug was displayed on a single bed with its innards exposed, and it stopped me dead in my tracks.

Wagga rug—cheap cotton cover opened to expose the filling comprising pieces
of used clothing
Image: Source unknown

Wagga rug—cheap cotton cover opened to expose the
filling comprising pieces of used clothing
Image: Source unknown

Wagga rug made of woollen tailor’s swatches roughly sewn to a hessian bag backing
Image: Region Riverina

It was made from leftover pieces of woollen clothing, roughly stitched to a hessian backing, then sandwiched between two layers of printed cotton cretonne, and held together with a few knots through all the layers. As a committed recycler, I immediately understood the intrinsic resourcefulness and frugality that this bed-covering represented. But what I didn’t realise was that this, my first encounter with a Wagga rug, would be a pivotal moment in the evolution of my career as a narrative textile artist.

A few days later I waved goodbye to Wendy and her fuel stove, before heading north to Sydney. When I arrived, a friend invited me to camp on her living room floor, until I decided what to do next. At that time my friend was working for Opera Australia and it wasn’t long before she got me a casual job telephoning lapsed subscribers to politely encourage them to resubscribe. The job lasted long enough for me to help myself to a couple of discarded Opera Australia costumes, I discovered overflowing out of a wheelie-bin by the back entrance, one afternoon as I was leaving the building. Both garments were a dramatic addition to my utilitarian wardrobe.

Whenever I visited Sydney, friends encouraged me to visit a former boyfriend, knowing full well that I’d return with dozens of Sydney’s plumpest oysters. The oyster baron, always welcomed me with genuine warmth, and after we’d exchanged family news, he’d send me away with a box containing twenty dozen freshly-opened oysters on the shell, to share with the friends who were waiting impatiently, with lemon wedges cut, squares of fresh brown bread buttered, and chilled white wine poured in preparation for a feast.

Since returning to Australia, I’d experienced tooth pain. Before I left Scotland, I’d had all my amalgam fillings replaced with composite resins, to eliminate the harmful effects of mercury leaching into my system from the amalgams. As time went by, the pain gradually worsened. I visited numerous dentists and, finally in desperation, a psychic healer, but all to no avail. I instinctively knew I was in trouble and decided to attempt the ten-hour run to Toowoomba, where there was a dentist I knew I could trust, who, before I left for Scotland, had insisted on checking my teeth for free.

I packed up and hit the road. What followed was the most surreal road trip of my life. I was hardly conscious, and I remember nothing of it, other than climbing the Moonbi Range out of Tamworth up onto the New England Tableland, with a large bottle of water wedged between my thighs.

Miraculously, I reached Toowoomba without incident and was able to see the dentist the next day. He took one look and said, “This has gone a little far.” Antibiotics and thousands of dollars later, I was back to where I’d started with a mouthful of fresh mercury-leaching amalgams and a very, very large hole in my bank account. But I was extremely grateful to be out of pain.

On my return to Toowoomba, I was offered a place to stay with friends, who made me a tar-paper room in the very large shed on their five-acre block, not far out of town. They too were attempting to create a subsistence lifestyle on a difficult block, atop a shale ridge with thin soil and little water. Their venture was yet another example of the physical and financial energy required to live the ‘self-sufficiency’ dream. With my recent Horse Creek experience fresh in my mind, if I’d any residual hankering to create a semi-hippie lifestyle, witnessing their efforts provided yet another reminder that it wasn’t for me.

Toowoomba seemed as good a place as any to settle, so I began house hunting in town. I knew the area well because I’d spent two years here at boarding school and later lectured at the local Institute before moving to Scotland. As a result, I had an existing network of ex-students, colleagues and friends as well as Sas the Wonder Dog, who I knew would be thrilled to see me.

House hunting went on for weeks and was an extremely demoralising process. I’d telephone a real estate agent; run through my wish list; drive into town to inspect a property; and come away disheartened and dispirited—often reduced to tears. Either the house was the right size and the wrong price or the wrong size and the right price. As the quest continued, I was becoming more and more desperate.

A friend who owned rental property in the city, came to the rescue. He suggested dinner the following Friday evening with his trustworthy real estate agent mate. When his mate arrived, he’d already had a few drinks and as a result, was unable to suppress his laughter as I read him my very specific wish list, particularly the price point.

The wish list.

  • On the eastern side of town
  • A solid timber Queenslander in original condition
  • The back of the house facing north
  • On a small block
  • For under $35,000

Once again, I felt myself sink into despair as my hopes were dashed by yet another agent’s negative response. It seemed my quest was an impossible one but I left him my contact details just in case.

Two days later he phoned to say he’d just listed a small house in East Toowoomba that ticked all the boxes. As soon as I saw the house, I knew it was perfect. My cash offer was accepted and a month later, I owned a house.

Pitt Street Toowoomba in 1988—a collection of images taken before renovations began
Images: Morley Grainger

Now I had a place to live, it was time to arrange for Sas the Wonder Dog to come home. Unfortunately, the folk who’d cared for him whilst I was away had other ideas. They were not prepared to let him go—citing the veterinary expenses they’d incurred whilst I was away. As I had no job and a major renovation ahead, I was unable to repay them, so Sas had to stay put. I was broken hearted. Fortunately, I had the distraction of the renovation. So once again, it was a case of upwards and onwards.

The next chapter of my life had begun.

 

ON REFLECTION:
My friend Wendy was a quiet revolutionary, who continued to feature prominently in my life after I moved to Queensland and began making touring exhibitions of my work. Whenever I had queries, I knew she was only a phone call away and always willing to do whatever she could to assist. For this I was very grateful. In the years to come, the Wagga rug that I first saw at the Pioneer Women’s Hut in Tumbarumba, would form the basis of my first three touring exhibitions: In Praise of Australian Women, Men at Work and Setbacks Shattered Dreams.
(Short videos for each installation series can be seen at https://www.morleygrainger.com/)

Toowoomba: I remember being somewhat ho-hum about moving back to Toowoomba. I did so because I knew property in regional centres was cheaper and I was determined to be mortgage-free—well aware that the artist’s life I sensed was coming, would be tough financially. And how right I was!

Pitt Street: This house was the first renovation project I’d tackled as a single woman. All three previous renovations were nest-building exercises around a partner: Annandale in inner city Sydney; Bow Creek at Deepwater and Goulburn, south-west of Sydney.

The real Estate agent: Would sometimes visit Pitt Street to check progress on the renovation. On one occasion, he said, “You know, I think this house had your name on it.” How right he was. It was my ‘studio with a bed in it’ for 35 years.

FACTS:
Wagga rug: the single bed covering, known variously as a Wagga, a Wagga rug or a Murrumbidgee blanket, takes its name from the Riverina town of Wagga Wagga in New South Wales.

Cretonne: a cheap imported printed Indian cotton, often used to cover Wagga rugs.

The Pioneer Women’s Hut: is situated at the Glenroy Reserve, just outside of Tumbarumba in southern New South Wales. It’s a museum committed to preserving women’s heritage and is considered one of the most unusual small museums in Australia.
https://www.pioneerwomenshut.com.au/

This museum went on to be the auspicing body for the National Quilt Register. A project set up to document quilts made before 1965, that were held in both public and private hands. The National Quilt Register website was originally hosted by the Powerhouse Museum (now the Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences) in Sydney and since 2012, the site is hosted by the National Wool Museum in Geelong Victoria.
https://www.nationalquiltregister.org.au/about/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 71: The Park

I was now happily settled on The Park side of the Foundation, not far from Findhorn Bay. I had my trusty sewing machine, a portable TV, a push bike and a red VW Golf parked outside Cullerne House. How much better could it be?

Cullerne House aerial view—my top-floor room marked with a red arrow
Image: Source unknown

And yes, I was having fun being part of this collection of ‘harmless eccentrics’ that others, including my mother, referred to as a cult. But I did miss news from home. As a result, whenever Australians arrived for workshops or conferences, I was drawn to them to hear a familiar accent and ask for an update of doings back home. Why? Because in Britain at that time there was precious little coverage of Australian news, either on television or in print.

Work Department-wise, I continued to be part of the Phoenix Shop team. With the shop re-organisation working well, I could take on other projects as they presented themselves.

The next one was to make a dozen cushions for Ian Turnbull’s recently constructed Nature Sanctuary at The Park. To do this, I was given meters of quality hot pink linen fabric, left over from the Universal Hall’s ring beam. I made the cushions and, as the finishing touch, to the corner of each, I attached an exact-match tassel. They looked terrific, adding a splash of colour to the sanctuary’s interior.

The Park Nature Sanctuary designed and built by Ian Turnbull
Image: People are Culture

The next request was for my dress-making services. The task, to dress a Foundation elder who had been invited to attend a school reunion in Edinburgh. She was a slender, aristocratic retired teacher who had nothing to wear. So I set about creating a number of stylish mix and match garments for a series of functions to be held over two days at the school. For the formal dinner, we even managed to borrow a mink stole from a well-to-do Member! Her outfits were a triumph.

The Park Nature Sanctuary interior—most of the cushion tassels have gone but the cushions have survived some 30 plus years on
Image: livedoor.jp

So, after completing the obligatory two years as a newbie Member, I was offered a staff position that came with an allowance of £12 a week. Up until then, I’d supported myself with ease selling my one-of-a-kind ‘art’ sweaters to cashed up guests, who wanted to take a piece of Findhorn home with them as a reminder of this extraordinary social experiment, playing out in the backblocks of Scotland.

Much to my amusement a new staff position was created for me, titled ‘Aesthetics’. This time I’d be working on the fledgling Planetary Village project, as well as doing whatever other jobs in and around the place, that required aesthetic input.

To be closer to the Planetary Village office, I left my comfortable room at Cullerne for short-term bungalow-sitting gigs at The Park. This situation was less than ideal, but as accommodation was in short supply, there was no alternative.

My first job was to design a complicated multi-fold leaflet to encourage investment in a proposed time-share project at The Park. Other jobs included interior decoration, colour consultation and some woodwork at Drumduan House. This two-storey building was to become the Moray Steiner School. Scottish building code stipulated that each pane of glass in the existing firewall at the top of the stairs, had to have a fine timber moulding surround and I was happy to oblige.

From the get go, I found the Aesthetics position uninspiring because I was given itty-bitty jobs, nothing that I could get my teeth into, and I couldn’t see that changing in the foreseeable future. Thus, when I received a letter from my former Yoga teacher in Toowoomba explaining that she was receiving a recurring message in her daily meditation to tell me it was time to come home, I was overjoyed. My time in Scotland was over. For me, everything about Scotland was perfect, except the weather.

The perfection list:

  1. Because both my parents were British, I had Right of Abode, which meant I could live in the United Kingdom indefinitely.
  2. I was living with a group of like-minded people who shared values that were important to me.
  3. I was told by a representative of the Highlands and Islands Development Board that my one-of-a-kind ‘art’ sweaters were the most creative garments being made in Scotland at the time.
  4. And lastly, the demand for my sweaters was huge.

But I’d been unable to acclimatise. I found the exceptionally long summer days draining, the short cold winter days depressing, and, irrespective of the season, the skies were almost always grey. Truth was, part of me was dying for want of warm sunshine on my skin.

My boss, was shocked by my news. Understandable as he’d put so much effort into recruiting me. I immediately went into overdrive divesting myself of the possessions that I’d accumulated during my three-year stay. Most of them going back to the boutique, where my ‘art’ sweater adventure had begun. The last weeks were punctuated by a number of farewell gatherings.

A week or so later, my mother arrived unexpectedly to do Experience Week. She was keen to experience the Foundation before I left. Afterwards, she came to stay with me in a caravan at The Park, where the sorting and divesting continued in earnest.

I had no time to cook, so we ate lunch and dinner at the Community Centre. As we walked down to the CC, my mother could feel the affection directed at me by the people we met along the way. Sometimes she would get there before me. She would take her meal, select a table at random and sit herself down. When she was asked to introduce herself, she would say, “I’m Gretchen—and I’m Morley’s mother.” The response from the others at the table was immediate. “Morley’s mother!” After which she would bask in the warm glow of recognition by association.

As departure day approached, I had my exit interview with Personnel. Towards the end of the meeting, a respected elder mused, “Why is it when people look like being useful, they leave?”

With farewells concluded, my mother and I hired a car for the drive to London. On the way we called in to overnight with very distant Quaker cousins, living in Yorkshire. Over the years, my mother had spoken about this branch of the Wyon family and I was looking forward to meeting them. I’d hoped to learn more about the Society of Friends and possibly have the opportunity to compare the Findhorn Foundation’s philosophy with that of the Quakers. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time but we did get to attend a Quaker Meeting the next morning at the Thirsk Meeting House, where we sat in silence for an hour. The silence was occasionally broken when a ‘Friend’ stood to speak briefly and then resumed his or her seat. When the meeting ended, we had a cup of tea before we headed south to London.

When we got there, high on my mother’s list of things to do was to visit Mr. Jones, the Wyon expert and Keeper of the British Museum’s coins, medals and dies. I’d visited him some years earlier seeking information about my mother’s family, who’d been artists and engravers to the English Mint for generations. After my visit, I’d told my mother about Mr. Jones and the warm reception I’d received. As a result, she too expected the red-carpet treatment. After all, she was more of a ‘Wyon’ than me. But for some reason, her experience was very different. It was difficult to ascertain exactly what happened at their meeting but she came away bristling. It took her days to recover, all the while threatening to write a letter of complaint to the Director of the British Museum.

My mother’s next run-in was at the Harrods store. Whilst admiring a piece of very expensive jewellery in a freestanding cabinet, she was approached by a floor walker wearing a top hat and tails. In the conversation that followed, the floor-walker, wanting to be helpful, suggested if she was taking the piece back to Australia, there would be no duty to pay. My mother was furious, hugely resenting being taken for an Australian. But the reality was that her posh British accent had mellowed as the result of living in the Antipodes for more than forty years.

I was about to leave London for Melbourne, when my mother suggested I join her for a quick trip to Dublin, her birth place. She was keen to show me the city of her childhood, with its happy family memories. But I declined her offer. To be honest, I’d had enough of my mother’s dramas. Instead, I was craving warm sunshine and a look at the opportunities on offer at home, after almost three years in Scotland.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Nature Sanctuary at The Park: The hot pink linen cushions I made for the Hobbit-like sanctuary, were in use decades after I left the Foundation. The cushions were a fitting legacy as I went on to forge a career in textiles on my return to Australia.

Wyon cousins: meeting my distant cousins as I was leaving the United Kingdom was timely, because I knew it was highly unlikely that I’d ever see them again.

My mother: in later life when things got tough for her, she would toy with the idea of returning to live at the Foundation. During the two weeks she spent there, she’d experienced an intangible something, the energy generated by a group of people attempting to live in harmony with nature and each other, and she liked it. But she didn’t return. And, as our relationship deteriorated to the point of estrangement, she was often heard to say, “It was all Findhorn’s fault.”

FACTS:
Quakerism: I had the opportunity to re-visit Quakerism in Toowoomba in 2018. It is described as a Protestant Christian set of denominations that are officially known as the Religious Society of Friends. Formed in Britain in 1660, members are united by the belief that each human has the ability to see God in everyone.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quakers

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 70: Choices

My life as a newbie member of the Findhorn Foundation continued to be full-on and interesting.

Before too long, my broad textile teaching experience was put to good use by the Weaving Studio at The Park, where I helped to present the Fabric of Life workshop for guests. Yet another gig was a collaboration with my partner Allen’s fledgling Youth Project. He was quick to take advantage of my skills and I ran art sessions for the Foundation teenagers, in addition to focalising the Cluny laundry.

As Allan’s project developed, he became more and more involved planning projects with the teenagers. Thanks to him, they now had a constructive place to put their adolescent energy. He embodied Pied Piper-esque qualities, and his out-of-hours interactions often cut into the time we spent together. Because of this, I felt more and more on the outer. Somehow our relationship stumbled along, but I was becoming weary of the expectation that I’d be there for Allan whenever he had a space, as he disliked being alone. What we had become as a couple, was less and less my idea of a meaningful and supportive relationship.

As the strain was showing, Allan suggested we take a week off to go down to his family’s holiday cottage in Leadhills, an historic mining village south of Glasgow.

Leadhills village south the Glasgow Scotland
Image: Pinterest

Our time there was marked by grey skies, freezing winds and rain—hardly holiday weather.

To counter the gloom of the cramped miner’s cottage, I picked a small bunch of flowers from the back yard for the kitchen table—my feeble concession to beauty. What with lousy weather and lack of funds we were house-bound. I was relieved to discover that Test cricket was on TV—England versus Australia. What a life-saver! Fortunately, I’d brought my knitting so I spent three days watching cricket and knitting. On the fourth day, I ventured out into the bleak greyness to visit the historic Leadhills Miner’s Library with its famous collection of well-worn books. As I flicked through some of them, I noticed that the margins of most pages were smudged grey by the blackened fingers of generations of miners.

Our Leadhills holiday was an ordeal rather than an opportunity to spend quality time together. Allan shut down—I shut down and there was little interaction between us. By day five the Test was over and I’d had enough, so we left the cottage. In all my travels, before or since, I can’t remember being more relieved to depart a place.

On the way back to Cluny, Allan took me to see the Burrell Collection, on the outskirts of Glasgow. My spirits lifted immediately as we approached the magnificent purpose-built complex that contained an equally magnificent collection of collections. There were 8,000 objects in all—the life’s work of one man—William Burrell offering a snapshot of British imperialism. After the greyness of Leadhills, I was craving colour and found it in the numerous lead-light panels, the wall-hung woven tapestries and the paintings.

Burrell Collection’s building Glasgow
Image:BBC

Burrell Collection’s main entrance
Image: Wikimedia

The Burrell Collection imposing entrance stairs
Image: The Burrell Collection

The Burrell Collection’s impressive wall-hung woven tapestries
Image: Wikimedia

The Burrell Collection’s lead-light gallery
Image: The Guardian

As we wandered the galleries I felt quite at home because this was the world I understood. In sharp contrast to the colourless mining village, we’d just left behind. The contrast was extreme—two diametrically opposed worlds—and I knew to which I belonged. It was at this point I realised our relationship was on the skids. As we drove back to Cluny, I broke the news to Allan. Our relationship had lasted for seven months.

For me, the breakup was very painful. After some months, I moved out of Cluny to live at Drumduan House, another Foundation property nearby. Through the emotional turmoil I continued to focalise the Cluny laundry.

As my second Scottish winter approached, the prospect of another round of short, cold, grey days with the ground sometimes sprinkled with snow, had little appeal because the novelty of snow-play had since melted away. Out of the blue, my mother sent me a return ticket to Mexico and I was overjoyed. I departed Scotland with unbridled glee to spend six-weeks in my mother’s recently renovated house in San Miguel de Allende, north west of Mexico City. As soon as I plugged in to the energy and excitement of Latin America, my mood improved and I had fun catching up with friends from my time at the Instituto Allende.

I’d not been back from Mexico long before I was offered a work department at The Park. This time as craft buyer with the Phoenix Shop, the Foundation’s retail outlet. With the job came a room at Cullerne, the Foundation’s Garden School, that was within walking distance of The Park. At last, I was well away from Cluny and its unhappy associations. I splurged and bought myself a small TV, a bicycle and a second-hand red VW Golf.

I was looking forward to my new job. The shop sold clothing, craft, jewellery, candles, packaged and tinned food as well as a most comprehensive range of esoteric books. Hundreds of people came through weekly; guests, day-trippers and members. All in all, the Phoenix Shop did a roaring trade.

It didn’t take me long to master the job and I stayed long enough to re-arrange the central sales space to work more efficiently. On the appointed day, the shop was closed for the change around. The first task was to reposition the cash register closer to the door, thereby freeing up the central space to display stock. For me, the highlight of the process was that we discarded nothing, because we found a spot for every single display cabinet and the Shop team was as chuffed as I was with the re-vamp.

The Phoenix re-vamp came to the attention of one of the Foundation’s decision-makers. He and his fiancée, befriended me and I offered to make her wedding dress. The design she chose was reminiscent of Lady Diana Spencer’s with a fitted bodice, ¾ sleeves and a full skirt, held out with masses of tulle petticoats.

We did a run to Edinburgh to buy the cream silk fabric for the dress. Whilst I was making it, a cup of coffee was accidently spilt on the bodice. I completely cracked and it was the closest I’ve ever come to a nervous breakdown. Once I’d regained my composure, I was thankful to have both the time and enough left over fabric to re-make the bodice.

Universal Hall interior—the happy couple were seated in the centre of the floor for their wedding ceremony
Image: Findhorn Foundation

After the fairy-tale wedding in the Universal Hall, I was invited to join a maintenance team for a week at Traigh Bhan, the Foundation’s retreat house on Iona, off Scotland’s west coast. I was asked to make insulated blinds with state-of-the-art magnetised fabric for the numerous single-glazed windows, using my trusty Elna sewing machine. I was looking forward to the trip until I heard that Allan had also been invited. As soon as I heard the news, I lost my voice. To my great relief he pulled out because the prospect of working with him for a week at close quarters had zero appeal.

It seems I passed muster on the Iona trip by making all the blinds and holding the rain off long enough to paint the last section of the annex roof. In a matter of days, I’d successfully demonstrated both my practical and my spiritual accomplishments!

Traigh Bhan—the Findhorn Foundation’s retreat house on Iona—note annex roof below the bank of windows
Image: Findhorn Foundation

At the time, I was unaware that I was being checked out for a staff position, once I’d completed my obligatory two years as a newbie Foundation member.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Youth Project: was close to Allan’s heart. He had a way with young people, though I wasn’t always sure his influence was a positive one.

Leadhills: Allan and I were cottage-bound for four days because we were both running short of cash. Money was always tricky for him. In the early days of our relationship, I more than pulled my weight financially. Over time, I noticed Allan was always able to finance the necessities, both alcohol and cigarettes, with little left over for anything else. But I found it difficult to let go of my middle-class courtship expectations, for example, occasionally eating out. At my suggestion we went out to dinner a couple of times, and as I recall, I picked up the tab!

Allan’s vision: Allan envisioned us as a typical nuclear family with two kids, living in a cottage overlooking Findhorn Bay. He saw my role as the home-maker, holding the fort whilst he came and went; involved in projects across the United Kingdom and further afield, if given the opportunity. From quite early in our relationship, I realised that should we continue, there would be little, if any financial security other than what I could provide.

Children: I didn’t have a biological clock ticking, but I now realise this was my last chance to have children. I’d never wanted to be a parent because I knew instinctively that as an artist, the financial constraints my career choice brought with it, would be tough on a child. Because of this, I was quite shocked to find myself considering the prospect of co-parenting with Allan.

As it turned out, this was my last serious relationship in a string of them over the years. I’d had a boyfriend since I was 13 and now realised it was time for me to stand on my own two feet, instead of being buffeted this way and that, in a relationship with a man.

When I reflect on my earlier relationships, I notice that I unconsciously strove to fulfill the role of the perfect partner. This involved fitting my life around my male partner’s career, profession and interests, until my resentment built to the point that I wanted out. But before the current relationship fell apart, I’d make sure the next one was lined up and ready to go. This modus operandi meant that I was never without a partner.

I was 36 when I took up with Allan. I’d already formed my own professional identity in which creativity and beauty were the primary drivers. Whilst I lived at the Foundation, even my smallest efforts to beautify our surroundings were noted and commented upon. Regular confirmation of my artistic contribution was much appreciated and became par for the course for the duration of my stay. These comments are my abiding memory of my years there.

Revisiting Mexico: I loved Mexico—the people, the food, the language, the culture and the lifestyle. When I arrived, I noticed that my Latin temperament quickly returned and I swapped my ‘miss-goody-two-shoes’ Scottish persona for that of a raging party animal, minus the alcohol. And I had a ball.

A night out in San Miguel de Allende. What fun!
Image: Gretchen Grainger

FACTS:
Mining at Leadhills: gold, silver and lead were originally mined by the Romans. Later, the area was sporadically mined by the British, until all the pits were closed in 1938.

The Leadhills Miners’ Library: was founded in 1741. The library was for the benefit of those who were interested in books and reading. It’s the oldest subscription library in the British Isles and is of significant historical importance.

To provide perspective, the library was founded 29 years before Captain James Cook sighted the east coast of Australia. And 47 years before the colony of New South Wales was founded when Captain Arthur Phillip landed at Botany Bay, planted the British flag, and claimed the land for King George 111.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leadhills

The Burrell Collection: The complex is home to William Burrell’s eclectic collection of artefacts and material culture. He was a wealthy Glaswegian shipping magnate and art collector who, in 1944, donated his entire collection to the City of Glasgow.

Fast forward to 1971 when Barry Gasson, John Meunier and Brit Andresen designed a prize-winning complex, to be built 5 kilometres from the Glasgow CBD, to house the Collection. It comprises: medieval stained glass and tapestries, oak furniture, medieval weapons and armour, Islamic art, ancient artefacts from Egypt and China, Impressionist works by Degas and Cézanne, modern sculpture and much more, sourced from the farthest reaches of the British Empire.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burrell_Collection
http://www.stravaiging.com/blog/the-burrell-collection-in-glasgow/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 69: The membership experience

As a newbie Member of the Findhorn Foundation, I was given a well-lit single room behind the Cluny kitchen. It had a long window with wooden shutters, a sleeping loft with an access ladder, a chest of drawers, a small table, a hand basin and most important of all, the room was heated by a wall-mounted radiator, that was fired by the basement furnace. The heating was vital because this was my first Scottish winter, and I was feeling the cold.

Sleeping loft in my room behind the kitchen—note wall-hung rag rug woven by Marjory Inglis in Oban
decoration
Image: Jim Smith

Sleeping loft in my room behind the kitchen—note
wall-hung rag rug woven by Marjory Inglis in Oban
decoration
Image: Jim Smith

Even so, in spite of the drop in temperature, I was looking forward to watching snowflakes cover everything with whiteness.

The first snowfall brought out the kid in me and I felt compelled to build a snowman—an impulse that sprang from my memory of the snowman Christmas cards from my sun-drenched Australian childhood. My creation had a carrot nose and a woollen scarf for warmth! Even though Cluny numbers decreased markedly in winter, there was always someone to play with. Needless to say, there was lots of interest in the snowball fight that followed, during which we laughed and laughed until our sides ached.

The novelty of the first fall of snow at Cluny Hill College
Image: Jim Smith

I was really enjoying my life at the Foundation. Sure, there were work department commitments and the occasional additional shift, but the rest of the time was my own.

We were housed, fed and entertained, including Saturday night movies at the Universal Hall, plus the occasional invitation to participate in a public workshop.

I socialised, read, wandered the surrounding woods collecting chanterelle mushrooms in season, and explored the Forres High Street. Naturally the fabric store became my home away from home and now I was settled, I was on the lookout for a project.

My relationship with Allan continued to be interesting. He was fully focussed on getting the newly formed Youth Project off the ground and I was happy as a lark, focalising the freshly renovated Cluny laundry which was now running super-smoothly.

Around this time, creativity struck without warning and the story is worth telling.

In the bowels of Cluny, was a windowless room known as The Boutique, where members and guests left clothing they no longer needed. The flip-side was that those wanting to add to their wardrobe could take whatever took their fancy, but no money changed hands.

Amongst the piles of neatly folded clothing, I discovered many fine, loosely spun woollen Shetland-weight sweaters. They’d been discarded because of a stain or a hole and many had shrunk as the result of being washed in hot water. This was a plus for the prototype I had in mind. I selected one patterned and four plain sweaters and began work. The result was a stylish, one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-repeated garment—a patchwork of largish pieces with taped seams and an over-sized black press-stud front closing. The emphasis was on good design and sound construction.

I finished the prototype and wore it to a Cluny function that evening. Ten minutes later it was sold for £85—a realistic price for an ‘art’ garment. It was clear the Morleymade recycled woollen ‘art’ sweater enterprise was off to a flying start.

The original sweater with seams covered in a shiny bias-cut tape. This tape was superseded by a matt
woven cotton tape to cover the seams
Image: Morley Grainger

The original sweater with seams covered in a shiny 
bias-cut tape. This tape was superseded by a matt 
woven cotton tape to cover the seams
Image: Morley Grainger

Early in my stay, the Foundation hosted the New Economic Agenda Conference, drawing people from all over the country to speak and network. One of the attendees was a social worker from Easterhouse, a violent gang-controlled neighbourhood of Glasgow ravaged by unemployment and addiction. He and Allan got together and the outgrowth of their collaboration was the first youth activist gathering held at the Foundation, the 1985 Terra Nova Conference, hosted by The Youth Project.

The success of the conference brought Allan to the attention of the Foundations’ decision makers as well as the wider community. In spite of his unconventional approach, he’d demonstrated serious team management skills, handy to have when organising annual conferences on pertinent themes, as the Foundation did.

Glasgow School of Art building main entrance
Image: worldarchetecture.org

To escape the flurry of Foundation life that tested relationships, we occasionally took off to Glasgow. On one memorable occasion we arranged to visit the Glasgow School of Art.

I was keen to visit because this art school was one of the best in the country. I’d a letter of introduction from a Scottish colleague in Toowoomba, who had taught there before moving to Australia. But, to be completely honest, I was driven by my desire to experience a Charles Rennie Mackintosh building. Rennie Mackintosh was an acclaimed Scottish architect who, with his wife Margaret, designed all aspects of the art school building both inside and out.

As we were shown around, we basked in the ambience of the starkly beautiful interior spaces with all the original fixtures—bookcases, shelving, desks, benches, chairs, metal and glass light fittings, ceramic tiles and wall stencilling—all of which had been produced by Team Mackintosh.

Glasgow School of Art interior—the library furnished with the Macintosh’s furniture and fittings
Image: ArchDaily

After a mega dose of aesthetics and culture at the Art School, that evening Allan took me out drinking with his Easterhouse mates where I experienced culture of a different kind.  I was a fish out of water for two reasons. Firstly, I was not a tippler, heresy in this alcohol-soaked country, and secondly, I was unable to join in the conversation because I found the Glaswegian dialect, spoken through clenched teeth unintelligible whether the speaker was drunk or sober. As a result, I spent the long evening smiling sweetly and wishing I was somewhere else. In one day, I’d discovered Glasgow was a city of striking contradictions.

Allan was so proud of his birthplace and eager to show me around. I was grateful because it’s much more exciting to be shown the sights of any city by a native.

Before heading back to Cluny, Allan wanted me to see a relic of the Industrial Revolution, the vast New Lanark cotton-mill, not far from Glasgow.

For Allan, a social idealist, New Lanark represented a shining example of what was possible when capital and labour join forces to benefit both. He explained how David Dale, a far-sighted Scotsman, recognised the power-producing potential of the Clyde River and in 1784, set about building the complex and a village for the mill workers nearby.

Layout of the New Lanark Mill complex with the Clyde River used to produce the hydro power needed for the complex
Image: WordPress

In 1800, ownership shifted to Dale’s son-in-law, the social pioneer Robert Owen. Under his progressive management, the New Lanark mill and village became a model community where the quest for progress and prosperity, made possible by new cutting-edge Industrial Revolution technology, was tempered by a caring and humane regime.

Areial view of New Lanark Scotland
Image: The Herald

New Lanark factory workers C1900
Image: New Lanark Visitor Centre

New Lanark children C 1920
Image: Facebook

New Lanark restored school room—where the next generation of mill-workers were educated
Image: Wikimedia

Cotton spinning equipment at New Lanark mill with water driven-belts
Image: Wikimedia

Once there, we decided to brace ourselves and leave the comparative warmth of the car to wander between the grey stone buildings in the blustery Scottish bleakness, surrounded by the constant sound of the Falls of Clyde water rushing past the complex. As we wandered, I imagined the generations of inhabitants who’d lived and worked in this relentlessly cold and damp place, which was in sharp contrast to my experience of weather. Every country in which I’d lived to date—Australia, New Guinea, Africa and Mexico—was for the most part warm and sunny.

During our four-hour drive back to Cluny, Allan and I had plenty of time to discuss both the highs and lows of our Glasgow visit, after which we moved on to discuss the possibilities of our future together.

Here in Scotland my life had taken a most interesting turn and I wondered what’d happen next.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Allan: In hindsight, I realise I was fortunate to be in a relationship with a native Scot. He introduced me to fascinating aspects of Scotland and Scottish life I’d never have experienced had it not been for his willingness to share his culture. Allan was also happy to share his vehicle. Each time I drove it I realised how much I missed the freedom a vehicle provided, and, as it turned out, it wouldn’t be too long before I bit the bullet and invested in one of my own.

Driving in Scotland: I arrived in Scotland with an Australian driver’s licence as well as an International one, just in case. When I finally joined the Foundation, I took my various licences to the Department of Transport where, for an outlay of ₤10, I was issued with a British Driver’s licence. To my surprise, this licence was valid until I was 70, a long way off!

‘Art’ sweaters:

My room behind the Cluny Hill College kitchen—I’m wearing one of the next generation of recycled 
woollen ‘art’ sweaters and holding another under construction
Image: Jim Smith

My room behind the Cluny Hill College kitchen—I’m 
wearing one of the next generation of recycled woollen
‘art’ sweaters and holding another under construction
Image: Jim Smith

After the super-quick sale of my one-of-a-kind art sweater prototype, I modified my construction technique and went on to make these garments until I left the Foundation. I had difficulty keeping up with the demand, as many visitors wanted to take a piece of the Foundation home with them as a reminder of this crazy out-of-the-way community in the north of Scotland, with a focus on sustainability. I believed that I was implementing this ethos by recycling sweaters and supporting myself.

I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed ‘making’, and derive great satisfaction in recognising the intrinsic value of cast-offs. Scotland provided a never-ending supply of sweaters to upcycle.

Just before I left the Foundation, I offered a one day ‘art’ sweater construction workshop for community stitchers. I was pleased to know that the innovative technique I’d devised would continue into the future. Sometime after I got back to Australia, I was delighted to receive a photograph of three of the workshop participants wearing their completed creations with obvious delight.

The sweater workshop participants wearing their finished sweaters
Image: Source unknown

FACTS:
The Macintoshes: Charles Rennie Macintosh and his wife, Artist Margaret Macdonald Macintosh, were a formidable creative team.

Margaret Macdonald Macintosh
Image: Facebook

Charles Rennie Macintosh

A selection of classically beautiful Charles Rennie Macintosh chair designs
Image: Pinterest

Charles Rennie Mackintosh (1868 -1928): Architecture historians describe the Glasgow School of Art, later named the Macintosh building, as his masterpiece. In life, he was plagued by ill health and alcoholism but in death has come renewed appreciation of his genius, both at home and abroad. Today, his body of work is recognised on a level far beyond anything he received during his lifetime. He is now celebrated as one of Scotland’s and the world’s greatest designers.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Rennie_Mackintosh
https://www.theartstory.org/artist/mackintosh-charles-rennie/

Margaret Macdonald Macintosh (1864-1933): Margaret exhibited widely. Her work was celebrated by her peers and her husband, who, in 1927 wrote, “You must remember that in all my architectural efforts, you have been half if not three-quarters of them.” and, in another letter wrote, “You have genius, whereas I only have talent.” High praise indeed.

Margaret died in virtual obscurity, in part due to living in the shadow of her husband.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaret_Macdonald_Mackintosh
http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/arts/margaret_macdonald_the_talented_other_half_of_charles_rennie_mackintosh.shtml

New Lanark: Thanks to Robert Owen’s progressive vision, the people of New Lanark had many firsts. These included the first Infant School in the world, the first day nursery for working mothers, the first free medical care, and the first comprehensive education system for children, as well as evening classes for adults. Children under ten were not permitted to work in the mill. His progressive approach gained New Lanark an international reputation as a model manufacturing complex and the largest in Scotland. At peak production, New Lanark accommodated 2500 mill-workers and their families for almost two hundred years.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Lanark

 

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 68: Orientation

I’d been roaming the United Kingdom for six months. My purpose for being here was two-fold. Firstly, I wanted to participate in the required number of Findhorn Foundation programs that would lead me to the big one—Orientation, due to start at the end of October 1984. Afterwards, I hoped to be invited to become a Foundation member. Secondly, between programs, I wandered the country learning about my ancestors, meeting interesting people and discovering pockets of fascinating history in unexpected places.                               

By the end of my most recent Outer Hebridean adventure, I was really looking forward to returning to Cluny Hill College. One of Cluny’s main draw cards was the plentiful supply of imaginative vegetarian food, served twice a day. Whilst on the road, it was often difficult to find meatless tucker, other than a chip butty, the mainstay of the British diet and available everywhere. A chip butty consists of fried potato chips, doused in sauce and served between two pieces of buttered white bread.

The classic chip butty—a British culinary institution
Image: Reddit

At last, the big day arrived, the start of the winter Orientation program. We Orienteers gathered at The Park in readiness for our first meeting that afternoon. But that very day I had another unmissable commitment, to attend the monthly meeting of the Inverness Spinners and Weavers. I’d recently become a member because I was determined to keep a firm foothold in the broader Scots community whilst living at the Foundation. My professional interest in textiles and textile skills made this group the perfect fit.

On Saturday morning, I hitched a ride to Inverness and after the meeting, returned to The Park just in time to make it to the Orientation starting line.

I was one of twenty-two eager starters from the United Kingdom, the United States, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, Holland and New Zealand plus another Australian from Canberra. Our Focalisers were long-time Foundation members, who’d give us their view of community life and answer our never-ending stream of questions. The program was nicely paced and provided a warts-and-all overview of numerous, fascinating aspects of the Foundation’s development.

Findhorn Foundation Orientation group Winter 1984
Image: Findhorn Foundation

For me a highlight of the program was re-visiting Erraid. A group of Foundation members were the custodians of this island for eleven months of the year. We also spent a day on Iona and whilst we were there, we visited Traigh Bhan, the Foundation’s retreat house, not far from the Abbey.

I was already familiar with the area because I’d spent six weeks on Erraid over summer during which time I’d hiked all over both islands that were steeped in centuries of history. But mid-December on Erraid was a very different proposition, as it was now much colder, made worse by the strong westerly winds blowing in off the Atlantic.

Thankfully, the stone cottages had peat fires to keep us warm and dry.

Traigh Bhan—the Findhorn Foundation’s retreat house on Iona
Image: Findhorn Foundation

On our return to Cluny for the last week of Orientation, we were given the opportunity to play The Game of Transformation.

The Game of Transformation in progress
Image: Facebook

This board game, played in teams over four days, was devised by two Foundation members. For me this was yet another high point of the program. But those of us who’d not played before were on edge because The Game was headlined as a ‘life-changing experience’.

To prepare, we were asked to find a support person. Allan, one of the Maintenance crew, offered his services. He was an old hand, having played many times and was able to help me clarify my Game objectives. We saw a lot of each other during the Game and after, because I’d moved back to Cluny where most of us, who’d been given the green light for membership, would be living.

The Foundation prides itself in offering a safe space for members to explore different ways to relate. Some tried celibacy, some same-sex relationships and in my case, a relationship with a hard man, ten years my junior, from tough-town Glasgow. He described his life before Findhorn as straddling the thin blue line, first dabbling in drugs and then joining the Glasgow police. He drank alcohol whenever he could, smoked a lot and didn’t bathe often. Whereas by contrast, I was a reformed drinker and smoker who meditated regularly and, draped in a miss-goody-two-shoes mantle, aspired to save the world. This man, as I was to discover, represented my unacknowledged shadow side.

Work department-wise, I had a rocky start. The Cluny kitchen was my first placement but it proved to be a stretch as I’d little in the way of the catering experience needed to make food for 150 hungry people each shift. Before long, my shortcomings became evident and I was offered the job of focalising the Cluny laundry instead. Hurrah! Salvation! I now had a warm place to work, thanks to the two over-sized clothes dryers in use much of the time, plus a never-ending supply of textiles to play with. This was my idea of heaven.

As laundry Focaliser my role was to wash, dry and fold the towels, pillow slips and sheets needed to re-make Cluny’s 100 guest beds each Saturday morning, in readiness for the next intake of guests. Members used the laundry out of hours.

Morley folding sheets for the photo. But the job was made easy using a wall-mounted gadget that made it possible for one person to
fold sheets neatly. To avoid creasing, I discovered the trick was to fold the sheets whilst they were warm.
Image: Jim Smith

Morley folding sheets for the photo. But the job was made easy using a wall-mounted gadget that made
it possible for one person to fold sheets neatly. To avoid creasing, I discovered the trick was to fold the
sheets whilst they were warm.
Image: Jim Smith

Morley folding sheets for the photo. But the job was
made easy using a wall-mounted gadget that made
it possible for one person to fold sheets neatly. 
To avoid creasing, I discovered the trick was to fold
the sheets whilst they were warm.
Image: Jim Smith

Once I had the laundry running smoothly, I could see it was in need of a good clean, so I suggested blitzing the space. With the full support of the Cluny Housecare team, I began planning the spruce-up.

A group of willing guests spent a couple of days systematically scrubbing down the laundry walls and ceiling before painting them bright white. Next, I prepped and painted the concrete floor with a super-durable ferrous-red paving paint, before closing the laundry for a day to let the paint dry hard. Now renovated, it was time for the final touch—the laundry artwork.

From the exposed pipes along one wall, I hung rectangular sheets of recycled coloured gel at different heights. For my effort, there was an unexpected bonus. I’d inadvertently created a kinetic installation, because the warm air from the driers gently rotated the dangling gels.

When I wasn’t in the Cluny laundry, or doing another shift somewhere else, I was mostly with Allan. At the outset, I found the relationship exciting and his taste in music was eclectic.

As our relationship deepened, much to my surprise and to the horror of some in our circle, we discussed having children. Up until this time, I’d discounted the possibility of parenting in all of my previous long-term relationships.

The reason?

I considered my succession of male partners were unsuitable co-parenting material.

I saw raising children as a two-person commitment. But I sensed they were likely to bail out when the going got tough, either emotionally or financially or both. The litmus test for me was looking across my circle of women friends, who had embarked on co-parenting in good faith, only to find themselves holding the baby. In addition, as a practicing artist, I intuitively understood my chosen career path could be uncertain financially, and I wasn’t prepared to subject a small person to a life of deprivation, should I too, be left holding the baby.

Not long into the relationship Allan took me to Glasgow to meet his parents. His mother didn’t pull any punches. She made it plain that she was dirty on the Foundation for taking her son away because she wanted grandchildren.

I smiled inwardly, but now was not the time to raise her hopes by sharing what Allan and I were considering.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Inverness Spinners and Weavers: I was determined to join this group of like-minded women. Since my arrival at the Foundation, I’d noticed that many members were consumed by the internal machinations of community life, to the exclusion of all else. I wanted to avoid this, and hoped that regular contact with these women who shared my passion for textiles, would keep me connected to the world beyond the Foundation.

Orientees: Most of the people who completed Orientation, were offered membership. A number of them became my support network for the years I remained in Scotland. Together we shared the joys and trials of the Foundation experience and stayed in touch after leaving to return home, as most of us did.

The official Foundation no, no’s: Members were not permitted to do drugs or draw the dole.

Allan’s parents: I enjoyed his parents, his father in particular. He was a level-headed man and I wondered how two such normal people had produced a son like Allan. In retrospect, I realise I’d more in common with them, than with their maverick son. Our relationship was unlike any other I’d had to date. So far, it was a high-energy roller-coaster ride and I was enjoying myself.

FACTS:
The Game of Transformation:  What is it? The Game is described as, ‘a joyful way of understanding and transforming the way you play your life. It’s about looking at the kinds of experiences you create, seeing how you react to them and how you can use these insights for your own growth. As you play, you can become more aware of your personal strengths and learn important lessons that can deepen your understanding of how you operate on the Physical, Emotional, Mental and Spiritual levels.’ 

Joy Drake, creator of the Game of Transformation, speaks to Roger Doudna.  https://www.findhorn.org/programmes/game-of-transformation-4-day/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 67: The Outer Hebrides

I prepared to leave London after a life-changing visit to the British Museum, where I was introduced to the enormous body of work produced by my maternal grandfather’s famous family—the Wyons. For 150 years the family’s artists and engravers were associated with the English Mint and elsewhere. The day I visited, the British Museum’s Wyon expert guided me through their collection of Wyon medals, coins, seals and dies. I was gobsmacked, but I did recover.

Before I left, I found myself on the horns of a dilemma because I was torn between wanting to remain in London to cherry-pick the oodles of cultural events on offer or, whilst I had the money, visit the Outer Hebrides. I chose the latter because I was intrigued by this remote string of windswept islands, located off the west coast of Scotland. And afterwards, I’d return to the Findhorn Foundation.

For many years, I had been dyeing spun wool with plants, then using the yarn to knit, crochet or weave one-of-a-kind garments. More recently, I’d shared my dyeing skills whilst lecturing in Toowoomba. With a solid understanding of the processes, albeit using Australian plants, I was interested to see how natural dyes were used to colour the wool that was spun and then woven into the highly sought-after Harris Tweed.

I took the overnight bus to Oban, a small town on the west coast of Scotland. Next morning, Saturday, I set up camp at the B&B that’d become my home away from home since I began exploring the west coast. Next, I booked accommodation on Barra, the southern-most island of the Outer Hebridean chain.  From Barra, I planned to work my way north.

Map of the Outer Hebrides—I began my peregrinations
at the bottom—Barra
Image: ferryto.net

With travel arrangements in place and time on my hands, I amused myself by creating a series of over-the-top flower arrangements, inspired by Victorian paintings of tangled displays of fresh flowers and sometimes fruit. The wherewithal came from my host’s allotment, which was chockers with masses of summer blooms as well as blackberries.

A Victorian painting of a bucolic arrangement of summer flowers I endeavoured to imitate with flowers 
from Jeremy’s allotment
Image: Pinterest

A Victorian painting of a bucolic arrangement of summer
flowers I endeavoured to imitate with flowers from
Jeremy’s allotment
Image: Pinterest

Climbing the path to the allotment, I passed an austere grey stone building that was the Free (High) Church of Scotland. On my return, with armfuls of flowers and blackberry canes, I took note of the Sunday service times. Next morning curiosity compelled me to make the fateful decision to attend the service, which was an experience I’d never forget.

The congregation gathered, seated on rows of uncomfortable wooden pews facing the pulpit. The service was simple enough, but the sermon was something else. From the pulpit, the minister’s booming voice crashed over us in waves and I noticed others like myself, hunkering down in an attempt to avoid the full force of his fire and brimstone delivery. This wasn’t at all what I expected!

Oban’s Free (High) Church of Scotland
Image: Source unknown

After the service I wanted to escape quickly but was delayed at the front door by the minister who asked, “Will you be returning to worship?” I managed to collect my scattered wits sufficiently to stammer, “I’m a tourist.”  I reluctantly shook his hand before scurrying back to the B & B, for a strong cup of tea.

Next day the Outer Hebridean adventure began.

I took the ferry from Oban to Castlebay, at the southern end of Barra. It was a stormy crossing. But once I’d regained my land legs, I made a bee-line for the pub, where I began asking around for islanders producing handwoven fabric using plant-dyed wool. My enquiries proved fruitless. It seemed most of the textile activity was further north. I was given the name of one Marion Campbell, a respected weaver of the famous Harris tweed who lived in a croft outside of Tarbert, at the top end of Harris.

To get there I needed to cross the islands of South Uist, Benbecula and North Uist. To do this, I took a number of ferries and buses. The buses were smallish, picking up and dropping off passengers and packages along the way. As we rumbled northwards, I heard the Gaelic language spoken for the first time. I was thrilled to hear it because before leaving home I tried to learn a little in preparation for my forthcoming Scottish adventure. As I already spoke a couple of other languages in addition to English, I thought it’d be worth a go, but the dream was short-lived and I had to admit defeat. As a result, I was decidedly envious to hear my fellow passengers chattering away—switching effortlessly from Gaelic to English and back again as we bounced along.

I was relieved to finally arrive in Tarbert and make my way to Marion’s house. She was expecting me and, following a tour of her workshop I watched as she removed an eight-meter length of newly-woven cloth from her loom, after which she invited me to join her the next day to ‘waulk the tweed’. Waulking is a centuries-old method of cleaning, shrinking and softening woollen cloth. It’s traditionally done by women using their hands to thump wet soapy cloth against a waulking board, whilst singing waulking songs.

Marion’s pine waulking board was deeply rutted along the grain lines from years and years of use. We sat on opposite sides of the board and began thumping the cloth against it over and over, before sliding the cloth sideways to work the next section.

Crofter women waulking the tweed. Traditional waulking songs were sung whilst washing and shrinking
the wet yardage
Image: sknitwizard.com

Crofter women waulking the tweed. Traditional waulking
songs were sung whilst washing and shrinking the wet
yardage
Image: sknitwizard.com

Whilst we worked, I peppered her with questions about the natural dyestuffs she used to colour her sheep’s fleece. Chatting was a welcome distraction, as it took my mind off the pain I was experiencing in my hands from the repeated thumps down onto the waulking board. When we finished, the cloth was rinsed in cold water, wrung out and draped across a rock outcrop to dry in the sun.     

Next, Marion showed me the two varieties of lichen she collected from the rocks on her land. The colour coming from the lichens was dependent upon the mordant (a bonding agent) used, giving shades of deep red, purple-brown or rusty orange. She then went on to list the other plants that she didn’t bother with, because extracting the colour was very time-consuming. Instead, she used acid dyes for strong greens and blues.

Miss Campbell using a spoon to scrape crotal lichen probably Parmelia
omphalodes or P. saxatilis from the rocks on her land near Drinishader
on Harris
Image: Isabella Whitworth

Miss Campbell using a spoon to scrape crotal lichen
probably Parmelia omphalodes or P. saxatilis from the
rocks on her land near Drinishader on Harris
Image: Isabella Whitworth

My two-day textile intensive with Marion covered all the processes she used to produce Harris Tweed. Before Scotland, I’d toyed with the idea of documenting the natural dyes used by the Scots to colour wool for hundreds of years. But there was no need because Marion drew my attention to a recent research project that had already recorded the plants and the processes used to extract colour from each. I was somewhat relieved as I could now release the idea and move on to other things.

Miss Campbell threading her loom prior to weaving
Image: Vatisker Tours

My textile quest complete, I decided to skip Lewis, the last island in the Outer Hebrides chain, and took the ferry to the Isle of Skye. Thankfully, it was a calm crossing and the day was warm and still—just perfect for a final tourist fling.

To explore the island, I rented a car with a couple of girls I’d met on the ferry. We beetled around, overawed by the rugged grass-covered hills and stunning ocean views.

We made a point of visiting Armadale Castle, stronghold of Clan MacDonald, and then on to a craft shop that stocked quality Scottish-made items, with the emphasis on Scottishness.

Dramatic cliff formations on the Isle of Skye
Image: Wikipedia

Dramatic cliff formations on the Isle of Skye
Image: Earth Trekkers

I farewelled my travelling companions at Broadford and then took a bus across the Skye Bridge and on to Cluny via Inverness. I’d been travelling the remote Outer Hebrides for a week, though it seemed much longer. It was as if time had stood still. As a result, my wanderlust had been tempered for the time being and I was now ready to embark on my next adventure. To complete an additional four-week block at Cluny as a Living in Community Guest, followed by the eight-week Orientation program. In my mind Orientation was simply a formality because for me, Foundation membership was a foregone conclusion.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Harris tweed weavers: From a distance I’d assumed that I’d find a scattering of weavers using traditional dyeing and weaving techniques on the Outer Hebrides. But I was mistaken. Marion Campbell was the last person practicing the old ways of colouring wool and then spinning it into yarn for both warp and weft. The highly desirable yardage she wove could carry the prestigious Harris Tweed label. Only cloth woven on the islands of the Outer Hebrides using Scottish grown wool, were permitted to carry the label.

The finished product with printed certification
Image: National Geographic

World famous Harris Tweed label
Image: WordPress.com

When I realised Marion Campbell was the last weaver dyeing the wool she used to make Harris tweed, I became concerned. But my concern was unfounded because an authority on natural dyes, Sue Grierson, had already done the job. Her book, the colour cauldron—the history and use of dyes in Scotland was published in 1986 and, decades on, remains the most comprehensive publication on the subject.

Sue Grierson’s book written in 1986 documenting the
history and use of natural dyes in Scotland
Image: Abe Books

https://www.sugrierson.com

Scotland: From the outset, I felt quite at home, and I wonder if the feeling of belonging was possibly due to Scottish ancestry on my mother’s side—the Melville and Leslie clans.

As I wandered the country, I became more aware of the diverse lifestyles of the Scot’s—whether they lived on remote islands or in regional town centres, and I found it all fascinating.

In my wanderings I also noticed it was getting colder. It was now late September and the multi-coloured autumn leaves swirling around my feet, signalled the advent of winter.  I did wonder how I’d cope with the cold, the snow, the ice and the darkness. As it turned out, I’d reason for concern.    

FACTS:
Marion Campbell: When interviewed by Washington Post journalist in 1990, Marion told him, “I’m the last person doing it the really old way—dyeing my own fleeces, carding, making my own yarn, weaving—I even do my own ‘waulking’ to clean the tweed and shrink it a bit. That takes a lot of stomping about in Wellington boots!” Marion used her feet to waulk the tweed, replacing the group of women helpers needed to do the job, in days gone by.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/travel/1990/08/26/amid-the-crofters-the-weavers-of-tweed/

The last length of Harris tweed woven by Miss Marion Campbell B.E.M.
Image: Harris Tweed and Knitwear

Marion Campbell B.E.M. (1910-1996)
Marion Campbell weaving video
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ly-lFONTuGk
https://isabellawhitworth.com/2017/06/30/a-harris-way-of-life/.

Mordants: help a dyestuff to bond with protein fibres like wool, silk, alpaca, cashmere and camel. The term comes from the Latin mordere ‘to bite’. The most commonly used mordants are alum, chrome, copper and tin. All mordants, other than alum, are toxic and must be handled with great care.

Harris Tweed—a brief history: Originally this fabric was handwoven by crofters for clothing to protect them from the bitter cold caused by fierce Atlantic winds blowing across the Outer Hebrides. Surplus cloth was bartered, eventually becoming a form of currency amongst the islanders. And it was not unusual for rents to be paid in woven blankets or lengths of cloth.

By the end of the 18th century in remote parts of Scotland, spinning yarn from the fleece of local sheep and weaving it into cloth was a very important cottage industry. In the late 1980s, the market crashed. But those weavers who stuck with producing Harris Tweed were rewarded when, in the late 1990s the fashion world’s interest was re-kindled and Harris Tweed became the ‘in’ thing. In 2005 Nike used the fabric for their range of footwear, once again giving the industry a major boost.

Nike shoes incorporating Harris Tweed and Harris Tweed labels
Image Blogger.com:

The history of Harris tweed:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harris_Tweed
https://www.harristweedandknitwear.co.uk/a-family-of-harris-tweed-weavers/

Looms used to produce Harris Tweed: Tweed was originally woven on a four-shaft flying shuttle floor loom like the one used by Marion Campbell until her death in 1996.

In 1921, the ‘single width’ Hattersley semi-mechanised treadle loom was introduced, speeding up the weaving process and a number are still in use. Today tweed weavers are supplied with a larger ‘double-width’ Bonas-Griffith Rapier loom.

Marion Campbell weaving video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ly-lFONTuGk

Clan Melville: the present seat of the 15th Earl of Leven & Melville is the Glenferness Estate, near Nairn.
https://www.scotclans.com/blogs/clans-lm/melville-clan-history
https://glenfernessestate.com/about-us/

Clan Leslie:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clan_Leslie

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 66: Meeting the relatives

I returned to London after visiting my parent’s hometown, where they’d lived with their families before they met, married and immigrated to Australia. A day trip to Watford had been an unexpectedly moving experience and I now understood something of my parents and their parents’ lives in this part of the world, before I was born. With yet another bucket-list tick, I had a couple more days in London before heading north west to explore the Outer Hebrides, after which I planned to return to Cluny Hill College to continue the Findhorn Foundation membership process.

I’d already given London a pretty good shake—knowing full-well that I may never again have the time nor the money to do more touristy stuff with the same intensity. As it was, I’d dashed here and there to see West End plays, concerts, art shows, textile exhibitions, art galleries, museums, St Paul’s Cathedral and St Mary-le-Bow church, Harrods, Fortnum and Mason, Marks and Spencers, the London Stock Exchange, Arpel and Van Cleef. With a couple of exceptions, my bucket list was covered.

A selection of the Crown jewels displayed in the basement of the Tower of London
Image: Pinterest

On my second last day, as a special treat, I took myself off to the Tower of London to see the Beefeaters, the ravens and the priceless Crown jewels. We stood waiting patiently in line, something I’d learnt to do since arriving in the UK, and ever so slowly snaked our way down into the bowels of the Tower to see the royal booty. And what an amazing sight it was, with umpteen pieces, all beautifully displayed behind bullet-proof glass. Our visit was unexpectedly eventful because one of the security guards inadvertently set off the alarms by touching the glass, whilst answering one of my numerous questions.

What happened next was like a scene from a James Bond movie. Sheets of grey steel silently slid down in front of the glass, leaving us in subdued light wondering what on earth was happening. There was no panic. We were instructed to stay put until the all clear sounded some ten minutes later, after which we watched spellbound as the protective steel sheets rose up into the ceiling, allowing us one last look at the astounding collection of crowns, tiaras and jewellery before we were escorted from the basement, somewhat bemused by the experience.

As my last day in London dawned, I was aware of the niggling sense of familial obligation I’d carried with me from Australia. I felt obliged to find out more about my mother’s family. For as long as I can remember, given the opportunity, my mother would regale us with stories about her father’s famous relatives. The same sketchy stories were told over and over about the descendants of silversmith, Peter George Wyon, who came to England from Germany with King George I in 1714. After which Peter and his descendants went on to design medals, coins and seals for the British Empire for generations. I was always a little ho-hum about my mother’s ‘famous family’ stories but as I’d only ever lived at the bottom of the world, I was in no position to question her claims. But now I was in London it was different.

My last day was a Thursday, so I decided to take the bull by the horns and begin a less than enthusiastic last-minute search for additional information about the Wyon family. I caught a mid-morning bus from Hackney to the city. Once on the bus I had a decision to make. Where to sit. Downstairs in the claustrophobic, smoke-free area or upstairs with the smokers and the view. On a coin toss, I opted to sit upstairs—where from the upper-deck windows I could see buildings outlined against the grey sky, people moving along the streets and grid-lock traffic, as we slowly stop-started our way into the city.

I slid into an empty seat. Once settled, I took note of my surroundings and was astounded to recognise a Toowoomba couple sitting in front of me. What are the odds? We’d worked together at the Institute before I left for the United Kingdom. Incredulous, we gawked at each other, speechless. After recovering from the shock, we caught up before I got off the bus to begin my Wyon quest.

I began at the London Museum and from there was directed to the British Museum. By luck, rather than good management I arrived to discover that all museum departments, including the Coin and Medal Department, were open to the public on Thursday afternoons, between 2:00 and 4:30. At the counter, I gingerly explained my quest after which, to my utter amazement, the Wyon expert (THE WYON EXPERT!) was summoned and before long the charming Mr Jones appeared.

The Main entrance to the British Museum home of the most comprehensive collection of Wyon medals,
coins, seals and dies
Image: YouTube

The Main entrance to the British Museum home of the
most comprehensive collection of Wyon medals, coins,
seals and dies
Image: YouTube

I explained who I was, where I was from and how I’d like to know more about my ancestors’ work. Mr Jones was effusive. I followed him through a rabbit warren of narrow passages to a windowless room where a security guard was seated. The walls of the room were lined with banks of one-metre-high polished wooden cabinets containing narrow drawers. Each drawer with two tiny brass pulls.

Coin storage similar to the British Museum’s system
Image: Pinterest

With a flourish, Mr Jones proceeded to pull out drawer after drawer after drawer, to reveal hundreds of coins, medals and dies—all part of the British Museum’s huge collection of the Wyon family’s output. Before long I became mesmerised, no longer able to take in the beauty of their work. Completely overwhelmed, I asked Mr Jones if there was a publication with examples of the Wyon’s work. He promptly produced a thick tome which contained page after page of images and descriptions for hundreds of coins and medals.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. So, my mother’s oft-told stories about her famous family were true. As I recalibrated my brain, I realised that there was no way I could take in this tsunami of numismatic information and that it was unlikely I’d ever visit again. As I considered my dilemma, I had a brainwave. I asked Mr Jones if it would be possible to photocopy the Wyon book and to my amazement, he agreed. Whilst he went off to make copies, I sat surrounded by my creative inheritance. The realisation was overwhelming.

As I waited, I began to fret about the cost of photocopying, wondering if I could afford it. When Mr Jones re-appeared with the photocopied pages, I felt obliged to ask him how much I owed. He waved my question aside saying, “With the compliments of the British Museum.” It was my lucky day! I was both chuffed and flabbergasted to receive the red-carpet treatment, thanks to my inherited DNA!

William Wyon (1795-1851) at work. He was Official Chief engraver at the Royal Mint from 1828 until his death Drawing by William 
Wyon’s eldest son, Leonard C Wyon in 1842 
Image: Royal Mint Museum

William Wyon (1795-1851) at work. He was Official Chief
engraver at the Royal Mint from 1828 until his death.
Drawing by William Wyon’s eldest son, Leonard C Wyon
in 1842
Image: Royal Mint Museum

William Wyon’s ‘Young Head’ or ‘bun head’ of Queen Victoria that was
used on coinage from 1860 onwards. This portrait was said to have been
Victoria’s favourite
Image: GB Classic Coins

William Wyon’s ‘Young Head’ or ‘bun head’ of Queen
Victoria that was used on coinage from 1860 onwards.
This portrait was said to have been Victoria’s favourite
Image: GB Classic Coins

At closing time that afternoon, I recall Mr Jones walked me to the Museum’s front door. I thanked him wholeheartedly before floating down the imposing stone steps on a cloud of both pride and disbelief. Mr Jones confirmed that my mother’s bragging was not a furphy after all and I sensed it’d take me a while to integrate the revelations that came from our meeting.

That evening, I carefully stowed my Wyon photocopies in my backpack, before taking the bus to Oban on the west coast of Scotland to begin a Cook’s tour of the Outer Hebrides, after which I planned to return to the Foundation. The bus ride gave me plenty of time to reflect upon my visit to the British Museum. Thanks to Mr Jones, I now had a deeper understanding of the considerable numismatic contribution made by the Wyons—my very own ancestors.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The British Museum: Sadly, I no longer have the photocopies that Mr Jones kindly provided. Somewhere along the way they got lost, as is often the case when moving from one side of the planet to the other, as I did for many years.

I was and remain extremely grateful to Mr Jones for confirming my creative inheritance. As a result, I now welcome the thought that my forbears may have bestowed upon me an innate creative legacy, one that I’ve utilised throughout my art-making career. My area of expertise is textiles, not numismatic design; but irrespective of the artistic discipline, good design, particularly composition, is paramount.

In retrospect I realise my early years were spent accumulating the skills and experience necessary to embark on a ridiculously daring project; that of designing, producing, promoting, marketing and touring textile artwork, describing who we are as Australians. Ten exhibitions in all, that have visited sixty Australian gallery and museum venues to date. The exhibitions are described in detail in later chapters. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
https://www.morleygrainger.com/

I have subsequently produced an artist’s book, titled My Family that includes a full family tree. I was delighted to discover I’m an eighth-generation descendant of the original Peter George Wyon. The tree shows that each generation since, has produced at least one medallist or engraver or sculptor or artist—skills passed from father to son but in my case, from mother to daughter. For me it’s humbling to belong to this talented family.

FACTS:
The Wyon dynasty: Recently retired Keeper of the British Museum’s Department of Coins and Medals, Philip Attwood, describes the Wyon family’s numismatic contribution thus:

“The Wyon family dominated the design and production of medals, coins and seals in nineteenth century Britain. Renowned around the world for their engraving skill, their commissions included official government works as well as many private medals for institutions and individuals. Together these works document a broad spectrum of life in Victorian England. Over the course of the 19th-century three members of the family became Chief Engraver at the Royal Mint.”

http://goldsovereignexpert.com/info/william-wyon/

List of 25 Wyons involved in creative professions
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wyon_family
http://www.victorianweb.org/sculpture/wyonw/index.html

Queen Victoria and the Wyons:
https://britanniacoincompany.com/blog/coinage-portraits-of-queen-victoria/

Zarine Parakh’s 2025 essay on the Wyon’s work titled Mint to Be: Mint To Be: How the Wyon Family Left Its Mark on Coin Designs Around the World
https://intelligentcollector.com/mint-to-be-how-the-wyon-family-left-its-mark-on-coin-designs-around-the-world/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 65: Kicking over the traces

I had six weeks of freedom before returning to Scotland to continue the process of becoming a member of the Findhorn Foundation. I decided to make my way back to London as I still had a longish list of things to do in and around the city—things I’d not managed to do earlier in the year, when I first arrived from Australia.

At the top of my list was to visit the town of Watford in Hertfordshire, in the hope of locating the homes, where my parents had lived before they married. That is, if they were still standing. Their marriage certificate provided both addresses: 91 Rickmansworth Road for my mother and 28 Woodland Drive for my father.

My mother’s hand-coloured etching of her family home in Watford Herts C 1935

I took the train from Euston Station for the half hour trip. As we rumbled along, I carefully reviewed my map of Watford and very soon after arriving I’d located both houses, only two and a half kilometres apart. Whilst standing in front of each house, I tried to visualise my parents as young people living their lives within the sturdy walls that sheltered their individual hopes, dreams and aspirations, before they decided to marry. Here I was in the tranquil post-WW1 surroundings my parents left behind when they decided to immigrate to Australia.

Having accomplished my mission, I strolled down to visit the picturesque St. Mary’s Church, where my parents were married.

With my birth family uppermost in my thinking as I write, now is a good time to briefly background the two families who came together on Saturday 25th January 1936.

MY MOTHER: Ethel Vera Wyon (1914–2008)
My mother came from a cultured trilingual family.

HER MOTHER: Gertrud Julie Selma Thiele (1869-1961)
My maternal grandmother was a petite, feisty German woman from a cultured Silesian family. She trained as a dancing teacher after which she moved to Dublin where, for many years, she ran a profitable dancing school for well-to-do children. I remember my mother saying the Irish loved her mother because both the Irish and the Germans disliked the English!

Gertrud Julie Selma Thiele as a young woman
Image: Grainger family photographs

HER FATHER: Melvill Walter Thornton Wyon (1883-1938)
My maternal grandfather taught French and German at the Watford Boys Grammar School. He came from a long line of die engravers and medallists, many of whom worked at the Royal Mint and elsewhere for 150 years.

Melvill Walter Thornton Wyon as a young man
Image: Grainger family photographs

My maternal grandparents met at a boarding house for posh single folk. Gertrud was 42 and Melvill was 28 when they decided to marry in 1911.

Because of the 14-year age difference, they chose to marry in London, rather than running the risk of scandalising their Dublin social set.

My maternal grandparents Gertrud and Melvill’s wedding photograph 1911. The happy couple surrounded by family
Image: Grainger family photographs

As a married woman, Gertrud no longer ran her dancing school. Instead, she took up household management duties. I assume her business was leased or sold, and the proceeds used to set up their home in Dublin.

Three years later, when Gertrud was 45, she gave birth to my mother.

My mother, Ethel Vera Wyon with her nurse at 25 Fitzwilliam Square Dublin 1915
Image: Grainger family photographs

Two years after my mother was born, Melvill enlisted as an officer with the 2nd South Staffordshire regiment and moved to France. He was quickly promoted to regimental adjutant before being wounded during Operation Michael in March 1918. Lucky to survive, he returned to Dublin to recuperate.
https://www.morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/tweets-from-the-trenches/

After WW1 Gertrud’s brother, academic Johannes Thiele, died in Halle, Germany (third from the left standing in the back row of the wedding photograph). Gertrude was the major beneficiary of his considerable Estate. My mother explained that after WW1 it was impossible to take money or assets out of Germany, so Gertrud’s practical solution was to move the family to Halle to spend her inheritance.

That accomplished the family then moved to Durban, South Africa where Melvill’s mother lived. She was then married to her second husband Leo Illingworth. Melvill was drawn there by talk of lucrative business opportunities but unfortunately, his efforts were fruitless. My mother told me of his unsuccessful attempt at running guns. How much truth there is in her story, I cannot tell.

I gather that by 1927, most of Gertrud’s inheritance was gone, so the family had no choice but to return to the United Kingdom for Melvill to take up a language teaching position at the Watford Boys’ Grammar School. Gertrud had sufficient funds remaining to buy a house and enrol my mother at Northfields School for Girls as a day scholar.  

So, after living in Germany and South Africa for some years, Watford became the setting for the next chapter of their lives.

Now on to my father and his family.

MY FATHER: John Edward Webb Ginger (later Grainger) (1908-1993)
My father was an electrical engineer and inventor.

HIS MOTHER: Annie Isabella Deller
My paternal grandmother was a homemaker, the expected role for women from middle-class families at that time. My father had an older sister. He told me the story of their childhood experience with an au pair who only spoke to them in French. After she left, they made a pact, agreeing never to speak French again. His sister, my only aunt, died of a botched appendectomy. These few anecdotal snippets are all that I have of my father’s early life.

HIS FATHER: John Ginger
My paternal grandfather was an accountant who, for many years, held the responsible position of Watford Borough Treasurer.

I know little about my father’s family for a number of reasons. My father, a mercurial character, cut himself off from his birth family as a result of a disagreement sometime after they moved to Australia. Another reason was that my father left us when I was nine. As a result, he wasn’t around to answer the inevitable string of questions a growing child asks when wanting to construct a picture of absent grandparents living on the other side of the world. I don’t recall ever seeing framed photographs of his parents in our house or in photo albums. It was as though they didn’t exist.

So now let’s get back to my parents’ story.

My mother was Art School trained, encouraged to follow in the footsteps of her father’s artistic family. She was 22 when she met my father who was six years older, at a social function somewhere in Watford.

My mother at Art School--first from the right tucked in behind the fella seated in the foreground
Image: Grainger family photographs

Once in a moment of candour, she confessed that she was in love with someone else at the time but it didn’t work out. She then took up with my father and they quickly became pregnant.

A hastily organised wedding followed and my brother, Selwyn Illingworth Webb Ginger, was born in July 1936.

My parents wedding—John Edward Webb Ginger and Ethel Vera Wyon 25 January 1936
Image: Grainger family photographs

My father was extremely pleased with the union because, as they used to say and probably still do, he’d ‘married above his station’. I assume my mother was happy too—grateful to have a father for her unborn child. There’s no doubt that the stigma of having a child out of wedlock would have impacted negatively on my mother and her family, the result of the rigid societal attitudes that controlled women’s lives at that time.

My father was an electrical engineer. After graduating, he couldn’t find a job in London so, out of desperation, he applied for one with Siemens Schuckert, a German industrial conglomerate, wanting a manager for one of their subsidiary companies in Sydney, Australia.

The interviewers were keen, as my father’s qualifications and experience were what they wanted but there was a major stumbling block. He was told that all the correspondence and technical specifications would be written in German. But my father didn’t speak, or read or write in German. Then and there, he agreed to learn the language, and three months later, his second interview was conducted entirely in German. Of course, the job was his and with it the die was cast. My parents and my brother were on their way to the Antipodes after three-months with the Siemens office in Nuremberg.

Whilst in Nuremberg my parents attended an Adolph Hitler rally. Years later, my mother described the experience as terrifying. She was so relieved to be on the way to Australia, well away from the rampant nationalism that pervaded Germany prior to WW2.

The Ginger family departed wintery Europe in late 1936 and sailed into summery Sydney early the next year.

The fancy cover of RMS Mooltan’s Christmas dinner menu
Image: Grainger family archive

The P&O RMS Mooltan’s 1936 Christmas dinner menu
Image: Grainger family archive

The P&O RMS Mooltan’s Christmas dinner menu signed by those at my parents’ table. Note my brother’s name, Selwyn, added below
my father’s signature at the bottom of the page
Image: Grainger family archive

The P&O RMS Mooltan’s Christmas dinner menu signed
by those at my parents’ table. Note my brother’s name,
Selwyn, added below my father’s signature at the bottom
of the page
Image: Grainger family archive

They brought with them the belief that they could handle any challenge this new country presented; the weather, the customs, the food and the Australian accent, whilst at the same time building business and social networks in a city where they knew no-one.

In September 1939 WW2 was declared. For reasons not discussed, at the end of 1941 my father was arrested and interned as an Enemy Alien at the Liverpool Rifle Range Internment Camp out of Sydney. As a result, my mother, who’d been a housewife since arriving in Australia, suddenly had to fend for herself and my brother. She found a job as a sewing machinist and later collected rents for a Real Estate Agent.

By the end of 1942 my father was released without charge and I’m told he spent the rest of the War in the Mitchell Library researching my mother’s famous family. But I’ve no way of confirming the validity of this statement.

At the end of The War, 50,000 Australians had been killed or wounded fighting in either Europe or the Pacific. As a result, Australia’s Minister for Immigration, Arthur Calwell, saw the need to increase Australia’s population and quoined the unforgettable phrase, ‘populate or perish’. My parents were happy to oblige and as a result, I was born in Sydney at the end of 1948.

Fast forward to London in 1984.

My pilgrimage had quickly turned up my parents’ family homes as well as the church where they were married. But as I found myself in Watford with time on my hands, I wanted to make the most of what would probably be the first and last time I’d visit Watford. So, I decided to walk down to the Town Hall where my paternal grandfather had worked for many years. Here I struck it lucky. I turned up the name of my grandfather’s much younger, recently retired colleague who was happy to reflect on their time working together. This was the icing on the cake.

At the end of a full and fascinating day, I returned to London with a deeper understanding of my parent’s roots and I was so glad that I’d taken the time to kick over the traces.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Watford: Spending half a day in Watford some 48 years after my parents left for Australia, allowed me to experience their tidy town with its well cared for houses and established gardens. It seemed not much had changed since my parents left in 1936.

I discovered that summer in the United Kingdom was like winter in Australia. As I wandered the streets of Watford, I found myself thinking about the difficulties my parents faced exchanging the spring, summer, autumn and winter of the northern hemisphere for the relentless sunshine and cloudless skies they experienced in Sydney.

My mother never did forget the seasons. When she was maudlin and homesick, she’d wax lyrical about the Bluebells flowering in the woods, not far from her house in early spring. After visiting Watford, I could more easily picture her life there.

Carpet of Bluebells flowering in Watford in early spring
Image: Wallpaper Flare

My family: My visit to Watford brought me to consider how different our lives could’ve been if my parents hadn’t decided to move to Australia. We didn’t have many relatives on either side of the family because my parents were, in effect, only children. So, with no aunts, uncles, nor cousins, the only family I missed out on knowing were my grandparents, none of whom came to visit us in Sydney. But as my parents gradually settled into their new life, new friends appeared to replace blood relatives.

To my knowledge my father didn’t return to Watford, but, in 1957 my mother did. She popped in on her way back to Australia, after spending six months studying at the Rhode Island School of Design in the United States. Her widowed mother was still living in the family home. In 1961, my grandmother who was 94, decided to come to Australia for my brother’s wedding, but she died on board ship and was buried at sea. Interestingly, in her Will she asked that no memorial be erected. So her wish was fulfilled.

Family history: My upbringing is an example of how children often obtain more detailed information about their mother’s relatives than their fathers. A likely explanation is that child raising almost exclusively falls to women.

Marriage: I’ve chosen not to marry nor have children because I wasn’t prepared to risk recreating my dysfunctional family. Since making my decision I’ve noticed that many people who’ve experienced dysfunction growing up, are determined to turn the tide by creating a loving, supportive family. But sometimes the plan backfires and family life becomes a rerun of their own painful upbringing.

In my case, I knew deep down that more than anything else I wanted to be a practicing visual artist, a journey best done alone.

FACTS:
The Wyon Family:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wyon_family

Watford Parish Church: is an elegant 15th Century stone building faced with flint.

St Mary’s—Watford Church of England Parish Church
Image: Wikipedia

St Mary’s Church Watford—interior
Image: Wikipedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Mary%27s_Church,_Watford

Arthur Calwell: was the Australian politician who oversaw the post-WW2 immigration scheme.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Calwell

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 64: Hallowed ground

It was mid-1984 when I left Cluny bound for London, as I’d six weeks of freedom before returning to the Foundation for a second four-week block as a Living in Community Guest. This block would lead into the eight-week Orientation program for those wanting to join the Foundation. For me, it was a foregone conclusion that I’d be accepted for membership but it was a question of jumping through the necessary hoops to get there and learning a lot along the way. But, whilst I could, I wanted to continue exploring the United Kingdom—the land of my forebears.

More time in London offered me the opportunity to visit friends, both old and new, who were happy to give me a bed as well as provide ‘on the ground’ knowledge of the city. This was invaluable for me as a new-chum, eager to work through my bucket list before returning to live in Scotland permanently.

There were two bucket list standouts, both of which were pilgrimages of sorts. The first was to visit the town where my parents were married and the second, to visit the mecca of cricket, the Lords Cricket ground.

Lords came first, because I’d heard that Sri Lanka was playing England there. Even though it was the fifth and final day of the Test, I jumped at the chance.

The hallowed turf of Lords Cricket Ground with a game in progress and the stands chock-full of cricket
fans
Image: The Guardian

The hallowed turf of Lords Cricket Ground with a game in
progress and the stands chock-full of cricket fans
Image: The Guardian

So why was it so important for me to visit Lords? To explain, I wasn’t raised with cricket because my parents had no interest in sport. As a result, my exposure to the game came late, thanks to my first live-in partner. He was a sporty fellow who as a schoolboy, had played the game reasonably well. Over summer we watched the occasional Test on a black and white TV. As the game is often uneventful, even boring, he had time to explain the basics and as a result, I too developed an interest in cricket. But I lacked his deep understanding of the game and the players that came from years of passionate fandom.

But, to be perfectly honest, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to witness a Test match—any Test match—played at Lords. Why? Because I wanted to be able to say I’d been there. Henceforth I would be able to wax lyrical about visiting Lords, the hallowed ground of cricket, thereby gaining undeserved ‘cred’ amongst the numerous cricket tragics in my circle of friends back home.

But I digress.

I took the train to Lords. By the time I arrived at the ground most of the excitement was over. The players were tired and the match result was a done-deal—a draw—but last day tickets were cheap. The ground was mostly empty apart from clusters of faithful Sri Lankan supporters, who were thrilled that their cricket team had finally been given full membership of the International Cricket Council and, as a result, were revelling in the last day of their team’s very first Test on British soil.

As I didn’t own a camera, I made a series of small colour drawings of both the players and spectators on a pocket-sized drawing pad whilst sitting near a group of vocal Sri Lankan fans.

An hour or so later, I was in need of a leg stretch, so I strolled out of the ground and around the back of the buildings where I met an injured Sri Lankan cricketer on crutches with a bandaged foot. He was obviously bored as the outcome of the match was a foregone conclusion and he introduced himself as D.S. de Silva.

It was a still, warmish, sunny day, unusual for the United Kingdom, and a blessed relief for two people who were unaccustomed to the cold. We stood together chatting in the sunshine as passers-by acknowledged de Silva with a greeting or a wave, some occasionally stopping to commiserate about the Test outcome.  Peter West was one of them—a highly respected Cricket commentator, who, when we were introduced, shook my hand politely. West’s laser-like focus was on de Silva and he hung on every word, hoping for a scoop to include in his next broadcast. When West moved on, we were alone again and de Silva cheekily asked me for my telephone number. I was so wrong-footed by his request, that I gave it to him and from that day on for the duration of my London stay I received daily, sometimes twice daily, telephone updates from wherever the Sri Lankan team were playing around England. Not that we had much to talk about because, as I’ve already explained, my knowledge of cricket was limited. Undeterred, on his return to London, he invited me to dinner at an Indian restaurant not far from the team’s hotel and I accepted because I love Indian food.

Sadly, my lasting memory of the evening was one of crushing disappointment. As a gesture of good will, I chose the best of my Lords drawings to give to D.S. over dinner. To my horror, on receipt of my charming little drawing, he glanced at it briefly before folding it into four and sliding it into his top pocket. I was devastated. In the same way that I knew little about cricket it was obvious he knew little about the handling or care of artwork on paper and I didn’t see it as my place to explain. I managed to get to the end of the meal before farewelling him after which I took my shattered creative spirit back to where I was staying. The shock of the experience remains with me still, a reminder of an all-time art career low. My brush with cricketing fame had had an unexpectedly demoralising outcome.

Lords 1984—Sri Lankan cricket team D.S. de Silva in the front row—second from the right circled in yellow
Image: Photo by Patrick Eagar/Popperfoto via Getty Images

Lords 1984—Sri Lankan cricket team D.S. de Silva in
the front row—second from the right circled in yellow
Image: Photo by Patrick Eagar/Popperfoto via Getty Images

Some days later, having regained my good humour, I was ready to tackle my second pilgrimage. This time to visit the town of Watford, north of London to locate the houses from which my parents were married in January 1936. Their Marriage Certificate provided me with a wealth of information including the addresses of their family homes. Before setting off, I did wonder what I’d discover when I got there.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The United Kingdom: On my arrival in 1984, I was surprised to feel a sense of belonging that felt both strange and yet, at the same time comforting. Even though I was born in Australia, I was well aware of my parents’ connection to the culture and traditions of their parents and so on, back over hundreds of years. In addition, I became conscious of the fact that something historical had occurred on every square inch of Britain for thousands of years, with the important events recorded. This was in marked contrast to the Australian continent where, before the arrival of the British, the pre-literate Indigenous Nations recorded their history orally. When the British arrived in 1788 their activities were documented by those of the new arrivals who were literate.

D.S. de Silva: I was somewhat bewildered by D.S.’s attention and I didn’t understand why he continued to call me, a complete stranger, every day. I assumed he was bored as the result of his injury. After the folded drawing incident, I declined his subsequent phone calls as I was still smarting from having my artistic endeavours trashed.

FACTS:
Lords Cricket Ground: is located in St. John’s Wood, London and is widely regarded as the ‘Home of Cricket’. It is named for its founder, Thomas Lord who established the first cricket ground in 1787. The ground is owned by Marylebone Cricket Club and is the home of the Middlesex County Cricket Club, the England and Wales Cricket Board and the European Cricket Council. The ground can hold 30,000 spectators. Lord’s is also home to the world’s oldest sporting museum.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord%27s

History of the Sri Lankan Test team:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Sri_Lankan_cricket_team

Test Cricket broadcasting in Australia: TV was introduced into Sydney and Melbourne to coincide with the 1956 Melbourne Olympics, and it wasn’t long after that Test cricket was televised to a cricket-obsessed nation.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Television_in_Australia

D.S. de Silva: known as D.S. in cricketing circles, he was a former Sri Lankan cricketer, who played in both Test and Oh De Eye matches.

D.S.de Silva more recently
Image: Cricket Country

Described as a leg-spinning all-rounder on the tour of Pakistan in 1982, he became the first Sri Lankan bowler to take five wickets in a Test innings. His last Test was Sri Lanka versus England in August 1984, when I met him. He’s remained involved in Sri Lankan cricket for over forty years, as a coach and a selector. Most recently, he was appointed Sri Lankan Ambassador to Poland.
https://cricketique.wordpress.com/2015/07/17/ds-de-silva-a-mahindian-man-of-cricketing-journeys/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 63: Back to Cluny

For some weeks I’d been staying with a group of Findhorn Foundation people on Erraid, a small island that was a stone’s throw from both Mull and Iona, on the west coast of Scotland. At the outset I’d really enjoyed the unique island lifestyle but the longer I stayed, the more obvious the discordant interpersonal dynamics became. There appeared to be little hope of resolution and I confess I was happy to return to Cluny.

Cluny Hill College Forres Scotland
Image: Blogger.com

Even though my Erraid experience had caused a bit of a wobble, I’d signed up for the four-week Living in Community Guest, (LCG) program, designed to give a deeper experience of day-to-day life in the community for those, like me, considering membership.

Just like the members, we LCGers worked two shifts a day Monday to Friday. I returned to Cluny Maintenance and for my first shift, my renovating experience proved useful as we blitzed a room for painting—sanding the walls, skirting boards, architraves and window frames before washing down all surfaces. A Member focalised us for the morning. Earlier, he told me that he’d worked with his father who was an interior decorator, so he was able to organise us to do what had to be done quickly and efficiently. I spent the remainder of the week sanding, undercoating and painting a set of wooden gates at the bottom of the garden.

On Saturday morning, it was change-over-day across the Foundation and Cluny Housecare went into overdrive. There were rooms to be cleaned and 100 beds to be stripped and remade in readiness for the next week’s intake of guests. As it was high summer, all the Foundation programs were booked out, and Cluny was bulging at the seams.

Some Saturday mornings I worked with a Member who was a kindred spirit. She was a strong, practical, artistic English woman. Our best-ever Saturday morning effort was stripping and remaking 35 beds in two hours. What a team! I’d later discover she was a child of the famous Bloomsbury Group’s outer circle.

From noon on Saturday, the rest of the weekend was our own.  As I’d be living at Cluny for the next four weeks, it was time to consider a creative project because my fingers were itching to make something. Even though I’d brought my tiny Elna Lotus sewing machine with me from Australia, I felt the urge to knit rather than sew.

A fine example of a traditional hand knitted fisherman’s guernsey
Image: Blogger.com

Now that I was living in Scotland, I decided to have a crack at knitting a traditional fishermen’s guernsey. I was well aware that the Isle of Guernsey knitters had been making sweaters since the 15th century, using plain and purl stitches to create an intricate all-over pattern.

I found a pattern using 4 ply Emu-brand wool, manufactured in the United Kingdom. As a recent arrival from the Antipodes, it did strike me as strange to be buying British manufactured knitting wool named after a flightless Australian bird. Now I had a pattern, the wool and the needles, I was ready to begin a demanding knitting project that involved a lot of counting and focussed concentration.

4 ply Emu knitting wool
Image: Source unknown

I soon discovered that tennis was a down-time activity on offer at Cluny. Two courts left over from the 4-star grandeur of the Cluny Hill Hotel in its heyday, had recently been refurbished. Two of the newest Members were keen tennis players and they invited me to join them for regular late-afternoon hit-outs. We laughed a lot and our time together gave us the opportunity to get to know each other as we found our feet in this converted hotel, that was filled with people who had meditation, good intentions and vegetarian food in common.

My second four-week LCG block provided two distinctly different highlights worthy of comment. The first was an outing to 15th Century Cawdor Castle, a half hour drive from Cluny.

Aerial view of Cawdor Castle and surrounding grounds
Image: Cawdor Castle

I didn’t know what to expect, but from the minute we arrived I was captivated by the stark beauty of the castle’s stone buildings outlined against the blue sky. Next, I was taken by the bursts of summer colour throughout the extensive grounds that included a walled garden. It was as though I had been teleported to another time—an Outlander experience of sorts.

The main entrance to Cawdor Castle
Image: Secret Scotland Tour

Bedroom with handwoven wall hung tapestries
Image: Secret Scotland Tour

Cawdor Castle garden with flowering rhododendrons
Image: Discover Scottish Gardens

Cawdor Castle’s bluebell walk
Image: Issuu

I was told that each summer the Earl of Cawdor and his family move out of the castle and open a number of magnificently decorated rooms for tourists to ogle, offering commoners like me a rare peep into the lifestyle of the British aristocracy.

Lastly, we were funnelled out through the castle shop, chock-full of quality merchandise beautifully displayed. I loved it all. Cawdor Castle combines both natural and manmade beauty, as well as a serious dose of distorted history thanks to William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, in which the Thane of Cawdor and his wife, conspire to murder the King of Scotland and succeed. What treachery! What intrigue! Even if the plot isn’t factual, it certainly adds to the mystique of the place.

The second highlight came at one of our scheduled Thursday evening meetings. Eileen Caddy, co-founder of the Foundation was invited to join us. I clearly remember the rush of energy as she entered the room. As always, we began with a five-minute meditation. Eileen then shared that in her meditation she’d seen a pile of grain with the chaff being blown away by the wind and with the image came the words: “There is still much to be done.” and, “You are all precious.” Comforting words. I felt uplifted being in the presence of one of the venerated community founders—a rare brush with fame. Eileen Caddy presented as a motherly type, which was understandable, as she had eight children.

Eileen Caddy, co-founder of the Findhorn Foundation Scotland as I remember her in 1984
Image: YouTube

At the beginning of the LCG program, I made it clear to the Focaliser that I was seriously considering membership, after which he immediately put the wheels in motion. I was told I was required to have two interviews. The first with Guest Program Focalisers—those people with whom I’d spent most time since my arrival, and the second, with the Personnel Department.

The second interview began with a short meditation followed by a general discussion around a list of questions.

  • Had I lived in groups before?
  • How would I cope with sharing a room for a year?
  • Did I have enough money?
  • Was I aware I could make pocket money by making things in my own time? As a committed ‘maker’, I particularly liked the sound of this!

At the end of the interview, it was unanimously agreed that I should join the Orientation Program, designed to give prospective members an even deeper understanding of the Foundation’s past and present. The eight-week program was to begin at the end of October, but before it began, I was required to do yet another four-week LCG block.

So, with my interviews out of the way, and six weeks to kill, I headed for London to deal with a number of bucket list outstandings, to be followed by an Outer Hebridean adventure. I sensed after completing the Orientation Program, that unless something went terribly wrong, I’d be offered membership. If so, there’d be little time for gadding about the country—so best I do whatever gadding about I wanted to do whilst I had the chance. What fun!

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Findhorn Foundation: I left Australia with the intention of becoming a member of the Foundation. The catalyst for my decision had been the black and white photographic essay, titled Faces of Findhorn. As I leafed through the pages, I knew immediately that I’d visit, hopefully sooner rather than later and, if things worked out, I’d stay for a while.

As it turned out it was sooner rather than later because I decided to resign from my full-time lecturing job in Toowoomba and sell my Goulburn house. The cherry on the top was a hugely successful garage sale. As a result, the coffers were full to overflowing. But old habits die hard, so most of the booty was squirreled away before I headed off to Scotland.

When I arrived at Cluny, I did the obligatory Experience Week after which the ‘how-to-become-a-member’ process became clearer. But I was in no hurry because, before leaving Australia, I’d systematically tied off all loose ends, both physical and emotional, so there was nothing to draw me back prematurely.

In spite of the Erraid hiccough, I remained excited at the prospect of living with this group of likeminded people and maybe, just maybe, there would be an honest man amongst the membership for me. At this point I’d not yet given up hope of a mutually supportive permanent relationship because I was yet to discover I was already a complete human without a partner. But a partner did materialise—a most unlikely man 10 years my junior. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

FACTS:
The Bloomsbury Set: was a group of English writers, intellectuals, philosophers and artists in the first half of the 20th century, including Virginia Woolf, John Maynard Keynes, E. M. Forster and Lytton Strachey. My new friend’s parents were peripheral players in this group. As a result, she was raised surrounded by these heavy-hitting intellectuals and was a talented artist in her own right.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloomsbury_Group

The Guernsey sweater: was traditionally hand-knitted on the island of Guernsey by fisherman’s wives using patterns passed down from mother to daughter. There were two styles—the plain ‘working’ guernsey and a more decorative one for Sunday-best. They were often knitted by prospective wives to demonstrate their industrious nature.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guernsey_(clothing)

Cawdor Castle: the oldest parts of the castle date to the 14th century. Originally called Calder Castle, in the early 19th century, the Earl at the time, changed the name of the castle, town and clan overnight, as he was keen to capitalise on the Thane of Cawdor’s mention in Shakespeare’s famous play, Macbeth, written in 1606.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cawdor#:~:

But we know that Shakespeare’s story takes serious liberties with history. The historical King Macbeth ruled Scotland from 1040 to 1057, after his forces killed King Duncan 1 in a battle near Elgin.

According to the Cawdor Castle website, Macbeth was never Thane of Cawdor as this was an invention of the 15th-century writer Hector Boece. Moreover, [Calder] now Cawdor Castle, didn’t exist during the lifetimes of Macbeth or Duncan, and the castle is not explicitly mentioned in the play. The 5th Earl of Cawdor is quoted as saying, “I wish the Bard [Shakespeare] had never written his damned play!”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cawdor_Castle

Outlander: not to be confused with the Outlander film, is an historical drama television series based on the Outlander novels by Diana Gabaldon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Outlander_(TV_series)

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 62: Erraid

I left Cluny Hill College early on Saturday morning, having completed Experience Week and a second week as a Departmental Guest. These programs had been my introduction to the Findhorn Foundation. I left with Allan, a member who was driving back to Glasgow to visit his parents. From Glasgow I planned to take the train south to Ayr to rendezvous with my romantic interest from Sydney, a lawyer who was originally from Ireland.

Red line showing route from Findhorn to: Stranraer, then on to Glasgow, Oban and Mull
Image: University of Oxford

Red line showing route from Findhorn to: Stranraer, 
then on to Glasgow, Oban and Mull
Image: University of Oxford

Before leaving me at the Glasgow Central Station, Allan made sure I had a ticket and was waiting at the right platform for the Ayr train because I was in a bit of a daze after three weeks at Cluny.

I arrived at Ayr to find my friend had organised a swank hire car to take us on a whirlwind tour of the Lake District, Edinburgh, Inveraray and finally Stranraer where we said our goodbyes before he took a ferry back to Belfast.

After he departed, I stood on the railway platform feeling very alone and disheartened and wondering what to do next. I decided to take a train back to Glasgow and from there, another to Oban, a small port town on the west coast. From Oban, I hoped to resume my exploration of the more remote parts of the Inner Hebrides. But before I could do that, I needed a quiet place to collect myself and recover from a very strange weekend.

Aerial view of coastal Oban with McCaig’s tower in the foreground
Image: Facebook

Once aboard the train, a fellow passenger and frequent visitor to Oban suggested the charming B&B, run by an eccentric Scot. Thankfully, he’d space and was an unexpected breath of fresh air. He introduced me to his mother, an art school-trained artist who wove beautiful rag rugs from recycled fabrics. She was a kindred spirit and was just what the doctor ordered, with our lively conversation ranged across subjects of mutual interest including art, textiles and aesthetics, punctuated with many cups of tea.

Whilst staying at the B&B, I overheard another guest waxing lyrical about her recent time on Erraid a small, tidal island off the southwest tip of Mull and within cooee of the sacred Isle of Iona. Her description of island life certainly piqued my interest. I already knew that Erraid was owned by a Dutch family who visited for a month each summer. I also knew that between visits, Foundation people were caretakers of the island with a cow to milk, extensive food gardens to cultivate, fish to catch, as well as hosting paying guests. Listening to her descriptions I realised Erraid would be the perfect place for me to hang out, whilst I waited to continue the Foundation’s step-by-step membership process.

Map of Mull and surrounding islands including Erraid and Iona
Image: Research Gate

I telephoned Erraid, and yes, they had a guest space so I took a ferry from Oban to Mull, a bus to Fionnphort, followed by a pleasant two-kilometre walk through fields of yellow irises to the boat ramp pickup point, where I was met and rowed across to the island. That day the sea was calm.

Erraid’s stone cottages viewed from the boat ramp on Mull with a dinghy in the foreground
Image: Wikimedia

On dry land once more, I was billeted with a Mexican-American Member, who was living in one of the beautiful stone cottages that lined the ‘main street’. Erraid guests were expected to work so I made myself useful weeding peas, checking fishing nets, making candles and polishing stained glass Celtic crosses. The sale of candles and crosses provided additional income for the Foundation.

Before long, I discovered Erraid had a fascinating history as a result of its connection to 19th century lighthouse construction.

For hundreds of years the west coast of Scotland was a graveyard for ships caught in the fierce Atlantic storms. To protect the huge volume of shipping up and down the west coast of Britain, the nineteenth-century solution was to build lighthouses and place them strategically. Erraid was selected for the dry construction of the lighthouse for the Dhu Heartach skerry, a basalt rock protruding from the ocean, some twenty-two kilometres southwest of Erraid.

Stone cottages on Erraid with walled gardens in the foreground and the ‘main street’ between
Image: TSL Contractors

The first task was to build the shore station for the Dubh Artach lighthouse. Erraid granite was used to build a series of outbuildings and cottages to house the construction workers.

Next, the lighthouse construction platform was built and lastly, the lighthouse itself. When complete, each shaped and fitted block was carefully numbered, before being shipped out for re-erection on the skerry.

Erraid lighthouse platform with Dubh Artach under construction
with Mull in the distance C 1867
Image: stonewalls.ch

Erraid lighthouse platform with Dubh Artach under
construction with Mull in the distance C 1867
Image: stonewalls.ch

Dubh Artach lighthouse being erected on Dubh Heartach skerry in 1872
Image: Wikipedia

Outside of work time I wandered the island; was taught to row a dinghy, watched by a pod of curious harbour seals and, in fine weather, day-tripped to Iona to visit the restored abbey and other ancient sites, that were allegedly the remains of St Columba’s original community.

Curious harbour seals in the waters around Erraid watching me row the dinghy
Image: Reddit

But without a doubt the highlight of my time on Erraid was pitching in to help farmer Hugh shear his sheep.

The sheep were adjisted on Erraid to keep the grass down. Early on the appointed day, we waited for low tide before walking the sheep across the wet sand to the shearing shed on Mull. It was a matter of all bodies on deck to do this, both human and canine. Along the way it was made known that I was Australian and, by virtue of nothing more than my nationality, it was assumed that I knew everything there was to know about shearing.

Yet, I knew very little. My only experience was the result of a one-day roustabout gig in the New Guinea highlands, an unlikely place to learn about shearing.

Moving sheep from Erraid to Mull for shearing
Image: Visit Scotland

After yarding the sheep, we adjourned to the two-storey grey stone farmhouse for breakfast, where we were offered one or two ‘wee drams’ of Scotch whiskey with our cornflakes!

Now, fortified, the shearing began. There were three shearers and I was given the job of rolling the fleeces. To do this I was shown how. With the tip side up, each side of the fleece was folded in after which it was firmly rolled from the arse end to the neck. The neck wool was then stretched out to create a strap that was long enough to wrap around the roll and tuck in. The rolls were then stacked against the wall of the shed.

When the shearing was done, we waited for low tide to walk the sheep back across the sand to Erraid. After a good day’s work, we were tired but satisfied, knowing that by helping the farmer, we’d fostered a degree of goodwill in the Mull community.

I spent almost six weeks on Erraid but as the group dynamics became increasingly unpleasant, I chose to return to the B&B in Oban.

Undeterred by the Erraid experience, I returned to Cluny to fulfil the next set of requirements necessary to be considered for Foundation membership.

To be continued…

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Irish lawyer: our romantic dalliance was brief. I met him in Sydney whilst I was recovering from a disastrous six-year relationship, after which I was left wondering if there was a sincere man somewhere in the world for me. But the lawyer was not that man and I haven’t seen him since.

The Erraid Community in 1984: comprised seven adults and five children.

At the beginning of my six-week stay, it appeared that the membership was living by the Foundation principles of:

  • Honouring the earth and each other
  • Having a spiritual practice
  • Being conscious of self, each other, nature and personal interactions
  • Being committed to truth, kindness, love, and growth in these interactions

But the longer I stayed, the more obvious the cracks became. It occurred to me that the principles may have been good in theory but more difficult to implement in daily life. From my perspective, as an outsider, it seemed that the members were in need of additional conflict resolution tools.

Conflict resolution: After my ‘close-up and personal’ experience on Erraid, I wondered if patches of unresolved conflict would be unavoidable at both Cluny and The Park. No doubt, I’d find out as I knew the Foundation membership, willing to participate in this crazy experiment, was drawn all over the world—a dynamic fusion of personalities and cultures—seeking to live in harmony with the environment and each other. But, even with the best intentions things can go wrong. I hoped that the broader Foundation membership, mostly based at The Park would, in time, offer a wider choice of companions as well as the space to avoid folk who were ‘not my cup of tea’.

Time would tell.

FACTS:
Erraid: In 1977, a Dutch family bought the island. A year later, it was offered it to the Foundation on condition they’d maintain the infrastructure and vacate the island for one month over the summer holidays.

Dubh Artach: was one of many lighthouses designed by Thomas Stevenson, writer Robert Louis Stevenson’s father, who worked with the Northern Lighthouse Board.

The masonry work for the forty-four-metre tower was completed on Erraid in 1871, and re-erected on the skerry, a year later. The lantern, optical apparatus and fog bell was installed the following year. The cost of the Erraid shore station was over £10,000 and the lighthouse cost almost £66,000 Stirling.

Dubh Artach was the first British isolated rock lighthouse to use kerosene. The lighthouse was fully automated in 1971, with a helipad constructed a year later. The light is now remotely monitored by the Northern Lighthouse Board in Edinburgh.

Dubh Artach lighthouse now electrified with helipad on the left
Image: Pinterest

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dubh_Artach

https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Dubh_Artach

Author Robert Louis Stevenson: visited Erraid whilst Dubh Artach was being built under his father’s supervision. Erraid is a tidal island. Stevenson incorporated this natural tidal phenomenon into Kidnapped, his historical fiction adventure blockbuster for boys, published in 1886. The full title of his book is quite a mouthful.

It was titled: Kidnapped: Being Memoirs of the Adventures of David Balfour in the Year 1751: How he was Kidnapped and Cast away; his Sufferings in a Desert Isle; his Journey in the Wild Highlands; his acquaintance with Alan Breck Stewart and other notorious Highland Jacobites; with all that he Suffered at the hands of his Uncle, Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws, falsely so-called: Written by Himself and now set forth by Robert Louis Stevenson.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson

Saint Columba: was a sixth century Irish abbot and missionary evangelist, credited with taking Christianity to the pagan Picts and Scots in what is now Scotland.

St Columba founder of the Iona’s Christian community in 563AD
Image: The Conversation

Columba left Ireland in a small boat to cross the North Atlantic Ocean, with twelve religious companions, and made landfall on Iona in 563 AD.

They built a monastery which became an influential religious and political institution in the region for many centuries. St Columba died on Iona in 597 AD and was buried in the monastery he’d created.

After Columba’s death, the monastery continued to flourish. But, 200 years later in 795 AD, Viking raiders attacked for the first time. Then again in 802 and again in 806, and finally in 825 AD. During the 806 attack, 68 monks were massacred.

Artist’s interpretation of St. Columba leaving Ireland with 12 companions to take Christianity to Scotland
Image: The New York Times

Many of those who survived chose to relocate to Kells in Ireland possibly taking with them the famous illuminated manuscript, that later became known as the Book of Kells.

Illuminated manuscript detail from the Book of Kells C 800 AD
Image: Stonehill College

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book_of_Kells

But the Christian influence remained on Iona as the result of the Viking’s swift adoption of the Christian religion.

The Iona Abbey: the present-day abbey was built on the site of St. Columba’s monastery in 1200 AD by Viking Raghnall, as a centre for Benedictine worship. During the English

Reformation (1534 to 1603), all the Abbey’s assets were stripped, and the settlement fell into decline and ruin.

View of the remains of the Iona Abbey in the late 19th Century, showing the church, the tower and the 
claustral buildings as roofless ruins.
Image: Wikiwand

View of the remains of the Iona Abbey in the late 19th
Century, showing the church, the tower and the claustral
buildings as roofless ruins.
Image: Wikiwand

The Iona Abbey after years of restoration begun in 1938 by the Reverend George MacLeod
Image: The Times

In 1938 the Reverend George MacLeod, re-formed the Iona Community and began restoring the abbey. Since then, the Abbey has become a drawcard for Christian pilgrims and tourists from all around the world.

The restored St Oran’s chapel graveyard with the Iona Abbey in the background
Image: Mental Floss

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iona_Abbey

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 61: Inverewe Garden

My long-term plan was to become a member of the Findhorn Foundation, but I kept it quiet. To join, it was necessary to jump through a number of hoops in the form of programs that provided would-be members like me, the opportunity to fully experience all aspects of community life. It also offered the membership a chance to check us out.

I’d already completed Experience Week, the pre-requisite to participating in any other program or workshop on offer. The next step was the week-long Departmental Guest program and there were eight of us that decided to stay on.

From Findhorn to Inverewe Gardens
Image: Trailwanderer

By chance I heard talk of a planned visit to Inverewe Garden the following day, Sunday. Foundation folk were waxing lyrical about this extraordinary garden located on the west coast. My interest was piqued because I found it hard to believe a subtropical garden could flourish on the west coast of Scotland at latitude 57.8 degrees beside the craggy shore of Loch Ewe that was further north than Moscow. I wanted to be part of this excursion because it’d give me the opportunity to explore the country that I hoped would become my future home, if my master plan worked out.

To get there we climbed aboard a twenty-seater bus for the two-hour run passing through Inverness, then Garve, the Falls of Measach, Gruenard, Aultbea and finally, Inverewe Garden.

This garden project was the brainchild of Laird Osgood Mackenzie. It was begun in 1862, on a chunk of barren coastal land, with the intention of growing as many exotic plants as possible in this unlikely place.

Mackenzie’s initial challenge was to create good soil in which to plant a mixture of large tree seedlings and shrubs that needed protection from the salt spray that was carried in by the fierce North Atlantic winds and storms. In the best Scottish tradition, he planned to do this by building a series of protective solid stone walls.

View across the bay from Inverewe Garden
Image: The National Trust for Scotland

From the outset, he imported plants and trees from all over the world including Corsican pines, Douglas firs, Himalayan rhododendrons, Australian Wollemi pines, Tasmanian eucalypts and plants from South Africa, New Zealand and Chile. All plant species thrive at Inverewe thanks to the influence of the North Atlantic current.

Inverewe Garden towering established trees
Image: Britain Express

The weather was perfect for our excursion. It was a clear, still day and we enjoyed the warmth of the sun on our backs as we wandered the garden paths flanked by herbaceous borders, all exploding with colourful summer blooms.

Inverewe Garden intensive summer vegetable planting with protective stone
wall in the foreground
Image: Letterewe Estate

Inverewe Garden intensive summer vegetable planting
with protective stone wall in the foreground
Image: Letterewe Estate

Inverewe Garden Pond waterlilies pond
Image: Wikipedia

After a splendid day in the Scottish countryside, I returned to Cluny in plenty of time for my first DG get together that evening. In this program we were required to do two three-hour Work Department shifts per day, Monday to Friday, and a House Care shift on Saturday morning. The emphasis was placed on mindful work, as a vehicle for deeper personal awareness and understanding, whilst at the same time keeping the various Foundation properties spick and span for both residents and guests. The oft repeated mantra was, ‘Work is love in action’.

After dinner, the DG group gathered and we began our meeting with a short attunement, that is standing in a circle holding hands with eyes closed for a couple of minutes, before concluding with a hand squeeze around the circle. The Focaliser then listed the Work Department needs for the coming week, and after a short-guided meditation we made our selections. I chose Cluny Maintenance in the morning and Cluny Garden in the afternoon. My second choice was prompted by the fact that it was the cultivation of gigantic vegetables that had brought this group to world-wide attention and as a non-gardener, I hoped to pick up some useful tips.

On Monday morning I began work with Cluny Maintenance. Being a practical person with considerable renovating experience, I figured I’d fit in. We assembled in front of the Maintenance shed at 8:45 am for introductions, followed by a brief attunement led by one of the Members, after which the tasks were listed.

First, we moved a large quantity of boxed Findhorn calendars from one storage place to another, followed by morning tea. Next, we bucketed soil to fill a large hole, the result we were told, of Cluny’s blocked sewer drama some months earlier. Just before noon, we returned to the Maintenance shed to de-brief and tune out, by once more standing in a circle holding hands and mentally releasing the morning’s activities, concluding with a hand squeeze.

After lunch, it was time for my first Cluny Garden shift. We gathered outside the Garden shed at 1.45 pm. Once again, introductions were followed by a brief attunement and an outline of the tasks to be completed. I spent the afternoon weeding a flowerbed inside the boundary hedge at the bottom of the garden and midway through the shift, enjoyed a welcome tea break. We re-grouped just before 5.00 pm to tune out.

It was strange that I was attracted to a community with strong emphasis on growing food and flowers, as I don’t come from a gardening family. But I was one of many who were drawn to this place, due in part to the lingering mystique of ‘huge vegetables’ grown here by the founders in the early days.

So best I explain how it all began.

British couple Peter and Eileen Caddy first came to north-east Scotland in 1957. They were hired to manage the run-down Cluny Hill Hotel with Dorothy Maclean joining them as the hotel’s secretary. All three had been on a disciplined spiritual path for many years. Over time, they gradually improved the facilities and the service to become a four-star hotel frequented by well-to-do guests, wanting to holiday in picturesque Scottish surroundings. The transformation was attributed to Eileen’s practical guidance that she received in meditation from what she termed, ‘the still small voice within’. Whatever directives she received were immediately implemented.

Early in 1962, the trio, along with most of the hotel staff, were sent to work their magic on another hotel that was foundering, this time the very grand Trossachs Hotel, in Perthshire. Their efforts were unsuccessful and when they pleaded with management to return to the Cluny Hill Hotel, they were all fired.

With no job and nowhere else to go, the Caddy’s took their three children and towed their caravan to the Findhorn Bay Caravan Park, only five miles from the hotel. By a strange quirk of fate, in 1975, some thirteen years later, the hotel would be purchased by the Foundation to provide accommodation for the stream of guests that continued to be drawn to this remarkable coexistence experiment in the back blocks of Scotland.

The Caddy’s caravan that was to be their home for some years
Image: Facebook

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In 1963 an annex was added to the caravan so Dorothy could join them.

The original caravan still at The Park—with Dorothy Maclean’s annex marked in red
Image: oddscotland.com

To stretch their meagre unemployment benefit payments, they started a vegetable garden to increase the family’s supply of fresh food, even though none of them had had previous gardening experience. But help was at hand from a most unlikely source. One day in meditation, Dorothy was contacted by what she described as the overarching ‘deva’ or spirit, of the green pea. After this surprising experience, she was keen to contact the devas of every other vegetable they had planted. From that day on, the devas provided her with specific information about every aspect of the garden—including how to enrich the sandy, nutrient-depleted soil, how far apart to plant seeds, how often to water and how to remedy any other problems. Within a year, the garden around their caravan was bursting with edible life.

In 1965, a BBC radio program brought the gardeners, their garden and the 40-pound cabbages they were growing, to national attention. Horticulture experts were baffled. As word of the co-creation experiment spread across the world, people flocked to join what became and remains a successful model of sustainable food production practices with a spiritual foundation. By the early 1970s, more than 300 people lived, worked and researched at the Foundation.

Left to right: Dorothy Maclean, Eileen Caddy and Peter Caddy seated in their screened area off the side
off their caravan with their vegetable garden in the background 
Image: Findhorn Foundation

Left to right: Dorothy Maclean, Eileen Caddy and Peter
Caddy seated in their screened area off the side off their
caravan with their vegetable garden in the background
Image: Findhorn Foundation

Fast forward to 1984.

I arrived to find that the cabbages had since shrunk to normal size.  But, like hundreds of others, I’d been captivated by the strange story of humans working with the forces of nature rather than against them. This was a revolutionary concept in the emerging age of pesticides and herbicides used to increase food production and I, like many others had travelled across the world to learn more.

The DG Program was full and exciting. Between Work Department commitments, I gravitated to the Cluny library containing hundreds of spiritual books and cassette tapes of interviews with the founders and other spiritual leaders of the time. Here in the gloomy wood-panelled library space my self-directed, crash course in esoterics began with authors whose names began with ‘A’ with the intention of steadily working my way through to ‘Z’, because I had a lot to learn and this was the perfect place to do it.

On completion of my DG week, I left the Foundation to rendezvous with a romantic interest, at Ayr, on the coast, south of Glasgow. Our plan was to hire a car and spend a few days travelling around Scotland. I hitched a ride to Glasgow with a Member who was returning home to visit his family. He dropped me off at the railway station where I took the train to Ayr to meet my friend who’d ferried across from Belfast. Little did I know at the time that the Glaswegian who drove me to the station that day, would become my partner for some of the time I was at the Foundation. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Inverewe Garden: the profusion of plants and colour at Inverewe Garden surprised me because I’d arrived in the United Kingdom with the pre-conceived belief that it was impossible to grow semi-tropical plants in the north of Scotland because it was just too cold. What I saw at Inverewe Garden clearly showed me that I needed to revise my thinking.

Settling in: As it was early days at the Foundation, I was keen to make new friends and there were plenty of people to choose from. Members, other DGs like me, and guests. There was the occasional Australian, but it seemed we were a rare breed in this environment that was mostly filled with Britains, Americans and Germans. I was interested in everyone particularly the cluster of artists who lived at The Park.

FACTS:
Inverewe Garden: and its collection of rare tree and plant specimens, is considered a horticultural wonder of the world, made possible by the warming waters of the North Atlantic Current (that becomes the Norwegian Current), as it flows past Inverewe Garden.

Laird Osgood Mackenzie (1842-1922) was the visionary and creator of Inverewe Garden. The 850-hectare estate was gifted to him by his mother in 1862. The garden now covers some 20 hectares and has over 2,500 exotic plants and flowers. And there is a further 800 hectares of land, that is managed for recreation and conservation.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inverewe_Garden

After the laird died, his daughter (1879-1953) continued his work for another 30 years. In 1952, the year before she died, she presented the garden to the National Trust of Scotland along with a generous endowment for its future upkeep.
https://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/usbiography/s/mairisawyer.html

The North Atlantic Current (NAC), also known as North Atlantic Drift or the North Atlantic Sea Movement, is a powerful warm western boundary current within the Atlantic Ocean, that extends the Gulf Stream north-eastward.

Map showing the North Atlantic Current
Image: Q-files

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Atlantic_Current

Devas: According to Dorothy, each deva holds the archetypical pattern of an individual plant species. She’s written numerous books about her experiences—the first one was To Hear the Angels Sing—an Odessey of Co-Creation with the Devic Kingdom (1980).

Dorothy Maclean: was born in 1920, in Ontario, Canada. After co-founding the Foundation, she was invited to visit other communities across the world, to conduct workshops introducing the ‘energies’ of both ‘devas’ and ‘elementals’, [minerals]. Before I left Australia for Scotland, I attended one of her workshops at the Relaxation Centre in Brisbane.

In 1973 she returned to Canada but in the intervening years she visited often. In 2009, as the only surviving founder, she returned to live at The Park. She died there in 2020.

The Findhorn Foundation founders:

Eileen Caddy: 1917-2006
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eileen_Caddy

Peter Caddy: 1917-1994
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Caddy

Dorothy Maclean: 1920-2020
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Maclean

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 60: Experience Week

I was excited as I prepared to leave London because I was headed for the Findhorn Foundation in northern Scotland, where I hoped to begin the next chapter of my life. Before I left Australia, I’d read all I could find about this intentional community and, in preparation for departure I quit my lecturing job, found a loving home for my dog, extricated myself from a dysfunctional relationship and systematically sold off most of my assets. In doing so, I hoped that if I liked what I saw when I got to Findhorn, there’d be nothing to pull me back to Australia, should I decide to stay.

I’d spent six days with friends in London where I took the opportunity to visit a number of the landmarks I’d heard described over and over by my transplanted British parents whilst I was growing up in Sydney. Now I was topped up with culture, it was time to head north to Findhorn.

All-day train trip from London to Inverness
Image: Search Engine Land

I packed early, farewelled my London hosts and took a minibus to Euston Station to catch the train to Inverness. Before long we were off on the grand tour up the middle of the United Kingdom, stopping briefly at towns whose names were familiar. As each town was announced—Carlisle, Motherwell, Stirling, Glen Eagles, Perth, Blair Athol, Aviemore and lastly Inverness—I was transported back to my childhood where I’d overheard my parents mentioning these towns when reminiscing about the country they’d left in 1936. Hearing the names, I was surprised to feel a sense of belonging in a country I hardly knew.

In the early evening, the train pulled into Inverness, where a group of us, all Foundation workshop participants, found a bed for the night at the local Youth Hostel.

Next morning, Saturday, we took the train to Forres where the Foundation bus was waiting to take us up the road to Cluny Hill College, a five-minute ride. We turned into a narrowish driveway lined with mature trees, that opened out to reveal an imposing Victorian grey stone building that would be my home on and off for many months to come.

After finalising payment for Experience Week, I was shown to my room on the first floor with breathtaking views across the adjoining golf course that was flanked by woodland and lines of blue-grey hills out to the horizon.

Aerial view of Cluny Hill College
Image: Findhorn Foundation

View from the entrance of Cluny Hill College across the golf course to the hills beyond
Image: Facebook

View from the entrance of Cluny Hill College across
the golf course to the hills beyond
Image: Facebook

Lunch was served at 12:15 pm on the dot. We helped ourselves to a splendid buffet serving macaroni with cheese or tofu sauce, and an array of colourful salads, including potato, carrot, beetroot, cabbage, and sprouts.

The dining room at Cluny Hill College seating 150 people. Note what is left of vegetarian tucker in the
foreground
Image: Findhorn Foundation

The dining room at Cluny Hill College seating 150
people. Note what is left of vegetarian tucker in
the foreground
Image: Findhorn Foundation

As a committed vegetarian, it’s hard to describe the relief I felt to at last be in an environment where I could eat everything, without having to question the ingredients.  

After lunch, 15 strangers from different parts of the world gathered in the Beech Tree Room on the first floor to begin Experience Week. To explain, this six-day workshop was a pre-requisite for participation in any of the Foundation programmes. This beautiful room would be our home base for the week.

Once seated, we took turns to introduce ourselves, after which our Focalisers, the group leaders, introduced us to the rhythms of the Foundation.

A comprehensive tour of Cluny followed.

My first impressions:

  • The grandeur of the two-storey building, previously a four-star hotel, set on two and a half hectares. It contained 100 guest beds and 45 single rooms for members.
  • The scale of the public spaces. The dining room seated up to 150 people. The lounge room, off the entrance hall, seated 20 and the Beech Tree room could accommodate 50.
  • The ambience and simplicity of the beautiful, light-filled meditation sanctuary, with three rows of chairs encircling a small, low central table with flowers and a candle.
  • A gracious, wood-panelled ballroom with a step-up corner stage.
  • The huge kitchen with upscaled appliances including multi-burner stoves, catering-sized food preparation equipment, a bakery, a hugely efficient washing-up machine and deep stainless-steel sinks for pot-wash.
  • The basement laundry contained two commercial frontloading washing machines, a centrifugal water extractor named Dervish (for obvious reasons), two large commercial driers and a wall of wooden drying racks.
  • The extensive grounds included lush green lawns, colourful herbaceous borders and vegetable gardens, bursting with summer produce.
  • Two tennis courts flanked by a single storey pavilion.
  • A gravel surfaced parking area for 50 cars.

After lunch next day, Sunday, we were bussed over to The Findhorn Bay Caravan Park—the birthplace of the Foundation, five miles from Cluny.

The road between Cluny Hill College and The Park
—a distance of 8 kilometres
Image: Pinterest

The road between Cluny Hill College and
The Park—a distance of 8 kilometres
Image: Pinterest

So, how did this intentional community begin?

In 1962, a sequence of unanticipated events led three like-minded but jobless souls and three children to park their caravan at the Caravan Park, situated on the bleak and windy outskirts of the Findhorn Village surrounded by depleted soil, sand and gorse. Their long-term plan was to create an intentional human settlement with the emphasis on environmental, social and economic sustainability.

They began by planting a vegetable garden in this inhospitable place. The vegetables thrived—providing a tangible example of humans working cooperatively with nature.

The Caddy’s caravan enroute the Findhorn Bay caravan park
Image: Findhorn Foundation

The original caravan that was home to the Findhorn Foundation founders Dorothy McLean, Eileen and Peter Caddy and their three
children. An annex was added later.
Image: Findhorn Foundation

The original caravan that was home to the Findhorn
Foundation founders Dorothy McLean, Eileen and
Peter Caddy and their three children. An annex was
added later.
Image: Findhorn Foundation

It wasn’t long before word got out, after which a trickle of people began arriving, eager to be part of this unique experiment. The trickle became a flood.

When I arrived, 22 years later, the Foundation comprised 250 members.

Findhorn Foundation Co-founder Peter Caddy digging in front of the newly erected bungalows at The Park
C1966 (The Caravan Park was purchased by the Foundation in 1983)
Image: Findhorn Foundation

Findhorn Foundation Co-founder Peter Caddy digging in
front of the newly erected bungalows at The Park C1966
(The Caravan Park was purchased by the Foundation
in 1983)
Image: Findhorn Foundation

My first impressions of The Park.

  • I was struck by the middle-classness of the nine-hectare area, with garden beds bursting with colourful flowering summer plants; the colours, particularly the reds, popping against the mostly grey sky.
  • The Founders’ caravan: the tour began with the pilgrimage to the original green caravan that, for seven years, sheltered the Community’s founders, Dorothy Maclean, Eileen and Peter Caddy plus the Caddy’s three children.  
  • The craft studios: we visited both the Pottery and the Weaving studios, located close to the bungalows that had been built some years before by Foundation members with Eileen’s guidance from meditation and Peter’s direction.
  • The Universal Hall: a magnificent five-sided structure with a central auditorium seating up to 400 people. We were told that the Hall was used for community meetings and gatherings, conferences, music recitals, movies, drama and dance.
  • The Community Centre: was the heart of the Parkside community. It contained a fully equipped catering kitchen with lots of stainless steel, a dining room and an anti-room with south-facing doors, that opened out onto a paved and grassed area with tables and benches. A perfect spot for members, guests and visitors to enjoy the occasional sunny day.

Entrance to the Universal Hall Findhorn Foundation
Image: Findhorn Foundation

In 2021 the Community Centre at The Park was burnt to the ground by a disgruntled
Community member
Image: Findhorn Foundation

In 2021 the Community Centre at The Park was burnt to
the ground by a disgruntled Community member
Image: Findhorn Foundation

When our tour of The Park concluded, we took a short walk to Cullerne House. This was yet another Foundation property with extensive grounds, horticultural tunnels for food production and accommodation for seven members.

Cullerne House—when I was there, it was the Findhorn Foundation’s Garden school
Image: Findhorn Foundation

Cullerne House—when I was there, it was the Findhorn
Foundation’s Garden school
Image: Findhorn Foundation

Cullerne House horticultural tunnels used for growing food for the Community and guests
Image: Findhorn Foundation

Cullerne House horticultural tunnels used for growing
food for the Community and guests
Image: Findhorn Foundation

We then returned to The Park to visit The Phoenix Shop, the Foundation’s retail outlet stocking a wonderful selection of esoteric books, good quality hippie-style clothing and groceries

From there we took the bus back to Cluny in time for dinner. We were served yet another delicious vegetarian feast, followed by the all-important Experience Week gathering in the Beech Tree Room to choose Work Departments for the coming week. We were all well aware that the Foundation was a working community, not a therapeutic one.

For me, choosing Work Departments was a real eye-opener and the process is worth describing. Once we assembled, The Foundation’s needs for the week ahead were listed followed by a short meditation, focussed on those needs. After the meditation, we nominated the Work Department we felt drawn to. I chose Cluny House Care, and with a minimum of fuss all the other spots were filled with willing workers. This method was a far cry from the ‘you’ll-do-what-I-tell-you-to-do’ model I’d occasionally experienced in my former life and often resented.

Work shifts at Cluny were structured as follows.

At 8:45 each morning, Monday to Friday, Work Department groups gathered. Members and guests began with introductions then joined hands for an attunement that is, a short meditation with eyes closed, followed by a brief personal sharing after which the jobs were listed. We each chose the job that suited us best that morning and worked until just before noon, with a tea break somewhere in between. We then re-grouped for a quick sharing before concluding the shift by joining hands to ‘tune out’. This modus operandi was used in all work departments across the Foundation.

The afternoon shift began at 1:45 and finished at 5:00 allowing the workers plenty of time to freshen up for dinner at 6:15.

As Experience Week participants, we only worked the morning shift because our afternoons were taken up with other activities.

After dinner on Monday, we gathered to listen to a couple of the Members share their experiences. As a collection of newbies, we hung on every word.

By the end of the week, I felt I’d learnt a lot more about the Foundation and myself.

Here are three Experience Week highlights I’d like to share.

  • Work Departments—Cluny House Care: What I most enjoyed was being able to fully focus on a cleaning task, and complete it to the best of my ability.
  • Group Discovery: A long-time Member, delivered this session in the Cluny Ballroom. We played a series of games designed to build trust in our freshly-formed group.
  • Visiting Randolph’s Leap—a peaceful wooded area beside the Findhorn River, not far from Cluny. This was the first time I’d walked in the Scottish countryside, and it was so different to my southern hemisphere ‘bush’ adventures to date.

The path to Randolph’s Leap in early Spring with lime-green new foliage on the trees each side of the path
Image: Pinterest

The path to Randolph’s Leap in early Spring with
lime-green new foliage on the trees each side of the path
Image: Pinterest

View of the Findhorn River from Randolph’s Leap
Image: Source unknown

Our Experience Week concluded with an Angel Card meditation on Friday evening. I drew the Angel of Creativity. I wasn’t at all surprised as creativity was and remains my major strength, and I took comfort in the knowledge that the angelic realms were cheering me on!

Next morning, Saturday, was change-over day across the Foundation with new guests arriving, others leaving and some like me, staying on for another week. I offered to join the Cluny House Care team to help strip and remake dozens of beds, as it was high summer and the Foundation’s busiest time.

I’d already arranged to spend my second week at Cluny as a Departmental Guest—the second step towards realising my secret desire to become a member of the Foundation and I was really looking forward to learning more about these people.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Findhorn Foundation: To this day, I find it difficult to describe the strength of the impulse that prompted me to up stakes and move to the United Kingdom, the land of my forefathers, on the other side of the world.

The pump was primed when I read Faces of Findhorn a publication containing a collection of stunning black and white photographs of the Foundation membership at both work and play. As an artist, the images ‘spoke’ to me. It was as though I was supported by an invisible force that gave me the courage to leave behind everything I knew and understood to head off to join these adventurous souls in bonny Scotland.

The cover of the book that inspired me to leave Australia to visit the
Findhorn Foundation in Scotland

The cover of the book that inspired me to leave Australia
to visit the Findhorn Foundation in Scotland

Foundation living: I’d lived in a community twice before. The first time at boarding school in Toowoomba. The second, at the YWCA Hostel at Kirribilli Sydney, whilst studying at the National Art School. Once I figured out how each system worked, I was able to operate within the rules, and at the same time, have fun!  As a result, I looked forward to the possibility of going around again.

Decision-making at Foundation: The modus operandi of ‘attunement’ for decision-making appealed to me greatly. It was so liberating to choose rather than being told what to do.

FACTS:
Cluny Hill College: was built in 1865 and purchased by the Foundation in 1972 for £60,000 Stirling.

Experience Week: An ethnographic study in the 1990s, closely examined the design of the Experience Week program, which it called ‘the main entry point into Findhorn’s ethos and lifestyle’. The study noted that over 5,000 people attended courses annually and called the Foundation an example of ‘contemporary religious individualism’.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Findhorn_Foundation 

My Experience Week program began on Saturday 5th May 1984. Below is the photo of the 15 participants and Focalisers.

The Cluny Hill Experience Week beginning 5th May 1984. Morley front row far right
Image: Findhorn Foundation

The Cluny Hill Experience Week beginning 5th May
1984. Morley front row far right
Image: Findhorn Foundation

The Universal Hall: The spectacularly beautiful building, begun in 1974, was finished in 1984. Designed by British architect George Ripley, the building has a hand-carved stone exterior, a magnificent stained-glass entrance, and a geodesic roof supported by five enormous wooden ring beams. The facility is the centre of cultural enrichment for everyone.

Sacred Dance by candlelight in the Universal Hall
Image: Findhorn Foundation

Angel Cards: were the inspiration of two early members of the Foundation, who designed them as part of the Game of Transformation. The cards, used in conjunction with meditation, offer the user reassurance and the opportunity to consider a particular aspect of their inner life from a fresh viewpoint.

A more recent version of the Angel Cards
Image: eBay

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 59: London

With my financial affairs in order, I was now on the threshold of yet another adventure. This time to travel to the other side of the world to visit the Findhorn Foundation, with the intention of staying for a while. The Foundation, an international, nondenominational, spiritual community is located in the north of Scotland, east of Inverness. I’d not visited the United Kingdom before, even though it was the homeland of my forebears.

I left Sydney in late April 1984. On the way, I spent a couple of days in Hong Kong where I met up with the former licensee of the Kundiawa Hotel located in the remote highlands of New Guinea. I’d once helped him out of a spot during one of my many between-term holidays. He had needed someone to supervise the hotel kitchen for a couple of weeks and I’d been glad to oblige.

The next stop was Dubai. It was dusk as we flew in and the view from my window was unexpected. Scattered across a vast, flat, sandy landscape I could see a number of enormous mosques lit up like Christmas trees. Off shore there were numerous oil tankers at anchor, waiting to load, also lit up. From the air, Dubai looked like a fairyland.

Then on to London Gatwick where friends met me. This was a major act of kindness as it was very early in the morning and, by the time we arrived to their basement flat it was 4.00 am and I was whacked.

The next afternoon my hosts wanted to show me Kew Gardens, one of their favourite places in London. As it was a warmish day, we travelled up the Thames by boat and returned on the Underground train.

The Palm House at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew
Image: YouTube

As this was my first visit to the country my parents called home, I arrived with a longish list of places to visit, in addition to the must-see tourist haunts. I’d allowed myself six days in which to cover as much ground as possible, before heading north to Scotland.

 At the top of the list was a visit to the St. Osyth Priory in Essex. Why? Because I am named for St. Osyth—Mary Melvill St. Osyth Grainger. To be honest, I’ve no idea why my parents decided to add her name to the others they’d chosen for me. Nonetheless, I was keen to find out more about my namesake.

I discovered Osyth was a Saxon princess, a martyr and a saint—the daughter of Frithwald, a sub-king of Mercia in Surrey and Wilburga, the daughter of King Penda of Mercia. Legend tells of a young Osyth drowning in a stream and being miraculously restored to life by the prayers of St. Modwyn and her nuns. Possibly as a direct result of cheating death, Osyth aspired to become an abbess, but, by virtue of her powerful family, she was a political pawn and too important to be side-lined. As a result, her father forced her into a dynastic marriage to Sighere, the King of Essex.

The story goes that whilst her new husband was off hunting the elusive white stag, Osyth persuaded two local bishops to accept her vows as a nun. On her husband’s return, he reluctantly accepted her decision and gave her land at Chich, near Colchester, where she established a convent and ruled as first abbess. She was beheaded by raiding pirates in 700 AD, because she refused to meet their demands. In my imaginary reconstruction of the scene, I fantasise that, when confronted by the pirates, she told them to bugger off.

In an earlier paragraph, you may’ve noticed my full name, Mary Melvill St. Osyth Grainger, with no sign of Morley, the name I now use. Before going any further with the London story, best I clarify.

Before I was born, my parents considered suitable names. For a girl, my father’s top pick was ‘Joan’ and my mother’s was ‘Polly’. When the time came, they chose ‘Mary’ instead. My mother and father, both bilingual, cosmopolitan, atheistic Brits, justified their choice, explaining that the name Mary had an equivalent in most languages––Maria, Marie, Mariah, Marinella—with the exception of New Guinea, which is where my mother and I went to live in 1960. There, the name ‘Mary’ was problematic because in the lingua franca, the word for a native woman is ‘meri’. Well aware of this, before we left Australia it was decided that my family nick name, ‘Morley’, would replace Mary. And lastly, my second given name is ‘Melvill’, my maternal grandfather’s first name. The name string now explained, let’s get back to exploring.

Day 2:  Even though it was summer in the northern hemisphere, I was feeling the cold. So I splashed out and bought a you-beaut red Gortex jacket and a down-filled sleeping bag, good to 5 degrees below freezing, just in case I’d be camping out in the wilds of Scotland.

Day 3: On the 1st of May, I set off on my pilgrimage to the St. Osyth Priory. I took a train to Colchester, a little less than an hour’s run, then a bus through winding hedge-lined lanes to Clacton-on-Sea and finally, a short walk to the Priory’s impressive 17th Century gatehouse.

The gatehouse at St. Osyth Priory
Image: Pinterest

Recent aerial view of the St. Osyth Priory—Clacton-on-Sea
Image: Wikipedia

Recent aerial view of the St. Osyth Priory—
Clacton-on-Sea
Image: Wikipedia

Grateful for another sunny day, I wandered the grounds, first climbing to the top of the bell tower to take in the breathtaking vista of the low-lying land surrounding the Priory, the sea and the Colne River estuary. On the ground again, I bought the information booklet, made a number of coloured pencil sketches and lastly, visited the chapel.

St. Osyth Priory century chapel built in 1120AD
Image: Source unknown

It was an eerie experience I won’t forget, particularly when I saw the stained glass window depicting St.Osyth and her husband, some fourteen hundred years after her demise. I sat for a while, enjoying the stillness, at the same time contemplating my tenuous connection to this Roman Catholic woman saint; but no insights were forthcoming.

St.Osyth Priory chapel leadlight window featuring St.Osyth on
the left and her husband King Sighere on the right
Image:Flickr

St.Osyth Priory chapel leadlight window featuring
St.Osyth on the left and her husband King Sighere
on the right
Image:Flickr

Maypole dancing—a pagan May Day tradition
Image: Gransnet

As I continued to wander the grounds, the mid-afternoon stillness was suddenly broken by the sound of squeaky music, coming over the Priory wall. Dead curious, I peered over, where to my surprise I saw the village children celebrating May Day in front of St. Peter and St. Paul’s Church, with a carefully choreographed Maypole dance.

The information booklet confirmed the St. Osyth story I’d heard so often when I was growing up. After her encounter with the raiders, she walked to this church, carrying her own head.

With this unexpected reminder of my namesake’s demise, I felt my pilgrimage was complete and I returned to London.

Day 4: I hadn’t been in London long but I already felt right at home as I whizzed around to see as much as I could. This day I began with the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. I thought of Christopher Robin as I watched this enduring piece of royal pageantry play out. Then on to the Victoria and Albert Museum to see an exhibition of John Constable’s beautiful pencil sketches that he’d drawn some 250 years ago.

British artist John Constable’s pencil sketch of the English landscape from his sketchbook
Image: thebarngreenbook.com

British artist John Constable’s pencil sketch of the
English landscape from his sketchbook
Image: thebarngreenbook.com

Another John Constable pencil sketch of the English countryside
Image: thebarngreenbook.com

Another John Constable pencil sketch of the English
countryside
Image: thebarngreenbook.com

Next, a fabulous exhibition titled 200 years of men and women’s clothing; comprising bonnets, shoes and underwear from the 18th century through to Zandra Rhodes, a well-known contemporary British fashion designer.

Then on to Westminster Abbey where I saw the magnificent sarcophagi of Plantagenet kings and queens and glancing down, I noticed remembrance floor plaques, worn down over centuries, by the footsteps of the faithful.

Westminster Abbey crypt
image: OC-Travel

Day 5: I’d invested in a Brit Rail pass and, determined to get my money’s worth, I took a train south to Exeter and Plymouth on the shore of the English Channel just to say I’d been there.

Day 6: This was my last day in London. I’d had a wonderful time being a tourist but now I needed to focus on fulfilling the purpose of my journey—to travel north to Scotland and meet the folk at the Findhorn Foundation.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Dubai by night: the combination of mosques on land and oil tankers at anchor in the Persian Gulf, struck me as a perfect example of faith and commerce intersecting.

My string of given names—Mary Melvill St. Osyth: I’ve occasionally wondered why I was given so many unusual names. Could it have been because my parents, both transplanted ‘poms’, wanted to remain connected to their homeland?

But I’ve been known as Morley ever since I was twelve, when we moved to New Guinea. Before we left Australia, Morley was my nick name in my family. To explain—my brother was 12 years older than me. When I was born, he was tagged ‘Biggey’ and I was ‘Smalley’. When I started to talk, I dropped the ‘S’ and called myself ‘Morley’.

St. Osyth Priory: It was important for me to make the pilgrimage to Colchester because I was keen to know more about my namesake. Afterwards I knew more, and since then, still more thanks to Wikipedia.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Osyth

Over the years, I’ve grown to accept my tenuous connection to this woman and I wonder what she was like as a person. From the various references to her life and work, I’ve concluded that thanks to her personal conviction, she managed to side-step the societal expectations of the time, to pursue her calling. Some 1400 years on, I feel I‘ve chosen similarly, also sidestepping marriage to follow a road less travelled—that of a narrative visual artist.

FACTS:
St. Osyth: Legend has it that Osyth, Osgyth or Ositha, was involved in various fantastical events during her lifetime.

They included:

  • Drowning and being revived by prayer.
  • Being beheaded, and with a spring rising from the ground where she fell.
  • Picking up her head and walking to the door of the local church, where she knocked three times before collapsing.
  • And lastly, her ghost carrying her head, is said to walk the priory walls one night each year.

A beheaded saint is known as a cephalophore. In Christian art, placing the halo for a cephalophore, offers a unique challenge for the artist. Some place the halo where the head used to be, and others have the saint carrying the head, along with the halo.

The St. Osyth Estate: comprises over 6,500 acres and represents 1400 years of recorded history, myth and legend. The Estate contains twenty-two separately listed buildings, monuments, as well as protected parklands and gardens. Fortunately, the successive owners haven’t sold off parts of the Estate to pay for repairs or grand additions. For some years, the Estate has housed a nursing home and retirement accommodation. Religious associations, other than the chapel, appear to be a thing of the past.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Osyth

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Osyth%27s_Priory

Maypole dance music:

https://www.warnerchappellpm.com/track/minim-mnm060-07/Mjg4OTU1NzktNjg2YjQ1

Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace: A must see. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzctIZreoWQ

John Constable (1736-1837): was an English painter in the romantic tradition. He is best remembered for revolutionising the genre of landscape painting.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Constable

Zandra Rhodes: Influential British fashion and textile designer.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zandra_Rhodes

Westminster Abbey: is an Anglican church in London formally named the Collegiate Church of Saint Peter at Westminster. Since 1066, it has been used for the coronations of forty English and British monarchs, is the burial site for eighteen English, Scottish, and British monarchs, and is the setting for at least sixteen royal weddings since 1100.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Westminster_Abbey

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 2: My very first commission

The Northern Nursery School located at 114 Belmont Road in the Sydney suburb of Mosman, opened its doors in 1936.

It was the inspiration of Miss Hutchinson who, on return from an extensive study tour of progressive nursery schools in England, set up her own innovative educational venture with the help of her equally progressive colleague, Miss Carver. Hutchie’s or Miss Hutchie’s, as the facility was affectionately known, was situated in an imposing  freestanding two-storey red brick Federation house, in a well-to-do part of Sydney.

The building was set back from the road and was surrounded by well-kept gardens. The front boundary was marked by two sets of imposing wrought-iron entrance gates that opened to a wide semi-circular drive way. The Nursery School occupied all of the groundfloor rooms, including the garage. We assumed Miss Hutch and Miss Carver lived upstairs, ‘above the shop’ so to speak.

The Northern Nursery School at 114 Belmont Road Mosman
Image: The Real Estate Agency Balmain

In 1940, my progressive parents wanting the best education for my brother, then four years old, enrolled him in the Northern Nursery School. At this point he was an only child in need of social contact with other children, as well as a carefully structured early education program that was designed around his needs.

After the Japanese midget submarines attacked Sydney Harbour in May and June of 1942, the Northern Nursery School parents, very concerned for their children’s safety, requested the staff take the children to the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney. When the coast was declared clear of invaders in late August that year, the children and staff returned to Belmont Road to pick up where they’d left off.

Early in 1944 my brother, then seven years old, left the security of Miss Hutch’s Nursery School for Primary School. He’d successfully mastered intra-generational social skills as well as the rudiments of reading, writing, numbers and telling the time.

Early in 1951 it was my turn. I was two years old. On weekday mornings, my mother would drop me off at the Nursery School on the way to her workplace, The Weaving School that was located down the road and around the corner in Military Road Mosman. This was a most convenient arrangement for all concerned.

To this day, I have clear memories of the activities that filled my time at the Northern Nursery School.

I remember: playing outside in the fresh air. We loved the full-size swings and an imposing shiny silver slippery slide, set up in the  garden beside the building. At that time, play equipment of this kind was only found in municipal parks and was a magnet for children of all ages.

I remember: drawing and colouring in. My very favourite art activity at that time was to begin with a large sheet of pristine white paper and, in the jargon, ‘take a line for a walk’. This meant drawing a continuous line that crossed and recrossed itself, thereby creating interesting irregular curved shapes of all sizes. Next came the serious task of selecting the right colour for each shape. I took great care to apply the colour evenly and not to go outside the lines—a most meditative exercise.

I remember: lunchtime. Lunch was held in the large dining hall at the back of the building where a gaggle of chattering children gathered. We sat on long wooden benches, placed each side of sturdy wooden tables. We always ate a hot lunch and sometimes drank fresh tomato juice, the smell of which always takes me back to that time.

I remember: playing a memory training game. A tray, scattered with a random selection of objects was covered with a cloth. The cloth was lifted for thirty seconds and then replaced. The test was to remember and name each of the objects.

I remember: moulding plasticine. Plasticine was the forerunner of play dough.

I remember: Painting, whilst wearing an oversized painting smock. With my clothes protected, I thoroughly enjoyed applying strong primary and secondary colours to a large sheet of paper, that was clipped to a child-sized easel.

I remember: building complex constructions from what seemed to be an endless supply of smooth wooden blocks of all sizes. These were the days before plastic Lego.

I remember: Climbing onto a slatted wooden bench on the front verandah of the red brick building, to practice reading with a grown up. Little Golden Books and the series Fun with Dick and Jane, were standard children’s books of that time.

I remember: a compulsory afternoon nap on a low hessian-covered stretcher. Afterwards, I was collected by my mother and taken home.

The highlight of my time at the Northern Nursery School was receiving my very first art commission. I was five years old. My teacher Heidi Bauer, was an Austrian Post-War refugee who was a Rudolph Steiner-trained teacher. She believed that a zero to seven-year-old child’s imagination and sense of wonder was fostered through stories, songs, art, creative play and interaction with nature. Heidi often watched me as I drew. She particularly liked my large pre-historic flowers.

One day, out of the blue she asked me to decorate a long, tan-coloured Holland roller-blind to hang over the window above her kitchen sink. To do this I was given a magnificent boxed set of sixty pristine Royal Talens wax crayons. I was repeatedly reminded that these crayons were very special, with emphasis on the fact that they had been especially imported from the Netherlands for this project. Before beginning, I remember opening and re-opening the box to gaze at the flawless crayons. I was held spellbound by the glorious rainbow of  colours.

When the Holland blind arrived, I began work. I didn’t have a plan. I just filled one side of the blind with a generous scattering of weirdly-shaped and extraordinarily colourful flowers. The crayons were fabulous and provided me with an early and most important object lesson. Ever since, I have endeavoured to source the very best art materials I can afford to use in my artworks.

Thankfully the decorated Holland blind was a huge success. With great fanfare, I was invited to Heidi’s kitchen to see the fruit of my creativity hanging in place. Heidi was exceedingly happy with the result. This was a very confirming experience for a five-year-old, and I was secretly thrilled that she liked what I’d done.

Just like my brother, my nursery school education came to an unwelcome end when I was just seven years old. In early 1956, I left the sanctuary of The Northern Nursery School to attend Middle Harbour Public School, a well-regarded state-funded institution located on nearby MacPherson Street in Cremorne. I was well prepared to commence my primary education because, like my brother at the same age, I’d already mastered the basics of reading, writing, numbers and telling the time.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Miss Hutchinson and Miss Carver represented a slim stratum of Anglo Australian society. Both were well educated professional women, offering a specialised service for a niche group of parents, wanting progressive early education for their pre-school children.

Thanks to The Northern Nursery School’s progressive approach to early childhood education, my creativity was nurtured. My experience was enhanced by Heidi Bauer’s Rudolph Steiner training and the value she placed on creative expression. Thanks to her guidance and encouragement, I was able to withstand the rigors of both a Primary and a Secondary public-school education, where creativity often took a back seat. The emphasis instead being firmly placed on developing the three ‘Rs’.

But at home it was a different story. From the beginning, creativity in many forms was encouraged. My parents were both ‘makers’. My mother was a weaver and a stitcher and my father was an electrical engineer. At home I was surrounded by ‘making’, and as a result, I received tacit approval for whatever I created.

Heidi Bauer, my teacher at The Northern Nursery School, recognised and acknowledged my creative ability by commissioning me to decorate her kitchen blind. Confirmation of my artistic gifts had even greater impact when it came from outside my family.

FACTS:
The Northern Nursery School fees: Fees were five pounds (£5) a term and included a hot midday meal and drinks.

Rudolph Steiner: Rudolph Steiner’s philosophy of education is encapsulated in his Waldorf Education methodology. In it, Steiner stipulates that the learning process is essentially threefold, engaging head, heart, and hands—or thinking, feeling, and doing.

The priority of the Steiner ethos, is to provide an unhurried and creative learning environment, where children can find joy in learning and experience the richness of childhood, rather than early specialisation or academic hot-housing.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waldorf_education

Royal Talens crayons: were ordered from the Netherlands for Heidi’s project. Royal Talens continues to produce high quality art materials.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Talens

Winifred West was another educational trail-blazer in Australia. In 1913, she and a group of radical educators, set up the Frencham School for girls at Mittagong, south west of Sydney and later the Sturt Craft Workshops.
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/west-winifred-mary-9052
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frensham_School

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 52: A fresh start

Peter Bluey and I had been an item for over a year. Our attempt to move to the New England Tableland in northern New South Wales had failed for various reasons, but we remained determined to leave Sydney, with the intention of creating a quieter more meaningful life somewhere within striking distance of the big smoke.

I’d recently applied for the position of Hand Weaver in Residence with the Goulburn College of Advanced Education, a teacher training facility with a textile department in need of an injection of contemporary ideas and new fibre skills.

On the off-chance of getting the job, Peter suggested we take a leisurely drive down to Goulburn one Saturday morning where we inadvertently stumbled upon a gracious ten-room, solid brick Federation house with a separate garage nine-metres square, that would be an ideal studio.

They say good things happen in threes and this was my experience when relocating to Goulburn.

Firstly, the interview for the College job was successful, the result, a well-paid eleven-month Residency with the promise of a separate studio space where I could be easily accessed by students, staff and the wider community. The studio space would be large enough to house my gear and cater for both one-on-one consultations as well as larger workshop gatherings. I was chomping at the bit, eager to see where a project of this kind could go without the constraints of a teaching load.

Secondly, the Bank manager agreed to lend me the money to buy the house of my dreams—and thirdly, the vendors accepted my offer of $24,000.

Roll of drums…the die was cast. The house was ours and off to Goulburn we would go. We were now a trio, made up of Peter, myself and the latest addition to our family, a puppy named Sas. I was totally unprepared for parenthood so how did this happen?

Here beginneth the tale.

Backtracking to late 1978—the Hooper’s dog Kumla, a likable black, droopy-eared pet shop acquisition, came with us to Horse Creek over Christmas. Kumla had joined the crew, pushing to finish making bricks and laying them before the winter rain. In the flurry to depart Sydney, Kumla’s contraceptive pill was left behind and as a consequence, she came on heat over the holidays. Coco, a Border Collie Kelpie Cross working dog from the adjoining property, came to visit, and the outcome was inevitable.

Returning to Sydney, Kumla’s pregnancy progressed and we speculated on the gender of the expected puppies. The youngest Hooper daughter, announced that her family would take a girl puppy and insisted I take a boy. This was an unexpected development but it seemed I had no choice in the matter. For the first time I would have the responsibility of owning a dog so I began thinking of a suitable name. I was fond of the Scandinavian girl’s name, Saskia, but I was conflicted. Could you give a boy dog a girl’s name? I decided the problem could be solved by abbreviating the name Saskia to Sas.

I was present at the birth. Two of the puppies were still born, but there was a boy and a girl living. To my surprise I immediately bonded with the small black ball of fluff.

Kumla with her puppies: Sas on the left with his red collar and Pushka on the right
Image: Morley Grainger

Kumla with her puppies: Sas on the left with his red collar
and Pushka on the right
Image: Morley Grainger

Six weeks later I was packed up and on the road to Goulburn with Sas sitting on the passenger seat of my beat-up VW Beetle, wearing a red leather puppy collar and matching red lead. He looked so cute.

Sas in the overgrown driveway at Bourke Street
Image: Morley Grainger

Peter and little Sas exploring Goulburn
Image: Morley Grainger

To begin with, the living conditions at the house were somewhat basic though we did have electricity, hot water and two loos. Peter focused on moving his accountancy practice into one of the many bedrooms, and I concentrated on preparing for the College residency.  Being a ‘blow-in’, I needed to make myself known to the local craft powerbrokers as quickly as possible. After which I could then assess how to best reach out to them once I was installed as the College’s Hand Weaver in Residence.

I began work in early June 1979. As part of the Residency package, a top of the range Le Clerc 60” weaving loom with all the bells and whistles plus associated equipment, was immediately ordered from Canada for my use. In the interim, I had access to the textile department’s 45” floor loom.

My mother, Gretchen Grainger weaving with a spectator, Morley, in the Goulburn College Textile classroom at the start of my residency
Image: The Goulburn Post

My mother, Gretchen Grainger weaving with a spectator, 
Morley, in the Goulburn College Textile classroom at the
start of my residency
Image: The Goulburn Post

Initially, I was squeezed into a corner of the textile classroom until, at my insistence, a more suitable, quieter space was found. Until the loom arrived from Canada, I used the new space to engage the broader community, by conducting ten-week courses one night a week, in off-loom weaving and soft leather garment construction. In this way the skills I’d acquired in Mexico were put to good use.

As the College was a teacher-training facility, part of my contractual agreement was to provide In-Service training for teachers working across the region and I clearly remember one two-day off-loom workshop, south of Goulburn.

We were at a well-appointed facility in bushland near Moruya. Part of the workshop experience included a wander in the surrounding bushland searching for interesting bits of nature, suitable for inclusion in a non-functional textile art piece.

I joined the participants for the ramble and to my surprise stumbled upon a full set of male lyrebird tail feathers. I couldn’t believe my eyes as each feather was so beautiful up close.

Initially, I was squeezed into a corner of the textile classroom until, at my insistence, a more suitable, quieter space was found. Until the loom arrived from Canada, I used the new space to engage the broader community, by conducting ten-week courses one night a week, in off-loom weaving and soft leather garment construction. In this way the skills I’d acquired in Mexico were put to good use.

As the College was a teacher-training facility, part of my contractual agreement was to provide In-Service training for teachers working across the region and I clearly remember one two-day off-loom workshop, south of Goulburn.

We were at a well-appointed facility in bushland near Moruya. Part of the workshop experience included a wander in the surrounding bushland searching for interesting bits of nature, suitable for inclusion in a non-functional textile art piece.

I joined the participants for the ramble and to my surprise stumbled upon a full set of male lyrebird tail feathers. I couldn’t believe my eyes as each feather was so beautiful up close.

Australian Superb Lyrebird (male) (Meura novaehollandiae)
Image: Wikimedia Commons

Australian Superb Lyrebird (male) 
(Meura novaehollandiae)
Image: Wikimedia Commons

Concerned, I had a good look around for a bird body but found nothing. I later learned male lyrebirds moult annually. The feathers held pride of place in my workspace because they were a constant reminder of this country’s uniqueness as I continued to ease myself back into Australian life when, in truth, I’d left my heart in Latin America.

Five months into my eleven-month Residency, the long-awaited loom arrived from Canada and putting it together was a breeze. I was dead keen to get going as the planned Morleymade exhibition, the grand finale of my residency, was only six months away.

The College employed a graphic designer who’d done her training at the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology. She was amazingly talented and underutilised. I recognised her talent and used her skills for the duration of my contract.

For my exhibition, she pulled out all stops. She photographed me weaving, her images used for three large wall panels. She also designed and screen-printed exhibition invitations and posters and lastly, dreamed up the quirky Morleymade logo that was a series of connected ‘m’s in a row. The logo was used for woven labels and later letterheads and business cards. The labels are still in use today some forty years on and are lasting testimony to good design.

Gail Pascoe’s rolling ‘m’s logo on my letterhead and business cards

Gail Pascoe’s rolling ‘m’s logo on my letterhead and business cards

By mid-summer my on-campus studio space, a demountable with little insulation, was like an oven. It was impossible for me to work there from midday onwards. With the exhibition deadline approaching, the loom was moved to my house where I’d be able to weave at all hours of the day and night.

The exhibition opened at the College Gallery on Friday 30th May 1980. Ron Brewer, the then Federal member for Eden Monaro, officiated, surrounded by raw fleece floor rugs, floor cushions and a variety of garments including hooded ponchos. Sales exceeded expectations. The exhibition was then to tour to Canberra, Cooma, Young and Eden. Thankfully, I’d produced additional stock for the tour.

Screen-printed poster advertising the Morleymade travelling exhibition’s venues designed and printed by Gail Pascoe in 1980— the 
Goulburn CAE’s multi-talented graphic artist
Image: Morley Grainger

Screen-printed poster advertising the Morleymade travelling exhibition’s venues designed and printed by
Gail Pascoe in 1980— the Goulburn CAE’s multi-talented graphic artist
Image: Morley Grainger

Screen-printed poster advertising the Morleymade
travelling exhibition’s venues designed and printed by
Gail Pascoe in 1980—the Goulburn CAE’s multi-talented
graphic artist
Image: Morley Grainger

Grouping of hand woven raw fleeece floor mats and floor cushions at the opening of the Morleymade exhbition at the Goulburn
CAE Gallery
Image: Morley Grainger

Grouping of hand woven raw fleece floor mats and floor
cushions at the opening of the Morleymade exhbition at
the Goulburn CAE Gallery
Image: Morley Grainger

Simple-shaped handwoven garments part of the Morleymade touring exhibition 1980
Image: Morley Grainger

Simple-shaped handwoven garments part of the
Morleymade touring exhibition 1980
Image: Morley Grainger

Handwoven hooded poncho with generous tassel detail
Image: Morley Grainger

Handwoven hooded poncho with generous tassel detail
Image: Morley Grainger

When it came time to write a final report for both the College and the Crafts Board, Peter offered to help as he was accustomed to financial report writing.

In the final wash up, all the stakeholders declared the eleven-month residency a huge success.

Afterwards, more workshops, another residency and a university lectureship followed, then time overseas before coming to rest in Toowoomba where, in 1988, I set up the Morley Grainger Studio. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

 

ON REFLECTION
Moving to Goulburn: to be completely honest, I was relieved when Peter changed his mind about moving to Bow Creek, situated in the backblocks of northern New South Wales. I was relieved because I knew I had a better chance of finding well-paid work closer to Sydney even though I had the money from the sale of my terrace house as a financial buffer. I’d entrusted the proceeds of the sale to Peter, a Chartered Accountant and professional money manager. I believed that he’d invest the money wisely and that the interest would be useful if things got tough. Sometime later, I discovered that he was an undischarged bankrupt and, unbeknownst to me, had already spent my money. I realised I’d made an expensive mistake, but I was in too deep. Instead of bailing out, I hung in, hoping to make the best of the situation at the same time wondering for how long I could sustain a relationship with a man I didn’t trust. I’m pleased to report, dear reader, that I’ve not made the same mistake again. Reflecting, I wonder how many other women have found themselves in a relationship with a person whose integrity they question. I cannot be the only one.

The College Residency: The feedback I received from my time at the College was extremely positive and I was proud to have my effectiveness acknowledged. I was also grateful for the firm friendships I’d forged during my first year in Goulburn.

The success of my stint at the College provided me with an entré into the New South Wales contemporary textiles scene. The scene comprised an elite coterie of multi-talented people. I felt I’d found a circle of like-minded artists and took comfort from this, as I moved on to my next challenge. To establish a studio in the shed beside my house.

The Morleymade exhibition: A number of the exhibition pieces comprised simple T-shaped garments woven with hand spun wool, silk and mohair. I was able to double my spun thread output with a homemade electric spinning wheel, made with a jumbo spindle powered by a sewing machine motor.

FACTS:
The Nilus loom: is an eight-shaft 60-inch flying shuttle jack loom. It was, and still is, the Rolls Royce of production looms. On it, I was able to weave a metre of fabric per hour, up to sixty inches wide. It was just the ticket for the mass production of saleable items needed for the touring exhibition, planned at the end of the Residency.

A Le Clerc eight shaft Nilus 60-inch fly shuttle jack loom ideal for production weaving
Image: Source unknown

A Le Clerc eight shaft Nilus 60-inch fly shuttle jack loom
ideal for production weaving
Image: Source unknown

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 51: Going bush

I’d been dating Peter Bluey for some months whilst, at the same time continuing to live with Wendy Hooper and her children at Hunters Hill.

I returned to Sydney after having spent a couple of weeks over the Christmas of 1978 in searing heat, helping to build an imposing mudbrick homestead for the Hooper family at Horse Creek, south of Wagga Wagga. Wendy planned to leave Sydney once her kids were through high school and had embarked on their chosen career path.

Peter and I had also discussed leaving Sydney, as we no longer had ties to the city and were yearning for a quieter life. Our grand plan was to renovate the tumble-down cottage belonging to Peter and his business partner at Bow Creek, east of Deepwater in northern New South Wales. When the cottage was fully renovated, we’d move in. Privately, I wondered how it would work, both personally and professionally as Bow Creek was quite isolated and the facilities were basic at best, similar to a holiday cottage. But, in spite of my misgivings we decided to go ahead with the renovation.

Vertical slab hut—similar to the original Bow Creek hut that had additional rooms added at a later date
Image: WhichCar

Vertical slab hut—similar to the original Bow Creek hut
that had additional rooms added at a later date
Image: WhichCar

Word-of-mouth produced a Glen Innes building team, led by Charlie Elder, who were prepared to drive fifty kilometres to and from Bow Creek on weekdays, for the duration of the renovation.

We began work by ordering new windows, removing what was left of the old floor and evicting the wombats before replacing the rotten stumps with brick piers, new hardwood bearers and floor joists to support Cyprus pine tongue and groove flooring throughout. Next, the corrugated iron roof was removed after which pre-painted Caneite sheeting was placed on the round timber purlins, then a layer of sarking before replacing the iron and painting it. The objective was to improve both the insulation and the aesthetics of the building’s interior.

Morley painting the roof at Bow Creek whilst renovations were in progress, note the new white plastic downpipes to take the rainwater
away from the foundations
Image: Grainger family photographs

Morley painting the roof at Bow Creek whilst renovations
were in progress, note the new white plastic downpipes
to take the rainwater away from the foundations
Image: Grainger family photographs

I noticed a hole in the mantlepiece above the fireplace in the living room. On closer inspection, I could see it was a bullet hole. I made enquiries to discover that many years ago there had been an accidental firearm discharge—the bullet going over the head of the woman of the house, who was seated by the fire nursing her new baby. The bullet lodged in the thick mantelpiece timber—a permanent reminder of a heart-stopping near miss.

There was yet another poignant story about this nameless woman, who rode her horse to visit neighbours. In her saddlebag, she carried her high heel shoes. On arrival, she would dismount, tie up her horse and then swap her riding boots for high heels, before walking to the front door. Clearly, this woman was determined to maintain her dress standards in spite of living in the backblocks of New England.

The Bow Creek renovation continued. Peter and I would drive up from Sydney to work with Team Charlie. Being on site made it easier for everyone because with any major renovation, there were always details to be discussed and decisions to be made.

One job I was busting to do was to spruce up the hand adzed timber slabs, that formed an internal wall between the living room and the space that would become Peter’s office. The slabs had been covered with sheets of newspaper glued across the gaps, to reduce the draft. Fragments of newspaper still clung to each slab. I planned to soak off the newspaper and give the slabs a good scrub and when dry, return them to their original position.

Weathered vertical slab wall similar to the internal wall at Bow Creek
Image: source unknown

Weathered vertical slab wall similar to the internal wall at
Bow Creek
Image: source unknown

The best place to do the scrubbing was down at the creek, some 250 meters from the cottage. I numbered each heavy slab, and carried them down one at a time to soak in the gently flowing water. After a good a scrub, I left them to dry on the grass. When replaced, they looked fabulous and I congratulated myself on successfully honouring a fragment of Bow Creek’s settler past.

Because there was no electricity to the site, progress was slow, with every saw-cut made by hand and every nail driven with a hammer. Occasionally, I’d feel completely overwhelmed with the enormity of the renovation. To regain perspective, I’d climb to the top of the nearby hill overlooking the site. From this vantage point, the cottage and the old pear tree, growing on the northern side of the building, appeared very small. The tree was a sentinel of sorts, planted by the original settlers and a living reminder of the generations that had come and gone from this place. Somehow, it had survived decades of unreliable rainfall and hungry stock.

One day we, Team Charlie and I, had a heavy hardwood beam to lift into place above the enlarged opening between the kitchen and the living room. Measurements had been checked and rechecked and the necessary saw cuts made. We were ready to go but we had a problem. There were only three of us, which meant that there was insufficient combined strength required for the horizontal lift. One more strong person was needed. What to do? I wandered outside and stood underneath the pear tree hoping for inspiration. When I looked up, I saw a man on a horse approaching from the south. I wondered if I was dreaming because it was extremely unusual to have visitors in this remote part of New South Wales, let alone on horseback. The fella explained he was searching for his missing stock. No doubt his cattle were the ones that could occasionally be seen enjoying free grazing on Bow Creek, as the boundary fences were down in places. After we had explained our dilemma, he dismounted and helped us to lift the beam into place, before remounting and heading off to continue his search.

Yet another memorable Bow Creek experience occurred one clear afternoon. I’d wandered away from the building site to the east. Deep in thought, I looked up to see a Royal Australian Air Force F-111 flying southwards only 20 something metres off the ground.

Australian Air Force F-111 strike fighter aircraft
Image: U.S. Naval Institute

For some seconds I made eye contact with the co-pilot, who was looking down at me as the aircraft sped past. I don’t know who was more surprised, he or me, and I was very thankful I was fully clothed at the time.

Australian Air Force F-111 strike fighter aircraft
Image: U.S. Naval Institute

With the Bow Creek renovation almost complete, Peter hired a high-sided trailer in Sydney and loaded it up with his furniture for the run to Deepwater. Once the furniture was in place, our little cottage was becoming a home. But as the relocation date loomed, Peter had a last-minute change of heart. We wouldn’t be moving to Bow Creek.

I did wonder if Peter’s U-turn was driven by his eldest daughter’s forthcoming marriage into the Deepwater squattocracy. Or the embarrassment he may have caused her by living a semi-alternate lifestyle nearby with me, his much younger girlfriend? Or maybe the basic living conditions at Bow Creek reflecting badly? Or the eight-hour drive to Sydney that would make it difficult to service his accountancy clients? Or possibly all of the above.

With plans to move to Bow Creek now scrapped, we had to find alternate accommodation if our newish relationship was to be given a chance to develop.

I was always on the lookout for interesting work and had recently applied for a year-long Hand Weaver-in-Residence position with the Goulburn College of Advanced Education.

Goulburn was a large, prosperous country town, a two-hour drive from Sydney on the highway to Canberra. Peter was aware of my application and one Saturday morning he suggested we drive down and check out the area.

We took the back road through Bungonia, where he pointed out a property he’d once owned when his Parramatta accountancy practice was booming. When we got to Goulburn, we lunched at the iconic Paragon Café, one of the hundreds of Greek cafes in regional Australia. After lunch we decided to wander Goulburn’s main street to get a feel for the town.

Whilst wandering, we scanned the real estate agents’ windows to price property both in and out of town. In one agent’s window, we saw the faded photograph of a grand, ten-room Federation house, on half an acre, perched high on a shale ridge with a view out over the city and environs for $24,000. I was excited. Deciding to strike while the iron was hot, the obliging Agent took us to inspect the empty house, making it clear that it’d been on the market for some time. I immediately saw its potential as a house that was large enough to provide an office for Peter and a studio for me. As we drove back to Sydney, we discussed the pros and cons of relocating to Goulburn and I wondered if the abandoned solid brick house would become our new home.

Time would tell.

The famous Paragon Café in Auburn Street Goulburn New
South Wales
Image: Flickr

The famous Paragon Café in Auburn Street Goulburn
New South Wales
Image: Flickr

 

ON REFLECTION:
Bow Creek: I was and continue to be a city person at heart. Nonetheless, I was excited at the prospect of going bush with Peter knowing my practical approach to problem-solving would be an asset that I’d already utilised whilst project managing the Bow Creek cottage renovation. My ability to problem-solve may have been the result of living overseas in various environments, where creativity and flexibility were essential to stay safe.

On the other hand, Peter understood the bush. After high school, he went jackarooing on a property at Mungindi, on the border between New South Wales and Queensland.  I knew I’d a lot to learn about bush living and felt confident Peter would teach me what I needed to know. He was older and all these years later, I accept that my attraction to him was an unconscious one, due to my need for a worldly father figure to replace my own father, from whom I was estranged.

Once the Bow Creek cottage was to ‘lock up’, we visited one last time to pick up Peter’s furniture. Sometime later the property sold to a local squatter but not before Peter had a Grafton timber miller selectively fell numerous large eucalyptus trees, growing on Bow Creek’s uncleared back country. Peter knew how to maximise profit, a skill I’ve yet to learn.

F-111 Aardvark: My astounding encounter with an F-111 aircraft flying low over Bow Creek remains a strong memory. The aircraft represented cutting edge aviation technology which was in marked contrast to the old-fashioned building methods we were forced to use renovating the cottage.

FACTS:
Bow Creek: is located south east of Deepwater, on the New England tableland, in northern New South Wales at the end of Carrot Farm Road.

Image: Google maps

Bow Creek: is the perennial stream that feeds into the Deepwater River, then into Mole River, then into the Dumaresq River which is one of a number, that mark the boundary between New South Wales and Queensland. The water from these rivers ultimately become part of the Barwon River catchment, that takes water from the western side of the Great Dividing Range south into the Murray Darling Basin.

General Dynamics F-111 Aardvark: These American aircraft were purchased by the Australian Defence Department in 1973. The aircraft design pioneered variable sweep wings, afterburning turbofan engines and automated terrain-following radar for low-level high-speed flight at a constant height of less than 22.8 metres. The last Australian Air Force F-111 was retired in 2010.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Dynamics_F-111_Aardvark

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 50: Mud, glorious mud!

I was eager to leave Adelaide as quickly as possible, following a distressingly messy relationship break up, so made a bee-line for Sydney, my home town where I knew I’d be supported as I recovered from the split. Fortunately, before I left, I’d completed a year-long Post Graduate Teaching qualification, a qualification I knew would be very handy down the track.

When I returned to Sydney, I moved in with my adopted aunt and by way of a distraction, reconnected with Accountant Peter Bluey my New Guinea friend Richard Carlson’s business partner. The partnership was convenient as Richard, a Qantas pilot, was always on the lookout for interesting money-making opportunities in his down time. For me the TAFE Outreach workshops continued intermittently as did weekend workshops in regional centres with the Crafts Council of New South Wales—freeing me up to explore country New South Wales with Peter both by car and light aircraft.

On the domestic front, my aunt’s health was deteriorating: the result of smoking cigarettes for many years. One morning I found her unconscious on the bathroom floor. Terrified, I managed to drag her to the bedroom. She wasn’t breathing so I gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Almost immediately she began breathing again and regained consciousness. I then made a quick call to her doctor, after which she was whisked off to hospital.

A week or so later, after being strongly advised to quit smoking, she was discharged. But as soon as she arrived home and closed the front door behind her, she lit up one of her favourite Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes and began puffing away. I saw red!  From my standpoint, her addiction overrode common sense and I realised I could no longer endure the waves of emotional pain I experienced, whilst watching the slow, inexorable decline of the woman I loved so much. I realised that I had to find somewhere else to live.

Fortunately, I had friends at the end of the street. The family offered me the spare bedroom that had been vacated by their eldest daughter, who’d recently married and moved to Wagga Wagga, on the Riverina. Theirs was a bustling household with three school-age teenagers and their cute black dog.

Peter ran his accountancy practice from an office opposite the Courthouse, in Oxford Street, Darlinghurst. Tax avoidance was his specialty. He offered his clients ‘bottom of the harbour’ tax schemes and utilised his knowledge of the bush to find agricultural properties in regional New South Wales to sell on to cashed-up New Guinea expatriates. Richard Carlson’s role in the partnership was to recruit buyers from his extensive circle of friends living in the New Guinea Highlands.

Another of Peter’s business ventures was a carrot-growing operation at Bow Creek, just out of Deepwater, in northern New South Wales. His partner in this venture was an academic who lived on site and managed the enterprise. The property adjoined the Butterleaf National Park and comprised well-drained granite soil—ideal for growing, harvesting, processing and transporting carrots in all weathers. A huge shed had been built beside the creek to house a carrot washer, a carrot drier and other machinery. The operation was active from September through to May and its location was ideal for supplying the Brisbane markets.

This is how it worked. On receipt of an early afternoon order, the team swung into action. Carrots were immediately harvested, washed and bagged by local women, loaded into a truck and delivered to the Brisbane markets by 4:00 am the next morning.

In addition to fresh carrots, the operation had another extremely lucrative sideline. Drying diced carrots for use with 1080 poison to control rabbit numbers. The operation was rocketing along but just as all the infrastructure costs had been covered and good profits were predicted, disaster struck. Nematode had infiltrated the property, bringing the carrot-cropping enterprise to a grinding halt.

Nematode affected carrots
Image: Flikr

The story I was told to explain the demise of the operation was as follows: nematode, a soil borne disease, came in on carrot seed. Desperate for seed, quantities were sourced from two different suppliers so it wasn’t possible to ascertain from which supplier the contaminated seed had come.

When Peter first took me to visit Bow Creek, the carrot operation had been defunct for quite some time, though, the subsequent disentanglement of the business partnership rumbled on for years.

As well as the ugly corrugated iron shed, Bow Creek had a charming almost falling down weatherboard house attached to the original slab hut that was built by the first white settlers. I fell in love with the building and as a committed renovator, immediately saw its potential. Always up for a challenge, I suggested renovating it.

But the renovation would have to wait as there was another very exciting building project about to begin. The construction of a large mudbrick homestead and I wanted to be involved.

The household where I was living was in a state of flux as the parents, Wendy and Wal, were working through the dissolution of their marriage. There was a large poll Hereford stud to be sold with Wendy keeping 6000 acres of rough country at the back of the property. This new block, named Horse Creek, was to have an architect designed five-bedroom mudbrick house built on it. The design incorporated a narrow north-facing clerestory window that brought sunlight into the main space that combined kitchen, dining and living with fireplaces at each end of the room.

I was involved in the project from the get go as I felt obliged to offer my labour in lieu of rent.

A typical Riverina landscape similar to the Horse Creek country
Image: source unknown

During the Christmas holidays of 1978, the Horse Creek shearing shed became our base of operations. Wendy took charge of feeding the labour force and cooking over an open fire for up to eight hungry workers each day. By the time I arrived, most of the timber framing was up and the brickmakers were hard at work. The bricks were made in the bed of the newly-dug dam behind the shearing shed, where masses of suitable clay had been uncovered whilst digging out the dam.

To make bricks, the tractor was used to mix the ingredients—clay, straw and water—the mixture then allowed to stand overnight. Next morning it was bucketed into individual metal moulds and levelled, before the mould was gently lifted off. The process was repeated over and over again until the mixture ran out. In the late afternoon, the last job was to prepare a batch of mixture for the following day. I can’t remember how many bricks were made but hundreds were needed for both the external and internal walls of this very large building.

Wooden mud brick moulds filled with mud and levelled—at Horse Creek a single metal mould with long handles was used designed to
save bending—it worked a treat!
Image: Quora

Wooden mud brick moulds filled with mud and levelled
—at Horse Creek a single metal mould with long handles
was used designed to save bending—it worked a treat!
Image: Quora

Mud bricks drying flat before being turned on their side to dry out
Image: UNIDO

Mud bricks drying flat before being turned on their side to dry out
Image: UNIDO

Fortunately, that summer was long and hot with no rain to hamper brick production or building construction.

I wasn’t part of the brick-making crew. My job was to lay the bricks using mortar made of clay and water. Even though the walls were not load-bearing, to strengthen them, we laid a strip of narrow chicken wire every third course that was nailed to the timber uprights at each end of the wall.

A mudbrick wall under construction
Image: Homebaseperth.com.au

When the walls were complete, we covered them with mud render, to create a not so smooth surface, thereby retaining the character of the handmade bricks.

Applying render to a mudbrick wall by hand--smoothing the surface of the bricks
Image: Tech-Dry Images

Applying render to a mudbrick wall by hand--
smoothing the surface of the bricks
Image: Tech-Dry Images

There was no running water at Horse Creek. So, every couple of days we’d squeeze into a vehicle for the 60-kilometre round trip to the Murray River. We’d jump into cool off whilst the water soaked off the layers of caked-on dirt from our skin and clothes. We’d then adjourn to the pub for an icy-cold drink whilst our clothes continued to drip, after which we drove the dusty road back to Horse Creek.

The mighty Murray River at Jingellic
Image: Bonzle.com

I continued to lay bricks for some weeks until Peter came to pick me up. We then returned to Sydney to begin planning the Bow Creek cottage renovation at the defunct carrot farm, because Peter and I were of one mind. We were determined to get out of Sydney.

The next chapter of my life was about to begin.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Mud brick construction: I was thrilled to be involved in the building project at Horse Creek. There was something primal about using earth to create a structure to provide protection against the elements. I was more than happy to help because I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to learn how to make and lay mudbricks for a possible future project. But the labour intensiveness of all aspects of this build put me off. I decided that from here on in, I’d put my creative energy into less ambitious house renovation projects.

5-bedroom mudbrick homestead some years after construction—north-facing clerestory window is visible above the front veranda
Image: Grainger family photographs

5-bedroom mudbrick homestead some years after
construction —north-facing clerestory window is visible
above the front veranda
Image: Grainger family photographs

The kitchen at one end of the Horse Creek homestead’s huge central space. Note light coming through the clerestory window
Image: Grainger family photographs

The kitchen at one end of the Horse Creek homestead’s
huge central space. Note light coming through the
clerestory window
Image: Grainger family photographs

Peter Bluey: Peter was 17 years my senior. At the start of our relationship, I was filled with expectancy as I visualised a productive creative partnership, combining Peter’s money-management know-how and my renovating skills, with emphasis on good design. The future looked promising. I felt secure in his company and was grateful to have him as a reliable backstop—a father figure of sorts, with many years of life experience that I could draw upon, when needed.

FACTS:
Nematode: Further research has shown that the nematode is a tiny parasitic worm that was most likely brought to Bow Creek on vehicles or farm machinery, not seed. Alternatively, the culprit may have been CarVY, a virus that also infects carrots. As it was, the operation stopped dead once the paddocks revealed their first crop of twisted carrots. Needless to say, there was no market for imperfect carrots.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nematode

Magnification of nematode
Image: Wikipedia

1080 poison: 1080 (sodium fluoroacetate) was first used in Australia for rabbit control programmes in the early 1950s. To this day 1080 remains a critical component of integrated pest-control programmes for rabbits, foxes, wild dogs and feral pigs.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sodium_fluoroacetate   

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 49: Back to study

At the end of 1976, I reluctantly returned to Australia with a heavy heart and a head full of remarkable cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die stories of my time in Central America. I did wonder if anyone would be interested in my adventures or even believe me. The truth was I had lost touch with many of my friends and acquaintances because I’d been away for almost three years.

My terrace house had been rented whilst I was away. I returned to discover that the last lot of tenants had stripped the interior of everything that wasn’t screwed down—including the wall-to-wall carpet, slicing it free from the shot edge, leaving the underfelt. Vandalism in the backyard too. The elegant white frangipani tree was gone.

My neighbours on both sides were shift workers. They were quick to tell me that the last batch of tenants had used my house as a bordello. They were relieved when the girls left because the comings and goings at all hours of the day and night had interrupted their sleep.

Before leaving for Mexico, I’d stored my personal effects in the roof cavity above the ceiling. It was an unwise decision as it turned out. The vandals had rummaged through all the sealed plastic bags by candlelight, taking whatever they wanted but leaving clumps of candle wax as evidence of their activities. When I saw the wax, my heart skipped a beat. In a split second I visualised the worst-case scenario—my possessions catching fire and burning down my house and possibly the others in the terrace as well. Oh dear.

Another shock came whilst picking up the threads of friendships. As I wasn’t a great letter writer, I needed to catch up with friends if I was to re-enter the life I’d left behind. But I soon discovered I was the odd one out. In the interim, they’d moved on and in the best Baby Boomer tradition were fully focussed on partnering, or parenting, or promotion in a time of full employment and unlimited possibilities. I soon discovered that they were only cursorily interested in my Mexican exploits. I was disappointed but it wouldn’t be the last time I experienced indifference when returning home from living overseas. Truth be told, I’d have returned to Mexico in a heartbeat, but I knew it was impossible.

Luckily, I was able to return to my adopted aunt’s house, whilst finding my feet.

Barons Crescent Gladesville—the 3rd house designed by Harry Seidler in early 1950s
Australia
Image: source unknown

Barons Crescent Gladesville—the 3rd house designed
by Harry Seidler in early 1950s Australia
Image: source unknown

Once I’d recovered from jet-lag, my top priority was to clear the roof cavity at Young Street before putting the terrace on the market. I had no choice, because I’d come back to Australia with the arse out of my pants and as a result, I lacked the resources to resume the mortgage repayments. Besides which, the rooms contained too many unhappy memories. Thankfully, the house sold quickly and I tripled my money in six years. Nice.

Yes, re-entry into Australian life was difficult but now the house was sold, I was free to explore other possibilities if and when they arose.

Jan and Greg Sims, my housemates before Young Street, had moved to Adelaide. They’d been lured there by the promise of a house they could afford because for them, purchasing a house in Sydney was out of the question.

Jan and Greg’s house in Klemzig, a suburb of Adelaide not far from the
Torrens River
Image: source unknown

Jan and Greg’s house in Klemzig, a suburb of Adelaide
not far from the Torrens River
Image: source unknown

Whilst I was living in Mexico, Jan and Greg’s second daughter Holly was born, a sister for Melanie. In a telephone conversation, Jan mentioned a new course being offered at Torrens College of Advanced Education in Adelaide. On offer was a Post Graduate Diploma of Teaching to commence in late January the following year. I immediately applied for a place and was accepted after waving my National Art School qualification and my degree from the Instituto Allende.

Next, I needed a place to live in Adelaide. The Sims family kindly offered me accommodation for the duration. They had bought a beautiful three-bedroom bluestone house on a big block in Klemzig and their third bedroom would be mine. It’d be like old times.

I was pleased to be leaving Sydney and very grateful for the distraction study would provide as I was already missing the excitement and unpredictability of the life I’d left behind in Latin America.

I farewelled my dear adopted aunt, who had once again provided sanctuary as I coped with re-entry and the house sale and as it turned out, it wouldn’t be the last time. Her generosity continued until her death in 1984.

Austin 1100—a great car for the year I was in Adelaide
Image: YouTube

Compared to life in Mexico or even Sydney, living in Adelaide could best be described as bland. But I had to make the best of it. I bought a second-hand Austin 1100, applied for and received Austudy support, and found a peaceful place to live with kind people. Now with transport, financial assistance and a roof over my head, I could ease myself back into Australian life, whilst at the same time concentrating on the Post Graduate Diploma coursework.

Along the way, I met John Brown. We quickly became an item and moved in together.

Born and bred in Adelaide, John was a non-smoking, non-drinking, meditating, vegan social worker. Through him, I was introduced to the Theosophical Society and his circle of alternate life-stylers living both in the city and the surrounding hills. At the time I was a heavy smoker, but I knew that smoking would be a deal-breaker for the relationship so I quit, cold turkey.

From the outset, our relationship was difficult and not particularly supportive. I certainly had no intention of co-parenting with him. So, whilst I was away having a termination, he sorted through my possessions and took everything he felt had caused problems in our relationship into the backyard where he set fire to them. On my return from hospital, I viewed the smouldering remains of the irreplaceable documents for my Master’s thesis and my electric spinning wheel with disbelief, after which I hastily stuffed all my belongings into my car and drove off without a backward glance.

I was grateful to have somewhere to go: once again back to the Sims family at Klemzig.

The following Saturday, I listed my car for sale in the newspaper and sold it to the first looker. Next, I took a flight to Sydney relieved to be leaving Adelaide. A day or so later, John telephoned asking me to return to pick up where we’d left off. But I had no intention of returning, well aware that if I did, I could be in danger.

With my post graduate teaching qualification tucked under my arm, I was now in a much stronger position to find work in Sydney. The Torrens College pilot course design had offered block teaching placements in Primary, Secondary and Tertiary institutions. From the experience, I realised I was happiest teaching adults. So, with a ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ mindset, I approached the Department of Technical and Further Education to see if they had any teaching work that’d fit my skill set and to my delight, they did. I signed up for a ground-breaking Outreach project, offering twice-weekly daytime craft classes for women in western Sydney. I was definitely up for this challenge as it was an opportunity to apply my art training, my craft know-how and my newly acquired teaching qualification. I was excited at the prospect.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Tenants: I still shudder when I think of strangers rifling through my possessions by candle light in the roof cavity of my terrace house. And having to face the dreadful fact that my only asset could so easily have burnt to the ground.

The frangipani tree: I occasionally wondered why someone would go to the trouble of removing the large frangipani tree from my back yard.

The frangipani tree in the foreground is about the size of the tree removed from the backyard at Young
Street Annandale
Image: Lawn.co.au

The frangipani tree in the foreground is about the size of
the tree removed from the backyard at Young Street
Annandale
Image: Lawn.co.au

Some years later a horticulturalist friend explained that the tree was valuable. The branches would’ve been cut into lengths and planted to create hundreds of trees to sell on. A very lucrative side hustle.

Frangipani cuttings
Image: YouTube

My adopted aunt Helen: Helen’s house at Gladesville was my Sydney base of operations for many years following my parent’s divorce—after which they both left Australia to work overseas. Helen was a childless woman, who had put her energy into supporting progressive early childhood education. She was an important figure in my upbringing as she modelled the subtleties of aesthetics, fabulous food and shared her appreciation of classical music.

John Brown: I’m grateful to John for one thing. Thanks to him, I quit smoking and haven’t smoked since.

Teaching qualification: The content of the Torrens training has been an invaluable asset. I acquired skills that enabled me to structure workshops for TAFE, and later from the first Morley Grainger Studio, set up in 1980.

FACTS:
The Theosophical Society: was formed by 16 people led by Helena Petrovna Blavatsky in New York City, USA in 1875. They described themselves as “an unsectarian body of seekers after Truth, who endeavour to promote Brotherhood and strive to serve humanity”, without distinction of race, creed, sex, caste, or colour. Twentieth century German philosopher and educator Rudolph Steiner was a Theosophist.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theosophical_Society

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 58: Breaking camp

In February 1984, I resigned from the Darling Downs Institute of Advanced Education in Toowoomba, Queensland. I’d thoroughly enjoyed aspects of my time there, particularly the students and teaching textiles. But I found the politics of the institution unfathomable possibly because I was accustomed to being a one-woman-band.

Some months earlier, I’d decided to visit the Findhorn Community in northern Scotland. I’d written the obligatory introduction letter outlining my skills and reasons for wanting to visit, after which I waited impatiently for a reply. When the letter arrived inviting me to come, I swung into action. I knew the most pressing matter to be dealt with before I could leave Australia was severing my connection with my former partner in Goulburn.

But before I left Toowoomba, I had things to do. Firstly, I gifted the wherewithal to continue producing the Australiana range of screen-printed items to one of my mature-age students because I knew she’d produce a quality product. And secondly, to re-house Sas the Wonder Dog.

After finding a loving home for him followed by numerous farewell gatherings, I broke camp and headed south to Goulburn to deal with Peter, who’d been living in my house whilst I was in Toowoomba. He knew I was off to Scotland after selling my house. Sniffing a bargain, he had a Real Estate mate visit me. After running down the property, he offered me $56,000. I was extremely annoyed and refused his offer. Peter was also annoyed and proved difficult to dislodge—understandable as he’d lived rent-free for close to five years. An un-discharged bankrupt, his nastiness was writ large when he threatened to lodge a caveat over my house—his attempt to either gain financially or to drag out the disentanglement process or both. Discombobulated, I engaged a hotshot Sydney lawyer, who worked his legal magic and within a week, Peter was gone.

Once back in the house, I began the long-overdue seven-day kitchen renovation before putting the house on the market.

A Goulburn friend, well aware of the eviction drama and the pressure I was under to fix the kitchen before putting the house on the market, found an advertisement in the local paper. Being a ‘strike while the iron’s hot’ type person, she phoned me to say that someone was looking for a house just like mine with a budget of up to $75,000. She instructed me to jot down the telephone number and call immediately. I thanked her and for the umpteenth time explained that I wanted to finish the kitchen renovation before looking for a buyer. After hanging up I looked at the number and thought, “I’ve been given this number for a reason.” “Even though I’m not yet ready to sell, I’d best phone.”

I phoned, introduced myself to the male voice at the other end and went on to describe my 1400 square metre property in detail. I explained that it’d be ready for inspection in a weeks’ time. But the voice would have none of it, insisting on visiting at nine o’clock the next morning and I reluctantly agreed.

Next morning the voice and his wife arrived on the dot of nine and, by nine-thirty, the house was sold for $72,000, $3,000 shy of their top price. I decided to drop the price to cover the cost of new floor coverings as the old carpet and bare floorboards made the rooms difficult to heat in the winter. As it was a cash sale with four weeks to settle, I had time to complete the kitchen renovation and move on to the next task, to organise a massive weekend garage sale. Everything had to go.

My mother came to help. I made a series of long low display tables from wooden planks and bricks, spaced out across the floor of the now almost empty studio. I then spent days systematically pricing everything before arranging each item on the plank tables in readiness.

To advertise the garage sale, I organised a ‘leaving town’ article in the local paper, placed an ad on local radio and nailed up large signs on both sides of the two telegraph poles closest to the front gate. I was a little concerned because I didn’t know how the Goulburn community would respond to a garage sale, because they were a newish phenomenon in regional Australia at that time.

But I quickly discovered there was absolutely no need for concern. On Saturday morning at nine o’clock the floodgates opened. My mother was in charge of the money. I found a large deep biscuit tin with a tight-fitting lid for the cash box and I recall seeing the tin bulging with money time and time again. I lost count of the number of times the tin had to be emptied in the course of the two-day sale.

In the flurry of activity that was created by a constant flow of people through the studio and the grounds, one incident remains with me. My mother found me to say that she’d noticed a woman walking down to the front gate clutching a number of white leather skins. She watched the woman get into a Mercedes Benz and drive away. My mother was convinced the woman hadn’t paid for the skins but there was nothing we could do. Early next morning we were mightily surprised when the woman returned with cash in hand to pay for the skins. We assumed that either she’d forgotten to pay on the day or her conscience had gotten the better of her overnight.

The garage sale was a huge success with very little left by Sunday afternoon. Only a queen-size bed and some cans of paint that were stored in one of the chook pens on the western boundary. The paint was not included in the mega sale because I’d simply run out of puff. Fortunately, an ex-New Guinea artist friend who had relocated to nearby Mittagong, was invited to inspect what was left. Next day he and his family drove to Goulburn to check out their unexpected windfall. They took the lot and we helped them fill their trailer to the top before heading home.

When the house sale was finalised, I gave the new owners the photo album I’d begun in early 1979, shortly after we’d moved in. It contained a visual record of the improvements made to the house and studio over almost five years. The improvements included a new ‘L’-shaped front verandah of shot-edge jarrah, two fully-renovated bathrooms; two new loos, gas hot water throughout; relocation of the back door and two full length sash windows bricked into a section of the north facing dining room wall. Freshly painted throughout with a newly painted roof and the very recently renovated kitchen.

The house sale marked the end of my dealings with the hot-shot lawyer. He was delighted to take some of the artworks from the Wollongong exhibition in part payment for his legal services. No sooner had I delivered the pieces to his Sydney office he gave them pride of place in the waiting room. A light draft created by the ducted air-conditioning made the work move gently thereby adding another dimension to the otherwise static artworks. His final suggestion was to invest the profit from the house sale in Government Bonds, that were paying 17%. Lovely!

Aumak—symbol of pig ownership in the New Guinea Highlands from the
Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition given to my lawyer in part
payment for legal work
Image: Morley Grainger

Aumak—symbol of pig ownership in the New Guinea
Highlands from the Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982
exhibition given to my lawyer in part payment for legal
work
Image: Morley Grainger

Totem 1 & 11 from the Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition also
given to my lawyer in part payment for legal work
Image: Morley Grainger

Totem 1 & 11 from the Morley Grainger—Wollongong
1982 exhibition also given to my lawyer in part payment
for legal work
Image: Morley Grainger

I was now able to relax and enjoy my hard-won freedom.

Before leaving for Scotland, I’d time for a short romantic dalliance with a lawyer friend of the hot shot lawyer after which I packed my suitcase, farewelled friends and flew out to London.

 

ON REFLECTION:

The Goulburn garage sale: the success of my mega sale can be attributed to the novelty of garage sales at that time—a trendy new way of off-loading unwanted possessions. Mine was widely publicised and the townsfolk of Goulburn came in droves possibly to check out the house, the studio and the garden. Their interest was piqued as the result of my highish profile in the community, the flow-on from my eleven-month Residency at the Goulburn College in 1980. What I liked most about garage sales was that people paid good money to take away stuff I no longer wanted.

The new owners: The couple who bought my house had well-paying jobs in Goulburn. She was a nurse at the Goulburn Hospital and he was a warder at Goulburn’s maximum-security prison. Some years later, I heard that he’d taken a strong stand against drugs in the jail. For his trouble—to use prison parlance, a disgruntled prisoner had ‘rearranged his face with a metal bar’. Not long after, they sold the house and moved away.

Nest building: The Goulburn house was my second and final attempt at nest building around a relationship with a man—this time with Peter Bluey. My first attempt was with Charlie Smith in Sydney when we were both just twenty-one and wet behind the ears. But my Goulburn adventure and the relationship that went with it, was the last straw. In the intervening years I’ve come to realise I’m happiest on my own. I’ve discovered that in romantic relationships I ever-so gradually lose myself whilst endeavouring to be the perfect partner—loving, understanding, supportive and forgiving, often choosing to overlook my partner’s indiscretions. When my best efforts were not enough, I’d pull away and become resentful.

FACTS:
The proceeds of the garage sale: after expenses, I made over $5,000, which was a lot of money in 1984.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter: 57: Sas the Wonder Dog

The Chronicles of a Saskatchewan Mouse Hound.

My childhood experience of pets was somewhat eclectic. Over the years my family was joined by: two cats, Wilberforce and Ebenezer, and a rabbit named Hopzibah. Also, a light blue budgerigar, two cockatiels and a collection of short-lived hermit crabs—but never a dog.

Then, there was Sas.

Here I’ve chosen to recount, in no particular order, the mostly humorous, sometimes embarrassing or concerning incidents of our extraordinary years together and to do this, best I begin at the beginning.

Sas was conceived at Horse Creek on the Riverina in southern New South Wales. His mother, Kumla, was a black, droopy-eared, middle-sized pet shop dog and his father, Coco, was a Border Collie Kelpie cross working dog from Coppabella Station, the property adjoining Horse Creek.

Sas was born in Sydney and I officiated at his birth, midwife to both he and his sister, Pushka.

Kumla with her puppies—Sas on the left and Pushka on the right
Image: Morley Grainger

When Sas was six weeks old we left Sydney. He sat in the passenger seat of my beat-up VW Beetle for the two-hour run down the Hume Highway to Goulburn. Goulburn was and is an influential country town where we, my partner Peter Bluey, myself and Sas the Wonder Dog would begin the next chapter of our lives. 

Chronicle #1:
Sas was a most engaging puppy. Not long after we moved to Goulburn, Peter suggested a day out at the polo, where we’d watch the next generation of young, fit squatters on horseback whacking a ball across a grassy paddock with a long-handled wooden mallet.

Peter, a wannabe squatter, looked the part; wearing a tweed sports coat with leather elbow patches over a polo neck jumper, navy moleskin trousers and imported Mexican boots. At the time, Peter was driving a bright yellow Ute, a most appropriate vehicle for a day at the polo. We headed out with our wicker picnic basket in the back, filled with delectables and Sas with us in the front, wearing his smart red leather puppy collar and matching lead.

Peter with Sas and friends in the back of Peter’s Holden Ute
Image: Morley Grainger

At the polo ground, he sat quietly in the back of the Ute looking cute. A number of passers-by stopped to pat him and chat. One patter asked: “What’s the breed?” Quick as a flash Peter retorted, “He’s a Saskatchewan Mouse Hound!” And we all roared with laughter. But the fantasy breed stuck. Thereafter, he was known as Sas, the Saskatchewan Mouse Hound.

What an unexpectedly well-bred dog!

Chronicle #2:
As we adjusted to our new life in Goulburn, Sas grew. Taller now, he began raiding the large kitchen rubbish bin. Peter, who had much more dog-training experience than I, had the solution. He made a ‘walloper’ by tightly rolling a newspaper and taping it in three places. Hitting the walloper against a hard surface made a loud crack, and it was hoped, the sudden explosive sound would cure Sas of his bad habit.

Peter explained it was important to catch him in the act, so we set a trap by placing a tasty morsel on top of the rubbish under the bin lid. Then we waited. Sas came in to investigate, nudged off the lid, retrieved the morsel and began eating. Caught in the act, the walloper was whacked down hard against the benchtop. And Sas got one hell of a fright. The strategy worked and it was the last time he raided a bin anywhere. Thereafter, just mentioning the word ‘walloper’ had instant behaviour-modifying results.

Smart dog!

Chronicle #3:
Sas was obsessed with tennis balls. I’d often play ball with him. We had great fun because he was a terrific retriever, always dropping the ball at my feet, willing me to throw it again. When I was jack of the game, I’d hide the ball and show him my empty hands, after which he’d scurry off and return with another that he’d hidden somewhere in the yard. I fantasised this was irrefutable evidence that Sas could count!

Numerate dog!

Chronicle #4:
Sas slept in the large living area at the back of the house but was not allowed in the bedrooms. Each morning, when he heard me stir, he’d come bounding down the hall and stand at the doorway wagging his tail vigorously. His body language saying: “I’ve been waiting ages for you to wake up! Come on, get out of bed now!”

But on winter nights, the interconnecting door between the living area and the bedrooms was closed.

I had a collection of thickish dyed hand spun wool, wound into balls. One day I decided to use the balls to make an artistic arrangement in a large circular basket. Viewing my handiwork, I was pleased with the colour arrangement and strategically placed the basket on the living room floor for maximum decorative effect.

Next morning when the interconnecting door was opened, Sas’s ball obsession was writ large. We found the floor covered with a woollen thread version of a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. Sas had spent the night pushing every ball of wool around the living area with his nose. When we saw his ‘artwork’, we laughed so hard it was impossible to get cross with him. And I remember it took me hours to re-ball the mess of threads and then store them well out of Sas’s reach!

Artistic dog!

Chronicle #5:
Sas was well behaved and obedient. He understood and obeyed both verbal and non-verbal commands. The verbal ones included directions to sit, stay, lie down and come behind. When he was out of earshot, he would respond to non-verbal commands. For example, when I raised an arm to head height he would immediately drop to the ground. Also, he would cast to the left or the right on an arm signal. I’m told many working dogs are trained to do this but Sas had had no training. And I did wonder if this ability was his genetic inheritance from his working dog father?

Sas came and went from the house as he pleased, wandering the neighbourhood to visit friends, both canine and human. On one occasion I found him standing on the far side of the busy four-lane highway behind our house, about to cross. I stopped the car, got out, caught his eye, raised my arm and he dropped. I then got back in the car and drove around to pick him up.

One afternoon he returned to the house and sank to the floor, where he remained for a full day and night eating and drinking but not able to stand to get outside to pee. We assumed he’d been hit by a car. On the second day we took him to the Vet. The Vet immediately applied pressure to each side of his abdomen, releasing a stream of pee that became a large puddle around his feet. He recovered quickly and thankfully it wasn’t long before his sense of humour returned though, he never did regain full strength in his hindquarters. As a result, his exuberant leap into the back of the Ute was a thing of the past. Now, we had to lower the tray and help him up.

Tough dog!

Chronicle #6:
Sas had yet another road accident, but this time it was my doing. I was driving the Ute to a small town not far from Goulburn with Sas in the back. Picture a single lane bitumen road with gravel shoulders. I was pushing along at around 60 kilometres. In the side mirror, I could see Sas leaning around the cabin to enjoy the breeze that pinned back his floppy ears, flattened his jowls and lifted his lips to expose his teeth. When I took a corner a little too sharply, he lost his balance and toppled out onto the gravel. I saw him go and pulled up immediately. I then watched in amazement as he got up, shook himself off and scampered back to the Ute. I checked him over and was relieved to find nothing was broken, though he did have gravel rash on the inside of one hind leg, the one that hit the gravel first. With Sas back on board we drove on.

Resilient dog!

Chronicle #7:
Sas often came with us when we drove to Sydney, riding in the back of the Ute. I clearly remember one trip. As we drove down the highway Peter was talking a lot of rot so I asked him to pull over. I got out, closed the door and climbed into the back with Sas for the remainder of the journey. That day, Sas was much better company.

When we got to Sydney, finding a shady parking place was always a pre-requisite. Once parked, I would let Sas out for a pee. He would pee on command. Can you believe it? I’d say, “Good boy….. good boy….. good boy…..” and the pee stream would begin. With his bladder empty, I’d help him back into the Ute to have a drink from the water bowl I’d just filled for him. Lastly, I told him to ‘stay’. Never once did he attempt to jump out to follow us and was always so welcoming when we returned.

Obedient dog!

Chronicle #8:
When I moved to Toowoomba in early 1983, Sas came with me because I’d been disappointed with the care Peter had provided whilst I was away from home, either attending conferences or conducting workshops.

The Darling Downs Institute of Advanced Education got two for the price of one, as Sas came with me every day and before long became a firm favourite with the students—he had friends on campus I‘d never met. As we walked the campus, young people would come up to him, call him by name and give him a pat. He was a ‘fill-in’ for many students who were a long way from home and missing their own dogs.

My boss, the Dean of Creative Arts, always made a huge fuss of Sas—I assume because he was so well behaved. But on one occasion, he caused an embarrassing stir. The track from the Textiles demountable to my office took us past the Dean’s office. This day I noticed Sas take a sharp left turn to walk behind the Dean’s secretary and into his empty office, as the door was open. I watched in disbelief as Sas cocked his leg against the Dean’s desk and peed; fortunately, he only had a dribble in him. Shock, horror! I was outwardly mortified but inwardly celebrating as the Dean was unpopular with both students and staff. Word spread like wildfire and from that day onwards, Sas received additional pats and words of praise for his political statement when being outspoken in Bjelke-Petersen’s Queensland often led to trouble.

Political dog!

Chronicle #9:
Sas often roamed the campus always returning to the Textiles demountable in the afternoon after the students had left. Sometimes he was thirsty. If for some reason his water bowl by the entrance steps was empty, he would make a bee-line for the men’s loo at the end of the building to drink from the toilet bowl. But the loo door had a self-closing mechanism. Sas could easily push his way in but, by the time he’d finished drinking, the door had closed tightly behind him and he was trapped. I always enjoyed the late afternoon silence in the Textiles space as I prepared for the next day’s classes. In the quiet, I would occasionally hear Sas’s pathetic squeaks repeated at intervals and knew immediately that he was stuck in the loo again, pleading for release.

Communicative dog!

Chronicle #10:
If, for whatever reason, Sas couldn’t find me in the afternoon after class, he’d walk across to the car park where there were at least 100 other cars, and find mine. He’d make himself comfortable beside the car until I arrived to drive us both home.

Clever dog!

Chronicle #11:
Occasionally I needed to visit my Bank in the city centre. The Bank was located in an imposing sandstone building on the corner of Ruthven and Margaret Streets. I’d sit Sas down beside the entrance steps and tell him to ‘stay’ before going in. When I came out some ten or fifteen minutes later, he would jump to his feet and greet me as though I’d been gone for weeks. With his black tail waving from side to side he would triumphantly lead me to the car.

Once told to ‘stay’ nothing short of an atomic blast would induce him to move though, possibly a female dog on heat could move him, as the next story illustrates.

Reliable dog!

Chronicle #12:
One afternoon, we arrived home and I parked in the carport beside our flat. When I let Sas out, he took off up the street. This was unusual. Even more unusual was that he didn’t return before I went to bed that evening but I left the front door open assuming he’d return sometime. I wasn’t overly concerned because, since his Goulburn accident, Sas had developed road sense.

At 7:00 am the next morning, the phone rang and a gruff male voice said, “Do ya own a black male dog?” I replied, “Yes.” “Well, come and get him—he’s been in our laundry all night.” He gave me the address and I immediately drove up the hill and around the corner to the house where I found a very sheepish Sas. It transpired that their bitch had just come into season and as a result, all the male dogs within cooee, including Sas, were lined up along the front fence waiting for an opportunity. I couldn’t understand why the bloke decided to catch Sas and I never did find out. I must confess I found the whole incident rather amusing though I’m sure Sas did not.

When we arrived home the following afternoon Sas repeated his great escape. But this time I knew where he was headed, so I followed him up the hill where I was able to intercept him before he got to his girlfriend’s house. That night and for a couple more, I kept him inside until morning.

Amorous dog!

Chronicle #13:
One quiet Saturday afternoon as I was typing up lecture notes with the front door open, I heard a repeated scraping noise coming from the street: scrape–pause–scrape–pause–scrape–pause. I went out to investigate and found Sas dragging an unopened two-kilo packet of dry dog food along the gutter. I’ve no idea where he got it but the prospect of walking the street to ask the neighbours if they were missing a packet of dog food had little appeal. If I had, I’d have been forced to admit that my dog was an opportunistic thief.

Resourceful dog!

Chronicle #14:
Sas and the garbage man. In Toowoomba in nineteen eighty-three the garbage was collected once a week. The garbage man would walk through the carport, passed the front door, pick up the galvanized iron bin, take it out to the truck, empty it and then return it. One morning I saw Sas go out to greet him. I then heard an ear-splitting yelp. I leapt up to ask, “Did the dog go ya?” Knowing full well there was absolutely no way. He replied, “Yeh.” I checked Sas over to find he’d lost a front tooth in the encounter.

The following week I was keen to observe Sas’s reaction to the garbage man—if in fact it was the same person. It must have been, because Sas didn’t move from his vantage point at the front door where he lay watching with his paws draped elegantly over the top step. I noticed he showed no outward sign of aggression nor fear as the man came and went. But I sensed he knew the man was dangerous.

Discriminating dog!

Chronicle #15:
One weekend I took a break from writing and illustrating lecture notes to go for a walk in the bush with one of my students and her dog. The dogs were mates and frolicked up ahead whilst we chatted. Suddenly, we heard a rustling in the bush—maybe a startled kangaroo or a wallaby and the dogs took off in pursuit. What to do? I stopped and centred myself before loudly bellowing: “Sas—come behind!” And, to my utter amazement, he stopped dead, turned around and scurried back to my side. To this day, I cannot believe that my verbal command overrode his natural instinct to pursue prey.

Obedient dog!

Chronicle #16:
I’d signed up to have a small exhibition of recent work at Signatures Gallery in Toowoomba. The opening was to be held on Saturday afternoon. In preparation for the influx of textile art enthusiasts, I decided to get to the gallery a little early to help out. Rather than taking the car, Sas and I walked the short distance from the flat to the gallery. As we turned the corner, a very large dog came out of nowhere and charged at Sas, flipping him into the gutter on his back, locking on to his thigh, and shaking it. Sas was helpless. I reacted spontaneously and threw myself across both dogs. The aggressor got such a shock he ran away. Thankfully Sas was not badly hurt and nor was I. And we both recovered sufficiently to focus on the exhibition opening.

All these years later I reflect on my instinctual response to protect Sas that day and I’m left thinking that the impulse to protect a loved one is hard wired.

Deeply loved dog!

With my plans to visit Scotland moving right along, I needed to find a good home for Sas. There were a number of offers and he settled in with a Toowoomba family with whom he lived for the rest of his life.

Postscript: I understand that dogs were banned on the Institute campus the year after I left. I did wonder if it was Sas’s indiscretion in the Dean’s office that prompted the ban?

The demise of the Saskatchewan Mouse Hound: I returned to Toowoomba in late 1987. I’d visit him occasionally and always received an enthusiastic welcome. Each time I visited I was sure I heard him saying, “At last! Thank goodness you’re here to take me home.”

Sas the Wonder dog!
Image: Morley Grainger

One night I had a prophetic dream directing me to visit Sas. After work the next day, I visited him. We went for a gentle walk and as we walked, I told him how much I loved him and how much I regretted not being able to take him home with me. Two days later, he was dead—poisoned by yet another paralysis tick.

Vale Sas.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 56: A sharp learning curve

My high-pressure job teaching Textiles at the Darling Downs Institute of Advanced Education continued. Even though I was a qualified teacher this was my first foray into full-time teaching at a tertiary institution and I was determined to give it my best shot.

We, Sas the Wonder Dog and I, were renting one half of a duplex on the east side of Toowoomba and before long we had befriended the occupant of the other half. She was a travelling violin teacher with Education Queensland and was actively involved with Toowoomba’s vibrant chamber music scene. As a result, I was often invited to soirées and recitals in both public and private spaces.

Sas the Wonder Dog and Morley on our neighbour’s living room rug
Image: Rosemary Marsh

Sas the Wonder Dog and Morley on our neighbour’s
living room rug
Image: Rosemary Marsh

Work-wise, the Institute’s first-year textile students were fully engaged in the course material I was delivering. I recall only one whinge, a First-year student bailing me up to say, “Morley, we do more work in Textiles than we do for all the other Creative Arts subjects combined.” My reply, “Well, what are you here for? A holiday?” But it was a fair comment as I was working them hard and they were learning a lot whilst the disgruntled 2nd and 3rd year students watched on from the sidelines. Their attitude was understandable—the result of their much-loved former Textile lecturer not being re-employed. After a while, some of the Second-year students came around; choosing to take advantage of the numerous textile skills I was offering, whilst others drifted away.

Victorian sculptor Adrian Mauriks, was the other newbie lecturer at the Institute that year. Occasionally we compared notes and our conversations were often accompanied with much head shaking, as we adjusted to the way this Creative Arts faculty was run because it was so different to the various institutions he and I’d worked in down south.

In April that year Adrian, wanting to make a splash, announced he was organising a sculpture exhibition of First-year students’ work. Their work would be displayed in the Creative Arts gallery space. I thought little more about it other than admiring his initiative and looking forward to seeing work that was the result of the skills Adrian had taught his students. In the meantime, I continued to add more and more textile techniques to the First-years’ skill set.  

Some weeks later the student exhibition opened with great brouhaha and I was stunned to discover that 90% of the techniques the students had used for their sculptural pieces were from Textiles. Once I’d recovered from the shock, I chuckled to myself. Here was irrefutable evidence that firstly, I was effective and secondly the students were utilising skills that they had acquired in my classes to make art. Sweet success.

In addition to a 5-day a week teaching load, we, the Creative Arts lecturing staff, all practicing artists, were required to exhibit as part of our terms of employment. That year a number of us exhibited at the Metro Arts gallery space in Brisbane. Later that year I also mounted a solo show at the privately-run Signatures Gallery in Toowoomba.

But, back to the Institute.

The ground surrounding the Textiles demountable became very muddy after rain, particularly the walkways to access the building. Little grass grew and what there was of it was worn away with the constant foot traffic in and out of both sides of the building. Out of hours, I sweated blood, writing and illustrating lecture notes for each technique I taught and the thought of my precious notes being trampled in the mud, or blowing around the campus, was totally unacceptable. In addition, I was reprimanded by the administration staff for putting too much printing through the photocopier.

To deal with both concerns, I hatched a plan.

To reassure the admin staff that the Institute’s resources were not being wasted, I insisted that each student keep a folder containing a complete set of lecture notes to be submitted for final assessment. If not, they would fail Textiles.

Away from the Institute I continued to do yoga twice a week and persevered with a new twice-daily meditation practice. The yoga teacher lent me ‘New Age’ books and I gobbled them up. One of them, Faces of Findhorn, contained powerful black and white images of people living at an international, non-denominational, spiritual community, located east of Inverness in northern Scotland. I was so moved by the images and, on the spur of the moment, I decided I too would make my way to Findhorn. But, before I could leave Australia, I needed to tie off some loose ends.

Sas and I returned to Goulburn only once that year. At the start of term break, Peter drove up to Toowoomba to collect us. It was a most unpleasant trip, as I sensed Peter was emotionally involved elsewhere and that he’d have preferred to have his new ‘sweetheart’ in the passenger seat instead of me. For Peter’s benefit, on the way south to Goulburn, we passed through Mungindi where as a young man, fresh out of Scots College Sydney, he’d jackarooed on a property belonging to the Officer family. When we got to the front gate, Peter was reluctant to drive in and make himself known to whomever was now living there. I was surprised at his reluctance. After all, this was his sentimental journey— kicking over the traces of his youth.

Our return to the Goulburn house was fraught. We had little to share as is often the way when a relationship’s in tatters. All that remained was hostility and resentment. With nothing resolved, I returned to Toowoomba with Sas, drugged and caged in the bowels of two aircraft—Sydney to Brisbane and then Brisbane to Toowoomba. And as a result, I don’t know who was more traumatised.

On my return, I sank into deep despair. Not knowing which way to turn, I sought professional advice. I made an appointment with a Lifeline councillor, who listened patiently as I blubbered through my tale of woe. When I’d cried myself out, he said, “Are you aware that you’re a victim?” A VICTIM? WHO ME? NO WAY! This counselling session was a wakeup call. As a result, Peter’s days were numbered but I wasn’t quite sure at what point I‘d ask him to vacate my house.

In the meantime, my plans to visit the Findhorn Community in Scotland were coming together. When I heard that a co-founder of the Community, Dorothy Maclean, was to give a weekend workshop at the Relaxation Centre in Brisbane, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get answers to my myriad of questions. I signed up for the workshop that would focus on connecting with the energy of rocks and minerals. As a beginner meditator, I was completely out of my depth. What a disappointment. On my return to Toowoomba, I wondered if travelling to Scotland to experience the Findhorn Community was such a good idea.

During a mid- term break, my yoga teacher invited Sas and myself to spend some time at her bush retreat on the New England Tableland. I jumped at the chance because I desperately needed a break and a change of scene.

The Severn River flowing through typical New England country
Image: Domain

The Severn River flowed through the block where I spent five days meditating, reading, walking, talking, eating and sleeping. Sas enjoyed himself immensely. But, by day three the novelty was wearing off what with the combination of crisp winter temperatures, overcast skies and little sunshine.

I was relieved when the time came to return to abundant hot water and a warm bed!

But time out in the bush had restored my equilibrium and re-energised me as I prepared for the next big push. To quit my lecturing job, return to Goulburn, evict Peter and find a buyer for my house, before heading off to bonny Scotland.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Lecture notes: Some of my students who went on to teach, continued to use my lecture notes. For me, as a first-time lecturer, to have hit on this fool-proof method to impart textile skills was so satisfying. All these years on I’m comforted in the knowledge that my notes were, and continued to be useful.

Toowoomba Lifeline councillor: I’m so grateful to the councillor for his life-changing observations. One visit did the trick and provided the motivation I needed to take control of my situation. Next, I needed to summon all my strength to extricate myself from the exploitative relationship with Peter.

Peter Bluey: In hindsight, Peter’s relentless search for affirmation from women was a blessing in disguise. Yes, my feelings had been hurt by his recurring infidelity but thankfully, his emotional focus was elsewhere during our messy breakup. Even though he made a half-hearted attempt to pull some legal skulduggery, his efforts were quickly quashed by my high-powered Sydney lawyer. But I sensed his heart wasn’t in it, possibly because he was wanting to conceal his true colours from his newest partner.

Student response to my Textile course: Towards the end of the last term of 1983, the First-year students were asked to list their preferred subjects for their second year of study. To my utter amazement 58 of 60 students wanted to continue with Textiles. High praise indeed for the course I’d created and delivered. But the logistics of coping with 60 new 1st-years, plus 58 2nd-years in the existing space with the existing facilities, would’ve been a stretch.

An example of the lecture notes I wrote for the Textile students at DDIAE Toowoomba in 1983
Image: Morley Grainger

An example of the lecture notes I wrote for the Textile
students at DDIAE Toowoomba in 1983
Image: Morley Grainger

Yarn calculation form
Image: Morley Grainger

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 55: Going north

Career-wise, 1982 had been an exceptionally good year. I’d completed a very successful eleven-month residency with the Wollongong Institute of Advanced Education and an equally successful ten-day textile workshop with the prestigious World Education Fellowship at Mittagong. The workshop had run from just after Christmas into the New Year.

But I need to back up.

Whilst I was Weaver-in-Residence at the Institute, I’d been excited to observe fellow weaver, Liz Jeneid teaching textiles in a most imaginative way. She made learning textile-skills fun, by combining short sharp design exercises, new skills and music to create a varied and interesting learning environment in which her students thrived. This approach was very different from my dry and uninteresting delivery with the sole objective being to impart and perfect textile skills. Having seen what was possible, I was keen to have a crack. As my Residency contract was to finish at the end of 1982, I was on the lookout for other employment possibilities, preferably something that would take me away from Goulburn and my unsatisfactory relationship with my partner, Peter.

One bright Saturday morning I did what every job-hunting professional did in those days. I went out early and bought The Australian newspaper to check out the job advertisements. To my surprise, I found that the Darling Downs Institute of Advanced Education in Toowoomba Queensland, were looking for a Textile Lecturer to start work in early 1983.

I applied for the job and, some weeks later, was flown to Toowoomba for an interview. On my way back to New South Wales, I changed planes in Brisbane. Between flights I had enough time to telephone my newish friend and fellow artist Irene Amos, who I’d recently met in Wollongong where she was studying. Irene was a highly respected Queensland artist who showed a genuine interest in my career. Somewhat disheartened, I remember admitting that I’d just done the worst interview ever and that there was no possible way I’d get the job.

Further down the track I discovered that there were only two applicants for the position—the former textile lecturer and myself. Lousy interview aside, I got the job because they didn’t want to re-employ my predecessor. Blissfully unaware of the internal politics at play, I swung into action, thankful to be packing up and leaving Goulburn to drive north to Toowoomba to take on yet another textile-related challenge.

Coincidentally there were strange politics at play elsewhere in Queensland, and, because of this, I recall having some misgivings about relocating to Toowoomba. The Premier at the time was Joh Bjelke-Petersen. He and his conservative authoritarian government tightly controlled the State and it was a scary place for anyone who opposed their regime. Citizens were denied their democratic rights with the introduction of an ‘anti-march law’ and a ban on gatherings of three or more people, effectively stifling public opinion.

I was obliged to set my misgivings aside as we, Peter, Sas the Wonder Dog and I headed north to Toowoomba with both of our cars packed to the gunnels. On arrival, my first task was to find a place to live. A real estate agent showed me a two-bedroom flat across town from the Institute that was perfect. Next day the removalist truck arrived from Goulburn bringing my possessions including my humongous screen-printing table. I needed the table to continue producing the Australiana range of screen-printed tea towels and aprons as the demand remained steady, particularly from Sydney’s tourist hubs.

I bought a simple pine table, four chairs, a single bed, a small colour TV and I was ready for action. Once Sas and I were settled, Peter returned to Goulburn and I made my way out to the Institute to meet my colleagues. I was then taken across to the textiles building, a large demountable, keen to check the equipment and materials on hand. But when I unlocked the materials cupboards, I discovered they were empty. I was stunned.

A more recent aerial view of the University of Southern Queensland that once 
was the DDIAE. Many of the original buildings are still standing with the addition
of many more since 1983. At that time the site was mostly bare with the odd tree.
How in the intervening 40 years the site has changed particularly the tree growth
in the traditional Japanese stroll Garden in the foreground that was begun the year
I was there.
Image: Univerlist

A more recent aerial view of the University of Southern
Queensland that once was the DDIAE. Many of the
original buildings are still standing with the addition of
many more since 1983. At that time the site was mostly
bare with the odd tree. How in the intervening 40 years
the site has changed particularly the tree growth in the
traditional Japanese stroll Garden in the foreground
that was begun the year I was there.
Image: Univerlist

I immediately collared the Dean to discuss resources for the students. I put my case and he came good with a sizable budget to buy quantities of fleece, yarns and threads. He also confirmed that the Rolls Royce of looms and ancillary equipment I’d requested were on order from Canada.

Yet another shock to the system came when I discovered there was no syllabus or curriculum for teaching Textiles at the Institute. As a rookie lecturer, I’d have to write a textile course in addition to teaching.

And so, began one of the most intense years of my life. I was on campus five days a week, teaching two three-hour classes daily. I had 83 students in total. 60 first-years, twenty second-years, three third-years, plus a scattering of options students from other faculties, mostly Education. It was impossible for one person to impart textile skills to so many students, so I demanded help. It was either that or I’d resign. The Dean accepted my argument, recommending a local agricultural scientist-cum-calligrapher-cum-weaver for twelve hours per week in term time, to help with the teaching load.

At the outset, I received negative feedback from some of the second-year textile students. This was understandable, as I’d replaced their much-loved former lecturer. From the outset, their anger was palpable but I managed to side-step their unpleasantness by concentrating on the fresh intake of first-year students. They were divided into three groups of twenty each. As an inexperienced lecturer, teaching the same skill three times in a week enabled me to refine my delivery and by the third time through, I’d the lesson down pat.

The job was demanding in the extreme and, in addition, I was suffering intermittent emotional distress as my relationship with Peter was unquestionably on the rocks. I knew that I wanted to leave the relationship but I’d no idea how to go about it. Help came from two new and surprisingly disparate activities: horse riding and meditation.

Horse-riding: I arrived in Toowoomba with an old-fashioned letter of introduction from a well-connected Goulburn friend addressed to John and Janet Anderson who ran the Range Riding School. John was quick to explain that he was a direct descendant of British Major General Gordon of Khartoum and that Janet was a proud descendant of the explorer, Hamilton Hume. Tall and aristocratic, they unquestionably belonged to the squattocracy. The Andersons had three teenagers still at home. To save my sanity I spent some of Saturday or Sunday with the family, or riding the slowest old plod in the Riding School, the most appropriate mount for a beginner rider like me.

Meditation: One of my mature aged students introduced me to yoga, relaxation and meditation and I attended her evening classes twice a week without fail. She’d thrown me a lifeline and I began to meditate twice daily. This helped lessen the feelings of helplessness that often swept over me.

I occasionally spoke to Peter by telephone as he was running his accountancy practice from my house in Goulburn but as the year progressed, we rarely spoke. I was fully absorbed in creating a separate life for myself in Toowoomba and I’d little time or inclination to be concerned about what Peter was up to, though I had my suspicions. He was a major disappointment and I was keen to shift my focus.

To my surprise, one weekend Peter flew up from Goulburn in a borrowed single-engine Cessna. Over a posh dinner with the Anderson family, he invited their 14-year-old son to join us for a joy ride flight over Toowoomba the next day. After a couple of circuits over the city we landed and were followed in by a fancy twin-engine Beechcraft King Air from which the Premier of Queensland, Joh Bjelke-Petersen, disembarked. With his right hand outstretched, he made a beeline for Peter, who looked like a prosperous landowner, with an aeroplane and a family. As they shook hands, Joh asked, “Where are you from?” When Peter replied, Goulburn, New South Wales.” I watched as Joh’s hand went limp in Peter’s.  Clearly, there were no votes for Joh in this random encounter!

Later that day, Peter flew back to Goulburn. I’d see him twice more before we finally parted company, but that’s another story.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Toowoomba Queensland: In addition to having misgivings about Queensland politics at the time, I was also a little concerned about returning to Toowoomba, because I’d spent two unhappy years there in the mid-1960s, cloistered in an Anglican Boarding School. But I managed to set aside my concerns, hopeful that the Institute’s staff and students would bring another dimension to the city, thereby diluting the entrenched conservatism I remembered from my school days.

The Institute’s Textile Course: At the outset, I was shocked to discover that there was no textile course at the Institute. But once I’d recovered, I realised the opportunity this situation offered me. I had the freedom to design my own course that would include what I’d learned watching Liz Jeneid teaching textiles in Wollongong, as well as covering a broad cross-section of additional skills.

So, I set about writing comprehensive, illustrated lecture notes for:

  • Selecting a fleece
  • Washing fleece
  • Spindle spinning
  • Spinning a variety of yarns
  • Knitting
  • Tapestry weaving
  • Loom preparation
  • Loom weaving
  • Double weave
  • Inkle weaving
  • Card weaving
  • Baskets: coiling & wrapping
  • Pine needle basketry
  • Natural dying
  • Chemical dying
  • Felt making
  • Netting
  • Papermaking

Lecture Notes: I still have the originals and recently I re-read them. All these years on, I’m filled with pride. They’re confirmation that I’d done my best to present a wide-range of textile skills and teach them in the way I wished I’d been taught. In marked contrast to my ad hoc textile education, with skills picked up here and there and later cobbled together, to create a career in textiles.

FACTS:
Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen: Premier of Queensland from 1968 to 1987. When I moved to Toowoomba, Joh and his cronies had been lining their pockets for years. Chris Masters’ controversial documentary, The Moonlight State, exposed the endemic corruption in Queensland. The documentary led to the excoriating Fitzgerald Inquiry after which a number of Joh’s henchmen were gaoled for corruption.

The Moonlight State:
https://www.abc.net.au/4corners/the-moonlight-state—1987/2832198

The Fitzgerald Inquiry:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fitzgerald_Inquiry

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter: 54 Yet another residency

My career was moving right along. I was about to embark on my second eleven-month Weaver-in-Residence gig, this time at the Wollongong Institute of Advanced Education. The Institute was a teacher-training facility that was partway through the process of amalgamating with the University of Wollongong, conveniently located right next door.

On campus, I was allocated a demountable building situated beside a busy walkway. The building had a portico entrance with a storeroom behind it and a large carpeted space with windows on two sides.

To draw attention to the building and create interest in the activities that would take place within its walls for the duration of the Residency, I made large multi-coloured posters for each window facing the walkway, with catchy wording such as: ‘Make art, not war!’; ‘What is a weaver-in-residence?’; ‘Why do we need one?’; ‘Come in and find out!’ and ‘Warped or weft?’.

Responses to my open studio promotion strategy were immediate with students, staff and the community beating a path to my door to talk about textiles, discuss their work or view the finished pieces I had brought with me from Goulburn. At my request, the blackboard wall was covered with Caneite sheeting to create a super-sized pin board for attaching work-in-progress as well as displaying finished work. As part of the residency package, I was given a no-frills four-shaft counterbalance loom that was more than adequate for the work I planned to produce at the beginning of my stint at the Institute. I’d kick off by weaving a wall-hung triptych—each panel representing one of the three most spectacular physical aspects of the Illawarra; the mountains, the steelworks and the ocean.

On my first day, I was befriended by long-time Institute Arts Administrator, Peter Shepherd and Theatre Lecturer, Gary Stonehouse who, like me, was a newbie. His position had been created as part of the Institute’s recently launched performance and theatre degree course. Over my time in Wollongong, we three became regular diners at the University’s staff restaurant and before long, we all had extra kilos to show for it.

Part of my job was to support the Institute’s Textile Department that was run by a long-time teacher educator, who I sensed was somewhat overwhelmed at the prospect of her skills-based textile subject area being offered as part of a degree course.

I did what I could but it was obvious that additional hands-on help was needed—someone with broad textile experience to assist through the transition. A part-time position was on offer to begin with, that would ultimately become a full-time lectureship. Maybe I could help? My newish friend, fellow weaver, Liz Jeneid, seemed the perfect fit as she was an early childhood teacher who, with Crafts Board support, taught weaving in her Sydney studio and also played the guitar. I made the initial introductions and Liz applied. She was successful and stayed for twenty years!

But I digress.

In amongst the hectic start-up energy that hovered over the Institute that year, Liz and I found time to attend a five-day intensive workshop with Sheila Hicks at the Craft Centre Gallery, located at the end of George Street in Sydney. It was a magnificent space that had once been the seaman’s chapel. The Centre’s director was an innovative thinker whose had the idea to invite this world-famous American fibre artist, to come to Sydney to produce a series of artworks with the help of a handful of local textile artists. Liz and I were two of thirteen artists invited to participate in what turned out to be an extraordinary experience in the company of the ‘who’s who’ of Sydney’s textile art scene at the time. To be honest, I was quite surprised to be included, but I took it in my stride.

At Hicks’s request, bales of laundered fabric were sourced from Sydney’s hospitals and elsewhere, to be used for a series of monumental artworks, designed to fill the enormous Craft Centre gallery space.

Participants at the Sheila Hicks workshop. Hicks in the centre in black with Morley second from the right
Image: Craft Australia magazine

Participants at the Sheila Hicks workshop. Hicks in the
centre in black with Morley second from the right
Image: Craft Australia magazine

After brief introductions, we began work—each of us assigned a job. I remember volunteering to paint the glass of a window located very close to the ceiling because the light coming through it into the space was distracting. A scissor lift was used to hoist me up to window height holding a tin of white paint and a brush in one hand, and hanging on tightly to the basket rail with the other.

Selected images from Craft Australia magazine 1982/3 p.54 Sheila Hicks in Australia

Selected images from Craft Australia magazine 1982/3 p.54
Sheila Hicks in Australia

Selected images from Craft Australia magazine 1982/3 p.54 Sheila Hicks in Australia

Selected images from Craft Australia magazine 1982/3 p.54
Sheila Hicks in Australia

Selected images from Craft Australia magazine 1982/3 p.54 Sheila Hicks in Australia

Selected images from Craft Australia magazine 1982/3 p.54
Sheila Hicks in Australia

Each participant was asked to comment on the Hicks workshop—my comment on the right from Craft Australia magazine 1982/3 p.56
Sheila Hicks in Australia

Each participant was asked to comment on the Hicks 
workshop—my comment on the right from Craft Australia
magazine 1982/3 p.56 Sheila Hicks in Australia

Working with Sheila Hicks to create the Craft Centre installation was an eye-opener. What I learned at her workshop would influence my work into the future, particularly the touring exhibitions that were yet to come.

At the beginning of the Wollongong Residency, I returned home to Goulburn on weekends because I desperately missed my dog. But I returned less and less as the pressure built to produce an exhibition for the Wollongong Art Gallery to coincide with the end of my Residency.

Occasionally, Peter dropped in to visit me on his way to Sydney for business meetings with Peter Clyde, a notorious disbarred barrister who lived in some style at the Sebel Townhouse Hotel and offered bankruptcy advice for $1,000 per consultation.

But, to quote Job of the Old Testament, “…trouble came.” It may have been the quantity of fried food I’d consumed at the university staff restaurant or the emotional distress I was experiencing, as the gulf widened between Peter and myself. Whatever the catalyst, I became very ill. I consulted a naturopath who ordered a strict vegetarian regimen and mega minerals with no fried food or alcohol. Somehow, I managed to go to work each day but I was completely devoid of the inspiration needed to come up with a convincing concept for the exhibition that would mark the completion of my Residency. I was truly terrified as the deadline drew ever closer.

The creative breakthrough came about as the result of a strange sequence of events. I’d wound a warp of fine natural linen thread; then dyed it in patches of mulberry and dark chocolate brown. My plan was to weave across it to see what patterns, if any, emerged. This was a crude attempt at Ikat weaving.

An example of simple Ikat woven fabric
Image: source unknown

An example of simple Ikat woven fabric
Image: source unknown

As I dressed the loom, the individual threads kept breaking, so I had no choice but to abandon the project. But not being one to discard disasters, I stored the ten-metre-long warp for a future project.

Late one quiet Saturday morning, whilst working in my studio, I decided to wind a narrow warp with a thicker linen thread. I then dressed the loom with the intention of using the discarded warp as weft. I clearly remember checking my watch as I was poised to begin this experimental piece. It was one o’clock. The next time I checked it was four o’clock and I had zero memory of the time in between. Looking down at the strange piece I’d woven, I was transfixed. Where had this piece come from? I tried to stay calm as I was petrified I was losing my sanity. I quickly removed the piece from the loom and pinned it to the Caneite wall before fleeing the studio. On the way back to my flat I called in on a newly-acquired friend to debrief. As it turned out, this was unwise because ever after, she gave me a very wide berth, possibly concerned I was possessed, or crazy or both.

On the left, the first piece of what was to become Chimbu (1982) 180cm x 100cm                                                                                 
Image: Morley Grainger

On the left, the first piece of what was to become
Chimbu (1982) 180cm x 100cm                                                                                 
Image: Morley Grainger

Around this time, students from the Goulburn Primary School gifted me tens of meters of multi-coloured tubular French knitting. I decided to use the thick knitted thread across a narrow multi-coloured woollen warp.

Carnivale—triptych made of multicoloured French knitting and upcycled ribbons for the Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition
at the Wollongong City Art Gallery
Image: Morley Grainger

Carnivale—triptych made of multicoloured French knitting and upcycled ribbons for the Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition at the Wollongong City Art Gallery
Image: Morley Grainger

I also included lengths of pastel-coloured ribbons, saved from the packs of tea towels used for the Australiana range. The result was an unexpectedly powerful totemic triptych.

As my health returned, I became more and more excited by the possibilities my unexplainable Saturday afternoon zone-out, offered me. The magical piece produced that afternoon heralded a completely new direction in my work.  Each of the pieces that followed, was strongly influenced by the sights and sounds of my adolescence spent in New Guinea.

One of the pieces comprised nine handmade felt squares, manipulated and stitched.

Agricultural patchwork (1982) sections of handmade felt dyed, stitched and folded 214cm x 91cm
Image: Morley Grainger

Agricultural patchwork (1982) sections of handmade
felt dyed, stitched and folded 214cm x 91cm
Image: Morley Grainger

Another had bird feathers woven into a pure silk warp with linen weft.

Septum ornament variations (1982) detail Pure silk warp, linen weft with feathers inserted
Image: Morley Grainger

Septum ornament variations (1982) detail. Pure silk warp,
linen weft with feathers inserted
Image: Morley Grainger

Another had short lengths of bamboo woven into a linen warp. All captured the spirit of the New Guinea Highlands.

Aumak (1982)—men in the highlands of Papua New Guinea traditionally wear ‘aumaks’, made from short lengths of bamboo – each
length representing ownership of one pig – pigs being a universal symbol of wealth throughout the country.
Image: Morley Grainger

Aumak (1982)—men in the highlands of Papua New Guinea traditionally wear ‘aumaks’, made from short lengths of bamboo – each length representing ownership of one pig – pigs being a universal symbol of wealth throughout the country.
Image: Morley Grainger

Aumak (1982)—men in the highlands of Papua New
Guinea traditionally wear ‘aumaks’, made from short
lengths of bamboo – each length representing
ownership of one pig – pigs being a universal
symbol of wealth throughout the country.
Image: Morley Grainger

That the New Guinea Highlands popped out as the subject of this series came as a surprise. We’d lived there for many years but, until now, I was unaware that the essence of the country had seeped into my being.

When all the artworks were completed, I arranged them on large chipboard panels covered with beige sheeting, stretched taut.

The Morley Grainger – Wollongong 1982 exhibition launched with great fanfare. The opening was well attended and feedback from gallery patrons was extremely positive. As a result, the Art Gallery director was happy, the Institute boss was happy and so was I.

Before I embarked on my next adventure that would take my textile skills into deepest darkest Queensland, out of the blue came another prestigious tutoring gig. I was flattered to be invited by the World Education Fellowship to tutor in Textiles at their annual ten-day workshop, held over Christmas at the prestigious Frencham School at Mittagong, an hour or so from Goulburn.

Morley wearing a handwoven Guatemalan shirt while demonstrating something textile- related at the World Education Fellowship
(WEF) workshop at Mittagong 1982
Image: Morley Grainger

Morley wearing a handwoven Guatemalan shirt while
demonstrating something textile- related at the
World Education Fellowship (WEF) workshop at
Mittagong 1982
Image: Morley Grainger

It was at this workshop that my circle of artists and craftspeople grew exponentially. I met many talented people who were destined to become very well-known, both in Australia and overseas. For example, glass artist Warren Langley, third generation wood carver Laurens Otto, and paper artist Kathy Nix.

Out of class time, a group of tutors set up the Hotel California on the first-floor veranda, off their rooms. This became an after-hours magnet for tutors and students alike, with the exuberant sculptor, Fredric Chapeaux, the ringmaster.

My next stop was Toowoomba, Queensland.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Sheila Hicks Workshop: My lasting impression of the workshop was the scale of the pieces we helped to create. As hand-picked participants, we were the lackeys who were occasionally consulted as the installation progressed.

Sheila Hicks, May I have this dance? 2002-2003—dyed and twisted linen with
cork and synthetic filling—dimensions variable
Image: Artnet 

Sheila Hicks, May I have this dance? 2002-2003 —dyed
and twisted linen with cork and synthetic filling—
dimensions variable
Image: Artnet 

I describe the scale of Sheila Hicks’s commission work, made both before and after our Sydney workshop, as ‘monumental’; whereas, the word I feel best describes the scale of my work is ‘domestic’. This description is fitting, because in the early days of the Morley Grainger Studio in Goulburn I was using my art training in combination with sewing and weaving skills to make pieces to sell, the size governed by the demands of the market and the cost of production. Interestingly, the ‘domestic’ scale carried through to the textile artworks for nine of ten thematic exhibitions I went on to make.

https://morleygrainger.com/exhibition-videos/

Sheila Hicks installation from Foray into Chromatic Zones exhibition London 2015–dimensions variable
Image: Frieze

Sheila Hicks installation from Foray into Chromatic Zones
exhibition London 2015–dimensions variable
Image: Frieze

https://www.moma.org/artists/2631

Alcohol: Mid-way through my Wollongong stint, I sipped on the last alcoholic beverage to ever pass my lips. As I recall, it was a couple of glasses of cheap champagne. Up until that evening, alcohol had only been an occasional indulgence for me. Deciding to quit for good was a very smart decision to make, both for the sake of my health and my finances into the future.

The Wollongong Art Gallery: The gallery director was quick to inform me I was the first contemporary Australian textile artist invited to exhibit in his gallery. This disclosure was made after he had checked out my work, to make sure it was suitable. I was chuffed to prime the pump, leading the way for contemporary textile artists to exhibit their work there in the future.

The Art/Craft divide: The late 1970s brought rumblings of dissatisfaction from some artisans who were endeavouring to step away from the ‘craft’ classification of their work. This was because many weavers, potters, jewellers or glassmakers considered their ‘one off’ pieces as ‘art’. I’ve always considered my exhibition work ‘art’ because each piece is unique and therefore impossible to duplicate, in part due to the limitations created by working with recycled textiles.

French knitting: Carnivale is a stunning three-piece artwork made using metres of French knitting. Unexpected ‘gifts’ of this kind are a godsend because they stimulate my creative process. When the Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition was over, I presented Carnivale to the Goulburn Primary School. The French knitters were thrilled to see their knitting incorporated into an ‘artwork’ and the piece was given pride of place somewhere in the school.

FACTS:
Sheila Hicks: Sheila Hicks is a leading 20th century avant-garde textile artist, who turned weaving into a three-dimensional art form and, shock horror!, encouraged viewers to touch her work. She uses fabrics and fibres to weave, knit, knot and braid.

Warp and weft: Warp and weft are the two basic components used in weaving to turn thread or yarn into fabric. The lengthwise or warp yarns are held stationary in tension on a frame or loom, while the width-wise or transverse weft (sometimes called the woof) is drawn through and inserted over and under the warp threads.

Image: Reddit

Image: Reddit

Ikat: a technically exacting method used to create a pattern in hand woven cloth. White warp threads are carefully wrapped in sections and then dyed, with the wrapping excluding the dye. When the threads are dry, the wrapping is removed, the loom is then warped and weaving can begin. Patterns created can be simple or more complicated.

Simple Ikat fabric
Image: Source unknown

Simple Ikat fabric
Image: Source unknown

French Knitting: is a form of knitting that uses a spool, with a number of nails or metal loops around the rim, to produce a narrow tube of fabric. A cable needle or crochet hook is needed to make each stitch. It’s a labour-intensive technique, used to create a knitted tube that can be used in many ways.

French knitting gadget used with a crochet hook or a cable needle
Image: Pinterest

Simple Ikat fabric
Image: Source unknown

The New Guinea Highlands: My mother moved to the Highlands to introduce a hand textile industry. I visited regularly between 1964 and 1973, my visits giving me the opportunity to absorb the colours of the country, and the culture of the inhabitants. I’ve come to realise our time in the Highlands was a great privilege, and from the experience came the artworks for the Morley Grainger — Wollongong 1982 exhibition.

Exhibition catalogue cover: Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982

The cover of the 8-page catalogue printed for the Morley Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition held at the Wollongong City Gallery
at the end of my 11-month residency with the Wollongong Institute of Advanced Education

The cover of the 8-page catalogue printed for the Morley
Grainger—Wollongong 1982 exhibition held at the 
Wollongong City Gallery at the end of my 11-month
residency with the Wollongong Institute of Advanced
Education

Warren Langley: Australian glass artist
https://www.warrenlangley.com.au/

Laurens Otto: woodworker
https://www.facebook.com/ABCSouthernQueensland/videos/laurens-otto-wood-carver-to-the-pope-and-the-queen/1230013107016092/

Fredric Chapeaux
https://www.aasd.com.au/artist/2800-frederic-marie-rene-chapeaux/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 53: A dream fulfilled

My eleven-month Weaver-in-Residence stint with the Goulburn College of Advanced Education was complete, after which I was able to focus on my next project. This one involved establishing my very own textile studio in Goulburn. It’s every artist’s dream to have a designated space in which to work and I was no exception.

The Goulburn Residency was partly funded by the Crafts Board of the Australia Council and as a result, my work had come to the attention of David Williams, who was then Crafts Board chairman. In view of this, I decided to apply for a Crafts Board grant to set up a textile studio in the nine square-metre shed alongside my house. Of the grants on offer, the best fit was the Workshop Development Grant—Individual; that came with a lump sum of $7,500, which was a lot of money in 1980. Peter and I wrote the grant application and took a moment to wish it luck before mailing it off.

My application was successful, possibly due to my growing reputation as an effective operator and spokesperson for textile crafts in the Goulburn area.

Deciding what to do with the grant money was fun. Some of it was earmarked to purchase my own super-fancy Le Clerc loom from Canada, some for purchasing yarn and fleece with the remainder used to fix the shed, the walls of which were both supporting and supported by a tangled web of Virginia creeper.

I already knew that Goulburn is numbingly-cold in winter due to the icy winds that blow off the Snowy Mountains and funnel down across the city. Thus, cosying up the shed became a top priority. Thick insulation was installed, before sheets of Gyprock were fixed to the ceiling and three sides of the shed. On the eastern side, two long sash windows and a pair of glass doors were fitted, to maximise the natural light coming into the space. Through the glass I now had an uninterrupted view of the beautiful lilac hedge that ran the length of the driveway down to the front gate.

The previous owners had planted one white, one violet, one blue and one magenta lilac and repeated the planting order down to the street. At a rough guess, I figured they’d planted in excess of 120 individual lilac plants after which they named the house ‘Lilac Heights’.

The four shades of lilac that grew along the northern boundary of the Bourke Street house in 1980
Image: FTD

The four shades of lilac that grew along the northern
boundary of the Bourke Street house in 1980
Image: FTD

The shed renovation continued. After the shed walls and ceiling were painted, recycled green tennis-court lights were hung from the ceiling trusses and lastly, the floor was painted with two coats of cream paving paint. The space was now ready to receive the loom whenever it arrived. But in the meantime, the show had to go on.

The next event was the studio launch. The floor was barely dry when fifty or sixty of my recently-made Goulburn friends arrived to whet the baby’s head, so to speak.

Now I had a warm and spacious studio, it was time to begin work. Peter hovered in the background offering business advice accompanied by his oft-spruiked mantra, my need to create ‘a product mix’. He claimed the success of my studio venture would depend on the production of both more and less expensive items for sale. Wearing his accountant’s hat, he had already walked me through the costing process for each of the pieces I wove for the College exhibition. He was ruthless; insisting that sub-economic products be scrapped. I was disappointed because I enjoyed the process of designing and making stylish, original garments but I understood that if my studio enterprise was to thrive, these decisions, however disappointing, had to be made.

With Peter’s ‘product mix’ mantra ringing in my ears, I realised I needed to come up with a line of merchandise that was quick and easy to produce. The answer came with an idea to create a range of screen-printed tea towels and aprons. I tossed around a few ideas for the name of the collection, and then ran my choice by Peter. “That’s it! I love it—The Australiana range.” For this venture I made numerous photograms of Australian native plants and then selected the best of them. One each for bottlebrush, banksia, eucalypt and flannel flowers—a total of four designs and took the images to a screen-maker in Sydney.

As I was determined to produce a quality product, I went in search of pure linen tea towels. I found a wholesaler in Sydney who stocked reasonably-priced packs of twelve in bright colours. I bought four packs, and brought them back to Goulburn for a trial run. I held my breath as I pulled the first prints on a hastily-converted glass-cutter’s table on wheels. As I did so, I hoped against hope that this was the beginning of something big.

Prototypes for the ‘Australiana’ range of screen-printed tea towels, photographs taken in my friend’s newly renovated kitchen
Image: Morley Grainger

Prototypes for the ‘Australiana’ range of screen-printed 
tea towels, photographs taken in my friend’s newly 
renovated kitchen
Image: Morley Grainger

To dress up the product, I designed a classy printed label that gave both the common name and the botanical name of each plant.

Photogram of a Banksia colina branch—one of four Australian plant silhouettes screen printed onto various items for sale from the
Morley Grainger Studio with the hand-written labels for each
Image: Morley Grainger

Photogram of a Banksia colina branch—one of four
Australian plant silhouettes screen printed onto various
items for sale from the Morley Grainger Studio with the
hand-written labels for each
Image: Morley Grainger

Once I’d printed and heat set the tea towels, I carefully folded each one to fit into a clear polyester oven bag with the corresponding label. I then headed off to Sydney, to cold-call on the scores of trendy kitchen shops, that had popped up in both the city, and the suburbs at this time. I vowed that I’d not return to Goulburn until I’d sold the lot. The Australiana range was a winner from the get-go. Up-market galleries at The Rocks were by far my best customers. In the early 1980s, Japanese tourism was at its height and my refined presentation appealed to the Japanese aesthetic.

In due course, my very own Le Clerc loom and associated weaving gear arrived from Canada. It went together easily. I began by weaving raw fleece floor rugs of different sizes for a lucrative niche market I’d identified on the opening night of the Morleymade exhibition where, to my delight, most of the floor rugs were snapped up before the exhibition had been officially opened.

In a matter of months, my fledgling enterprise was moving right along. The rugs were selling as were the tea towels but emotionally it was a different matter, as the cracks were beginning to widen in my relationship with Peter.

Next, out of the blue came a job offer I couldn’t refuse. On the strength of my super-successful residency in Goulburn, the Wollongong Institute of Advanced Education, a teacher-training facility, approached me offering yet another eleven-month residency. The reason? The University of Wollongong was amalgamating with the Institute that had a textile department needing an injection of new ideas. Co-incidentally, I was also being courted by the University of Launceston in Tasmania, who were also in need of a textile lecturer. When the Institute boss became aware of the competition for my skills, he offered me an irresistibly lucrative contract to start in early 1982 to coincide with the launch of the Creative Arts degree.

I took the job. Wollongong is a ninety-minute drive from Goulburn and I planned to return home on weekends to visit my dog and fill any outstanding orders for tea towels. I found a furnished flat fifteen-minutes’ drive from the Institute campus. Once I’d relocated to Wollongong, I could put my mind to designing the Hand-Weaver-In-Residence program for the Institute. As this was my second residency gig, I’d not be flying blind. Thanks to the experience I’d gained in Goulburn, I knew how to maximise my effectiveness.

The Wollongong job was a many-faceted blessing. It offered me the opportunity to work with new people, including the first intake of Creative Arts students, the staff and the broader community. I was extremely well paid for my trouble as well as being offered a solo exhibition in the Wollongong Art Gallery. Also, the job provided the perfect excuse to get away from Peter, during the week at least.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Peter Bluey: The day we arrived to set up house in Goulburn, Peter asked me to marry him. I recall being quite startled, as the proposal was made by the back door as we were carrying boxes into the house. I recall brushing his proposal aside, as I was deeply concerned about the state of his finances and the possibility of being unwittingly dragged into the mess. I’d already had my fingers burned with the proceeds of my Annandale house disappearing. I recall Peter once asking me to be a director of one of his many shelf companies, but I intuitively smelled a rat. I knew that company directors had legal obligations and as trust was in short supply, I declined his offer. As it turned out, this was a smart decision because, to manage his debts, Peter had opted to engage in a Part 10 Personal Insolvency Agreement, a flexible way to settle debts without being declared bankrupt. Even though his Chartered Public Accountant membership was revoked, he managed to retain his clients who were probably oblivious to his predicament, both professionally and financially.

Whilst our relationship was slowly disintegrating, I discovered Peter was a serial philanderer. Once the truth was revealed, I wondered how to extricate myself from the relationship. I’d already lost the sale proceeds of one house and I did not want to lose anything more. It took a year or so to disentangle myself, but that’s another story.

Relationships with men: When I was younger, I considered myself a reasonable judge of character. Afterall, I was a well-travelled, tertiary educated woman. But, when it came to men, I made one mistake after another, driven by my naive assumption that the next relationship would be better than the last. How wrong I was. I came away from each encounter bewildered by the events that had brought about yet another painful breakup.

With a degree of maturity and twenty-twenty hindsight, I’m now better able to understand why I put so much effort into trying to sustain a loving relationship with a man. I realise I wanted to love and be loved and yet I was conflicted. The truth is as an artist, I prefer to be alone. A former partner once asked me to calculate the number of years I had been both in and out of a relationship since I was twenty. The tally at the time of writing was 13 years in relationship and 50 years out. As a percentage, this translates to 26% in and 74% out. The latter would be greater now.

FACTS:
Lilac Syringia vulgaras:

Long-stemmed violet coloured Syringia vulgaras—ideal for grand
floral arrangements
Image: Freepik

Long-stemmed violet coloured Syringia vulgaras—
ideal for grand floral arrangements
Image: Freepik

When we moved into the Goulburn house, the lilac bushes lining the long front entrance driveway were in need of a hard prune.

One of the first jobs I did was to use my baby McCulloch chainsaw to cut back each alternate lilac bush with plans to prune the others the following year. In Spring, the pruned bushes responded by sending out masses of long straight stems, festooned with clumps of exquisitely scented blossoms. I had so much fun using the various shades of lilac to make fabulous flower arrangements for the house, for exhibitions and for friends.

In addition to the lilacs, the house came with a selection of very productive fruit trees—an apricot, a nectarine and countless plum trees. I felt obliged to use every single piece of fruit in one way or another—to eat fresh or stew, or bottle or make jam, pickles or chutney. Summer days were often spent processing fruit—the bounty I’d inherited from the previous owners who’d had the foresight to plant early-fruiting varieties, thereby avoiding fruit-fly attack.

Photograms: are made in a photographer’s darkroom. First, I placed a fresh plant sprig on a piece of undeveloped photographic paper with a sheet of glass on top, the weight of the glass forcing the plant flat onto the paper. Then exposed the paper to light. The result was a perfect silhouette of the plant. The best images were made into screens for printing fabric. Over the years, I lost count of the number of prints I pulled for tea towels, aprons and occasionally a potholder, for the Australiana range and later the images were used on table and bed linen, shearers’ shirts, garments and furnishing fabric. I love screen printing, particularly mixing colours on the screen for subtle effects.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 48: What’s in an egg?

My weekly commute between San Miguel de Allende and Mexico City continued as the excavations below the Metropolitan Cathedral unearthed a myriad of Aztec artefacts, many of which were worth recording. Once selected, the responsibility of documenting them fell to me as I was the only archaeological illustrator employed by Patrimonial National at that time.

As the weeks rolled by, the archaeology team continued to visit our favourite restaurant offering ‘comida corrida’, a cheap super-delicious four-course lunch with the menu changing daily.

An example of ‘comida corrida’—offering a set menu for very little money
Image: source unknown

To get there we had no alternative but to walk in single file through the milling crowd of humanity on the street. One day, after we’d eaten, co-worker Jaime, happened to be walking behind me as we made our way back to the Cathedral. On our return, he took me aside and sheepishly said, “I didn’t realise how rude Mexicans were to foreigners.” Rude to foreigners? I’d no idea what he was talking about because my Spanish was basic at best so whatever derogatory remarks were directed at me, went over my head. This was one of the very few positives I derived from only speaking basic Spanish.

As the weeks went by, I gradually began to feel ill but I had no idea why. My symptoms included weight loss, nausea, diarrhoea and finally, projectile vomiting. I phoned my mother who hastily organised an appointment with an English-speaking doctor in Queretaro—a provincial town on the way to San Miguel. On arrival, I was immediately admitted, tested, and quickly diagnosed with salmonella. Salmonella? I knew nothing about salmonella. I learnt it was a bacterial infection, often acquired from lightly-cooked eggs or chicken meat or fish contaminated with either animal or human faeces.

I was promptly rehydrated, prescribed antibiotics and discharged the following day. My mother was beside herself with concern. Still very unwell, I returned to her house in San Miguel to recuperate. I spent a week in bed, suffering the most intense piercing and unrelenting headache. It was as though a circle of barbed wire was being slowly tightened around my head. I could hardly move and I wondered if I was going to die. I realised I had to do something.

My friend Jo-Anne had introduced me to a man who was a respected traditional healer, known in Latin America as a ‘curandero’. Desperate times call for desperate measures. There was no doubt I was in need of his healing skills as conventional medicine hadn’t helped. I telephoned him describing my illness after which he instructed me to get into Mexico City as quickly as possible. Moving slowly and in great pain I managed to catch the next bus into the city; then slowly limped to his first-floor office. I was exhausted when I arrived and thankful I’d made it. After I’d caught my breath, he explained that he would perform a ‘cleansing’ but I’d no idea what it entailed.

He asked me to buy two fresh eggs from the restaurant below. I flatly refused because I was feeling so weak, so he went down instead. Eggs sourced, he next instructed me to use a thick black crayon to draw a 90-centimetre diameter circle onto a large sheet of brown paper then draw a six-pointed star with in it, with each point touching the edge of the outer circle. He then asked me to strip and stand in the centre of the star. The healing had begun.

First, he asked me to cradle one of the eggs in my hand; he then asked if I felt any vibration. I concentrated hard on the egg but felt nothing. His explanation for this was that I was a non-believer. He then took the egg from my hand, then, whilst softly chanting unintelligible incantations, passed it all over my body including the soles of my feet.

Next, he handed me a glass jar half-filled with water and asked me to crack the egg into it. As I gently tapped the shell on the rim of the jar, the egg exploded. Fine grey powdery stuff resembling iron filings, fell onto the brown paper on which I was standing. He then held the jar up to an infrared light to examine the contents. To my utter amazement, the character of the egg had completely changed. The yolk had solidified, now reminiscent of a poached egg and it had a thin strand running from it with clumps of the fine grey powdery stuff floating in the still-transparent albumin. His interpretation: the powdery grey stuff represented the illness and the thin strand represented my connection to my mother—an umbilicus of sorts. I don’t remember his explanation for the solid yolk as it was such a long time ago.

To ensure he got all the ‘illness’, the ritual was repeated with the second egg. This time the egg cracked normally and slid into the second jar half-filled with water. Even without the infrared light, it was obvious this one was as normal as any egg cracked to be scrambled. The ritual complete, I dressed. His final request was that I burn the brown paper on which I’d been standing. I had to refuse his request because I’d nowhere to burn paper without drawing attention to myself in this crowded city.

I walked out of his office healed. I couldn’t believe the change. My excruciating headache and muscle soreness was gone and I was myself once more. Now I could return to my job at the Cathedral.

After my extraordinary healing experience, I was curious to know more about it. The curandero explained that his training had been long and arduous and as part of the training he was required to sacrifice one of his senses. He opted to sacrifice his hearing.

Not long after I returned to the Cathedral, work began to slow and my archaeological illustration skills were no longer required. Fighting back the tears I farewelled my work colleagues who had become close friends in the time we’d been together.

A thesis was required as part of my degree. As the result of my work at the Cathedral, I planned to produce a handbook explaining the various documentation techniques for archaeological excavations. These included stratigraphic drawings of digs in progress, ceramic reconstruction drawings, and visual representations of stone and obsidian objects. I was excited at the prospect of producing something useful, and I was super-keen to get started. But first I needed to find a job.

And so began a very demoralising phase of my life as I tried to find work in Mexico. I asked at the Australian Embassy but unsurprisingly my skill set didn’t match their needs. Next, I doggedly pursued numerous leads that came to nothing. It became clear that I’d no choice but to return to Australia after three life-changing years in Latin America.

With a heavy heart, I broke camp and headed home, assuming returning to the culture I came from would be relatively easy. But I’d no idea how difficult re-entry would be.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Slagging off at foreigners: I was 175cm tall and very conspicuous in a country where the average height was 160 or less for both men and women of indigenous descent. Newcomers, mostly immigrants from Europe or the United States of America, were often taller. I’m inclined to think the verbal abuse I experienced in the street was based on the assumption that I was a ‘gringa’, from the United States. This prompted a humorous suggestion by a well-meaning friend that I carry a sign saying, “Yo soy Australiana.” (“I am Australian.”)  Whenever I met Mexicans for the first time, after uttering this magical sentence, I noticed that their body language and facial expression immediately softened. It seems Mexicans haven’t forgotten the many centuries of North American oppression.

Jaime: Jaime appeared disappointed and apologetic after overhearing the derogatory comments levelled at me on the street. I was touched by his concern and from then on, he became quite protective of me. If ever we were out at night as a group without a vehicle, he would insist on accompanying me back to wherever I was staying that week.

Curandero healing: As the result of my healing experience, I am now far more accepting of diverse ways of healing. All ancient cultures have healers who use plants and minerals to heal. I’m reminded of the books written in the late 1960s and early 1970s of the shamanic training received by initiates in the Mexican desert. The most popular of these were the Carlos Castañeda classics: The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, A Separate Reality: Further Conversations with Don Juan, and Journey to Ixtlan: The Lessons of Don Juan; now classified as fiction by some scholars.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carlos_Castaneda

The curandero: Sometime later he became romantically involved with a woman who insisted he stop his healing work. He agreed and their relationship was formalised and he went on to become a ‘regular’ family man. I am so grateful he was able to heal me before he quit.

Win-win: For a six-month period, I was being paid by the Mexican Government to document important Aztec archaeological finds and at the same time gaining credit towards my Master’s degree. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

Typed on my Masters transcript for both the Spring and Summer Quarter of 1976 is:

“Project: Artist for making drawings of the objects excavated from beneath the National Cathedral, Mexico City, by authority of the Secretary of the Department of National Patrimony. Grade given by her superior, Dr Constanza Vega, Archaeologist in charge and Architect Luis Fernando Rodriguez, Architect in charge.”

The grade awarded was an ‘A’. Nice.

FACTS:
Salmonella: occurs when raw or undercooked meat and poultry, raw or lightly cooked eggs, unpasteurized milk or raw shellfish becomes contaminated with either animal or human faeces.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salmonella

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 47: A sociological intensive

Whilst I was working at the Catedral Metropolitana in Mexico City, accommodation remained a worrying preoccupation. I needed somewhere to sleep for four nights each week. What transpired as a result, was a string of overnight stays or billets for want of a better word, with friends, friends of friends or co-workers from the Cathedral. This was the state of play for the duration of my open-ended, non-existent contract when I worked for the Mexican Government as an archaeological illustrator.

The unexpected gift my accommodation dilemma provided was a fascinating sociological intensive. As I moved from one household to another, I witnessed a cross-section of domestic life in Mexico City—observed from the inside. Here I’ll write briefly about a number of my experiences.

Rafael Garcia: My friend and fellow Instituto student Jo-Ann organised a bed for me with her friend of many years standing, Rafael, a freelance newspaper cartoonist. He lived in a third-floor walk-up apartment comprising a living room, a kitchenette, a small bathroom and two bedrooms. It was a typical bachelor pad with both furniture and creature comforts in short supply. Rafael used one end of the living room as his workspace, with his desk placed next to a window that flooded his desktop with natural light. He gave me a key so I could come and go as I pleased.

Rafael’s personal life was a mess. Jo-Ann explained that he was having a steamy affair with a married woman who had a very jealous, controlling husband. The lovers were playing with fire, as I was soon to discover. Most evenings Rafael was out. This suited me as I was not pressured to cook for two or socialise after a hard day at the Cathedral. On the fourth night around eight o’clock, there was a knock at the door. Even though I was alone, I decided to answer the door assuming the knocker would be a friend or a neighbour. But instead, I received a terrifying shock. Before me stood a man with a revolver in his hand, asking to speak to Rafael. I managed to collect myself sufficiently to stammer, “I-I-I-I don’t speak Spanish,” even though I perfectly understood what he said. Whilst waving the revolver around he said menacingly, “Tell Rafael when I see him, I’ll kill him.” He then turned and walked away leaving me standing in the doorway wondering if I was dreaming. I closed the door quickly to discover I was shaking with fear. I made a calming cup of tea, hoping Rafael would return but as he didn’t, I went to bed. Before leaving for work the next morning, I passed on the message. But overnight I’d decided not to return the following week because even as an innocent bystander, Raphael’s private life was too unpredictable for me. Some weeks later, he asked me to a family gathering not far from San Miguel. I agreed to go, well aware I was the smokescreen for his dramatic personal life.

Nery Vargas: Guatemalan Consul to Mexico. Nery lived in a small apartment, off the Paseo de la Reforma, the elegant main drag through the centre of Mexico City. I’d met him when applying for a visa and we’d spent some time together in Guatemala before the 1976 earthquake forced me to return to Mexico. He immediately responded to my desperate plea by offering his spare bedroom. I only lasted four nights because I soon discovered Nery also had a complicated personal life—a wife and family in Guatemala plus a North American woman ‘friend’. I quickly realised my presence may’ve been difficult to explain and could possibly create problems in his marriage as well as his extramarital relationship.

Archaeologist Constanza Vega: my boss, offered me a bed in her beautiful walled house in the upmarket suburb of San Angel. Constanza drove her VW Brasilia to the Cathedral daily. After work on Monday, we drove back to her house where the maid served supper in some style.

My boss, Constanza Vega’s 5-door VW Brasilia. I fell in love with her car and on my return to Australia bought a 3-door one—known in Mexico as a WV Golf
Image: Wikimedia.org

Professionally, Constanza was highly respected both in Mexico and further afield. As a divorced woman, she was fortunate to have a well-established career that gave her an income as well as a focus for her life without a partner, in a country where women of all social classes were expected to marry and remain married.  

Next morning, to my surprise, Constanza asked me if I could drive. As I had an international driver’s license as well as an Australian one, I said, “Yes.” To my complete surprise, she handed me the keys of the car and, with Constanza navigating, we headed off. As we approached the Cathedral, I somehow managed to cross eight lanes of erratic fast-moving traffic without incident and my lasting memory of the journey is one of complete terror as Mexican drivers make their own road rules. Thankfully, I wasn’t asked to drive again and this was the first and last time I drove in the city. Grateful for Constanza’s hospitality, some weeks later I was able to reciprocate when she came to San Miguel to stay with us for a weekend in our grand colonial house and I’ve a photograph to prove it.

My boss, Dr Constanza Vega Sosa and me standing in the central courtyard of our rented house in San Miguel de Allende
Image: Grainger family photographs

Co-worker Marta Cabrera: was studying archaeology at the University of Mexico. She was one of very few Mexican women I met undertaking university studies in 1976. Marta’s father was a trucker who paid for her education—a wise investment as she was energetic and smart.

She gathered me up and took me home to her family, living in a large two-storey townhouse with off-white ceramic tile floors throughout. The living room was furnished with gilded Louis XIV cabriole-leg chairs, upholstered in red velvet. As well as the chairs, I have another abiding memory of my stay with her family—that of waking up in the early morning. Half-awake, Marta, a chatterer, would hit me with a burst of rapid Spanish, expecting a coherent reply. Inside I was screaming, “Please, don’t speak to me in Spanish! Not yet. Give me time to become fully conscious.”

Martha drove a shiny red VW Beetle, a very popular car in Mexico at the time. As a result, in true Latin American style, they were referred to as ‘ombligo’, meaning belly button, because everybody has one!

Whilst staying with Marta, I tagged along to her archaeology lectures held in the early evening at the Museum of Anthropology and History. I was always warmly welcomed and, my ad hoc archaeological education continued by eavesdropping on her lectures.

Martha’s shiny red Beetle. The translation: “See the sedan: it’s difficult to perfect the perfect” the blurb talking up the VW Beetle
Image: TheSamba.com

Elisabeth Cuellar: Elizabeth was a transplanted North American with a Master’s from the Instituto. After graduating, she married a Mexican and took his name. The marriage disintegrated but she chose to remain in Mexico and found work. We shared a passion for textiles. She kindly gave me a bed in her apartment that contained many rare and beautiful examples of Mexican crafts in timber, tin, fabric and ceramics. I loved staying with Elizabeth surrounded by beautiful objects and we spoke English. A little respite from the language beyond her walls.

Thankfully, my specialised contribution for Patrimonio National was not affected by the ‘musical chairs’ nature of my various billets across the city.

But an unexpected crisis was looming—one that would seriously affect my health and consequently my work at the Cathedral.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Mexico City traffic: driving in Mexico in 1976 was a frightening experience. I shudder to contemplate how much worse it must be now as the population has more than doubled. Even then, traffic congestion was horrendous creating daily gridlock across the city and I recall a solution implemented for a time. Cars with registration plates that ended in an ‘odd’ number could be driven one day and those having an ‘even’ number the next. This was a great idea in theory, but I was told that the wealthy side-stepped any inconvenience by having two cars—one with odd number plates and the other even.

Some years later, my fear of driving in Mexico City traffic returned with a rush whilst I was being whisked around the city at speed. I was surprised to find myself uttering small involuntary yelps as we repeatedly came within a whisker of another vehicle. Clearly, self-preservation is a powerful impulse.

FACTS:
The VW Beetle: Mexico began producing Beetles in 1967; production continued until 2003. Over 36 years, 21 million vehicles were produced with some exported to Europe when Beetle production ceased there in the 1970s. When I lived in Mexico, I had no idea that the Mexicans built cars.

Marta Cabrera: has used her archaeological training to become a well-respected authority on petroglyphs.

https://independent.academia.edu/MarthaCabreraGuerrero

Elizabeth Cuellar: From 1955 onwards, Elizabeth systematically collected exquisite examples of traditional handwoven and hand embroidered Mexican costumes. She devoted her professional life to researching, writing, documenting, lecturing and curating important textile-related projects. In later years, Elizabeth’s house at San Angel was my base of operations when I visited Mexico.

Elisabeth’s legacy: In 2011 Elizabeth donated her entire collection to the Textiles and Clothing Museum at Iowa State University—her alma mater. The collection was exhibited as Elizabeth Cuellar’s Mexico – textile variations. Her dedication and commitment to collect, document and preserve Mexican textiles was farsighted and was important in an era of massive change.

Cuellar Textile Collection:

https://youtu.be/QlBEkhrkRZ4

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 46: Finding a bed

I swiftly got into the swing of producing finished artworks for my job as archaeological illustrator with Patrimonio National based at the Catedral Metropolitana in the heart of Mexico City. I hadn’t done this kind of specialised work before but I quickly adapted my commercial art skills to the task at hand.

Ceramic reconstruction drawings of three Aztec vessels on p.42 of El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan
Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 
Published by the Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y Historia Mexico City 1979
Images: drawn by Morley Grainger

Ceramic reconstruction drawings of three Aztec vessels
on p.42 of El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan 
Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 
Published by the Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y 
Historia Mexico City 1979
Images: drawn by Morley Grainger

Ceramic reconstruction drawings of three Aztec vessels on p.43 of El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 
Published by the Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y Historia Mexico City 1979
Images: drawn by Morley Grainger

Ceramic reconstruction drawings of three Aztec vessels
on p.43 of El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan
Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 
Published by the Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y
Historia Mexico City 1979
Images: drawn by Morley Grainger

From the get go, finding accommodation in Mexico City was a problem. Apartments to rent were in short supply and expensive; but I wasn’t earning enough to pay rent, or the customary ‘key money’ demanded by city landlords, let alone to buy furniture. What I needed was a bed from Monday through Thursday, as I returned to San Miguel most Friday nights to catch up with friends and do my washing. I also had scholarship obligations to fulfill that involved producing promotional posters to advertise the many classes on offer at the Instituto. But at this point, the burning question was who could put me up for four nights a week in Mexico City? So the search for a spare room began.

I asked the Guatemalan Consul to Mexico and transplanted American Elizabeth Cuellar. Also, my San Miguel friend, Jo-Anne who’d lived in Mexico City all her married life, asked her city friends, but with no luck. My workmates, once aware of my situation, saved the day. They took turns to take me home and as a result, I had the most amazing sociological experience because I was able to observe Mexican life from the inside. My hosts were both the rich and the aspirational not-so-rich, who believed in education for their children and had the money to pay for it.

The result was a gypsy-like existence for six or so months. It was a time of extreme uncertainty for everyone working at the Cathedral because we didn’t know from one week to the next if funding would continue for the archaeological facet of this restoration project. Rumours were rife. Each Monday morning, I turned up in good faith wondering if, come Friday afternoon there would be a pay packet for my alias, Maria Gomez.

Before leaving office President Echeverria, in addition to funding the foundation stabilisation work at the Cathedral, ordered the restoration of both pipe organs—two of the largest 18th Century organs in the Americas. Flentrop, the Dutch pipe organ restoration experts, were selected for the job. As only one of the Patrimonio architects spoke English, he got the job of managing the Dutchmen most of whom spoke English.

For me, communication with the Dutchmen was easy and from our conversations I learned quite a bit about the history of each organ. The first one was installed around 1693 and the second around 1736. To put things in perspective, 77 and 44 years respectively, before Captain Cook ‘discovered’ Australia.

After working at the Catedral for some months, the English-speaking architect invited me to join the Dutchmen for a Saturday excursion. He planned to visit some well-known tourist sites in and around Mexico City. Lake Xochimilco was one of the places on his list and I accepted his invitation in a heart-beat because I was keen to see the canals for myself. These interconnected canals are the last remnant of the vast water transport system built by the Aztecs. On weekends, visitors flocked to cruise the canals in colourful trajineras, flat-bottomed punts, with the fragrance of flowers and mariachi music combining to create a festive mood.

VW provided by Patrimonio National for our Saturday outing
Image: Wikimedia

On the day, I was picked up in a beat-up khaki-coloured VW Jeep, borrowed from Patrimonio National’s fleet. Squashed in like sardines, our first stop was a monastery of historical interest and then on to a restaurant for a quick lunch before driving out to Lake Xochimilco—the high point of our Saturday adventure. When we got there, we strolled through the aisles of the fresh flower market, exploding with colour and fragrances before stepping onto a ‘trajinera’.

Flower market at Xochimilco on the outskirts of Mexico City
Image: Facebook

Once seated we enjoyed floating along the canals lined with gardens and curtained by trees; all the while revelling in the expansive richness of Mexican culture that surrounded us. What a treat.

A canal of Xochimilco—note mariachi band moving from one colourfully-painted ’trajinera’ to another
Image: Tour Radar

A canoe filled with flowers to sell at Lake Xochimilco
Image: Pinterest

We all had a wonderful time. For me it was such a relief to speak English for most of the day. I mention this, because I found speaking Spanish exhausting. Even though I’d been living in Mexico for two years, all the Instituto classes were in English and as a result, the only time I got to speak my not-so-good Spanish was with Mexican friends or boyfriends. My work at the Cathedral offered me the opportunity to improve my Spanish but each night I would fall into bed hoping against hope that sleep would clear my jangled brain and that communicating would be easier the following day.

Thankfully, the work I was asked to do at the Cathedral continued to be interesting and varied. An example: as a gift for someone important, I was asked to reproduce a recently excavated Aztec calendar stone on canvas. The request threw up some interesting challenges, the most pressing of which was how to create the texture of stone on canvas. I remembered a painter friend who used a textured paste to form bas-relief off the canvas surface for his highly sought-after profile portraits and I thought it would be worth a try. I used the paste he gave me to recreate the shapes of the calendar stone. When the paste was dry, the in-house archaeologists helped me to get the colours and colour placement right. I was very pleased with the result as were my co-workers and hopefully, the recipient of the artwork as well.

2-dimensional representation of an Aztec calendar stone found under the Cathedral during excavation
Image: on p.77 of Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 published in 1979 Recreation: by Morley Grainger

But most of my time was taken up producing ceramic reconstruction drawings using a Rapidograph pen to make thin black lines as well as clusters of same-size dots to create form on a flat surface.

In the photograph below are two pieces of Aztec polychrome ceramics awaiting documentation. Also, amongst my basic tools of trade can be seen my precious black Rapidograph pen and a box of matches and a packet of cigarettes—a reminder of my checkered past.

Morley Grainger at work in the archaeology office at the Metropolitan Cathedral, Mexico City in 1976
Image: Grainger family photographs

Since my arrival in Mexico, I had come to accept that life in this country had an ever-present edge of unpredictability; so different from the life I’d left behind in Australia. True to form, there were more unexpected experiences coming my way.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Cathedral artworks: I fulfilled my professional obligation at the Cathedral by producing a series of drawings as requested—for the most part documenting pieces of three-legged, polychromatic ceramic vessels. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the importance of the work I was producing for Patrimonio National. With hindsight, I’m grateful for the opportunity to use my graphic design skills for the project.

Fast forward to early 2020. Thanks to a Cathedral co-worker, I was able to source a copy of the publication that featured my drawings. In the acknowledgements, I note I’m listed as Molly Grainger.

Acknowledgement page from the Arqueologa Constanza Vega Sosa coordinadora de El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 published in 1979. My name, incorrectly spelt, is marked with a red arrow.

The Metropolitan Cathedral experience: I now reflect on my experience with a degree of disbelief. With the luxury of hindsight, I wonder if my continuing interest in things archaeological was the direct result of my 1968 visit to Fort Jesus in Mombasa, Kenya, where for the first time, I was exposed to the science of excavating historical sites. The combination of my fascination with things archaeological and my commercial art training brought me to the Cathedral site in Mexico City—a long way from Kenya. There is no doubt in my mind that the work I did for Patrimonio National was a clear example of being in the right place at the right time with the right skill set.

FACTS:
Lake Xochimilco: Lake Xochimilco is an ancient endorheic lake, located in the present-day Borough of Xochimilco in southern Mexico City. The lake is within the Valley of Mexico’s hydrological basin.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Xochimilco

The Catedral Metropolitana: was consecrated in 1656. It’s an immense and imposing stone building that incorporates three distinct architectural styles: Gothic, Plateresque and Baroque; the construction of which was 500 years in the making.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mexico_City_Metropolitan_Cathedral

Spanish architect, Arquitecto Claudio de Arciniega designed the Catedral Metropolitana. He drew inspiration from the Gothic cathedrals of Spain. The building has four facades containing portals flanked with columns and statues. There were also two bell towers with 25 bells, built in sections around the original church between 1573 and 1813. Construction of the original church was begun soon after the Spanish conquest of Tenochtitlan in 1521.

https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claudio_de_Arciniega

The Cathedral interior: Is breathtakingly beautiful with very high ceilings, lots of gold covering two large, freestanding ornate Baroque altars, a sacristy, choir stalls and sixteen chapels, each dedicated to a different saint or saints. The chapels contain smaller, though no less ornate altars, altarpieces, retablos, oil paintings and sculptures.

Interior of the Catedral Metropolitana with a restored pipe
organ on the right
Image: Wikimedia

The Metropolitan Cathedral’s organs: According to Flentrop, the Dutch organ restorers, quote, “the [Cathedral’s] organs constitute a splendid monument to Spanish culture in the New World but are tricky to date precisely.” End quote.

The Flentrop organ restoration team: I’m most grateful to the Dutchmen. They were aware I used soft leather to make garments and as the restoration project drew to a close, they gifted me the white leather skins left over from repairing the organ bellows—an unexpected windfall.

The Metropolitan Cathedral Organ recital: Towards the end of my time at the Cathedral, all the Patrimonio National staff and their families were invited to an organ recital, by a well-known Mexican organist, who was the first to play one of the newly-restored organs. The Cathedral was packed, and the recital was a treat for all of us keen to once more hear the space filled with the sound of music.

The most popular statue in the Cathedral was, and I imagine still is, the Black Christ at the Altar of Forgiveness, positioned on the right-hand side as you enter the Cathedral.

Statue of the Black Christ in the Catedral
Metropolitana Mexico City
Image: Flickr.com

Often believers leave ‘milagros’ at the base of the Cathedral’s numerous religious statues, particularly the Black Christ. These folk charms traditionally accompany prayers for divine intercession and healing and appear in Roman Catholic churches throughout Mexico and in some other regions of Latin America.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milagro_(votive)

A selection of milagros
Image: timbir

Tenochtitlan: The 1976 excavations, that were part of the restoration work done at the Catedral Metropolitana site, uncovered the foundations of one or more sacred structures.

Part of the extensive excavations and restoration of the Aztec city of
Tenochtitlan carried out after the 1976 stabilisation work was carried out at
Catedral Metropolitana. Note the Catedral Metropolitana in the background
Image: Klook

These excavations primed the pump and lead to major excavation work continuing for years—revealing what remains of the magnificent complex of Tenochtitlan that was constructed by the Mixteca 200 years before the Spanish arrived in 1521. The site, is yet another pre-Colombian drawcard that brings thousands of tourists to Mexico to see what remains of Aztec culture, one of the many significant cultures that flourished in Central America over millennia.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenochtitlan

Publication: Arqueologa Constanza Vega Sosa cordinadora de El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 Published by the Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y Historia Mexico City 1979. Illustrations by Morley (Molly) Grainger alias Maria Gomez on pp.40-43 & 47-47 & 77.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 45: Meet Maria Gomez

I had returned unharmed from earthquake-devastated Guatemala to the offer of a job as an archaeological illustrator with the Departamento de Patrimonio National, the Department of National Heritage at the Catedral Metropolitana in Mexico City. The job offer had come out of the blue but it gave me an opportunity to once again put my commercial art skills to good use as well as receiving credit towards my almost complete Fine Arts degree—definitely win-win.

I’d been studying at the Instituto Allende for over two years without a student visa. Student visas were hard to come by and as a result, most of my fellow students came in on a tourist visa for either 90 or 180 days as they were easy to obtain at the border. I discovered that the Cathedral people were prepared to overlook my lack of legal documentation because they wanted my illustration skills. I’d been living in Mexico long enough to begrudgingly accept that this was a country of contradictions. But this example of a blind eye being turned, topped all of my previous experiences.

I was keen to start work. On my first day I took the early bus from San Miguel to get me to the Cathedral in time for a 9 o’clock start, barring a bus breakdown or a highway accident. As I write, my mind is flooded with recollections of the extraordinary traffic incidents I witnessed whilst living in Latin America. One worth sharing occurred on a bus trip somewhere in regional Mexico. My bus, overloaded with passengers and cargo, was crawling up a very steep hill when up ahead there was another bus moving even more slowly. Drawing alongside I could see a fella under the bonnet fiddling with the engine whilst the bus was moving! Oh, my!

Metro station in Mexico City—70 odd stations serving a population of 10 million
in 1975
Image: univision

Metro station in Mexico City—70 odd stations serving a
population of 10 million in 1975
Image: univision

But I digress.

Fortunately, that morning we had an uneventful run into the city. I took the Metro to the station nearest the Cathedral and walked the rest of the way. Once through the gates, I found the site office where I introduced myself to the engineers, accountants and restoration architects supervising the project from two neat rows of wooden desks, facing each other across the enormous room. I spoke English with Architect Luis Rodriguez as he escorted me to the archaeologist’s workrooms, located on the top floor of an adjacent wing. There, I was greeted by my new boss, archaeologist Constanza Vega and the archaeology students doing their practicum at the site. This space would be my workplace for the duration of my non-existent contract.

So, why were we there?

View of the Catedral Metropolitana from the Zocalo note the building leaning to the left, showing subsidence measurements—red arrow marks the archaeologist’s rooms
Image: Buscador de Arquitectura

In late 1975, the country’s unpopular president Luis Echeverria, was coming to the end of his term. He decided to fund the Cathedral’s desperately needed restoration work because the building was gradually sinking. This major expenditure would be his attempt to regain favour with the people who were, in the main, practising Roman Catholics. To do this, Patrimonio National was galvanised into action, hastily gathering the skills and manpower necessary to shore up the sinking building. 

Why was the Cathedral sinking?

Tenochtitlan was the extraordinary city built by the Aztecs on Lake Texcoco. It was connected to the lake shore by a wide causeway. When the Spanish invaded Tenochtitlan, now Mexico City in 1592, to establish supremacy, they knocked down the central Templo Mayor and built the Metropolitan Cathedral in its place. Over the centuries due to the falling water table the structural integrity of the building was at risk, creating problems that would only worsen if not addressed.

Scale model of the Templo Major at Tenochtitlan—the Metropolitan 
Cathedral is built on top of the almost completely demolished twin
temples in the background
Image: Wikipedia

Scale model of the Templo Major at Tenochtitlan—the
Metropolitan Cathedral is built on top of the almost
completely demolished twin temples in the background
Image: Wikipedia

The solution came in the form of the Pilote de Control, the Control Pile system, invented by Mexican engineer Manuel Gonzalez Flores.

Aztec capital Tenochtitlan 1521—artist's impression of the lake city supporting a population of 250,000
people at the time of the Spanish invasion—the Templo Major at the centre of the complex
Image: Wikipedia

Aztec capital Tenochtitlan 1521—artist's impression of
the lake city supporting a population of 250,000 people
at the time of the Spanish invasion—the Templo Major
at the centre of the complex
Image: Wikipedia

Ingeniero Manuel Flores’s Control piles adjustment system used to level the Metropolitan Cathedral in
Mexico City
Image: source unknown

Ingeniero Manuel Flores’s Control piles adjustment system used to level the Metropolitan Cathedral in Mexico City
Image: source unknown

Before the piles could be installed, 280 to begin with, later another 129, huge quantities of earth were removed from below the Cathedral containing masses of Aztec artefacts. Archaeologists were called in to assess the ‘finds’ of ceramics, obsidian and stone and documenting the most important pieces would be my job. From the pieces I was given, I made black and white ceramic reconstruction drawings, using a dot technique to create dimension.

Archaeological illustration is a specialised art form, the demand for which continued long after the advent of photography particularly in Mexico, where the cost of photographic equipment, film and processing, was prohibitive. Also, photographs didn’t always provide the detail required. As part of the job, I was asked to share my documentation skills with art students from the university.

Ceramic reconstruction drawings of two Aztec vessels on p.46 of El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan
Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 Published by the Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y Historia Mexico City 1979
Images: drawn by Morley Grainger

Ceramic reconstruction drawings of two Aztec vessels on
p.46 of El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan
Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76 Published by the
Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y Historia Mexico City
1979
Images: drawn by Morley Grainger

I hardly had time to set up my desk before the pay clerk asked my new boss to give me a Mexican name, a very strange request. The reason? To hide my nationality and visa status. She immediately called an office meeting. Naming me was to be a group effort and what fun we had! I had grandiose ideas of a posh name like Maria de los Angeles Velasquez Riva Palacio or Maria Ines Hernandez de Cervantes but I was out voted. The meeting decided I would be Maria Gomez.

Around noon, I was invited to join the archaeology team for lunch at a restaurant, a short walk from the Catedral. We ordered from the set menu— ‘comida corrida’—the four-course lunchtime special for very little. We began with ‘sopa’, (soup), then ‘sopa de arroz’, a dry rice dish, then ‘carne o pescado con verduras’, the choice of meat or fish with vegetables and finally ‘postre y café’ (dessert and coffee).  It took at least an hour to get through the meal, plus the time it took to walk to the restaurant and back to the office. We returned with full tummies around 1:30 or later, depending on the table service and the intensity of the conversation. This pattern was repeated almost every day I was at the Catedral until the fateful day I took a bait.

Comeda corrida—our course luncheon—this image does not show desert
Image: Chilango

On our return to the office, my co-workers did a little work before drifting off around 3:00 pm. I continued to work through till 5:00 mindful of our long lunch and driven by a deeply ingrained work ethic, the result of three years at the Argent Manufacturing Company in Sydney. My rationale was that Maria Gomez was being paid to do a job, so best she gets on with it.

My six months stretch at the Metropolitan Cathedral would provide a number of amazing personal, professional and cultural experiences that I’ll share in the next chapter.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Mexican Public Service: my archaeological illustration gig with the Patrimonio National was one of the few times I’ve worked for a government department, preferring the freedom of self-employment.

Maria Gomez: was the name I used to sign for my pay every Friday afternoon for six months until my work at the Cathedral ended. After which I left Maria behind to complete the coursework for my degree at the Instituto.

Mexican Visa: Leaving Mexico every 180 days to renew my tourist visa was an adventure in itself. I could head north to the border towns of the United States or go south to Guatemala. My preference was to go north for ‘shopping’ and pizza. I mostly took the bus but occasionally hitched a ride with others. I remember one memorable trip. Five of us squashed into a low-slung Mustang sports car for the ten-hour trip to Brownsville, Texas, the closest Mexican consulate.

My regular trips to the border were interesting. As I stood in line to enter the United States, I was saddened to see Mexicans treated as second class citizens by the border staff. This was something I found hard to understand as Mexican culture was far older and richer—the food in particular.

FACTS:

1970 Ford Mustang sports car—quite a squash for five adults for the 10-hour run to the border to
renew our Mexican visas
Image: YouTube

1970 Ford Mustang sports car—quite a squash for five
adults for the 10-hour run to the border to renew
our Mexican visas
Image: YouTube

Luis Echevarria: Was President of Mexico from 1970 to 1976. He’s alleged to have had a role in the massacre of leftist students prior to the Mexican Olympics. Snipers shot between 300 and 400 unarmed students in the Plaza de las Tres Culturas on the 2nd of October, 1968.

On that day my former boyfriend, Carlos Contreras’s parents forbade him to attend the student gathering. He was determined to be part of it and after a monumental argument, he was locked in his bedroom for the day, possibly saving his life.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tlatelolco_massacre

Echevarria’s presidency was plagued by high unemployment, illiteracy and runaway inflation. The latter forced the devaluation of the peso by 50% in 1976. Echevarria then went on to serve as Mexican Ambassador to Australia from 1977 to 1980.

The full name of the Cathedral: The Metropolitan Cathedral of the Assumption of the Most Blessed Virgin Mary of the Heavens. In Spanish: la Catedral Metropolitana de la Asunción de la Santísima Virgen María de los cielos. A mouthful in either language.

The Templo Mayor: called Huēyi Teōcalli by the Aztecs https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mexico_City_Metropolitan_Cathedral

Templo Mayor Tenochtitlan Mexico City:

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Templo_Mayor

Publication: Archaeóloga Costanza Vega Sosa. Coordinadora de El Recinto Sagrado de Mexico-Tenochtitlan Excavaciones 1968-69 y 1975-76

Published by the Instituto Nacional de Antropologia y Historia Mexico City, 1979 

Illustrations by Morley Grainger (aka Molly and Maria Gomez) on pp.40-43, 46-47 & 77.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 44: The earth moved

I was one of eight art students from the Instituto Allende who’d established a temporary base in Guatemala City. This base would support our twelve-week field trip, the purpose of which was to produce multiple drawings of all the indigenous plants of the Peten region. It was hoped that our drawings could help decipher the hundreds of yet undeciphered semi-pictorial glyphs being studied at Harvard’s Peabody Museum. We were all acutely aware that we’d signed up for a most unusual project in an extraordinary part of the world. But if we’d known what was in store, we may’ve had second thoughts.

Our rented house in Guatemala City was large and airy. Once we’d settled in, our focus shifted to fulfilling the purpose of our visit. Tikal was selected.

Travel options to get from Guatemala City to Tikal
Image: kimkim

In late January, raring to go after a two-week delay, we flew out of Guatemala City to the small settlement of Flores, followed by a bouncy one-hour bus ride to Tikal. When we arrived, the midday stillness of the jungle surrounding us was palpable. As it was the hottest part of the day, the wild creatures were quietly resting high up in the tree canopy.

We dropped our luggage at the guesthouse and rushed off to at last experience the grandeur of Tikal for ourselves. We were well prepared, having read and re-read Michael Coe’s fabulous book The Maya, in addition to obtaining the very latest information from the Foundation for Latin American Anthropological Research.

Our delay in getting out to Tikal was in part my doing because I’d agreed to stand in for Nicholas Hellmuth, who presented nightly lectures on the Maya for interested tourists. Shortly after we arrived in Guatemala, he was called away to the United States and I was asked to take his place. My frantic single-minded preparation for the lectures had paid off and I was feeling super cocky; convinced I knew everything there was to know about the Maya.

A good example of tree root growth in the Tikal jungle
Image: source unknown

Mayan temples protruding from the encroaching jungle at Tikal
Image: source unknown

But I digress.

Great Jaguar temple in the Plaza Mayor at Tikal, Peten, Guatemala
Image: Wikipedia

The clammy tropical heat didn’t dampen our enthusiasm as we wandered the well-worn winding paths through the jungle. We were so excited to at last soak up the ambience of the site. As we wandered, one by one we came upon all six fully restored Mayan structures.

Suddenly blasting out across the site came a catchy Latin pop song that drowned out the jungle sounds. Startled, we stopped dead in our tracks and turned to follow the sound to the source where we came upon a most extraordinary sight. Tikal’s Plaza Mayor had become a movie set with enormous, strategically placed speaker towers pumping out huge sound whilst a camera crew filmed Spanish pop singer, Julio Iglesias, wandering the site at the same time miming the words of a romantic song.

Before Tikal, I hadn’t heard of Julio Iglesias. This is understandable as 1976 marked the beginning of his recording career and secondly, I came from a country at the bottom of the world with little interest in Spanish pop singers. Iglesias and his party didn’t stay long. Filming complete, they took a plane back to civilization leaving us to make sense of what we’d just witnessed.

The next morning, with equilibrium restored, we began drawing in earnest. We stopped for lunch and then worked on until sunset. We drew and drew and drew, producing hundreds of detailed drawings depicting every skerrick of vegetation that surrounded us. As the days went by, we settled into a predictable routine. But things were about to change dramatically.

Very early on the morning of the 4th February the earth moved. I didn’t feel a thing as I slept on in a borrowed tent. When I awoke, I was draped in the tent. What had happened? It wasn’t long before I found out. A 7.5 strength earthquake has struck. The epicentres were located south of Guatemala City. I was told that three or so minutes before the seismic waves reached Tikal, the wildlife felt it coming and the surrounding jungle erupted with terrifyingly loud screeching and howling.

Map showing all three epicentres in red of the 4 February 1976 earthquake in Guatemala
Image:cnn.com

We watched awestruck as the country mobilised to deal with the crisis. We were stranded because the airlines gave priority to Guatemalan nationals in search of relatives. For ten long days, we ate beans and rice. Some days in, the boredom was broken by the arrival of two Australian backpackers. They brought with them the wherewithal to feed themselves including eggs, bread, butter, sugar and cinnamon. I was invited to join them for French toast: a first for me, and a welcome change from beans and rice.

To get out of Tikal, other stranded tourists were considering the risky drive north to Mexico through Belize. But for the team, this wasn’t an option because the remainder of our possessions were back in Guatemala City. We had no choice but to wait it out. Enveloped by the distress that surrounded us, it was impossible to draw so we aimlessly wandered the site, until at last, on the 14th February we could fly out to Guatemala City.

An outlying area of Guatemala City after the earthquake on 4.2.1976
Image: Wikimedia.org

One of many families affected by the earthquake in Guatemala on 4.2.1976
Image: Soy502

Dislodged masonry walls destroy a vehicle in Guatemala City on 4.2.1976
Image: wsj.com

A child stands in what is left of his home somewhere in Guatemala City after the earthquake hit on 4.2.1976
Image: operationblessing.org

When we got back, we couldn’t believe our eyes. There was no water, no gas nor electricity so for me it was a no brainer. I booked a flight to Mexico City, grabbed my things and left. My rationale was that I’d be one less mouth to feed in a country that was on its knees. I was lucky to be alive and lucky to have somewhere else to go.

On my return to San Miguel my mother greeted me with open arms, overjoyed that I’d escaped. Whilst I was away, she’d moved into a huge colonial house that belonged to rich Americans who only used it at Christmas. My mother invited me to move in. I accepted her offer as this would be a great place to live whilst I completed my studies at the Instituto.

Before I had time to fully recover from the after-effects of the earthquake, I was offered a job as an archaeological illustrator with the Departamento de Patrimonio National, the Department of National Heritage. The job was based at the Catedral Metropolitana on the Zocalo, the main square in the centre of Mexico City. Unbeknownst to me, the botanical illustration project in Guatemala had been brought to the attention of the lead archaeologist at the Catedral, which in turn, led to the job offer. The Dean of the Instituto was chuffed that one of his students had been selected for such a prestigious position and he offered me credit for the work I’d do there. A win-win-win situation, and one that brought me ever closer to completing the coursework for my Master’s degree.

And so, the next chapter of my Mexican adventure was about to begin—different work in an historic working environment with a most interesting group of people. I was excited at the prospect of something new and I wondered how it would pan out.

 

ON REFLECTION:
First impressions of Tikal: My first impression of Tikal was the noontime stillness and the second was Julio Iglesias’s fly in-fly out performance in the Plaza Mayor. To this day I still wonder if I was dreaming. But no, there’s a link here to the film clip.

https://www.tiktok.com/@despertandotusrecuerdosg/video/7245056698572983558

Tikal and the effects of the 1976 earthquake: Tikal’s pyramids were undamaged. This fact brought me to wonder how many serious earthquakes these monumental stone temples had withstood over thousands of years.

Australians abroad: Over the years I’ve met numerous travellers from Australian and New Zealand in different parts of the world, noting that many stay away from home for a long time. Some Antipodeans like myself, leave home for a specific purpose as well as for travel. As an undiagnosed culture junkie, for me it was the attraction of living in another culture whilst at the same time acquiring a qualification that wasn’t available in Australia at that time.

French toast: Whenever I hear the words ‘French toast’, I’m transported back to the Tikal campground, surrounded by jungle and a cacophony of bird calls coming from the tree canopy above our heads whilst enjoying the warm, crunchy sweetness.

FACTS:
Maya glyphs: Maya writing used logograms accompanied with a set of syllabic glyphs, somewhat similar in function to modern Japanese writing.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_script

Harvard University’s Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology: In the nineteen seventies, the Peabody Museum scholars focussed on deciphering Mayan glyphs. It was a painstakingly slow process.

https://www.historymuseum.ca/cmc/exhibitions/civil/maya/mmc04eng.html#

Tikal: Even though Tikal may have been settled around 600 BCE most of the site’s towering temples were built during the Maya Classic period from 250 to 900 AD, when the Maya produced unique structures both large and small, richly decorated with extraordinary sculptural stonework.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tikal

Tikal’s climate: Tikal is warmer and wetter than Guatemala City. The city is at 1500 metres above sea level, whereas Tikal is 120 metres above sea level with two metres of rain annually. Humidity is high.

Tikal excavations: The University of Pennsylvania excavations began at Tikal in 1957. Conducted by the University’s Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, it was led by Aubrey Trik and George Guttemin.

Tikal’s Temple 1—Temple of the Giant Jaguar—is fifty-seven meters high and is the largest Mayan pyramid excavated at Tikal to date.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaUIR2QIx54

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CeR0sWZ0-4g

Tikal movie: a silent movie of Peabody Museum’s 1957 expedition to Tikal.

https://www.penn.museum/collections/videos/video/847

The Maya civilisation: 1800BCE to 1500AD

Evolution of Maya culture
Period Date range
Olmec 1200–1000 B.C.E.
Early Preclassic Maya 1800–900 B.C.E.
Middle Preclassic Maya 900–300 B.C.E.
Late Preclassic Maya 300 B.C.E. – A.D. 250
Early Classic Maya A.D. 250–600
Late Classic Maya A.D. 600–900
Post Classic Maya A.D. 900–1500
Colonial period A.D. 1500–1800
Independent Mexico A.D. 1821 to the present

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_civilization

Julio Iglesias: Spanish singer who has sold eighty million albums worldwide.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julio_Iglesias

Guatemalan earthquake: The earthquake hit at just after 3 am on 4th of February 1976. 25,000 Guatemalans were killed and thousands more were injured. After the earthquake struck, the Guatemala City airstrip was quickly repaired to take the stream of aircraft that were either landing or taking off every three minutes, 24/7 for weeks after the event. Pallets were swiftly unloaded containing food, water, medicine, clothing, blankets and much more for distribution to survivors who’d lost everything. I was impressed by the speed with which traumatised Guatemalans mobilised to help themselves and each other, utilising the aid provided by neighbouring countries, often referred to as banana republics; the inference being that Latin American countries possess zilch organizational ability.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1976_Guatemala_earthquake

Academic wash-up: I received credit towards my degree for the work I did in Guatemala, even though our field trip was cut short by the earthquake and its aftermath.

My Transcript for the Winter Quarter of 1976 reads:

Instituto Allende Program in Guatemala:

  • Project: Guest Lecturer Maya Series
  • Archaeology
  • Advanced Drawing
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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 43: Guatemala, here I come!

I’d been studying in Mexico for almost two years. During that time, I’d completed an undergraduate degree in Fine Arts, and now I had what I came for, I wondered what I’d do next? The answer came with another scholarship, this time to do a Masters at the Instituto.

To offset the scholarship, I was asked to assist in the Soft Leather class for the Summer Quarter. In addition, I worked on a couple of Independent Projects—one in Soft Leather and the other in Weaving. To be honest, I have no recollection of either but I can guarantee both would’ve been garment related, because I was selling the one-off originals I designed and made to keep my head above water.

Around this time, my relationship with Carlos Contreras was losing its lustre. The relationship was made more difficult because I didn’t have a telephone. Each Friday morning, I used the public phone at the Instituto to confirm his plans for the weekend. He worked as a photographer with the publishing house that produced Mexico’s most popular women’s magazine. One Friday morning we had a relationship-shattering conversation. He began by crowing about his upcoming fashion photoshoot in Paris, all expenses paid. I saw red, arced up and spat the dummy, as I was struggling to find the rent for our love nest. A couple of weeks later, I decided to pack up and move out.

Even though my relationship with my mother had improved marginally, I was reluctant to return to her house if there was an alternative, keen to side-step the interpersonal drama, and concentrate on my studies. Fellow student Jo-Anne came to the rescue.

She was a new arrival. Her rich Mexican lover had offered her the opportunity to study at the Instituto and set her up in a ‘casa chica’. She’d been married to another rich Mexican who died suddenly. His family made it clear that if she made a claim on his estate, they would have her killed. This was easily done in Mexico. With little notice, she was forced to leave their upmarket apartment in down town Mexico City with nothing. Destitute, but not wanting to return to the United States, a friend introduced her to El Señor, who threw her a lifeline. He came to San Miguel every Friday bearing gifts, to have sex and eat lunch. Jo-Anne kindly offered me her spare room on the proviso I was not around on Fridays.

One of El Señor’s particularly useful gifts was an industrial sewing machine, which was fabulous for sewing leather. I’d brought with me a stylish ‘hippiesque’, long-sleeved cream chamois leather top with wooden bead decoration. As chamois was plentiful and cheap in Mexico, Jo-Anne and I decided to make facsimiles to sell. Next, we designed a trendy, fully lined soft leather backpack to add to our range. The demand for both products was huge and we had trouble keeping up.

In between sewing leather and avoiding El Señor’s weekly visit, my full-time study continued, as I was determined to keep my eye on the prize by completing the course-work for my degree.

According to my transcript for the Autumn Quarter of 1975, I continued to assist in the Soft Leather class as well as doing Independent Projects in both Soft Leather and Weaving. And lastly, to spice things up a bit, Landscape Painting with well-known American artist and educator Fred Samuelson.

Autumn Quarter: Independent project: Soft Leather wall-hanging made of soft leather scraps
Image: Grainger family photographs

Around this time, I heard talk of a three-month field trip to Guatemala for Instituto students, the brainchild of Don Patterson, a faculty member. The idea came out of a conversation he had with Nicholas Hellmuth, Director of the Foundation for Latin American Anthropological Research based in Guatemala City. Hellmuth knew that Harvard University’s Peabody Museum was having difficulty deciphering the hundreds of semi-pictorial Mayan glyphs that appeared at all the excavated Mayan sites in southern Mexico, Belize, Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala.

So, Patterson hatched a plan to take a group of artists to an accessible site to draw every stick, leaf, branch, bark, root, nut and flower of every tree and plant from every angle in the hope that clues from nature could help speed up the decipherment process. I expressed interest and was accepted to join the team because of my commercial art training.

In addition to the excitement generated in preparing for the Guatemala trip, I received a marriage proposal from Jaime, a balding Accountancy graduate of the University of Guanajuato. I’d attended his graduation some months earlier. It was a rowdy, drunken affair at which my former housemate, Elsa, was found standing on our table partway through the speeches loudly chanting, “Cabron, cabron, cabron!” (translation: ‘asshole’) instead of, “Pelon, pelon, pelon!” (translation: ‘bald’). Her outburst brought the house down.

Jaime’s family home was the only one in San Miguel where I felt free to come and go at will. Mostly, the townsfolk were quite guarded and keen to protect their privacy, as they felt overrun by the increasing number of permanent residents and students arriving from the other side of the Rio Grande. I assume the family welcomed me because I was Australian. I particularly liked his mother and his English-speaking sister, but not enough to accept his invitation to join the family.

Map of Central America showing Mexico City, Guatemala City and Tikal, due north of Guatemala City
Image: World Biking

In late December, a few weeks before the start of the Winter Quarter, twelve of us took a bus to Mexico City followed by a flight to Guatemala City. The adventure had begun.

We planned to find a suitable house to rent, set it up quickly and begin work with the Foundation for Latin American Anthropological Research.

We found a house big enough for eight students; team leader Patterson, his wife, their baby daughter and their maid. After a number of trips to the market, the house was fitted out with the basics for our three-month stay.

Before leaving Mexico, I’d met the Guatemalan Consul General to Mexico, when I visited the Consulate for a visa. He was most interested in our project and, as it happened, would be in Guatemala City around the time we’d be there. I stayed in touch with him, thinking it would be handy to know a friendly diplomat if for some reason we needed help in Guatemala.

One day he arrived at the house unannounced and to my surprise invited me to join him as his guest for a weekend in Antigua Guatemala. What a great opportunity! Antigua is a world-famous colonial town an hour by road from the city. In addition to loads of historical charm, the town had jewellery stores selling polished jadeite, a green stone mined locally and a favourite of the Maya for 1800 years.

Exquisitely crafted Maya jadeite Funerary mask, earrings, necklace and pectoral ornament from the Classic period 250-990 AD
Image: Wikipedia

Whilst there, we also explored a market selling garments woven by the women, using a backstrap loom. This was my first exposure to the richness and diversity of Guatemalan textiles and the first and only time a woman has sold me the handwoven shirt off her back.

Antigua Guatemala open-air market selling exquisite hand woven and embroidered garments
Image: The Partying Traveller

When I returned to the city, I was told that Tikal, the classic Maya site in the Peten, had been selected for our documentation project because the facilities there were reasonably good. We were all very excited.

Before we headed out to Tikal, Hellmuth provided us with a detailed briefing on the Maya based on recent excavations at El Ceibal, a site not far from Tikal. There, the excavators had devised a completely new approach to archaeological practice. They used a series of supported planks suspended above a burial site for the excavators to lie on, thereby removing the risk of crushing artefacts in the layers below.

Scaffold platform excavation technique similar to the one used in 
confined space of the El Ceibal burial in the early 1970s
Image: source unknown

Scaffold platform excavation technique similar to the one
used in confined space of the El Ceibal burial in the early
1970s
Image: source unknown

To generate income for the Foundation, Hellmuth used the building’s small theatrette five nights a week for a one-hour lecture for tourists on the Maya. The lecture was supported by Hellmuth’s slides of the El Ceibal excavation.

But our departure to Tikal was delayed because, out of the blue, Hellmuth was summoned to the United States and in his absence, a replacement presenter for the lectures was required. The obvious person for the job was our leader so I was most surprised to be asked to do the gig instead. I accepted the challenge, and learnt later that my Australian accent swung the deal. In preparation, I attended every one of Hellmuth’s lectures before he left, determined to extract as many factual details for each of his slides as my brain would hold. My confidence steadied in the knowledge that Patterson would back me up if I was asked a curly question I couldn’t answer.

The area of Central America covered by the Maya civilization in pink
Image: Organizacion Mundo Maya

Our impatience intensified as we marked off the days until Hellmuth’s return. We were busting to get out to Tikal to see the site for ourselves and start drawing. Little did we know what nature held in store for us.

Great Jaguar temple in the Plaza Mayor at Tikal, Peten, Guatemala
Image: Wikipedia

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Instituto group: We had fun setting up our temporary base camp in Guatemala City. Finding and furnishing the rental house was straightforward and before long we’d settled in.

We each had a straw mattress on the floor with a sleeping bag on top. I shared a ground-floor room with a young woman I didn’t know. As we exchanged our life stories, she explained that she financed her studies by working as a porn actor. I remember being shocked by her revelation, so I quickly changed the subject.

Cakes in Guatemala City: Occasionally we explored the city and to our delight found an Austrian cake shop on the bus route to Hellmuth’s office. Sometimes we’d hop off to feast our eyes on the cabinets filled with rows and rows of the most delicious cakes and pastries. Art to eat!

Display cabinet of Austrian cakes similar to the ones in
Guatemala City
Image: Bakefood Bakery

Maya lectures for the Foundation: In hindsight, I must have been crazy to take on a public speaking role in a specialist subject area I knew little about. And I assume I was spurred on by the self-confidence of youth and the knowledge that if I got into trouble, Patterson was there to back me up.

FACTS:
Casa Chica: the literal English translation is ‘little house’ but in Latin America, the expression refers to a smaller house for a wealthy man’s mistress. Latin American men, who can afford to maintain a second household have considerable status.

Guatemala: Guatemala is bordered by Mexico, Belize, Honduras, El Salvador, and the Caribbean and Pacific Oceans. In 1975 the population of Guatemala was 6 million. By 2024 the population had increased to 18 million. Guatemala is the most populous country for its size in Central America.

The Maya civilisation: Spanned over 3,000 years between 1800 BCE and 1500 AD. The civilisation covered southern Mexico, all of Guatemala and Belize plus the northern tips of both El Salvador and Honduras.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guatemala

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_civilization

Evolution of Maya culture
Period Date range
Olmec 1200–1000 B.C.E.
Early Preclassic Maya 1800–900 B.C.E.
Middle Preclassic Maya 900–300 B.C.E.
Late Preclassic Maya 300 B.C.E. – A.D. 250
Early Classic Maya A.D. 250–600
Late Classic Maya A.D. 600–900
Post Classic Maya A.D. 900–1500
Colonial period A.D. 1500–1800
Independent Mexico A.D. 1821 to the present

Foundation for Latin American Anthropological Research: was founded by Nicholas Hellmuth in 1969 and their work continues to this day.

https://flaar-mesoamerica.org/xt_volanteers/dr-nicholas-hellmuth/

El Ceibal: The Peabody Museum has been associated with El Ceibal since 1895, when Teoberto Maler explored it for the first time on behalf of the Museum. Another expedition was sent in 1905 after which interest in the site waned. Interest was renewed in the 1960s, with yearly expeditions from 1961 through 1964. In the intensive excavations carried out between 1964 and 1968, 45 burials were uncovered.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seibal

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 42: High culture

I pushed on with my undergraduate studies at the Instituto Allende.

For the Winter Quarter of 1975, I carried a full study load. My transcript lists my subjects as: Project: Aesthetics; Psychology; Mexican Art 1; Mexican History – Pre-conquest. I was secretly pleased to apply my graphic design training to all my assignments, in the hope that refined presentation would attract better grades.

On weekends, I occasionally took the bus into Mexico City to spend time with my boyfriend Carlos Contreras. But mostly he came to San Miguel to enjoy ‘la fantasia de Walt Disney’; his scornful, oft-repeated description of the township as a fantasy created by the mix of authentic colonial buildings, cobblestone streets, the Mexican inhabitants as well as many transplanted foreigners, like me.

El jardin in the centre of the township of San Miguel de Allende with the magnificent
Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel in the background
Image: forbes.com

El jardin in the centre of the township of San Miguel de
Allende with the magnificent Parroquia de San Miguel
Arcángel in the background
Image: forbes.com

San Miguel’s central meeting place was the beautifully-kept jardin, surrounded by impressive buildings. On the northern side stood the spectacularly ornate neo-gothic Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel, the Archangel Michael’s church. The colonnaded buildings on the other three sides contained retail outlets, the bank and the police station. From the centre of town, side streets radiated out, flanked by substantial adobe buildings for both commercial and residential use.

Carlos would often arrive into San Miguel late on Friday night. Ever resourceful, he’d climb the metal security railings to reach the second-floor window of our love nest and tap loudly on the window to wake me—a Mexican version of Romeo and Juliet. We’d catch up and then snuggle down to sleep before beginning a hectic round of weekend activities that could include a fiesta, or an exhibition opening, or a dinner party, or a nightclub, or a bullfight.

As Carlos was garrulous and outgoing, he would occasionally arrive with friends in tow. I remember one fellow, Argentine lawyer Cesar Campion, who’d managed to escape the military dictatorship that was raging in Argentina at that time. Carlos met him somewhere in Mexico City. Cesar’s story was a typical Latin American one, with politics at its core. In fear for his life, he’d fled Buenos Aires leaving his wife and daughter behind. With little warning he found himself 7,000 kilometres from home, traumatised and desperately in need of work. I imagine Carlos’s family network helped to find him a job, as the Contreras clan was very well connected.

Monday to Friday it was full steam ahead with my studies at the Instituto. For my last Quarter before graduating, I once again carried a full load: Natural Fibres and Dyes; Mexican Art – Modern; Psychology; Mexican History Pre-Conquest and an Art History Project.

Fast forward to the end of the Quarter. With all my assignments submitted and marked I now had what I’d come from Australia to get—a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. In addition, I also knew what my immediate future held. I’d been offered a place in the Instituto’s Master’s program with yet another full scholarship and naturally, I grabbed it with both hands.

But I needed a break between the completion of one degree and the beginning of the next, so I went to Mexico City for a dose of high culture and high jinks with Carlos.

National Museum of Anthropology Mexico City
Image: Wikipedia

Our first port of call was the National Museum of Anthropology at the top end of the Paseo de la Reforma in Chapultepec Park. I’d visited once before to explore the impressive salons jam-packed with artefacts from each of the numerous Mesoamerican civilizations that flourished in Central America between 2000 and 300 BCE. The Olmec, Teotihuacan, the Maya, the Zapotecs, the Toltecs, and the Mexica / Aztec. I was thrilled to be re-visiting the collection. Little did I know that in a year or so, I’d be returning regularly to attend night classes in archaeology with my work colleagues from the Catedral Metropolitana, who were studying there.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Salon within the Museum of Anthropology Mexico City
Image: Flickr

Our second port of call was the Palacio de Bellas Artes, to watch a matinee performance of the Ballet Folklórico de México.

Palacio de Bellas Artes Mexico City—trees from the Alameda Park visible on the left
Image: istock

We arrived a little early so, to fill in time, Carlos guided me across eight lanes of traffic to the Alameda Central Park to see his great grandfather Jesus F. Contreras’s sculpture titled Malgre tout— translation, despite everything. It was of a naked young woman lying face down chained to a rock. I didn’t fully grasp the meaning of the piece at the time but nonetheless it was an unnerving experience. The figure was so exposed in amongst the greenery that I had to resist the urge to take off my jacket to cover her nakedness.

Malgre-tout—Despite everything— by sculptor Jesus F Contreras in Alameda Park Mexico City
Image: Wikimedia

We then headed back to the theatre for the performance. As is often the case, it’s difficult to find words to describe a sudden and unexpected ‘bolt from the blue’ experience like this one, but I’ll give it a go.

A Ballet Folklorico de Mexico performance at Bellas Artes Mexico City
Image: Tijuananoticias.info

From the moment the curtain went up, I was transported to another world. I was totally entranced by the merging of colour, music and movement as the dancers portrayed a cross-section of traditional Mexican dances, adapted for the stage and performed to a packed house of mostly tourists.

Ballet Folklorico de Mexico revolution dance
Image: Agencia Enfoque

After it was over, I floated out of the theatre aware that something had shifted. It was on that day I realised I’d fallen in love with Mexico and its people. The post-performance euphoria remained with me for some weeks after I returned to San Miguel to begin the course work for my Master’s degree.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Spring Quarter of 1975: For Mexican Art—Modern I researched Costa Rican-born Mexican sculptor and painter, Francisco Zúñiga. Surprisingly, some five decades on, I still have my assignment with my delicate charcoal drawings of his pear-shaped figures and supporting text, albeit a little battered.

Re-reading it, I’m surprised by the depth of understanding my twenty-something self brought to Zúñiga’s three-dimensional work.

Francisco Zúñiga (Costa Rican/Mexican 1912-1998) Grupo de cuatro mujeres de pie signed, dated and numbered
'ZUÑIGA, 1972, II/V' (on the base) bronze with green patina and wooden base. 63.5 x 57.8 x 44.1 cm including
base. Executed in 1972. Edition two of five.
Image: Artnet

Francisco Zúñiga (Costa Rican/Mexican 1912-1998)
Grupo de cuatro mujeres de pie signed, dated and
numbered 'ZUÑIGA, 1972, II/V' (on the base) bronze
with green patina and wooden base. 
63.5 x 57.8 x 44.1 cm including base. Executed in 1972. 
Edition two of five.
Image: Artnet

Francisco Zúñiga:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francisco_Z%C3%BA%C3%B1iga

The Ballet Folklórico de México: Before the matinee, my exposure to performance culture had been somewhat limited. My parents, who considered themselves cultured, occasionally went to the theatre, but it was my father who, after he left us, had the resources to remain involved in Sydney’s arts scene. When I was ten, as a special treat, he took me to see the Australian production of My Fair Lady. I was spellbound from the moment the curtain rose particularly with the Ascot Races scene—when the stage was filled with the cast dressed in dramatic black and white costumes. This scene left a lasting visual impression.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ballet_Folkl%C3%B3rico_de_M%C3%A9xico

My mother and I left Sydney for New Guinea in 1960, a couple of years after my family fell apart. At that time Sydneysiders considered their city to be the cultural capital of Australia by dint of a larger population, numerous performance spaces and a vibrant collective of performers. But in New Guinea it was very different. There was no performance culture as we knew it, other than the occasional amateur production written and staged by expatriates to amuse themselves and those of us within cooee. But I was able to make up for what I’d missed by attending as many Ballet Folklórico performances as I could squeeze into the three years I lived in Mexico and later, as well.

Whilst completely entranced by the performance from the get go, I was aware that the dancers embodied the enthusiasm and exuberance of Latin America that was in sharp contrast to the buttoned-up Anglo culture I came from. Before long, I realised that I too embodied these Latin qualities. I felt I’d found my tribe.

Malgre tout: I was accustomed to nakedness at art school and in my private life, but always in an enclosed space. What unnerved me about Malgre tout figure was that she was shackled and exposed to the elements. More recently I’ve come to see her as a symbol of the Mexican nation. In the last 600 years the Mexicans have been invaded and enslaved by the Spanish, then the French and since, have become economic prisoners of their northern neighbours.

Since becoming aware of Malgre tout, I realise how rare it is to see a reclining male body depicted in art. A man’s achievements are usually celebrated with the subject standing tall and proud, surrounded by the trappings of power and success. On the other hand, women are often pictured reclining, mostly in various stages of undress, their images often gracing spaces frequented by men. 

FACTS:
La Parroquia de Arcangel Miguel: was designed by Zeferino Gutiérrez. Built in 1880—it’s said the church’s façade is based on postcards he’d seen of European cathedrals.

Lawyer Cesar Campion: Carlos’s friend escaped Argentina after the coup d’état when death squads hunted down political dissidents and anyone associated with socialism or left-wing Peronism. Mexico has always had an open door to any Latin Americans in need of asylum.

Jesus Fructuoso Contreras Chavez: His piece Malgre tout is discussed in detail by Dr Vincente Quirarte in this video made in 2017.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3wY0XH5R0I (8min)

Jesus F. Contreras: Was born in Aguascalientes. Carlos, his eldest great grandson has taken an active interest in honouring his great grandfather’s creative contribution in the city of his birth. He is remembered for a series of sculptural panels for the Mexican Pavilion of the Exposition Universalle held in Paris in 1889.

Five of the panels are now on display in the Patio de Jesus F. Contreras, constructed in 2016, along with a mausoleum and archival vault. Lasting memorials in perpetuity to the gifted sculptor’s life and work.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 41: A seven-day dash

The wild ride with Carlos Contreras continued well into 1975. Weekends were spent either in San Miguel de Allende, where I was studying full-time, or in Mexico City where Carlos lived with his family. The capital city offered culture by the barrow load. For example, collections of high art spanning centuries, contemporary art galleries, a scattering of world-famous murals, an enormously rich archaeological heritage, live theatre and dance. Whereas, by contrast, provincial centres like San Miguel offered wealthy Mexicans an opportunity to reconnect with their quaint colonial past.

But I was busting to see more of Mexico, other than the view from a bus window every six months, when I travelled north to Texas to renew my tourist visa. Instead, was keen to travel south.

With the Instituto holidays approaching, Carlos and I hatched a plan to spend seven days as tourists, driving around southern Mexico in his VW Beetle. We were both short of money so the ever-resourceful Carlos, succeeded in gathering the camping basics from his large extended family: a tent, a pressure lamp, a couple of blow-up mattresses and sleeping bags. So we set off, with the camping gear neatly stacked on the back seat of the car.

Map showing our route in red from Mexico City to Veracruz to Oaxaca to Salina Cruz on the Pacific coast and back to Mexico City
Image: sil.org

As we climbed out of the grey pollution that shrouded Mexico City, we were pulled over by a policeman on a motorcycle. Carlos got out to be told that the back seat of a car was for passengers not things. For this breach we were ordered to pay an on-the-spot fine of 1,000 pesos, the equivalent of $80 US then. The alternative was to go back to the police station and argue the case. As it was, we were late getting out of the city, so Carlos decided to pay up and shut up. I was livid, and, as I had the cash, I paid the fine. On the road again, I was spitting chips for some kilometres before finally blurting out, “There’s no way I can live in this country where corruption is the accepted way of life!”

My good humour gradually returned as we drove west to Veracruz where, for the very first time I dipped my toes into the cooling waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico
Image: yelp.com

The highlights of our trip were numerous as it was always a laugh a minute with Carlos. Here, I’ve described the most memorable of them.

From Veracruz we drove south into the state of Oaxaca. High on my list of archaeological sites to visit was Monte Alban located not far south of Oaxaca City. It was a partly excavated ceremonial complex constructed in 500 BCE by the Zapotecs.

Monte Alban, Oaxaca—Zapotec ceremonial site 500 BCE
Image: Emaze

To get there, we drove up a steep winding, mostly single-lane road, cut into the side of the mountain with a sheer drop down into the valley below. At the summit we were met by some kids, likely descendants of the original inhabitants, selling small pre-Columbian clay figurines. We assumed the kids had dug them up from a grave somewhere on the site.

It was late afternoon so we hurried off to take as many photographs at possible before the light failed. Carlos with his super fancy camera and me with my mother’s basic Kodak. When we returned to the car, the kids were waiting for us, hoping for a sale.

Authentic Pre-Columbian clay funerary figurines
Image: Heritage Auctions HA.com

It was getting dark, so we offered the kids a lift down the hill. They eagerly accepted and quickly clambered in the back, perching themselves on top of the camping gear. As we began our slow descent, Carlos took the opportunity to interrogate the kids.

He asked, “Where did you get those figurines?”

Quick as a flash came the chorus, “Oh, our mother made them!”

In a heartbeat we realised the implications of what had just been said. After which we laughed so hard that we risked driving off the edge of the narrow road. The children’s honesty was certainly beguiling and very amusing!

Our next stop was Oaxaca City.

The picturesque main square of Oaxaca City with its colonial colonnades and established trees
Image: zonaturistica.com 

Where possible we ate at the town markets where the food was fabulous, fresh and cheap. To avoid Moctezuma’s revenge, the jargon for diarrhoea, I was very careful to only eat well-cooked food.

Oaxaca markets selling delicious freshly cooked food served on corn leaves
Image: culinarybackstreets.com

After Oaxaca, we drove on to Salina Cruz, a small town on the Pacific Coast, having crossed the country from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean in a couple of days. On our arrival we treated ourselves to a sumptuous feast of huge fresh oysters after which I stood with my feet in the shallow water of the Pacific wistfully gazing westward across the flat navy-coloured sea. I was somewhat taken aback to find myself involuntarily lifting my arm to wave pathetically in the direction of my homeland, some 13,000 kilometres beyond the curvature of the earth.

We walked back to the car as the sun was setting. As we unpacked, I noticed a line of fluid running down the passenger-side front wheel. I felt a sharp involuntary intake of breath and stood rooted to the spot. Was it brake fluid? If so, we were a long way from home and very short of cash to fix it. Desperate to identify the liquid, I stepped closer and gingerly dipped my finger into it and had a sniff. It was dog pee! We breathed a huge sigh of relief before doubling over with laughter.

We’d been on the road for six days and the time had come to turn around and head back to Mexico City for Carlos to return to work and for me to return to the Instituto. With only enough money remaining for one last tank of fuel and my bus fare to San Miguel, we arrived at the Contreras house late in the evening. His parents were surprised to see me and even more surprised when Carlos boldly announced that I was to stay overnight in his sister’s bedroom, as she was away. The Señor and Señora could barely conceal their disbelief because Carlos’s request was totally outrageous. By inviting me to stay, he was making a mockery of the rigid Mexican upper-class conventions. When the dust had settled, I was shown to his sister’s bedroom and immediately locked the door; not knowing what risky tricks Carlos would get up to during the night. As it was, the only intrusion was a couple of pathetic notes pushed under the bedroom door. I read them and had a chuckle before dropping off to sleep. Next morning, I was farewelled by the family before taking the early morning bus back to San Miguel. The four-hour bus ride gave me plenty of time to begin reflecting upon our experiences, both amusing and weird, during our seven-day dash around southern Mexico.

The next time Carlos came to San Miguel he brought with him all our developed photographs. It took us some time to go through them all, after which he said, “Your photographs are better than mine.” High praise indeed from a professional photographer. Which just goes to show that a three-year art training with considerable emphasis on ‘composition’, has value. Or maybe he was just being kind?

 

ON REFLECTION:
Barro Negro pottery: From the numerous pieces we brought back from Oaxaca, we invited Carlos’ parents to choose a couple of pieces to keep.

Fast forward to 1990 when I visited Carlos Senior on my way back from South America. I noticed he’d placed one of the Oaxaca pieces on the coffee table. I was delighted. Firstly, that at least one piece had survived, and secondly to note that the shape of the vessel remained as visually satisfying as it was when I bought it some 15 years earlier. Just goes to show that good design is timeless. And I wonder where that pot is now?

Carlos Contreras de Oteyza: of all my ‘significant other’ partnerships, it is with Carlos that I share most artistically, because we both possess a heightened awareness of both aesthetics and beauty. There was no need to speak. I could just point and Carlos would nod in agreement. And vice versa. A cluster of clouds, a tree, a building, a sunset.  We were acutely aware of the beauty that surrounded us and revelled in sharing it with each other.

Overnighting: in 1974, Mexican families, like most families in predominantly Roman Catholic Latin America, were anxious to be seen as living a moral life, thereby avoiding censure. For the Contreras family to have their son’s girlfriend sleeping in their house overnight in full view of the house staff, was beyond the pale because staff gossip. Of course, Carlos thought it was hilarious.

FACTS:
Monte Alban: The civilization that thrived at Monte Alban is thought to have collapsed with the loss of its most important trading partner, Teotihuacan. Religious worship at Monte Alban was based on ancestor worship and a pantheon of gods.

Mexico: In 1974 the population of Mexico was 60 million. Fifty years on, the population had more than doubled to 130 million.

Barro negro pot gallery in Oaxaca
Image: Pinterest

A selection of Barro negro burnished ceramic forms from Oaxaca
Images: L to R: goantiques.com; etsy.com; and Wee Lay Laq Ceramics

A selection of Barro negro burnished ceramic forms from Oaxaca
Images: top to bottom: goantiques.com; etsy.com; and Wee Lay Laq Ceramics

After Oaxaca, we drove on to Salina Cruz, a small town on the Pacific Coast, having crossed the country from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean in a couple of days. On our arrival we treated ourselves to a sumptuous feast of huge fresh oysters after which I stood with my feet in the shallow water of the Pacific wistfully gazing westward across the flat navy-coloured sea. I was somewhat taken aback to find myself involuntarily lifting my arm to wave pathetically in the direction of my homeland, some 13,000 kilometres beyond the curvature of the earth.

We walked back to the car as the sun was setting. As we unpacked, I noticed a line of fluid running down the passenger-side front wheel. I felt a sharp involuntary intake of breath and stood rooted to the spot. Was it brake fluid? If so, we were a long way from home and very short of cash to fix it. Desperate to identify the liquid, I stepped closer and gingerly dipped my finger into it and had a sniff. It was dog pee! We breathed a huge sigh of relief before doubling over with laughter.

We’d been on the road for six days and the time had come to turn around and head back to Mexico City for Carlos to return to work and for me to return to the Instituto. With only enough money remaining for one last tank of fuel and my bus fare to San Miguel, we arrived at the Contreras house late in the evening. His parents were surprised to see me and even more surprised when Carlos boldly announced that I was to stay overnight in his sister’s bedroom, as she was away. The Señor and Señora could barely conceal their disbelief because Carlos’s request was totally outrageous. By inviting me to stay, he was making a mockery of the rigid Mexican upper-class conventions. When the dust had settled, I was shown to his sister’s bedroom and immediately locked the door; not knowing what risky tricks Carlos would get up to during the night. As it was, the only intrusion was a couple of pathetic notes pushed under the bedroom door. I read them and had a chuckle before dropping off to sleep. Next morning, I was farewelled by the family before taking the early morning bus back to San Miguel. The four-hour bus ride gave me plenty of time to begin reflecting upon our experiences, both amusing and weird, during our seven-day dash around southern Mexico.

The next time Carlos came to San Miguel he brought with him all our developed photographs. It took us some time to go through them all, after which he said, “Your photographs are better than mine.” High praise indeed from a professional photographer. Which just goes to show that a three-year art training with considerable emphasis on ‘composition’, has value. Or maybe he was just being kind?

 

ON REFLECTION:
Barro Negro pottery: From the numerous pieces we brought back from Oaxaca, we invited Carlos’ parents to choose a couple of pieces to keep.

Fast forward to 1990 when I visited Carlos Senior on my way back from South America. I noticed he’d placed one of the Oaxaca pieces on the coffee table. I was delighted. Firstly, that at least one piece had survived, and secondly to note that the shape of the vessel remained as visually satisfying as it was when I bought it some 15 years earlier. Just goes to show that good design is timeless. And I wonder where that pot is now?

Carlos Contreras de Oteyza: of all my ‘significant other’ partnerships, it is with Carlos that I share most artistically, because we both possess a heightened awareness of both aesthetics and beauty. There was no need to speak. I could just point and Carlos would nod in agreement. And vice versa. A cluster of clouds, a tree, a building, a sunset.  We were acutely aware of the beauty that surrounded us and revelled in sharing it with each other.

Overnighting: in 1974, Mexican families, like most families in predominantly Roman Catholic Latin America, were anxious to be seen as living a moral life, thereby avoiding censure. For the Contreras family to have their son’s girlfriend sleeping in their house overnight in full view of the house staff, was beyond the pale because staff gossip. Of course, Carlos thought it was hilarious.

FACTS:
Monte Alban: The civilization that thrived at Monte Alban is thought to have collapsed with the loss of its most important trading partner, Teotihuacan. Religious worship at Monte Alban was based on ancestor worship and a pantheon of gods.

Mexico: In 1974 the population of Mexico was 60 million. Fifty years on, the population had more than doubled to 130 million.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 40: A man for all seasons

My first Christmas in San Miguel de Allende was fast approaching. And with it came the long-anticipated steady rain in combination with colder temperatures; so different to the climatic conditions I’d experienced over Christmas in Australia or New Guinea or Africa. I was cosy and warm in Esther Kellerman’s beautiful apartment with its open fireplace and large stash of dry firewood.

My Fall Quarter at the Instituto Allende was taken up with Intensive Spanish and I needed it, as my relationship with photographer, Carlos Contreras, deepened.

Mexican photographer Carlos Contreras de Oteyza—photographed in 1975
Image: Carlos Contreras

We were together most weekends. Either Carlos would drive to San Miguel or I would take the bus to Mexico City arriving at the bus station on the north side where he’d pick me up to visit family or attend a function or both, as the city was pulsating with interesting things to do and Carlos certainly had his finger on the pulse.

He is the eldest of six children. His father was an architect who held the chair of Architecture at the University of Mexico. His mother was a Spanish import who vowed and declared she’d not return to Spain while General Franco was still alive. And she kept her word.

Carlos was an energetic extrovert and I was willingly swept along by his enthusiasm and interest in all aspects of Mexican life, both contemporary and historical. He was a great event organiser with an extraordinary inner knowing that, if need be, he could talk his way out of trouble.

In early 1975 accommodation once more became an issue for me. Esther was due back from the United States and I couldn’t envisage returning to live in my mother’s house with Carlos in tow. Recent experience had shown that my mother and my Mexican boyfriends were an unsettling mix.

I found a small reasonably priced apartment, within walking distance of the Instituto, the town centre and the fresh food market. The ground floor comprised a living room, a dining room, a small kitchen with a walled patio at the rear. Upstairs there was a bathroom and two bedrooms; a perfect weekend love nest.

For some time, Carlos had been waxing gastronomical about making a special potato omelette, known as a tortilla de papas in Spanish. It was a delicious savoury favourite throughout Latin America. As I’d not tasted one, he decided to remedy the situation on one of his weekend visits. At this point in the story, it is important to explain that Carlos came from a well-to-do family where he was only expected to eat, not cook, so I was looking forward to watching him in action.

Tortilla de papas—a Mexican favourite
Image: alquiria.com.co

My kitchen was tiny, with little preparation space. As Carlos settled into creating his masterpiece every surface including the floor, was gradually strewn with strips of grated potato. As I watched, it became glaringly obvious that he was accustomed to being shadowed by unobtrusive kitchen staff who cleaned up after him. Notwithstanding, the end result was magnificent but it was the last time he cooked in my kitchen as eating out was far less stressful.

Carlos lived with his parents and siblings. He was the product of an influential family who lived in a two-storey brick house that wrapped around a central courtyard and was designed by his father. The house was located in the elite suburb of San Angel. The ground floor provided family living spaces, dining room, kitchen, laundry, downstairs loo and maid’s quarters whilst the top floor provided bathrooms and separate bedrooms—seven or eight in total.

Visiting the Contreras family was always a drift into the unpredictable. Particularly amusing were Carlos’s father’s occasional unsolicited laconic comments. On one occasion I arrived dressed in a fine woollen tweed mini-dress, stockings and high heels, as Carlos and I were going on to a gathering requiring smart casual dress. A change, as I mostly wore a shirt, a jacket, straight-legged jeans and flat shoes when I visited. After greeting me warmly Carlos Senior quipped, “Morley, it’s so nice to see you have legs instead of tubes!” I had no reply.

At mealtimes, the family gathered around their circular dining table that seated twelve where they ate from solid silver plates using solid silver cutlery. The witty conversation flowed in four languages because the Contreras offspring were all bi-lingual as they attended either the French School, the English School or the German School. As a result, Carlos spoke French with a Parisian accent and his sister spoke English with a Pommy plumb. When I first heard her speak English, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe my ears as it was very unusual to hear a Mexican speak English without an accent.

My most memorable gaff at the Contreras dining table was a classic. I’d everyone’s undivided attention as I told a longish story in Spanish. In the telling, I confused two Spanish words; the word for butterfly, ‘mariposa’ and the word for faggot, ‘maricon’. A split second later, the table erupted with everyone falling about laughing. What did I say? I was mystified until someone explained my mistake. And I felt like a complete idiot.

Carlos and I discovered we shared a fascination for social anthropology. My interest stemming from living alongside indigenous tribes in both Papua New Guinea and to a lesser extent East Africa. His interest had been piqued having twice spent Holy Week, Semana Santa, with the Cora Indians in Jesus Maria, a small town in the rugged mountains of Nayarit, located on the Pacific Coast. He visited once in 1968 and again in 1972. As a light-skinned Mexican with a gift of the gab, he talked his way into photographing the Cora’s secretive, quasi-religious Easter ceremonies that fused pagan and Catholic practices, the combination being a collection of unique rituals.

Map of Mexico showing the state of Nayarit in red located on the Pacific coast of Mexico
Image: Wikipedia

Central to the Holy Week rituals were the men’s costumes. A combination of painted bodies and strange hats with feathers, with some wearing animal masks made of paper mâché. Their striped bodies reminded me of the ceremonial body painting of Australian First Nations people.

Cora men with painted bodies that remind me of First Nations Australians 
painted up for ceremony
Image: Carlos Contreras de Oteyza

Cora men with painted bodies that remind me of First
Nations Australians painted up for ceremony
Image: Carlos Contreras de Oteyza

Carlos returned home with extraordinary photographs and a collection of artefacts including a traditional Huichole man’s costume handmade from manta, a calico fabric, with colourful scatterings of decorative cross-stitching on both the shirt and the pants.

After seeing Carlos’s Cora photographs for the first time, I was astounded. When I suggested he exhibit them along with the artifacts, I already had a venue in mind. The Instituto had a number of gallery spaces and I knew that the content would provide a rare window into the life and rituals of the Cora for both students and the wider San Miguel community. With my previous experience mounting exhibitions with National Parks and Wildlife and the Australian Museum, I’d be in my element, and able to make the most of the material. Carlos agreed, and some months later the Cora exhibition was mounted with the help of his younger brother Pedro, who joined us from Mexico City to hang the work.

The weekend before, in the dead of night, we had plastered the town with exhibition posters inviting people to roll up to the official opening the following Saturday.

Saturday afternoon arrived and we were ready. The work looked wonderful and we even managed to catch our breath before the crowd began to gather to view the photographs, have a drink, listen to the speeches and toast the photographer. As this was Carlos’s first exhibition, his extended family drove up from Mexico City for the opening and stayed on, deciding to make a weekend of it.

Traditional Huichole men's costume with all
decoration cross stitched, similar to Carlos’s
from the state of Nayarit Mexico
Image: Wordpress.com

The next day, Sunday, my mother and I were invited to join the family for lunch at the fancy resort where they’d overnighted, not far out of San Miguel. We picked up my mother and drove out to join the clan. This was obviously their way of thanking us for arranging a venue for Carlos’s exhibition and at the same time giving his family the opportunity to meet my mother. I always enjoyed the Contreras clan, but in the lead up to the gathering I was experiencing intermittent waves of apprehension as I imagined what could go wrong at the meeting of the families. As it turned out, my concerns were well-founded. What transpired from the get-go was jaw-droppingly unexpected. We arrived and after introductions, a splendid lunch was served but the gathering was completely derailed by my mother’s strange behaviour. She did not speak one single word. I was mortified and so relieved when it was all over, left wondering what the Contreras collective thought of us.

Afterwards I was thankful that our relationship managed to weather the storm as Carlos, his family and his fascinating circle of friends continued to provide me with extraordinary experiences and surprising insights into Mexican life.

And our next planned adventure was huge.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Word confusion: mariposa or maricon—this wasn’t the first or the last time I got into a tangle speaking Spanish. My Mexican friends were incredibly tolerant as I crashed through their language in my efforts to be understood.

Pedro Contreras: Carlos’s youngest brother, went on to work in museums. Years later he told me that his career choice was the direct result of working together on Carlos’s photographic exhibition at the Instituto gallery.

My mother: the ‘no speaks’ incident at lunch was yet another example of the awkward position my mother’s behaviour often placed me in. I suspect it may very well have been the first nail in the coffin of my relationship with Carlos and his wonderful family. Irrespective of the inevitable demise of our relationship, whenever I later visited Mexico City the Contreras family would assemble to welcome me warmly and catch up.

I visited Mexico for the last time on my way back from Argentina and Chile in 1990. As Carlos’s father was now widowed, the family gathered at his apartment for our customary catch up.

Carlos Senior died in 1993. Vale Carlos Contreras Pages Ph.D. (1925–1993).

https://biblat.unam.mx/es/revista/unam-hoy/articulo/herbario-carlos-contreras-pages-la-arquitectura-del-paisaje-mas-alla-del-ornamento

FACTS:
General Francisco Franco: was the military dictator of Spain from 1939 until his death in 1975. The 36-year period from Franco’s Nationalist victory to his death, is commonly known in Spanish history as Francoist Spain or the Francoist Dictatorship.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francisco_Franco

Cora photographs: The Cora of Nayarit was Carlos’s first series of black and white ethnographic photographs measuring 365mm x 285mm. El Circo Bibi’s was the second, and the series that secured his national reputation as an ethnographic photographer.

The Cora and the Huichol Indians: are two Mexican Indian tribes who live deep in the remote mountains of western Mexico. The Cora inhabits the Western Sierra Madre in the states of Durango and Nayari and the Huichol lands adjoin in the state of Nayarit and occupy parts of Jalisco. Even though their tribal areas adjoin, there are distinct differences both culturally and linguistically, but their traditional costume design is similar.

https://www.britannica.com/topic/Huichol

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 39: Party, party, party!

I quickly adjusted to a very different way of life as a student in San Miguel de Allende, the picturesque Mexican town founded in 1542. By way of comparison, this was 222 years before Captain Cook planted the British flag on the beach at Botany Bay, taking all of Australia for England’s King George III.

One of many picturesque cobble-stone streets in San Miguel de Allende with the Parroquia church in the background
Image: The Canberra Times

My mother and I’d been sharing an apartment for some months before I met and was later befriended by Beto, a San Miguel hotelier. This casual friendship changed things dramatically on the domestic front after which my mother asked me to move out. When Beto became aware of my situation, he suggested I might like to move into his empty house whilst he was away in the United States, studying hotel management at Cornell University. He would be gone for three months.

I’d made two new friends from within the student body. Japanese-American Elsa Takesue from Hawaii via San Francisco and Esther Kellerman, also from San Francisco. Both women would play a major role in my life as the relationship with my mother continued to spiral downwards.

At the same time Elsa was having landlady problems. Out of the blue, Beto made another suggestion, this time to help Elsa out. He proposed that she and I share his house whilst he was away. Elsa was suitably grateful and so was I, as I now had a fun housemate. Elsa was a fantastic cook and it was her idea to hold a small ‘farewell to Beto’ gathering before he left town. So just before she moved out of her apartment, she invited Beto, his two friends Jorge and Jaime and myself, to bring our favourite national dessert to the gathering to share.

That evening, Beto brought rice pudding…

Beto's traditional Mexican rice pudding
Image: Mama Maggie’s Kitchen

Jorge brought crème caramel…

Jorge’s crème caramel
Image: Mama Maggie’s Kitchen

Jaime brought churros…

Jaime’s Mexican churros
Image: Steemit

Elsa made anko from azuki bean pudding…

Elsa's Japanese azuki bean pudding
Image: source unknown

And…roll of drums… I made pavlova! The traditional Australian dessert!

Morley's Australian pavlova looked a bit like this.
Image: Proveg International

I’d not made a pavlova before and the result was a slightly overcooked, chewy meringue base, partly concealed with a thick layer of whipped cream and topped with a selection of fresh berries. Thankfully it was well received by the others, their first and possibly their last encounter with pavlova.

After Beto left for the United States, Elsa moved in. Almost every weekend, we hosted extraordinary dinner parties, often with a Japanese theme. Jorge was seriously into Stevie Wonder and was often heard muttering, “I love black music!” as he played Stevie’s recently released Innervisions LP, over and over. The experience gradually morphed into what could best be described as a most congenial meeting of diverse cultural influences, both culinary and auditory.

Even though Elsa and I enjoyed living in Beto’s house, we knew it was a stopgap measure so we were on the lookout for alternate accommodation. Just before Beto’s return, Judy Robertson came to the rescue offering me a room to rent at her house and Elsa managed to find an apartment closer to town. After I’d paid Beto for the use of his house and moved out, our friendship fizzled.

When I moved into Judy’s house, I discovered that I’d swapped one party central for another. On weekends we often invited the local ranchers, lecturers, fellow students and on one occasion a gangster from the north of Mexico, to join us to consume vast quantities of beer at 28¢ a bottle, whilst enjoying a Mariachi band playing timeless Mexican songs. I well remember on one occasion a nameless guest, who was having such a good time, pressed a 1,000 peso note ($80) into my hand. This generous contribution more than covered the cost of all the beer for the evening as well as the Mariachi band.

A beautifully outfitted Mariachi band playing in a colonial courtyard somewhere in Mexico
Image: The Honeymoonist

My study was going well too. Thankfully, I was able to remain focussed on my work in spite of the reverberations created by ongoing family dramas.

In the Summer Term of 1974, I carried a five-subject load: Aesthetics, Mexican Social Problems, Anthropology, Botany and Fabric Decoration. For the latter that summer, we were lucky to have Bill Heinz as our lecturer. He came from the Chicago Art Institute, one of the best art schools in the United States. And he brought with him new techniques and Manutex, a thickening agent for liquid dye. With thickened dye, it was possible to create amazing effects by drawing on fabric—particularly rayon velvet. Until Bill’s arrival, I’d been refining my batik skills to produce a series of stylish one-piece wrap around dresses and I was struggling to meet the demand. Now, with Manutex, I had another string to my bow and used the technique to create a series of dramatic synthetic velvet garments.

Instituto fashion show finale with the Parroquia spire in the background. Morley 3rd from right wearing a long Manutexed garment
Image: Grainger family photographs 

Well-publicised fashion parades were a regular Saturday morning event at the Instituto and attracted large crowds. Ahead of time, I organised the running order for both the models and the garments, including my own. The parades were compared by my mother, her British accent providing an unexpected touch of class. To my delight, there was a steady demand for this elegant new range of Manutexed garments and the soft leather commissions also kept coming. I was thoroughly enjoying the sweet taste of commercial success that provided extra cash for the endless metres of fabric I needed for new creations.

Towards the end of 1974, fellow student Esther Kellerman offered me the use of her apartment whilst she and her husband returned to the United States to formalise the citizenship papers for their recently adopted Brazilian baby. They planned to be away for three months. Counting my blessings, I packed my things and farewelled Judy before moving into Esther’s apartment.

San Miguel was a magnet for Mexicans, many of whom came from the capital, particularly on the weekends. In Mexico, there were many opportunities to party because the country has 45 official public holidays per year. The well-to-do could escape the noisy, polluted city to explore quaint provincial centres like San Miguel. As well as being a charming colonial town, San Miguel had the additional drawcard of numerous young foreign women who were studying at the Instituto.

At that time San Miguel’s most popular nightclub was La Fragua. One Saturday night I found Elsa entertaining three fellas from Mexico City who’d come to enjoy a spot of rustic provincial fun and I was invited to join them. One of the fellas was photographer Carlos Contreras de Oteyza who, when I got to know him better, waggishly declared San Miguel “la fantasia de Walt Disney”. I particularly enjoyed his quirky sense of humour and as it turned out, Carlos was to become my next romantic interest. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to embark on a profoundly rich, life-changing experience orchestrated by Carlos, his family and his wide circle of fascinating friends.

 

ON REFLECTION:
My mother: When I arrived in Mexico, I was a responsible, independent, young woman accustomed to making my own decisions. My mother often disagreed with my choices prompting hostile outbursts. As the arts community in San Miguel was small and tight knit, it wasn’t long before word got around. Well aware of this, I suffered bouts of confusion and embarrassment as my mother’s bewildering outbursts continued mostly in private and occasionally in front of boyfriends. To this day, I wonder why? What was the trigger? Feeling left out? I’ll never know.

Fashion: I’ve always enjoyed making quirky one-of-a-kind garments, mostly for myself, sometimes for sale and occasionally for others. And Mexico was a wakeup call. It showed me that a career in funky fashion could be a possibility; particularly now I’d seen how Judy’s workroom operated whilst I was living with her.

Esther Kellerman: Living in Esther’s comfortable apartment for the three months was a lifesaver. In 2000, she came to visit me in Toowoomba, Australia. Whilst she was here, I took the opportunity to ask her why she’d offered me her apartment. She replied, “Your talent was obvious and we wanted to keep you ‘in school’.” I discovered that Esther was one of a number of people who could see the family pressure I was experiencing. They were concerned that I may be forced to scurry back to Australia to escape my mother’s ‘off the wall’ outbursts, thereby forfeiting the opportunity to complete my study.

Study: as a mature-age student I was determined to wring every last drop out of my Instituto Allende experience. Monday to Friday I diligently applied myself to study projects and on weekends I socialised with the same intensity. My mantra was: study hard and party harder.

FACTS:
Stevie Wonder: African American singer songwriter born in 1950. Innervisions was released in 1973 and was Beto’s friend Jorge’s favourite at the time. He played the LP on high rotation whenever he visited us at Beto’s house.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stevie_Wonder

Elsa Takesue: completed her Master of Fine Arts degree and returned to Hawaii. In 1979 she was killed in a traffic accident. After her death the Elsa Takesue Memorial Scholarship was set up under the auspices of Hawai’i Handweavers Hui to support new weavers. Vale Elsa.

https://hawaiihandweavers.org/About

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 38: The Americas

We, my mother and I, left Sydney in late January 1974 bound for Mexico. Before leaving New Guinea for good, my mother had been invited to take up a faculty position at the Instituto Allende, a private university with a strong art and craft focus, located in San Miguel de Allende, northwest of Mexico City. After accepting the job my mother, who was well aware of my recent heartbreak, suggested I join her and return to study—this time to earn an undergraduate degree in Fine Arts. As I’d be offered a full-scholarship as part of her package, I jumped at the chance.

On the way to Mexico, we did the tourist thing in Hawaii. Two nights in a flash hotel on the shore of Waikiki Beach, where we were surrounded by clusters of plumpish tourists escaping the northern winter. Many wore stylish summer holiday outfits showing large areas of worryingly pink skin, the result of over exposure to the sunny North Pacific heat.

Morley admiring Waikiki Beach Hawaii from the balcony of a multi-storey hotel high above the palm trees
Image: Grainger family photographs

Our next stop was Los Angeles on the west coast of the United States and, roll of drums, Disneyland. As I’d been raised with the Mickey Mouse Club, and, as we were in the vicinity, a visit to Anaheim was a must.

Wide-eyed and eager, we took the shuttle bus from the hotel for the half hour ride to the sprawling Disneyland complex. After buying our tickets, we entered the world of Disney where reality as we knew it, was suspended. We had a choice of rides and it was difficult to decide where to begin: Tomorrowland or Mickey’s Toontown, Fantasyland or Frontierland, Critter Country or Adventureland.

Overview of Disneyland Los Angeles surrounded by acres of car parking
Image: davelandweb.com

Cover of the Disneyland souvenir booklet from around 1974, when we visited
Image: WordPress.com

Between rides, we visited one of many restaurants scattered across the site and watched enthralled, as those around us tucked in to over-sized portions of everything. As it was a warmish day in California, I entered into the spirit of Disneyland by ordering an ice cream sundae, a first for me. It arrived in a very tall milkshake glass filled with numerous scoops of ice cream doused with chunky strawberry sauce, topped with a mountain of fluffy whipped cream and crowned with a cherry. I was immediately flooded with childhood memories of a threepenny scoop, smaller than a ping-pong ball, pushed down hard onto a small wafer cone, or, for a special treat, two scoops one on top of the other, for six pence. What a contrast.

An over-the-top Disneyland ice-cream sundae similar to the one I ordered at Disneyland
Image: The Telegraph

As we continued to explore this state-of-the-art amusement park, we noticed it was spotless. Staff in fancy-dress wandered the spaces, many carrying a long-handled dust pan and broom to sweep up the smallest skerricks of litter almost before they hit the ground. We met many oversized Disney characters strolling around and interacting with visitors, particularly the children. Each character was dressed in a costume that was well-designed and beautifully made.

Map showing both the capital Mexico City and San Miguel de Allende
Image: The New York Times

The next day we flew out to Mexico City, followed by a four-hour bus ride to the charming colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. On arrival, we were greeted by the Instituto Allende staff and shown to our temporary on-campus accommodation, which was a stopgap measure until we could find a suitable rental.

View of the colonial township of San Miguel de Allende Guanajuato Mexico
Image: Mike Polischuk

We arrived just in time for the start of the Instituto’s Spring Quarter. Classes began immediately for us both: teaching for my mother and studying for me. Being a student once again was a shock to the system but I was determined to give it a good crack. Here I would be working towards an undergraduate degree in fine art with a practical focus. When I left Australia, a degree of this kind was unobtainable because a degree in ‘Fine Art’ meant art history. To ease myself into this new setting, I selected five subjects: Silverwork, Fabric Decoration, Soft Leather, Mexican Art Modern, and an independent textile project.

On campus I made friends quickly. My fellow students were mostly Americans, younger ones as well as a number of veterans from both the Korean and Vietnam wars. The veterans were funded by the American government’s G.I. Bill. For all of us, the advantage of studying in Mexico was that the education dollar went so much further as well as offering the adventurous, the opportunity to live in a country that had, against the odds, retained its rich cultural heritage across the centuries.

Of all the lecturers, our fabric decoration lecturer Judy Robertson, was a standout. She lived in a sprawling colonial house wrapped around a central courtyard with her textile studio off to one side and the living spaces to the other. Some years earlier, she and her young son had moved from the United States to make their home in San Miguel. As well as teaching, Judy ran a very successful fashion business producing exclusive, one-of-a-kind garments that sold like hot cakes. Little did I know when I first arrived in San Miguel that I’d come to live in this house for a time. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The courtyard of Judy Robertson’s house—now the Café de la Parroquia. In 1974
the central patio was uncovered, Judy’s studio was on the left, the kitchen and
bedrooms on the right
Image: WordPress.com

The courtyard of Judy Robertson’s house—now the Café
de la Parroquia. In 1974 the central patio was uncovered,
Judy’s studio was on the left, the kitchen and bedrooms
on the right
Image: WordPress.com

My mother was on the lookout for an apartment to rent that was within walking distance of the Instituto and she found one on Calle Tenerias. It was a light-filled two-storey apartment with a large studio space, two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen and bathroom, and a glass-roofed internal courtyard. It was a perfect set up for two compulsive makers, so we moved in.

Some three months into our stay, out of the blue Judy Robertson asked if I’d partner her hotelier friend Beto, to a posh Mafia wedding in Mexico City. What? A Mafia wedding? I accepted the invitation in an instant and spent the next few weeks scrambling to design and make a suitable outfit for the occasion. I decided on a milk chocolate brown long sleeve dolman top with a peplum layer at the waist and a four-gored skirt, worn with five long strands of cultured pearls. Four-inch brown high heels completed the outfit, bringing me up to a statuesque 185cm tall. Perfect, as I’d already discovered that Mexicans love both tall women and cultured pearls!

Artist’s impression of the understated brown outfit with numerous strings of pearls
Image: Morley Grainger

On the day of the wedding, we drove to a very fancy hotel in the Zona Rosa, the expensive part of the city, just off the Paseo de la Reforma. This wide majestic avenue was lined with towering buildings and apartment blocks occupied by the wealthy Mexican elite.

Beto decided to skip the church service so after a quick visit to the hairdresser and a few drinks we drove out of town to the reception.

Paseo de la Reforma—the impressive main drag through Mexico City—most of the roundabouts featuring huge monumental sculptures
Image: Wikipedia

The reception was held at a racehorse stud where a series of interconnected white marquees had been set up for five hundred guests. We were seated at a circular table set for twelve, with a tall cascading arrangement of greenery and fresh flowers at the centre. And the table setting was just the beginning, as the opulence just kept coming. We were served a five-course meal with matching wines whilst listening to the customary speeches, followed by live music provided by not just one, but two bands, one at each end of the giant marquee.

At some point during the evening, I recall visiting the bathroom, where an exquisitely dressed woman, dripping with Columbian emeralds commented on my numerous strands of pearls. Other than that conversation, I don’t remember much about the evening as it was quite boozy.

On our return to San Miguel, I saw Beto and his friends occasionally. They were all nice enough but I was still recovering from my very own Greek tragedy that I’d left behind in Sydney. Whilst I was finding my feet, friendship was all I could handle as I adjusted to my new life as a student, focussed on the demands of full-time study. And I was super-determined to give it my best shot.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Disneyland: I was introduced to the Mickey Mouse Club when television came to Sydney in 1956. I was hooked and secretly dreamed of visiting Disneyland one day. So when it came time to investigate flights to Mexico City, I was delighted to discover we could stop off in Los Angeles on the way, making a day trip to Disneyland a possibility. It was well worth the effort as our time at Disneyland was an over-the-top experience we’d never forget.

Instituto Allende: I was pleased to be studying again and thankful to be able to transfer most of my credits from the National Art School, thereby lessening the time it would take me to complete an undergraduate degree. I was excited at the prospect of exploring subjects that were not on offer at Australian tertiary institutions in the mid-1970s. And I was certain that additional study would extend both my graphics training and packaging design experience, bringing with it long-term career benefits.

https://instituto-allende.edu.mx/eng/

The Mafia wedding: An invitation to accompany Judy’s friend Beto to a Mafia wedding in Mexico City gave me the opportunity to rub shoulders with the wealthy elite of Central America. I also realised it was the only chance I’d ever have to peek into the lives of the mega-rich in Mexico. Back in Australia I moved in far less influential circles.

FACTS:
Disneyland: Walt Disney’s theme park vision had its genesis when he visited Griffith Park in Los Angeles with his young daughters. Whilst watching them ride on the merry-go-round, he decided to build a place where families could take their children to have fun together. In 1955 Disneyland Park opened. It was the first of its kind offering 35 hectares of rides, animatronics, beautiful walkways, whimsical characters and catering. There was fun around every corner.

The Instituto Allende: is incorporated with the University of Guanajuato, founded in 1732.

https://instituto-allende.edu.mx/eng/historia/

https://www3.ugto.mx/en/

G.I. Bill: The Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944, commonly known as the G.I. Bill, provided a range of benefits for some of the returning World War II veterans, commonly referred to as G.I’s. Even though the original G.I. Bill expired in 1956, the term is still used to refer to programs created to assist U.S. military veterans from Korea, Vietnam and subsequent wars. Benefits included low-cost mortgages, low-interest loans to start a business or a farm, a year of unemployment compensation and dedicated payments for tuition and living expenses to attend high school, vocational school or college like the Instituto Allende.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G.I._Bill

San Miguel de Allende: is a picturesque Spanish colonial town located in the state of Guanajuato, 274km nor-nor west of Mexico City at an altitude of 1900 metres.  The area has a temperate climate with annual rainfall of 545 millimetres.

The town was founded in 1542 by Juan de San Miguel, a Franciscan monk and benefactor of the local Otomi Indians of the Chichimeca nation. The name Allende was added in 1826 to honour a native son Ignacio Allende who was a hero of the 1810 Revolution against Spain. San Miguel de Allende was the first Spanish settlement in the state of Guanajuato and the first Mexican town to gain its independence from Spain in 1821. When we arrived in 1974 the town’s population was 21,000 people. By 2024 it had grown to 75,000, 10% of whom were expatriates.

https://internationalliving.com/countries/mexico/san-miguel-de-allende-mexico/

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 37: Heartbreak

I was an emotional mess after the break up with my Greek boyfriend but somehow, I managed to get myself to my office at the Argent Manufacturing Company and do a week’s work even though the excruciating pain of disentanglement lingered for months.

My workmates sensed there was something amiss as I struggled to conceal my emotional turmoil. I willed myself not to become emotional when we gathered for morning tea or lunch. My big boss, was a kind and caring man who was approaching retirement. I’d worked for him for three years during which time he had kept a paternal eye on me. For example, he arranged a second mortgage on my house though his connections with the Independent Order of Rechabites. Naturally, I was suitably grateful.

He’d occasionally seen my male friends drop me off or pick me up from the Argent building over the years. No doubt, news of my recent break up had filtered through to him. One day he took me aside saying, “Morley, why don’t you find a nice Australian bloke and settle down?” I was flabbergasted. His question didn’t make me feel any better because deep down I knew finding a replacement for Gianni wasn’t the solution to my despondency. But I didn’t know what was.

In early 1973, my mother returned from Mexico where she’d completed twelve months study towards a Master of Fine Arts degree. Shocked by my emotional state, she could only stay with me for a week before heading back to the New Guinea Highlands to take up the reins of the Wool Project once more.

Map showing both Goroka and Port Moresby circled in red
Image: maps-papua-new-guinea.com

On her return to Goroka things had changed. Rather than resuming her position, she chose to accept a transfer to the Department of Trade and Industry’s head office in Port Moresby. Once relocated, she could feel the winds of change strengthening in the months leading up to Papua New Guinea’s first step toward independence from Australia. Most expatriate public servants like my mother, felt uneasy. Unsure of the future, many were making plans to leave behind the privileged lifestyle Papua and New Guinea had given them for many years. Likewise, my mother began looking around for other employment opportunities.

Her next job offer came out of left field. Since returning from Mexico, she’d been in constant contact with Stirling Dickinson, the co-founder and Director of the Instituto Allende. Out of the blue she received a letter from him offering her a position on faculty. Bingo—she’d been thrown a lifeline just as she was preparing to leave Papua New Guinea. Immediately she accepted his offer, excited that Central America would be her next destination.

In spite of the unrest swirling around her, my mother remained acutely aware of my delicate emotional state and suggested a geographic cure for my broken heart. She kindly offered me two weeks holiday in Port Moresby, before she resigned from the Department of Trade and Industry. I jumped at the chance, desperate for a change of scene, even though I knew Port Moresby’s relentless heat and humidity would be in sharp contrast to the glorious temperate climate of the Highlands we’d enjoyed for so many years.

To be honest I don’t remember much about the visit other than swanning around in my mother’s light grey Mercedes Benz 230 Compact and doing some experimental woven wall hangings with the Port Moresby weavers.

Mercedes Benz 230 Compact
Image: The Telegraph

From somewhere we sourced some coloured Perspex. We cut it into rounded shapes and randomly placed each one between the warp threads before weaving around them, using a haphazard open thread technique. Our objective was to produce a prototype for a trendy, saleable product with appeal for those folk aspiring to live a sophisticated lifestyle surrounded by locally produced decorative pieces. I don’t know if the idea caught on but I doubt it. The object of the exercise was to give me something creative to do rather than mope around.

After two weeks of rest and recreation in the tropics I returned to my Sydney life.

In early December that year my mother followed, leaving behind The Wool Project she’d worked so hard to establish in the country she’d called home for 13 years. Many other expatriates had already left, spooked by the maelstrom of rumours that all expatriates’ assets were earmarked for appropriation after the 1st of December 1973—the day Papua New Guinea was to become self-governing.

My mother was fortunate. On the day before Self-government was proclaimed, her precious Mercedes Benz was the last vehicle to be loaded onto an Australia-bound ship from the Port Moresby wharf.  As it turned out, there was no clamour for assets by the Papua New Guineans. The anticipated rioting didn’t come to pass. Instead, the population joyously celebrated the first stage of their release from decades of colonial control.

When my mother returned to Australia she came to stay with me at Young Street. Whilst she was preparing to move to Mexico, she had the opportunity to observe how I lived. One evening she asked me, “What are you doing with your life?” I replied, “Going to work; coming home; fitting what I can of my social life into the hours that are left; going to sleep; getting up in the morning and doing it all over again.” My mother paused before responding with, “Come to Mexico.” I could hardly believe my ears. Wow!  What a truly golden opportunity. The deal was that I’d be given a return ticket to Mexico City; $1000 cash; and a full scholarship to study at the Instituto Allende in San Miguel de Allende, where my mother would be teaching. A scholarship was one of the perks for the relatives of faculty members. Free tuition? An offer impossible to refuse.

Early in 1974, excitement levels were ratcheting up, as I prepared to leave Australia. My possessions were sorted and stored in the ceiling of my house. I advertised my cute green Fiat 600, set up my Power of Attorney with our family lawyer, found a reliable real estate agent to manage my house rental and then, the final and most difficult task, to quit my packaging design job with the Argent Manufacturing Company.

My car sold quickly so I drove my mother’s Mercedes to work for the final days. Before I left my big boss had one last surprise for me. One afternoon he came down to my office to ask if he could sit in my mother’s car. I was somewhat taken aback but replied, “Of course!” and as an afterthought added, “Would you like to take it for a spin around the block?” He declined, happy just to sit as he’d always wanted to sit in a Mercedes Benz and I was more than happy to oblige.

At the end of January, ‘D’ day arrived. Friends waved farewell us as we boarded our flight bound for Mexico City via Hawaii and Los Angeles. Thanks to my mother’s generosity, another exciting adventure was about to begin.

 

ON REFLECTION:
I now realise my mother’s decision to leave Papua New Guinea after living and working there for 13 years severed our connection with the country and its people, though I wasn’t aware of it at the time. I’d thoroughly enjoyed my formative years at Rabaul High School and afterwards as I travelled back and forth to the Highlands some twenty times. Even though my emotional connection to the country remained strong, my feelings were sidelined as we headed off across the Pacific to the Americas. Thankfully, I was able to reconnect some 34 years later when I returned to Rabaul in 2007.

The Argent Manufacturing Company: I had mixed feelings about leaving Argent. I was both sad and happy at the same time. I loved my job, which was my first dip into the world of commercial printing. I arrived there with a basic commercial art training, which my immediate boss, the very talented other half of Argent’s Art Department, fine-tuned and enhanced. I’d been working there for three years when I was offered the life changing opportunity to continue my art studies overseas. It was an offer I’d have been crazy to refuse and I was super excited.

Packaging design skills: I’ve come to realise I was an important member of the Argent Manufacturing Company’s team. We, my immediate boss and I, attracted and retained customers because we provided a comprehensive service. We oversaw all kinds of packaging printing jobs, taking the job from conceptual design through to production and delivery. The packaging skills I acquired at Argent were put to very good use when I needed to design crates for touring thematic exhibitions to visit galleries and museums. But that’s another story.

FACTS:
Papua New Guinea Independence: was a two-step process. The first step was for the country to become self-governing. Chief Minister Michael Somare, pledged to lead the country to Self-government on the 1st December 1973 and then to full Independence from Australia on the 16th September 1975. And he kept his word. He was Prime Minister from 1975 until 1980 and again from 1982 to 1985.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 36: Without warning

My cross-cultural adventure continued. My relationship with the drop-dead gorgeous Greek Oyster Baron, had settled into a comfortable routine, and I revelled in the novelty of our fascinating exchanges. For me, all aspects of our relationship were endlessly absorbing.

Gianni owned a first floor flat with ocean views at Maroubra, a beach side suburb of Sydney.  After work he drove there to shave, shower and dress for our evening together. Returning home from my day at the Argent Manufacturing Company I too would shower and change, ready to be picked up, to eat out somewhere. We had a long list of restaurants we liked, and would occasionally explore others that had been recommended or on spec, with money being no object.

I really enjoyed Gianni’s company. He was eleven years older than me. Handsome, wealthy and wise with masses of life experience, he possessed the uncanny ability to instantly identify people’s character traits which, no doubt contributed to his success in business.

From the outset I’d made it quite clear I wasn’t interested in formalising our relationship by humorously suggesting that he marry a suitable Greek virgin and have me on the side.  All jokes aside, at the time I didn’t realise the danger an arrangement of this kind could create.

Map of Greece with Gianni’s village of Asopos marked with a red dot
Image: octavianchronicles.com

Over dinner, Gianni would recount stories of his life growing up in Asopos, a small village on the Peloponnese before he made the life-changing decision to come to Australia. In Greece, his passion for high performance engines was heightened by two years of training as an aircraft engine mechanic with the Hellenic Air Force. This was part of his compulsory military service that began when he was nineteen.

At the same time, Gianni indulged his other passion—fast motorbikes. His band of black leather-clad bikie mates zoomed all over the Peloponnese raising hell. But it wasn’t enough for his adventurous spirit, he wanted more. On the strength of reports coming back to his village from Australia describing the money-making opportunities to be had here, he made the momentous decision to buy a ticket, farewell his family and take a ship to Sydney to try his luck. He spoke not a word of English.

At the start, he shared a room in a Greek household with three other immigrant men and worked two jobs. One as a waiter at a Greek nightclub, the other shucking oysters for a wholesaler. He realised he was good at it and began making plans to start his own oyster business. In the early days, he’d prise oysters off the rocks around Sydney Harbour and sell them. When I met him, he’d been in business for some years employing other Greeks and making a lot of money.

At this time, I was suffering from itchy feet as my regular trips to visit my parents in New Guinea and Africa had ceased because I now had a full-time job with limited annual holidays and considerable mortgage commitments.

Casting around, air hostessing seemed a possible solution, so I applied for a job with Qantas and was quite quickly called to interview. My friend Richard Carlson worked for Qantas as did the flatmates of a co-worker, Jim, who, in preparation for my interview kindly offered to arrange a meeting with them to discuss the ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’. Gianni smelled a rat, and said so, but I waved away his concern.

As arranged, Jim picked me up and took me to his flat where there was no sign of his flatmates. Instead, I found a romantic dinner table set for two. Dinner hadn’t been mentioned but as Jim had gone to so much trouble, I politely worked my way through the meal and afterwards asked to be driven to Gianni’s flat at Maroubra. When I arrived at his door unannounced and completely freaked out, he smiled knowingly and said, “I told you so, my beautiful.” and then drove me home.

The day of my Qantas interview dawned. Richard drove me out to the recruiting office at Kingsford Smith Airport in plenty of time for my appointment. I looked the part. My now slender Weight Watchers figure, dressed in a stylish pink suit with navy blue buttons and saddle stitching and matching navy accessories—stockings, shoes, matching handbag and silk scarf.

After the introductory pleasantries, the interviewer went on to describe passenger vomit in graphic detail, explaining that spew clean-up was part of the job. I was unprepared for his word pictures, and it was downhill from there. My application was unsuccessful. I reluctantly sucked up my disappointment, forced to accept my ‘being paid to travel’ plans had stalled. In the meantime, my life with the Greeks continued to be diverse and interesting.

As my relationship with Gianni deepened, I learned more about him. Sadly, he hadn’t known his father who was killed by Italian troops when they invaded Greece shortly after he was born. Gianni’s widowed mother and her two other sons survived the War and resumed their semi-subsistence village lifestyle growing olives and citrus as well as tending extensive vegetable gardens.

Fast forward to 1973, Sydney. It was impossible for Gianni to grow vegetables at his Maroubra flat because all the open ground surrounding the building was covered with concrete. But my house had an east-facing backyard with soil.

It was summertime, so Gianni prepared the ground, then planted tomatoes. Each afternoon when he came to pick me up for dinner, he’d make a beeline for the tomatoes. He’d water them and apply derris dust when necessary, all the while coaxing them to grow. Thanks to Gianni’s dedication, we had a bumper crop of flavoursome tomatoes that summer.

A perfect crop of tomatoes like the ones Gianni grew in the backyard at Young Street
Image: growtomato.com

Gianni had purchased a block of land at Earlwood, a suburb not far from Annandale. It was an unusual block on a sandstone ledge with an area carved out at street level for car parking. Steep wooden steps led to the top, where a team of Greek builders were constructing a two-storey house with a swimming pool, jack-hammered out of the sandstone.

Occasionally we’d visit the site on the way to dinner. As an artist, I was struck by Gianni’s choice of building materials: blonde brick, silver-framed aluminium windows, amber feature glass framing the front door and lastly, red shag pile carpet. But it wasn’t my house so I kept my interior decoration opinions to myself. I didn’t think to ask him why he was building a house, as it was none of my business. But it wasn’t long before I found out.

Over dinner one Friday night Gianni dropped a bomb-shell. He quietly announced, “My beautiful, I’m thirty-three years old and I’ve got to get married before it’s too late.” He was well aware I wasn’t a contender, as I’d no interest in marriage or children so I replied, “Gianni, do what you have to do.” He went on to tell me he planned to attend the regular Saturday night gathering of marriageable Greek girls and their chaperones held at the Greek Church Hall in Newtown, with match-making their objective. True to his word, the following evening he went, checked out what was on offer and made his selection. He was engaged the next day and married three months later.

I was heartbroken. I didn’t realise how much I cared for him. Even though my world had fallen apart, I managed to continue working Monday to Friday but weekends were the worst. I cried and cried and cried. My former partner Charlie hovered and concerned friends gathered me up in a futile attempt to relieve my unspeakable emotional pain.

It was difficult for Gianni too. He came to visit one dark night, parking his car in the back lane to avoid being observed by passing Greeks and we cried together. But he’d made his decision and there was no turning back.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Giannis Arronis: At the beginning of our association, I considered Gianni an amusing dalliance and I’m embarrassed to admit I behaved like an uppity snob, that is, until I got to know him.

FACTS:
Giannis Arronis: was born and raised in the village of Asopos at the southern end of the Peloponnese, 70 kilometres south-east of Sparta, the city famous for producing the fearsome warrior-class of ancient Greece. The village isn’t far the Ionian Sea which probably explains Gianni’s innate understanding of the sea and its bounty and that lead him to found a lucrative oyster business in Sydney after immigrating. Gianni was extremely proud of his Greek heritage and when asked, he defined himself as a Spartan.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Sparta

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spartan_army

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asopos

Conscription in 1960s Greece: As I understand it, military service was considered a rite of passage all over Greece, particularly in remote villages like Gianni’s.  At 19, all young men were required to sign up for compulsory military service. Gianni spent his two years with the Air Force fixing aircraft engines. This militaristic mindset still lingers, possibly the result of the nationalistic belief encapsulated in the Greek proverb, “Women have birth, men have the army” reinforcing the expectation that both genders will serve the motherland without question. A woman’s role to give birth to the men who will defend it. A necessity for the Greeks who have been invaded and occupied on and off, for millennia.

https://www.quora.com/How-many-times-has-Greece-been-invaded

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hellenic_Armed_Forces

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 35: What next?

My life had shifted into a higher gear with my new partner, Giannis Arronis the handsome Sydney-based Greek oyster baron who’d come into my life by accident. I was excited at the prospect of a guided tour through his culture because at twenty-two, I was already an unabashed culture junkie.

My romantic partner switch meant I was now relieved of almost all domestic duties because we ate out six nights a week; a far cry from the years of having to make magic with mince. Sometimes we visited Greek restaurants owned by Gianni’s customers and were always warmly welcomed. I’d always start with oysters followed by a traditional Greek dish, because I was keen to try something different each time.

As well as intimate dinners, we were invited to both Greek and Australian gatherings. The standout for me was taking Gianni to his first cocktail party on the posh North Shore of Sydney, before rolling on to a Greek party in a less-posh part of the inner city.

In the time-honoured tradition of Anglo-Australian cocktail parties, we gathered at dusk to stand around, shifting our weight from one leg to the other, at the same sipping drinks and nibbling finger food whilst making light, inconsequential conversation. An hour and a half later we moved on to the Greeks. I’d already discovered that whenever Greeks gather, chairs line the perimeter of the spaces, either inside or outside, a chair for everyone.

After greetings and introductions Gianni, speaking Greek, proceeded to regale those assembled with an account of his first Australian cocktail party on the elite north side. His audience was captivated, hanging on every word as he went on and on and on, describing every small detail of the event before delivering the punch line, in English, for my benefit, “…all that and they couldn’t afford chairs!” The room then erupted with spontaneous shrieks of laughter.

A Friday or Saturday night outing I particularly enjoyed was visiting the bouzoukia—the Greek nightclub. Sometimes we were joined by Gianni’s Greek friends or mine keen to experience this fascinating facet of relocated Greek life. On our arrival, Gianni was always greeted by his musician friends with, “Gia sou Gianni!” (“Hi Gianni!”), after which the show began. As quick as a flash, without a word spoken, Gianni’s favourite tipple, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label whisky and cans of Coca Cola, would appear on our table with a shot of ouzo for me. After a couple of drinks, Gianni would sometimes dance the Zeibekiko, a traditional Greek dance for men. I loved to watch him dance as there were centuries of tradition in every step. Things hotted up around midnight and went on until the wee small hours so a bouzoukia session best suited serious stayers.

I revelled in Gianni’s sense of adventure. He was up for just about anything I suggested. One evening we went to the Capitol Theatre to see Jesus Christ Superstar, the super-popular musical that had taken Sydney by storm. Gianni was raised in the Greek Orthodox faith. Before he left for Australia, his mother gave him a heavy gold cross. Wanting to dress appropriately for the Super star performance, I asked him if I could wear his cross with my long-sleeved, full-length fine brown corduroy shift I’d made from left-over curtain fabric for the occasion. He agreed and off we went to the theatre. As we filed out after the show, I asked him what he thought of the performance, expecting a profound philosophical response. But I was disappointed as he simply scoffed replying, “I know the story!”

A less enjoyable experience and one I’d rather forget, took place at a party one Saturday night at Gianni’s electrician mate’s bachelor flat, above his electrical shop, in Newtown, an inner-city suburb that was home to many Greek immigrants at this time. His mate was clearly a party animal as his not very large upstairs living room was dominated by an impressive bar with columns supporting a superstructure above it. All the vertical spaces and niches were covered in red velvet, each niche with a miniature cream-coloured statue of Athena, lit from above. The overall effect was stunning.

Stylised statue of Athena—similar to
the miniature reproductions decorating
the bar at Gianni’s mate’s Newtown
bachelor pad
Image: Wikidata.org

When we arrived, the flat was jumping with a crush of people—mostly Greeks. We stayed for a while and then took our leave descending the long flight of stairs to the side street below. As we walked to the car, from an upstairs window a bloke yelled out something in Greek. Gianni stopped dead and to my surprise in a matter of minutes, the street was filled with most of the partygoers. Lots of angry banter I couldn’t understand followed and thankfully there was no fisticuffs. The only belligerent gesture was the antagonist kicking the front tyre of Gianni’s treasured Volvo as we were about to drive off. Later he explained that the street kafuffle was in defence of my virtue.

Gianni had family in Sydney; his older brother Alexi and his wife Sophia had also immigrated from Sparta some years before. They lived in Leichhardt, a suburb adjoining Annandale and had two children. We occasionally spent time with them, particularly on Greek feast days.

My first Greek Easter with the Arronis family was a profound experience.

St Nicholas Greek Orthodox church Marrickville Sydney
Image: Wikimedia.org

Interior of St Nicholas Church Marrickville in daylight
Image: YouTube

As arranged, we gathered at Alexi and Sophia’s house late on Easter Saturday night to attend midnight mass at St Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church in nearby Marrickville. All six of us fitted comfortably into their sedan for the run to the church. As we entered, we were each given a thin white candle with a white tulle frill before we managed to find space on a pew at the back of the church. Whilst we sat waiting for the service to begin, people continued to crowd in behind us where there was standing room only.

The service began with prayers sung by the priest who was wearing richly embellished robes and headdress. Then, just before midnight, all the lights were switched off and silence fell on the now pitch-black interior, with the only light coming from a single candle burning at the front of the church. We were enveloped by the hush of expectancy as we waited for the church bells to ring out midnight after which the priest loudly announced, “Christos anesti” (Christ is risen) before he took up the lighted candle and used it to light the candles of those worshipers nearest him, who then turned to light the candles of those seated behind. We sat in silence as the candle lighting continued until the church was filled with soft flickering candle light. It was a profoundly moving experience.

After the service, we drove back to Alexi and Sophia’s house with a lighted candle in the car with us. Before we entered the house, Alexi used the candle to make the sign of the cross on the lintel above the front door, leaving a faint grey mark. The candle was then taken inside to light the three-arm candelabra on the dining table, after which we tucked into the traditional midnight meal, prepared ahead of time by Sophia.

We were each served a bowl of magiritsa (Easter soup), made from the meat and offal of a lamb—the intestines, sweetbreads, lung, heart, kidney, liver and brain served in a lemon sauce and eaten with tsoureki a traditional sweet Easter bread. All this was washed down with liberal quantities of retsina wine.

Magiritsa special lamb offal soup served at Easter in observant Greek Orthodox families
Image: GreekReporter.com

I found it difficult to swallow the chunks of cooked offal, possibly because the various offal textures were unfamiliar or maybe because of the acerbic taste of the bitter herb and lemon sauce, or both. Obviously magiritsa was an acquired taste and I was very relieved to learn it was only served at Easter. Thankfully, another serving was a year away.

Tsoureki sweet Easter bread with baked with embedded eggs dyed red
Image: Gourmet Traveller

I was grateful to be included in the Arronis family’s Easter celebration because it nourished my insatiable curiosity about cultures other than my own. This and other Greek gatherings, exposed me to numerous aspects of transplanted Greek culture—the food, the language, the dances, the history and the customs with Gianni as my guide. He was happy to answer my endless string of questions, as I sought a deeper understanding of his culture and his country. Efcharistó (thank you!) Gianni!

 

ON REFLECTION:
Cooking: When Charlie and I split up, the daily grind of cooking an evening meal for two became a thing of the past. Our short-lived burst of dinner-party entertaining had petered out some months earlier, after which I promised myself I would steer clear of hosting dinner parties from here on in. And, I’ve held fast to my promise.

In the time of Gianni, returning hospitality developed an interesting twist, taking the form of Sunday brunch. As I’d access to an unlimited quantity of the freshest, plumpest oysters in Sydney, each guest was allocated five dozen oysters served au naturelle, mornay or Kilpatrick, washed down with lots of cheap champagne. Needless to say, my oyster-loving friends were lining up for an invitation. For me, the best part of this arrangement was that preparation was minimal and cleaning up afterwards was a breeze. Oyster shells into the bin followed by a spot of washing up and it was all over. A far cry from the all-day dinner party ordeal I’d put myself through before Gianni.

Defending a woman’s virtue: All these years on when I reflect upon having my virtue defended, I wonder if there was more to it. Was the derogatory remark flung in our direction a reflection on Gianni’s choice of an Australian girlfriend? Possibly. Or was it something else?

I knew that most single Greek men who were living in Sydney in the 1970s had limited contact with young Australian women, other than the belly dancers working at the scattering of Greek nightclubs. For Gianni to be dating a stylishly dressed Australian woman with her own house and a well-paid job, must have been a novelty for him and by extension, his family and friends.

Racism: There is no doubt that Gianni’s Greek friends were as suspicious of me as my Australian friends were of him. My circle seemed to fall into two quite distinct camps. In the first, those who’d travelled and thought Gianni was interesting because of his Greek heritage. Those in the second, considered Gianni an uneducated Greek immigrant and therefore my inferior. But nothing could‘ve been further from the truth.

FACTS:
The Zeibekiko: is traditionally a dance for men only, though more recently Greek women are also joining in. It’s sometimes known as the ‘eagle dance’ because of the free-flowing body movements and the steps of the dancer within an area of about two square metres.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Na7i_Jluds4

Greek Easter: For the Greek Orthodox, Easter rituals are the most important in the church calendar and follow forty days of Lenten fasting.

The candle-smoke cross: The faint grey cross remains above the front door throughout the year and is a tangible symbol that the light of the Resurrection has blessed the home and its occupants.

Magiritsa: Greek offal soup served at Easter.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magiritsa

Red-dyed Easter eggs: Symbolise Christ’s blood.

Retsina: Pine resin-flavoured white (or rosé) wine, made by the Greeks for at least 2000 years.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Retsina

Athena: Athena is the ancient Greek goddess associated with wisdom, warfare, and handicrafts. She was regarded as the patron and protectress of various cities across Greece, particularly the city of Athens. The Parthenon on the Acropolis of Athens is dedicated to her. In art, she’s generally depicted wearing a helmet and holding a spear, but not always.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Athena

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 34: The Oyster Baron

By early 1972, my partner Charlie and I, had been living together in a small terrace house in Young Street, for a little over two years. At this time, I had the opportunity to renegotiate my second mortgage with The Independent Order of Rechabites. As it stood, the bank held the first mortgage and my mother held the second. As there’d been some ructions with my mother regarding her stake in the property, I was extremely grateful to be able find another source of finance. The IOR representative, a committed ‘teetotaller’, was an associate of my boss, who owned and ran the Argent Manufacturing Company where I worked as a packaging designer. When the mortgage documents were signed and sealed, Charlie and I had a bit of a giggle because we were both regular ‘tipplers’.

Our spiffy renovations complete, I noticed my clothes were tighter. My body shape had changed, the direct result of my cooking. Our need to economise meant sourcing the cheapest cuts of meat, mostly fat-laden mince, that I presented in a myriad of creative ways. I joked that I’d write the definitive recipe book with mince as the hero ingredient. But this became less and less likely because by the end of our renovating stint, I’d not the slightest interest in mince or cooking it. I was now carrying the result of our diet so my next project was to tackle the extra kilos.

Casting around, the solution quickly presented itself, Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers was the first of numerous organisations to offer a foolproof weight-loss program to overweight Australians, in weekly meetings held across the country. I signed up in late September and every Thursday afternoon after work, I religiously toddled along to weigh in and listen to a diet-related pep talk at a church hall, not far from Young Street.

To survive the stringent Weight Watchers regime, I felt a weekly treat would help me stay on track. With the renovations complete, we now had more cash so I knew the cost of a dozen George’s River rock oysters on the shell wouldn’t break the bank.

The famous George’s River oysters
Image: farmers.org.au

I had my first ‘au naturelle’ oyster encounter whilst eating out with my food-loving father, after which I was a goner. Now, some years later, I’d no idea where to source fresh oysters in Sydney because for the duration of our relationship Charlie’s serious seafood allergy meant seafood of any kind had been off the menu. Asking around, a friend suggested the Sydney Fish Markets at Blackwattle Bay, not far from Annandale.

The following Saturday morning I took myself off to the fish market where I saw a sign reading New South Wales Oyster Distributors, and I wandered in. A drop-dead gorgeous Greek fella welcomed me and after the initial greetings, I asked the burning question: “How much do you charge for a dozen oysters?” He explained: opened oysters on the shell were so much and unopened were less. Always keen to save money and being a practical person, I asked him if he could show me how to open an oyster. My request was taken up with enthusiasm. In a thrice, the Greek wrapped his arms around me from behind and guided me through the process. After this unexpectedly cosy experience, I opted for the already opened oysters, erring on the side of common sense as a sharp oyster knife in the hands of a novice could be dangerous.

The very next Saturday I returned to the oyster shop. Once again, I made my purchase of a dozen plump fresh oysters and as I was leaving, the handsome Greek asked me where I lived. Caught off guard I didn’t want to give him my address so I thought of a number, any number, but wasn’t quick enough to change the street name as well.  And I thought no more about it.

Since my mother’s fancy Karmann Ghia had been shipped back to New Guinea, I’d been driving an ageing pale green Fiat 600. I loved it. Our Italian mechanic had fiddled with the engine after which the car’s performance improved out of sight. It was nippy, powerful, cheap to run and just perfect for getting around Sydney. But it was quite conspicuous parked out in front of the Young Street terrace.

Fiat 600 two-door sedan C1965 just like mine!
Image: Simon Cars

On that fateful Friday afternoon, I hadn’t been home long, when there was a knock at the door. Before me stood the handsome Greek Oyster Baron bearing gifts. A large tray with an arrangement of magnificently fresh seafood. There were Balmain bugs, king prawns and of course, a dozen oysters on the shell. I introduced him to Charlie and after graciously accepting his gift, I sent the latter-day Adonis away, not knowing what else to do.

Fresh cooked seafood tray similar to the one the oyster baron presented to me
Image: source unknown

Another week passed and come Saturday morning I once again toddled down to the fish markets to purchase my regular seafood indulgence from the Greek god. Negotiation complete he then asked me out to dinner. To my surprise, I accepted before I’d had time to realise the implications of what I’d done. How would I explain this to Charlie? As our relationship had been on hold for quite some time, I wondered if this handsome Greek would be the catalyst for us both to move on?

On the appointed mid-week evening, Giannis picked me up in his splendid red Volvo eighteen hundred sports coupe and we headed to Crows Nest, a North Shore suburb with a selection of swank restaurants. Over dinner he told me, amongst other things, that he carried a revolver. I was stunned, as no one in my circle of friends or acquaintances owned a revolver, let alone wore one. I did my best to conceal my shock and after I’d regained composure, I felt compelled to ask him the obvious question, “Why?” He shook his head replying, “Bloody Greeks, you can’t trust them!”

Volvo 100S coupe 1968 just like Gianni’s
Image: E&R Classics

Charlie could see the writing on the wall and moved out the following week.

And so began the most meaningful relationship of them all.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Mortgages: I purchased Young Street Annandale for $9000 in early 1970. My mother’s bank manager willingly provided the first mortgage of $5000 and my mother topped up with an unregistered second mortgage of $4000.  Having raised the total purchase price, I was able to use the $1000 from the compulsory savings account set up by my father, as working capital for the renovations. For the first year and a half, it was very tough financially but the experience provided a lasting cure for my spendthrift ways.

Weight Watchers: Over a six-month period, I regained my slim trim body shape whilst at the same time acquiring sensible eating habits that’ve stayed with me ever since with only the occasional wobble.

Charlie: Charlie was and is a very smart quiet fella. I was his first serious girlfriend and the first he’d lived with. At home, we fell into the customary Anglo-Australian gender roles of the early 1970s. I took the focus for our meals, housekeeping and renovation planning in addition to a full-time job. Thankfully, I was able to avoid the clothes washing task as the laundry at Young Street had become the kitchen in the room reshuffle so we used a nearby laundromat instead. Charlie helped to renovate and took the focus for paying the quarterly bills, and I took responsibility for both mortgage repayments plus the never-ending renovation costs.

Reflecting upon our relationship I realise we were a great renovating team. But once we’d discussed the technical challenges, found and implemented a suitable solution, we had little to talk about. I wasn’t particularly interested in economics and Charlie wasn’t at all interested in art. Our split when it came, was amicable with no arguments or fireworks. Afterwards, Charlie resumed his pre-Young Street lifestyle with the Birchgrove pub becoming his favourite haunt once more. We remained friends and he was very kind to me when the Greek odyssey came to a sudden end. He obviously still cared for me but, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Giannis Arronis: I was prepared to take the risk and see where this unexpected association would lead. I knew it’d give me the opportunity to explore another culture from the inside. And it did.

FACTS:
Independent Order of Rechabites (IOR), also known as the Sons and Daughters of Rechab is a fraternal organisation and friendly society founded in England in 1835 as part of the wider temperance movement encouraging total abstinence from alcoholic beverages. Always well connected in upper class society and involved in finance, it gradually morphed into a financial institution, explaining why I was able to re-finance my terrace house with them, in 1972.

In Australia, the IOR was first established in Tasmania in 1843, soon spreading to other states. IOR branches also known as ‘tents’ still exist in some Australian states though membership has fallen away over the years.

https://www.australianrechabites.org.au/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Independent_Order_of_Rechabites#

An early IOR lithograph. Images of this kind were used to promote sobriety and the importance of family
values
Image: Wikipedia

An early IOR lithograph. Images of this kind were used 
to promote sobriety and the importance of family values
Image: Wikipedia

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 33: Dreaming of a cosy nest

In April or May of 1970 my partner Charlie and I moved into a small terrace house in Young Street Annandale, an inner-city suburb of Sydney. I’d bought the terrace with the proceeds of a compulsory savings account set up by my father to curtail my spendthrift ways. The $1,000 lump sum enabled us to move on to the next, more grown-up phase of our lives.

As our relationship was newish, it’d be interesting to see how we‘d cope with the stress, the inconvenience and super tight finances that always went hand in hand with renovating. Even though we were young, strong and optimistic, only time would tell if the relationship could withstand the physical, emotional and financial rigors we were yet to face.

Before launching into a selection of amusing renovating anecdotes, best I describe the location.

Young Street was a wide-ish street by inner city standards with concrete footpaths flanking a motley collection of brick and weatherboard dwellings, many in need of repair. Our narrow single storey brick terrace was situated about a block and a half from Parramatta Road, the busy main road connecting the cities of Sydney and Parramatta to the west.

 The terrace had a corrugated iron roof and a bull-nose front veranda with panels of decorative cast iron facing the street.

The house layout was as follows.

From the front gate, a number of brick steps up to the verandah with one more to the front door that opened into the living room, with a modest fireplace. Then a short walk along a narrow hallway with a bedroom off to the left and into the kitchen with a step up to the second bedroom.

The bathroom and laundry were accessed along an uncovered external passageway that led out to the backyard, with the outdoor loo by the back boundary and finally the back lane.

In April or May of 1970 my partner Charlie and I moved into a small terrace house in Young Street Annandale, an inner-city suburb of Sydney. I’d bought the terrace with the proceeds of a compulsory savings account set up by my father to curtail my spendthrift ways. The $1,000 lump sum enabled us to move on to the next, more grown-up phase of our lives.

As our relationship was newish, it’d be interesting to see how we‘d cope with the stress, the inconvenience and super tight finances that always went hand in hand with renovating. Even though we were young, strong and optimistic, only time would tell if the relationship could withstand the physical, emotional and financial rigors we were yet to face.

Before launching into a selection of amusing renovating anecdotes, best I describe the location.

Young Street was a wide-ish street by inner city standards with concrete footpaths flanking a motley collection of brick and weatherboard dwellings, many in need of repair. Our narrow single storey brick terrace was situated about a block and a half from Parramatta Road, the busy main road connecting the cities of Sydney and Parramatta to the west.

 The terrace had a corrugated iron roof and a bull-nose front veranda with panels of decorative cast iron facing the street.

The house layout was as follows.

From the front gate, a number of brick steps up to the verandah with one more to the front door that opened into the living room, with a modest fireplace. Then a short walk along a narrow hallway with a bedroom off to the left and into the kitchen with a step up to the second bedroom.

The bathroom and laundry were accessed along an uncovered external passageway that led out to the backyard, with the outdoor loo by the back boundary and finally the back lane.

The renovators: 

Charlie: a practical fella who had electrical wiring experience. And Morley: with no renovating experience other than hanging some vinyl wallpaper in a bathroom some months earlier.

In those halcyon days of full employment, we both had full-time jobs.

Now, on to the more memorable experiences.

Experience No.1: Shortly after moving in, we realised we needed to improve the underfloor ventilation as the house was a little damp. This’d be our first major expense. We paid a fella a motza to install ventilators front and back. After the fact we realised we could’ve done it ourselves by removing a single brick and inserting a brick-sized ventilator in its place. So simple. Installing the ventilators created a serious hole in our meagre renovating budget. But the experience provided an important lesson thankfully learnt early. That is, to do the research before having a crack ourselves.

Experience No.2: One Saturday morning Charlie, in an attempt to locate the mains water inlet in the tiny front garden, accidently put a pick through the rusted galvanised water pipe. Until the water was turned off, we had the Geneva fountain in the front yard!  As Charlie had to leave for work, I was left holding the baby, so to speak. Now alone and very worried, I wondered what to do.

Before we had home-ownership responsibilities, Charlie’s favourite watering hole was the Forth and Clyde Hotel in nearby Balmain.

When I’d recovered my wits and a normal heartbeat, I decided the best place to find a plumber was at the pub. If worst came to worst, I’d jump up on the bar and ask, “Is there a plumber in the house?” And there was. He came, assessed the situation and reappeared the next day, Sunday, with what was needed to fix the problem and by late afternoon the terrace had a new copper water line from front to back. Hallelujah!

Experience No.3: The front room had a 3.2-metre-high lathe and plaster ceiling in need of repair. It was covered with a tracery of cracks and undulations, too much for a couple of novice renovators like us to handle. Charlie knew a ceiling repair fella who arrived to quote on the job early one Saturday morning, just after Charlie had left for work. Hearing a knock on the front door, I leapt out of bed, threw on my knee-length fur coat and hurried to open the door. The fella came in, assessed the ceiling and quoted after which he began pestering me to take off my coat correctly guessing I’d nothing on underneath. Written quote in hand, I managed to get him out the front door. And afterwards, extremely annoyed by his audacity, I breathed a sigh of relief. When he returned to repair the ceiling, I left Charlie to deal with him.

Experience No.4: In the room re-shuffle, the front room became the office cum sewing room, the kitchen became the living room and the laundry became the kitchen. We removed the laundry copper in the corner of the space, and planned to replace it with a four-burner gas stove. The existing brick chimney would become the stove ‘extractor’ vent, taking cooking smells up and out into the Annandale air. There was only one more brick to be removed before the stove install so late one evening I decided to remove it. When it came away, I felt an unexpected rush of cold air on my face. I was shocked because I’d assumed it was a double brick wall. But no! Wrong! It was single brick and I was through to my neighbour’s bathroom. Oh dear! Next morning, when he discovered the hole, he was understandably cross. I quickly halved the brick size before replacing it, after which harmonious neighbourly relations were restored and the new stove could be installed.

Experience No.5: We were coming to the end of the renovation with one outstanding job to complete—the front fence. Very soon after moving in, I began to chip off the render on the front of the house hoping against hope that the bricks beneath would be ‘sandstocks’—the fashionable convict-made bricks used in and around Sydney before 1840. Instead, my chipping revealed multi-coloured common bricks a sign that this row of terraces was much younger—probably built around 1890. But the damage was done. I had to continue chipping because the cost of re-rendering was way beyond our budget. As a result, I decided to use matching recycled commons for the fence.

Driving home from work one day, I noticed a demolition site. I stopped and asked the fella if he’d clean commons for sale. I needed a thousand and the deal was quickly done. The additional cost of having the bricks delivered was out of the question, and, as Charlie wasn’t available, I got the gig using Charlie’s beat-up flatbed Fiat truck. I did two trips, five hundred bricks per trip. I loaded them, drove the truck slowly back Young Street, where I unloaded and neatly stacked each one on the footpath ready for the bricklayer. By day’s end, I was absolutely buggered. The bricklayer came the early the next day and by day’s end we had a tall front fence to match the house with embedded letterbox and Victorian cast iron front gate. What a stylish transformation.

The Young Street renovation dragged on for eighteen months and we desperately needed a break from the dust, the mess, the never-ending list of jobs and the constant drain of it all on our finances. The last major expense was installing the wall-to-wall carpet. That done, we congratulated ourselves for crossing the finishing line and went out to dinner to celebrate before moving on to other things.

 

ON REFLECTION
Annandale: When Charlie and I moved to Annandale in 1970, it was a working-class suburb. The surrounding houses were either rented or owned by people many of whom were factory workers. We represented the new wave of young baby-boomers who moved in to begin gentrifying this part of Sydney’s inner west.

Young Street: as the house was so narrow I have strong memories of feeling ‘squished in’. Life within its walls could be likened to living in a series of connected railway carriages, each carriage with a different purpose. This was an unnerving experience and one I’ve avoided repeating in the houses I’ve purchased since.

Renovations: In retrospect, our renovations were terrible—a mish mash of colour and texture. The décor of each room differed with wallpaper hung over lining paper to help disguise the numerous lumps and bumps in the walls, the result of over 80 years of occupation. The floor treatments were equally diverse. The three rooms and the hall at the front of the house were carpeted. The dining room had a new, polished, Cyprus pine floor; the kitchen had square brown quarry tiles and the tiny bathroom had posh marble tiles. At the time, Charlie and I were very proud of our work and really enjoyed living together in the little house whilst our relationship lasted.

FACTS:
Young Street Annadale:

A recent image of my terrace house in Young Street Annandale now with
a dormer window and rear addition just visible behind the hip of the roof.
Image Google Street view

A recent image of my terrace house in Young Street Annandale
now with a dormer window and rear addition just visible behind
the hip of the roof.
Image Google Street view

Annandale: is an inner western suburb of Sydney, five kilometres from the city centre. Major George Johnston who arrived with the First Fleet in 1788, held the original 40-hectare land grant. He farmed the area and later sold it on to John Young—for whom Young Street was named. Young was a businessman, architect and mayor who began subdividing the land in earnest.

A cluster of grand ‘witch’s houses’, for which Annandale is famous, were built at the Rozelle Bay end of Johnson Street to house Sydney’s elite. Away from the Bay the houses ranged from two to three storeys down to single-storey worker’s cottages like mine. They were mostly built of brick and often rendered with stucco to look like sandstone. Most were constructed in the ‘Filigree’ style, using decorative cast iron ornaments on balconies and verandas sometimes depicting native Australian flora.

http://localnotes.net.au/?p=206

Johnson Street Annandale in the 1880s showing The Abbey in the middle ground and the ‘witches houses’
with their pointed spires further up the street
Image: Wikipedia

Johnson Street Annandale in the 1880s showing The Abbey in
the middle ground and the ‘witches houses’ with their pointed
spires further up the street
Image: Wikipedia

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 32: Happy families

I continued to share my life with Jan and Greg Sims in the small wooden house we’d recently rented in Gipps Street, Birchgrove. As we all had full-time jobs, we came and went from the house as our work hours required. Out-of-work hours we enjoyed the freedom the little dwelling gave us—a combination of cute living spaces and a back yard for creative activities. With the energy and enthusiasm of youth, we painted fabric, entertained friends and threw parties.

Gipps Street Birchgrove now fully renovated with a new roof. In 2022 it sold for $1.75 million dollars
Image: realestate.com.au

Away from Gipps Street, my incomprehensible secretarial studies at the Metropolitan Business College had faded into the background as I was having so much more fun focusing on the fascinating art-related projects that were part of my job with the National Parks & Wildlife Service. To top up the coffers I also had a waitressing job in the evenings at one of the early family eateries at Gordon, on Sydney’s North Shore.

But our cosy domestic routine was disrupted with news of my mother’s imminent arrival in Sydney on three-months leave from her job in the New Guinea Highlands. My brother had also returned to Sydney having separated from his wife and three children in Toowoomba. As he was homeless and jobless, my mother offered him shelter from the storm at her recently-purchased two-storey terraced house in Glebe, an inner-city suburb of Sydney. I was invited to join them in a brave attempt to re-create the home we’d lost when our parents went their separate ways, and I decided to give it a go.

107 Glebe Point Road Glebe (the right-hand terrace) in 2019
Image: realestate.com.au

Our family effects were in storage. We’d packed up the contents of the house when we came down from New Guinea for my brother’s wedding in mid-1961. He was marrying a North Shore socialite with country connections. The wedding was to be held in the chapel at Scots College, Belview Hill, my brother’s old school.

Morley as junior bridesmaid for her brother’s wedding in
Sydney in 1961
Image: Grainger family photographs

It was a grand society wedding and as a twelve-year-old I was thrilled to be included in the razzamatazz of the numerous pre-nuptial gatherings that gave both families the opportunity to check each other out. There were numerous shower tea parties too. I loved it all. And was beyond excited, to know that I was to play a bit part in this event as the junior bridesmaid.

After the wedding there was a slap-up reception for 120 family and friends at the posh Wentworth Hotel in the city. It was a magical evening for me because my father had flown in from New Zealand to be part of the celebration.

After the wedding my mother and I packed up and stored the contents of our family home because we were returning to our new life in Rabaul.

But I digress. Back to the Glebe house.

The furniture and tea chests that’d been in storage for eight years were delivered. I began the home-making process by cleaning the house, then arranging the furniture, unpacking the tea chests, washing, drying and putting away all the kitchen paraphernalia in readiness for our mother’s arrival.

My brother came and went without offering to help in any way. I resented it and said that I did. The unexpected result of speaking out was an unpleasant physical blow-up after which I got away to seek help at the Glebe Police Station just around the corner. As I tearfully related my story, the duty sergeant remained seated with his feet on the desk. When I’d finished, he smiled knowingly and told me to go home and forget about it.

As I left the police station alarm bells were ringing in my head. It was very clear that expressing my opinion around my brother could again put me in physical danger and there was nowhere to go for help. But I wouldn’t be silenced. I decided then and there to opt out of my mother’s dream of “recreating a home for herself and her adult children” and returned to live with Jan and Greg at Gipps Street where I knew I was safe.

In spite of the turmoil swirling around me, I knew I’d soon be escaping the drama to spend Christmas in Nairobi with my father and Alison. I also knew it’d be my third and last visit as a ‘dependent’ travel funding provided by the United Nations would end on completion of my secretarial studies at the MBC. But, as I’d been playing hooky for months, I knew a time-bomb was inexorably ticking. It went off with a bang when my father received my end-of-year report card from MBC. He discovered that I’d ignored his well-meaning directive to gain secretarial skills for a possible future career as an office worker.

The matter concluded swiftly and cleanly on receipt of a telegram making it clear that disobedience and deceit wouldn’t be tolerated along with instructions to immediately return my airline ticket to Qantas head office.

As I was no longer welcome in Nairobi, I’d instead spend Christmas in Australia. This sudden change of plan wasn’t such a bad thing as I’d recently made the acquaintance of one Charlie Smith, who frequented the house across the street, owned by his sister Maggie and her husband John.

As Charlie and I became better friends, I spent more and more time with his family. Their house was a solid, double-fronted Edwardian cottage awaiting renovation. Below street-level there was a huge, gloomy basement the full width of the building, which was reminiscent of a baronial dining hall with a massive fireplace at one end. Maggie was an amazing cook and John a great raconteur and wine expert. Their combined passions resulted in regular dinner parties on an impressive scale. I loved the eclectic group of people that gathered to enjoy their expansive hospitality—academics, engineers, medicos, historians, economists and artists.

In November that year, I turned twenty-one. My compulsory savings account had accrued $1,000 and I was sorely tempted to blow the lot on a calf-length grey Arctic fox fur coat. The idea wasn’t original, rather a lift from fellow-artist and work colleague Helen Ashton; artist Julian Ashton’s granddaughter, who, before departing for New York to marry an American filmmaker, had done just that. My mother managed to restrain me as she was determined to keep my feet on the ground. Instead of a fur coat, she encouraged me to consider buying a house.

At the beginning of 1970, I changed jobs. I began working with the Exhibitions Department of the Australian Museum in College Street, Sydney. My Parks and Wildlife boss recommended me for the job; an exciting three-month contract as part of the team setting up the bi-centenary exhibition, titled Cook, Banks and Australia. My skill-set was used to prepare silk-screened didactic wall panels, to help set up displays and generally make myself useful. We watched with pride as the princes, Phillip and Charles, opened the exhibition on the 1st of April, that year.

Whilst at the Museum, with my inheritance in mind, Charlie and I discussed the prospect of buying a small inner-city terrace house and trying our hand at renovating. But before we could do this, I needed to find a permanent job paying enough to cover two mortgages as well as renovation costs and living expenses. Thankfully, my luck held. In the Sydney Morning Herald’s Saturday classifieds, I discovered the Argent Manufacturing Company was looking for a packaging designer. During the interview I learned that this well-respected firm of high-quality cosmetic packaging printers was prepared to teach me all I needed to know about packaging if I accepted the job—and I did.  Now, with a generous salary assured, Charlie and I went house hunting.

We found a single-storey, four-meter wide, brick terrace in Young Street Annandale for $9,000. It was the third terrace in a line of six, and perfect for renovation. And so began our crash course in renovating. Charlie had previously worked with an electrician so in addition to a complete re-wire when the time came, we also planned to install fancy wall mounted bracket lights with the wires chased into the brick, dimmer switches and a trendy hanging corner light. We wallpapered most of the walls and laid mustard-coloured wall-to-wall carpet. Golly, we thought we were flash!

The renovation took us a little over eighteen months, after which Charlie decided to go back to university at night to complete his Commerce degree. All the while, I continued to work at Argent Manufacturing where I remained for some time after our relationship came unstuck and Charlie moved out.

But I’m getting ahead of myself because there are some amusing renovating stories to tell, before I move on to my next romantic encounter that’d be the most significant of my life though, I didn’t know it at the time.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Domestic violence: The indifferent response I received at the Glebe Police Station when I sought help after my brother assaulted me, taught me a very important lesson, that is to quickly remove myself from potentially dangerous situations. A lesson well learned because by doing so I’ve avoided trouble either in or out of a relationship even though I’ve occasionally found myself in some pretty wild places both here and overseas.

My father: I knew the MBC fiasco would end badly because I had arranged for my progress report to be sent directly to my father in Nairobi. As a result, it was inevitable that my truancy would come to light and it was only a question of when. But I didn’t care. To be honest, I’m surprised it took so long. Up until this point in time, I’d willingly played the role of the perfect child of a broken marriage—my futile attempt to transcend the shame I carried concerning my parents’ divorce. But, after the humiliation of my father’s “you have no talent” pronouncement, something snapped! I asked myself how could this be true after three years of full-time study at the National Art School? Had it been a complete waste of time? I didn’t think so and this was confirmed when I landed an exciting graphic design job with NPWS. Over time my rage had gradually swelled to the point where compliance morphed into defiance—the worm had turned.

Since 1969, I’ve had one brief telephone conversation with my father. He died in 1993 aged 85.

Young Street Annandale: The skills I acquired on the Young Street renovation were invaluable and later put to very good use. I’ve recently sold my fifth renovation.

Charlie: Reflecting on our two-and-a-half-year relationship, I realise we’d little in common other than renovating. After completing the renovations, we followed our trendy friends into the weekend dinner party lifestyle of the 1970s. But it wasn’t long before the novelty wore off and I was left wondering what, if anything we’d do next. Marriage and children weren’t discussed for which I’m grateful as I had no interest. I already knew there was a whole world out there to be explored. In my teens I’d often travelled overseas to visit my parents. Regular trips to visit them, one in New Guinea, the other in Kenya, had left me with an irrepressible urge to continue travelling—it was simply a question of how.

FACTS:
My brother’s wedding: As it transpired, my brother’s wedding in mid-1961 was the last time all four members of my birth family were together.

Julian Ashton: Australian artist and teacher—founder of the Julian Ashton Art School in Sydney in 1890.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julian_Ashton

Young Street Annandale: In 1976 I sold the house for $27K. In 2016 it sold for $1.6M albeit with major additions. And again in 2022 for 1.75M, and again in 2023 for $2.35M.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 31: Reluctant upskilling

At the beginning of 1969, I returned to Sydney after spending a most interesting six weeks in Nairobi, with my father and his second wife, Alison. Upon my return, I faced the challenge of finding a place to live, because the hostel for young women at Kirribilli, was no longer an option. I’d thoroughly enjoyed the facilities there, but three years was the maximum length of stay. The time it would usually take to complete most tertiary qualifications. But the truth be told, as a headstrong twenty-year-old, I’d had more than enough of living with the regulations and curfews imposed.

My adopted Aunt Helen Klausner came to the rescue, offering me a downstairs room in her extraordinary modernist house at Hunters Hill.

Aunt Helen was an early childhood specialist. She owned and ran Fina School Requisites in Balmain, selling quality educational needs for kindergarten and lower primary school children. She visited schools all over Sydney in her pale blue VW Kombi, filled to overflowing with inspiring children’s books, art materials and imaginative wooden puzzles.

Aunt Helen’s retail manager, newly-married Jan Sims and her husband Greg, were already living at her house and when asked, they were more than happy to have another person join them to share the rent.

I had transport, my mother’s chocolate brown and white sports car. This was a good thing as Helen’s house was off the beaten track with public transport services erratic, particularly at weekends. 

The Karmann Ghia 1500S
Image: source unknown

Now I’d a place to live, I could begin full-time study at the Metropolitan Business College, the MBC, where I’d learn Shorthand, Typing and Bookkeeping. At the outset I was optimistic. My father had decided that secretarial training would be a more reliable meal ticket than my recently completed, three years of full-time Art School study. Once I’d recovered from the shock, I felt he’d given me the opportunity to gain an additional skill set that’ would complement my art training. But my optimism was short-lived.

The MBC building was in the city, not far from Circular Quay. As city parking was expensive, I took a bus and then a ferry to the Quay Monday through Friday to attend classes.

By way of an introduction, I’ve included a priceless quote from MBC’s 1918 promotional blurb. But, by the time I arrived some fifty years later the organisation had become a shadow of its former self.

WHAT YOU GET AT THE M.B.C.  Thorough training under the close personal supervision of the Principals. Real individual teaching and personal attention to your special requirements, only possible where an institution is adequately staffed. Classes limited; staff of 4 teachers. High-quality teaching. Only a big institution like the M.B.C. can afford to pay the salaries asked by really good teachers, and to install the complete teaching equipment demanded by modern requirements. Good positions, the natural result of good teaching under scientific, up-to-date methods. Courtesy— discipline— tone—an atmosphere of earnest, purposeful endeavour. The stimulus of success.

 Quite a rap.

A typing room similar to MBCs in the late 1960s
Image: flickr.com

But the facilities at MBC could only be described as Dickensian. It was as though the clock stopped just after World War 2. The numerous dark, wood-panelled classrooms held a squeeze of well-worn wooden desks and chairs for Shorthand and Bookkeeping lessons. The Typing Room housed numerous antiquated typewriters set out on small desks in tight rows and smelt of old oil and metal.

Of all the new skills I was to master, Shorthand proved to be the most difficult. I found it impossible to memorise the seemingly endless pages of squiggles that represented whole words. Bookkeeping was equally difficult and typing was tricky on the heavy old typewriters from another age.             

I was accustomed to my mother’s Olivetti portable typewriter, that only required a light touch instead of a heavy thump, for each letter. My fingers didn’t perform well and my typing tests were testament to my total inability to master this skill. 

Overall things weren’t looking too good at MBC and as my feelings of inadequacy grew, I was forced to ask myself the inevitable question; “How could I be so stupid?” I felt like a square peg in a round hole. I stuck it out for about four months, becoming more and more dispirited by the day. What to do? From somewhere, I heard that the newly-formed National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS) was looking for a part-time graphic designer. I applied for the job and got it.

An Olivetti portable typewriter like my mother’s
Image: Etsy

At the start I was able to juggle my secretarial studies with the NPWS work. But, as time went on, I found the NPWS work was much more interesting, offering a wide variety of jobs from graphics to leaflet mock-ups and visitor centre displays. As a result, I spent more and more time with the NPWS team, and less and less at MBC.

These seismic changes placed me on the horns of a dilemma. How could I tell my father I was unable to master the rudiments of a basic secretarial training and instead, found a much more exciting art-related ore exciting art-related job with a newly-formed government department? I decided not to tell him. A decision that would have lasting ramifications.

NPWS ‘creatives’ 4th Floor office. L: Roly Breckstead & R: Morley typing
Image: Grainger family photographs

Instead of using public transport, I now drove the swank Karmann Ghia from Hunters Hill to the NPWS offices in the city because the building had basement parking. The parking attendant, possibly revelling in the car’s rarity, as it was one of only four in Australia, let me to park there for very little. Things were falling into place but not in the way I’d expected, and my spirits lifted. I loved my work with NPWS and they liked the work I did.

On the home front, even though we all enjoyed living at Hunters Hill, the distances to our various workplaces were becoming bothersome. We decided an inner-city rental would be more convenient for us all. With Aunt Helen’s blessing, Jan began the search for a suitable house. Quite quickly she found a small tumbledown semi-detached weatherboard cottage in Birchgrove. It was perfect for us all.

We moved in and immediately began scrubbing and painting and decorating to make the most of the tiny spaces. Upstairs there was a dormer-windowed bedroom, downstairs a second bedroom and a living room, a kitchen, a lean-to laundry and a small bathroom and loo. All rooms were basic but functional. The backyard was particularly useful, ideal for Jan and I to produce lengths of batik fabric for an exclusive dress shop in upmarket Double Bay, happy to take as much as we could produce.

It’s worth mentioning here that in my late teens male companionship was varied and interesting. In no particular order, I dated a Daimler, a Fiat 124S, a Porsche Carrera 911, a Triumph Spitfire, an MGB, and a Fiat 500, but for one reason or another the possibility of a longer-term relationship with any one of the vehicles owners fizzled out.

Daimler

Porsche Carrera 911

MGB

Fiat

Triumph Spitfire

Fiat 500

Since leaving home at fifteen I had experienced group living in two places. Firstly, at a Queensland boarding school followed by the YWCA hostel, both all-girl institutions and more recently I’d shared digs with my adopted aunt and a newly-married couple. But I felt it was now time for me to consider a committed relationship of my own. And this would happen sooner than I could ever have imagined.

One day I noticed a nice young man coming and going from the once-grand, double-fronted Victorian brick cottage on the other side of the street. Little did I know at the time that this young man was to be my first live-in relationship. In those days, it was called ‘living in sin’ and I was up for it.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Metropolitan Business College: being hardly numerate I found bookkeeping a mystery. Since then, I’ve realised I learn best with an application rather than a hypothetical and it wasn’t until I had my own business and needed to track finances that I figured it out. Before long, I became sufficiently proficient to do just that, but that’s another story.

My father: I didn’t know how to tell my father that I was no longer attending classes at MBC. I considered myself a failure and was ashamed to admit I was unable to master the secretarial skills taught there—skills other young women mastered with ease. In my father’s eyes, I had no artistic talent and now this MBC disaster. I remained mystified by my father’s pronouncement that I wasn’t talented or gifted after completing three years full-time study at the National Art School. I wondered how he knew as he’d seen none of my student artwork. Still smarting from this perceived injustice, I found it well-nigh impossible to write to him confessing that I was playing hooky from MBC and had instead stumbled into a fabulous job that paid well and utilised all aspects of my graphic design training.

Relationship modelling: My dysfunctional family life was a hotbed of hostility. As a result, my parents were unable to provide role modelling of a mutually supportive relationship for my brother and I. With no guidelines to follow, my interactions with men to this point had been confusing because I was unable to recognise genuine affection. By observing the mechanics of my house mate’s relationship, I slowly gained the confidence I needed to seriously consider the possibility of establishing a committed relationship with a man. I was now poised and ready to take the next step—Charlie.

FACTS:
The National Parks & Wildlife Service in Australia: The Service was established in 1967. It was an amalgamation of the Fauna Protection Panel and the Parks and Reserves Branch of the New South Wales Lands Department. The Lands Minister, also established a charity, the Foundation for National Parks and Wildlife, to assist the Service in raising funds for conservation.

National Parks & Wildlife Service logo
Image: Wikipedia

Foundation for National Parks and Wildlife: Whilst I was working for NPWS I was asked to produce a number of drawings of a Grass Tree in flower for the Foundation’s logo and one of my drawings was selected. I note that my original drawing has since been replaced by a koala!  

Foundation for National Parks & Wildlife
Image: Wikipedia

The Grass Tree: Xanthorrhoea thorntonii, is the quintessential Australian native plant. It has a distinctive black trunk below a crown of grassy leaf strands and tall thin flower spikes.

Grass tree in flower
Image: istock

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 30: Circumnavigation

On this, my second trip to Kenya, I was excited to discover that my father and Alison, had planned another unusual family holiday—this time to Lake Victoria, a five-hour drive west of Nairobi.

Map of Kenya with red line showing the route to Lake Victoria via Lake Nakuru
Image: Dreamtime.com

We left early in the morning, taking the ‘good car’, a Toyota Crown Deluxe, my father’s pride and joy kindly provided by the United Nations for his International Labour Organisation Project. He was impatient to get away, itching to give the car a good run.

After descending into the Rift Valley, we drove west through undulating landscape for some hours. To break the journey, we took a left turn into the Nakuru Game Park, keen to see the extraordinary massing of flamingos along the shore of Lake Nakuru.

Aerial view of flamingos massing on the shore of Lake Nakuru
Image: Royal Private Safaris

Alison had prepared a picnic lunch so we parked close to the lake edge to watch flamingo antics whilst munching. The Game Park rules required humans to remain in their vehicles at all times, to avoid unexpected encounters with wildlife, any larger or more threatening than the flamingos.  As it was midday and hot, there was no sign of the ‘big ones’. We assumed the wildlife were taking a siesta under the shady trees, well away from the cacophony at the lake’s edge.

Flamingos as far as the eye can see on Lake Nakuru
Image: Wikipedia

From the car we had an uninterrupted view of the vast gatherings of gangly, red-legged birds with pink feathers and black beaks hugging the shoreline. Between squawks and honks, they gorged on the abundant algae, insects and the crustaceans along the lakes edge.

Occasionally, in response to a disturbance, a single bird would rise and hover, momentarily displaying the dramatic wing-feather colouration—a combination of pale pink orange, red and black. Then quickly select an alternate landing space, before folding its wings neatly, to disappear back into the colony once more.

Flamingos up close
Image: The Conversation

Having had our fill of lunch and flamingo capers, we continued on to Kisumu, Kenya’s largest port on Lake Victoria. There the Royal Mail Ship (RMS) Victoria was waiting to take us on a two-and-a-half-day clockwise circuit of the lake. We were to visit the ports of Musoma, Mwanza and Bukoba in Tanzania and Entebbe, Kampala and Jinja in Uganda before returning to Kisumu.

RMS Victoria berthed on Lake Victoria
Image: Wikipedia Commons

The RMS Victoria was impressive—a sparkling white ferry designed to carry both passengers and cargo. We boarded and were shown to our cabins. Shortly after departing Kisumu, high tea was served in the first-class saloon followed sometime later by dinner in the first-class dining room.                                 

My father, an unapologetic gastronome, had been enthusing about Nile Perch on and off since we left Nairobi. He described how much he was going to enjoy eating it freshly caught from the waters of Lake Victoria. He didn’t have long to wait, as it was served at dinner. It was my first taste of Nile Perch and it was delicious. Both beautifully fresh and perfectly cooked.

Nile Perch
Image: Wikipedia.org

During the passenger briefing, we were told that we could go ashore whilst the ferry was docked in any of the ports we’d be visiting. By morning of the second day, I’d fully explored the ferry and was ready for a change of scene. In the interim, I’d befriended a group of people from India, known as Asians in Africa, also travelling first class.

When we arrived at the Tanzanian lake port of Mwanza, my new friends invited me to go ashore with them. My father agreed. No doubt thankful that other people were offering to entertain me, giving him space for an afternoon nap. We walked down the gangplank onto the wharf, and headed towards the town centre. I was startled to see multiple copies of Mao’s Little Red Book, translated into both Swahili and English, for sale on the footpaths.

Mao's Little Red Books for sale on the streets of Mwanza Tanzania
Image: The Conversation

As we strolled slowly back to the ferry, we were confronted by a young soldier babbling loudly at me in Swahili at the same time waving his AK-47 assault rifle. I had no idea what he was saying, but my Asian friends did. They immediately responded by surrounding me protectively, at the same time increasing walking speed to get me back to the ferry as quickly as possible. To this day I’ve no idea what I did to upset the soldier, but I was grateful to have avoided an ‘incident’. Yet another serving of delectable Nile Perch at dinner helped take my mind off this unexplainable confrontation.

When we awoke next morning, we were berthed at Bukoba, with loading and unloading well underway. This time, I had no intention of going ashore to explore because I was well aware we were still in Tanzania and the prospect of repeating my experience of the previous day, had little appeal. As we pulled away from the wharf, I was relieved to see Bukoba fading into the distance and even more relieved when we were told that we’d crossed the invisible borderline into Uganda.

Next, we had a brief stop at Entebbe before arriving in Kampala, Uganda’s capital. Here my father and Alison persuaded me to accompany them into the city. My abiding memory of the visit was the towering Uganda Independence monument depicting a man raising a child to touch the sky and the smaller statue of Edward Mutesa the second of Buganda, the last King and first President of Uganda.

Independence monument Kampala Uganda
Image: Flickr

Statue of Edward Mutesa II of Buganda, the last King and first President
of Uganda
Image: Wikimedia.org

Statue of Edward Mutesa II of Buganda, the last King
and first President of Uganda
Image: Wikimedia.org

We reboarded Victoria for the last leg of our lake adventure, and before long, arrived safely back in Kisumu.

We farewelled the crew, before climbing into the Toyota for the five-hour drive out of the Rift Valley, up onto the Nairobi plateau, and home. Enroute, we passed the time recounting the highlights of our adventure circumnavigating Lake Victoria, the water source of both the White and Blue Nile Rivers.

During my last week in Nairobi, my father raised the subject of my future. He began by asking what I planned to do when I returned to Sydney. I explained that now I had a Commercial Art Certificate from the National Art School, I was confident I’d find a job as a graphic designer in the buoyant economic climate Australia was enjoying at that time.

Without missing a beat, he swept my intentions aside, and said, “As you’re not gifted nor talented, when you return to Sydney, I suggest you go to the Metropolitan Business College to learn shorthand, typing and bookkeeping.” I was stunned beyond words. My father had taken the wind out of my sails. When I’d recovered sufficiently to think straight, I gave his proposition serious thought. As he was prepared to support me for another year I decided it’d be best to put my bruised ego aside, whilst I completed a secretarial course. And comfort myself in the knowledge that the skills I acquired would always be useful.

That settled, the next heart-to-heart was about money.

My father asked me how I was spending my allowance. I explained I was paying rent, buying clothes, shoes and matching gloves determined to maintain my Jackie Kennedy look-alike image, that of stylish simplicity. Unimpressed, he suggested setting up a compulsory savings account, instead of frittering away all of his generous monthly contribution. The savings would be released on my twenty-first birthday, some eleven months away. I reluctantly agreed, at the same time toying with the idea of finding an evening waitressing job to make up the financial shortfall, when I got back to Sydney.

I left Nairobi in late January 1969 with my pre-Christmas plans of finding an art-related job on my return to Sydney, in total disarray.

 

ON REFLECTION:
My father: For my super-intelligent, electrical engineer father, both of his children were an abiding disappointment. My brother who was twelve years older than I, showed no signs of academic excellence. Because of this, I was my father’s last chance to fulfil his forever unfulfilled forever dream, to study medicine and become a doctor. Unfortunately, I lacked the scientific aptitude necessary. Besides which, my interests lay elsewhere.

For many years, I wondered how my father concluded I was, “not gifted nor talented”.

Between 1959 and 1967, I‘d seen him twice for an hour or so each time. He’d expressed no interest in my artwork or the content of my training at the National Art School, so I wondered how he could know I lacked talent. My heart ached as I considered my father’s comments in the days before I left Nairobi to return to Sydney. My confidence had been seriously undermined and my feelings were swinging wildly between acceptance and resentment. This demoralising incident and its aftermath marked the beginning of the end of our rocky relationship. But the final blow was yet to come. I’d be disinherited. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

FACTS:
Flamingos: flamingo chicks are born with grey feathers, which gradually turn pink with the ingestion of canthaxanthin, a natural dye obtained from their diet of brine shrimp and blue-green algae. Flamingo numbers explode in the rainy season, between November and May, when there’s plenty of food. But in drier months, especially during droughts, flocks move north to Lake Bogoria where flamingos are observed year-round.

RMS Victoria: was commissioned in 1961. She carried 230 passengers, 200 tons of freight and had refrigeration for perishable cargo. As she was twice as fast as her predecessor, she halved the circuit time to two and a half days, thereby enabling her to serve all Lake Victoria ports twice a week.

RMS Victoria’s vital statistics: 80m long, 12m wide, 4m draught, twin screws, diesel powered, 1500 tons empty.

Nile Perch: is a predatory fish species introduced into Lake Victoria in the 1950s to boost the fishing industry. The fish can grow up to two meters and weigh up to 200 kg.

The introduction of Nile perch produced a welcome economic boom, but there was a down side. As a result, Cichlids, a native fish species, was taken to the brink of extinction.

A huge Nile perch and the fisherman
who caught it
Image: Wikipedia

A huge Nile perch and the fisherman
who caught it
Image: Wikipedia

Tanzania in the 1960s: Prime Minister Julius Nyerere, who later became President of Tanzania, had a close relationship with the Peoples Republic of China, explaining why copies of Mao’s Thoughts were for sale in Mwanza.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Tanzania

Tertiary education for Australian women: In the late 1960s, few Australian women attended university. Instead, they were encouraged to train as nurses, teachers or secretaries.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 29: Entertaining in style

As my Christmas holiday in Nairobi continued, my father and Alison announced that they would be hosting a dinner party at the house the following Saturday night. I had no idea what was involved or what part I was to play in it, if any, but it wasn’t long before I found out.

The guest list was discussed, and for my benefit, each invitee was described in detail. But a pall of disappointment descended when I realised that they were all ‘oldies’, not one of them was in my age group. I knew immediately that it’d be yet another Nairobi dinner party where, out of a sense of duty I felt obliged to feign interest in boring subjects with insincere nods and phony smiles. At each gathering, I’d noticed that the ‘over dinner’ conversations I had with my fellow invitees, became less and less coherent as more and more alcohol was consumed.

Here, dinner party planning was controlled from ‘command central’— Alison’s antique writing bureau. From the bureau came the blue hardcover ‘dinner party’ book recording the details of every previous dinner party they’d hosted together. The pages contained the names of the invitees, the menu, the wines served with each course and the date. This information was vital because, if any of the dinner party elements were spotted being repeated, it’d reflect badly on Grainger dinner party design. And loss of face was to be avoided at all costs.

My father and Alison discussed the menu at length. Once it was finalised, my father then matched his cellar wines with each course to be served: soup, entrée, main course and dessert. Forward planning gave Alison and Mareba, their domestic servant, plenty of time to shop and cook whatever could be prepared ahead of time. This was important to minimise the possibility of a culinary disaster on the night.

The Saturday morning of the dinner party dawned bright and clear. After breakfast, the house went into overdrive with the main focus being the dining room. 

Chippendale dining suite with sideboard similar to my father’s
Image: Flickr

This was an elevated space, with a highly polished timber floor, situated between the living room and the kitchen, two steps up from each. These steps required care and concentration to negotiate, both upwards and downwards. They were particularly tricky for Mareba, too. Each day, in response to a tinkling bell, Mareba brought numerous hot dishes to the table with poise and gravitas, always dressed immaculately in a white monkey suit, topped off with a red fez with a black tassel and white sandshoes.

My father and Alison had a splendid Chippendale dining suite that seated eight with a matching Chippendale sideboard. On the sideboard, between a pair of three-armed silver candelabra, there was always a spherical crystal vase, holding long-stemmed red and white carnations. The carnations matched the rich red and cream colours of the patterned Persian carpet on which stood the antique table and chairs. Fresh carnations and candles materialised for the dinner party.

Red and white carnations for the sideboard
Image: Flowersacrossindia.com

The sideboard contained all the fancy trappings for this gastronomic extravaganza. The porcelain dinner set, crystal drinkware, sterling silver cutlery, cruet sets, vases for the smaller floral table arrangements and the other paraphernalia necessary to complete the table setting. Earlier in the week, Mareba had carefully polished, rinsed and dried all the silver needed for the gathering.

The final task was to set the table. But before this could happen the perfectly laundered, starched and ironed linen tablecloth was unfolded and smoothed out on top of a 2cm thick underlay of dense woollen felt—cut to the exact size of the tabletop. With my father supervising, the tablecloth was tugged gently this way and that to ensure even overhang on all sides after which the folds were ironed out of the tablecloth, the felt pad protecting the antique table surface from the heat. Now that the pristine white tablecloth was perfectly creaseless, table setting could begin.

Throughout the dinner party preparations, I felt like a spare wheel. I wasn’t asked to contribute in any way. I was simply an observer whilst a set of sequential tasks was conducted around me with the precision of a carefully choreographed dance. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Before visiting my father and Alison, my ‘at home’ dinner party exposure was quite limited. My mother, a single woman living and working in the New Guinea highlands was often invited out to dinner by blokes, keen to be in the company of an attractive, intelligent, and amusing single woman in a country where they were in short supply. As a result, I had little dinner party modelling on which to draw on.

All was in readiness for the guests and we were suitably dressed up to greet them. Surprisingly, my father and Alison displayed no outward signs of the hours of hard slog they had put into preparing for the gathering.

My father had devised a clever ploy to deliver his guests to the dining table sufficiently sober to appreciate Alison’s cooking. To do this he needed to limit their intake of alcoholic spirit, the favoured pre-dinner tipple of many Anglo expatriates, in Africa. His was a sherry offensive. With a flourish, he wheeled in a drinks trolley loaded with forty different sherries, or so he said, sourced from wineries across the world. He would then deliver a rehearsed spiel, briefly describing each fortified wine on offer sweet, medium and dry. His guests, so enthralled with his performance, would acquiesce and choose a sherry rather than their customary sundowner of brandy, whisky or gin. I was told it worked every time. And it did.

The dinner party was a great success and the food magnificent, as Alison was an exceptional cook. The wines were delicious and the company interesting, despite my earlier misgivings. Yes, the guests were middle-aged or older, but not at all boring.

Next morning when the house had returned to normal, we conducted a systematic dinner party debrief over a welcome cup of tea after which Alison added the details of this gathering to her ‘dinner party’ book.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The damask tablecloth: all these decades later, my memory of my father ironing the tablecloth on the table stays with me. At the time, I was conflicted. Both astounded and at the same time scathing, as I watched the care with which my father prepared the tablecloth for the dinner party. His attention to detail was breathtaking and his performance was a revelation for which I’m eternally grateful. I’ve whole-heartedly adopted his modus operandi in my own career, producing cutting edge artwork in which every aspect of the work is considered—the content, the aesthetics, the construction, and the problem-solving necessary, when breaking new ground. Like my father, I overlook nothing, and I wonder if this could be considered an example of the apple not falling far from the tree?

Sherry: in retrospect, my father’s success in controlling his guest’s intake of pre-dinner alcohol was yet another example of his need to control his environment and those in it. His, ‘my way or the highway’ credo, enabled him to justify his decisions, irrespective of dissent.  It gradually dawned on me that I was sitting on a time bomb.

Dinner parties: Since 1969 Nairobi, I’ve come to realise that throwing dinner parties was a prerequisite for middle-class, Australian couples, both before and after children. Shortly after I partnered, I bought a terrace house which we completely renovated, including a tiny dining room. I then furnished it with an oval, single pedestal, cedar dining table and six balloon-backed cedar chairs. Now, with a flash dining room, we too succumbed to societal pressure and began holding dinner parties. Like my father and Alison, activity began early on Saturday morning with fresh food shopping at the market, cleaning the house and preparing the various courses, but without the help of servants. As a result, by the time the guests arrived I was exhausted. After a couple of drinks, I found it difficult to sustain the role of a perfect hostess and serve the various courses I’d sweated blood preparing. I just wanted to go to sleep. When the relationship faltered and finally failed, I was thankful to leave the ‘dinner party’ ritual behind. After which I promised myself, I’d never cook again. I planned to express my creativity in other, more long-lasting ways.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 28: Food glorious food

Hurrah, hurrah! At last, it was over. I was awash with feelings of relief and self-satisfaction as I’d successfully completed three years full-time study at the National Art School, considered one of the best art schools in Australia at the time.

I was super-excited to roll on to my next social commitment: a second Nairobi Christmas with my father, and his second wife, Alison. After Christmas, I’d return to Australia to concentrate on finding a job. In the meantime, I knew there were adventures of all kinds to be had on the other side of the Indian Ocean.

On my first visit, I’d sussed out the lay of the land, and was determined to make the most of what Nairobi had to offer. Of particular interest were the many skilled Asian tailors in the city who, for next to nothing, could make anything including stylish safari suits with masses of flap pockets. At the time, these outfits were the epitome of stylish casual wear, for both men and fashion-conscious women. With safari suit fantasies uppermost in my mind, before I left Sydney, I drew on my mother’s textile manufacturing contacts to source lengths of the perfect weight fabric in beige and rust for two outfits comprising a jacket and long trousers. Now, I was all set.

Like last time, the long Sydney to Nairobi journey was broken in Mauritius. This is where all Kenya-bound Qantas passengers spent an idyllic couple of days at a beachside resort, whilst awaiting the connecting BOAC flight from London. So hard to take! When I arrived at Nairobi airport, I was met by my father and Alison who I sensed, were bracing themselves for another six weeks of 24/7 with a passive-aggressive 20 year old who knew everything.

I seamlessly settled back into their household, as the weekly domestic routine hadn’t changed since my last visit. I was particularly pleased to return to the privacy of the guest bedroom, with its ensuite bathroom. As burglary was a concern, security was maintained with steel bars on all the windows. Also, both the impressive front door and the double doors to the sleeping wing, had a heavy steel bar that was swung into place at night, just before we retired. This was in marked contrast to the home security, or lack of it, I’d experienced in the New Guinea highlands, where my mother lived. There, the back door was left open at night for the cat to come and go. Here in Nairobi, the gulf between the rich and the poor, was undeniable, so, resentment of expatriates was thinly disguised.

I already knew my fun American friend, Mary Jamieson, was no longer living in Nairobi because she’d written to say her father had been transferred to Rio de Janeiro with the Library of Congress. As a result, Jamieson’s party central was gone. Sad, as Mary and her circle of friends, mostly young Peace Corps volunteers, were great company as they made the most of their opportunity to spend a couple of years living and working in East Africa. And they all had great stories to tell. Most taught English, as there was an insatiable demand to master the language of Kenya’s recently departed colonisers: the British.

Sadder still was the news that my special friend Tim Jansen, of infant baboon fame, had taken his own life. He’d been studying in Lucerne, Switzerland and was part way through a medical degree. I’d not kept in regular touch, because I wasn’t much of a letter writer. Also, shortly after I returned to Australia to complete my art studies, he’d taken up with the Australian Ambassador’s daughter and I didn’t want to get in the way. Tim’s demise created a pall of sadness that lingered for the remainder of my stay.

With all of my American playmates gone, I was thrown back into the company of my father and Alison though, I often managed to escape to the Muthaiga Country Club pool. The pool gave me somewhere to go and provided a modicum of relief from the underlying hostility that occasionally bubbled to the surface in interactions with my father. Disagreements that Alison managed with dexterity and grace.

Socially things began to look up. My little black cocktail dress came into its own again and it was deemed suitable to wear to a performance of ‘The Boyfriend’ at the Donovan Maule Repertory Theatre, the cultural heart of Nairobi.

We arrived in time to enjoy a delicious dinner before the show, a first for me, as none of the Sydney theatres I sometimes frequented, offered dinner before the performance. At interval, I was introduced to a recently married Sikh couple, Sheila and Rag Mahajan, who, once they were made aware of my deep appreciation of fabric and fashion, invited me to visit their house to see Sheila’s wedding saris and jewellery, followed by Punjabi lunch. I welcomed their invitation with undisguised enthusiasm.

The Mahajan’s rambling, wooden house was in a less posh neighbourhood of Nairobi, with mainly Asian residents. Once inside, Sheila’s saris didn’t disappoint in either quality or quantity. They were completely amazing. Many were traditional, with lots of gold and silver thread embellishment woven at one end and along the selvedges.

And there was more. Trunks full of psychedelic print saris, all with a matching choli top that were the acme of fashion for Asian women at the time. I gasped involuntarily as each sari length was carefully unfolded, to reveal the exquisite artistry and craftsmanship from the Indian sub-continent. It seemed that each one was more beautiful than the last. I was in heaven, surrounded by exotic textiles. 

Gold Punjabi wedding jewellery
Image: unknown

Next, Sheila showed me her exquisitely crafted gold and silver jewellery. Sets of bangles for both wrists and ankles, rings for fingers and toes, earrings, hair and forehead decoration, necklaces, chains linking nose piercing to ear and the ‘piece de resistance’, the waist chain belt, worn over the sari. My mind was blown. I’d never seen so much gold and silver in one place in my life and probably never would again. This collection of jewellery represented serious wealth.

I recovered sufficiently to think about lunch. I was surprised to notice I’d worked up an appetite, doing nothing more than unpacking and repacking trunksful of saris. Whilst waiting in the living room for lunch to be served, on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, I noticed numerous framed photographs of fierce-looking military men. The Mahajan’s were obviously a proud military family as there were photographs of the 52nd Sikh Regiment of the British Indian Army, as well as individual photographs of relatives in uniform.

52nd Sikh Regiment at Kohat North West Province 1905
Image: Wikipedia

Punjabi thali—traditionally offers the flavours of sweet, salt, bitter, sour astringent and spicy served on a shiny metal tray
Image: Flikr

I didn’t have to wait for too long before lunch was brought to the table by an elderly Asian woman. It was presented on a thali tray, that held a complete meal served in individual bowls. Each bowl containing a small serving of spicy north Indian dishes, plus rice and naan bread. And I ate alone. This was my first brush with Asian dining customs, or a thali meal, or chili.

No long after, Alison came to pick me up.  I was in a state of total overwhelm, both artistically and gastronomically, with my mouth remaining slightly numb for some hours afterwards, the result of my first encounter with chili.

Not long after my thali experience, I was given yet another unforgettable dining experience.  This time, it was a formal dinner party at my father and Alison’s house and I wondered if the Mahajan’s would be invited.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Tim Jansen: I wanted to know why Tim decided to take his own life. Did his early childhood experiences in a German orphanage play a part? He never spoke about it. In our conversations, he mostly focussed on his numerous, unusual post-adoption adventures.  Tim’s obvious sensitivity, as evidenced by the adoption and care of the orphaned infant baboon, possibly hinted at needs in his own life? Needs that may not have been met whilst living on his own in Switzerland. But I’d never know.

Return hospitality: the Mahajan’s weren’t invited to dinner at my father’s house whilst I was staying with him, or afterwards to my knowledge. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but in Kenya, the societal constraints of colonial social stratification lingered. Maybe their dietary differences were too difficult to deal with? Another snag was that Sikhs don’t consume intoxicants, including alcohol. Pre-dinner drinks and numerous matching wines with the meal were ‘de rigueur’ at my father’s table. Or was it that the Mahajan’s were considered ‘lesser’ socially? They were undoubtedly richer. I wonder if my father’s decision to exclude them was evidence of a lingering racial divide? I didn’t have the answers, only the questions.

Rag Mahajan: In late 1969 Rag Mahajan came to Sydney to sell rare Makonde carvings he had sourced from Tanzania. He based himself at Kings Cross. I took him to see the smash hit musical, ‘Hair’ at the Metro Theatre, just around the corner from his hotel. Afterwards he asked me to spend the night with him. What a question! I was lost for words and left immediately. His wife, Sheila, was my friend. Perhaps the nudity in the musical, and the apparent permissiveness of life in inner-city Sydney, prompted him to ask?

Exquisite examples of vintage Makonde carved figures form Tanzania
Image: bay,com.au

FACTS:
The Donovan Maule Repertory Theatre, Nairobi: was then owned and run by thespians Donavan Maule and his wife Mollie. They began performing in 1949, then built a new theatre in 1958. They produced plays and also hosted touring repertory companies performing popular plays from London’s West End, as well as short run operas and ballets. They brought British culture to this far-flung outpost, where many British expatriates craved a connection to ‘home’.

https://oldafricamagazine.com/the-donovan-maule-theatre/

Asians, people from the Indian sub-continent, in Kenya: Portuguese sailors encountered Asian merchants along the coast of East Africa in the late 15th century. The Uganda railway linking Uganda’s capital Kampala to Mombasa via Nairobi, was completed in 1901. It’d been built by 32,000 indentured Asian labourers. The railway was the conduit that opened the East African interior to Asian traders. The Mahajans were one of the many Punjabi families that remained or who chose to migrate to East Africa to take advantage of the commercial possibilities on offer.

Thali: As my interest in food from other cultures developed, I came to understand the thali meal offers six different flavours — sweet, salt, bitter, sour, astringent and spicy — a collection of taste sensations on a single plate. Small bowls contained dahl, brinjal, potato curry, raita, vegetables, papad, pickle, chutney, most laced with chilli, plus a larger bowl of saffron rice and folded chapattis. A feast.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 27: Riding the rapids

Once again, it was time for me to return to New Guinea for a couple of weeks holiday. This was to be my last visit, or so I thought, as I was one term shy of completing my National Art School studies. I could see the end in sight and was chomping at the bit to get out into the real world to get a real job and earn real money. It wasn’t a pipe dream because this was a time of full employment and as a freshly graduated art school-trained commercial artist, I knew I’d have a choice of employment opportunities.

As always, my mother looked forward to my return to Goroka. For her, my frequent visits were a sanity-saving exercise, due to the insidious effect Highland isolation was having on her mental health even though she had plenty of male company, due to the chronic shortage of single expatriate women throughout New Guinea.

My mother’s job was very demanding. She was a fit healthy 53 year old, and an enthusiastic exponent of the Royal Canadian Air Force’s 5BX exercise regime, with its age-based, gradual progression rate. As well as her daily workout, she led a very active life, because the physical demands of her job were considerable. She was regularly climbing in and out of small aircraft to get to remote locations to teach spinning and weaving, in addition to the day-to-day management of the Wool Project’s twenty-six cells, scattered throughout the Highlands. A super-challenging remit for a one-woman-band, in a predominantly male environment, with some days more challenging than others.

To balance the intensity of her day job, my mother’s creative outlets included drawing and painting, with both oils and acrylics, sewing, and letter writing. She wrote to me regularly and also to friends. But her main focus was writing masterful letters, providing Wool Project updates and complaints in equal measure, to her boss at Trade and Industry’s Head Office in Port Moresby. I was told Head office loved receiving her letters.

Whilst living in Goroka, my mother met Jade Tripp, a well-respected portrait artist with a gift for likenesses. They clicked. They began painting together whenever they could and before long, decided to work towards holding a two-person art exhibition at the Goroka Hotel.

They painted up a storm in preparation for the show. A selection of landscapes, still life’s as well as portraits of be-feathered natives, and of each other. The exhibition centrepiece was Jade’s fabulous three-quarter portrait of my mother. I’d arrived back in Goroka just in time to help them hang the show.

Morley and a helper loading paintings for the Art show at the Goroka Hotel
Image: Grainger family photographs

Jade Tripp’s portrait of my mother, Gretchen Grainger painted in 1967
Image: Grainger family photographs

All of expatriate Goroka was invited to attend the opening. After a frantic day of hanging the artworks, in triple quick time, both artists were completely transformed. They emerged calm, coiffed and bejewelled, setting the tone for an unusually classy turnout for Goroka.

Lady Rachel Cleland, wife of the recently retired Administrator of Papua New Guinea, Sir Donald Cleland, had been invited to open the exhibition. After speeches and toasts, the paintings sold like hot cakes with red dots popping up all over the walls.

From left to right: Artist Gretchen Grainger, Lady Rachael Cleland and Artist Jade Tripp at the opening of their two-person art show held at the Goroka Hotel
Image: Grainger family photographs

This was a huge relief for both artists who had no idea how the good burgers of Goroka would respond to their artworks. The exhibition represented a huge investment of their time and talent plus the cost of framing. As it turned out, their idea had paid off on two counts. Firstly, it was a sell-out and secondly, the exhibition is recorded in the annals of memorable cultural events held in Goroka ‘in the time of the Europeans’.

A less cultural but possibly more fun event followed the art show. This was the annual ‘gumi’ race down the Asaro River early on Saturday morning.

Inner tubes from cars, trucks or large tractors were filled with air and loaded onto vehicles, including the roof of my mother’s mid-blue VW pickup truck. This truck had replaced the Karmann Ghia 1500S, which was now parked in Kirribilli, Sydney. The pickup truck was a reliable workhorse and much more suitable for the highland roads than a low-slung sports car and so much more practical for the Wool Project’s fetching and carrying.

My mother’s VW truck loaded with ‘gumis’ and racers headed for the Asaro River
Image: Grainger family photographs

Asaro River gumi race two racers aboard a tractor tyre tube
Image:backblazeb2.com

The ‘gumis’ and the racers were delivered to the starting line and later, picked up a couple of kilometres downstream. But getting to the finishing line wasn’t enough. At the end of the race, each inner tube had to be completely deflated, then fully submerged. If not, the racer was disqualified. Lastly, the soggy racers and their now floppy inner tubes, were loaded up onto the tray of the pickup truck for the drive back to town, where a slap-up celebration awaited the winner and all participants. Any excuse for a party.

Before I left Goroka, Jade Tripp made a completely unexpected but unforgettable contribution to my wardrobe. Her contribution was a knee-length, mink-dyed ‘lapin’ fur coat with dark brown leather trim at the neck, sleeves and down each side of the front closing. Jade had designed the coat and had it made by Cornelius Furs, the up-market furriers in Castlereagh Street, Sydney. But she wasn’t happy with the result. To my complete surprise, my mother offered to buy the coat for me to wear on my return to what was left of Sydney’s chilly winter. I was stoked.

Jade Tripp and Morley at Goroka airport
Image: Grainger family photographs

Morley wearing the mink dyed ‘lapin’ coat
Image: Grainger family photographs

As my time in Goroka wound down, a most surprising romantic interest developed. It took the form of a swashbuckling American helicopter pilot who specialised in high altitude external load operations. It was dangerous work, flying freight into inaccessible highland camps. He had an ‘Errol Flynn without the nasty bits’ quality about him, which I found so worldly and exciting. But my infatuation was short lived as I returned to Sydney to complete my last term at The National Art School. I was very focussed because I could see the end in sight.

But before I could launch myself into the world of paid work, I had been invited to spend the Christmas holidays with my father and his second wife who were living in Kenya. I was super-keen to visit them because I’d had such an amazing time on my first visit and I wondered what adventures they had planned this time around.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Recreational activities: were often quite limited for expatriates, mostly Australians, living in New Guinea. For Patrol officers, living an isolated life on outstations, reading and music were popular. Many in their early twenties, and mostly unmarried, usually had collection of books, a record player and a supply of long-playing vinyl records. Some also had imposing reel-to-reel tape recorders.

In larger centres like Goroka there were more out-of-work-time activities to choose from. Golf was a favourite. The Goroka Golf Club offered members the opportunity to combine two passions in one location: golf and alcohol consumption. Other sporty options included football and for the more adventurous, rock climbing and caving.

In smaller communities like Kundiawa, where my mother lived for a year or so before moving to Goroka, creative activities were often the brain child of an enthusiastic teacher, who’d brought some school production experience with them to their posting. Very occasionally a satirical playwright, or playwrights, would emerge. And so it was in Kundiawa. They regularly wrote hilarious topical plays and inspired community members to perform them, much to the delight of both the players and the audience, made up of all the expatriates within cooee who’d never miss a performance.

Mink-dyed ‘lapin’ coat: At the outset, I was thrilled with this coat. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, and it was the first and last fair-dinkum fur coat I’ve ever owned. I enjoyed swanning around in it impressing people, because not many of my contemporaries had a fur coat. But after a time, the novelty wore off and the coat remained hanging in the wardrobe for years.

August 1968: At the time, I knew this would be my last visit to Goroka. What I didn’t know was that I’d return once more before a break of 35 years.

Fast forward to 2007, when I returned to New Britain to spend two weeks in Vunamami village near Kokopo with my Tolai friend’s extended family. The experience was very different to the halcyon days of European control before Australia granted independence to Papua New Guinea in 1975.

FACTS:
Sir Donald Cleland: was Papua New Guinea’s Administrator from 1951 to 1957. Sir Donald and his wife chose to remain in Papua New Guinea after retiring. He was the country’s only former Administrator who did so. His wife, Lady Rachel Cleland, a trained early childhood teacher, was the driving force behind the introduction of pre-schools and pre-school education throughout Papua New Guinea.

Gumi: The word gummi n. German: rubber, gum, rubber band. The word was introduced into German New Guinea in the late 1880s. To this day, the word ‘gumi’ in Tok Pisin, describes anything made of rubber including condoms.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 26: High altitude dancing

As the first term of my 3rd Year art studies at East Sydney Technical College drew to a close, the prospect of returning to New Guinea to visit my mother filled me with great excitement.

I put my Sydney life on hold once again, and flew out to Port Moresby, then on to Goroka, for two and a-bit weeks in “the land that time forgot”, to quote author Edgar Rice Burroughs. This quote reflected the perception many held that New Guinea was a pre-historic world; a land of fiery volcanoes, earth tremors and head hunters. The only thing missing were the dinosaurs.

But to get serious, I arrived in Goroka just in time to help put the finishing touches to my mother’s Wool Project display for the 1968 Goroka Show. We were now old hands at this ‘show’ business caper, following the Wool Project’s first and hugely successful appearance at the Mount Hagen Show in 1965. Since then, the Mount Hagen and Goroka Show committees had decided, that instead of competing for the tourist dollar, they’d take turns to host their shows year and year about. Mt Hagen taking the ‘odd’ years and Goroka the ‘evens’.

After the Wool Project had taken the Hagen Show by storm, the thrill had gone out of it for us. Now it was all a bit ‘ho, hum’, although the weavers still got a kick out of dressing up in traditional tribal costume, to demonstrate their weaving skills for all to see and for tourists to photograph. In four years, the Wool Project had become a Department of Trade and Industry success story. Handpicked groups of local tribesmen had been taught to spin and weave, and with design guidance, produced very saleable items. The income from which, in time, would be taxable.

The Wool Project was now well established at the Goroka Showground since the unusual uplift out of Kundiawa by Caribou aircraft, back in early 1967. The looms, spinning wheels and yarns were now housed in a very large circular hut made of bush materials with a thatched roof. The final touch was a recently added snazzy, hand painted ‘Wool Project’ sign hanging above the door. As a result, setting up for the thousands of people who were expected to make their way to Goroka for the ‘spectacle of a lifetime’ was a synch because we didn’t have to travel. The spinners and weavers had been busy, as evidenced by the piles of stock in the storeroom. Raw fleece and hand spun, cream wool floor rugs were in high demand, as were single bed size woollen blankets and ponchos, designed by my mother who made the most of the mill-spun woollen yarns, often mill ends, that arrived regularly from Australia, thanks to her contacts in textile manufacturing. Each item had been scoured, pressed, folded and individually packed into a clear plastic bag, with the wording ‘Hand Woven in New Guinea’, printed on both sides in big, bold, black capital letters. We were now ready for the buyer tsunami we were expecting, because the Wool Project had quickly developed a reputation for stylish, quality products. Because of this, the shows were always a sell-out, with additional orders taken, guaranteeing work for the weavers, long after the show weekend was over.

On Saturday morning, day one of the Goroka Show, the floodgates opened, and in rushed 50,000 warriors wearing full traditional dress, and two thousand tourists, including film crews and journalists, who’d arrived from all over New Guinea and beyond, on all kinds of chartered aircraft.

The Show’s official opening, provided a platform for the colonial overlords to bestow a modicum of pomp and ceremony on the formalities. This was in sharp contrast to the Highlanders watching the proceedings, who’d been practising their ritual ceremonies for thousands of years. The official opening speech was always delivered by an important European, in English, a language unintelligible to the majority of the crowd. The tribal dancers waited patiently for the formalities to conclude so they could dance for the judges.  Each group keen strut their stuff and win first prize. 

Goroka Show in the 1960s
Image: Stan Moriarty

Goroka Show in the 1960s
Image: Stan Moriarty

On Saturday night there was the much-anticipated Show Ball. The ball was an excuse for expatriates to dress up and have a ‘good time’ doing their own style of dancing with a partner, if they had one. Otherwise, it was an opportunity to drink, and drink some more, in true Territorian style. There was always live music at the Show Ball, provided by a band brought in for the evening, either from a larger centre or from Australia.

Sunday was recovery day. Most Europeans were hung over so things moved slowly. By afternoon, it was time to break camp at the show ground, with the patrol officers, known as kiaps, preparing to take their people back to their villages. For the Wool Project it was easy. At closing time, we simply locked the door of the ‘haus blanket’ and headed home exhausted, and glad it was all over.

Some days later, Jim Leahy, patriarch of the post War Leahy and Collins Highland clan, approached my mother. Jim owned and ran ‘Erindale’, a successful coffee plantation and mixed farm on the Highlands Highway not far west of Goroka. As part of his livestock mix, he had a small flock of Romney Marsh sheep that needed shearing. He asked if the Wool Project would be interested in the fleece. After inspecting the sheep, my mother agreed to take it, once the sheep had been shorn. The tricky bit would be finding a shearing machine and a shearer in this remote part of the world.

The obvious place to start making enquiries was with the Department of Agriculture Stock and Fisheries. If any department would know of a shearing machine and a shearer within cooee, they would. And they did! Someone remembered an electric shearing machine stored in a shed somewhere. And an agricultural officer, known in the lingo as a ‘didiman’ from western Queensland, put up his hand to do the shearing. We were all set.

Erindale’ farm workers and yarded sheep with full wool near Goroka
Image: Grainger family photographs

On the appointed day and time, we assembled at ‘Erindale’. Jim had the shearing machine set up in his shed and the sheep were dry and yarded under cover. I can’t recall how many head were shorn that day. But the job was made so much easier because, on the day, two ‘didiman’ shearers turned up instead of one. I was appointed roustabout. My job was to sweep the ‘board’, a slab of concrete in this shed, collect and skirt the fleece on a makeshift table, before baling each one.

Nameless Agricultural Officer shearing on ‘Erindale’
Image: Grainger family photographs

Another nameless Agricultural Officer shearing ‘Erindale’ sheep with an audience
Image: Grainger family photographs

When the shearing was done, Jim Leahy said to me, “Hey, pikinini blo Misis Blanket, I didn’t think you’d be much good [working] here today. You surprised me.” High praise indeed from the Leahy patriarch. But, my mother’s dealings with Jim weren’t over yet. Some months after shearing, Jim Leahy put a business proposition to my mother, in an attempt to lure her away from Trade and Industry, and ‘commercialise’ the Wool Project. As I recall, my mother was flattered. His enquiry was an acknowledgement of her creative thought and effort exerted to successfully introduce textile skills into the Highlands. My mother gave the proposition due consideration but decided to decline the offer, as the freedom and perks that came from working for the New Guinea Administration, far outweighed the prospect of having to start all over again.

After a couple of weeks of fun in the Highlands, I could hear Art School calling me once more. But before I returned to Australia, my mother floated an offbeat idea for my consideration. Well aware of my interest in social anthropology, she suggested I think about doing a social anthropology degree at the University of Papua New Guinea after I’d completed my art studies. I dismissed her suggestion out of hand because I’d had more than enough of study. All I wanted to do was finish my Commercial Art Certificate qualification and find a job in advertising or industry. Time would tell what the future held.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Jim Leahy: Patriarch Jim Leahy’s mis-assessment of my effectiveness in his shearing shed, didn’t surprise me. Clearly, he wasn’t accustomed to a self-motivated, hardworking and efficient young white woman in the shearing shed or anywhere else. I understand his time was taken up guiding the gaggle of nephews he’d encouraged to come to New Guinea in search of commercial opportunities, which could possibly explain his comment.

Social anthropology: My mother’s suggestion that I consider further study at the University of Papua New Guinea, was a perceptive one. I was first exposed to aspects of anthropology when we first arrived in New Guinea, and later, archaeology and palaeontology, whilst visiting my father in Africa. Yes, I was fascinated by all three sciences, but not sufficiently to commit to more years of study, even though the thought of returning to New Guinea permanently, had considerable appeal.

FACTS:
Edgar Rice Burroughs: was a prolific American writer. He wrote the ‘Tarzan’ books, many of which were made into movies. I remember seeing Tarzan movies at the Saturday afternoon flicks when I was kid.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Rice_Burroughs

Goroka Show: Most tourists arrived by chartered aircraft, as the Highland roads were often impassable. Over the Show weekend, the airstrip was lined on both sides with aircraft, parked wing tip to wing tip. DC3s: Beechcrafts: all the Cessnas models: Piaggios and Twin Otters. This assortment of big and small aircraft, was indicative of New Guinea’s dependence on air transport for both passengers and freight.

Chartered DC3s parked on the Goroka strip for the 1968 Goroka Show
Image: TAA Museum

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goroka_Show

 

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 25: The ties that bind

It was early in 1968. I’d returned to Sydney, after spending Christmas in Kenya with my father and his second wife. Re-entry was strange in many ways and yet familiar. I was brimful of my East African experiences and eager to share them. But there was a more pressing need. The need to swiftly re-focus and prepare for my third and final year at the National Art School’s East Sydney Technical College Campus in Darlinghurst. I was nineteen and exuded confidence.

National Art School main entrance note the faint ‘technical college’ wording can just be seen above the door
Image: euroclima

For my last year of study, I chose to return to ‘Tremayne’, the YWCA hostel for young ladies at Kirribilli, because the facilities, particularly my ground floor single room suited me perfectly. Yet another advantage was that travel to East Sydney Tech was relatively straightforward. A train from Milson’s Point to the city, then a bus up Oxford Street to Taylor Square, where I got off at the Forbes Street corner, carrying all the gear needed for the day’s classes. From there, I walked down past the police station, to enter the imposing sandstone gates, of what was once the largest gaol in the colony of New South Wales. The convicts built their own gaol, using Sydney sandstone. The now repurposed buildings, pulsated with vitality and energy applied to creative pursuits, both legal and illegal.

Artists have the reputation for living life in the fast lane and my cohort was no different. They were chockful of youthful certainty and the conviction that they were in complete control of all pleasurable substances. That is, until they weren’t, by which time it was often too late. At the time, I was smoking forty tailor-made cigarettes a day. But, from somewhere deep inside the recesses of my conscious mind, came the realisation that if I had a problem with nicotine, I’d likely have one with any other substance, no matter how innocuous it may have seemed at the outset. As a result, I kept well away from everything even though there was plenty on offer to drink, to smoke and even to inject.

Students taking a break in the grounds of the East Sydney campus of the
National Art School in the 1960s
Image: pinterest.com

Students taking a break in the grounds of the East
Sydney campus of the National Art School in the 1960s
Image: pinterest.com

Third year at the National Art School was the year that formative career decisions were to be carried through. Each of my classmates from Randwick Tech had already decided on his or her future artistic direction. On offer, was the diploma of Fine Art, for those wanting to become career ‘painters’ or ‘sculptors’ or ‘ceramicists’, requiring three additional years of full-time study. The alternative, was the Commercial Art certificate course, only requiring one additional year of study. This was perfect for the likes of me, unlikely to rise to the top in any of the traditional disciplines I’d been exposed to, to date, as part of my art training. In my time, textiles or multi-media studies, weren’t on offer at the National Art School. That exciting adventure would come later, when I had the chance to study in Mexico. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was strange being on the East Sydney Technical College campus again, this time as a student. I already knew my way around the grounds, because my mother had taught hand weaving and textile design there, for many years. Her students were destined to find work in Australia’s textile manufacturing sector, a sector that was thriving at the time. My father and I would meet my mother after class on Friday afternoons, to eat out. This was our end of the working week family tradition. The Baltican was our restaurant of choice, located within walking distance of East Sydney Tech. The Baltican served authentic central European tucker, the food my parents loved and missed since moving to Australia. Even though they were born and raised in England, each had spent chunks of time in Europe, both before and after they were married.

Early in 1968, my brother came to back to Sydney. He had left his wife and three young children in Toowoomba and was in trouble on all fronts. His trouble was physical, emotional and financial. As a returned serviceman, he was receiving psychiatric help from Caritas, a Catholic mental health facility, located directly opposite East Sydney Tech’s main entrance.

Shortly after he arrived, I received a letter from my father insisting I show compassion for my brother’s predicament, and provide familial support. I wondered how I could do this? With my weekends free, I offered to cook for him. Luckily, Oxford Street, Darlinghurst was a great place to shop for food. This was a novelty for me, something I hadn’t done for years as ‘Tremayne’ provided all my meals.

Fulfilling my commitment to cook for my brother, came with challenges. He was living in our adopted aunt’s house at Hunters Hill, a long way from both the Art School and Kirribilli. Therefore, some serious organisation was required.

So I hatched a plan. On Friday mornings, I’d leave Kirribilli for East Sydney Tech, taking with me my very large, strong New Guinea ‘bilum’ string bag. When classes finished for the day, I’d walk across Oxford Street to the butcher and green grocer to stock up on the makings for numerous delicious meals. I then took a bus, a ferry, and another bus before the long walk to my adopted aunt’s house, lugging the heavy bilum. When I got there, I’d unpack the ingredients and get down to cooking. Occasionally my brother would drop in, but most weekends I was there alone. By mid-afternoon on Sunday, the fridge was filled with fresh meals. With my job done, I’d return to Kirribilli by public transport.

I continued my self-imposed supportive routine most weekends for a number of months, rarely seeing my brother and therefore unable to provide any additional familial support. I didn’t enjoy being alone for the weekends and, I’d got to the point where I’d had enough. I made the decision to quit cooking and I can’t recall being thanked. It seems my contribution was taken for granted, possibly due to my brother’s ill-health.

Towards the end of 1968, my mother’s precious Karmann Ghia was again shipped down from New Guinea, this time for my use. The ‘Tremayne’ matron, became concerned that this rare car could be damaged, if it was parked on the street. She kindly offered me the use of ‘Tremayne’s’ one off-street parking place, on the southern side of the building. I was immensely grateful, even though the space was not ideal, as it was on a very steep slope. To get out onto the street, I had to do a reverse hill start with a cold engine. It was a terrifying start to the day.

My mother’s precious Karmann Ghia 1500S
Image: flickr

I sometimes drove to Art School, particularly if there was a ‘field trip’ planned. I would fill the car with friends and head off to wherever. I clearly remember one such outing. It was to see the recently released blockbuster movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey directed by Stanley Kubrick. After watching the movie, we were tasked to write a 500-word review. So I dashed off 500 words and submitted them, after which the teacher suggested I consider a career in copywriting. I remember laughing out loud at his suggestion as wordsmithing wasn’t my thing. I was much, much happier making things.

With the first term of my final year at National Art School done and dusted, it was holiday time. Once again, I was off to visit my mother in the New Guinea highlands. I was really looking forward to it because I hadn’t seen her since I visited in August the previous year. The reason, I’d spent the Christmas break in Kenya with my father and his second wife. I knew my mother was hanging out to hear about my time with them, and I couldn’t wait to tell her what we got up to.

ON REFLECTION:
My brother: It was plain to see that my brother was in trouble but I felt ill-equipped to help him in any meaningful way. I was a late teen with no psychological training. Feeling totally inadequate, the best I could do was listen whilst he raved on about the collective shortcomings of his wife, his in-laws and our parents.

My father’s letter: I was most surprised to receive the letter from my father instructing me to “support my brother at this difficult time”. My brother, twelve years my senior, left home when I was five. As a result, I hardly knew him. The best contribution I could dream up was to offer to cook a weeks’ worth of meals for him on a regular basis.

Copywriting: I’ve occasionally reflected upon the suggestion made by a National Art School teacher, that I should consider a career in copywriting. The 2001: A Space Odyssey written-word exercise, was the only one I recall being set during my three years at Art School. I assume the teacher was wanting to be helpful, but my ever-present insecurity, led me to wonder if his suggestion was thinly veiled judgement of my competency.

FACTS:
The Darlinghurst Gaol: was designed by convict architect Frances Greenway and operated between 1841 and 1914. It was built of sandstone using convict labour and was finally completed in 1885. A tall circular chapel stands in the middle of the site, from which six, two-storey rectangular cellblocks radiate.

Aerial view of Darlinghurst gaol with the Darlinghurst court buildings in the foreground
Image: Wikipedia

In 1922 the site was taken over by the Technical College, to house the various tertiary training schools, including the National Art School. Our second-floor classrooms were in one of the cellblocks, converted for the Commercial Art certificate course.

Bilum string bag: The bilum is a handmade string bag, made of sisal fibres and used throughout Papua and New Guinea. The bag is constructed in such a way as to stretch to accommodate large loads.

Bilum bag made of natural fibres
Image: WorldofBacara

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPW7z-dY3rQ

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 24: A hot pink flush

It was late 1967, and I’d not been in Nairobi long before Alison, my father’s second wife, took me to their prestigious club for the first time. The famous Muthaiga Country Club was a late 1960s African version of Club Med, the likes of which I’d not experienced before in either New Guinea or Australia. Though, I do acknowledge, I may’ve been moving the wrong circles to experience such luxury.

Entrance to the Muthaiga Club in Nairobi Kenya
Image: Travel and Trade South Africa

The Muthaiga Country Club was for expatriates the place to be seen at. My father’s work with United Nations may have swung his membership because the Club offered the perfect milieu for him to ‘network’ within the Nairobi community and beyond. His Small Business Advisory Centre, a project initiated by the International Labour Organisation (ILO), was very new, so targeting influential people and inviting them to lunch at the Club, gave him the opportunity to talk up his project in posh surroundings. Considerable status came with membership and my father loved it. And I loved it too, because members’ families could access most of the facilities
at any time. 

Of course, as a woman, I was excluded from the men’s bar and the smoking room, areas for the male membership only. The other facilities were: tennis courts, a croquet lawn and a fancy swimming pool. For me, the latter was the most attractive drawcard of all, with its poolside bar and ‘al fresco’ buffet. No money changed hands here. Instead, a ‘chitty’ was signed for whatever was wanted. In my case, food and drinks, all beautifully presented and served. On my very first visit, I knew I’d found Shangri-La. The pool, at the Muthaiga Country Club, would be my salvation for the remainder of my stay.

As my circle of friends grew, so did the need to avail myself of the Club’s facilities, particularly the pool as it provided a means of returning hospitality for the numerous dinner and field trip invitations, I’d accepted to out of the way archaeological and wildlife sites, in both Kenya and Tanzania.

The Muthaiga Club swimming pool
Image: jennycasswell.com

Returning hospitality at the Muthaiga Club pool
Image: Grainger family photographs

Casual entertaining at the Club suited everyone, particularly my father and Alison, as the Club’s facilities removed the inconvenience of having to entertain my friends at their house. But I do remember two visitors made it through the iron curtain. One Saturday afternoon, my friend Tim Jansen arrived to the house unannounced. He’d come to introduce his infant baboon to my father and Alison. Instantly, my father became rigid with concern, worried the baboon would get loose and create havoc, damaging his antique furniture or the enormous carved Chinese living room carpet, or worse still, climb the pure silk curtains. As it turned out, his fears were unfounded as Tim had the tiny baboon under control for the duration of their visit.

A very tanned Morley with the baby baboon on my father's carved Chinese
carpet. Note tiny diaper with a hole cut out for the tail
Image: Grainger family photographs

A very tanned Morley with the baby baboon on my
father's carved Chinese carpet. Note tiny diaper with
a hole cut out for the tail
Image: Grainger family photographs

At my mother’s suggestion, I arrived in Nairobi with a very basic wardrobe. The wardrobe contained a fashionable, one piece, brightly coloured halter neck swimming costume and hot pink towelling swim wrap. Also, a couple of Marimekko print cotton shifts and the obligatory little black dress to wear for cocktail parties, but not much else. The underlying and not so subtle stratagem was that, if  necessary, my father would need to add to my wardrobe at his expense.

At the start, the swimming costume got a serious work out; as did the little black dress I wore to the seemingly endless drinks parties, we were invited to attend. I managed to hold my own in my stylish homemade number worn with low-heeled black pumps.

Morley at the Muthaiga pool in her snazzy cozzie
Image: Grainger family photographs

During the day, I visited the Muthaiga Club pool as often as possible and became very tanned. So tanned in fact, that my father told me if I got any browner, I’d not be permitted to wear my ‘little black dress’ to future ‘drinkies’ gatherings. As no explanation was given, I was left guessing about my father’s motive. Maybe he was concerned his daughter would be mistaken for a mixed-race person? This assumption could damage the solid, upper middle-class image my father was keen to promote to his new circle of acquaintances.

As Christmas approached, the Grainger household moved into yuletide celebration mode, that included decorating the Christmas tree, followed by a round of festive gatherings. The culmination of which, was to be an ‘ever-so-posh’ New Year’s Eve dinner party at the Club.

My ‘little black dress’ was deemed unsuitable, so I suggested using Alison’s sewing machine and my dressmaking skills, to make a suitable evening gown for the event. My father agreed. So next morning we sourced a paper pattern for a modest, full-length, princess line dress, with short sleeves and a ‘not too low’ round neckline. Both understated and demure, I figured this modest design would be acceptable for my father and Alison and the conservative Nairobi expatriates, who’d make up our party for the planned New Year’s Eve dinner. Next, to decide on the fabric. My choice was Thai silk. Alison took me to a small Thai silk merchant’s shopfront in downtown Nairobi, next door to the main entrance of the New Stanley Hotel, Nairobi’s flashiest tourist haunt. Here, my eyes were out on stalks. I was completely captivated by the bolts of silk, stacked to the ceiling by colour, and it took me ages to make a decision. Hot pink? No. Emerald green? No. Aqua? No. Back to hot pink? After an age of vacillating, I finally decided on hot pink. We bought four yards of silk and three yards of taffeta lining.

When my father returned from the office that evening, I found it difficult to contain my excitement. I waited until the sherry was poured, before I brought my fabric purchase to the living room for the ‘reveal’. I unwrapped the yards of hot pink silk, and draped it artistically over the back of the sofa for viewing. Before I could exhale, out of nowhere came a surge of anger from my father. His reaction was apoplectic. Referring to the colour, he bellowed, “What is it about the younger generation, always having to make a spectacle of
themselves?” I was unable to reply, dumbstruck by his outburst. As the fabric couldn’t be returned, it was with a heavy heart I began making the hot pink dress.

The finished garment fitted perfectly, with a line of small covered buttons on the bodice, and a matching belt with covered buckle, that followed the princess line under the bust. Even so, as my parade had been so seriously rained upon, it was difficult for me to muster any enthusiasm for either the dress or the planned Muthaiga Club gathering with a bunch of boring ‘oldies’.

As New Year’s Eve approached, I was filled with trepidation. I didn’t want to go, but there was no way I could absent myself without raising eyebrows or ire, and I sensed the evening was going to be an ordeal. But when we arrived at the Club, matters took an interesting and totally unexpected turn. To my amazement, there were six or seven other women wearing hot pink, and not one from my generation. A vindication of sorts. But sadly, as the result of the hot pink dress drama, the relationship with my father had been irreparably damaged.

Some weeks later I returned to Australia with a heavy heart, to begin my final year of study at the National Art School. In my suitcase was the neatly folded hot pink dress. And ever after it was a reminder of my father’s unconstrained disapproval.

 

ON REFLECTION:
My father and the ‘little black dress’ incident: As I write, I wonder if my father’s concern about my increasingly suntanned skin could’ve been because in his circle of ‘new’ Nairobi friends my skin colour may have suggested my birth mother was ‘coloured’? As a result, this would reflect badly on his choice of first wife, in an era when fraternising with the ‘natives’ was frowned upon, particularly in countries colonised by whites, like Kenya and Papua New Guinea.

The hot pink dress: This incident was one of a number of unexpected blow-ups I witnessed in the short time I spent with my father. I found the out-of-the-blueness of his outbursts mystifying and as a result, I became very wary of what I said and did around him. Over the years since the incident, I’ve come to wonder if it was my spontaneous teenage behaviour that set him off? Possibly seen to reflect badly on his reputation? I’ll never know. Perhaps it was for the best that he left my mother and me when I was nine years old? If he’d continued to be a major influence in my life, I may’ve been more seriously affected by his mercurial behaviour.

Out of Africa—the movie: is based on the 1937 memoir of Karen Blixen in which The Muthaiga Country Club features prominently. The movie, starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford, is the definitive portrayal of British colonial life in East Africa during and after World War 1. I saw the movie for the first time at the Elgin movie house in Scotland. Much to the surprise of the Scots seated nearby, I began to weep from the minute the movie started, as I was immediately taken back to my time in Kenya; the beautiful people, the amazing wildlife and the dramatic landscape. Fortunately, that day I was wearing a voluminous silk scarf I could use to mop up the stream of copious tears that flowed right up until the credits rolled, and the house lights came up.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Out_of_Africa

FACTS:
The Muthaiga Country Club Nairobi: opened on New Year’s Eve in 1913, and became a gathering place for the ‘well to do’ British settlers in British East Africa which became the Colony of Kenya in 1920. During colonial times author Caroline Elkins describes the Club as: ‘the Moulin Rouge of Africa’, where the elite “drank champagne and pink gin for breakfast, played cards, danced through the night, and generally woke up with someone else’s spouse in the morning.” Today, the club is frequented by the elite of Kenyan society.

Muthaiga Country Club entrance drive photograph taken in 1936
Image: Matson photo Wikipedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muthaiga_Country_Club

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 23: Hinterland excursions

The more time I spent in Nairobi with my father and his second wife at the end of 1967, the more opportunities I had to meet people who were doing interesting things.

As my circle of friends grew, so did the invitations to be part of exploratory excursions to sites of interest, within striking distance of Nairobi. I was always keen to be part of field trips organised by the adventurous young Americans living in Kenya at that time. The young Americans fell into two camps: either students like me on holidays, or Peace Corps volunteers, who were a little older with a deeper understanding of East Africa’s history and people. Most spoke Swahili, and a number had also learned to speak Maasai or Kikuyu, the two most widely-spoken tribal languages in Kenya.

Map showing Olorgesailie
Image: Daily Mail

With boundless curiosity, coupled with the energy of youth, and unlimited access to transport with ‘white on red’ number plates, we could go anywhere, protected by diplomatic immunity. My father and Alison were only too happy for me to head off into the wide blue yonder, knowing I’d be safe with young people they considered suitable travelling companions. To be honest, I reckon they were relieved to have me out of their hair for a day, off exploring Kenya with a ‘no-frills’ modus operandi, a far cry from the level of personal comfort they preferred. It was a perfect arrangement for all concerned.

My new friend Tim Jansen, was the first cab off the rank. He invited me to join him on a day trip to Olorgesailie, a palaeolithic site, situated close to the border with Tanzania. The site was excavated by Mary and Louis Leakey in the 1940s and, as Tim was working with them over the holidays, I assume the site was discussed with exciting back stories told over morning tea. With his interest whetted; he wanted to visit the site for himself.

We headed off early with provisions and water packed for Tim’s orphaned infant baboon and ourselves. The day was clear and the landscape colours vivid, as we drove seventy odd kilometres southwest of Nairobi on single lane bitumen. The road surface eventually morphed into a rough dirt track, as we pushed further into Maasai country.

Even though Tim had told me a little about the significance of Olorgesailie, a pre-historic site where hand axes were manufactured by the thousands, I wasn’t prepared for the extraordinary step back into pre-history that I was about to take.

We arrived and parked the Kombi.

Tim took the baby baboon from his cage, and as it was a hot day, we three enjoyed a long drink of water before setting off to explore.

With the infant baboon clinging to Tim’s shirted chest, we wandered down to the raised semi-circular shaped walkway, taking us over the top of a scattering of hand axes, that spread out in clusters as far as the eye could see. I was gobsmacked. To see so many artefacts that had withstood the African climate for over half a million years, was an awesome experience. There were no words.

The raised walkway over the Olorgesailie prehistoric site littered with hand axes
Image: Prehistoric Kenya Tours

Olorgesailie prehistoric site introduction signage around 1967
Image: source unknown

Olorgesailie prehistoric site discarded hand axes made using knapping technology
Image: earthlog.org

Tim explained that between 1.2 million to 400,000 years ago Olorgesailie had a reliable source of water, a lake, that supported both hominin and animal life including extinct forms of hippo, elephant, zebra, giraffe, baboon and amphibians.

Thanks to Tim, my interest in palaeoanthropology was piqued as we wandered the site, picking our way between the dense scatterings of discarded hand axe and stone fragments. In the silence, I wondered what life would’ve been like here in the Pleistocene, 900,000 years ago when hand axe fabrication was in full swing, using the numerous varieties of naturally occurring volcanic rock in the area. This now parched landscape was once covered in grass explaining why many of the fossilised animal bones excavated were of herbivores with their teeth worn down from a lifetime of chewing.

We’d had a fascinating day and I was still in a state of overwhelm as we drove back to Nairobi, whilst the infant baboon slept. When Tim had suggested a field trip to Olorgesailie, I didn’t really know what to expect. Now I’d seen the site, I wanted to know more about the ‘knapping’ technology, used to make hand axes by the Olorgesailie people many thousands of years ago. Tim was ‘the full bottle’ on the technique, explaining that percussion was used to create sharp edged tools, used for cutting, scraping and digging. I was left with lots to think about.

Follow the blue line from Nairobi to Ngorongoro Crater Red line shows the shortcut
Image: TourRadar

A week or so later, I was invited to join Tim, Mary Jamieson and a collection of her Peace Corps friends, on yet another field trip. This time south into Tanzania visiting the spectacular Ngorongoro Crater, a seven-hour drive passing through Arusha. One of our party knew the area well and spoke Maasai fluently. He suggested a shortcut that would take hours off our travelling time. As it’d be a very long day, we loaded the Kombi with all we needed, including the infant baboon, before leaving Nairobi at dawn’s crack. We became somewhat concerned as we drove, and drove, and drove, without sighting a soul. Where were we? Were we on the right road?

We rejoiced when a human figure hove into view. It was a Maasai woman walking beside the road, carrying an assortment of black bundles. As we drew level and stopped, our dust cloud enveloped her.

Lone Maasai woman walking along a dirt road
Image: rosalux.or.tz

When the dust had settled, our Maasai speaker asked directions. An unintelligible conversation followed, after which it was decided it’d be simpler for her to come with us, to show the way. As the woman moved to climb aboard, a dense cloud of black flies arose from all she carried, to hover, and then follow her, as she stepped up into the back of the Kombi. Then, it was our turn to rise as one from sitting, in a rush to access fly-free air through the open safari roof, where we stood clutching the metal bars surrounding the opening and taking slow deep breaths.

The Maasai woman travelled with us for some kilometres directing us this way and that. Then, after giving final directions, we stopped and she alighted, leaving behind a number of her flying companions, to continue travelling with us. Thanks to her, we were now on the right track.

When we finally arrived at the crater’s edge, we celebrated with gusto before talking some time to admire the magnificent panoramic view of greenness that stretched out below us.

Looking down into Ngorongoro crater
Image: Tripadvisor

We followed the narrow track over the edge and down to explore. As we descended, there was no sign of life, either animal or human. Wanting to stretch our legs after the long, hot, dusty drive, we opted to park the Kombi and wander off through the waist-high grass, in search of game. Our foolhardy decision, didn’t seem strange at the time. I later discovered that Ngorongoro Conservation area is home to over 25,000 wild creatures. And I’m so pleased we didn’t encounter anything that was large, angry or hungry, as we wandered around. Thankfully, the return trip to Nairobi was uneventful and we arrived home with our adventurous spirit intact.

I’d thoroughly enjoyed my day out with the Americans, even though the only game we sighted was one of our number, Tim’s infant baboon, travelling in his cage at the rear of the Kombi. Our field trip to Ngorongoro crater confirmed my new friends were fearless and fun to be with. And I secretly harboured hopes that I’d be invited to join similar excursions at a later date. Time would tell.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Olorgesailie: Reflecting on the Olorgesailie field trip, I’m struck by the significance of visiting the site with an infant baboon. At the site, previous excavations have found fossil evidence of both the infant baboon’s ancestors and my own. Was it my imagination or was I hearing their call across a million years? I did wonder, if by choosing to be there, I was unconsciously responding to their call? I’ll never know but being taken back to the cradle of humankind affected me deeply at the time and still does to this day.

Olorgesailie was my introduction to ‘knapping’ technology and after my visit, I thought no more about it until some years later when I worked as an archaeological illustrator for the Mexican Government. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Ngorongoro Crater: I consider wandering unprotected through waist-high grass in the vast Ngorongoro Crater, to be one of the foolhardiest things I’ve ever done, before or since. In hindsight, I think we were spared encounters with wildlife because we’d arrived at mid-day, the hottest part of day. Most living creatures wait out the heat, resting under a shady tree until late afternoon, when they get active. I still find myself shaking my head in disbelief when I reflect on our decision to leave the Kombi to wander the crater. Oh, the folly of youth.

Field trips: Reflecting on both the Olorgasailie and the Ngorongoro Crater field trips, I have come to realise how fortunate I was to be included. I was in the right place at the right time. When I returned to Nairobi for Christmas the following year, all the fun Americans had moved on. As a result, I’ve come to realise how many formative experiences are serendipitous in nature. To this day, I’m most grateful to those who were happy to have me tag along to visit less accessible sites of interest.

FACTS:
Diplomatic immunity: is a form of legal immunity ensuring diplomats and their family’s safe passage. Foreign nationals in the employ of their governments or, as in my father’s case the United Nations, can’t be charged or prosecuted under the host country’s laws, although they can be expelled. The concept and custom of diplomatic immunity dates back thousands of years.

Olorgasailie: The extensive site provides important evidence of hand axe culture and manufacture. It has the highest concentration of hand axes found anywhere in the world. The site was ‘discovered’ in the 1940s by paleoanthropologists Louis and Mary Leakey and further excavated in the 1960s. The work now continues under the guidance of the Smithsonian Institution based in the USA and the Kenyan Museum of Natural History with the site continuing to reveal archaeological treasures. Several butchering sites have been excavated, containing quantities of fossilised bone fragments of extinct animal species and numerous bifacial tools made from the fourteen different types of volcanic rock found in the area.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olorgesailie
http://humanorigins.si.edu/research/olorgesailie-kenya

Hominins: a primate of a taxonomic tribe ( Hominini ), which comprises those species regarded as human, directly ancestral to humans, or very closely related to humans.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hominini

Knapping: the technique used to produce flaked stone tools. Made by hitting a rock with a harder one, in such a way that fragments of  specific sizes and shapes are extracted from it.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knapping

Ngorongoro Crater: Located at 1800m above sea level, the crater formed between 2.5 and 2 million years ago, when the Ngorongoro mountain erupted, with a volcanic blast so ferocious that it caved in on itself. The implosion created a caldera spanning 260 square kilometres that is 610m deep. Ngorongoro Crater is unique as the world’s largest dry crater; the only one not to have filled with water to become a lake. In 2013, the crater was voted one of the Seven Natural Wonders of Africa.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ngorongoro_Conservation_Area

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 22: The Mary Jamieson crowd

This was my first visit to Kenya. I’d been given the opportunity to visit because my father had accepted a plum job in Nairobi with United Nations, and part of his package, was a ‘dependants’ airfare once a year to wherever he was posted. Now he and his second wife were settled, they moved in diplomatic circles. This gave me the opportunity to meet and mingle with the sons and daughters of a number of English-speaking diplomats.

The first ‘getting to know you’ gathering was held at the Australian ambassador’s residence. It was followed by invitations to the homes of a number of other diplomats; the most interesting of whom was the Jamieson family. Mr Jamieson worked for the Library of Congress, but my father suspected his job may have been a cover for intelligence gathering activity of some kind, which, in retrospect, seems likely. Their daughter Mary, was a blonde bombshell. She had many Peace Corps friends, because the Jamieson’s house served as the base for Peace Corps volunteers when visiting Nairobi for medical attention or when in need of a break. I gravitated to Mary, as the fellas in her circle were a little older and involved in fascinating projects.

John Johnston was one of them. He was based in Somalia. I met him at the Jamieson’s house whilst he was in Nairobi receiving medical treatment for bilharzia. John was a great raconteur and I loved his Texan drawl. He told me how on his arrival in Somalia, he taught English at a regional school, at the same time learning to speak Somali. He then moved to the capital, Mogadishu, where he began translating Somali poetry into English. As I was obviously fascinated by him and his stories, he went on to tell me his “how I joined the Peace Corps” story.

After completing his undergraduate degree at the University of Texas, in Austin, he was uncertain of what to do next, so he asked his family priest for guidance. The priest answered, “Son, you’ll join the Peace Corps.” And he did.

Another story he told was about the Peace Corps’ first director, Sargent Shriver’s visit to Kenya, the year before. A fellow volunteer was asked to provide lunch for Shriver and his party. Wanting to impress, he blew his entire monthly allowance on a slap-up lunch. After eating, Shriver announced, “You guys are living too well. I’ll be cutting your allowance.” When word of this devastating decision got out, John and the other volunteers were incandescent, left wondering how they’d manage on less than ‘not much’.

With my new friend Mary’s encouragement, I had an innocent dalliance with John Johnson. She suggested I consider joining him in Mogadishu. This suggestion was driven by Mary’s unrealistic belief that I could support myself painting portraits, as writer and artist Joy Adamson had done, whilst living in East Africa. Joy’s book, Born Free, brought her work with the lioness Elsa, and her exceptional portraiture to world attention. Mary’s fanciful thinking was seriously flawed, because at that point, I had no idea what kind of artist I was, but I was certain I wasn’t a portrait artist. But there was a more pressing issue. As a died-in-the-wool realist, if I was to join John in Mogadishu, I wondered what funds we’d survive on? I was already aware that the Africa-based Peace Corps volunteers had recently had a pay-cut. Did John have family money? I doubted it, and, I was certain, had I joined him in Mogadishu, my father would’ve discontinued my allowance on the grounds of irresponsible behaviour and whatever else he could think of. My actions would’ve destroyed the illusion my father was determined to advance, one of familial harmony and respectability. As a result, when John returned to Mogadishu, I farewelled him with a heavy heart. I’d miss our interesting late-night telephone conversations, but we promised each other we’d write.

Artist Joy Adamson painting somewhere in East Africa
Image: Britannica

Tim Jansen was another member of Mary circle. The adopted son of the third secretary, to the American Ambassador to Kenya, he was born in southern Germany. His father, an African-American serviceman, was stationed in the American Occupation Zone at the end of World War 2. Tim was placed in an orphanage at birth. When he was seven years old, he was adopted by a childless diplomatic couple, who took him with them to the USSR, where Tim’s schooling continued. Before long, he was speaking Russian as well as German and English. The highlight of Tim’s time in the USSR was being selected to attend a Young Pioneers summer camp, the Russian version of Scouts. For him, the experience was unforgettable.

Now fast forward to Nairobi 1967.

Tim had recently returned to Nairobi from Lucerne, Switzerland, where he was studying medicine. His now widowed father, had arranged a holiday job for him with the world-famous paleoanthropologists, Mary and Louis Leakey who were based in Nairobi. The Leakey’s fame came from their late nineteen fifties discoveries of ancient humanoids at Olduvai Gorge in northern Tanzania. Possibly, due to the Leakey’s influence, Tim had been encouraged to take on caring for a motherless infant baboon from the Nairobi Game Park Orphanage, whilst staying in Nairobi over Christmas.

The baboon went everywhere with him in a roomy cage, stowed by the rear hatch door of his father’s VW Kombi, complete with fancy safari roof and even fancier diplomatic plates.

A baby baboon similar in age to Tim’s orphan
Image: google.fr

Tim and I spent a lot of time together. We became good friends and I suspect he’d romantic intentions. But my romantic interest, though hopeless as it turned out, lay elsewhere. Nonetheless, I did accept his numerous dinner invitations. Tim and his father introduced me to globe artichokes: one single steamed artichoke served with a small side dish of melted butter. I was shown how to pull each leaf away from the central stalk starting at the bottom, then dipping the ‘meaty’ end of the leaf into melted butter before stripping the flesh from the leaf by dragging it through clenched front teeth. This process was then repeated all the way up to the ‘globe’, that was then eaten with a knife and fork. It was a meditative ritual which, whenever I’ve eaten  steamed artichokes since, reminds me of dinners with Tim and his father.

Another drawcard was Tim’s father’s comprehensive library of books, written by contemporary African writers and, joy of joys, he was willing to share them. I devoured everything he suggested, giving me a much deeper understanding of the challenges confronting the Kenyan people, after Independence. I systematically read my way through a regularly refreshed pile of fascinating books. When I’d finished reading each one, he and I’d take time to discuss the contents at length.

Reading gave me an excuse to spend time alone in my bedroom, with its metal bars on all the windows. I wasn’t accustomed to this kind of extreme security in either Australia or New Guinea. Here in Kenya, the metal bars were a leftover from the targeted violence directed at British expatriates during the Mau Mau uprising in the 1950s.

I knew Tim was planning a number of day trips to places of interest, within striking distance of Nairobi, because he had a great sense of adventure as well as access to his father’s VW Kombi. I also knew I’d be invited. I was so grateful to have the opportunity to spend time with someone my own age. And I knew intuitively, whatever Tim turned up would be fun. Bring it on.

 

ON REFLECTION:
After I returned to Australia, John Johnson and I continued to correspond, but after a while the flame of passion flickered and died. After the fact, I sensed my mother was less averse to the idea of me moving to Mogadishu when I explained there was an unconfirmed rumour John Johnson was President Lyndon Baynes Johnson’s nephew.

In 2020, I contacted John asking permission to name him in my writing. He agreed, and kindly offered to return my letters, stored in his ‘Old Flames’ file since the late 1960s. Re-reading them, I’m profoundly embarrassed at their general scattiness, and lack of content and depth.

The orphaned infant baboon: The daily care Tim’s baby baboon required, always took me by surprise. Often, we’d be on our way to dinner with friends, before remembering we hadn’t bathed the infant baboon. We’d return to the house, bath and diaper the tiny primate, before heading out once more. As a result, we were always late.

After the fact, I realised I’d briefly experienced parenthood, without the preparation that comes from nine-months gestation. As I reflect on my time with Tim and his infant baboon, I realise they shared the ‘orphan’ experience.

Super-tanned Morley with Tim’s diapered baby baboon on her father’s
living room floor
Image: Grainger family photographs

Super-tanned Morley with Tim’s diapered baby baboon
on her father’s living room floor
Image: Grainger family photographs

FACTS:
John Johnson: John had a 30-year career as a folklorist and teacher at Indiana University. His Master’s degree from London University was based on his Somali research. Research for his doctorate was conducted in Mali, because in the interim, Somalia had descended into civil war. Throughout his career, he has published books and presented papers around the world.
https://folklore.indiana.edu/about/emeriti-faculty/johnson-john.html

The American Peace Corps: is an independent United States Government agency that runs a volunteer program, providing social and economic development assistance to other countries. The program was established in 1961 by President John F. Kennedy. The first director of the Peace Corps, was Kennedy’s brother-in-law, Sargent Shriver. Volunteers are American citizens, typically with a college degree who, after three months training, work overseas for two years. Volunteers work with governments, schools, non-profit
organizations, non-government organizations, and entrepreneurs in education, youth development, community health, business, information technology, agriculture, and the environment.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peace_Corps

Bilharzia: Schistosomiasis, or snail fever, is spread by contact with fresh water contaminated with parasites released from infected freshwater snails. It’s life threatening without treatment.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schistosomiasis

Joy Adamson: Writer and artist
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joy_Adamson

Young Pioneers: The All-Union Pioneer Organization was named after Vladimir Lenin. A Russian version of the Scouts, the name was shortened to Young Pioneers. Attendance was compulsory for both boys and girls, between the ages of 9–15, living in the USSR. Young Pioneers learned social co-operation skills in publicly funded summer camps.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vladimir_Lenin_All-Union_Pioneer_Organization

The Leakeys: In 1959, paleoanthropologists Mary and Louis Leakey, reestablished excavation programs at Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania, that led to the discovery of Zinjanthropus boisei, the mandible of a Homo habilis, Hominid No.5 and Hominid No.7. All these finds have been dated from around 2.1 million years. The couple continued to make important discoveries until their retirement.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Leakey
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Leakey

Their son, Richard Leakey, also works in palaeoanthropology and conservation. A ‘blue sky’ thinker, before his death, he commissioned Daniel Libeskind to design Ngaren: The Museum of Humankind, to be built on a cliff edge overlooking Kenya’s Rift Valley.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Leakey

Artist’s impression of Ngaren: the proposed Museum of Humankind in the Rift Valley Kenya
Image: 88designbox.com

Artist’s impression of Ngaren: close-up of the proposed Museum of Humankind in the Rift
Valley Kenya
Image: 88designbox.com

Artist’s impression of Ngaren: close-up of the proposed
Museum of Humankind in the Rift Valley Kenya
Image: 88designbox.com

https://www.ngaren.org/about (7min video)

Mau Mau Uprising: a violent anti-British secret society active in colonial Kenya between 1952 and 1960. Mau Mau activities hastened Kenyan Independence from Britain which was granted in 1963.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mau_Mau_Uprising

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 21: Pirates and slaves

This was my first trip to Africa. Very soon after I arrived, I discovered that my father and his second wife Alison, had put considerable thought into planning a number of excursions to parts of Kenya they hadn’t yet explored. And, I don’t think it was coincidental, that these excursions coincided with my six-week visit at the end of 1967. I felt welcome and included.

Nairobi at the centre of this map
Image: Expert Africa 2012

Our first out of town excursion was to the Kenya’s coastal port of Mombasa, five hours by road, south-east of Nairobi.

We headed off early in the ‘good car’ — a 1966 Toyota Crown Deluxe —provided by United Nations as part of my father’s package. The car was equipped with all mod cons: leather bucket seats, electric radio aerial and electric windows. I was impressed. Even though I had an Australian driver’s licence I wasn’t invited to drive either the Toyota or Alison’s Audi whilst I was visiting. But I wasn’t at all offended. On the contrary, I was delighted to be chauffeur-driven, as it offered me the opportunity to closely scrutinise my extraordinary surroundings, as we glided by.

My father’s 1966 Toyota Crown Deluxe sedan
Image: Reddit

Hunters Lodge entrance C 1968
Image: standardmedia.co.ke

To get to Mombasa, we drove through Tsavo National Park, with wildlife wandering on both sides of the two-lane road that, for much of the way, followed the railway line. By the time we reached Hunters Lodge at Kiboko, our first stop, we’d ticked numerous boxes on our wildlife-sighting sheet. We’d seen elephant, giraffe, zebra and lesser kudu. So, it was already a good wildlife sighting day and we were only part way to our final destination.

The restaurant at Hunters Lodge was renown across East Africa for an imaginative menu. As superior catering was a pre-requisite for my father, who considered himself a gastronome, I was looking forward to something special. To my complete surprise, ‘something special’ came out of left field and wasn’t in any way related to food.

As we made our way along the covered walkway to the open-air dining area, I could hear a cacophony of bird sounds, that became louder and louder, as we approached our table. From our vantage point, the panoramic view out across the landscape, was dominated by a huge spreading Thorn tree, that was teeming with birdlife and festooned with dangling bird’s nests. It was an extraordinary sight. The tree was home to hundreds of small, bright yellow and black weaverbird pairs; their nests, in various stages of completion, firmly secured to the finer branches. I was captivated as I watched the male weaverbirds chirping noisily whilst, at the same time, weaving additional lengths of fresh green grass into their nests, taking particular care around the small circular entrance. Some females were already in residence, having deemed their partner’s woven house construction to their liking.

But I confess I have no memory of the meal as the weaverbird’s antics demanded my full attention.

African Weaver birds building their nests
Image: African Bird Club

After lunch, I reluctantly farewelled the noisy avians to resume our journey. But we had one more stop to make before Mombasa. Some miles down the road we took a left turn to go north, and before long, the settlement of Malindi came into view. Malindi was another highly regarded resort area, noted for its pristine beaches and stunning views out across the Indian Ocean.

Our destination was the famous Malindi Golf and Country Club, which was high on my father and Alison’s list of places to visit, even though neither of them played golf.

Malindi Golf and Country Club C 1960
Image: Malindigolfclub.com

Our arrival was perfectly timed to coincide with afternoon tea, much to my father’s satisfaction. We were escorted to a veranda that looked out across the ocean, and, as we waited for tea, we felt a gentle, cooling, sea breeze. The breeze was most welcome, as we were feeling the coastal heat. From our table, we could see a cerulean blue sky, with cumulus cloud formations floating above an intensely blue ocean, the blue water fading to shades of aquamarine, as it came closer to lap the sandy shore. A picture of this amazing view wouldn’t have been out of place in a glossy upmarket tourist brochure.

Malindi Beach—a beach-lover’s dream
Image: onaafrica.com

After tea we retraced our tracks, driving south to our final destination, the Mombasa Club on Mombasa Island. The Club, an imposing two or three storey colonial building with a sweeping view of the harbour, provided recreation and accommodation for their elite expatriate membership.

Always keen to explore, imagine my delight to find a fair-dinkum 16th century fort right next door to the Club! Things were looking up. The Fort Jesus build was begun by the Portuguese in 1593, to protect their profitable trade in and out of Port Mombasa. It was a huge, imposing structure with super thick defensive outer walls. At intervals along the Fort’s upper level, there were well placed openings for cannons, used to deter those approaching from any direction, with marauding in mind.

Mombasa Club on the right, Fort Jesus on the left
Image: www.delcampe.com

Fort Jesus viewed from the sea shore
Image: Tripadvisor

The only way to enter the Fort, was to walk up the sloping sally port. Once inside, the extensive internal area was scattered with a number of restored garrison buildings, as well as the remains of others, originally used for soldiers’ accommodation, ammunition and stores.

Fort Jesus sally port entrance
Image: Dreamtime.com

Fort Jesus ramparts with cannon
Image: Wikimedia

Interior of Fort Jesus with the remains of building foundations
Image: nipeplace.com.ke

I quickly made friends with the archaeologist working at the Fort. He was a nice bloke whowasn’t at all fazed by the string of questions I asked each time I visited, as I was dead keen to know about every nook and cranny. He was a mine of information. He told me that Mombasa had been founded in nine hundred AD, and became an important centre for trade in spices, gold, ivory and slaves. But it wasn’t until the arrival of the Portuguese in 1593, that the decision was taken to build a fort to protect their trade and traders.

Over our three-day stay, I visited the site as often as I could. The archaeologist, aware of my interest, took me to see additional sites where there were excavations in progress. He explained that the excavations had exposed layers of occupation down to the final layer of builders’ rubble, evidence of the fort’s genesis. He also showed me bags of catalogued ‘finds’, that had been uncovered in earlier excavations, the stratigraphic layers giving up fragments of the previous occupier’s lives. I tried to imagine what life would’ve been like for the military men living in this fortification, ready, at a moment’s notice, to fight off would-be invaders.

I was enjoying myself immensely. As it turned out, there were very few visitors to the Fort whilst I was staying next door at the Club. So, whenever I visited with more questions, I had unlimited access to the  archaeologist’s knowledge of the site.

Before we left Mombasa to return to Nairobi, I reluctantly tore myself away from the Fort, in time to do a quick spin around Mombasa’s Old Town, to see the remaining, solidly built Moorish buildings. The facades of which were magnificent, with tall studded wooden doors opening into enclosed courtyards, kept cool by thick walls, built of coral and stone. This ancient building technique helps to reduce the internal temperature of buildings in super-hot climates like Mombasa’s, centuries before air-conditioning. After our tour, we headed back up the hill to Nairobi, in plenty of time to prepare for the start of my father’s working week.

Some of Mombasa’s remaining Moorish buildings
Image: Sultan Hajiyevi.com

Spending time with my father and Alison on our first excursion, made me acutely aware that in order to make the most of my remaining weeks in Kenya, I would need to find other folk doing interesting things who were happy to have me tag along, as I’d done with the archaeologist at Fort Jesus. I’d keep my eyes peeled for the  adventurous, because I was staying in Nairobi for another month. It remained to be seen how successful I’d be.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Hunters Lodge: until my first weaverbird encounter, I was certain that we Homo sapiens were the first living creatures to develop weaving technology. Being from a family engaged in the alchemy of turning threads into fabric, it came as a huge surprise to find a bird species similarly engaged. It was mind-blowing for me to consider the probability that this species had been weaving fibres for eons before humans evolved to do likewise.

Fort Jesus: Fort Jesus, named ‘Fortaleza de Jesus de Mombaca’ by the Portuguese, became my refuge between meals at the Mombasa Club. I was so grateful to have somewhere to go to give my father and Alison a break from my thinly veiled, passive-aggressive teenage attitude. Since my late teens, I’ve had a continuing fascination with all things archaeological, and I’m now certain that my interest was piqued, as the result of my Fort Jesus experience, way back in 1967.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mombasa

Comparisons: Our excursion to Mombasa Island, was for me, a hugely broadening experience. It was almost too much to take in on a single visit. As I integrated my observations, I found myself comparing the comfortable, quasi-colonial lifestyle, enjoyed by expatriates like my father and Alison, living in post-independence Kenya, to that of Papua New Guinea’s expatriates, many of whom were caught up in the uncertainty the push for independence was causing, at this time. In 1967, Independence for Papua New Guinea was some seven years away. There, some expatriates thought to stay in the hope that their lifestyle wouldn’t be seriously affected, whereas others planned to forgo their lives of comfort and return to Australia. I imagine in pre-independence Kenya, there were expatriates confronted with the same dilemma, ‘do we stay, or do we go?’ I came to the conclusion there were similarities in both countries, with expatriates watching with trepidation, as colonialism gradually morphed into Independence before their eyes.

In Kenya independence from Britain came in 1963. For Papua New Guinea, Independence from Australia came in 1975.

Even from my egocentric teenage perspective, I could see that my father represented the new breed of post-independence workers, doing a job that wasn’t profit driven. Nonetheless, he relished the privileged lifestyle his status allowed.

FACTS:
Hunters Lodge Kiboko: The owner of the Lodge, J.A. Hunter, was variously described as a tearaway, farmer, railroad guard, big game hunter and transport agent. He was also sometimes a poacher, a game warden, a writer and a hotelkeeper. In his sunset years (in the 1950s and 1960s) he realised the wildlife that he’d so assiduously hunted now faced extinction. Instead, he began speaking out in favour of conservation. At Hunters Lodge, he created an oasis for some three hundred bird species including weaverbirds. Hunter’s one-eighty turn around, shows that it’s never too late for an attitude change.

Fort Jesus: was built between 1593 and 1596 on the orders of Prince Philip 1 of Portugal. The building covered an area of 2.5 hectares, with walls one metre thick at the base.

Map of the Mombasa Fortress in 1635. Kenya by Bocarro Antonio. Livro das Plantas de
todas las fortalezas, cidades e povoacoens do Estado de India Oriental.
Translation: Book of Plants of all fortresses, cities and towns in the State of Eastern India.
Image: Starforts.com

Map of the Mombasa Fortress in 1635. Kenya by Bocarro
Antonio. Livro das Plantas de todas las fortalezas,
cidades e povoacoens do Estado de India Oriental.
Translation: Book of Plants of all fortresses, cities and
towns in the State of Eastern India.
Image: Starforts.com

https://www.safari254.com/fort-jesus-a-piece-of-history/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Jesus

Sally port: is a secure, controlled entryway to a fortification or prison. The entrance was usually protected by a fixed wall on the outside, parallel to the door, which must be circumvented to enter. It may also include two sets of doors, that could be barred independently to further delay enemy penetration.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sally_port

Port Mombasa: later became a key node in the complex, and far-reaching Indian Ocean trading networks, distributing ivory, millet, sesame seeds and coconuts to India and China.

Over the centuries, Mombasa’s port maintained its strategic importance, possibly explaining why it changed hands so often. It passed from Portugal to Oman, then from Oman to Zanzibar, then Zanzibar to Britain and finally, in 1963, Kenya gained Independence from Britain.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mombasa
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kenya

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 20: Wildlife abounds

Midway through 1967, I received an unexpected invitation from my father, asking me to visit him and his second wife now living in Nairobi, for the Christmas holidays. The time frame fitted perfectly with the six-week National Art School Christmas break, and I was over-the-moon excited. As I was already a seasoned traveller, this invitation offered me yet another opportunity to broaden my horizons, this time, in Africa. 

My father and Alison had left New Zealand to take up the job of a lifetime with United Nations in Kenya. They had settled into their new life in East Africa and were now ready to receive family. By way of background: my parents separated in 1957, followed by a messy divorce. As a result, I’d not lived under my father’s roof for ten years and, as my departure date drew nearer, I experienced intensifying waves of both excitement and trepidation. After my parents divorced, my father remarried, this time to family friend Alison McRae, the daughter of well-known Sydney architect George McCrae. Thereafter, my mother who was an unforgiving woman, would, given any opportunity, voice her malevolent feelings toward Alison, criticising her looks, her figure, her taste and her lack of style. But she chose to conveniently disregard Alison’s attributes, which included her analytical intellect, as she was one of the few women to graduate in Science from Sydney University before World War 2, and her orderly, scientific mind. I’d lived with my mother’s ceaseless criticism of Alison for years, and a result my attitude towards her was somewhat jaundiced. Because of this, I did wonder how my visit would pan out—living under the same roof 24/7 over six weeks, could be a colossal test of tolerance for three people who were in effect, total strangers.

My father was an electrical engineer who’d trained at Faraday House Electrical Engineering College in London, and was now working for the United Nations (UN) International Labour Organization (ILO). For many years he had worked for W.D. Scott & Co, a firm of highly regarded Sydney-based management consultants. He’d spent some time living and working in Auckland, helping to streamline New Zealand’s plywood industry. I was told he’d been headhunted for the ILO job, and assumed that the success of the plywood project had come to the attention of the ILO recruiters.

My father’s Nairobi brief was completely different. He was to set up a small business advisory centre, offering business advice and training for Africans, struggling to compete with Asian [read people from India] traders who dominated commerce across East Africa at the time. The job came with numerous benefits, including one ‘dependants’ airfare once a year to wherever he was posted. His UN appointment was the highpoint of his long career. At last, at 59 years old, he had the professional status and the salary he craved.

At the end of 1960, my mother and I left Australia for New Guinea. Since then, I’d only seen my father twice. The first time in 1961 at my brother’s wedding to a Sydney socialite; the second in 1965, during my last week at The Glennie Memorial School in Toowoomba. He’d come to discuss my disappointing scholastic results with the headmistress after which she immediately called a full school assembly and resigned. My father cheekily took the credit for this extraordinary turn of events, even though he claimed that, during his one-hour meeting with her, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Naturally my mother was incensed by his audacity.

Bridesmaid Morley one of four bridesmaids for my
brother’s wedding in Sydney in 1961
Image: Grainger family photographs

But I digress.

I’d had a total of four months to prepare for this grand African adventure. By departure day I had a freshly-minted passport, a vaccination booklet itemising each of the immunisations I’d received, stylish home-sewn garments including the ‘little black dress’ for cocktail parties, a hairpiece, my mother’s Kodak camera and a number of carefully wrapped Christmas gifts for my father and Alison. I was super excited, wondering what adventures awaited me on the other side of the Indian Ocean. To get there, I took a Qantas flight out of Sydney to Perth, and then across the ocean to Mauritius. Those of us travelling on to Nairobi or London knew we’d be spending a couple of days on Mauritius, whist waiting for the BOAC connecting flight from London. Fortunately, the expenses associated with this two-day layover were covered by Qantas and I must confess, I was looking forward to making the most of the amenities on offer at the posh seaside resort where we would stay, whilst waiting for the connecting flight.

Sydney to Nairobi via Mauritius
Image: Google

Sugarcane fields across Mauritius
Image: Wikipedia

My short stay on this island was an interesting experience as once again, I found myself an uninvited guest in yet another multi-racial country. Here on Mauritius, the most unexpectedly arresting visual element was the profusion of sugarcane. Every which way, there were expansive vistas of bright green. Tall, feather-tipped cane, waving gently in the breeze; the cane planted right up to the edge of the road on both sides, creating long, straight, ‘corridors’ of road, open to the sky.

We filled our days being tourists. We drove through the seemingly endless fields of sugar cane to visit sites of interest recommended by the resort staff. As we explored the island, I was fascinated by the numerous religious shrines, both Hindu and Christian, nestled into the greenery by the sides of the roads. Each one lovingly erected and decorated by the devout.

Christian shrine by the roadside— one of many on Mauritius
Image: source unknown

I must confess that we were all thoroughly enjoying the resort, with its uninterrupted views across the Indian Ocean, as we chowed down on the abundant fresh seafood the surrounding ocean provided, magnificently presented at every meal. But all too soon it was time to leave this tropical island paradise to board the aircraft for the last leg of my journey to Nairobi to holiday with my father and Alison, who no doubt, like me were harbouring niggling concerns about the success or otherwise of my visit.

They were at the Nairobi airport to meet me. We then drove to their picturesque ranch-style bungalow, set squarely at the end of an extensive paved driveway amid lawns and well-kept gardens in the quiet leafy suburb of Lavington, an enclave of the ‘well to do’.

Alison and Morley standing beside my father’s Toyota with Alison’s Audi parked alongside it in front of the garage and the servants’
quarters in the southern wing of the house. Note the Toyota’s red diplomatic license plates that provided diplomatic immunity
Image: Grainger family photographs

Alison and Morley standing beside my father’s Toyota
with Alison’s Audi parked alongside it in front of the
garage and the servants’ quarters in the southern
wing of the house. Note the Toyota’s red diplomatic
license plates that provided diplomatic immunity
Image: Grainger family photographs

Their two acre ‘estancia’ was fastidiously maintained both inside and out by two Kikuyu men: Bulla the gardener and Mareba the cook and house servant, both of whom lived on the premises.

Alison had already applied her forensic mind to learning Swahili, the lingua franca of East Africa. She was determined to master the language necessary to manage the servants and ensure the household ran smoothly. For the first time in her adult life Alison, who married my father in her late 40s, wasn’t working as a scientist to support herself, or as was later the case, to support my mother and myself. A clever, active woman, she’d quickly become involved with several local charitable organisations and as my father proudly put it, she now ‘worked for charity’.

During business hours Monday to Friday my father was at the Small Business Development Centre office, so Alison was left with the task of entertaining me. She took me on whatever outings were scheduled for a given day. Once a week I accompanied her to the Nairobi General Hospital’s maternity ward, to rearrange flowers for European mothers who had recently given birth. This wasn’t madly exciting for a nineteen-year-old but I did my best not to let it show. As an aside—a week or so later I was unexpectedly admitted to the same hospital to have my wisdom teeth extracted. But, back to the story.

Late one afternoon during my first week in Kenya, Alison suggested we visit the Nairobi National Park, Kenya’s main tourist drawcard due to its proximity to the city. In less than half an hour we reached the city’s southern outskirts. Once through the entrance gates, we saw a profusion of African animals roaming free across 12,000 hectares of Thorn tree-studded grassland.

A somewhat romanticized view of animals drinking at an African waterhole in the late afternoon
Image: rightsafrica.com

The entrance to the Nairobi National Park as I remember it in the late 1960s
Image: Historypin

As a child, I’d been taken to visit Sydney’s Taronga Zoo and I recall being super distressed to see so many wild animals confined in small spaces. Here in the Nairobi National Park, the tables were turned. We humans were the ones confined to our vehicles and instructed to keep the windows and doors closed for the duration of our visit.

That afternoon, we found a space to park the car, with a ring-side view down into a sizeable waterhole, one of a number in the park. From this vantage point, we could clearly see the long lines of wildlife wandering in from all directions to drink. Our car was one of a number filled with humans, watching intently, as the animals meandered between our cars to access the waterhole. Lion, zebra, varieties of gazelle, baboon, monkey and giraffe took turns to drink, completely unperturbed by the squawking birds that swooped in and out amongst them. This was the first time I had been up-close with African wildlife, and as the temperature dropped, I was fascinated to watch the playful antics of the animals after they’d drunk their fill. I was hooked.

Visits to the National Park were the highlight of my early days in Nairobi. Whenever Alison suggested a late afternoon visit, I jumped at the chance, because as the newbie, I couldn’t get enough of wildlife-watching. Our regular visits, gave me the opportunity to identify many African animals, both large and small, making their home in this extensive area of bushland, that had been intentionally set aside for wildlife preservation and only a stone’s throw from the city.

But I knew my father and Alison had other interesting excursions planned for the remainder of my stay. Naturally I was intensely curious to know what, where and when. Thankfully I didn’t have to wait for too long to find out.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Visiting my father in Nairobi: My father had invited me to re-enter his life after a gap of ten years. During those years, I had seen him twice. But since enrolling at the National Art School, I’d been living independently, so I found it a tad tricky to fit back in to a tight domestic routine that was unfamiliar and offered little wriggle room. With effort, I managed to conceal my ‘know-it-all’ teenage attitude. Also, I was harbouring a sizeable load of second-hand resentment, thanks to my mother’s never-ending flow of vitriol whenever my father and Alison’s names were mentioned in conversation.

Now under their roof, I watched with fascination as Alison deftly ‘managed’ my father, particularly when she had a good idea. In a moment of conspiratorial openness, she explained her modus operandi for implementing her ideas. Firstly, she would plant the seed by briefly outlining her idea; then bide her time, waiting for my father to later claim the idea as his own. I realised this was an example of manipulation elevated to the level of ‘high art’, in marked contrast to the confrontational interactions I remember my parents having before my father left us. In these confrontations, my mother rarely got her own way and always resented it.

Having witnessed both co-existence methods, I was determined to find another way to co-exist in my own personal relationships. Instead of manipulation or confrontation, I tried consultation, and it worked perfectly. When I reflect on my subsequent relationships, I was nearly always the initiator of change, I would lead with the question, “What do you think of this idea?” As a result, most of my ideas came to fruition. I’ve now lived alone for many years, and as a result, the decision-making process is far simpler. Nonetheless, consultation
is still necessary, particularly when I’m out of my depth and need advice.

The Nairobi National Park: Following my numerous visits to the Nairobi National Park, I’ve not been able to bring myself to visit a traditional zoo in any of the many countries I’ve since lived in, or visited.

Lioness taking advantage of a car roof to 
provide a better view of her surroundings
Image: Flikr

After seeing a lioness lying on the roof of a vehicle with one paw dangling down over the windscreen, my perspective on wildlife management changed forever.

All these years later, I’ve come to realise what an extraordinary privilege it was for me to make multiple visits to this incredible facility, unlike the package-tour tourists who got to visit once. Living in Nairobi, we visited often, fascinated to watch the passing parade of wildlife at close quarters. Wildlife that had no fear of vehicles or people. Had it not been for my father and Alison choosing to live in Nairobi, this close-up access to the plethora of wildlife inhabiting the Park, would not have been possible.

Impressions of Africa: My first impressions of the people, the wildlife and the landscape of Africa was awe-inspiring. But it wasn’t until years later that I came to fully appreciate the gift my father and Alison has given by inviting me to visit them in Nairobi, not just once, but twice! But, I’m getting ahead of myself!

FACTS:
George McRae: (1857-1923) Alison McRae Grainger’s father, was a Scottish architect who migrated to Australia, to become the Government Architect of New South Wales. He went on to design some of Sydney’s best-known buildings, including completion of the Sydney Town Hall, the Queen Victoria Building, and the lower entrance to Taronga Zoo.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_McRae

Mauritius: Mauritius is an island of strategic importance. It was uninhabited until the Dutch took possession in 1594, eager to harvest the Ebony timber, and grow sugar cane. The settlement was later abandoned. The French came next, in 1715, then the British in 1810. The island became Britain’s main sugar producing colony until independence was granted in 1967.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mauritius

Nairobi: the capital of Kenya, is situated in the south-central part of the country, at an elevation of 1,680m with a population of 10 million in 1967 that has increased to 57 million in 2024, with an annual rainfall of 926mm.

Faraday House Electrical Engineering College: referred to as a facility ‘providing engineering training for the sons of gentlemen’ operated between 1890 and 1967. The four-year course resulted in a D.F.H. (Diploma of Faraday House). My father attended this institution in the early 1930s, and the qualification stood him in good stead as he moved into management consultancy for many years before joining ILO.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faraday_House

Swahili: Swahili is a Bantu language spoken by an estimated 150 million people in most East African countries. Swahili is officially recognised as the lingua franca of the East African community.

Nairobi National Park: Nairobi is promoted as “The World’s Only Wildlife Capital”. The National Park is located about seven kilometres south of Nairobi’s central business district. It is fenced on three sides, with the southern boundary left open to allow migrating wildlife to move between the park and the adjacent Kitengela plains. The Park’s wide-open grass plains scattered with Thorn trees, hosts a wide variety of wildlife including the endangered black rhino, lions, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, buffaloes, giraffes and diverse birdlife with over 400 species recorded. Herbivores gather in the park during the dry season.
http://www.kws.go.ke/parks/nairobi-national-park

African Thorn trees: Vachellia tortilis, widely known as Acacia tortilis but now attributed to the genus Vachellia, grow across Africa. In extremely arid conditions it may grow as a small wiry bush but in other regions, with a higher rainfall, the tree can grow to a height of 21 metres.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vachellia_tortilis

Picturesque Umbrella Thorn trees Vachellia tortilis shading a family of elephants
Image: Blogger.com

Close up of the thorns protecting the foliage of the Umbrella Thorn tree Vachellia tortilis
Image: iNaturalist

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 19: Pepper and the mudmen

It was the year of 1967, and I was more than half way through my 2nd year at the National Art School’s Randwick Campus in Sydney as the August holidays approached.

As always, I began to mentally prepare myself for the cultural shift that was required whenever I left Australia to return to the New Guinea Highlands. This time, I was headed for Goroka, the small settlement where my mother was currently living and working. Re-entry required adjusting to high-altitude living, a change of diet and the need to move between two languages—English and Tok Pisin.

I was really looking forward to a change of scene because studying at the National Art School was an intense experience as I concentrated on refining my art-making techniques across the subject areas on offer. With no familial support, I cracked on, rarely missing any one of the fascinating weekday classes. My down time was filled with homework, laundry, complicated dressmaking projects, in my attempt to emulate Jackie Kennedy, and socialising. 

Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band LP record cover
Image: Steeophile.com

In May of that year, amidst the flurry of worldwide expectation, The Beatles released their Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. With my return to Goroka imminent, I splurged and purchased the forty minutes of riveting lyrics, and cutting-edge music on an LP record. I was keen to see how the LP would be received by the expatriates living in New Guinea Highlands who, in spite of their isolation, were eager to stay in touch with what was happening in the wider world.

By the time I was due to head north, I’d played the record so many times that I knew the lyrics of each song by heart.

At last, departure day arrived. I headed out to Kingsford-Smith airport, my suitcase filled with a number of very stylish outfits I’d made since my last visit, with matching shoes and accessories for each outfit. But I wasn’t prepared to risk stowing the Sgt Pepper record in my suitcase. Instead, I carried it on board the aircraft along with my handbag and the obligatory ‘beauty case’, containing the beauty aids and make-up I’d need whilst I was away.

As always, I returned to the Goroka community exuding the confidence of an eighteen-year-old, well aware of the shortage of women and oversupply of young single men, many with a heightened sense of adventure I found most attractive.

My mother met me at the airstrip, excited to welcome me home. My visits gave her an excuse to take time off from her all-consuming job. Her job was innovative and huge—she single-handedly managed over twenty Wool Project units throughout the Highlands.

To begin with we’d spend a day or so together catching up. We’d take turns to swap snippets of Goroka gossip for snippets from Sydney. Once we’d caught up, we were ready for whatever came next: dressmaking, socialising and, this time, spinning Sgt Pepper on the record player.

In small communities like Goroka, word spreads fast. And so it was with the arrival of the Sgt Pepper LP because it wasn’t long before a couple of kiaps from Asaro, who were in town on outstation business, dropped by to suggest a Sgt Pepper party. They proposed gathering the following Saturday, at their Patrol Post, a thirty-minute drive from Goroka, and, of course, we immediately accepted their invitation.

Saturday arrived, and after we’d dressed appropriately for an outstation party, I carefully placed the Sgt Pepper LP on the back seat of my mother’s car, before driving west along the bumpy Highlands Highway to Asaro. We arrived in time to join in the mid-afternoon ‘activities’ and as you guessed, consuming alcohol. So priming the pump before the ‘Sgt Pepper’ Party proper, got started.

On outstations throughout Papua and New Guinea, the school house, if there was one, was occasionally used as the kiap’s social club, out of school hours. We arrived to find the school room had been cleared of all superfluous school-related paraphernalia and now had all the trappings of a social club. The centrepiece was the bar. The floor space, we’d later use for dancing, had been ringed with chairs. A record player, connected to two very tall speakers, was waiting, ready to play the radical songs on both sides of my Sgt Pepper record. The kiaps had invited their expat neighbours to the Sgt Pepper party, some living nearby and others like us, from further afield.

The fertile Asaro Valley remained heavily populated by many Melanesian clan groups, as it’d been for millennium long before the coming of Europeans. The men of one local clan group, the Komunive, were well known for performing a strange silent menacing dance that was acknowledged worldwide for its uniqueness. Legend has it that a group of Komunive warriors who’d survived an attack by a neighbouring tribe, fled to the Asaro River. At the river’s edge they fell into a mud puddle, emerging with their bodies coated, top to toe, in light grey mud. Their attackers, determined to finish the job, pursued them to the river’s edge where they were confronted by a cluster of ghostly figures. The attackers, convinced they were the avenging spirits of the Komunive men they’d just killed, turned tail and ran.

Asaro mudmen and mud boys today
Image: The Sun

Asaro mud boys in training for the future
Image: KKnews.cc

After their miraculous escape they realised the advantage their mud ‘costume’ gave them. They enhanced their advantage by making frightening mud masks using clay from the river then devised a grotesque, silent, free-form dance that was their imagined interpretation of the movements made by departed spirits.

Thereafter, whenever enemy tribes threatened, the Komunive men would coat themselves in grey mud, place frightening clay helmets on their heads, before taking up their weapons. At least one of their number would attach long bamboo fingernails to their fingers, and together the group would drive off their attackers with their eerie, wordless dance, accompanied by the clacking sound of bamboo fingernails.

But I digress—back to the party.

The school house cum social club was a large, rectangular building, with a smooth timber floor, woven bamboo walls and thatched roof and supported by round timber cross-beams. From the bar came a steady stream of refreshments and nibbles, so it wasn’t long before we were all sufficiently lubricated to abandon our inhibitions and take to the dance floor, to jiggle up and down to The Beatles latest songs.

As the dance floor filled to overflowing, my mother decided on a most unconventional course of action. She somehow managed to reach up and grab hold of the round timber crossbeam above her head. And what happened next was beyond breathtaking. I watched in disbelief as my mother twisted herself to hang upside down from the crossbeam, swinging backwards and forwards in time with ‘Lucy in the sky with diamonds’, with its ‘out there’ lyrics, thought to be a thinly disguised reference to LSD. I was shocked numb by my mother’s antics, but there was nowhere to hide. In public I was always anxious to make a good impression; that of a responsible teenage daughter from a broken home, but this incident wasn’t the first or the last time I’d be embarrassed by my mother’s behaviour. I’ve no idea how we got her down but the party continued into the wee small hours with Sgt Pepper on high rotation, blasting out across the Asaro Valley. It seemed the gathering couldn’t get enough of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. I was delighted that the music was receiving the same positive response in this far-flung corner of the world, as it was globally.

As dawn broke, we bade farewell to our Asaro hosts to drive back to Goroka, noting that we weren’t the last to leave the gathering. As we were leaving, I made sure my precious Sgt Pepper record was safely stowed on the back seat of my mother’s car.

The party was over but I still had another full week of holidays in Goroka. To fill the time, I planned a number of interesting dressmaking projects using lengths of beautiful hand-woven fabric my mother had set aside for me to use.

My favourite was the skirt and poncho I made from a black and white check woollen blanket. I took the time to match the checks perfectly before lining the skirt with red cotton fabric and carefully hemstitching the poncho fringe in matching thread, to avoid fraying.

I considered myself a ball of style as I modelled the outfit; the poncho worn over a fine red wool jumper and the skirt, with flat red shoes completing the ensemble. My mother insisted on photographing the outfit on the veranda of our house, and by a stroke of luck, I still have the photograph today.

Morley on the veranda of the Goroka house, modelling an outfit she made from a black and white hand-woven check blanket. The skirt was fully lined. Note red sweater and red shoes complementing the black, grey and white squares
Image: Grainger family photographs

But I digress.

With my mega-dressmaking mission a success, I’d be going back to Australia with my suitcase full to overflowing with a number of strikingly original winter outfits that’d be most suitable for rubbing shoulders with Sydney’s stylish arts fraternity at the numerous art show openings we attended.

Before I left Goroka, my mother and I had the opportunity to discuss my future at the National Art School. I explained that towards the end of my second Year at Randwick Tech, I’d be asked to make a decision that on completion of my studies, would define my career path. There were two distinct study streams on offer. The first was the Commercial Art Certificate stream requiring one more year of full-time study, of particular interest to those itching to complete a qualification and join the workforce. The second was the Fine Arts Diploma, requiring three more years of full-time study, majoring in either Painting, Drawing, Sculpture or Ceramics. For the record, Textiles wasn’t offered as a Fine Arts major at the National Art School, or anywhere else in those days; that was years away.

For me it was a no-brainer. I wanted to complete the Commercial Art Certificate and get out into the workforce, because I knew full well, I wasn’t the fine artist the world had been waiting for.

Some days later it was time for me to return to Sydney to complete the last term of my 2nd Year art studies. I knew I wouldn’t be returning to New Guinea for Christmas that year because, for the first time, I’d been invited to visit my father and his second wife who were now living in Nairobi, Kenya.

I was really looking forward to visiting Africa for what I hoped would be a number of visits, if things worked out well.

 

ON REFLECTION:
New Guinea and Australia: After a couple of weeks in New Guinea, I’d begin to crave the predictability of my Sydney life.On my return, it wasn’t long before the predictability of city life began to grate. I now realise I was caught between two worlds.

Kiap parties: Outstation gatherings were a most effective way for single kiaps to return hospitality.

In retrospect, I wonder what the Asaro mudmen and their families thought of our acoustic intrusion. Their previous exposure to European music, if any, would’ve been provided by one of a number of Christian missions, with hymn singing the focus. I imagine they were completely bewildered by the discordant sounds of the Sgt Pepper song cycle, as it floated across their land for the duration of the gathering. The sounds in sharp contrast to the melodic hymns they had learned to sing in church.

Family dynamics: My mother’s unpredictable actions and reactions always worried me. My parents separated in 1958, and then divorced in 1960. In between, I did what I could to cope with the ramifications of my parents’ separation, determined to overcome the shame I felt, as the product of a failed marriage. To do this I decided to re-invent myself as the perfect daughter of divorced parents. I took the role very seriously, becoming my mother’s confidant, often unconsciously engaging in role reversal, where I became the parent and she the child. The price I paid for the years of role reversal, was a forfeited adolescence. I’ve since come to understand that adolescence is an essential developmental stage for humans; a time to explore, to push boundaries and fully interrogate life.

I’m pleased to report that I was able to revisit my adolescence when I was twenty-four years old, whilst studying in Mexico. Fortunately, Mexico was far away from the prying eyes and long memories of adopted family and friends, back in Australia. Mexico offered me the opportunity to conceal my youthful indiscretions, thereby avoiding the embarrassment of being reminded of them, long into adulthood.

Art School: By the end of second term, it became abundantly clear my creative output fell well short of the work being produced by my classmates, and, as a result, I was unlikely to find fame or fortune, as a fine artist. Being a pragmatist at heart, and in consultation with my parents, I’d chosen the Commercial Art Certificate option, the shorter of the two study streams on offer. With the decision made, I began to dream about the possible job opportunities out there in the real world, after I’d completed my course. I was filled with optimism as the late 1960s in Australia were the halcyon days of full employment and I was quite sure I’d find well-paid work as a commercial artist, somewhere in Sydney after I’d graduated.

As the result of my decision, my final year of art study would take place at the East Sydney Technical College campus of the National Art School, in Darlinghurst, where the Commercial Art Certificate stream was taught, but not until I’d returned from my first trip to Africa.

FACTS:
The languages of Papua and New Guinea: Papua New Guinea is a sovereign state in Oceania. It’s the most linguistically diverse country in the world. According to Ethnologue, the respected language catalogue, there are 839 living languages, not dialects, spoken in the country. The languages with statutory recognition are Tok Pisin, English, Hiri Motu, and Papua New Guinean Sign Language. Tok Pisin, an English-based creole, is the most widely spoken, serving as the country’s lingua franca.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Languages_of_Papua_New_Guinea

The Beatles: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is the eighth studio album by The Beatles, the world-famous English rock band. The album was released in the United Kingdom in May of 1967, and in Australia in July of that year. It spent 27 weeks at number one on the Record Retailer chart in the United Kingdom, and 15 weeks at number one on the Billboard Top Albums chart in the United States. It was lauded by critics for innovative song writing, production and graphic design, for bridging the cultural divide between popular music and high art, and for reflecting the interests of contemporary youth and the counterculture. Its release was a defining moment in 1960s pop culture, heralding the Summer of Love, while the album’s reception achieved full cultural legitimisation for pop music, and recognition for the medium, as a genuine art form.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sgt._Pepper%27s_Lonely_Hearts_Club_Band

Sgt Pepper video:
https://www.google.com/search?q=youtube+sgt+pepper+documentary&oq=youtube+sgt+pepper+documentary&gs_lcrp= (25mins)

Asaro Mudmen: Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asaro_Mudmen

Asaro Mudmen: Australian Museum re-enactment video:
https://www.google.com/search?q=asaro+mundmen+dancing+youtube&rlz=1C1GCEA_enA

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 18: Death adder quest

For me, the disadvantages of not having family living in Australia, were more than outweighed by the advantages. My parents had chosen to live and work overseas and when I visited them, I inevitably became involved in innumerable, unexpected, and enriching, cross-cultural experiences. To visit either of them meant taking a plane ride to another country every three months or so for many years. These trips were mostly to visit my mother in New Guinea, and less often, to visit my father and his second wife in Kenya.

The May holidays of 1967 loomed. As always, I was keen to escape Sydney and my predictable art student routine to head north for a few weeks of fun in the New Guinea Highlands. This time I flew to Goroka, which was now the headquarters of my mother’s Wool Project. When I visited last, I’d been part of the Wool Project uplift from Kundiawa and, three months on, the Project had settled into the new facility at the Goroka Show Grounds, on the southern side of the airstrip, not far from my mother’s house.

Goroka was and remains the administrative centre of the Eastern Highlands Province. It was a small town so it didn’t take me long to figure out the lay of the land. Luckily, I had access to a set of very fancy wheels—my mother’s precious Karmann Ghia 1500S which was available whenever I wanted to cruise around town or visit friends.

I also made new friends. Eddie Collins and his cousin Danny Leahy Junior were in business together, running the numerous Collins and Leahy enterprises that included trade stores and plantations throughout the Highlands. Team Collins and Leahy, were at the centre of things in Goroka, with their locus of operations situated in the middle of town. Their huge building was always a hive of activity with their trucks arriving from and departing to, small and large townships, scattered the length of the unsealed Highlands Highway, which, at that time, ran from Mount Hagen in the west, to the busy port town of Lae.

Collins and Leahy moved all kinds of freight including coffee, fuel, timber, sweet potato, frozen meat, tinned bully beef and rice. When I went to town, I’d sometimes visit their office, a short, three-minute drive, from my mother’s house. These men were good company; however, I had a thinly disguised, ulterior motive for visiting. I was suffering from a serious crush on Danny’s younger brother. It went no further than a crush, because we didn’t mix socially.

Throughout New Guinea, there seemed to be an invisible, though palpable, line of demarcation between the commercial traders and government employees. My mother belonged to the latter group—often disrespectfully referred to as ‘do-gooders’, because she and her fellow government co-workers were engaged in activities that weren’t primarily profit-driven. It was the likes of Eddie Collins and Danny Leahy, their male relatives and others, who, keen to make money in this unpredictable environment, carried the massive financial investment in both plant and labour, necessary to make it happen.

To keep me out of trouble for the duration of my stay, my mother had organised a clerical job for me at the District Office. I was given a stack of large census books, containing information collected by Patrol Officers working on outstations in the Eastern Highlands District. One of their jobs was to conduct a census, in each village, under their administrative jurisdiction. I recall, my job was to update the records, by carefully reading through the census sheets that listed every villager in each village, and put a line through the names of those who’d died, their death recorded at the bottom of the page. It was a mind-numbingly, boring job, but it did the trick, keeping me well away from anyone who could’ve been considered a bad influence.

Joy Higgins was another new friend. A beautiful and devout siren of indeterminate age, who worked at the Goroka Court House. She was slender and evenly tanned, spending her lunch hours bikini-clad in her back garden, topping up her tan. To avoid prying eyes, she’d lie on a towel in a coffin-shaped, screened area, supported by wooden stakes. Concealed in this way, she could side-step the oft-spoken directive for white women, not to expose too much skin. As large expanses of European skin were considered a ‘turn on’ for local men.

As well as an even sun tan, Joy’s other obsession was Fred Parker, a patrol officer based in Kundiawa, who collected both venomous and non-venomous snakes. Joy wholeheartedly assisted him to source additional snakes for his collection, even though she admitted she was terrified of them. I remember being invited to join her on a snake-collecting adventure, early one sunny Saturday morning.

Joy had organised a ride for us in a semitrailer that was going east, along the Highlands Highway. An hour or so into the trip, we caught sight of a solitary man standing by the side of the road, clutching a hessian sack. When we reached him, the driver slowed the truck to a stop. Joy then clambered out of the cabin to inspect the snakes, and pay the man what he was owed. After taking charge of the grubby hessian sack, she placed it at our feet, on the passenger side of the cabin. It was too much for me, and, as I recall, I had my knees up
under my chin until we reached the next roadside settlement. Here, we stopped and thanked the driver, before climbing down with the Joy’s precious cargo, a sackful of angry snakes. After waving the truck goodbye, we crossed the highway, to stand by the side of the road like a couple of waifs waiting to hitch a ride back to Goroka. After a short wait we flagged down an approaching truck that had room in the cabin for both of us, as well as the snakes. We arrived back in Goroka an hour or so later, safe and sound. I was so relieved to leave the hessian sack and its contents in Joy’s capable hands, and skedaddle on home.

Yet another new friend was Meg Taylor. Like me, she too was home on holidays. She was studying Law at Melbourne University. Her family was New Guinea royalty. In 1933, her father Australian kiap Jim Taylor along with brothers Dan and Mick Leahy and surveyor Ken Spinks, walked into the Wahgi Valley, the first Europeans to do so. Keen to explore further, in 1938 and 39, Taylor led the Hagen-Sepik patrol with John Black. The purpose of these ‘first contact’ patrols, was to make contact with the highland tribespeople, who until then, had lived their lives shut away from the outside world.

In 1939, whilst Taylor was once again patrolling in the Wahgi Valley, leader of the Baimarn clan at Kerowil, Maasi Pinjinga, promised Taylor his daughter, Yerima Manamp’s, hand in marriage. Ten years later, he returned to marry her. After the couple married, they spent time mining for gold at Porgora, and later settled on land west of Goroka, where they planted coffee. Jim Taylor said of his wife: “She embodies everything I love about this country [Papua New Guinea].”

Meg was the eldest of the Taylor’s three children. One weekend she invited me to visit their farm to meet her parents. It was a most interesting experience because in New Guinea in the late nineteen sixties, a white man with a native wife and mixed-race children, usually kept it very quiet. Whereas the Taylors were very open and very public, with Meg’s mother playing an important part in the management of their farm.

Their approach was the precursor of things to come. Over time, the prevailing colonial attitude of natives being considered ‘lesser than whites’ would gradually dissipate, particularly after 1975, when Papua New Guinea was granted Independence from Australia.

During my visit to the Taylor’s farm, we spoke Tok Pisin, the lingua franca of New Guinea. As we were chatting, Meg’s mother was kind enough to correct my clunky sentence construction. My feeble excuse for this shortcoming was lack of practice, as I was now spending most of my time in Australia. 

Meg Taylor as a baby with her mother Yerima Manamp and her father
Jim Taylor
Image: Development Policy Centre

I’d really enjoyed my visit to the Taylor’s farm, but sadly my holiday time was running out. During my two-week stay I’d made myself useful doing a mind-numbingly, boring clerical job, at District Office, attempted to progress my crush with no success, been taken on a snake collecting adventure and had briefly rubbed shoulders with Papua New Guinea royalty.

But now it was time to collect myself, and return to Australia, for my second term of art studies at the Randwick Technical College. I was comforted in the knowledge that I’d be back again in three months for the August holidays, and yet another round of Highland high jinks.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Joy Higgins: All these years on, I remain mystified by Joy’s willingness to enthusiastically participate in her boyfriend’s unusually dangerous hobby. Nevertheless, I was filled with admiration for her determination to play an indispensable role in his life. She was willing to hitch her wagon to a man who was seen as different, but nonetheless admired by many, because he was ‘doing’ something with his downtime, instead of falling into the alcohol consumption trap, which was, and probably still is, the preferred recreational pastime for those living in New Guinea.

Over the years, I have occasionally reflected on Joy’s modus operandi in intimate relationships and compared it to my own. In my case, I haven’t been particularly interested in my partner’s profession or hobbies, possibly because I’ve always been fully focused on my own all-consuming art career. Joy was older, possibly explaining her enthusiastic approach to collecting snakes to make herself indispensable, or maybe she was seeking equality? Or maybe she was striving to overcome her fear? Or maybe she was modelling the perfect, supportive, uncomplaining helpmeet? Or maybe she enjoyed the excitement and adventure that came with the relationship? Or maybe it was good sex? To this day, I remain perplexed.

Meg Taylor: I’ve not seen Meg since the May holidays of 1967 as our lives and studies were concentrated in different Australian cities. Meg was studying Law in Melbourne and I was studying Art in Sydney.

FACTS:
Goroka: Goroka was and is the administrative headquarters of the Eastern Highlands Province. The town is situated on the Highlands Highway at 1,600 metres above sea level.

The town attracts tourists, both local and international, who flock to the world-famous biannual Goroka Show that began in 1957.

The province is one of the major coffee producing regions of the country.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goroka

The Highlands Highway: The Highlands Highway, sometimes known as the Okuk Highway, is the main land highway in Papua New Guinea. It connects several major cities and is vital for the movement of people and goods between the populous Highlands region and the coast.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Highlands_Highway

Meg Taylor: Meg’s parents, Yerima Manamp and Jim Taylor, gave her an amazing cross-cultural upbringing. This rich social and linguistic experience, coupled with the intellectual prowess and legal expertise that came from her legal studies, enabled her to bring a balanced approach to policy-making, whilst she held a number of important positions on behalf of her country and its people, both at home and overseas.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meg_Taylor

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 17: Stony broke

I reluctantly left the excitement of our unpredictable life in the New Guinea Highlands and returned to Sydney, to experience excitement of a different kind. This time, to join the first intake of Second Year Art students into the newly-completed, Randwick Technical College building, located immediately opposite the Randwick racecourse. This fancy new facility, was a far cry from the cluster of old wooden buildings, in various stages of disrepair, that comprised the National Art School’s North Sydney campus, where I’d studied for the year of 1966. 

The Randwick Technical College building completed in 1966
Image: TAFE Archives

I continued to live at ‘Tremayne’ in Kirribilli, because the facilities were exceptional value for money; a single room, and full board, for $13.50 a week. An additional advantage was that public transport from Kirribilli to the Randwick campus was reasonably straightforward. To get there, I took a train south into the city, and then a bus that took me to the door of the imposing seven-storey building. Once there, I alighted, loaded down with all the art-making gear necessary for my classes that day. This, ‘there and back again’ journey, was repeated Monday through Friday, during term time.

The young people who gathered for Second Year were an interesting mix. Like myself, they had completed First Year studies elsewhere. Each of us had both the interest, and access to the funds necessary, to continue with a formal art training. I made new friends, a number of whom, were extremely talented.

June Brownlow, the young woman who would become my ‘bestie’, had recently moved up from Victoria, where she had been studying at Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology, another highly regarded art school. She was incredibly attractive, coming from a family of equally attractive younger siblings. Their physical attributes, gave the impression that each had been stretched on the rack, as all their limbs were elongated and slender: arms, legs, torso, fingers and neck. June was ‘discovered’ by a modelling agency, and was in demand for both catwalk, and photographic work. As a result of her numerous modelling gigs, she spent less and less time with us at Randwick. I clearly remember her asking me if I would like to ‘go’ modelling with her. I was so surprised, wondering if her desire for my company, overrode her ability to realistically assess my anatomical shortcomings, the most obvious of which, were my knock-knees. Gradually she drifted away from Art School altogether, but we remained friends. From the sidelines, I witnessed her rise to modelling super-stardom. Later, she married a nice Army boy, and withdrew to the relative obscurity of the suburbs.

But I digress.

My First Year of Art School training, at North Sydney Technical College, concentrated on developing the foundation skills necessary, for a career in the arts. But in Second Year, the bar was raised, as we moved into the next phase of our art training. To further develop our powers of observation, and use them in combination with our now, well-developed, drawing skills, we were required to document what we saw, in a myriad of ways. I’ve clear memories of three, unexpectedly stretching exercises that were set that year. One each for Sculpture, Drawing and Life Drawing.

Like all the National Art School campuses, Randwick was staffed by a collection of talented instructors, many of whom were well-known and well-respected artists in their own right. I remember one instructor distinctly. His name was Laurie Wall and he was a sculptor of some note. One morning a week for a twelve-week term he guided us through the many steps necessary to make a life-size free-standing cast of a human scapula using plaster of Paris. This involved mastering the complicated process of making a negative mould.

We began by making drawings of the scapula from a human skeleton that hung in the corner of the Sculpture studio. Next a metal rod was glued into a wooden base. The rod was used to support an armature made of fine chicken wire roughly bent into the shape of a scapula and soldered into position. Damp clay was then pushed into the chicken wire and shaped to look like the real thing. I remember this process took weeks. Next came the complicated negative mould-making process that was followed by casting and finally the reveal. I was completely underwhelmed by this excruciatingly long and drawn-out exercise, akin to watching paint dry. At the time I found the process quite intimidating and didn’t imagine how this skill-set would be of any practical use in my creative future. As it turned out, for many years I was spared the need to create plaster casts. For my fellow students interested in pursuing a career producing 3-Dimensional forms, this exercise would have been extremely useful.

Yet another memorable exercise was set by our drawing teacher. We were required to draw water. To do this, we escaped the classroom, to sit quietly on a pier, overlooking Sydney Harbour, in the warm sunshine. We were instructed to watch the water as it moved; to note the shapes created by the wind, as it blew across the surface, the subtle effects of tidal currents, and the disturbances created by passing vessels. When we had the shapes firmly fixed in our mind’s eye, we recorded the shapes on paper. Back in the classroom, we were then asked to adapt our drawings to create a design, suitable for either a watercolour, or an acrylic artwork. A digital camera would’ve been a god-send for this exercise, but digital anything, was decades away.

Moving up to Second Year, brought with it a much-anticipated rite of passage. To make drawings from a naked, human body. All through First Year, we had been taking turns to model, fully-clothed. Now we were to be introduced to life drawing. As an aside, I began to notice an awkward titter when I mentioned ‘life drawing’ in non-art circles. For some, it seems that the idea of a man or a woman standing, sitting, or lying, ‘starkers’, offers the opportunity to indulge in covert sexual wonderings, or puerile, giggly attempts to disguise discomfort. But we came to see life drawing as the best way to fine-tune our drawing skills. A different model arrived each week, holding short poses at the start, that led into longer ones, over a three-hour class. Good life models are hard to find. Some ‘non-art’ folk erroneously assume that modelling for artists, is dead easy. True, taking off your kit is easy, but holding a pose for twenty minutes, without a break is difficult. We came to really appreciate the models, particularly those with less than perfect bodies, because folds of flesh, are much more satisfying to draw.

Whilst taking a break from life drawing, we’d sometimes gaze out the classroom windows to watch what was happening across the road, at the famous Royal Randwick Racecourse. From our third-floor vantage point, we had a fantastic view of the buildings and the tracks, bordered by oval swathes of lush green grass. I wasn’t from a betting family, but was curious to visit the racecourse sometime, that is, if the opportunity arose. And it did. At one point, I was very broke, hanging out for the monthly top-up, from my father.

Aerial view of Royal Randwick Race Course with the Randwick Technical College complex near the top right-hand corner of the picture
Image: Wikipedia

As I bemoaned my financial situation, a group of fellow students, who understood racing, suggested a lunch-time dash across the road, to back a winner, in an attempt to relieve my cashless predicament. What a good idea!

This was my first visit to a racecourse, and I was surprised to note that the mid-week, race meeting atmosphere, was unexpectedly laid-back. I noted groups of well-turned-out punters, as my more worldly friends guided me through to the line of bookmakers, standing ready to take my money. Ever hopeful, I tried to convince myself that a successful bet would magically multiply my last five dollars. My friends carefully explained the betting process, for ‘a win’, ’a place’, ‘an each way bet’ or ‘a trifecta’. I then selected a horse at random, possibly drawn to the jockey’s colours, and, to keep it simple, I decided to back it for ‘a win’. It was ‘all or nothing’. Sadly, it was ‘nothing’. I’d done my dough’. Overwhelmed with disappointment, we slowly straggled back to the College for the afternoon class, and afterwards, I recall having to borrow money for my bus and train fare back to Kirribilli.

Sadly, my personal life in the early part of 1967, was equally disappointing. I had a protracted break up with the angel-voiced, Paul Patent, and as a result, was nursing a seriously broken heart. My ‘Tremayne’ friends, were very supportive and caring, as I was a long way from familial support, with my mother living in New Guinea, and my father in Kenya. A number of friends were kind enough to take me home to their families for a weekend getaway in the country. Goulburn and Cowra were standout excursions, providing a welcome change of scene, as I worked my way through my emotional distress. It took months for my broken heart to heal. And, from then on in, I decided to adopt another, hopefully less painful, modus operandi. I would play the field, in the hope of finding genuine affection. Buoyed by the naivety of youth, I erroneously assumed, that I possessed sufficient judgement to ensure the next intimate relationship, would be better than the last. How wrong I was.

As my first term at Randwick drew to a close, I was once again off to New Guinea for the mid-term holidays. I was looking forward to a short break from the art school routine and the bleakness of a Sydney winter. I left Sydney, not knowing what would happen during my two-week stay in Goroka, because it was always impossible to predict.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Art School: My mother, who was art school trained, was delighted that I’d decided to pursue a career in the arts. Growing up, I’d shown all the signs of a creative disposition, so she chose to believe that I could follow in the footsteps of her famous artistic family. To be honest, as I’d done so badly in my final secondary school examinations, I was short of alternatives. Not being interested in much else other than stylish dressmaking, and anxious to please, I toddled off to Art School each weekday, for a nine o’clock start, and worked through to five o’clock, with breaks in between. I rarely missed a day. Driven by my family’s uncompromising work ethic that was reinforced by two years spent enduring the rigidity of a boarding school routine, I was compelled to turn up, and do what was required. In addition, I really enjoyed the subjects taught, as well as the collegiate atmosphere, created by my classmates.

The races: I am thankful I wasn’t raised in a gambling family and even more thankful that my brush with betting at Royal Randwick Racecourse was unsuccessful. Perhaps if I’d backed a winner, things may’ve been different?

The ‘failure-to-win’ experience brought with it unexpected benefits. Since I visited the racecourse that day, I’ve not placed a bet on any other fast-moving animal. However I must confess to once visiting Flemington Racecourse for the horse race that stops the Nation, theMelbourne Cup, just to say I’d been there. On that day, I placed no bets and drank no booze. Nonetheless, I had a wonderful day, enjoying the fashion and the flowers!

FACTS
Royal Randwick Racecourse:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randwick_Racecourse

The Melbourne Cup: is the richest horse race in the world with a purse of over $8 million in 2023.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melbourne_Cup

The National Art School: I attended:
1st Year: North Sydney Technical College campus in 1966
2nd Year: Randwick Technical College campus in 1967
3rd Year: East Sydney Technical College campus at Darlinghurst in 1968

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 16: Honouring the dead

My time in New Guinea was always action-packed, particularly over the Christmas holidays of 1966. My mother and I flew back into Kundiawa after an intense five-day foot patrol south of Karimui with Kiap Mike Baker. We were both exhausted from our extraordinary adventure and very keen to get back home.

On our return, we heard that the wake for ‘big man’ Kondom Aguando was to be held the next day at Wandi, a small hamlet half an hour by road west of Kundiawa. All the European expatriates from Kundiawa had been invited and, those that were able, planned to attend to pay their respects. Aguando had died three months earlier, in a shocking motor vehicle accident. The accident had occurred on the unsealed Highlands Highway whilst climbing the precipitous Daulo Pass, on his way home to Wandi. It had been raining heavily and his vehicle slid off the edge of the road into a deep ravine. Miraculously his driver survived.

His wake took his family months to organise and still, the shock of his death was reverberating through the Simbu District. As the day of the wake approached, community concern intensified wondering what would happen at the gathering. As a result, my mother and I had little time to de-brief, or share our Karimui patrol stories with friends. That would have to wait until after the wake.

Next morning I had no idea what to expect as we piled into various vehicles for the short drive to Wandi. When we arrived, we were greeted by an unbelievable sight. The Wandi football field was swarming with hundreds of people milling around mounds of food laid out in long rows, each mound staked and named. The mounds were made up of partly cooked pig pieces, as well as sweet potato, freshly harvested vegetables and fruit. To our surprise there was a stake with my mother’s name on it. Below the stake were two small pineapples. She was touched to be included in this serious ‘sorry business’ ritual.

Piles of cooked pig laid out at Aguando’s wake at Wandi village
Image: backblazeb2.com

After slowly walking up and down between the rows of food, I climbed the low hill that overlooked this extraordinary scene. From my vantage point, I could see Aguando’s substantial concrete grave, surrounded by a group of women, loudly bewailing their loss.

The formalities of the day were punctuated by numerous highly-regarded orators from various clan groups and the District Officer from Kundiawa, all speaking respectfully of Aguando’s contribution to the people of Simbu District and beyond. After the speeches we collected our pineapples and returned to Kundiawa with our travelling companions, all of whom had been profoundly moved by the wake experience.

The next task on the list was the preparation and planning for the Wool Project uplift. After almost two years in Kundiawa during which time the spinning and weaving enterprise had grown like Topsy, a unanimous decision was taken to move the Wool Project headquarters to Goroka, five minutes flying time from Kundiawa. As I recall, the reason given was that the Project had outgrown Kundiawa’s Category ‘B’ grass airstrip which was occasionally, due to weather, deemed unsuitable for bigger aircraft delivering larger quantities of raw fleece and yarn. Whereas Goroka was a hub airport, boasting a sealed, all-weather Category ‘A’ airstrip, making it so much easier to bring weaving materials in and then out again, to supply all twenty-six Wool Project units, scattered throughout the Highlands.

Moving day arrived. A Caribou aircraft had been chosen for the job, the only commercial Caribou in Papua and New Guinea at the time.

MAL Caribou being unloaded on the Kundiawa airstrip before being re-loaded with the Wool Project gear and our personal effects including the Karmann Ghia parked on the left
Image: Grainger family photographs

The weavers had all the Wool Project gear plus my mother’s personal effects alongside the runway awaiting the Caribou’s arrival. After landing, it was quickly unloaded before the Wool Project gear, and our boxed household effects, were carried into the belly of the aircraft and secured.

Morley at left supervising disassembled looms being loaded into the Caribou
Image: Grainger family photographs

My mother, with hat, supervising loading the Wool Project and personal effects into the belly of the Caribou
Image: Granger family photographs

Loading the Karmann Ghia into the Caribou
Image: Grainger family photographs

Rear end of the Karmann Ghia being driven into the Caribou 
Image: Grainger family photographs

Prisoners gathered to watch the Karmann Ghia being tied down before taking off from Kundiawa for Goroka
Image: Grainger family photographs

The last item to be loaded was my mother’s precious Karmann Ghia which was carefully driven up the rear loading ramps into the body of the aircraft and securely strapped down. Then it was our turn.

We walked up the ramp, my mother carrying her surprisingly calm Siamese cat, and took our seats between the cockpit and the mountain of cargo. This event was watched by an audience of prisoners and others who’d probably never again see an uplift of this kind. Then it was up, up and away, bound for Goroka. As we took off, I turned my head to see the back door of the Caribou slowly closing. Through the gap, I was able to watch the Kundiawa township disappearing below us as we headed east. It was a weird experience and a little sad to farewell the township that had been our home for some years, knowing full well, it was unlikely I’d ever return. But there was no time for nostalgia, that would come later.

The next phase of the Wool Project had begun.

The Wool Project’s new home was at the Goroka show ground where a substantial circular building made from bush materials had been constructed in preparation for the move. Load by load, the disassembled looms, yarn, fleece and associated equipment were trucked from the airstrip to the new building and before long, the looms were re-assembled, materials stored and order established.

Next, it was time to focus on doing likewise in my mother’s newly-allocated two-bedroom house conveniently located not far from the showground.

The house, which was standard government employee accommodation, comprised an un-fenced fibro building on metal stumps, with banks of clear glass louvres above hip height.

Hardwood steps led up onto an open deck and the front door that faced the unsealed street. The house layout comprised a central living and dining space with two bedrooms off to one side, with the kitchen and bathroom off to the other. The garden was surrounded by an odd assortment of established trees and bushes, that hugged the boundary of the property, no doubt planted by the previous occupants. It wasn’t long before we had our living space ship shape, and welcoming. We were now ready to start again.

Settling into the rhythms of life in Goroka was relatively easy for us, because before moving in from Kundiawa, we had visited occasionally to see friends and for ‘shopping’ as Goroka was a larger town. Here, there was a chemist and a grocery store for tinned food, clothing and ‘freezer’, the term used for frozen meat or fish, all imported from ‘down south’. Availability was one thing but price was another as everything, other than fresh fruit and vegetables, came in to Goroka either by plane or truck. We were a captive market.

Just like Kundiawa, there was an abundant supply of fresh fruit and vegetables. In townships all across Papua and New Guinea Saturday was the biggest market day. At the Goroka market huge quantities of all kinds of freshly harvested food were brought in by the local women to sell to each other and expatriates like us. We could buy carrots, corn, pineapple, paw-paw, oranges, bananas, pumpkin, sweet potato, taro, tomatoes, cabbage, sugar cane, beans, peanuts and whatever else was in season. As a result, for all the years we lived in New Guinea, the Saturday morning shopping ritual was an unmissable event.

Sign at the entrance to the Goroka Market providing a pricing guide for both growers and buyers (C1967)
Image:ski-epic.com

Produce laid out for sale at the Saturday market in Goroka
Image:ski-epic.com

Goroka women with their bilum basket full of produce to sell at the Goroka market. See market buildings in the background
Image: ski-epic.com

As expected, it didn’t take us long to fully embrace the rhythms of life in Goroka, particularly the more diverse social life on offer thanks to a larger population of expatriates. But in late January, my action-packed Christmas holiday came to an end as it was time for me to return to Australia once more.

With a degree of reluctance, I flew out of Goroka bound for Sydney to begin my second year at the National Art School. But I knew for sure I’d be back. The unsophisticated but exciting life we were living in the Highlands of New Guinea had become part of my being.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Kondom Aguando’s wake: In the years since attending Aguando’s wake, I’ve occasionally reflected upon the sequence of events, that enabled me to be part of this extraordinary gathering. As a young white woman in a country where whites were often objects of curiosity, as well as resentment, to be invited to the wake, was acknowledgement of the regard in which my mother’s Wool Project was held, by Aguando’s clan, and the wider Simbu community.

Aguando supported the introduction of new ventures like the Wool Project, because he realised that the acquisition of spinning and weaving skills would offer his people another point of entry into the cash economy. He already had runs on the board. He’d been instrumental in the introduction of coffee growing in Simbu. He could see the possibilities. So on his recommendation, the people planted coffee trees. The beans were then sold and processed by the Kundiawa Coffee factory; a co-operative set up by Aguando for the benefit of the Simbu people.

Moving the Wool Project to Goroka: All these years later, I realise the move to Goroka was a cost-cutting exercise. During the first two years, The Wool Project had exceeded all growth expectations. As the result of my mother’s single-minded commitment and the Department of Trade and Industry’s unwavering support, 26 units had been established throughout the Highlands and the associated freight costs were enormous. Before the move, materials were flown into Goroka, unloaded and reloaded into a small aircraft bound for Kundiawa, where, on arrival, they were sorted and distributed. Often materials were flown back to Goroka, to then be flown out to isolated units, with no road access. So, it made complete sense to move The Wool Project into Goroka to reduce freight costs. The move certainly had advantages for me. At that time there was a glut of young, interesting, unattached men in Goroka, offering me a larger pool of male companions from which to choose; always under my mother’s watchful eye, as she was determined to safeguard my virtue. I don’t think she ever realised that I always led with my sexuality, in a futile attempt to receive love.

FACTS:
Kondom Aguando: was mourned by thousands of people both locals and expatriates. Years after the accident, the man who was driving the vehicle in which Aguando was killed, paid his family a considerable sum of money in reparations—the traditional tribal practice of seeking forgiveness.

Although Aguando had received no formal education and was illiterate, he was one of the few ‘big men’ whose influence extended far beyond his immediate locality. He is remembered by the Simbu people as the man who introduced coffee as a cash crop to the Highlands and was also active in business and local government. He is also remembered as an advocate for the Simbu people. On his watch roads, bridges, airstrips, schools and clinics were built throughout the province. Decades after his passing he is still revered as a peacemaker and a great man.

In 1982, the Simbu Provincial Building was erected in Kundiawa, and named Kondom Aguando House in his honour.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kondom_Agaundo

Growing coffee in the New Guinea Highlands: Coffee is a seasonal cash crop that was becoming more widely grown throughout the Highlands in the late 1960s. Today coffee is the highest foreign exchange earner for Papua New Guinea, the majority of which is grown in the both the Eastern, and Western Highland provinces, as well as Simbu. The industry isn’t built on a colonial plantation-based system. Instead, production is largely by small farmers with land holdings that grow as little as 20 trees in a plot in “coffee gardens” and stand alongside subsistence crops. The crop is mostly certified as “organic coffee”.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coffee_production_in_Papua_New_Guinea

Kundiawa: the capital of Simbu (Chimbu) District.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kundiawa

Goroka: the capital of the Eastern Highlands District and is a larger town.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goroka

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 15: Strolling into Papua

It was the end 1966 and the end of my first year at the National Art School in Sydney. When I arrived back in Kundiawa for the Christmas holidays I discovered a grand adventure had been planned, that would make my stay both memorable and fun. This time, the adventure was a most unusual one; to be part of a five-day government foot patrol to the Papuan border and back. I was just eighteen and up for an adventure. But before we left Kundiawa to begin the patrol, there were things to do and people to visit.

My mother was based in this small Eastern Highlands township that was home to a collection of fascinating characters doing interesting things, in spite of the isolation or, possibly, because of it. Occasionally we would receive and invitation to visit their homes after work, for a ‘sundowner’, as drinking was the preferred out-of-hours pastime throughout New Guinea.

One character in particular is a stand out from this time. Fred Parker was a Patrol Officer, known as a ‘kiap’ in Tok Pisin, living in a small donga not far from District Office, the administrative heart of Simbu province. Fred had a disconcerting hobby — collecting snakes; all kinds of snakes, both venomous and non-venomous. Batches of his venomous snakes were periodically flown to Australia to be milked by experts; the milk then used to produce antivenom. Fred encouraged the locals to collect snakes on his behalf, so there was a steady stream of snake offerings to his back door. Inside his donga the walls were lined with numerous wooden tea chests, leaving little room for furniture, so finding a place to sit to enjoy a ‘sundowner’, could be a challenge.

Fred’s party trick was to ply his guests with grog before upending a tea chest full of pythons and then standing back to watch with ill-concealed glee as his guests scattered. In the scramble that followed he noted which of his visitors were first to reach the higher places: the sink, the dining table, or for the super-athletic, the top of the refrigerator. He would then return the snakes to their tea chest whilst heart rates returned to normal and pre-dinner drinks conversation gradually resumed. I only remember one ‘sundowner’ gathering at Fred’s house. It was a frightening experience and one I wasn’t particularly keen to repeat.

As the Wool Project was my mother’s purpose for living in Kundiawa, it’s fitting to provide a little background before proceeding further with my recollections.

The idea of introducing a hand textile industry into the Highlands of New Guinea was the brainchild of Kiap Ian Burnet who came to New Guinea in 1955. Whilst posted in the Highlands, he hatched a plan to benefit the local people—he’d teach them to weave. He hoped that after learning how, they would be able to use imported Australian wool to produce saleable woven items. He succeeded in getting his pilot project off the ground in Gumine village, south of Kundiawa, which was no mean feat for a novice. After which he left the
Department of Native Affairs and moved across to the Department of Trade and Industry, determined to expand his pilot project.

To do this he needed someone with professional textile design and production skills. He approached Professor Johnston at the University of Technology in Sydney, to ask if he could recommend someone for such a venture. Professor Johnston, my mother’s former boss, immediately replied: “Yes! The best person is Gretchen Grainger who’s already in New Guinea.” Ian Burnet then asked my mother to head up the project. To do this she moved across from the Department of Education, where she’d been teaching art for some years, to the Department of Trade and Industry. With the deal sealed, the Wool Project was born.

The highland settlement of Kundiawa was selected to be the base of operations for the Wool Project as it had an established Junior Technical School with staff, students and workshops able to build weaving looms and all the other equipment needed.

Ian’s strategy for attracting support for the weaving ‘bisnis’ was a clever one. At the start the word was spread through the tight network of kiaps, who were mostly single men posted to remote highland outstations. They were being offered the opportunity to introduce this new ‘bisnis’ to their people, if they considered it a good fit. If so, the kiap would approach my mother to discuss what was involved. With the kiap on side, my mother was assured of his full support for the project. This was particularly important from the get go, when there would be inevitable teething problems whilst the recruited tribesmen were in training and the supply lines were being established.

My mother would periodically visit outstations to trouble-shoot. Also, to offer encouragement, to deliver additional training, and provide new product designs, as well as the yarns to produce them. Some outstations produced hand spun yarn and wove it into fabulous floor mats. Others wove raw fleece floor mats and ponchos, and still others wove blankets. The weavers were paid per item woven.

Now, to return to the planned adventure. Definitely my mother’s best effort yet! A five-day patrol into Papua.

Map with Karimui marked with a red dot
Image: ResearchGate

Mike Baker was the kiap at Karimui outstation, situated south of Kundiawa, some three days walk from the Papuan border. There was no road into Karimui so the only way to get the was by small aircraft. Mike had overseen the introduction of the Wool Project for his people, the Haia and Pawaia. He saw this venture as their entré into the cash economy to supplement their subsistence lifestyle.

During the Wool Project setup at Karimui, Mike and my mother had become friends. Mike’s job often took him away from the outstation to check on villages in more remote and inaccessible parts of Simbu Province. When Mike mentioned the possibility of the Grainger women joining him on patrol to the Papuan border my mother accepted in a heart-beat as she was always up for an adventure. On this patrol we’d be in the company of Mike, his cook-boi, six police bois armed with .303 rifles, fifteen patrol boxes and some thirty carriers.

On the appointed day, we flew into Karimui in a Cessna 337, loaded with Wool Project supplies of fleece and yarn for the weavers, in addition to our patrol kit of shirts, trousers and sturdy walking shoes.

Karimui outstation office with TAL AIR Cessna 337 push-pull parked by the gate
Image: Graham Syphers

Early next morning, we headed out. I was fresh from the city and accustomed to walking on paved streets with shallow inclines, but this was very different. There was no road, only a rough walking track worn smooth by bare feet with a split-timber bridge to span the occasional creek.

Rough timber bridge over a gully note women at the end of the bridge one with face covered in white clay—
a sign of mourning
Image: Grainger family photographs

Mike, my mother and I lead the patrol and set a steady pace. But the worst was yet to come – the descent down the side of a 1000-foot ravine.

The descent down the side of a 1000-foot ravine. Note the children and the carriers in the background negotiating the zig-zag track with one of a number of patrol boxes suspended on a pole and carried by two men
Image: Grainger family photographs

My mother and I crossing the bush bridge Note the audience on the far bank
Image: Grainger family photographs

We made it to the bottom without mishap and thankfully, the men who guided me over the rickety pole bridge across the river, kindly offered to haul me up the other side of this very steep ravine. I was somewhat embarrassed to need help in light of the pervasive colonial attitude of ‘white man’s superiority’ that was alive and well at the time. But, as a woman, I was probably off the hook! Thankfully, on this patrol there was only one major ravine to negotiate.

On the flat, we ambled along. The patrol had been alerted to my mother’s recently developed passion, for bush orchids. So, whenever an orchid was spotted high up in a tree, it was the signal for the patrol to stop, whilst one of the party, with verbal encouragement aplenty from the rest of us, clambered up to dislodge it and add it to the growing collection. After which, the patrol continued.

We spent each night in the various ‘house kiaps’ dotted along the way. These buildings were for the exclusive use of the kiap when on patrol. They were built by the villagers in the traditional style, using bush materials and raised off the ground on stilts, with log steps and an arched roof.

Mike’s patrols were very well organised. The cook-boi would go on ahead to prepare hot water for a bucket shower, and cook a delicious meal, both most welcome at the end of a long day’s walk. What luxury in the vastness of the bush surrounding us.

L to R: My mother and I holding ‘resort’ poses on the veranda of the ‘hous kiap’ note the staircase made of stumps
Image: Grainger family photographs

For the first couple of days of the patrol, I remember being very stiff, but was reluctant to admit it, as I wanted to avoid being considered a ‘softie’ from the city.

On day three, we reached our destination, a small village very close to the border with Papua. My mother and I were the first white women to visit this village and the reception we received from the villagers is one I’ll never forget. When we got to the centre of the village I was told to stand very still whilst a cluster of old women whooped and hollered as they took turns to feel my leg muscles through my jeans. I stood rooted to the spot for what seemed an age, until each woman had carefully squeezed each of my legs from ankle to crotch in what proved to be an extremely unnerving experience. Afterwards, a number of jokey explanations were proffered. For example, that I was being sized up for eating and / or assessed for my gardening ability in this hilly terrain. Neither explanation appealed to me in the slightest.

I don’t remember much of the return trip. In truth, I was hanging out for it to be over as I was tired and dirty and craving creature comforts so I was delighted when Karimui outstation hove into view.

Morley hamming it up for the camera whilst crossing the raging river at the bottom of the ravine for the second time on the return trip. Note the police boi keeping his balance with the others looking on with concern—wanting to avert disaster
Image: Grainger family photographs

On our return, it was unusually chilly and for some reason I hadn’t brought a sweater with me. Mike, our ever-considerate host, offered me his cream hand-knitted Aran sweater, which was a farewell gift from his mother when he left his home in Ireland to explore the wilds of New Guinea.

When I was clean and warmly dressed, Mike and I headed out to the primitive grass volleyball court behind the house to have a game of ‘singles’.

Mike Baker and Morley playing volley ball on the Karimui court
Image: Grainger family photographs

Attempting an impossible return, I tripped and fell face down onto a slimy log lying alongside the court, smearing rotten bark down the front of Mike’s precious sweater. What to do? The logical thing. I offered to wash it as I was concerned the ground-in mucky stuff would permanently stain the sweater. After a careful washing, to my great relief, all the marks came away.

Thankfully, it was a perfect drying day. With no way to remove the excess water, rather than using the washing line, I made the fateful decision, to lay the sweater out flat to dry, on the lush green grass in the back yard. The reason? I was concerned that if the water-logged sweater, was suspended from the washing line, it would stretch out of shape.

Unbeknownst to me, that day was lawn mowing day at Karimui, where the grass grew super-fast because it rained heavily and often. A fancy ride-on mower, with extra-wide cutting path, was the station’s pride and joy, and the mower-boi was always keen to fire it up. But on this day his enthusiasm was misplaced, when he came to mow the back yard. Instead of going around the sweater, he mowed right over the top of it — as if it was invisible.

When I saw the lawn scattered with clumps of crimped lengths of cream wool, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A split second later, I let out a long, loud, involuntary scream of anguish that could be heard all over the station. Once I’d recovered from the shock, self-condemnation began. After a time, this emotion gave way to incredulity. How could this happen? It took a while and a couple of stiff whiskeys to settle me down after which we began to plan sourcing a replacement sweater from Ireland. This would be a challenge from the remote New Guinea Highlands, but not impossible.

The next day, the Cessna 337 returned to Karimui to take us back to Kundiawa. As we took off, I was so relieved to see the scene of the sweater-mangling catastrophe disappear behind us. Ever after, the sweater incident was hardly mentioned, but the five-day patrol out of Karimui was, and still is. In the retelling, it’s described as ‘a gentle stroll into Papua’. Of course, this is a massive understatement.

ON REFLECTION:
On patrol: I look back on our patrol experience and realise how fortunate we were to be included in this adventure. It gave us the opportunity to see parts of New Guinea most expatriates would never see. Though, at the time, I simply took it in my stride.

Social anthropology: My interest in social anthropology was first kindled whilst we lived amongst the Tolai people, in Rabaul. I learned some words in Kuanua, the Tolai language, words I remember to this day. Our opportunity to visit a very remote village at the southern boundary of the Simbu province, was made possible by Mike Baker. The experience provided a natural extension of my interest in the New Guinea people and their way of life.

My mother noted my interest, and when I’d completed my art studies, she suggested I consider enrolling in a social anthropology degree at the University of Papua New Guinea. But after three years full-time study at the National Art School, I desperately wanted to get a job and earn my own money, using the commercial art skills I’d acquired.

Patrol high jinks: Cooling off after a hot day’s walking.

Mike Baker and Morley cooling off in a freshwater river
Image: Grainger family photographs

Mike Baker hatching a plan as Morley floats by
Image: Grainger family photographs

Mike Baker puts his plan into action and douses my mother with a bucket of river water
Image: Grainger family photographs

Mike Baker looking smug afterwards
Image: Grainger family photographs

FACTS:
A Patrol Officer’s life: highly regarded former kiap Jim Sinclair wrote of his kiaping experiences as follows:

“The years so spent are in many ways the finest and most rewarding of the patrol officer’s life, filled with the satisfaction of country covered, new people seen and new mountains climbed.”

This is true for each of the three kiaps mentioned in this story: Ian Burnet, Fred Parker and Mike Baker. Their extraordinary experiences during various postings throughout the New Guinea, formed the foundation of their future careers.

Patrol Officer Ian Burnet: Ian was the son of nineteen sixty Nobel Prize winner, Sir Frank Macfarlane Burnet, the eminent Australian virologist. In 1955, Ian began his time in Papua New Guinea as a Cadet Patrol officer at Lorengau, then Manus Island and later postings in the Highlands to Gumine, Bomai and Lufa. Ian was instrumental in gaining funding from the World Bank and the United Nations Development Project for constructing the Highlands Highway.

He was a Tok Pisin interpreter for the first Papua New Guinea House of Assembly, Vice-President of the Public Service Association and represented permanent officers during actuarial negotiations in the early 1970s. He was a member of the Papua New Guinea Tariff Board and Passenger Motor Vehicle Board before leaving Papua New Guinea in 1974.

Patrol Officer Fred Parker: This man’s passion was wildlife. He spent time collecting reptiles whilst he was living in the Highlands and has a number of species named for him. The Blind Snake Gerrhopilus fredparkeri, the Karimui Basin Whitelip python Bothrochilus fredparkeri also known as Leiopython fredparkeri and the Snake-necked turtle Chelodina parkeri.

Blind snake Gerrhopilus fredparkeri
Image: Ecology Asia

Karimu Basin Whitelip Python Bothrochilis fredparkeri or Leiopython fredparkeri
Image:Leiopython.de

Snake-necked turtle Chelodina parkeri
Image: Gettyimage

Patrol Officer Mike Baker: Mike left Simbu Province in 1968 to work with Conzinc Riotinto Australia (CRA) on Bougainville. His job was a difficult one as it involved negotiating with the Darenai people, whose land was being destroyed by CRA’s Panguna copper mine. Whilst jogging early one morning, he was shot six times, after which he was medevacked to Australia. He was lucky to survive. When he recovered, I understand he continued to work for CRA until his retirement. He didn’t return to Papua New Guinea.

Patrol Officers: More than 2000 Australians served as patrol officers and district officers in the former Territory of Papua and New Guinea between 1949 and 1974. They were commonly known as ‘kiaps’, a Tok Pisin version of the German word for captain. Young men aged between 18 and 24 with “initiative, imagination and courage” were encouraged to apply to become cadet patrol officers in Papua and New Guinea. Successful applicants attended the Australian School of Pacific Administration before being dispatched to Papua or New Guinea for field experience under the supervision of a veteran kiap. After a 21-month term, a cadet became a patrol officer. They were required to maintain law and order as commissioned offers in the Field Division of the Royal Papua and New Guinea Constabulary and to serve as magistrates of local courts. They introduced and maintained postal services, radio communication, roads and airstrips. They regularly patrolled villages and maintained contact with village leaders. Their role was to bring the benefits of “modern civilisation” and a form of governance to all villages in their jurisdiction. They were also required to write detailed reports about their patrols, providing observations of village life, health needs, languages spoken, land disputes, initiation ceremonies, food production, building and cooking methods. These reports have been archived, and provide a wealth of information for those researching Papua New Guinea’s post WW2 colonial history.
https://www.pngaa.net/Library/CareerChallenge.htm
https://www.naa.gov.au/help-your-research/fact-sheets/papua-new-guinea-patrol-reports

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 14: Unrequited love

It was August 1966, and the prospect of taking a break from Art School study to return to the New Guinea highlands always filled me with great excitement and expectancy. This time, Kundiawa was my destination. The Kundiawa community comprised our hosts, the Simbu people, and a diverse collection of expatriates, mostly Europeans, often misfits, who had found a niche in this country that was often referred to as ‘the last frontier’. It was an unpredictable place where incidents, both amusing and not so, often came out of left field.

A few days into my holiday family friend, Richard Carlson, arrived back in Kundiawa with a freshly-minted New Zealand commercial pilot’s licence, the result of an expensive twelve months of intensive study. He returned to New Guinea for two reasons: firstly, to get a job flying small aircraft that were and continue to be the life-blood of the Highlands, and secondly, to propose marriage to his former girlfriend.

By way of background—before leaving Kundiawa for New Zealand, Richard was in a relationship with the talented Wendy Gall. Wendy was one of two young English women who had been offered the opportunity to travel overland from the United Kingdom to the New Guinea highlands with Dick Kelaart, the licensee of the Kundiawa Hotel. Dick had purchased a brand-new Land Rover in London, and planned to get it home the long way.

In return for their amazing travel adventure, the women agreed to work at Dick’s hotel, affectionately known as the Kundiawa Hilton, for two years with accommodation provided in addition to wages. Wendy, a ‘cordon bleu’ cook, managed the kitchen and Annabelle Donald worked front of house and the bar. Dick had struck gold. The women were a magnet for the mostly male drinkers who flocked to the hotel, craving the company of the good-looking, twenty-something, English-speaking women, as European women were in short supply throughout New Guinea.

Richard was one of the lucky ones. Young and virile with dreams of becoming a Qantas pilot, he was an attractive prospect. Wendy, who had her choice of suitors, chose him.

To make money, Richard worked long days on the road, buying coffee for the Kundiawa Coffee Society. He was saving like crazy, to pay the hefty course fees necessary to obtain a commercial pilot’s licence. When he’d saved enough cash, he planned to head off to New Zealand, where he knew could obtain the cheapest accredited qualification. Richard was an expansive young man who, emboldened with the rashness of youth, on more than one occasion voiced his belief that when he got to New Zealand, he’d be knocked down in the rush of beautiful young women keen to cohabit. He fancied they’d be willing to provide everything he needed: regular sex and a quiet, supportive domestic environment necessary to balance his intense focus on aviation study.

Richard packed his dreams and his possessions, farewelled Wendy, and headed east, to embark on his next big adventure. But as is often the case, his fantasy-fuelled plans came to naught. Once he’d settled in, and the anticipated flood of eager, attractive young women didn’t materialise, he invited Wendy to join him. With Dick Kelaart’s blessing, she left the Kundiawa Hilton, and headed for New Zealand. Why the arrangement was unsuccessful is not known but, after three months, Wendy returned to Kundiawa, and her job at the hotel. Naturally, the publican was thrilled. And everyone else too, as we all loved her and the fabulous, gastronomic delights she managed to conjure, often from limited ingredients.

Time passed. Some ten months later, Richard returned to Kundiawa, having obtained his commercial pilot’s licence. He brought with him an engagement ring for Wendy. As it was difficult to find a private space to propose marriage in Kundiawa, my mother offered our first floor flat, for their evening rendezvous. My mother and I then adjourned to the Hilton, where we anxiously awaited the outcome of the proposal. In the interim, unbeknownst to Richard, Wendy had taken up with another young man, and as a result, she wasn’t at all interested in rekindling her relationship with him. So, when Richard presented his proposal along with the ring, Wendy took it, and then, on the spur of the moment, tossed it out through the open glass doors, over the balcony and into the darkness. As a result, there could be no doubt in Richard’s mind, that Wendy’s answer was a definite, “No”.

Notwithstanding, Richard quickly assembled a group of locals, gave them torches and instructions to carefully search the area below the balcony. The search was unsuccessful. Searching resumed at first light, but once again, turned up nothing. Rejected, Richard left town broken-hearted and with his pride in tatters, and, to my knowledge, the ring was never found.

But, even before the Richard and Wendy drama, I was having boy/girl challenges of a different kind.

As a result of the gender imbalance throughout Papua and New Guinea, and even more so in the Highlands, as a young single woman, I assumed any number of young men would be interested in spending time with me. But no-one stepped forward. Why not? I was smart, attractive and very stylishly dressed. So, what was wrong with me?

Some years later, I discovered why. My mother had put the fear of God into all the young men living in and around Kundiawa, by threatening to cut off an important part of their anatomy, if they dared lay a finger on me! Irrespective, one brave fellow stepped forward. He was a recently graduated agricultural officer, keen to help the highland farmers by introducing some of the techniques he had gained at Agricultural College, in Australia.

One afternoon, he invited me to drive out to visit a group of Simbu farmers, living on a ridge, outside the Kundiawa township. I don’t know how well his advice was received, but I do know that the Simbus had been successfully growing crops in this very high rainfall, mountainous terrain for hundreds, and maybe thousands of years. To this day, I wonder how he hoped to improve their cropping methods. Possibly with the introduction of fertilizer? At this time, these people were subsistence farmers, with limited purchasing power, making fertiliser a distant dream. Sadly, the friendship petered out and, knowing what I know now, it’s highly likely that my mother chased him off.

The next exciting event was the arrival of the Canadian Rena Ware salesman. He was offering the Canadian-made, ground-breaking, waterless, stainless-steel saucepan sets to a captive market. He knew he was about to make a killing because the Europeans that were living in the New Guinea Highlands at that time had very little to spend their money on.

The enterprising Mr Rena Ware, began his sales trip in Mount Hagen, and then followed the Highlands Highway down through to Lae. He visited every single isolated community he could access on his way to the coast, enticing many cashed up expatriates to purchase his superior saucepans.

Like the others, my mother was enthralled by his spiel and splashed out. She was thrilled with her purchase. The shiny, eighteen-piece Rena Ware set, replaced the random collection of battered old saucepans in our kitchen, with one exception—the newly-purchased, revolutionary, non-stick, Teflon coated, frying pan.

A Rena Ware saucepan set similar to the one I inherited from my mother
Image: PickClick

My mother had recently purchased the frying pan in Sydney and brought back to Kundiawa in her suitcase. Along with the Rena Ware, it had pride of place in our kitchen. But before long, and to my mother’s utter amazement, the internal surface of the frying pan, had been transformed from dull black to shiny silver, and now matched the Rena Ware saucepans! How? Our diligent house boi had taken it upon himself to remove the black, non-stick coating. He scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, believing he was removing cooked on food. This was completely understandable because our house boi didn’t cook for us. He’d never before seen anything with a Teflon coating. At the time, my mother was gutted, but her displeasure didn’t last long. She simply took it in her stride, because incidents of this kind, were part and parcel of living in New Guinea.

On a more sombre note, just before I left to return to Sydney, the Kundiawa community received some very bad news. Simbu Province was devastated to hear that Narku ‘big man’ Kondom Aguando, had been killed in a vehicle accident on the unsealed Highlands Highway. He was being driven up the notoriously dangerous Daulo Pass, situated between Goroka and Kundiawa, on his way home to his family at Wandi. It was pouring with rain and the vehicle slid off the road and into a deep ravine.

The Kundiawa community was deeply affected by Kondom’s death, as was all of Simbu Province, because his positive influence extended far beyond his immediate locality. For some days we noticed a degree of tension in the township. Some were concerned that his death may result in social unrest. Fortunately, nothing untoward transpired to disturb the peace and tranquillity of life in Simbu province at that time.

Aerial view of the Highlands Highway, now called the Okuk Highway, the engineering
marvel that winds its way up from the coast to the Highlands of New Guinea. 
Dowlo Pass is in the bottom left hand corner
Image: Stegman Cinematography

Aerial view of the Highlands Highway, now called the
Okuk Highway, the engineering marvel that winds its
way up from the coast to the Highlands of New Guinea.
Dowlo Pass is in the bottom left hand corner
Image: Stegman Cinematography

For me, all too soon another memorable holiday in the wilds of the New Guinea Highlands came to an end. Once again, I was sad to be leaving the separate reality of Kundiawa, but Art School was calling, and as always, I answered the call.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Richard Carlson: Richard was deeply affected by the unexpected rejection of his marriage proposal, and its repercussions. We remained friends for years afterwards, and spent time together in Sydney, and later in Mexico when he was flying into Mexico City for Qantas. I watched from the side lines as he played the field and after some years, he married.

Wendy Gall: In return for a life-changing overland trip from London to Kundiawa, Wendy fulfilled her two-year commitment to publican Dick Kelaart, after which she flew back to London to marry a banker, some years her senior. For three years, during the 1980s, their elegant terraced house at Victoria Park, became my London base of operations, whilst I was living in the north of Scotland at the Findhorn Foundation.

During Wendy’s long widowhood, she served her community as chairperson of the successful ‘Save Barts Hospital’ campaign begun in 1993 for which she was awarded an OBE.

Rena Ware saucepans: I was very surprised when my mother offered me her precious Rena Ware saucepan set to add to my non-existent hope chest. At the time, I considered the gift a bit of a joke. However, I feel she was ever hopeful I’d find a good bloke and settle down.

Over the years I received a number of marriage proposals and, to this day, I wonder if it was me or the saucepans that piqued their interest? Who knows?

Some fifty-plus years on, I continue to use the saucepans daily, and they are fabulous still.

Australia and New Guinea: As I travelled between Australia and New Guinea, I didn’t realise that I was caught between two worlds. When we first moved to New Guinea, we lived in the small expatriate community of Rabaul, located on the eastern tip of New Britain, surrounded by the Tolai people. I was fascinated by the Tolais, their culture and their languages. These resilient people had successfully withstood various waves of colonisers. In chronological order, the Germans before World War one; the Australians after World War one, the Japanese in World War two; and, lastly, at the end of the War, Australia took over once again. For thirty more years Australia governed Papua New Guinea, granting the people Independence in 1975.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tolai_people
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Papua_New_Guinea

In 1960s Rabaul, we only mixed with other Europeans. Very occasionally, I had the opportunity to connect with the locals, and when I did so, I loved it. These interactions marked the beginnings of my life as a culture ‘junkie’—a state of being that prevails to this
day.

FACTS:
Rena Ware saucepans: In 1941, Rena Ware began production in Canada. The saucepan range has been redesigned a number of times since my mother’s purchase, in the mid-1960s.
https://www.renaware.com/cookware

Daulo Pass: is situated half way between Goroka and Kundiawa at 2478 metres above sea level and marks the highest point on the Highlands Highway.

Kondom Aguando: Aguando contested the Highlands seat in the 1961 elections, and was elected to the Legislative Council, where he demanded more development of the Highlands.

Kondom Aguando important
Simbu leader in the early 1960s
Image: pngattitude.com

A documentary, Kondom Agaundo, M.L.C., was made in 1962. In the first elections with universal suffrage in 1964 he contested the Simbu seat, but finished third, losing to Waiye Siune. He continued as a member of the Eastern Highlands District Advisory Council, and became chairman of the Kundiawa Coffee Society, the largest co-operative society in Papua New Guinea at that time.

Aguando is known to have had at least fourteen wives and was buried at his village at Wandi, five kilometres north-west of Kundiawa.

The Simbu Province headquarters building, as well as the high school near his grave are named in his honour.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kondom_Agaundo
https://www.thenational.com.pg/celebrating-life-pioneer-leader/
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/agaundo-kondom-9316

The Highlands Highway: now known as the Okuk Highway, is the lifeblood of the New Guinea Highlands. It’s 700 kilometres long, and runs from Lae in the Huon Gulf, to Mount Hagen and, after our time, was extended to provide access to the Porgora gold mine.

The Okuk Highway formerly known as the Highlands Highway running from Lae to Mount
Hagen and beyond
Image: Business Advantage PNG

The Okuk Highway formerly known as the Highlands
Highway running from Lae to Mount Hagen and beyond
Image: Business Advantage PNG

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 13: Snakes alive!

I hadn’t returned to the New Guinea Highlands since the August school holidays of 1965.

It was now May of 1966, and this time, I was on my way to Kundiawa in Simbu Province, located between Mount Hagen and Goroka. 

Kundiawa circled in red
Image: Missionaries of the Sacred Heart

In the intervening eight months there had been a number of major changes in my life. I’d obtained a Queensland drivers licence, completed Year 12 study at the Glennie Memorial School and left Toowoomba without a backward glance to focus on my immediate future in Sydney. My intention was to study art at the National Art School. I imagined my life in Sin City would be jam-packed with a myriad of exciting experiences in addition to an art training. This confluence of activities seemed a perfect fit for a self-confident young woman like me who was determined to give life a really good shake.

I was fortunate to secure a place at the National Art School and began my art training in early 1966.

At the outset, I thoroughly enjoyed the freedom and buzz of city life which was in marked contrast to the restrictions of the boarding school experience I had recently left behind. By the end of first term, I was yearning to reconnect with the wild grandeur of the New Guinea highlands and to once again breathe Kundiawa’s clean, crisp mountain air that was in marked contrast to Sydney’s air quality.

To set the scene: Kundiawa was then a small Eastern Highlands settlement, with a police station, a hospital, a post office, a bank, a fresh food market, a hotel, several trade stores and a small airstrip, one of a number in the mountainous Eastern Highlands.

Settlement of Kundiawa from the air circa 1965 note buildings scattered on both sides of the central airstrip
Image: guwentravel.com

The town’s European residents fell into two quite distinct camps—those who worked for the Administration, that is Government, and those engaged in private enterprise.

My mother had been employed by the Administration for almost five years, before moving to Kundiawa. Her new job was huge. She’d signed on to set up and manage The Wool Project. A Department of Trade and Industry initiative, to introduce spinning and weaving to the Highland people. As always, accommodation was part of the package. She was allocated a modern, airy, two-bedroom flat above Buka Stores, the most popular trade store in town. The building was situated alongside the airstrip. The flat’s living room had the most splendid views, out through a wall of glass with double glass doors, that opened out onto a narrow balcony. Irrespective of the time of day, the view across the airstrip to the rugged mountain ranges beyond, was breathtakingly beautiful. In quieter moments, I loved to revisit the view.

My mother had arrived in Kundiawa with all our possessions including her precious car, a Karmann Ghia 1500S. Unfortunately, secure undercover parking wasn’t provided as part of the rental deal so she’d no choice but to park to one side of the Buka Stores main entrance.

My mother’s Karmann Ghia 1500S Type 34
Image: Flickr

One morning, not long after moving in, she discovered a deep scratch in the duco, running the full length of the car, on the driver’s side. She was horrified and instantly became incandescent with rage. Who would dare vandalise her precious car? With steam coming out of her ears, she immediately drove to the police station. After a time, she calmed down sufficiently to explain her predicament, and ask for advice.

Charlie the security snake—Amethystine Rainforest python
Image: Wet Tropics Management Authority

The police officer on the desk was at a loss to know what to do. But, another officer, wanting to be helpful, had a bright idea. He owned a large python, named Charlie and he kindly offered Charlie for security duty. As many of the locals were afraid of snakes, his suggestion was to place Charlie on the back shelf of the car, as a deterrent. My mother, who was at her wits end, agreed to this mad-cap proposal. So, Charlie was gently placed on the back shelf, after which my mother drove back to the flat, where she parked beside the Buka Stores entrance, as usual, hoping that Charlie would do the trick. Time would tell.

Once the shoppers caught sight of Charlie through the car’s rear window, they were mesmerised. As both side windows were wound up, leaving only a small gap for air, they soon realised there was no danger, and as a result, more and more people crowded in close around the boot of the car to see him. After a time, the noonday heat became too much for Charlie, so he slowly slithered down across the back seat, and through the narrow gap between the front seats, in search of a cooler spot.

Sometime later, my mother, keen to check the effectiveness of the recently installed ‘reptile security service’, came down to find a large crowd clustered in close around her car, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charlie. But it became clear that he was making matters worse rather than better, so after dispersing the crowd, my mother decided to return Charlie to the police station. But, where did he go? He’d found a cooler spot, under the dashboard on the driver’s side, even though it was a bit of a squash for a fattish snake. And, it wasn’t until my mother sat herself in the driver’s seat, that she noticed a thick loop of Charlie, dangling down above the pedals. Terrified, she reversed out, and drove back to the police station very slowly, all the while fearful that the rough ride, caused by the uneven road surface, may disturb Charlie, prompting him to rearrange himself. If he did this, he could drop down onto her legs, thereby making it impossible to continue driving.

Fortunately, the police station was only three minutes away. But extracting Charlie proved very difficult. He was extremely reluctant to leave his cool possie under the dashboard. His owner tried to sooth him, saying, “Now Charlie, it’s time for you to come out.” and, “There, there Charlie. Take it easy fella.” But no amount of coaxing helped, so drastic action was needed. Finally, he was dragged out backwards, causing his scales to ruffle, and as a result, he became very, very cross. My mother was so relieved to be rid of Charlie and I’m reliably informed that this was the first and last time he was offered for security detail.

True, I was on holidays but my mother wasn’t. The Wool Project headquarters and workshop were situated on the other side of the airstrip and it was a given that I would make myself useful whilst I was visiting. Having been raised around weavers and weaving, I knew the ropes. Each weekday morning I drove the low-slung Karmann Ghia across the top of the grass airstrip and down the road leading to The Wool Project building. The building, known as the hous blanket, had been hastily erected on the grounds of the Simbu Junior Technical College in preparation for my mother’s arrival. It was a large airy building made of bush materials with a concrete floor that had been built by the staff and students of the College. Kundiawa had been chosen as the Wool Project’s base of operations because the success of this new enterprise was contingent on the support that the College staff and students would provide. In addition to building the haus blanket, they would use my father’s drawings to construct the weaving looms and other equipment the Wool Project needed.

I soon discovered that the weavers were both Endugla and Kamaneku tribesmen who’d been hand-picked for this bold project. By the time I arrived, this new group of recruits were already fully trained production weavers, so for a change my role was social rather than practical. As I spoke the lingua franca, Tok Pisin, I had fun getting to know them better because I knew full well it was possible to weave and chat at the same time.

Some evenings, my mother and I’d skip cooking, and walk down to the only hotel in town, the Kundiawa Hilton, to have dinner with the licensee, Dick Kelaart. Dick was a Dutchman, who’d made his way to the New Guinea highlands from Indonesia. To our delight, he brought with him his vast knowledge of Indonesian food. He was a serious ‘foodie’ and, as a result, the tucker at the Hilton, was always unusual, and delicious. But menu planning was often affected by the erratic delivery of provisions, that were trucked up the Highlands Highway, from the port of Lae. Heavy rain on the highway, occasionally caused major landslips, that could delay deliveries for days. Thankfully, the township had an abundant supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, grown by the local women, and sold at the Kundiawa market.

One evening we arrived at the Hilton to find Dick in a flap because his English cook had suddenly taken off to New Zealand, pursuing a love interest. Out of the blue he asked me if I’d take over running the kitchen. As an over-confident seventeen-year-old in search of challenging experiences, I accepted his request in a heartbeat; all the while knowing that I’d be guided by both Dick and his super-well trained kitchen staff.

Because we ate at the hotel often, I knew that both the lunch and dinner menu comprised three courses: choice of soup; choice of up to three main courses; and choice of dessert plus coffee. The kitchen had a large oil-fired Aga stove and an equally large propane gas one. The combined heat output of both stoves made the kitchen space very warm. Because of this, it was sometimes difficult to keep the serving staff looking crisp and cool as they moved between the hot kitchen and the cooler dining room.

Whilst working at the Kundiawa Hilton, an important phase of my limited musical education began. Stacked beside the record player in the dining room was an eclectic collection of LP records. In the pile, I found two records by an American group, The Byrds, titled Mr Tamborine Man and Turn! Turn! Turn! For about a fortnight I listened to both LPs on high rotation as we prepped for lunch and dinner seven days a week. Thankfully whilst I was holding the fort, Dick managed to find a permanent replacement cook and my job was done.

In summary, the August holidays of 1966 dished up the unexpected. Exposure to snakes, hotel catering and imported contemporary music were broadening experiences for me. But all too soon it was time to return to Sydney to continue my art studies. I farewelled my mother and my new friends knowing full well that I’d be back again in three months for the August holidays.

 

ON REFLECTION:
The Glennie Memorial School, Toowoomba: My time at boarding school was an unpleasant experience in a cold and loveless environment. As a direct result of those two unhappy years, I vowed I’d never ever return to Toowoomba. In 1983, I did return for a year and again in 1987, and I’ve lived here ever since. This city suits me, because as I’ve gotten older, my needs have changed. Here, I’m safe in my bed at night; a major consideration for a single woman. In addition, this community supports me in a myriad of practical ways. This support, has enabled me to continue making cutting-edge artwork for all the years I’ve lived here.

Art studies: My mother, variously known as Ethel Vera Wyon and Gretchen Grainger, belongs to a dynasty of British artists and engravers. After completing her secondary education in England, she went on to art school, where she acquired skills she put to good use ever after, in both her private and professional life. As I grew up, it was obvious that I too, had creative leanings. Fortunately, my mother nurtured my creativity, in the hope that I’d follow in her famous family’s footsteps, by pursuing a career in the arts. But my father had other ideas. He secretly harboured dreams of a successful career in medicine for me. In my teens, I came to know that a medical career was his unfulfilled aspiration, instead of the career path he was encouraged to follow, that of electrical engineering. Luckily, my underwhelming academic performance, made medical studies a bridge too far.

My mother’s Type 34 Karmann Ghia 1500S: In hindsight my mother’s relationship with her Karmann Ghia was most interesting. When my parents’ marriage broke up, my father took the ‘good car’, a 1950s black Mercedes Benz. Ever after my mother was determined to have a Mercedes Benz of her own, and later she did. In between she had an odd collection of second-hand vehicles and then, roll of drums, the brand new Karmann Ghia which was purchased from the Volkswagen showroom in either Lae or Port Moresby. It was the only one in Papua or New Guinea and my mother revelled in the exclusivity!

To explain, one of the perks for expatriates living in Papua New Guinea at that time, was the duty-free purchase of brand-new motor vehicles. The only proviso was that the vehicle remained in Papua New Guinea for two years before export. Many expats took advantage of this perk, my mother included. The Karmann Ghia was brought down to Australia twice before it was finally returned to Port Moresby to be traded in on a grey Mercedes Benz 230 Compact. After two years the Benz was also shipped to Australia, where it was used to take us all over the country. Then, some weeks before we left Australia for Mexico, it was sold. Mexico? Well, that’s another story.

Responsibility: I took on management of the Kundiawa Hotel kitchen without a second thought, believing in my ability to figure out what had to be done and to do it. In my family, I’d always been encouraged to ‘have a go’.

Popular 1960s music—The Byrds: Even though we found ourselves living in a small settlement in the remote New Guinea Highlands, we weren’t beyond the influence of cutting-edge music-makers from other parts of the world.

FACTS:
Kundiawa: the capital of Simbu Province. Sitting at 1500 metres above sea level, it is surrounded by still higher mountain ranges. The area has an annual rainfall of 2265cm with a daily temperature range of 14°C to 26°C. The province enjoys a perfect temperate climate—warm during the day and coolish at night.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kundiawa

The Simbu people: had first contact with Europeans in April 1933, when the Taylor-Leahy patrol walked into their valley.

Jim Taylor
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/taylor-james-lindsay-15678

Mick Leahy
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/leahy-michael-james-mick-7134

Karmann Ghia 1500S Review:
https://www.australiaforeveryone.com.au/files/motoring-karmann-ghia.html

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 12: The art school adventure begins

In mid-January 1966 my mother, who’d come to Sydney to settle me into Art School, returned to New Guinea and took her fancy Karmann Ghia 1500S with her. From then on, I was without wheels in the big smoke.

I had already been accepted to study at the National Art School’s North Sydney Campus. The campus was easily accessible by public transport from my digs at ‘Tremayne’, the YWCA Hostel in Kirribilli. The hostel wasn’t far from Milson’s Point station with electric trains going north to the Art School, or south to the city over the Harbour Bridge.

At ‘Tremayne’ I shared a first-floor room with another young woman but before long, the build-up of art-related clobber that was stored under my bed became unmanageable, making it difficult for both of us. My storage dilemma was noted and before long I was offered a single room on the ground floor that’d once been the sickbay. I was overjoyed as the room was close to all I needed. Including: the common room that was perfect for setting up my sewing machine; the TV room; the dining room; the basement laundry; and the wall-mounted pay phone for making outgoing calls, that was located in the hall just outside my door. All this, plus tucker for $13.50 per week. Perfect.

Money-wise I was unbelievably well off. I’d cash to burn because my mother’s considerable monthly maintenance payment that was enough to support both of us in reasonable comfort, was passed over to me, hollos bolus. The reason? My father had got wind of my mother’s well-paid job establishing a textile industry in the highlands of New Guinea. The news didn’t please him but, this unexpected turn of events certainly pleased me.

I was excited at the prospect of art school. By way of background, the National Art School’s North Sydney campus was one of a number of state-run facilities, used for training first year art students. It was housed in a cluster of rundown fibro and weatherboard buildings, with little aesthetic appeal, squished onto a very small block of land. We were expected to attend Monday to Friday nine to five, and we did so willingly, because the classes were so interesting.

The study year comprised three terms. In each term we had two different subjects per day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Subjects included lettering, design, outdoor sketching, drapery drawing, antique model drawing from plaster casts, perspective drawing, watercolour painting, sculpture and quick sketching, for which we each took turns to model. In nineteen sixty-six, the cost of attending one of the best art schools in the country, was twelve dollars per term, payable to the Department of Technical and Further Education.

Each weekday morning I walked up to Milson’s Point station. I had my Masonite drawing board with large sheets of white cartridge paper attached, tucked awkwardly under my arm. Over my shoulder I carried a bag containing everything I needed for the classes including pencils, paints and brushes. From Milson’s Point I took the train one stop north. Then a bus, followed by a short walk to the Art School complex.

We were a diverse group of students. Those who’d completed the New South Wales School Leaving Certificate were either 17 or 18 years old, whilst others who’d passed the Intermediate Certificate were only 15 or 16. As part of my application I’d presented an unimpressive Queensland Senior that is, Year 12 Certificate. Thankfully it was disregarded because entry to the National Art School was contingent upon the quality of the artworks, we each submitted for consideration. 

A drawing class at the Julian Ashton Art School
circa 1930 with students using ‘donkeys’ and easels
as we did 35 years later at the National Art School
Image: Julian Ashton Art School Sydney

I quickly made friends within the student body. A number of my fellow students were self-funding their studies by taking factory work, or whatever other work they could find, during the Art School holidays. I clearly remember one story; a young woman who took a job in a pickle factory. Afterwards she said she would never eat bought pickles again, because, whatever fell on the floor was scraped up and put back into the pot. Her disturbing story has put me off buying commercially-made pickles ever after.

As my studies progressed, my design teacher, invited me to her home for Saturday lunch. Trained in Switzerland, she brought with her an innovative approach to teaching design that we all loved. Naturally, her home was beautifully decorated with exquisite handwoven cushions and furnishings, Persian carpets and hand embroidered table linen. I understand it was unusual for a student to receive an invitation to visit the home of a National Art School teacher and, to this day, I wonder why I’d been invited. Her son, about my age, was also at lunch. Perhaps there was a bit of matchmaking in the air? Or maybe she felt sorry for me, all alone in the big city? I guess I’ll never know.

For a while my weekends were taken up sewing custom-made scrim curtains. Before returning to New Guinea, my mother had given me a second-hand Brother sewing machine. This was a heavy ‘clunker’ I was able to put to profitable use.

For example, some ex-New Guinea friends had relocated to Sydney. They’d purchased a block of land on which they’d built a Pettit+Sevitt project home. The home featured many full-length windows that required many sets of full-length curtains. I was happy to help, as I love sewing and the extra money was handy too.

Mid-1960’s flat-roofed Pettit+Sevitt project home
Image: canberrahouse.co.au

I used the ‘clunker’ to make my own clothes as well. I did my best to emulate Jackie Kennedy, the fashion icon of the era. For me, Jackie was the embodiment of sophisticated simplicity. To mimic her style, I chose to use Vogue designer patterns, following each step of the detailed pattern instructions ‘to-the-letter’. The unexpected spin-off from my single-minded approach, was that I learnt lots of unusual garment construction tricks that I’ve drawn on ever since.

French designer Pierre Cardin’s Vogue pattern I made up in cream wool—it was
tricky to make, in a totally impractical colour but remained one of my favourite
winter outfits
Image: Vogue Patterns Paris

French designer Pierre Cardin’s Vogue pattern I made
up in cream wool—it was tricky to make, in a totally
impractical colour but remained one of my favourite
winter outfits
Image: Vogue Patterns Paris

Occasionally I used some of my generous allowance to invest in stylish ‘off-the-peg’ garments. The right accessories to complement these garments and all the other outfits in my wardrobe, were vital. Shoes with a matching handbag and gloves, were purchased from the up-market David Jones department store in the city.

One weekend towards the end of my first term at Art School, my classmate, Jenny Spence died. She suffered from asthma. This was my first ‘up close and personal’ experience of death and it threw me for a loop. Jenny had just begun dating Kirk Hansom, my boyfriend Paul Patent’s best friend. We were devastated by the suddenness of her death as she was loved by us all. With a heavy heart, I bought a suitably sombre maroon outfit for the funeral to be informed a day later that it was to be a ‘family only’ funeral. Sadly Kirk, Paul and I were unable to farewell our kind, gentle and talented friend. As a result of Jenny’s death, a pall of sadness hung over us all for the remainder of our first term at Art School.

The pall of sadness was momentarily lifted for me when I received an unexpected job offer. A fellow student had noted my interest, nay, my obsession with fashion, borne out by the quirky outfits I wore to Art School each day. From our lunchtime chats she was well aware of both my sewing skills and my strong background in textiles. It seems she had made mention of me to her mother who was deeply involved in the Sydney fashion scene. I was invited to meet her mother. We discussed what she had in mind and the upshot was a job offer. I was flattered to be asked and quite surprised to discover that the skills I already possessed had value in the real world. But I’d set my heart on a formal art training, so after giving some considerable thought to the possibility of a career change, I politely declined her offer.

I was very relieved when Art School exams were done as I was still in shock from Jenny’s sudden departure and itching to get away from it all. As a distraction, I focused on making a number of unusual outfits to take with me to New Guinea for the May holidays. This time I was headed to the small highland’s township of Kundiawa in Simbu District, where my mother was overseeing the establishment of The Wool Project. As always, I was looking forward to pitching in. Easy for me because I’d been around spinning wheels and looms since before I was born. As The Wool Project was growing like Topsy, I knew an extra pair of experienced hands would be most welcome. At its zenith, my mother was managing 26 ‘units’ throughout the Highlands. After the fact it’s comforting to know that the spinning and weaving skills acquired by the people as a result of their textile training, were in use long after my mother left the country in 1973.

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

 

ON REFLECTION:
The National Art School: In my first year at Art School, my drawing, painting and sculpting skills were enhanced and refined. These foundation skills provided the bedrock of my subsequent career in the arts. They’re the skills I would later combine with textiles and material culture, to create a series of thematic touring exhibitions to tell our stories—stories of both hardship and success.

Grief: The sudden death of my friend Jenny Spence was a massive, mind-numbing shock. I was bereft and found it difficult to cope with the vacuum Jenny’s death created in my life.

I’d only once before experienced a similar all-consuming shock. When my father left my mother and I, I was nine. I’d witnessed him beat my mother black and blue before he departed. Since I’ve come to understand that many children are conflicted when family life is disrupted; in my case not by death but by withdrawal. I also know that many abandoned children feel responsible for family breakups, but not me. I was relieved my father was gone as I didn’t want to witness a repeat performance of his superior strength and anger directed
at my mother or at me. Even though I’d a strong connection with my father, I realised I couldn’t trust him.

Today my mother could take out a Domestic Violence Order against my father. But this was not the case in Sydney in the late 1950s. Then it was a time of deep dark family secrets held close. In my family, the image my parents were keen to project to the world was one of educated upper-middle-class respectability and domestic harmony. But the reality was very different.

FACTS:
Scrim: a reasonably priced lightweight translucent woven textile made from cotton, hemp or flax. Often used to make curtains for the trendy modernist-inspired houses, that were the rage in late 1960s Sydney.

Pettit+Sevitt builders: Brian Pettit and Ron Sevitt were the rising stars of contemporary house design in 1960s Sydney. They were the builders of choice for many adventurous first home buyers who purchased blocks of land in the Northern suburbs, where new land releases proliferated.

Pettit+Sevitt began by commissioning the talents of Michael Dysart and Ken Woolley—the latter the nineteen sixty-seven winner of the Australian Institute of Architects design award. Later on, innovative house designs were provided by the heavy-hitters of Australian architecture, including Harry Seidler, Russell Jack, Robin Boyd and Neil Clerehan.

Pettit+Sevitt built 3,500 houses for Australians between 1960 and the early 1970s.

Pettit+Sevitt history: https://www.pettitandsevitt.com.au/
http://www.canberrahouse.com.au/houses/pettit-sevitt.html

A typical Pettit+Sevitt project home floor plan from the mid-1960s—note master bedroom ensuite,
laundry, kitchen and family bathroom block—keeping the plumbing and drainage in one area kept
the cost down
Image: Pettit and Sevitt Courtyard plan Flickr

A typical Pettit+Sevitt project home floor plan from the
mid-1960s—note master bedroom ensuite, laundry,
kitchen and family bathroom block—keeping the
plumbing and drainage in one area kept the cost down
Image: Pettit and Sevitt Courtyard plan Flickr

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 11: The big smoke

In late November 1965, my mother came to Toowoomba in Queensland to pick me up from the Glennie Memorial School where I had just completed my Year 12 studies. I was filled with joy at the prospect of being free of the rigid boarding school regime that I’d begrudgingly endured for two long years. Just before I left school, I went for my driving test. As I’d been driving since I was twelve, I assumed it was a foregone conclusion I’d pass the test with flying colours. Ahead of time I’d had a couple of lessons to refine my driving technique and as anticipated, I succeeded first go. I was super-proud to be the holder of a freshly issued Queensland Drivers Licence. At last, I was legal! I was just seventeen.

My mother drove into the school’s front drive in a very swank chocolate brown and white Volkswagen Karmann Ghia 1500S, that she’d brought down with her from New Guinea. The car was unkindly referred to by some as a poor man’s Porsche and I understand it was one of only four in the country. And my mother relished the exclusivity!

Morley in Glennie summer uniform, standing beside her mother’s Karmann Ghia 1500S with PNG registration plates in the front drive 
of the Glennie Memorial School in late November 1965. Note the Glennie chapel in the background
Image: Grainger family photographs

Morley in Glennie summer uniform, standing beside her
mother’s Karmann Ghia 1500S with PNG registration
plates in the front drive of the Glennie Memorial School
in late November 1965. Note the Glennie chapel in the
background
Image: Grainger family photographs

Lennon’s Hotel Toowoomba built in 1957. It is six-storeys high and the
tallest building in the city in 1965 designed by Architect Dr Karl Langer
Image: National Library of Australia

Lennon’s Hotel Toowoomba built in 1957. It is six-storeys
high and the tallest building in the city in 1965 designed
by Architect Dr Karl Langer
Image: National Library of Australia

After numerous tearless farewells, we drove down town to Lennon’s Hotel, which was the place to stay in Toowoomba at that time. Lennon’s was renowned for an adventurous menu including Bombe Alaska—an exquisite desert of vanilla ice-cream encased in sponge cake, covered with baked meringue and served flambé. The perfect treat to celebrate my escape from boarding school!

Next day we headed south to Sydney to stay with a close family friend, Helen Klausner. Helen lived in a two-storey house, designed by modernist immigrant architect Harry Seidler at Hunters Hill—well, actually it was Gladesville the adjoining suburb, but Hunters Hill was considered a much better address!

I loved visiting Helen. She had style in spades, possessing both generous loving nature and a beautiful figure. Helen’s wardrobe was always overflowing with unconventional designer clothes and to my delight, she was happy to share them with me.

Helen was also a fantastic cook. In most Australian households at that time the patriarchal expectation was that dinner would be on the table no later than six o’clock each evening. This was an expectation that Helen chose to ignore. At Helen’s house, dinner was served when the dinner was ready and not before. She was never apologetic. It could be seven, or eight or even nine o’clock before the food came to the table and it was always worth waiting for.

Not far from Helen’s house there was a small shopping centre with a hairdressing salon. For special occasions the hairdresser would put my long, straight brown hair up into a French roll, a very popular 1960s hairstyle. With a French roll, Helen’s borrowed clothes and matching high-heeled sling-back shoes, I felt I held my own in the Sydney fashion stakes.

We spent Christmas catching up with friends. However, the dreamy summer holiday spent celebrating my escape from boarding school was short lived, as there was the pressing need for me to produce a folio of artwork to submit for consideration to the selection committee of the National Art School. I’m almost certain that my acceptance was the result of my mother’s influence and not necessarily the contents of my folio. Many of the Art School staff were her colleagues as she taught hand weaving and textile design at the University of Technology, in the years before we moved north to the wilds of New Guinea.

With my mother’s return to New Guinea imminent, the next challenge we faced was to find a suitable place for me to live in Sydney, ideally within striking distance of the National Art School. A friend suggested ‘Tremayne’ in Carabella Street, Kirribilli. It was a respectable YWCA hostel providing accommodation for out-of-town girls, some studying and some working, located just up the road from Kirribilli House, the Prime Minister’s official Sydney residence. As New Guinea was my home, I fitted the ‘Tremayne’ selection criteria and was offered a room, and then another, where I remained for all three years of my art school training.

Over the Christmas break I began finding new friends.

I met the members of a three-piece folk band calling themselves ‘The Ornithologists’; Brian Cooper, Greg Kingsley, and Paul Patent…all three with more than a passing interest in birds! Brian played guitar and banjo, Greg played guitar and Paul sang like an angel.

Paul Patent’s band ‘The Ornithologists’, performing. L to R: Greg Kingsley, Brian Cooper and Paul
Image: Unknown

They performed ‘covers’ of popular folksingers, including Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary, The Byrds and The Seekers and often had weekend gigs around Sydney—their only opportunity to perform, as they all had full-time jobs.

Paul was a year older than me and worked with the Bank of New South Wales. Neither of us had our own transport, though occasionally Paul was able to borrow his family’s Daimler. He would drive from Hunters Hill, where he lived with his recently widowed mother, to visit me at ‘Tremayne’, a twenty-minute run. Paul’s mother was a kind and inclusive woman who taught me how to iron a man’s shirt, as well as introducing me to rabbit stew. This was a new and surprisingly delicious culinary experience for me, because in my family we didn’t eat rabbit.

‘The Ornithologists’ were also deeply engrossed in the Sydney music scene, often travelling some distance to hear other groups play. They were overjoyed when they heard that the Modern Jazz Quartet (MJQ) would give one only performance at Sydney University on their way to Japan. Naturally, we all went along, well aware that the MJQ’s music was known and loved worldwide. The MJQ concert was a formative experience for me as it was the first time I’d heard African-American jazz musicians play on stage.

MJQ record cover
Image: Modern Jazz Quartet

Another close family friend was Kitty Gaul, who worked in ‘public relations’ and, as a result knew ‘everybody who was anybody’ in Sydney and beyond. Her social circle included artists, musicians, journalists, public intellectuals and writers, including Charmian Clift and her husband George Johnson. The couple had lived with their three children, on Hydra Island, in Greece, for some years. The family had recently returned to Australia and were finding it difficult to fit back in.

Kitty decided to throw a New Years’ Eve party at her Mosman flat and Charmian was invited. I too was invited and with permission, brought ‘The Ornithologists’ along with me for an evening of fun. I clearly remember a tipsy Charmian cornering us to lament, how difficult it was to converse with her teenage daughter, because she was in perpetual motion, ‘go-go’ dancing, morning, noon and night. ‘Go-go’ dancing was the exciting dance craze sweeping Sydney at the time. Charmain told us that she often pleaded with her saying, “Please keep still. I’ve forgotten what you look like!” We thought her comments were both amusing and sad.

Yet another pre-Art School experience was a brush with the Mosman Branch of the Young Liberals. My new friend Maryanne Walters was a card-carrying member. She encouraged me to join and, in what seemed like seconds, I found myself with the job of Minutes Secretary of the Branch. This was my first and last tango with either committee structures or conservative politics. To this day, I’ve not mastered the skill of taking minutes of meetings. My problem is that I become so engrossed in the ‘to-ing’ and ‘fro-ing’ of the discussion, I find it impossible to keep track of the main points.

But I digress.

I was delighted to be back in Sydney as it was my home town before we headed north to live in New Guinea. I’d been away for five years. But in the couple of months I’d been back I’d already found an interesting cross-section of new friends, a boyfriend, had a place at the National Art School and reasonably priced accommodation. How much better could it be?

I was poised ready to begin my first year at the North Sydney campus of The National Art School. Fortunately, the campus was within striking distance of ‘Tremayne’.

As the result of my extraordinarily positive art experience at boarding school, I was very excited at the prospect of learning more about art, both theoretical and practical, under the tutorship of a number of highly respected practicing artists. The future looked rosy.

 

ON REFLECTION:
A Queensland driver’s licence: Acquiring my driver’s licence was an important rite of passage. After successfully completing the compulsory driving test, I was thrilled at last to be ‘legal’. I loved driving. Driving without a licence in New Guinea was never a problem but driving without a licence in the city was asking for trouble.

‘Tremayne’ the YWCA hostel at Kirribilli in Sydney: Living at ‘Tremayne’, gave me the opportunity to meet many interesting young women my own age who mostly came from different parts of rural and regional New South Wales. As our friendships developed, we were able to support each other as we ventured out into the world beyond ‘Tremayne’s’ protective walls. As young attractive women, we were sometimes confronted with situations that tested us physically, morally and philosophically. It was very comforting to know that when needed, we had a shoulder to cry on. Ironing a man’s shirt: I was touched when my boyfriend Paul’s mother offered to teach me how to iron a man’s shirt. Obviously, shirt ironing was a skill she felt I needed. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d been ironing my father’s shirts since I was eight years old. However, her method was a little different, so it wasn’t a wasted exercise.

Paul Patent: As I recall, my relationship with Paul lasted for about eighteen months and during that time we shared my virginity. It was a disappointing experience under less-than-ideal conditions, after which I played it safe, as I was in no hurry to repeat the experience.

L to R: Greg Kingsley, Morley, Paul Patent and Kirk Hansom, standing by the front verandah of Paul’s home at Hunter’s Hill
Image: Unknown

Charmian Clift: Meeting acclaimed author and journalist Charmian Clift at Kitty Gaul’s party was an unexpected surprise because I’d grown up hearing lots of stories about her life before she and her husband George Johnson left Australia for London in 1951. Some years later they moved to Greece, making a home on Hydra Island and, in nineteen fifty-seven, my mother visited them there. She was on her way back from the United States of America, after spending six months studying at the Rhode Island School of Design. She was entranced by the Johnson’s idyllic Greek lifestyle and after divorcing my father, thought seriously about moving us to Greece. However, my father threw a spanner in the works, refusing to allow me to leave Australia so my opportunity to attend the International School in Athens and learn to speak Greek, instead morphed into learning to speak Tok Pisin, the lingua franca of New Guinea. Seems my father wasn’t worried about our move to New Guinea. Perhaps because it was closer? It’s strange how things work out.

But I digress.

Even as a typically egocentric seventeen-year-old, it was clear to me that Charmian Clift was deeply unhappy as we made small talk whilst waiting to welcome in the New Year of 1966.

FACTS:
The Modern Jazz Quartet (MJQ):
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_Jazz_Quartet

Charmian Clift:
In 2016 Susan Johnson, feature writer for The Australian newspaper, wrote of Charmian Clift and George Johnson:

“America has Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, England has Leonard and
Virginia Woolf and France has Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. But Australia’s own doomed literary couple lives on in the enduring myth of Charmian Clift and George Johnson.”

Charmian Clift died by her own hand in 1969, aged 45.
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/clift-charmian-9764
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charmian_Clift

Charmian Clift’s estranged husband, George Johnson, died of tuberculosis in 1970, aged 58.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Johnston_(novelist)
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/johnston-george-henry-10632

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 10: Skin in the game

In August 1965, I visited the Mount Hagen Show for the second time. I first visited in August 1963, when I was fourteen. Then, my mother and I’d hopped aboard a chartered DC3 with side-saddle seating to fly from Rabaul to Mount Hagen for what was promoted as ‘the weekend adventure of a lifetime’.

Ansett-Mandated Air Lines DC3
Image: AussieAirliners

DC3 charter flight passengers en route the Mt Hagen Show
Image: Papua New Guinea Association of Australia

Basic accommodation was part of our Mount Hagen Show package, and we were each allocated a narrow straw paillasse on the hard wooden floor of the local primary school.

Mount Hagen’s cooler climate was most welcome as it was in sharp contrast to the oppressive coastal heat, we experienced daily in Rabaul. In addition, Rabaul was subject to the incessant emissions from the town’s active volcano, Mount Tavurvur. Whenever the
wind blew from the east, we experienced unexpected random whiffs of hydrogen sulphide gas that smelt like rotten eggs. So, it was nice to have a break from the pong.

Mount Hagen Show—massed tribal warriors dancing
Image: Papua New Guinea Association of Australia

The Hagen Show weekend was action-packed. Wandering the showground we visited pavilions, saw numerous displays, and watched thousands of tribesmen in full ‘sing-sing’ regalia, dancing to the hypnotic beat of their ‘kundu’ drums. It was mesmerising to watch the tribesmen’s feathered headdresses rise and fall as they danced. All in all, it was an unforgettable experience and one I was busting to repeat.

Mount Hagen Show—magnificent wigged tribesmen with kundu drums
Image: Symbiosis Custom Travel

Mount Hagen Show—tribesmen in full regalia including Bird of Paradise feathers
Images: nashopng.com

This time, I was on holiday from boarding school in Toowoomba, Queensland and I was sixteen.

But this time it was very different because we had skin in the game. Why? Because my mother’s Wool Project, based in Kundiawa not far from Mount Hagen, was a feature of the Show for the very first time.

To get the Wool Project to the Mount Hagen Show the Simbu weavers, Siwi and Ambane their spinning and weaving equipment plus stock to sell, were loaded onto an uncovered semi-trailer for the 100-kilometre trip along the Highlands Highway to Mount Hagen. My mother travelled separately as she needed transport at the Mount Hagen end for the duration of the Show. She cautiously followed the semi-trailer in her low-slung Karmann Ghia 1500S, her pride and joy, with only twelve centimetres of clearance to the shock absorbers. This vehicle was totally unsuitable for the unsealed highland roads that were often badly affected by regular heavy rainfall.

The weavers had spent months preparing for the Show. From the beginning my mother had made it very clear that to be part of the Wool Project exhibit, the weavers would be required to wear traditional dress that included: Bird of Paradise feathers; pearl shell ornaments and ‘arse’ grass. In addition, pig grease was to be smeared on their bodies to make them shine. European clothing bought from the Trade store, was absolutely forbidden.

The Wool Project’s allocated space within the Mount Hagen showground facility, comprised a recently constructed seven-metre square hut made of bush materials that was open on three sides, with a wooden platform floor. The centrepiece of the display was two looms operated by the weavers, dressed in full tribal regalia and demonstrating their newly acquired weaving skills. It was a strangely incongruous sight.

To promote the handwoven product, behind the looms were hung an eye-catching display of handwoven woollen blankets stretched over lightweight wooden frames and hung from the ceiling support poles. Behind the panels, at the rear of the stand was a storeroom that was chock-a-block full of stock.

The Wool Project stand at the 1965 Hagen Show. The loom is being warped in preparation for threading and ultimately weaving
Image: Grainger family photographs

I flew into Mount Hagen from Brisbane on Friday, 19th August, the day before the Mount Hagen Show was due to commence. On my arrival, I found the Wool Project stand set up and everyone involved exuding optimism at the prospect of selling all the stock and taking orders for more, thereby assuring the weavers of plenty of work on their return to Kundiawa.

As this was to be the public launch of The Wool Project, The Department of Trade and Industry sent helpers from Port Moresby. In addition, The Australian Wool Board’s technical manager had flown in from Sydney to lend a hand.

L to R: Dan Mannix from Trade and Industry head office Port Moresby; Frank Wood Technical Manager from the Australian Wool Board and my mother, Gretchen Grainger, warping one of the looms on the Wool Project stand at the 1965 Hagen Show with the muddied Karmann Ghia in the foreground
Image: Grainger family photographs

Everyone was hyped up and ready for the experience of a lifetime, made possible through their association with The Wool Project.

I was doubly excited as my German romantic interest at the time, flew into Mount Hagen from Madang that Friday afternoon. I borrowed the Karmann Ghia to pick him up from the airstrip, after which we had a preview wander around the Show site before heading off to shower and change in preparation for a romantic dinner out.

But it began to rain heavily. Throughout Papua New Guinea stormwater is managed with a network of drains, known as ‘barats’. Measuring around 60cm wide by 80cm deep they run parallel to the road. Often covered with grass, barats were tricky to detect at night when either walking or driving, as there was no street lighting in Mount Hagen at that time.

With rain pelting down and lousy visibility, I carefully reversed the Karmann Ghia out of the driveway, but went a tad too far. Oh, dear. I inadvertently put both back wheels of my mother’s precious car in the barat with the boot resting on the other side. So we were well and truly stuck. What to do? From the car, I could see lights from the nearby hotel kitchen where I hoped I could find people to help. Luckily the cook bois responded to my request and when there was a break in the rain, they quickly lifted the back wheels of the car out of the barat and back onto the road. After thanking the kitchen crew, we drove away to celebrate my very recent admission to the Barat Club over dinner!

My boyfriend’s visit was brief because he had to return to work in Madang. As a result, I didn’t have a partner for the Mount Hagen Show Ball. But I wasn’t particularly worried as we had tickets and weren’t going to miss out on dancing to a live band that was a welcome change from dancing to long playing vinyl records. So, decked out in our finery, we set off to party.

I can’t recall seeing the Australian Governor General De L’Isle and his party at the Ball. Lord De L’Isle had come to Mount Hagen to officially open the Show. As a powerful symbol of Australian colonial authority, his presence added a degree of gravitas to the proceedings. Standing on a raised platform, he’d taken the salute with aplomb, his solar topee topped with white feathers that weren’t nearly as colourful or dramatic as the sea of Bird of Paradise plumes below him. After he’d done the job, I assume he and his party escaped the primitive Highland conditions and flew back to the comparative luxury of Government House in Port Moresby.

At the Ball I met an interesting man from Canada. He was a Cree Indian from Cutknife Saskatchewan who was working with the Canadian University Service Overseas. He was a real livewire. The evening remains memorable as he taught me the Cree Chicken Dance, much to the amusement of the cluster of onlookers propping up the bar.

The next day, slightly hungover, I headed back to the showground to lend a hand. Siwi was weaving but I could see fellow-Simbu weaver Ambane was at a loose end. I suggested we do a lap of the various displays including the grand pavilion of our hosts, the Western Highlands District. Together we entered their pavilion and as we did so, Ambane was curtly told he couldn’t come in. I immediately arced up and retorted, “He’s with me.” And we kept walking. I was irritated by the attempt to exclude my Simbu friend.

We returned to the Wool Project stand just in time to be invited to lunch at the Mount Hagen Country Club by the Australian Wool Board representative. On the spur of the moment, I asked Ambane if he’d like to join us and he agreed. Sadly, it turned out to be the most excruciatingly uncomfortable luncheon ever. The disapproval of the other diners seated nearby was palpable—deeming Ambane’s presence an unexpected and inappropriate intrusion as the Mount Hagen Country Club was a very Anglo enclave. Nothing was said but I know Ambane felt it and so did I. This experience was yet another sobering example of exclusion—my friend Ambane treated as an outsider in his own country.

Ambane and I arrived back at the Wool Project stand to find the stockpile of handwoven blankets, ponchos and raw fleece floor mats, continuing to sell like hotcakes. But there was a problem. Siwi, my favourite Simbu weaver, cornered me. He was very concerned, as he’d noticed a number of items were being sold twice. He could see the calamitous repercussions to come and so could I. There would be two buyers arriving at the end of the day to pick up one item. It appeared that the helper from Trade and Industry in Port Moresby was unaware of the system. She was taking items from the ‘to-be-picked-up’ pile and reselling them. Siwi tried to explain but the woman didn’t speak Tok Pisin. Next, I stepped in to explain in English but was waved away. So Siwi and I adjourned to the storeroom to lament. I was very upset as I felt powerless to mitigate the inevitable disaster heading our way. To comfort me, Siwi said, “Noken wari sista, mama ikam bek pastem na ba i steretim.” (“Don’t worry sister, when your mother gets back, she will sort it out.”)

My mother returned to find us huddled in the storeroom and wanted to know why. Through my tears I explained our dilemma. She listened carefully before replying gruffly in English in her attempt to jolly me out of my distressed state. Siwi, not understanding English, picked up on her tone and reacted. He arced up saying, “Noken tok olsem lo sista blo me.” (Don’t you speak to my sister like that!”). I was so shocked by Siwi’s unexpectedly defensive outburst, I immediately snapped out of my funk and left my mother to conjure a solution to the double sales dilemma.

By Sunday afternoon every last item had been sold. As first-time exhibitors at the Mount Hagen Show, everyone involved was thrilled with the positive response to the Wool Project, borne out by the long list of orders to be filled by the weavers on their return to Kundiawa. It was late afternoon by the time we’d packed up, reloaded the semi-trailer and waved the weavers farewell before following them home in the Karmann Ghia. Our return trip was very slow because the recent heavy rain had scoured out deep run-off channels and I well remember having to get out of the car a couple of times, torch in hand, to guide the front wheels of the low-slung Karmann Ghia over the worst sections.

We got back to Kundiawa late that evening, still basking in the warm glow of success. The Wool Project had taken the Mount Hagen Show by storm. The total sell-out proved there was demand from both expatriates and tourists for well designed, quality handwoven items. It was a most welcome boost for my mother as she steered the fledgling Wool Project into the future.

I spent the remainder of my holidays in Kundiawa helping with The Wool Project before returning to Toowoomba to complete my last term at The Glennie Memorial School. Then freedom! Bring it on!

 

ON REFLECTION:
Cross cultural concern: Simbu weaver Siwi’s unexpected verbal outburst to protect me from my mother’s chiding, is a reminder of the affection in which I was held by Wool Project people. I’m told that a number of girl children were named for me, yet another tangible indicator of my place in their lives and their hearts.

My time in New Guinea: From the beginning of our 13-year stay, I was consciously aware that ‘I was just passing through’ whereas our hosts, the people of Papua New Guinea had managed their land for thousands of years. This fact brought me to the conclusion that, as an uninvited guest in their culture, I had an obligation to be well behaved for the duration of my stay. But this was not a commonly held view at the time, as many of the other ‘guests’ were driven by opportunistic intent in one form or another. The objective being to extract as much as possible with little thought of the impact their activities may have had on our hosts. I came to understand that the Simbu people have a deep and complex relationship with their land and remain largely dependent on subsistence agriculture.

The New Guinea Highlands Highway: Driving the Karmann Ghia 1500S in the Highlands was often a challenge as the roads could be extremely dangerous due to incessant rain that caused numerous washaways and occasionally impassable landslides. However, uppermost in my mind as we negotiated the tricky bits was my father’s mantra: “You can drive a car anywhere as long as you do it slowly. And we did!

Serious landslip on The Highlands Highway in the 1960s
Image: Pacific Manuscripts Bureau

FACTS:
Mount Hagen: is the capital of the Western Highlands Province. It’s the third largest city in Papua New Guinea, located in the fertile Wahgi Valley at 1,677m above sea level. The rainfall is 2557mm a year.

The Wool Project: Was a Department of Trade and Industry initiative. The objective was to teach spinning and weaving to the local people. The Wool Project began in Kundiawa, Simbu District in 1964 and quite quickly grew to comprise 26 individual cells scattered throughout the Highlands. My mother, Gretchen Grainger, ran the project single-handed because she had the technical know-how, could design a saleable product, spoke the lingua franca, and could source suitable yarn through her network of Australian textile manufacturers.

The Highlands Highway: also known as the Okuk Highway, is the main land highway in Papua New Guinea. It connects several major cities and is vital for the movement of people and goods between the populous Highlands region and the coast.

For most of its length, the Highlands Highway is no more than a single carriageway, two lane road, which is often hindered by potholes, and land slips. The Highlands stretch of the highway in particular, is notorious for armed holdups and robberies, committed by the local bandits, called ‘raskols’.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Highlands_Highway

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 9: Getting of wisdom

After three years of secondary education in New Guinea at Rabaul High School located on the eastern tip of New Britain, it was time for me to move on to my next character-building adventure, to continue my schooling ‘down south’ in Australia. This was made possible because my mother, an employee of the New Guinea Administration, was entitled to financial assistance to help cover the costs associated with a child attending boarding school in Australia. The package also included a return airfare to Rabaul once a year. I was just fifteen.

My mother had thoroughly researched suitable boarding schools for my last two years of secondary education. The short list included: The Friends School in Tasmania; Frencham in Mittagong; St Gabriel’s in Charters Towers; St Margaret’s in Brisbane; and The Glennie Memorial School in Toowoomba. The latter was chosen because my brother and his wife had left plantation life in New Guinea to manage a family property at Drillham Siding, some 220 kilometres west of Toowoomba. The property was close enough for my brother to come to the rescue if need be. Toowoomba’s proximity to Brisbane airport was also a consideration, as I needed to get to and from New Guinea up to three times a year with a minimum of fuss.

At the end of the 1963 Rabaul high school year we came through Toowoomba on the way to Sydney for school shopping. We’d a long list of school clothing to purchase from either Baileys or Piggotts, the iconic up-market Toowoomba stores that stocked everything a Glennie girl needed from blazers and grey stockings, through to the new summer uniform fabric and a paper pattern in my size. My mother, a super seamstress, planned to make me a couple of uniforms whilst we holidayed in Sydney over Christmas.

After six weeks of catching up with friends, I was delivered back to The Glennie Memorial School to begin Year 11 with every single item of my clothing marked with a Cash’s name tag, carefully sewn on by hand. I’d arrived a few days early which proved fortuitous as it gave me the opportunity to get to know the staff and to explore the numerous single and double-storeyed wooden buildings that were scattered across the school site, in various states of repair.

The front entrance of the Glennie Memorial School at 246 Herries Street Toowoomba in 1964
Image: Glennie Archives

The Year 11 classroom was set between the main building and Sutton House, the junior boarding house which was an elegant two-storey Queenslander flanked by wide verandas. A pathway of wooden slatted duckboards ran from the end of the main building, past the Year 11 classroom and on to Sutton House. They were unsightly but invaluable after rain, making it possible to move between the buildings and avoid the red volcanic soil, that became a sticky mess permanently staining everything it came in contact with.

At any new school there’s always a lot to learn, in addition to schoolwork. The idiosyncratic societal norms of this institution were numerous. Three times a day, we made our way to the dining room. Here I discovered that it was compulsory for each of us to bring a table napkin to the dining room for use at each meal.

The Glennie Memorial School dining room in 1964, the double doors on the back wall were an
entrance to the kitchen
Image: Glennie Archives

We were assigned a table, each one seating eight girls from a mix of grades, with a Senior in charge. Occasionally, when there was an overflow from the Headmistress’s table, a member of the teaching staff would join us.

The first reprimand came at breakfast on the first day of first term. The Senior in charge of our table told me to break my toast into pieces before buttering it. And the second came five days later, on Sunday morning.

As was the tradition, we Glennie Girls assembled at the front gate, and lined up to march two by two, from the school complex, to the St. James parish church, in Russell Street, for the nine-thirty Communion Service. We were required to wear our full school uniform, including hat and gloves. It was a warm summer’s morning when we set off, and I was carrying my gloves, instead of wearing them. I was spotted by a sharp-eyed Prefect, who ordered me to immediately put on my gloves, and report to the Senior’s classroom on our return to school. Somewhat perplexed by the exchange, I wondered what was in store for me. As I pondered my predicament, our procession continued, and some ten minutes later, we arrived at the rear entrance of St. James Church.

My lingering concerns were at once sidelined as we entered. The interior was breath-takingly beautiful; the roof and the honey-coloured timber ceiling, were supported by elegant arched timber trusses. Above the east-facing altar at the far end of the building, were three splendid stained-glass windows, that glowed in the morning light. We Glennie girls silently streamed in, almost completely filling the pews on the right-hand side of the nave.

The interior of St James Church Toowoomba
Image: ohta.org.au

I found the service unfamiliar and strange, having been raised by atheist parents, for whom attending any religious gathering, other than the occasional wedding or funeral, was anathema. After the service, we walked back to school. This Sunday morning ritual was to continue every week of term for the next two years.

The interior of the Glennie Memorial School chapel
Image: Churches Australia

In addition to the Sunday service at St. James church, we had up to twelve weekly gatherings for worship in various forms. These were mostly held in the charming timber-lined Glennie Chapel. By the end of my schooling, I’d been baptised and confirmed into the Anglican community, I’d memorised all the prayers for each service, as well as all the verses of the most often-sung hymns from The Australian Hymn Book.

But I digress.

Upon my return to school, I changed into ‘civvies’ and reported to the Senior’s classroom as instructed. I climbed the steps and knocked. From there, the Prefect assigned the punishment. For not wearing gloves to church, I was ordered to copy out the 119th Psalm, the longest psalm in the Anglican Book of Common Prayer and told to hand it in after dinner that evening. I was to discover that Psalm one hundred and nineteen, comprised six pages of teeny-weeny print. This seemed a strange and rather excessive penalty for a minor transgression; however, I began the task in earnest, determined to meet the deadline. At the start, I used my lined foolscap writing pad until I ran out of paper but I had no more. There were still a number of pages left to copy. What to do? Thinking laterally, I decided to use a roll of toilet paper to complete the task.

As instructed, after dinner that evening, I presented myself at the Senior’s classroom. When I handed the Prefect my writing, her reaction was immediate and apoplectic. I watched in disbelief as her face turned bright red. What happened next was totally unexpected.

Within a matter of minutes, I was whisked through a maze of hallways to the Deputy Principal’s private quarters. In the impromptu discussion that followed the Prefect put her case, declaring that my use of toilet paper was disrespectful and an affront to her authority. Then, it was my turn. I explained that my mother was making a considerable financial sacrifice to educate me at The Glennie Memorial School and that this unnecessarily severe punishment for a trivial misdemeanour, was a waste of my mother’s limited resources. And, to my surprise, that was the end of the matter. Word quickly spread and from then on, all Seniors and Staff gave me a wide berth, now well aware that I was able to stick up for myself.

I had arrived at The Glennie Memorial School with straight ‘A’ passes in eight subjects for the New South Wales Intermediate examination but sadly, from here on in, it was downhill. In the first term mathematics examination, I managed 17%, much to my parent’s horror, but there was no offer of remedial coaching. Instead, I was advised to drop the subject. Things were not much better in my other study areas either. But I adored Home Economics and Art. As the only Year 11 student doing both subjects, I benefited hugely from one-on-one teaching. Being from an artistic family with prodigious output across a myriad of disciplines, somehow the study of art history had been overlooked. Art lessons at The Glennie Memorial School made up for this oversight in spades. At the beginning of each lesson, I was asked to choose between art history or art practice. It was always a difficult decision to make because I was passionate about both.

Being so far from home, I was always longing for mail and spent hours writing letters in the hope of receiving a reply. I remember spending  lots of Prep, that is Preparation time typing letters on one of the many antiquated typewriters in the Commercial  Studies classroom. I wasn’t a Commercial student but for some reason I was never challenged. Perhaps the Prep supervisors were pleased I was actively engaged and staying out of trouble?

I was extremely unhappy at boarding school. I often fantasised about getting expelled, periodically doing something naughty in the hope I’d be asked to leave. My best effort was a spur-of-the-moment decision to break bounds on the last evening of the second term of Year 12.

I was joined on this escapade by a Year 11 friend. We decided to walk down to the Toowoomba railway station to farewell our fellow classmates from western Queensland, who were heading home on the ‘Westlander’ train. When we arrived at the station, we were warmly greeted by everyone including the Art and Drama mistresses who were assigned to supervise the girls’ departure. After the train had left the station, the mistresses kindly invited us to join them for a coffee at the Flying Dutchman, a trendy basement café nearby. What fun! But the fun didn’t last for long.

We were enjoying the incongruousness of the situation and our coffee when to our collective amazement, the English mistress appeared at the doorway of the café. To this day I can see her silhouette in the doorway. She was gobsmacked to find two naughty Glennie girls drinking coffee with two members of staff. The English mistress immediately whisked my friend and I back to school where we were questioned separately. To be honest, I was secretly thrilled, certain I could begin planning my life after expulsion. But the upshot was
way beyond extraordinary. The School’s Board of Directors decided to allow my friend and I to stay, and to sack both mistresses instead!

1965 was my final year at the Glennie Memorial School. Towards the end of that year my father, then based in New Zealand, came to visit me for the first time. He spent an hour with the Headmistress, after which she immediately called a full school assembly and resigned. Everyone was overjoyed as she was universally disliked. My father cheekily took the credit for her decision, much to my mother’s annoyance!

When my time at The Glennie Memorial School came to an end, I promised myself that I’d never return to cold conservative Toowoomba. Ever.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Leaving home: I didn’t realise it at the time, but leaving home at 15 to attend The Glennie Memorial School was my first step in creating a life independent of my family, particularly my mother. Thereafter, I continued to return to New Guinea whenever I had the opportunity. I was always up for an action-packed holiday, even though I was now living in Sydney and studying at The National Art School.

After graduating, things changed. I moved into full-time employment as a graphic artist with various organisations, that only offered four weeks holiday each year. A far cry from the ten weeks I enjoyed all the way through school and at the National Art School as well.

Institutions: For me, The Glennie Memorial School was a loveless place and as a consequence I developed greater personal independence as a result of the experience. I learnt to stand on my own two feet and speak up for myself; a priceless asset that I’ve utilised often as I’ve moved through life.

FACTS:
Student numbers: In 1964, the Queensland government raised the school leaving age from 14 to 15 years. As a result, most girls attending the Glennie Memorial School sat for the external Junior examination at the end of Year 10 and then left school. Because of this, enrolments for both Year 11 and 12 were greatly reduced. In 1964, I was one of only twelve girls enrolled for Year 11 at the Glennie Memorial School. The following year, almost all of my classmates returned to complete Year 12, a prerequisite for various forms of tertiary education including teachers’ college and university. The Glennie Memorial School: Was founded in 1908 and named in memory of Archdeacon Benjamin Glennie the first Anglican priest on Queensland’s Darling Downs.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benjamin_Glennie

By 1907 Toowoomba already had a number of secondary schools for boys so the Anglican Synod decided to use an £800 bequest to establish a secondary school for girls. The original school building was designed by Toowoomba architect Harry Marks. Many more buildings have been added to the site since I left at the end of 1965.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Glennie_School

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 8: A new life

In early January 1961, my mother and I arrived in Rabaul, a bustling port township located at the eastern tip of the Gazelle Peninsula on the banana-shaped island of New Britain. We were still in a spin having just spent an idyllic never-to-be-forgotten tropical Christmas with my brother on Karkar Island, off Madang.

Map of Papua New Guinea showing Rabaul
Map source: moneymuseum.com

Port township of Rabaul hugging Simpson Harbour
Image: Wikipedia

But first things first. As we planned to stay, my mother rented a small sparsely furnished two bedroom flat above a retail complex on Mango Avenue, the town’s main street.

Mango Avenue—Rabaul ’s main street c 1960
Image: flikr.com

We arrived in Rabaul with our suitcases filled to overflowing with tropical holiday clothes but not a single garment suitable for the start of my first year of high school. To address the problem my mother hastily constructed a simple sleeveless blue and white check gingham frock with a full skirt and a bias-cut sash. This garment gave me something to wear for the first week at a new school and allowed time to source the various items needed to meet the Rabaul High School’s dress code. The school uniform comprised a knee-length navy-blue pleated skirt, a white short-sleeved shirt, white socks and black shoes. By the beginning of my second week, I was fully kitted out, thanks to my mother’s super sewing skills.

The next purchase was a twenty-four-inch Malvern Star girls’ bicycle. It was bright blue and came with white-wall tyres, a parcel rack at the back, a wire basket hanging off the handlebars in front and a pump, but no gears.

Malvern Star 24” ladies bicycle c 1960
Image: Bicycle Superstore

Thankfully the streets of the Rabaul township were mostly flat. With my shiny new bicycle, of which I was extremely proud, I was able to pedal to and from school and anywhere else I wanted to go as we didn’t yet have a car.

My mother had her heart set on being a ‘lady of leisure’, thanks to my father’s sizable monthly maintenance payment, that was the result of their acrimonious divorce. Very quickly she was invited to join the local ‘morning tea set’ made up of other ladies of leisure who were married to the important business men of Rabaul. But before long the novelty wore off and she decided it wasn’t her cup of tea. She managed to politely extricate herself, after receiving a job offer from the Department of Malaria Control who were in need of a typist. Thus began our nearly four-year association with Rabaul.

One of the perks that came with working for any branch of the New Guinea Administration at that time was housing. So, it wasn’t long before we moved out of the flat on Mango Avenue and into a three-bedroom house. Fortunately for us, the accommodation outlasted the typing job because she was soon headhunted by another department. This time it was the Department of Education that came knocking. Word had spread that my mother was art school trained and had years of teaching experience. She accepted their offer and became the travelling art teacher for a scattering of out-of-town government schools located on the Gazelle Peninsula.

We hardly noticed, as we gently slid into the unhurried routine of life in tropical Rabaul. A life that was in marked contrast to the one we had left behind in Australia. I made friends with my classmates and quite quickly Serena Maclean became my ‘bestie’. She was the second eldest of four, two of whom attended the high school whilst her younger sisters attended Court Street Primary School.

Serena’s parents were pre-War Territorians, who were highly regarded by newcomers like us, caught up in the mystique of New Guinea’s past. The Macleans lived in a sprawling house on a large block of land, not far from our house. But their lifestyle differed greatly from ours. In their household, pre-War domestic staffing levels prevailed. Their staff included a cook, a haus boi to keep their house clean and a laundry boi to wash and iron for all six family members as well as maintaining their shady, overgrown garden.

As my much-older brother had left home when I was five, I was effectively an only child. As a result, I had little first-hand knowledge of how siblings interacted. But my association with the Maclean family changed that because I often spent time with them after school, rather than going home to an empty house to await my mother’s return from a day’s teaching out of town.

One afternoon Serena’s older brother Maxwell, taught me to shoot his pellet gun. For target practice we took turns to hit empty tin cans lined up on the fence. Some weeks later he taught me to shoot his .22 rifle.

Some months into my first year at Rabaul High School, I took up with Jock Christian. He was a year older and a year ahead of me. His family came from Scotland and he was my very first boyfriend. We often attended innocent teenage parties organised by our parents for a gaggle of up to fifteen teenagers. Each family took turns to host these Saturday gatherings, that started in the early evening, and ran for three or so hours. Inside we danced, drank nonalcoholic punch, played pass the parcel and spin the bottle. Outside in the cool semidarkness, we played innocent ‘kissing’ games that involved a lot of running around and hiding to avoid those you didn’t want to kiss!

Another Saturday night activity was going to the movies at Rabaul’s indoor picture theatre. As Jock and I were an ‘item’, we would select a row of seats and position ourselves in the middle of the central block. The boys would then fan out to sit on Jock’s side and the girls on mine. I remember Jock and I, coyly holding hands for the duration of the movie.

Another more physical weekend activity I well remember, was an adventurous expedition a group of us planned to climb Mount Tavurvur, the active volcano that was perched on the rim of the caldera, encircling Simpson Harbour.

The volcano would often remind us of its presence when the westerly breeze carried the invisible waves of hydrogen sulphide gas across the town. The gas smelt like rotten eggs and a whiff always caught you by surprise.

The adventure began very early one Saturday morning when we were driven from town to Matupit village. Next, a villager, in his outrigger canoe, paddled us across to the base of the volcano. Once out of the canoe, we began to climb up the side of the volcano. Even though we’d started early, the temperature was rising. It was very warm and the climb was steep and difficult, particularly clambering across patches of loose basalt scree that were devoid of vegetation. We were all very hot and bothered by the time we reached the rim of the volcano but our discomfort quickly faded as we took in the breath-taking view across Simpson Harbour.

View across Rabaul and Simpson Harbour with Mount Tavurvur on the right and the light green airstrip on the left
Image: Wikipedia

We then discovered that the view down into the crater was equally breathtaking. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before or since. The internal curve of the crater was lined with greybrown rock and patches of white fumaroles that belched rotten egg gas. On the crater floor there were areas of mid-grey mud gently bubbling—bloop, bloop, bloop. Next, my attention was caught by a small cave of bright yellow sulphur crystals at the centre of the crater floor. This crystal cave, surrounded by shades of grey, is my enduring memory of the excursion.

Inside the crater of Mount Tavurvur—the crater wall covered with smoking Sulphur fumaroles
Image: Blogger.com

Thankfully, our return trip was quicker and easier. We slid down to the base of the volcano where the canoe was waiting to take us back across the bay to Matupit village, and then home. When I got home, I had lots of stories to tell and I’ve been telling them ever since!

But I digress.

Before long, my mother purchased an old and battered short wheelbase Land Rover with no synchro mesh on the gears. The vehicle was no doubt a leftover from World War 2.

Not long after the purchase, my mother suggested I learn to drive, as we were living alongside an active volcano, that could blow at any time. Her plan was that in the event of an eruption, I could drive myself, and anyone else, to safety. For driving lessons, we needed a suitable place. We were told that the Rabaul airstrip was perfect because, by late afternoon, most of the air traffic had come and gone, freeing up the airstrip for driving lessons.

My mother would drive us out to the airstrip, after which we’d ceremoniously change places. It was here I was introduced to the mysteries of double-declutching and I remember spending many happy hours practicing changing gear, making ‘u’ turns and reverse parking between two large rocks. However, mastering hill starts came a little later.

Morley at the wheel of our first vehicle in Rabaul—a pre-war short-wheel base Land Rover
Image: Grainger family photographs

There were lots of other adventures too, but one in particular, is a stand out. In 1942, Rabaul was occupied by the Japanese and, for the remainder of the World War 2, the township became their major South Pacific supply base. To protect their base of operations, Simpson Harbour was heavily fortified. Fast forward to 1960 and the area was still littered with reminders of the Japanese occupation.

Japanese Type 96 25mm AT/AA anti-aircraft gun leftover from the Japanese
occupation of Rabaul
Image: PacificWrecks.com

Japanese Type 96 25mm AT/AA anti-aircraft gun leftover from the Japanese occupation of Rabaul
Image: PacificWrecks.com

In 1963, we moved to a house on Namanula Hill overlooking Simpson Harbour. Exploring the numerous Japanese gun emplacements, situated in the hills encircling the harbour, was for a time, an exciting after school adventure. We left our bikes where the road ran out and pushed on into the bush in search of the remains of numerous anti-aircraft guns, some of which had been partially cleared of the encroaching bush.

We were fascinated by the numerous tunnels that ran off the gun pits and chose to ignore the post-War horror stories and warnings of unstable and booby-trapped tunnels. Occasionally if we had a torch, we’d pluck up courage to explore one of them. The leader would shine the torch into the darkness and we’d follow, all the while keeping low, and resisting the urge to scream, as the bats we’d disturbed streamed out over our heads. One afternoon the novelty wore off in an instant, when part of a tunnel collapsed and we had to dig ourselves out. This experience brought our Indiana Jones-style adventures to an immediate halt. We swore each other to secrecy and to my knowledge, our parents never did find out.

Through to the end of 1963, my unremarkable education continued at Rabaul High School. Jock Christian remained my significant other until I was ‘sent south’ to boarding school in early 1964. This was a common experience for many expatriate teenagers. In the school changeover I lost contact with Jock. Years later I heard that he’d gone on to study medicine at the University of Papua New Guinea and later specialised in the treatment of tropical diseases.

At a school reunion some forty-plus years later, I met Jock and his wife of many years. We gathered together on the Brisbane River aboard the Kookaburra Queen. The drawcard was the promise of the freshest seafood plus plenty of grog and of course, the company.

Whilst we were indulging ourselves, I caught up with some of the people I’d known at Rabaul High. After lunch, most of our group left the dining table and moved outside, to take in the views of the city from the river, as the paddle steamer slowly chugged along, leaving Jock and I facing each other across the table. In the stilted chat that followed, he confessed I was the love of his life, concluding with, “Look what you missed out on?” Me? A doctor’s wife? The prospect filled me with dread. I was so shocked I was rendered speechless, in part because what I saw across the table had little appeal. Unable to speak, I missed the opportunity to point out that I didn’t feel I’d missed out on anything.

But I digress.

Our extraordinary four-year sojourn in tropical Rabaul ended whilst I was away at boarding school in Australia. My mother packed up our lives and moved to Kundiawa in the Simbu Province of the New Guinea Highlands to take up a newly-created position with the Department of Trade and Industry. Her new role was to introduce spinning and weaving skills into the Highlands, thereby providing the local people with the opportunity to enter the cash economy. The Wool Project, as it was called, had the potential to change the lives of all concerned. And it did! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Rabaul: My years in Rabaul were both formative and informative. There, I had the privilege of being an uninvited guest in another’s culture. I was fascinated by our hosts, the Tolai people; in particular their customs, their language and their food. I quickly learnt to speak the lingua franca, Tok Pisin, and was often called upon to interpret for my mother when she got stuck. As a result, I began to shoulder more and more domestic responsibility as we adjusted to life in the tropics; a life that was in marked contrast to our former life that of city dwellers from Australia.

Firearms: I was grateful to learn how to fire a rifle. After Maxwell Maclean had taught me gun safety, we occasionally practiced target shooting and I recall being quite a good shot. Gun craft is a useful skill to have, but I’ve had no need to use a rifle since.

Anglo teenagers in 1960s Rabaul: As white teenagers we were quite safe as we pedalled all over town and wandered the surrounding bush. We were fearless teens prepared to push our physical boundaries in search of adventure. In retrospect, we were extremely lucky not to have come to grief.

Rabaul: history of 20th Century warfare
https://pacificwrecks.com/provinces/png_rabaul.html

Rabaul: Japanese Type 96 25 mm AT/AA anti-aircraft gun
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_96_25_mm_AT/AA_Gun

Japanese AT/AA anti-aircraft guns: After the War, the resourceful Tolai people systematically stripped the guns that surrounded Simpson Harbour of whatever metal pieces were small enough to be carried into Rabaul to sell as scrap metal.

Jock Christian: As I’ve got older, I’ve come to realise that for both men and women the intensity of first love lingers.

FACTS:
Simpson Harbour: is considered one of the best natural harbours in the South Pacific.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simpson_Harbour

Rabaul: eruptions timeline including Mount Tavurvur
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabaul_caldera#Eruptions

Japanese occupation of Rabaul: the Japanese occupied Rabaul from 23 February 1942 until the 2 September 1945 when the War in the Pacific ended.

Vice Admiral Jinichi Kusaka in his underground Naval headquarters at Rabaul.
In the foreground a vase filled with flowers and a table with Kusaka seated on
the far side. The tunnel has electric lights and finished walls.
Image: IJN via the Siege of Rabaul date c1944
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinichi_Kusaka

Vice Admiral Jinichi Kusaka in his underground Naval headquarters at Rabaul. In the foreground a vase filled with flowers and a table with Kusaka seated on the far side. The tunnel has electric lights and finished walls.
Image: IJN via the Siege of Rabaul date c1944
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinichi_Kusaka

Japanese tunnels on the Kokopo Road:

Remaining Japanese entrance tunnels dug into the pumice walls beside the
road between Rabaul and Kokopo, New Britian 
Image: https://davidwatkinstravels.blogspot.com/2012/12/rabaul-war-relics.html

Remaining Japanese entrance tunnels dug into the pumice walls beside the road between Rabaul and Kokopo, New Britian 
Image: https://davidwatkinstravels.blogspot.com/2012/12/rabaul-war-relics.html

The Japanese used a slave labour force in Rabaul, made up of local people, as well as Australian, British, Chinese, Indian, Indonesian and Korean prisoners, many of whom were captured at Singapore. These people were forced to dig between 300 and 500 kilometres of tunnels, into the volcanic soil around Simpson Harbour, to accommodate the military garrison. The garrison consisted of barracks, air raid shelters, storehouses, accommodation, offices, command centres and an underground hospital complex for up to one hundred thousand soldiers. As well as thousands of support personnel, including sex slaves known as ‘comfort women’.

Japanese barge tunnels dug into the side of pumice 
cliffs lining the shore of Blanche Bay, Rabaul New Britain
Image: Australian War Memorial copyright expired

Barge tunnels: Along the shore line of Simpson Harbour on the Kokopo Road, tunnels were dug to conceal boats and barges, thereby protecting them from frequent allied bombing raids. After the raids, the barges were returned to the harbour and garrison life continued. Many of these tunnels survive and are a lasting reminder of the Japanese presence.

Japanese tunnel near Kokopo New Britian with the remains of a WW2 Japanese
barge slowly rusting away in the tropical heat
Image: Australian War Memorial

Japanese tunnel near Kokopo New Britian with the 
remains of a WW2 Japanese barge slowly rusting
away in the tropical heat
Image: Australian War Memorial

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 7: Is this paradise?

Some people dream of living an idyllic carefree life on a tropical island, somewhere in the Pacific, but not me. But due to a sequence of unsettling familial events, I did ‘live the dream’ for a short time.

In 1958 my parents divorced. In early December of 1960 my mother, the ‘innocent’ party, now in receipt of a considerable monthly maintenance payment, decided to up stakes and take me to New Guinea to visit my brother for his last ‘unmarried’ Christmas. He was managing a copra and cocoa plantation for W.R. Carpenter & Co, that was located on Karkar Island, some thirty kilometres nor-nor-east of Madang, in the Bismarck Sea.

Map of Karkar Island
Image: South China Post

Karkar Island with Marangis plantation, circled in red
Image: map-site.narod.ru

Excitement intensified as we prepared for our Christmas adventure that would be a leap into the unknown for both of us.

The adventure began by taking a Trans Australia Airlines aircraft out of Sydney to Port Moresby. It was a long flight on a clear day with breathtaking views of the Great Barrier Reef from my starboard window. I was enthralled as we flew over a never-ending random scattering of coral atolls, both large and small. Close in, the atolls were surrounded by shallower water in shades of turquoise and pale blue. As the water deepened, the colours gradually changed to shades of mid-green and grey-blue that shimmered out to the horizon.
The ever-changing vista provided me hours of diversion during the long flight that was punctuated with refreshments. Lunch was something special. Red Emperor fillets cooked to perfection. A delicious first for me and somewhat ironic as we flew over the coral reefs from where I imagined the fish had recently been caught.

Disembarking at Port Moresby, we were hit by a wall of tropical heat. Our next stop was Madang. This time, we boarded a DC3 aircraft, and when we landed at Madang airport, my brother, who had come into town especially, was there to meet us.

We planned to overnight in Madang, before travelling out to Karkar Island the next morning. As we’d been travelling all day, we were very thankful for the opportunity to enjoy our first evening in the tropics at the charming Smugglers Hotel, with its awe-inspiring panoramic view of Karkar Island’s conical volcano, that rose dramatically out of the sea.

View of picturesque Karkar Island from the verandah of the Smugglers Motel Madang
New Guinea
Image: PNG Village Travel

Typical 1960s cargo boat servicing Karkar Island and other coastal communities
Image: ShipSpotting.com

Early next morning, our suitcases were loaded onto a smallish cargo boat that was tied up alongside the Madang wharf. Once on board, we discovered that there was no passenger accommodation, so I made myself as comfortable as possible on the hatch-cover for the eight-hour trip.

After leaving the protection of Madang harbour, the sea became choppy and rough. Most of the passengers were throwing up over the side, whilst I enjoyed scoffing down Devon and pickle sandwiches provided, as I was completely unaffected by the movement of the boat as it lurched up and down, and from side to side.

Despite the rough crossing we arrived safely. Many of the passengers were somewhat the worse for wear and very thankful to be on dry land once more.

My brother was employed by W.R. Carpenter and Co to manage Marangis Plantation which was located on the western side of the island. Settling into the manager’s house brought with it unexpected surprises both physical and sociological.

A typical road through a Karkar Island plantation growing coconuts for copra and cocoa for chocolate
Image: Tulsatrot.com

We found the relentless heat and humidity stiflingly oppressive and relished the occasional tropical downpour, that provided temporary relief. As city people, we were exposed to unfamiliar relics of a by-gone age, for example a kerosene refrigerator and a diesel-powered generator to provide electric lighting at night. An unexpectedly unnerving experience for me was being surrounded by people who spoke languages I didn’t understand, and they in turn, didn’t understand me.

More worrying still was the all-pervasive colonial attitude my brother demonstrated in his role as the white ‘masta’, in control of all aspects of plantation life. For example, beside the kitchen steps grew a huge avocado tree that was loaded with fruit the size of a small baby’s head. When ripe, the fruit would fall onto the grass below with a loud ‘thunk’. My mother and I were addicted to avocados and couldn’t believe our good luck—the prospect of a fresh never-ending supply filled us with glee. But our glee was short lived as my brother forbade us to eat the avocados because he said they were native food.

My brother’s transport, provided by W.R. Carpenter, was a BSA Bantam 150cc motorbike. I rode pillion with my brother whenever we visited plantations out of work hours. Plantation hopping was referred to as a ‘recreational’ activity, and I quickly came to understand the term was code for getting drunk. I also noticed that beer, rather than spirits, was the beverage of choice. Thankfully, where ever we went, there was always a bottle of lemonade for me.

Another form of recreation enjoyed by the wild white ‘mastas’ of Karkar Island was waterskiing. To be part of it, my brother ordered a flatpack boat from Australia. He chose to construct the boat on the dining room table, located on the wide veranda of his large plantation house. The house, with stunning views of the ocean, was built of native materials. When launch time came, a woven bamboo sidewall of the house was removed and the boat was ceremoniously carried down to the bay below the house by a team of plantation workers. Once launched, a 40 HP Evinrude outboard motor was attached.

Water-skiing was a favourite weekend pastime. Shortly after our arrival, it was suggested I learn to ski. At the outset I recall being more than willing. One weekend, with the boat in the bay, the plantation workers assembled along the shoreline to watch the ‘lik lik misis’ that is Tok Pisin, in the lingua franca of New Guinea, for a young white girl, have a go. With my brother giving instructions from the back of the boat, I rose from squatting to standing, but not for long. I found myself toppling forward, as if in slow motion, to fall head first into the water. As I toppled, I heard a groan of disappointment rise from the largish group of onlookers on shore. That day, I was determined to master the sport, so I kept trying. But without success. It seemed I had no natural aptitude. All in all, it was a discouraging experience and the last time I attempted water skiing.

Map of Karkar island—red line showing both Marangis and Kulili plantations

And the boat had other uses. It provided a much simpler and more comfortable way for three of us to travel to other plantations. One Sunday morning my mother, my brother and I climbed aboard and headed north to Kalili, a plantation owned by the Middleton family, located further around the island. The Middleton’s were pre-World War 2 planters. Their super-imposing plantation house was an immense Queenslander with verandas all around. I was told that during World War 2, officers of the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy used the house for Rest & Recreation, after making some minor modifications. Surveying the damage to the house after the War, the family discovered the legs of their large wooden dining table had been shortened to accommodate diners accustomed to sitting on the floor!

But I digress.

On our arrival at Kalili, we were served a beautifully prepared and presented lunch on the wide veranda with spectacular views out across the ocean. Afterwards, freshwater swimming was suggested. I was intrigued at the prospect and wasn’t disappointed. We wound our way along a narrow track through the bush to a beautiful natural spring. The spring water flowed gently down through a profusion of verdant vegetation that was filled with a myriad of colourful flowering tropical plants. We soon discovered that the water was deep enough, and the flow strong enough, to float us slowly towards the sea. I was transported to another time and place. If ever one was to encounter elves or fairies, it was there.

Plantation hospitality included an invitation to stay for dinner. It was dark by the time we climbed aboard my brother’s boat for the return trip to Marangis Plantation. It was a bright moonlit night and the sea was calm. But before long, the boat began taking on water. I was given a plastic jug and ordered to bail. It transpired that the leakage was the result of my brother’s haste in constructing the boat. Impatient, and wanting a quick result, he opted to nail rather than screw the plywood sheeting to the boat frame. I continued to bail for the duration and was very thankful that we made it back to the plantation safely.

As Christmas approached, my contribution to our planned festivities in paradise was an exotic Christmas cake, a modified Woman’s Weekly recipe, chock-full of rum-soaked dried fruit. The kitchen staff watched on attentively as I bumbled my way through the directions. I was beginning to speak a little Tok Pisin, but when lost for words I resorted to gesticulating. My performances providing light relief for all concerned.

Christmas fun for the plantation labourers took the form of a vertical ‘greasy pole’ with a tempting selection of goodies tied to a cross bar at the top. These goodies included lap-laps, native tobacco, money, soap and towels. The plantation labourers were adept palm tree climbers, but this was different. In preparation, a deep hole was dug into which a liberally greased ten-metre pole was man-handled into position. The base was then secured with rocks and firmly tamped-down soil. At the outset, the climbers made little upward progress. As the grease was gradually rubbed away, the climbers began inching upwards, higher and higher and closer and closer to the dangling booty. The winner, the first man to the top, took the lot!

The New Year of 1961 was welcomed in at a boozy gathering somewhere on the island. Not long after, our tropical island adventure came to an expected end. It was time to move on, as our objective had been achieved. We’d been introduced to plantation life, had had a most unusual holiday experience, whilst at the same time provided my brother with familial support for his last Christmas as a bachelor. His marriage proposal had been accepted, and he was poised to take the next step. But it would mean having to forego his indulgent lifestyle as a single man, managing a copra and cocoa plantation in New Guinea.

 

ON REFLECTION:
Life in the tropics: My brother and his Karkar Island plantation manager mates were mostly in their mid-twenties and single. They lead an unconstrained, hedonistic lifestyle, and consumed copious quantities of alcohol. Weekends were often spent moving from one plantation to the next when the booze ran out. Alcohol was the societal glue of island life, as it is in Australia, and I do wonder how many of those young men became alcohol-dependant, as a result.

Alcohol: As alcohol is mentioned a number of times in this document, I feel an explanation is needed.

My family were infrequent drinkers. My only alcohol-related childhood memory is of my parents occasionally enjoying a dry sherry before dinner. As the result of my sheltered upbringing, the alcohol consumption on Karkar Island came as a huge shock.

My mother and I lived in New Guinea between 1960 and 1973. During those thirteen years, I saw many people’s lives affected by the interface of boredom and booze, particularly beer. Because of this experience, I dislike the smell and the taste of beer. And for the record, I had my own dalliance with alcohol but quit in 1982. Yes, I remain teetotal to this day but I’m not a wowser.

Late-night boating: When I was a kid, I didn’t think to question the decisions made by adults, particularly my mother and my brother. I always assumed that our collective safety was uppermost in their thinking. When I reflect on our reckless late-night run in a leaky boat by the light of the moon, I wonder if alcohol-induced bravado played a part in the decision to return to the plantation by boat that evening.

In retrospect, I found my Karkar Island experience a separate reality. At that time, Papua and New Guinea were considered the ‘last frontier’. Many Europeans behaved like cowboys; my brother included. But during our Christmas visit my brother’s lifestyle was somewhat constrained, as he was on his best behaviour for the duration of our stay.

FACTS:
‘Masta’ and ‘Misis’: Terms used to refer to a European man or woman. These terms remain in use to this day.

Karkar Island: Is one of a string of active volcanic islands found at the southern boundary of the South Bismarck tectonic plate. As the result of intermittent volcanic activity over thousands of years, the andesitic soil is very fertile. Soil fertility and an annual rainfall of 3440mm, combine to create the perfect conditions for introduced cash crops of coconuts and cocoa. Perfect too for the island’s indigenous subsistence agriculturalists, the Takia and Waskia people, who have cultivated this island’s mineral rich soil for hundreds and possibly thousands of years.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 6: Primary exposure

One Monday morning towards the end of January 1956, my mother presented me at the front office of Middle Harbour Public School. The school was located at the lower end of Macpherson Street, Mosman, a Sydney suburb. I was taken there to commence my compulsory Primary education. I was just seven years old.

Middle Harbour Public School main building
Image: Daily Telegraph Newspapers

I was kitted out in a freshly home-sewn uniform and carried a smallish Globite school case. The case contained first-day basics including a number of brown paper-covered exercise books with my name, Mary Grainger, clearly written on the front of each one in my mother’s bold script as well as a selection of pencils, a ruler and tucker for the day.

Well briefed ahead of time by my parents, I wasn’t at all scared. Instead, I was fully engaged absorbing my new surroundings that comprised a cluster of buildings that were bustling with noisy children ranging in age from five to twelve. This environment was in sharp contrast to the peaceful, homely atmosphere of the Northern Nursery School that I’d left at the end of 1955.

By the mid-1950s, the Australian Post-War baby boom had stretched existing state-funded primary education facilities to the limit. To cope, Middle Harbour Public School had hastily erected numerous temporary classrooms to accommodate the surge of children from the school catchment area.

With my enrolment formalities complete, I tearlessly farewelled my mother, after which I was escorted to Mrs Crozier’s class—Class 2B—located in one of the temporary classrooms, not far from the main building.

I was warmly welcomed; directed to sit down at a wooden desk; a first for me; asked to complete a number of tasks, after which Mrs Crozier loudly announced, “You’re too clever for this class!” I was then escorted back to the main building to join Miss Buttsworth’s class—Class 2A. It was my lucky day. Miss Buttsworth was the Principal of the Infants School. She was a kind and gentle matronly woman, with upswept grey hair and a deep commitment to primary education.

Queen Elizabeth ll of Australia
Image: National Portrait Gallery Canberra
Artist: Dorothy Wilding bromide print hand-coloured by
Beatrice Johnson 1952

The 2A classroom fit-out was basic, with rows of wooden desks arranged on a worn hardwood floor. On a raised dais below the blackboard stood the teacher’s desk and above the blackboard hung a beautiful framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth ll. Between the dais and the door was a largish wooden stationary cupboard that I later discovered contained an abundance of supplies for our use.

The next new experience came with the whole school assembly of students and staff conducted at the northern end of the main school building. Every term-time Monday in both summer and winter, we lined up in our class groupings to receive notices, awards or peptalks, after which we marched two by two, back to our classroom to begin the week’s scholarship.

The year of 1956 marked my first theatrical appearance. I was selected to play one of two snails in a short play titled Talking Snails. I was secretly chuffed to be chosen. There were lines to learn and snail costumes to design and construct.

A problem arose when it came to making the snails’ tentacles. I offered a solution, as I knew my mother had just the thing at The Weaving School—a box of 25cm long left-over tapered wooden spools. I realised that two spools per snail, attached to a headband, would provide the perfect solution.

My mother agreed to my request and entrusted me with: The Weaving School key; the bus numbers to get me from my school to The Weaving School and back home, plus enough money for the bus fares.

After school the following day, I took the bus to The Weaving School. I unlocked the door, climbed the stairs, selected matching spools from the box of empties, stowed them safely in my school case, walked down the stairs, locked the door and took two buses back home. This was a grand adventure for a seven-year-old.

Both the spool ‘tentacles’ headdresses and the play were a great success. And I remember a number of performances on a makeshift ‘stage’, made by pushing together two teacher’s tables at the front of Mrs Crozier’s classroom. I assume the play was Mrs Crozier’s idea as she was full of creative fun.

Each year the school would have a fund-raising fête organised by the Parents and Citizens Committee of Middle Harbour Public School. Prizes were awarded for decorated billy carts, bikes and fancy-dress costumes. The school band led the long and noisy procession of students and parents from the top of MacPherson Street and on down to the school playground where the fête was held.

Midway through my time at Middle Harbour Public School, my family established links with Papua New Guinea. The result was that for one fate my mother suggested I dress up as a young girl from Papua New Guinea. My costume comprised a prickly black curly wig, a traditional grass skirt, a bilum string bag, a cowrie shell necklace, lays of fresh frangipani and raffia-wrapped thongs. Before I could ‘dress’, my skin was coated in thick, sticky chocolate-brown theatrical make-up. However, my discomfort was definitely worth it as my mother, determined to win first prize, was duly rewarded for her effort!

From my time at Middle Harbour Public School, one particular classmate stands out. Her name was Terri Moodie and she was the headmaster’s daughter. Terri had memorised the outline of the Coca Cola soft drink logo. Whenever asked, she reproduced the logo with a dramatic flourish whilst we all stood watching, spellbound. Terri’s artistic gift was celebrated by everyone. But I was left wondering if this was really ‘art’? As my experience of ‘art’ to this point was very different.

The move into third Class at Middle Harbour Public School in 1957, brought with it the start of structured sewing lessons. I learnt: tacking, running stitch, backstitch, hemming, shell hemming, hemstitch and later, knitting. A sample of each when complete, was carefully glued into my Sewing Book, then marked out of a hundred by my teacher. The basic hand stitching skills I acquired at Middle Harbour Public School, formed the foundation for my chosen profession—that of a textile artist.

From Mary Grainger’s Sewing Book—running stitched monogram; tacking and stitching a hem
Images: The Grainger library

By the end of 1960, my primary education at Middle Harbour Public School was complete. But change was in the air. Shortly after the last day of school, my mother and I headed north to Papua New Guinea for the first time. The purpose of the journey was to spend the Christmas holidays with my brother on Karkar Island off Madang, on the north coast of New Guinea.

At the time we weren’t to know that our Christmas holiday would stretch into a life-changing thirteen-year stay, but I am getting ahead of myself…

 

ON REFLECTION:
Responsibility: Sourcing the wooden spools to use as tentacles in the Talking Snails school play, was an unexpected challenge as I often took the 363 Bus to and from school. But negotiating a number of unfamiliar bus routes to get to and from The Weaving School was somewhat daunting, as I usually travelled there by car with my mother.

I remember feeling pleased that my mother trusted me sufficiently to suggest I go alone —  and in hindsight the event could be viewed as an incremental rite of passage. Fortunately, nothing untoward transpired.

Since that time, child safety has become a justifiable parental preoccupation and I wonder if my mother would have so confidently sent me alone on the snail tentacle procurement mission today?

Fancy dress: Some sixty plus years on, the cultural appropriateness of dressing me up as a young girl from Papua New Guinea, would definitely be questioned. My mother’s version of ‘blackface’, harmless though it may have seemed in 1960, would now be considered inappropriate and disrespectful.

FACTS:
Bilum bag: The traditional string bags that are handmade from plant fibres by the women of Papua New Guinea. Each bilum bag is instilled with layers of rich historical and cultural significance and are widely used.

A selection of contemporary bilum baskets with string dyed with both natural and commercial dyes
Image: https://oneoftwelve.com/shop/bilums/

https://blog.qagoma.qld.gov.au/all-about-the-bilum/

The Middle Harbour Public School song:
M-I-double-D-L-E H-A-R-B-O-U-R
Thus we spell the name of the grandest school
That you’ll find both near and far
We always try to play the game
Win or lose with grace untold
And we try our best to keep right on top
Middle Harbour’s black and gold

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 5: The Paper boy

My parents weren’t religious in the accepted sense. Nonetheless, their theology was unmistakable as they religiously consumed selected sections of The Sydney Morning Herald, the preferred broadsheet of 1950s Sydney intelligencia and the group my parents considered they belonged to. Seven days a week The Herald, rolled-up and secured with a rubber band, would ‘thunk’ down somewhere in our garden, often before the household had arisen.

I was seven years old, and during the week I was always awake early. I’d lie in bed savouring the early morning stillness whilst mentally reviewing my check list in preparation for the school day ahead: homework done — tick; school books packed — tick; bus fare and lunch money safe — tick; uniform ironed and black school shoes polished — tick. All the while listening for the familiar ‘thunk’.

But on Saturday and Sunday mornings it was different. Waking early and whilst the neighbourhood slept, I would dress, tip toe down our narrow staircase to the hallway below, silently open the front door and sit myself down on the sandstone step facing the front gate, in readiness for the paper delivery.

The paperboys were a mixed bag of enterprising young fellas eager to test the waters of paid work, by delivering papers before and after school; the experience often their first taste of financial independence. One paperboy became a regular, though his name is now lost in the mists of time. We began acknowledging each other over the fence and, after a while I plucked up the courage to ask if I could accompany him on the remainder of his delivery round. To my delight, he agreed. What possessed me to ask? Boredom? Loneliness? The belief that weekends beyond my front gate had to be more exciting than my life as an only child living in the northern suburbs of Sydney? And it was!

I would bounce out of bed early on the weekends, dress and be outside the front door eagerly awaiting the paperboy’s arrival. As he tossed the paper over our front fence I opened the front gate. The gate represented the dividing line between my sheltered familial world and the wider one. I quietly closed it behind me as I stepped out into the freedom that our early-morning routine offered and together we continued his paper round. As we walked, we would chat about things of interest to pre-pubescents. Our conversation was punctuated with the intermittent ‘thunks’ as rolled-up papers hit the ground in front yards as we processed. When all the papers were delivered, we’d say goodbye. I headed home for breakfast and he proceeded back to the newsagency to confirm that all his papers had been safely delivered.

As our friendship continued, some mornings I would walk up Ben Boyd Road to meet him at the newsagency that was located near the corner of Phillips Street. I stood to one side watching; captivated by the bustle of activity created as the paperboys took charge of the papers and magazines for their individual rounds. I’ve no idea what the newsagent or the other paperboys thought of our arrangement, and nothing was ever said.

One morning, with the deliveries complete the paperboy asked if I would like to see a huge tree growing down in the bush, not far from my home. I eagerly accepted his invitation as my outdoor play to this point had been restricted to my front or back yard or the yards of our neighbours. My adventurous spirit soared. I was super-excited at the prospect of something new.

We headed along Aubin Street, turned left down into Spruson Street where we stepped off the bitumen to enter the shady coolness of the bush. The paperboy took the lead as we made our way along the winding track that led to an imposing old Sycamore tree. I spent some time wandering around the base of the tree, taking it all in. The unkempt wildness surrounding us was in sharp contrast to the manicured lawns and hedges of my domestic environment. As I stood under the Sycamore’s overarching leafy canopy, a sense of reassurance and comfort swept over me and I felt safe. Thereafter, this patch of bush became a favourite haunt. As well as providing solitude and a welcome escape from my family, it was a great source of greenery for the grandiose summer flower arrangements I occasionally created in our living room fireplace.

Early one summer morning, the customary tranquillity of the bush was shattered. The air was filled with the piercing sounds of hundreds and hundreds of shrill, recently-hatched cicada nymphs, slowly making their way upwards to the safety of the Sycamore’s expansive canopy. The waves of sound were hypnotic. To my surprise, the paperboy knew the names of each cicada variety, and when I asked, he shared them with me. On that day, they were mostly Green Grocers and a few highly-prized Black Princes climbing the tree, and I couldn’t resist taking one of each home for closer inspection.

Green Grocer cicada Cyclochila australasiae
Image: Permaculture Visions.com

Black Prince cicada Psaltoda plaga
Image: Permaculture Visions.com

Sadly, some months later the halcyon days of accompanying the paperboy on his morning deliveries came to an end but I don’t remember why. Maybe the paperboy quit? Maybe my parents intervened or cancelled their delivery?

Looking back down the tunnel of time, I am grateful my parents had The Sydney Morning Herald delivered, thereby creating the circumstances for my companionable adventures with the paperboy.

 

ON REFLECTION:
I’ve no idea why the nameless paperboy was prepared to have me tag along on his rounds, nor did it occur to me to ask. Maybe he too sought companionship?

In hindsight I am very grateful. This young fella unwittingly gave me an hour or so of untroubled freedom and the opportunity to briefly escape the escalating tensions at home.

As I write this I wonder if the paperboy was a substitute for my brother who was twelve years older than me. He left home to join the Australian Army when I was five years old and didn’t return. With the gift of hindsight, it’s possible that my friendship with the paperboy was an unconscious attempt to replace my older sibling.

And for the record, at no time did the paperboy behave inappropriately. Our outings were completely innocent and I wonder if parents with young children today would approve? We seemed to be freer then, and safer, or was I just lucky?

Cicadas: remain a constant reminder of my childhood.

Swarm of Green Grocer cicadas Cyclochila australasiae climbing a tree trunk
Image: The Daily Telegraph newspaper

FACTS
In 1955 The Sydney Morning Herald was printed circulated Monday through Saturday. On Sunday it was replaced with the Sun-Herald. Both papers were Fairfax publications.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sydney_Morning_Herald

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 4: An uplifting wedding

My Sydney childhood straddled the late 1940s and all of the 1950s.

We lived at number 5 Aubin Street Neutral Bay as a conventional nuclear family. A mother and a father—married—a son and a much younger daughter, me. My parents, both transplanted Poms rented a flat that was part of an imposing two-storey house fronting onto Ben Boyd Road at the ‘Bay’ end, with glimpses of Sydney Harbour. The landlord had two daughters who were a good bit older than the other kids in the area. Even so, they would occasionally invite us to play in their enormous front garden where we’d spend an hour or so running around making a lot of noise playing ‘Whippie taken 1-2-3.’

But mostly I played with the younger neighbourhood kids as we were closer in age.

Our ‘L’-shaped front garden was considerably smaller than the landlord’s and our front fence was draped with neatly trimmed mauve lantana. We had a crazy-paving path to our front door and in one corner of the garden, there grew a decoratively shaped Indian Hawthorn tree that flowered profusely in spring.

My mother’s textile treasures were stored upstairs in a large brown trunk that my parents had brought with them from England in 1937, when they embarked on their grand adventure—upping stakes and travelling to the other side of the world to make a new life. When the lid of the trunk was raised, the upper tray revealed the most delicate items with my mother’s wedding veil on top.

I had already made the connection between my parents wedding photographs featuring ‘the veil’, and this diaphanous mass of yellowing white tulle that swelled into life when the trunk was opened. Each time the lid was lifted, I was filled with anticipation and wonder— excited to glimpse the contents anew. The veil, as well as the other textile treasures that linked my parents to their country of origin were neatly folded below.

My parents John Edward Webb Ginger and Ethel Vera Wyon’s wedding on 25th January 1936 in Watford Hertfordshire United Kingdom
Image: Grainger family photographs

One year when the Indian Hawthorn tree was in full bloom and with the wedding veil in mind, I asked my mother if I could invite the neighbourhood kids to come and ‘play brides’ in our front garden. To do this we would need to borrow the wedding veil. To my surprise, my mother agreed. With hindsight I assume I was the only kid in the neighbourhood who hadn’t yet attended a family wedding as we were a transplanted, non-church-going nuclear family. Irrespective, somehow, I had become obsessed with brides and weddings, possibly the result of an incident that instantly became part of Grainger family folklore.

The incident occurred one sunny Saturday afternoon in suburban Sydney, when my mother and I drove past a church where there was a wedding in progress. I pleaded with her to stop so I could ‘see the bride’. Reluctantly she pulled over. I hastily scampered across the road and up to the top of the wide, imposing flight of sandstone steps that led to the church’s open entrance doors. Filled with excitement and expectation I waited, occasionally peeking inside hoping to catch a glimpse of the bride. Before long, the bridal party emerged and in the tradition of the time, lined up in order along the top step for photographs. I stood beside the bride rooted to the spot, overawed by her beauty and taking in every detail of her elegant wedding dress, when I noticed a tiny black beetle on her skirt.

From across the road my mother watched as the bride bent down to speak to me, after which, I scurried down the steps and back to the car. I was bursting with excitement.

“Mummy, Mummy, the bride spoke to me.”
The reply, “Oh, yes? And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘Would you mind getting out of the way little girl?’”
“I wanted to tell her she had a beetle on her skirt!”

My mother found it difficult to keep a straight face!

But I digress.

Homemade bridal bouquet of homegrown Indian Hawthorn flowers tied with white grosgrain ribbon
Image: Ann Alcock

We kids assembled and began preparations for our mock wedding. Of course, as the event was my idea, my garden and my veil, I would be the bride.

With the other wedding party rôles allocated, before we could commence the formalities, we focussed on making the white Indian Hawthorn blossom bouquets that we tied with white ribbon—one for the bride and one each for the bridesmaids.

Next, we brought chairs from the house for the bridal party; arranged them to one side of the garden path and finally, the veil.

Just like the real thing, our wedding was photographed. Somewhere the small black and white photographs record the event. And as my memory mists they provide reassurance that our garden wedding wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

Unfortunately, on that day our ‘playing brides’ formalities came to an unexpectedly abrupt end. We all watched spellbound, as a sudden super-strong westerly wind lifted the billowing lightweight veil from the top of my head, taking it up…up…up… to finally lodge in the landlord’s towering Camphor Laurel tree, where it remained entangled for months never to be retrieved. This chance occurrence was possibly an omen—as my parents divorced some years later.

 

ON REFLECTION:
As a woman who has chosen not to marry, I’m well aware of the irony of my childhood wedding story. My childhood obsession with weddings clearly demonstrates the power of subtle but sustained societal pressure on all female children of my generation to marry. However, I voluntarily took the path of ‘spinsterhood’ and as a result, didn’t get to ‘play brides’ for real. Possibly the ‘garden wedding’ of my childhood, with its dramatic denouement, was enough?

FACTS:
Whippie taken 1-2-3: This game was a ‘hide and seek’ variation.
Indian Hawthorn tree: botanical name Rhaphiolepis ferruginea

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 3: Playmates

I grew up in Sydney. Between 1950 and 1960, my family rented a flat at 5 Aubin Street, Neutral Bay. It was a very Anglo-centric experience.

Recently renovated 5 Aubin Street Neutral Bay Sydney
Image: Google Street view

Our landlord Mr McCarthy, lived in the same building with his wife and two daughters, Ann and Lyn. Their more imposing section of the building, faced Ben Boyd Road, with our front gardens divided by a high and unclimbable wooden fence. The McCarthy sisters were some years older than me, at an age when a few years can often create an unbridgeable gulf. As a result, play dates were rare.

14 Ben Boyd Road Neutral Bay Sydney: the grand house owned by the McCarthy family. Looks much
the same today as it did in the mid-1950s
Image: Google Street view

14 Ben Boyd Road Neutral Bay Sydney: the grand
house owned by the McCarthy family. Looks much
the same today as it did in the mid-1950s
Image: Google Street view

Next came the McBurney siblings, Robert and Alexandra. Robert was my age, and Alexandra was a little younger. They lived with their parents in a rented two-bedroom first floor flat that faced Ben Boyd Road, and our backyards were separated by a low timberframed wire fence.

12 Ben Boyd Road Neutral Bay Sydney: showing the first floor flat rented by the McBurney family on the down side of the McCarthy’s grand house
Image: Google Street view

I mostly went to play at other people’s homes, because my middle-aged parents actively discouraged filling our small flat with noisy children. For them, one child was enough. They were quietly relieved that my troubled brother, twelve years older, had already left home and were relishing the peace and quiet his absence created.

I frequently visited the McBurney’s flat. Getting there was quick. I scampered across our concreted backyard, scaled the low back fence, crossed the spongy green grass beside the spreading mulberry tree, skirted the Hill’s hoist, sometimes festooned with washing, and clambered up the flight of red brick steps to their back door. Often it was open; I would knock politely and enter. Mrs McBurney was a self-employed dressmaker who worked from home. Her Singer treadle sewing machine had pride of place against a wall in the main bedroom where, from the three windows that faced Ben Boyd Road, glimpses of Sydney Harbour could be seen. Then as now, harbour views however tiny, were a status symbol.

Mrs McBurney specialised in wedding dresses. Sometimes, when I arrived unannounced, she would be fitting a ‘bride-to-be’ in an  exquisite white creation of plain or embroidered satin, often embellished with a combination of lace, organza, beads and small covered buttons. The dresses mostly comprised a fitted bodice, sheer sleeves and always a voluminous skirt that was held out with masses of tulle petticoats. Variations of this design epitomised the style of many 1950s wedding dresses.

Mrs McBurney used their small entrance vestibule for fittings, where she had a full-length mirror screwed to the wall. From their adjoining living room, I had an unobstructed view of the steady stream of young women preparing for ‘the most important day of their lives’. Some were shy; others more worldly, all trusting Mrs McCarthy to work her fabric magic to make princesses of them all on their ‘big’ day. Without doubt, my exposure to the behind-the-scenes preparations for the ‘big’ day, fuelled my already well ingrained infatuation with brides and weddings.

In addition, the McBurney’s grassed backyard had great appeal for games of all kinds; particularly for picking mulberries, the best game of all. Their mulberry tree held a special place in our hearts. It grew close to the southern boundary fence. When the tree was fruiting, I would pick my way between the windfalls to climb the fence,  balancing carefully before stepping across into the fork of the tree. This fork was the perfect spot from which to reach the numerous surrounding branches, all loaded with plump juicy black mulberries.  Occasionally I collected some for my mother using a small tin can with a home-made wire handle. How many mulberries made it back to our kitchen I can’t recall, but I always returned home with a full tummy as well as mulberry-stained face, fingers and clothes.

And lastly, Peter George Forester, my most constant playmate. In the mid-1950s, he and his family came to live in the block of flats next door. The Foresters were refugees from Hungary and had a lucrative electrical store at Summer Hill, a Sydney suburb some distance from Neutral Bay. When television came to Sydney in 1956, their business boomed. Naturally, the Foresters had the biggest and best black-and-white television in Christendom. Whenever possible, I would visit Peter George at 5:30pm on weeknights to watch the Mickey Mouse Club on Channel 9. He and I, usually in our pyjamas, would lie on our tummies close to the screen and watch enthralled. We sang along with the program host, Jimmy: “Who’s the leader of the Club, that’s made for you and me? M-I-C – K-E-Y – M-O-U-S-E…”

Of all the Mouseketeers, Annette Funicello, with her dark hair and winning smile was my favourite by a country mile.

A collection of Mouseketeers as I remember them; Annette Funicello second row, third from the right
Image: Gettys Images

I found visiting the Foresters quite exotic, as the mouth-watering smells that emanated from their tiny kitchen, often filled the flat. There was goulash, stuffed cabbage leaves and capsicums, made using precious family recipes that were potent reminders of their home country, with paprika the hero ingredient. I don’t remember being invited to eat with them. Watching their magnificent television was treat enough.

Peter George and I often played together even though I was a couple of years older. He always had the fanciest toys—including a huge teddy bear and a shiny red pedal car that he would occasionally let me drive. And sometimes we made things together.

Mary (aka Morley) with Peter George Forester’sTeddy bear in the front garden at 5 Aubin Street Neutral Bay Sydney
Image: Grainger family photographs

Mary (aka Morley) driving Peter George Forester’s shiny pedal car on the footpath outside 5 Aubin Street Neutral Bay Sydney
Image: Grainger family photographs

On one memorable occasion we constructed a string telephone. First, we made a small hole in the bottom of two tin cans. Next, we connected the cans with a long length of string, firmly knotting the ends inside each can. By stretching the string, whilst at the same time speaking into the open end of one can, sound would travel along the string and be amplified into the second. We were dead keen to try out our new gadget but, unwisely we chose a Sunday morning for the trial. As Peter George and I were both early risers, we managed to suspend the gadget across the space between our first-floor bedroom windows before our families awoke.

With the string stretched taught, we began to chat as quietly as possible, well aware our parents were enjoying their precious Sunday morning sleep in. But unfortunately, we were not quite quiet enough. To say our unintentionally noisy ‘communication’ experiment was frowned upon by both sets of parents was an understatement. I recall we were both chastised and our gadget confiscated. A sad day, though we weren’t sad for long because we were always on the lookout for our next project.

 

ON REFLECTION:
My family: I am the last born, and the second living child in my family. My brother, twelve years older left home when I was five to join the Australian Army. As a result, I was in effect raised as an only child.

Therefore, the valuable hours spent with the neighbourhood kids was my introduction to building and sustaining friendships. These friendships were complemented by the interactions I had during the week, whilst at The Northern Nursery School and beyond. Learning to interact with the ‘locals’, provided a formative experience for which in hindsight, I’m very grateful.

Mrs McBurney: Mrs McBurney’s bridal dressmaking business added another dimension to the textile exposure I already received at home. My mother was an innovative stitcher. Her most prized possession was a green 1954 Elna Supermatic sewing machine with its knee control lever. When I was six, my mother taught me to sew on this machine and since then, an Elna is my sewing machine of choice.

A 1954 Elna Supermatic sewing machine with knee control lever
Image: Antiquario Caminhoto

Bride obsession: I occasionally wonder about my childhood obsession with weddings and brides. Probably in part due to the influence of my parents large wedding photographs, that were taken outside the door of the church where they were married. In the photographs my mother looks radiant: the bodice of her white silk satin floor-length ‘A’-line dress, is beautifully fitted. The finishing touches were a delicate crowned veil and a bouquet of white Arum lilies, brought in from France.

My father, John Edward Webb Ginger and my mother Ethel Vera Wyon on their wedding day in Watford Hertfordshire United Kingdom
Image: Grainger family photographs

A surviving wedding drawing made by Mary Grainger at 5½ years old—evidence that I was in the grip of a full-blown wedding obsession from an early age
Image: Grainger family documents

The Mickey Mouse Club: was my first experience of post-World War 2 American culture. In the late nineteen fifties, American culture gained even greater influence in my life, after my mother hired a black-and-white television from Radio Rentals. At that time, we were forcefed a diet of American ‘sit-com’ re-runs, and old Hollywood movies, interspersed with the occasional series from the BBC. These programs were punctuated with the occasional home-grown TV production,  broadcast live. However, this formulaic approach to programming remained in place until our local TV production organisations began to produce interesting programs about Australia and Australians.

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Not a Still Life | Portrait of an Artist

Chapter 1: Creativity unleashed

My family, that is my parents and my brother, left England in 1936 bound for Australia.

Then there was the Second World War.

My mother’s War was surprisingly liberating. In 1941 my father, the family breadwinner was unexpectedly interned, leaving my mother alone in Sydney to fend for herself and my six-year-old brother, a very long way from familial support.

My mother, a resourceful woman with sewing skills, quickly found full-time work in a Sydney clothing factory and later with a real estate agent in Mosman, collecting rents. She enjoyed the freedom that came with walking the steep hilly streets of the surrounding suburbs during the week, as well as caring for my brother and visiting my father at the internment camp when she could.

By War’s end, my family was profoundly changed. My mother was quietly determined not to resume the servile drudgery of laying out my father’s clothes daily, as his mother had done, followed by a full day of housework—shopping, washing, ironing, cooking—interspersed with childcare. She’d experienced the freedom financial autonomy brings and, she liked it. The genie was well and truly out of the bottle.

My mother was a vivacious intelligent art-school-educated woman. My father was a gifted electrical engineer and inventor. When life settled down after the War, they hatched a plan to open a weaving school. Family folklore doesn’t reveal where my mother and father learnt to weave. Possibly from a German relative or a book?

Publicity shot of my mother at her loom with my father’s humorous comments added
Image: Grainger family photographs

The Weaving School had its genesis on the first floor of a rickety weatherboard building at 717 Military Road Mosman, next door to the movie theatre. My father used his engineering skills to design and build both the table and floor looms, the weaving stools and warping mills as well as all the associated equipment required for their fledgling enterprise. My mother taught basic weaving skills. As her reputation grew, students came from far and wide wanting to learn to weave.

In early 1948 my parents heeded the post-war call to ‘populate or perish’ and I was conceived. My mother continued to weave away as her pregnancy progressed. To accommodate her swelling tummy, my father placed wooden blocks under the two front legs of the loom, thereby raising the breast beam. In November 1948, I was born. I’m convinced I learned to weave in utero, probably explaining why I find all aspects of the process effortless.

My earliest childhood memories are of time spent at The Weaving School. I clearly remember my mother cooking my lunch on a single burner Primus stove, perched on the stained ceramic sink in the tea-making corner of the room. She would steam a small fish fillet and a selection of fresh vegetables; beans, carrots, peas, spinach; all lightly mashed for my consumption. Unsurprisingly, steaming remains my preferred cooking method to this day.

After lunch my mother, a great believer in the benefits of fresh air, would put me down to sleep in a strange folding bed contraption draped in canvas and mosquito netting that she set up in the neighbour’s backyard. The downstairs entrance door of The Weaving School was left open so when I awoke an hour or so later, my mother could hear me stir and retrieve me.

After my nap and full of beans, often literally, the creative fun started. To explain, my mother came from a seriously artistic family. For her, encouraging my creative expression was paramount. She provided a continuous supply of coloured pencils, wax crayons, paper, cardboard, paints and brushes.

Against the southern wall of The Weaving School was a dilapidated cedar chaise lounge, with lumpy stuffing and tatty brown-grey upholstery, that played a pivotal role in facilitating my early creative exploration. Now, fully awake and armed with a fistful of pencils, I would clamber up onto the chaise lounge and facing the wall, take up mark-making where I had left off, adding to the extant groupings of figures and flowers. I quickly grasped that drawing on the walls was permitted at The Weaving School but forbidden at home. But I remain convinced my mother’s unconstrained encouragement of my creativity, plus my genetic inheritance from her family, motivated me to later explore a career in the arts.

But I digress.

Apart from the stand out memories of lunch and drawing on the wall, I have one other. I clearly remember effortlessly floating from the bottom to the top of The Weaving School’s long flight of well-worn wooden stairs. When I put myself back to that time, I once again feel the weightlessness of the experience. I remember reporting the incident to my mother in detail but I can’t recall her response of either belief or disbelief.

I like to believe my parents’ solid demonstration of how imagination, creative thinking and skills, can combine to realise dreams. And it’s a distinct possibility that their successful Weaving School venture, provided me the foundation skills as well as a tangible example of dreams fulfilled. Their venture also gave me the courage to have a go at being a self-employed textile artist. The opportunity to ‘win my own bread’.

 

ON REFLECTION:
My childhood: To be honest, I’m unsure how many of my childhood memories of events are the result of hearing family stories told and retold around me, as I was growing up. But being encouraged to create was a joy-filled experience for me. Joy intensified by the broad artistic exposure my parents provided. With them I attended classical music recitals, both public and private; visited art galleries and artist’s studios and ate delicious food at a variety of ethnic restaurants. All these experiences were part of post-War Sydney’s rich cultural life, as a direct result of the influx of European immigrants, who’d escaped the horrors of World War 2.

My parents: My pre-War, immigrant parents, weathered World War 2, and went on to forge a niche enterprise in their adopted land where, emboldened by Australian Post-War optimism, they believed anything was possible and were prepared to have a crack.

On reflection, I see my early enculturation as an example of trade skills that were traditionally passed from father to son, but in my case, passed from father and mother to daughter.

I believe the development of my mid-life career, that of producing artwork to tour, drew on the talents of both my parents, as it combined my mother’s artistic influence and my father’s problem-solving skills. Their skill sets, applied both individually and in combination, enabled me to tell our diverse stories by melding visual arts textiles, and Australian social history.

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