When I was young I could only read about retired men. I didn't know any personally. Sometimes there would be photos in the newspaper. They would be older men - thin - wizened - and the photograph would show them standing or kneeling in front of the flowers in their front garden. They would explain that they devoted their time to their garden. Sometimes the photo would show both husband and wife. Both would be beaming happily. They did look happy and contented. They were not beset with worries about money. Retirement was an exciting and pleasurable thing. It was something to look forward to. I could only dream about it though.
I did have some relatives in Melbourne - men - who were retired. One was an official high up in the Police Force who claimed that he went back to work the day after he retired. He didn't last long in retirement because he died within a few months. I did have one other relative - a man - who survived Gallipoli and was supposed to have health problems. He also seemed to die quickly. I lived in an area where men didn't retire. They normally died in office. They were farmers mostly. No males in my family lived past 60. The normal thing was to die in your 50’s. In my life I never overburdened myself with hard work and stayed fairly healthy. But I had the concept conditioned in me. I imagined that when I turned 70 I would retire and die soon after. This hasn’t happened. When I did retire I had not planned it. I did not expect to retire. What happened was that my wife retired. She was offered a retirement window and she had to take up the offer straight away. Even she didn't want to retire at that particular time. Because she retired she thought it would be a good idea to move immediately to Benalla. I had to make several decisions. One of which was that I had to completely retire. We moved to Benalla. I made several attempts to gain employment in Benalla. I don’t know if I was serious. But I did make enquiries. I didn't want to work in an Accountants office. I only wanted to work in Benalla. I did not manage to gain employment. I planned to keep myself busy and purchased Pepys Diary with the intention of carefully reading it in full. It turned out I only read it when having breakfast. It did provoke an interest in Pepys however. He wrote it in code. He knew that if the authorities were informed as to what he wrote he would be in deep trouble. He did live through some interesting times. The fire. The death of Charles 1st. He once saw Shakespeare's Hamlet and was impressed with the to be or not to be soliloquy. He did an enormous amount of refurbishing inside his house. He did not keep a diary all his life. He discontinued it several times and twice took it up again after a vacant space. Even his editors censored his writing. He lusted after most women and was not afraid to make sexual advances. He always thought of sex when he saw women. He would start each month with the news that his wife was menstruating and the editors deleted this from the published diary. After 2 months my previous work phoned and asked if I could come back to work. I didn't even think about it. I said "Yes" before they could explain why. This led to another career. I was able to commute to Melbourne every week and boarded with friends for 3 nights a week. Later on our house became vacant and I was able to move back in and work full time. Some things had changed. There was a niche for me. I took on a higher management role in production. I continued with sales also. After some time The company was taken over by a larger firm and I was asked to stay on. As as salesman. I enjoyed the feeling of having this extra time added on to my working life. It meant I could retire when I wanted to. The downside was I had to drive to Melbourne each week. And drive home. I had to watch for Kangaroos on the road. It was a worrisome thing. I saw a delivery Van in Bonnie Doon deliberately drive over a young Kangaroo. This type of image stays with us. I cannot fathom the mentality of some people. The two people in the van had smiles on their faces as they drove deliberately at the animal. Eventually it did not suit me to work in a large corporation whose head office was in Brisbane. I was offered a job in Brisbane and it was hinted that I might go to Malaysia. The company was expanding into Asia. They had a large printing plant in Vietnam. Employees came and went to gain experience. But they also had simple rules. You had to attend sales meetings every Monday morning. If people didn't conform they were quickly disposed of. An out of date computer system had to be coped with. The firm who took us over had people with preconceived ideas as to who was important. I retired a second time. This time I enjoyed it. I discovered an organisation called U3A and immersed myself in it. Neville Gibb September 2023
0 Comments
We are obviously shaped by childhood. Lots of things happen in childhood. We remember them. Some things are indelibly written into our memories. We watch our parents and maybe try and do what they did. We try to live up to our parents expectations of us. Their beliefs are imprinted on us.
My parents were both hard working. My father felt he had achieved something by owning a dairy farm. He felt he was privileged to own a farm. He was willing to do whatever it took to improve it, willing to play by the rules. He always worked hard without any complaints. Nothing interfered with his work. He was as regular as clockwork and was willing to work through illness. He sometimes suffered from malaria, but it never stopped him working. He did not like to be away from the farm. My mother was much the same. She didn't like housework, however, preferring to work outdoors. She always said she would have liked to have been a boy and regretted that she was not shown how to do certain things when she was a child because she was a girl. She came from a large Irish family and she was the second youngest. There were several older brothers and then there was a gap of several years before three younger children were born of which two were girls. The two younger girls were kept separate from the others. My mother always claimed that they were never let do anything outside the house. It was her constant sorrow that she was never able to do certain things on the farm. She often said she was never allowed to assist at the forced birth of a poddy calf. She often said she was never shown how to work a posthole digger. She never learned to drive a car or a tractor. My mother and father had known each other as young people. They lived in the same valley. Both my parents mostly led lives within their own family group, my mother more so than my father. Neither had many friends outside the extended family. My mother never really strayed outside her extended family group and her closest confident was her sister. My mother had lots of relatives that she liked and enjoyed their company. She often met female relatives when she was shopping and this gave her great delight. She enjoyed visiting her relatives socially and she was never happier than when they visited in masse at Christmas or on birthdays. My father was a sociable man and was quite popular. He did not restrict himself entirely to his relatives. He belonged to several community groups, but it was obvious that family members were the most important people in his life. My father also had a large extended family. Quite often distant relatives of his would turn up and they would treat him with a lot of affection. He had been in the war and was treated as a war hero. Especially by some aged relatives. I have been imprinted with my parents work ethic. I have always felt obliged to do my best. I have always worked hard in whatever job I have had. I have always given more to the job than was required. So much so that since retirement I have nightmares about not working. I have been constantly plagued by a continuing nightmare. I am at a loss because I have nothing to do and I am not sure about what I should do. I dream that I am in a job where my work is not specified. I am in a job where I have no computer print out and I don’t know where to get a new one. I am in a job where I have been sent to a new office and there is nothing to do and I have to look for work. I am in a new job and there are no desks and certainly not one for me. Neville Gibb May 2023 I have never had any 'precious objects' that I have given value to. I have never given any importance to jewellery or property or any other physical object to the point where I wanted to have them near me. Happiness to me is dependant on other matters.
'Precious Things' are a different matter. My precious things are my wife and children. I have always wanted to have my precious things near me. I am not alone in this. This is a common ambition. For example, I understand that one Rupert Murdoch - more of him later - has always had the ambition to have his precious objects - his children - around him. He has at times inserted his children into positions within his business organisation. So - as he says - he can have his precious things near him. While always retaining ultimate power himself it has to be said. Nevertheless, I understand his sentiments. He likes to have his children around him. I do too. Whenever my children expressed dissatisfaction when unjust circumstances were forced upon them or if they felt another sibling got favoured treatment I would advise them that they had their own life to lead. They could not live the life of someone else. I was trying to get them to understand that they were lucky to have their own life and that they should concentrate on it and not be influenced by anyone else. They would normally take this statement without commenting on it. The relationship I continue to have with my children is one where they allow me to love them unconditionally. And say anything I like. In the 60’s I spent some years in the UK. I enjoyed it. I felt at home there. I felt British. I felt welcomed. Maybe these things mean nothing, but I was glad I was there. I even voted there. There were two things I immediately latched on to. The Times Newspaper and the BBC. These became my precious things. The Times was enjoyable to read. It was definitely highbrow. I was not sure of its prejudices. I was not even sure of its sentiments. The UK was at this time still affected by wartime austerity. People were poorer than Australians. Food and housing were inferior to Australia. Industry was massive and inefficient. The Times made no mention of this. It concentrated on higher matters. Suddenly a new paper appeared - The Sun came into existence and it was the mirror image of the Times. It was instantly popular with a fair cross section of society. Mr Murdoch seemed to know exactly what people were thinking. Most people in the office started reading it. Including people with pretensions I noted. I stayed loyal to THE TIMES. When I listened to the BBC it was a revelation to me. I felt it was talking to me. I felt it was on my level. The BBC’s guiding aim - Inform - Educate - Entertain - was, I thought, completely correct. In Australia I had grown up in an anti intellectual society and the ABC was thought to be irrelevant and high brow - a favourite saying of my Father and his cronies. There was no doubt that The BBC was catering to the elite of society. They did this without fear or favour. The ABC had seemed to me to be completely intimidated by the ruling party in Australia and both parents and extended family went along with this wholeheartedly. Not so with the BBC. They were not intimidated by the ruling party. The Times and the BBC became my precious things. I had to give up these two precious things when I returned to Australia. We stayed out of contact for some time. But in time Marshal McLuhan's prediction has come into being. The digital age has changed communication. I’m not sure if the medium is the message but we certainly now all belong to a global village. I can listen to the BBC 24 hours a day if I wish. I can listen to the media from anywhere in the world if I want to. It has got to the point where there is too much to pick from. I have to pick and chose. And times change. Between the 60’s and now, unfortunately, there has been a lowering of standards on both the Times and the BBC. And Mr Murdoch’s hand has been involved in both cases. The Times attempts to be a highbrow paper but it is Mr Murdoch's and it can only reflect his beliefs and prejudices. It is not hard to gauge its prejudices and sentiments. They are sometimes disheartenedly crude. The Times Newspaper is no longer a precious thing and I regret it. Mr Murdoch and his media empire has long been a critic of the BBC. The BBC seems to have taken this criticism to heart. The BBC seems to have said in order to placate Mr Murdoch we need to aim our programmes at a lower level of society than what we used to. We need to show the people that we are one of them. And therefore definitely not aim at the elite of society. The BBC can at times now show prejudice. The BBC can at times be unfair. The BBC can at times indulge in very un BBC behaviour. The BBC can at times indulge in Murdoch-like behaviour. The BBC is no longer a precious thing and I regret it. Neville Gibb March 2023 When I was young the seasons seemed to be more pronounced. This was because the years were longer than they are now. In late middle age we go from Christmas to Christmas and they seem to be about two months apart.
In my childhood we had winter each year. It rained more than now. We had a flood every year. The river always flooded and we would have water up to our back door. The actual river was approximately a mile from the house but when it flooded it was obvious that in previous times the river had changed its course a number of times. There were three ancient waterways between us and the river. When it flooded the river resumed its old ways. The river itself flowed close to a large hill and when it flooded you could see that it burst through the narrowing as it ran into the hill. The water took on a life of its own. I liked the fact that we had a flood every year. We were sometimes surrounded by water and we were cut off. School was off for a day or two. But life hardly changed. It only became more interesting. The cows would congregate on a temporary island surrounded by water. They were never in any danger. They knew what to do and still came home to be milked. They would walk through water to do this. Water holes would all fill up when the creeks and ancient water courses flowed with water. Rabbits would be trapped out of their burrows and were easy targets for dogs. They were easily caught if they attempted to swim away. I can only remember it being cold once. We had a neighbour visiting us and my mother had prepared a hot water bottle for bed. The neighbour made fun of me for having to have a hot water bottle. What was I - a man or a mouse. Of course it must have been cold. The puddles on the road froze up. If you were skilled you could skid your bike across the ice. Your back wheel. Undoubtedly we had summers but I cannot remember being hot. We once had a bush fire but I didn't feel unsafe. The fire came towards us and it was like watching water flowing from tree to tree. It didn't seem to move very quickly. I watched from a distance. I had no sense of it being hot. I do remember the noise of cicadas on overcast muggy days. They made a loud noise that went on for some days. They were probably there because the winters flood had made conditions that suited them. Alas we no longer have the pleasure of hearing cicadas. As we grew up we enjoyed the summer more. You could go swimming every day. We had large water holes full of water we could play in. One hole was rumoured to be bottomless. It never dried up. I built a raft for this hole. I remember the sweat pouring off me as I worked in the corrugated iron shed attaching the four gallon drums to the wooden slats. My cousin - recently deceased - would come to visit. I liked it when he came. We did lots of good things. We spent a lot of time on the raft. He was once on the raft in the middle of the water hole when he spied a large very dangerous looking insect in the water. It frightened him and he came out immediately. Later on when we were in our early teens I was able to stay at his place one wonderful summer. He had been given a Jersey heifer as a pet and he had trained this heifer to act like a horse. He rode it everywhere. We rode it everywhere. It could carry more than one child. He lived near the river as well and the heifer would take us to the river and when asked carry us into the river. This was great fun. I cannot recall it ever being oppressively hot. One notable thing happened when I was there. I rebelled against my mother. I had a haircut. My cousin's father took us to the barber and I was asked if I would like a haircut. I said yes please. I was always asking for a certain type of popular haircut but my mother would never allow it. When it came time to go home and my mother came to get me I had the popular haircut and she was not happy. I wasn’t allowed to stay there again. In adult life the seasons have changed. For the past twenty years or so we have lived with an extended drought. In drought times we go from a dry winter to a dry summer. There is no spring or autumn. This is disappointing. I do enjoy the winter more than the summer however. We have a winter house that has proper insulation in the walls and the windows are all double glazed. We have a large wood heater that spreads a comfortable warmth through the whole house. Neville Gibb February 2023 We all ask - what is a community?
There is of course - The Australian Community. And within the Australian community there are numbers of other communities. Australia after all is officially called a multi cultural community. I once belonged to a community. It wasn’t a large community but it was a community of sorts. This was the 60’s music community. I belonged to this community and it manifested itself in the setting up of a Community Radio Station dedicated to the playing of good music. You could call it the Public Radio Community. In time there came into being several Public Radio’s. There was a hierarchy of sorts. And they all competed with each other. I was there at the first ever public meeting regarding community radio and I sort of hung around. I went to many meetings. Eventually when we were awarded a licence I was elected as one of two coordinators. The community had over 500 members and I knew this because I had everyone on a computer file. I embraced my community with affection. I was determined to do my best. The coordinator was a position I wanted to have. So I stood for it and was elected to the position. I was excited. It turned out to have more power than originally thought and this eventually led to my downfall. In the beginning there were two coordinators. We split the responsibilities. I took on administrative responsibilities while my colleague took on more public activities. I was in the background and my colleague was in the public eye. I did work hard. I sometimes had to be present at 4AM on Sunday mornings. I sometimes had to work until 2AM on Monday and Thursday nights. I had to monitor the 10PM Friday slot to keep the bad language at a minimum. I am able to make some comments about the Public Radio Community. It was obvious that a lot of talented people exist who do not get onto radio. There are a lot of talented comedians who are unsure about appearing in public but are attracted to Radio Stations. There are a lot of very talented musicians who dont get a chance to play in public but are attracted to Radio Stations and assemble there. There are a lot of lonely people who are attracted to public bodies. There are a lot of people who would like to be on radio. There are a limited number of people who believe strongly they should be on radio. After some time and some criticism of my activities there was a board meeting and it was decided that there would be three coordinators. It was thought that I did not recognise true talent and gave time to people who were not really suited to public radio. Appointing three coordinators did not really change anything and the level of annoyance with my decisions could only increase. I had the power to award broadcast time and I had strict rules about it. I followed more or less the first come first served rule. If a new subscriber submitted a proposal that was interesting I would listen and if appropriate allocate them a spot. If you were a regular who always requested a slot you waited until it was your turn. This caused enormous resentment from people who thought they were both more talented and more worthy and should have been given more time on air. In the artistic community the pecking order is often disputed. Quite often talented people do not get a go because they don’t look the part. Or don’t sound the part. But sometimes these people have talents that can be drawn out. Because the Radio Station was a public body it sometimes attracted people we had trouble coping with. I experienced knowing a young girl who was actually homeless. I did not know how to cope with her and was sometimes confronted by the demand that as I had the power I should exercise it and remove her from the premises. I did not but neither did I take her home with me as I should have. For a time another young man who wanted to have a career as a singer slept in the radio stations lounge room. This person after some years did achieve success and I can claim that I knew him when he had hair. However I become acquainted with a fact of life that is universal. It seems in all things artistic the ego reigns supreme. I have to admit that I was taken down by the blatant exercise of this concept. At the end of the financial year and before the next annual general meeting it was decided that the Board would exercise its rights and take control of the station. All present official positions were abolished. The Board would have total control. Various board members would be allocated duties that they had expertise in. The Board would be elected by a strict preferential voting method. I failed to gain enough votes to be elected to the board. I left the station that night. I emptied my desk and left through the back door. I did not say goodbye to anyone. Later on I was contacted by board members and asked what happened to me. I was asked to come back to the station because I was needed. I declined. I always tended to take criticism personally. I had an ulterior motive however. I had during that year became a father. I enjoyed the experience of having a wife and child and settled into the pleasure this afforded. I selfishly followed my own desires. Of course I never regretted this. Except for re unions I never went back to the station. The Public Radio Community still exists. 968 words This session was designed and hosted by co-convenor Neville Gibb to explore a question he often asks ‘Where is the Art?’ Benalla Art Gallery staff responded to Neville’s request for works by two well-known Australian painters to be exhibited before our group, setting the scene for a talk about two greats of Australian Art Neville describes as ‘both arguably geniuses’, Albert Namatjira and Hans Heysen. Neville began the session with a thoughtfully prepared response to the paintings. His premise was that we can tell where the art is when we look at both men's work. “Both were able to produce works that are close to perfection in their capturing the spirit of the land. Not an easy thing to do”. Neville contended that there would not be an Australian anywhere in the world who would not feel identification with the work of both men. Namatjira and Heysen were contemporaries and it is not known if they ever met but it is known that Heysen admired Namatjira's work. Namatjira came to painting in his 30s. Heysen was recognised from a young age as someone within immense talent. Both had good and bad times. Namatjira suffered mightily the slings and arrows of being an Aborigine and Heysen had to lay low during WW1. Namatjira's intention was to record the land - painting came into it but getting the essence of the land into a painting was his intention. It is an easy argument to make that this was Heyson's intention also. Neville considers both men to have produced work of great worth and feels proud that we have examples of their work in the Gallery. As he sees them standing head and shoulders above most other Australian Artists, Neville hopes we see more of their work on display. Neville then invited local painter Mervyn Beamish to give his opinion. Merv made several comments where he clearly differed from Neville. Merv said that in his view, art is determined to be art by the beholder, not by someone telling them it is art, because it hangs on a gallery wall or because someone is willing to pay a large amount of money for it. ‘Your two year old grandchild's sketch stuck on the refrigerator door triggers an emotion; a memory, that, to you, is a work of art. A crack in the footpath can be a wonderful work of art and be quite fascinating because it stimulates senses, emotions even a memory.’…’If the item stimulates you senses; disgust and fascination ... the colours, the pattern, the situation, the swirl, there is something about it that takes you beyond the moment’. Merv was able to explain where he felt the strength of both painters lay and made several valuable explanations, warming to his task as the morning went on. Merv's work is on display at NEA. Merv is a well known and respected artist in the area. He will shortly have an exhibition in Krakow Poland. Neville and Merv’s follow up discussion, together with contributions from the floor by Val Dunin; Carol Perry; visitors Reuben and Hazel Frankland; Bev Lee and others concluded an absorbing and lively session. Neville Gibb
What follows is not the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. In the early 50’s an itinerant family moved to Meadow Creek. Father Mother Daughter and Son. Where they came from or what their background was I don’t know. Father was what was called a seasonal worker. This meant he found part time work on local farms depending on the time of year. They moved into a house not far from the school that had been deserted since the war. It had no electricity or running water. They had no car. Neither the father nor the mother drove. The overwhelming impression their appearance gave was that the whole family were poor. They certainly looked it. Both parents had prominent teeth missing. The father was skinny and the mother was stout. She always wore socks instead of stockings. Their clothes were unfashionable and looked like hand me downs. They had that second hand look. The children’s clothes looked handmade if that. What they were made of was previously used or previously discarded. They were torn and tattered. Their shoes were always scuffed and falling apart. The girl was in grade 3 and the boy was in grade 2. The boy was white skinned with red blotches and he had large freckles all over his face. He had frizzy red hair. The girl was grey skinned and also very freckled but her freckles were black. She had grey frizzy hair. Neither child was muscular. The girl was shy and introverted. Silent. The boy was more open. He always wanted to be friendly but no one wanted to be friendly with him. Society at that time was structured in a strictly rigid form. Graziers were at the top of the ladder and seasonal labourers were at the bottom. Society was ruled by a strict class and caste system although no one admitted it. The children at my school followed this class hierarchy with great determination. The two children came to the school in the middle of the term and on their first few days had to stand out the front because there were not spare desks or chairs for them. When the furniture came the teacher gave definite instructions as to how each should carry and take care of their chairs. This was a sore point with him. Chairs and desks were scarce. He had a thing about furniture being broken. It was a punishable offense. It meant the strap for anyone who broke anything. These two children were never accepted and they were mercilessly treated by the rest of the school from the start. It was said that their parents were not married. It was also said that the father had a touch of the tar and both these rumours were often expressed by the older pupils as having great importance. Children obviously got these beliefs from their parents and elders. I didn’t really understand what they meant but I did not question it. The statements concerning the two children were made with such authority. What was said seemed very important. It was not uncommon to see a group of girls half chasing the girl around and calling in unison tar baby because of her dark skin. The girl would be in tears but no one cared. This was fun. They knew they would never be stopped doing it because the girl was not liked and she was both unattractive and poor. The result was the girl spent a lot of time by herself crying and sobbing. Her body would heave with sobs and this only made the mob happier. She was an outsider and was not liked. She was not an attractive girl. She could not defend herself. She had no dignity. It was as if she deserved it. I cared but of course I said nothing. I did care. I felt sorry for her. My heart went out to this poor girl. I wanted to go and put my arm around her but I didn’t dare. I did not want to be seen as the odd man out. I did not want to be thought of as being sympathetic with this undesirable person. I did not want to be thought as being the same as her. I was frightened I would be treated the same way. No one would talk to me. I hated being teased. I always felt so humiliated when I was teased and was always struck dumb. It was the worst thing that could ever happen. I was terrified of it happening. I could never go against public opinion. So I stood silent. I did nothing. I was frightened. I did not know what to do. I wanted to be part of the mob. I wanted to be accepted. I felt I could do nothing. A few weeks after their arrival there was a reorganization at the school. Desks and chairs had to be moved around. Children had to pick up their chairs while the grade 6 boys moved the desks. All the young children were standing holding their chairs. One of the popular boys lifted his chair above his head and attempted to hold it like a circus performer would. He said look at me and tried to swivel it around. He quickly lost control of it. It fell to the floor with great noise. A leg was broken off. The whole school looked to see who it was. It was the son of a prominent farmer who was on the school committee so we all relaxed. He would not be punished. The teacher never punished some pupils and he was one of them. But for some reason the red haired boy spoke out – “look Mr S – he’s dropped his chair – are you going to give him the strap? Look at me. I’m holding my chair properly”. The room of students found this funny and laughed out loud but the teacher found it infuriating and he ran at the boy shaking his fist as if to hit him. The laugh was caught in everyone’s throat. What would happen? The teacher did not hit the boy but went up to his face and screamed at him. Imbecile. Stupid. Idiot. Shut up. Get out of the room. The boy wilted visibly and stepped backwards. He started to cry silently. The rest of the children started laughing again. His sister came to his aid to comfort him. She put her arm around him. Some pupils even jeered at her. The teacher turned around still fuming and strode away. I did not laugh. I stayed silent. I knew a great injustice was occurring. I knew something terrible was happening but I was powerless to do anything. I could do nothing. I felt sorry for both of them. I wanted to go and stand with them. But of course I did not. I did not know what to do. I stayed in the background. I was one of the crowd. I did not want to be noticed. I did not want to be seen to be connected with their lower class. I did not want to be disliked. I did not want to be associated with these two undesirable children. I did not want to be thought of as being the same as them. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be popular. I did not want to be thought of as being different. I did not want to be the odd man out. Has the world changed? This is me pretending I am someone else.
The man is Peter Norman. An Australian hero for everyone except the Australian Olympic Committee. Judy Patching hang your head in shame. My career went bung the day I had my biggest triumph. I did not know it at the time but then no one knew. My career going bung was decided by morally corrupt men thinking about what I had done and making decisions which they then kept to themselves until they could do something about it. I had come second in a 200 metre sprint. A special athlete is required to run 200 metres. You have to have enough energy to push yourself through the pain barrier and sustain your speed for perhaps 50 metres more than normal athletes can. You start the race and try to get settled as quickly as possible. You try and increase your pace as you go past 100 metres and then you stretch out as much as you can and after 150 metres you push for the finish. A good 200 metre runner can make up a lot of ground over the last 50 metres. This is virtually how my greatest triumph occurred. As we went through 100 metres the two fastest runners had been about 2 metres clear and the favourite was able to even increase his speed for 10 metres or so. But then I was able to use my latent strength and started to make up ground on them both. I made up a lot of ground the last 50 metres and I was able to pass one but not the other. I came second. I wasn’t displeased. I was happy. My mistake was that I liked the other two place getters and made a pact with them that from then on we would always be friends. I would stand with them no matter what. They wanted to stand together at the prize giving ceremony to make a statement and I said I would stand with them. The showed me respect by actually telling me what they planned to do. I said we would all stand together. And I did stand with them. I supported their stand. I didn’t exactly say this to anyone else but I did to them. I had made a pact with them. This was a personal thing but somehow the people in authority took offense at this. Not that they said anything threatening to me at the time. But it was reported in the press that they were ashamed of my actions. Four years later I was excluded from the team. I was considered to be in the top five runners for the 200 metres but I was not picked. When I objected and pointed out the lack of logic in not picking someone who was ranked in the top five they responded by saying OK we will not pick anyone who is ranked below fourth in the world. And they did this. The team was greatly reduced by this action but they did it. They made no explanation for their actions. But they were not questioned by anyone who should have questioned them. Why they treated me like this has never been explained. When I heard that I was definitely not in the team I retired. I turned my back completely. I had had enough. I was being punished for acting morally by people whom were immoral. I didn’t mind saying this. In my private life I had an obligation to act morally at all times and I tried my best to live up to this creed. I often wondered if me being a Salvationist might have influenced their behavior but it is probably because I said I opposed the White Australia policy. This is not logical but again there is nothing logical in the sequence of events and there is nothing logical in the deep seated racism that exists in conservative mainstream Australia. Forty years later when there were big celebrations concerning the Sydney Olympics lots of people were asked to perform special tasks. That is all except me. Lots of celebrities were invited to take part – even the children of celebrities were asked to perform. People who had power pulled strings so members of their families could take part in proceedings. Celebrations were the order of the day. But not for me. I could not understand but I didn’t complain. My way of doing things was to say nothing and put my faith in a higher authority. I was punished for treating people with dark coloured skin with respect. I treated them as human beings. As I would have treated myself. I believed in their cause. The world is racist and no one should be punished for pointing this out. I think it can be proved that I was. I WAS THERE. I was there the day the world changed. Because there once was a day when the world changed. This day actually occurred. It really did. We live in a world that appears to be fixed. And in most ways it is. Our world does not often change and sometimes no matter how much we want it to change it never does. In many ways we don’t want the world to change and go to great lengths to prevent change. If you go through life expecting that the world will never change when the momentous change occurs it is hard to know what to make of it. In my case the world did change and would never be the same again. I found it both exhilarating and a letdown. Pleasing and disappointing. Both traumatic and healing. Soothing and disquieting. All of these and more. The day itself was almost perfect weather wise. The first week in October. Not a cloud in the sky. A cool fine day. There was a slight breeze. If you stood still you could feel the cool breeze across your face. I have always found this pleasurable and remember it to this day. I am reminded always when I experience this sensation. Tom and I left home early. I was fulfilling a long held promise to him. It had been touch and go whether I could keep my promise to Tom but after a lot of stress and effort I was able to arrange it. This day became one of the great joys of being a father. Only fathers and sons can experience what happened and the pleasure that resulted. We took the normal route to our destination and had no traffic problems. Neither of us are superstitious so we did not see this as portentous. But in hindsight you could read something into it. On arrival I fulfilled another long held promise in that I allowed Tom to buy a magazine that I had always denied him previously because I considered its purchase a waste of money. But I was pleased to see him read the magazine and get a lot of enjoyment from doing this. I had never seen my son take so much interest and concentration as he did in carefully reading every word in this magazine. We sometimes get pleasure in ways we never expect and I remember the pleasure I experienced in watching him added to the enjoyment of the day. He was ten years old and just learning the joys of reading. We had to wait a long time for the ceremonies to begin. We were in the standing room only section. But we waited patiently. Finally proceedings started. The world actually changed over the course of the next two and a half hours. This sounds trite but at the end of proceedings the world had changed forever. The actual event still seems like a dream. And like all dreams I only remember fragments. Some things have been indelibly imprinted on my brain and others have been wiped forever from my memory. I remember small unimportant things and I do not remember other things that have later been deemed important. In reality I only have vague memories of most of the day. I have no sense that two and a half momentous hours passed. I cannot remember either Tom or myself uttering a sound. Certainly neither of us can remember any involvement or reaction to what was happening. That is until the end. Towards the end I wanted the last 5 minutes to go on forever but of course it seemed to go in seconds. I did not dare make a sound until the actual end. Then I made my feelings known to everyone. Or tried to. I actually shouted. YES. YES. YES. People around me were dancing. The world had changed. I was there when it happened. And I was with my son. We will always have this to share. The date was the 6th of October 1990 COLLINGWOOD 13.11 (89) Defeated ESSENDON 5.11 (41) The Death of the Colliwobbles was announced in all the daily papers on the following Monday. GRANDPARENTS I know almost nothing about my grandparents. I have little in common with them. If they were to come back to life I doubt if I could have an adult conversation with them. When I was young I had two grandmothers. Both my grandfathers died before I was born. They are both mysterious shadowy people. I have no concept of them apart from what people have told me in passing. My maternal grandfather was a musician of sorts. He was of Irish decent and played the violin. Quite well as far as I can make out. He had a family band that played at dances in the district. Him and three of his children. An uncle who was from my father’s side of the family told me he once saw him setting out to ride home after playing at a dance. It was a very dark cold night and he would have had a long way to ride his horse in order to get home. When he died the family band stopped performing – although they did still play at family gatherings and all the members still had their party tricks. They did not require much persuasion to get them to perform. But he must have been the driving force. His youngest son carried on the tradition the most and performed in public more than the others. He played several instruments. I discussed this with him in his old age. Why did he do it I asked? I said I believed he loved playing music rather than actually loving music itself. I tested him by playing him extracts of Mozart. I asked why he didn’t progress into classical music. Why did he stop with popular Irish Music? He listened to the Mozart I played him but he did not comment. My paternal grandfather is even more of a shadow. He died in mysterious circumstances. Two people have told me that he committed suicide. I asked his son who I became close to towards the end of his life if this was true and he said no – his father came home one night on his horse in a dreadful state and died soon after. Other people have said he was found dead at the Wangaratta Saleyards. The grandparent I was most close to was my paternal grandmother. I know she loved me and I loved her. When her husband died she had one child who was 14 and one who was 9. She never lived with either of her children again until they were adults and had established their own households. Both children were farmed out to various relatives of her husband and she went to live with various relatives of hers. She was an example of what was then quite common. A widow of no means. Her husband had died when the mortgage barely covered the value of the farm. The farm was sold and she was left with no income or assets whatever. Towards the end of her life she was allocated a housing commission house which she shared with another elderly relative. This was the only house she had after her husband died. Of course I knew her well. Before she got her house she would stay with us from time to time. She had several idiosyncrasies. She would make sure all the blinds in the house were pulled down early every morning on hot days. She followed a ritual when brewing tea. She had trouble sleeping at night. She kept an enamel chamber pot under her bed. My mother never liked her and there was always tension when she lived with us. So she could only stay with us for a short while and then would have to go and live with others. My mother always insisted that her own mother would then come to live with us for the same amount of time. But this only happened once as I remember. When she got her housing commission house I once stayed with her for a week over the Christmas holidays. I remember this as a week of bliss. Absolute bliss. Except for the rough housing commission children who lived in the neighborhood and who all tried to fight me. She got ill and went to hospital seemingly shortly after I stayed with her. She had high blood pressure. Once when we were alone she showed me how to treat high blood pressure. She had a cut on her wrist which was exuding blood. She kept forcing as much blood to come out of the cut as she could. She kept rubbing her hand continuously down her arm to her wrist. This was the way to lessen blood pressure she said. I was the only person she showed this. Then suddenly she was dead. I never saw her again. I once saw an elderly woman coming towards me from up the street and for one wonderful second I thought my grandmother had come back from the dead. I almost ran towards her. The sun was coming through a cloud and shining directly behind this woman as she walked towards me and she did look like my grandmother. Perhaps Jesus did come back from the dead I thought. I thought this for only one second. But my heart did pound. And then went back to disappointment. My maternal grandmother I had less to do with. I was always being warned by my mother not to upset her. I had to behave myself when we visited her. I was surprised if she spoke to me. I can only recall her speaking to me once. She had long hair which she let down at night. She spoke to me as she let down her hair. She suddenly got old and lost weight to the point where she resembled a bird. The last time she visited us she was brought in a car by one of her children. It was a sunny day and the car was parked under a tree in the shade away from the house. Her son got out of the car and came inside. She sat in the car by herself for a while. She was tired. She was not to be disturbed. Maybe she had a short nap. I watched from a distance. She only came inside for a short while. She died soon after. She went into hospital and died within days. When we look at the gravestones of both women we see that both died in their mid 60’s. This is disconcerting. Why did they die so young? Neither seemed to have an official illness. They just got sick and died. My mother always said my fathers mother just gave up but I didn't see this. But would she have been intimate with me if she had? Did they both want to die? Did they will themselves to die? Odd Man Out.
What follows is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. In the early 50’s an itinerant family moved to Meadow Creek. Father Mother Daughter and Son. Where they came from or what their background was I don’t know. Father was what was called a seasonal worker. This meant he found part time work on local farms depending on the time of year. They moved into a house not far from the school that had been deserted since the war. It had no electricity or running water. They had no car. Neither the father nor the mother drove. The overwhelming impression their appearance gave was that the whole family were poor. They certainly looked it. Both parents had prominent teeth missing. The father was skinny and the mother was stout. She always wore socks instead of stockings. Their clothes were unfashionable and looked like hand me downs. They had that second hand look. The children’s clothes looked handmade if that. What they were made of was previously used or previously discarded. They were torn and tattered. Their shoes were always scuffed and falling apart. The girl was in grade 3 and the boy was in grade 2. The boy was white skinned with red blotches and he had large freckles all over his face. He had frizzy red hair. The girl was grey skinned and also very freckled but her freckles were black. She had grey frizzy hair. Neither child was muscular. The girl was shy and introverted. Silent. The boy was more open. He always wanted to be friendly but no one wanted to be friendly with him. Society at that time was structured in a strictly rigid form. Graziers were at the top of the ladder and seasonal labourers were at the bottom. Society was ruled by a strict class and caste system although no one admitted it. The children at my school followed this class hierarchy with great determination. The two children came to the school in the middle of the term and on their first few days had to stand out the front because there were not spare desks or chairs for them. When the furniture came the teacher gave definite instructions as to how each should carry and take care of their chairs. This was a sore point with him. Chairs and desks were scarce. He had a thing about furniture being broken. It was a punishable offence. It meant the strap for anyone who broke anything. These two children were never accepted and they were mercilessly treated by the rest of the school from the start. It was said that their parents were not married. It was also said that the father had a touch of the tar and both these rumours were often expressed by the older pupils as having great importance. Children obviously got these beliefs from their parents and elders. I didn’t really understand why these beliefs were so important but I did not question it. The statements concerning the two children were made with such authority. What was said seemed to be so all encompassing. It was not uncommon to see a group of girls half chasing the girl around and calling in unison tar baby tar baby because of her dark skin. The girl would be in tears but no one cared. This was fun. They knew they would never be stopped doing it because the girl was not liked and she was both unattractive and poor. The result was the girl spent a lot of time by herself crying and sobbing. Her body would heave with sobs and this only made the mob happier. She was an outsider and was not liked. She was not an attractive girl. She could not defend herself. She had no dignity. It was as if she deserved it. I cared but of course I said nothing. I did care. I felt sorry for her. My heart went out to this poor girl. I wanted to go and put my arm around her but I didn’t dare. I did not want to be seen as the odd man out. I did not want to be thought of as being sympathetic with this undesirable person. I did not want to be thought as being the same as her. I was frightened I would be treated the same way. No one would talk to me. I hated being teased. I always felt so humiliated when I was teased and was always struck dumb. I could never go against public opinion. So I stood silent. I was frightened. I did not know what to do. I had a great longing to be part of the mob. I wanted to be accepted. I felt I could do nothing. A few weeks after their arrival there was a reorganization at the school. Desks and chairs had to be moved around. Children had to pick up their chairs while the grade 6 boys moved the desks. All the young children were standing holding their chairs. One of the popular boys lifted his chair above his head and attempted to hold it like a circus performer would. He said look at me and tried to swivel it around. He quickly lost control of it. It fell to the floor with great noise. A leg was broken off. The whole class looked to see who it was. It was the son of a prominent farmer who was on the school committee so we all relaxed. He would not be punished. The teacher never punished some pupils and he was one of them. But for some reason the red haired boy spoke out – “look Mr S – he’s dropped his chair – are you going to give him the strap? Look at me. I’m holding my chair properly”. The room of students found this funny and laughed out loud but the teacher found it infuriating and he ran at the boy shaking his fist as if to hit him. The laugh was caught in everyone’s throat. What would happen? The teacher did not hit the boy but went up right into his face and screamed at him. Imbecile. Stupid. Idiot. Shut up. Get out of the room. The boy wilted visibly and stepped backwards. He started to cry silently. The rest of the children started laughing again. His sister came to his aid to comfort him. She put her arm around him. Some pupils even jeered at her. The teacher turned around still fuming and strode away. I did not laugh. I stayed silent. I knew a great injustice was occurring. I knew something terrible was happening but I was powerless to do anything. I could do nothing. I felt sorry for both of them. I wanted to go and stand with them. But of course I did not. I did not know what to do. I stayed in the background. I was one of the crowd. I did not want to be noticed. I did not want to be seen to be connected with their lower class. I did not want to be disliked. I did not want to be associated with these two undesirable children. I did not want to be thought of as being the same as them. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be popular. I did not want to be thought of as being different. I did not want to be the odd man out. Has the world changed? Official Eminent Person: Odd man Out I once went on a government sponsored march. It was a symbolic gesture which ended with a ceremony to acknowledge the Kulin aboriginal people and their traditional ownership of the land. The walk started from outside the NGV and proceeded along St Kilda Road to an area past Government House to a spot in the Botanical gardens where there was to be a ceremony acknowledging the traditional ownership of the Kulin people. And speeches. It was held on a Sunday morning and St Kilda Road was closed to traffic. The weather was overcast and cool. The government sponsored the walk. I heard about the walk because I had had to go out of the office on Friday morning and during the drive I heard on the radio Melbourne’s shock jock Neil Mitchell denigrating the event and as usual pouring contempt on the Labour government’s intention. I thought this made it important enough to go to. I wanted to try and make a statement even if I knew that by going I would not make any difference. I had long been concerned at society’s attitude to aborigines. I knew I had always lived in a racist society and I always felt uneasy about it. For all the talk about what aborigines had been given by the government I knew they were never given two things – power and acceptance. I despaired over whether aborigines would ever be accepted into the mainstream of society and wondered if they would ever be given power – real power – which had an effect on the behavior, status and wealth of Caucasian Australians. I could not get anyone else from my family to accompany me. The event had received a fair amount of publicity and might give someone a reputation they might not want if it was known if they attended. I already had the reputation of a being a left wing ratbag in the extended family – and a mean one at that - so I had nothing to lose. I drove alone. I was lucky enough to find a free parking spot and walked to where the march assembled. I was not surprised by the number of people who turned out for the march. There was not an overly large crowd but there were a satisfactory number. I deliberately started in the middle of the marchers and determined I would push my way towards the front during the course of the march to get a feel of who were attending. I wanted to see if I recognized anyone. Maybe people I knew might be marching. Famous people maybe. I was not disappointed. There were surprises. There were actually some celebrity matrons marching. At least two. For part of the way they walked together. These women actually often appeared in the society pages. Was this a fashionable society event? Maybe it could become one. I looked around to see if there were any celebrity photographer’s accompanying them but unfortunately not. I would not get my photo in the paper by lurking in the background. Apart from Bracks and Brumby it seemed that all of the Cabinet were there. There were a number of things that struck me. They were all young and were all well-dressed. Suits and ties. Sunday best. They talked in small groups all the way along. Sometimes one or two would leave the group and join another group. The three of four groups were constantly changing. The talk never stopped. I noted there was not one joker among them. They were all serious people intent on the matter at hand. I did not attempt to get close enough to eaves drop on what they were talking about. Politics I assumed. Party problems. Cabinet matters maybe. The rest of the marchers left them to their discussions. There was one odd man out. An Eminent Person. He was even officially designated as Eminent. Or more precisely one eminent couple. A man and wife. Mr Malcolm Fraser and Mrs Tammy Fraser were amongst the marchers. They both looked as if this protest march was the most natural thing in the world for them to do on a Sunday morning. They were showing where their sympathies lay. Both were happy to talk to people as they walked. I walked close to them for a fair length of time. I was interested to see who were drawn to converse with them. They were not mobbed by fans but nor were they ignored and left to walk alone. Most people who approached them were middle aged or over middle aged. I would say that the majority would have been Liberal Voters. They looked conservative. Some were New Australians. Beneficiaries of multi culturalism who wished to express their appreciation. There were some aboriginals. A lot of shaking of hands. There were no problems or unpleasantness. It was all very civilized and Mrs Fraser was particularly charming. People obviously enjoyed talking to them both and the Frasers liked talking back. I was so close to them at one point Mr Fraser looked me in the eye inviting me to come up and speak to him but I declined. I could not bring myself to speak to him. I could not help pondering as to what his motives were in attending this march. Why was he doing all these odd things at this point in his life? He was in effect now acting as the conscience of the nation. What was he looking for? Was he looking for Atonement? Forgiveness? Absolution? I had not forgiven him for his actions in 1975 and how could I give him succor now? So I went home and wrote him a letter. Which in turn led to some humour. I wrote to him that while I congratulated him and his wife on participating in the march I could not bring myself to talk to him. I agreed that their attendance in the march gave it a status that it would not have had if they were not there but nevertheless I still had issues with him that were unresolved. I could not forgive him and take him to my heart as others did. I pointed out in my letter that I thoroughly disapproved of his actions in 1975. I felt that more than anything his actions were immoral. Highly immoral and he could never get away from this. I pointed out that Democracy is an arrangement that is agreed to by the participants and that he had betrayed that arrangement. It is a matter of honour more than anything and public figures must act honourably. He had definitely not acted honourably. It did not matter that he had a chance of seizing power and that anyone else would have done the same thing. In my mind this made it worse. I particularly pointed out the immorality of his actions in guaranteeing the Governor Generals pay and pension in 1975 values before he was appointed Prime Minister. And I felt his recent claim that he had always been against Australia’s participation in the Vietnam War was hard to swallow. And his claim that he always saw himself when he was Minister for The Army as being the champion of and the protector of Australian Soldiers against the dangers of excessive American Policy was extremely hard to comprehend. I also said however I thoroughly approved of some of his recent utterances and congratulated him on his stance on many issues. Views that were now thought to be controversial and going against public opinion. Even appearing to be opposite to what he expressed when Prime Minister. I finished up by asking him if indeed he was now seeking Atonement. Forgiveness? Absolution? I said I did not wish him to reply and did not give my address. A few weeks later at work I received a phone call. I was out in the factory checking on a production matter when a message came over the loudspeaker “phone call for Neville Gibb. Malcolm Fraser for Neville Gibb on the phone”. I picked up the nearest receiver and it was not Malcolm Fraser. But it was his secretary. How she tracked me down I do not know. This was before facebook. She had some questions. She said Mr Fraser had read my letter and he would like to reply to it. Could she have my address? After some discussion I said I preferred to decline a reply and she accepted this. I was polite about it. For the next few days I was often asked by bemused people if they had misunderstood the message on the loud speaker. Was it really Malcolm Fraser on the phone? How did I know him? What did he want? Of course I did nothing to disabuse them of whatever was in their mind and emphasized our close friendship. Malcolm and I were like this – close collaborators - buddies. We often talked on the phone. I particularly led my boss on with tales of being Malcolm’s close collaborator. Same school etc. Obviously the same politics. Same charities. Friends with his daughter. Talked to him all the time at the Football. Etc. I think he half believed me but being rusted on anti labour he did not know whether to be jealous or contemptuous. How could someone like me know Malcolm Fraser? The march ended with a quite formal and well organized smoking ceremony. I had never seen one before. A proper and somehow inspirational acknowledgement of Aboriginal Land was read out. Again I had never witnessed one. This was surprisingly serious stuff. Some short surprisingly relevant speeches were given. All by women. Change happens slowly. But maybe it can happen. I WAS THERE I was there the day the world changed. Because there once was a day when the world changed. This day actually occurred. It really did. We live in a world that appears to be fixed. And in most ways it is. Our world does not often change and sometimes no matter how much we want it to change it never does. In many ways we don’t want the world to change and go to great lengths to prevent change. If you go through life expecting that the world will never change when the momentous change occurs it is hard to know what to make of it. In my case the world did change and would never be the same again. I found it both exhilarating and a letdown. Pleasing and disappointing. Both traumatic and healing. Soothing and disquieting. All of these and more. The day itself was almost perfect weather wise. The first week in October. Not a cloud in the sky. A cool fine day. There was a slight breeze. If you stood still you could feel the cool breeze across your face. I have always found this pleasurable and remember it to this day. I am reminded always when I experience this sensation. Tom and I left home early. I was fulfilling a long held promise to him. It had been touch and go whether I could keep my promise to Tom but after a lot of stress and effort I was able to arrange it. We took the normal route to our destination and had no traffic problems. Neither of us are superstitious so we did not see this as portentous. But in hindsight you could read something into it. On arrival I fulfilled another long held promise in that I allowed Tom to buy a magazine that I had always denied him previously because I considered its purchase a waste of money. But I was pleased to see him read the magazine and get a lot of enjoyment from doing this. I had never seen my son take so much interest and concentration as he did in carefully reading every word in this magazine. We sometimes get pleasure in ways we never expect and I remember the pleasure I experienced in watching him added to the enjoyment of the day. He was ten years old and I could see the joy he took in reading. We had to wait a long time for the ceremonies to begin. But we waited patiently. Finally proceedings started. The world actually changed over the course of the next two and a half hours. This sounds trite but at the end of proceedings the world had changed forever. The actual event still seems like a dream. And like all dreams I only remember fragments. Some things have been indelibly imprinted on my brain and others have been wiped forever from my memory. I remember small unimportant things and I do not remember other things that have later been deemed important. In reality I only have vague memories of most of the day. I have no sense that two and a half momentous hours passed. I cannot remember either Tom or myself uttering a sound. Certainly neither of us can remember any involvement or reaction to what was happening. That is until the end. Towards the end I wanted the last 5 minutes to go on forever but of course it went in seconds. I did not dare make a sound until the actual end. Then I made myself known to everyone. Or tried to. The world had changed. I was there when it happened. What a thrill that my son and I could share in Collingwood's triumph. Postscript: I tried to duplicate this experience with my other two sons. Each one was taken to a Grand Final but Collingwood reverted to type and lost both games. One by a close margin and one by a large margin. Both sons understood and forgave me. Neville Gibb
May 2017 Running with Scissors – Taking Risks.
I wonder if the well-known fictional character Edward Scissorhands ever ran recklessly. Would we have run with him? Encouraged him to run? In real life we do not want to take risks. How many risks do we really take in life? And how many choices do we have that involve risks? We could argue that each time we drive a car we take risks. But self-preservation rules out really taking risks. We do not want to take risks. But when we do take a risk we will remember it. In my life I have only on two occasions taken risks that were death deaf defying. I will remember both clearly until I die. The first risk was taken when I was 18 and is almost a ritual of Australian youth. Of course it involved a motor car. My father even though he was a conservative person for some reason fancied a more than usually powerful car. On new year’s day 1964 my father allowed me to drive by myself his car to the Myrtleford Rodeo. Along the way I picked up some mates. We met up with other people we knew at the rodeo. We all decided to go to a dance in Wangaratta that night. We drove in convoy from Myrtleford to Wangaratta. Of course during the course of this trip we decided by osmosis to have a race. Three cars raced each other. Because I had the most powerful car I felt obliged to outrace the other two. I passed the other two only to be passed in turn by them. I had to pass them both again. This took me some time and I had to achieve a high speed to do so. When I finally passed both cars for the second time my natural sense of self preservation took hold and I came to my senses. I knew I was indulging in highly dangerous activity. I decided I was going to stop being part of this particular group and I immediately did. I knew I was indulging in mob mentality and that it was both dangerous and stupid. I have never done this again. I have always since been a careful driver. But because of the activity on this night I gained somewhat of a reputation and was once or twice dared to do it again. When I refused I was sneered at in the usual Australian way. You know - what are you? - a woman? Are you weak or something? I have remained ultra-careful ever since when driving. Neither have I ever indulged in mob mentality again. The only other time I have taken a risk knowing it was life threatening was when I was living in Earls Court in London. A work collegue invited me to a music and drinks get together at his flat. He lived in Finchley. I got talking to his flatmate whose name was Steve . I still know him. The dialogue went like this:- Flatmate: Where do you live? Me: Earls Court. Flatmate: What address? Me: 75 Eardley Crescent. Flatmate: Really! You are kidding. What floor? Me:The third. Why? Flatmate: I know that flat. My brother used to live in that flat. Me: What a coincidence. Where is your brother now? I have never heard you mention him. Flatmate: I don’t mention him probably because he is dead. (Steve was a bit of a wit) Me: Really. What happened? Flatmate: He was killed trying to get in through the window of your flat when he was drunk. He didn’t have his key and was trying to open the lounge window. You know the one that looks out onto the Exhibition Building. Me:(Very interested). Wow what happened? Flatmate:He came home drunk one night. Didn’t have his key and proceed to climb up the drainpipe to get to the top of the building next door. You know the gap between to window and the next building? Me: Yes Flatmate: Yes well he slipped and fell. Apparently there was frost on the window sill. He was killed immediately. Not a lot more could have been said. The musical party proceeded. We went on with our lives. But of course the inevitable happened. On Easter Thursday 1970 I came home after a nice night out with colleagues from work and to my horror discovered I had no key. It being Easter everyone else in the flat was away elsewhere for all of the long break. I was locked out. I was in big trouble. What could I do? But I knew that it was possible to get in through the lounge window. It was possible. Dangerous but possible. I think it helped that I was slightly drunk. Alchohol did help but in those days I felt invulnerable anyway. I was living in London after all. Of course I was very cool about it all. I would check it out first. I would take it in steps. I would go slowly to lessen the danger. I would look first before I did anything. I would take into account the fact I was slightly intoxicated. I would practice everything mentally in advance. It was surprisingly easy to go up the drain pipe. It was almost as if the footholds were put there for me. I reached the top of the building next to ours and walked over the roof to our lounge window. And yes there was quite a gap between the building I was on and our lounge room window. And the gap was indeed 3 stories deep. But I didn’t look down too much. I stayed cool. I concentrated on the window. I looked across the gap. I could almost touch the window. If I was to lean across I could hold onto the window frame. This didnt look all that hard so I tried it. I stiffened myself and made a bridge across with my body. I held on to the top of the window sill. I tested if the window sill was slippery. I put one hand under the window frame. The window opened easily. I tested again if the window sill was frosty. It wasn't. I put my hands inside the flat. It felt warm and comforting. I was almost home. But I still had to get across a gap of about one metre. If there is ever an example of running with scissors this was it. I ran with scissors. I took a risk and almost dived across into the window and through it. It ended up being done very quickly. I admit I did recognise there was a kind of cold spot as I passed over the gap. But I ended up safely inside sprawled on the floor. As I said I was very cool about it. I got up and carefully closed the window. But I did have a passing look at how far down the gap went. It was an awful long way. And dark. I went to bed and slept the sleep of a very relieved person. It was good to be alive and home and in bed. I had a nice Easter all by myself. It might have been this weekend I watched the very first Monty Python. By myself. But I was changed forever. I didnt ignore what I had done. I was not aloof about it. I knew had taken a big risk. I was not aloof about it at all. I had actually risked my life. The feeling stayed with me for some time. If I was called upon to do this again maybe I would no matter what the danger. But at the time I was living in London after all and I felt this was an achievement in itself. I had to keep up standards. Doug Moran National Portrait Prize Finalists at the Gallery
The Gallery currently has on exhibition the 30 finalists in the 2015 Doug Moran National Portrait Prize competition. U3A Art group held its monthly appreciation meeting in the Gallery and were privileged to listen to a short lecture by Catherine Bennetts-Cash discussing some of the portraits. Catherine’s lecture concentrated on a small number of the portraits with which she had some familiarity and was able to provide a greater understanding of both the artists and the portraits. Her favorite was The Hat Maker-Rosie Boylan by Evert Ploeg. Catherine explained the concept behind the winning portrait and handed out Photostat copies of the 16th Century painting under whose influence it had been painted. The 2016 winner by Warren Crosset is entitled Self Portrait after St Jerome Flanders. Warren Crosset is a Commercial Artist who won the prize with his first ever entry. It is fair to say it is one of the small number of standout portraits amongst the 30 finalists. It has elements of both Caravaggio and Da Vinci in it and it depicts the artist pointedly resting his left forefinger on an envelope with him looking pensively off to the right. He is dressed in modern dress but his surroundings except for the envelope are from the Reformation. The original painting on which it is based is attributed to as being in the Style of Joos Van Cleve who painted in the 16th Century and this painting is in the NGV. It is not often that modern painters can successfully include past references in their paintings but in this case Warren Crosset has it spot on. The envelope representing the skull has a modern stamp with a skull instead of the Queen and a fly is resting on the envelope. There is Cyrillic writing on the envelope which I presume makes mention of a skull. Instead of placing himself in his own house he has placed himself in St Peters in Rome or somewhere similar and he has a mediaeval bible on his desk. The value of this painting is that these influences are not readily apparent on first viewing and when they are obvious they do not look out of place. The central point of the painting on which the viewer’s eye is drawn to is the artist’s hand which is both resting and pointing to the envelope. Hands are often featured in portraits and this painting captures the hand completely. The other 29 finalists are all of a certain standard with 3 or 4 standouts. One or two of these are exceptionally well painted and only the classical references in the winning portrait set it apart. The following rate a special mention – Sacrifice of the Model, David Bichard of Carpathian, On the Verge of a Sudden Realisation and The artists Mother. If you visit the Gallery I would advise close viewing of all these paintings. Benalla has been fortunate to get this exhibition and a special effort to visit the Gallery is recommended. We thank Catherine for her interest in U3A and look forward to her next lecture on Monday 4th August. 'Faking It' - for U3A Writing group.
It is an axiom of Politics that if you can fake sincerity you have it made. In Minor parties it’s possible to concentrate on narrow policies but politics in the two great parties means that certain compromises have to be made all the time. Great Parties are always a coalition of sorts. It will not be possible to sincerely agree with all party policies but agreement and support must always be shown. Some policies will be a personal anathema but dissent will always have to be suppressed. You will have to fake support. Friendships will to be maintained even though personal animosities will be great. You will have to fake it. If you wish to progress up Party ranks you will have to always give the impression to party leaders that you are sincere in your support of them. You will have to fake it. Sometimes political parties have an ideological content which makes it easier but faking belief is always a required qualification. You will just have to fake it. While most politicians are sincere in their own way not many can fake sincerity. Most try very hard to do this but invariably all fail. This however does not stop them trying. It is the first requirement of politics. It is interesting to note that two great politicians of the 20th century who always gave the appearance of complete sincerity were also two of the most destructive – Hitler and Stalin. Just what did they both think? It’s impossible to know. But they were both exceptional in being able to fake sincerity. And people believed they were sincere. This was their strength. In other professions faking it can work in your favour. It can even be a liberation. I once witnessed a conversation between Elton John and Elvis Costello. This conversation was not scripted and Elvis Costello as an aside made the point that they had both changed their names. Elton John immediately became animated and started to speak in an obviously sincere way. He said that his life changed the day he changed his name. He was no longer Reg Dwight – insignificant keyboard player – he was suddenly Elton John – potential pop star – song writer. It meant he could blossom as a person. And he knew it. He was not tied to the past – he had no past – he could invent himself. And he did. He changed himself. Elvis Costello had to admit that the same thing happened to him. He was no longer Declan MacManus – son of Ross MacManus. He suddenly had his own life and could do what he wanted. He did not have to sing like his father. Ross MacManus was a well-respected and well known Jazz Singer and Declan always felt in his shadow. In this instance faking new names and personalities was a positive thing. It worked well. It may have worked without them changing their names but neither person thinks so. It was just not possible without faking it. The most potential for faking it in one’s own personal life is when it comes to romance. Sometimes romance is a heady affair. Intoxicating even. And unfortunately it can greatly encourage attempts at faking it. Bitter experience will however prove that it is definitely better not to fake anything. No matter how much the temptation. But sometimes the beauty of the opposite sex leads you to want to fake it. One always wants to improve one’s status with the opposite sex and there is always the temptation to mention the profession of Marine Biologist. I’m sure we have all done it. This is the bitter sweet joy of faking it. Of course when you move to a country town in retirement you can fake both a past life and a future life very easily. Benalla Art Gallery 5.10.2015 Presently at the Gallery there are 4 art installations. These installations have been presented by 3 artists from the Gertrude Street cooperative art studio based in Fitzroy. The studio enjoys a good reputation and has exhibited at several Venice Biennales. The art is interactive and the public are encouraged to participate. Indeed three of the art pieces rely on the public taking part. An installation of musical instruments built from metallic refuse collected locally relies on the public touching the installations for musical notes to be produced. Each artistic piece produces an electronic sound which is fed into a central speaker and music of sorts results as the artist who is also a musician intended. Another installation is an audio installation that runs for 6 hours where the artist reads out the total catalogue of art works held by the Gallery. Another installation is of several large garments resembling aprons which have quotations and slogans attached. The public are encouraged to put on the aprons and have their photo taken standing in front of artworks on the wall behind that have inspired the artist in making the garments. There are also helmets made of the same cloth so you can be photographed and retain your anonymity. The most accessible installation is a display of ceramic vases and pots that have been deliberately smashed. The fragments have then been repainted in colors of works of art taken from the Gallery Storeroom and which have been placed on the largest wall in the room opposite the ceramic display. The presenting artists were allowed access to the Gallery Storeroom and the pictures chosen are displayed in the Paris Salon method without any identification attached. The repainted ceramic shards in the colours of the paintings opposite have then been reconstructed and rebuilt into vases and pots which resemble the original objects. One does not immediately see that the vases and pots have been rebuilt until closer inspection shows they have been put together like a jigsaw. The total project encourages interaction and tries to involve the viewer. Hopefully to understand the creative urges of the artist. This exhibition however provokes the constant conundrum that is always present with any new art form – what is art and how do we recognize it? If we are told something is art should we accept it as art? There is no doubt that the artists themselves believe their installations are works of art. They themselves work industrially at producing art and want the public to share in their creative process. It is unfortunate that the paintings taken from the storeroom and placed on display are undoubtedly works of art. One’s preference is to look at the paintings and to try and recognize each artist rather than to become involved with the interactive installations. Most of these paintings have either not been seen before are only displayed intermittently in the open gallery. This begs the question whether there are many other good paintings held by the Gallery we do not see. |
Categories
All
Topics
All
Archives
February 2024
|