It has now been 35 years since I left Newcastle, a place whose richness and rewarding values remain vivid in mind and soul.

Leaving a $10 a week rented house in Woolloomooloo and selling my Mini Moke for $500, I sailed off on a venture that was to take me to distant lands, and eventually around the world. It never did quite eventuate, as is the way of all good plans, for when I reached Mexico I was forced into a prolonged 5 months stopover while I wrestled with a bout of Montezuma’s Revenge. Becoming potstuk, I relied on a friend to force feed me dry bread until enough strength returned to allow a dash to the USA boarder, where fresh food and conditions soon restored my health.   

Returning prematurely to Australia I secured lecturing positions in Melbourne at RMIT, VCA, and Monash Art Schools with the intention of making financial gains before escaping back home to Sydney and Newcastle.  But, once again, my plans were short-circuited.  I found myself a hostage, not only hooked and packaged into an extended relationship that now makes me “call Melbourne home”, but also literally when I and about 40 others were held at gunpoint until the troops (who, incidentally proved more life threatening than the 2 young blokes who had us over a barrel) arrived. That however is another story and one that needs copious amounts of your favourite beverage to help digest the enormity of the yarn.

Teaching art at Newcastle between 1965-70 saw the school housed in the old Trades Hall building on Hunter Street, centrally positioned amongst a bustling hive of city activity: a busy commercial waterfront with ships and boats of all descriptions, rail movement and of course the Big (belching) Australian.  Class excursions to these areas and surrounding beaches, parklands and the grand old houses that dotted the hill all proved great assets to students and myself. One venue that springs to mind is the Cathedral on the hill where students, armed with drawing equipment, would sketch the interior and surrounds as they listened to “Bach” being played on the cathedral’s organ.  These inspirational moments produced aspiring works that otherwise may have remained no more than mere renditions of architecture.  

Newly married, my wife Duk-Ling (Gloria) and I purchased a house in Neath Street, Pelaw Main. On occasions a pig or lamb, roasted over an open fire which would be kept sizzling throughout the night, would be shared with friends, washed down with copious amounts of a home made brew made from straining grapes through my wife’s pantyhose.  Not a recommended recipe but it did manage to gather a small following amongst those who sought a cheap drink with a formidable tang.  

My brother Bob and his wife Betsy lived at Abermain, cousin Pat and wife Jean are still in Waratah, and friend Peter Uren, whom I met wearing a yogi bear costume in Spokane/Seattle, is in Mayfield. There was Brian Cowley, Head of the Art School, Frank Celtlan and Sonja, Charlie Lewis, John and Marilyn McGrath and Vanessa, John Montefiore, Jean Cross, Billy Brown, Christine Ross, Tom Gleghorne, John Von Willenberg and, later, Marshall Clark, Peter Singleton and a “Scot” named Cameron Bannerman whose hair turned white after an apparition of a ghost knocked him off a fence.

The exhibition’s theme is derivations on the figure, but for the past 30 years I have worked primarily with the landscape, producing images that placed me in good stead with my debtors and enabled me to rise above a sub standard existence. All recent paintings, including the one in this exhibition, were executed in oils produced at Newcastle Art School,  handed to me by fellow artist Jan Senbergs for trial. I found them as good, if not better, in quantity, quality and price as other brands, and I hope to place a large order before returning to Melbourne.