After She Left

by Penelope Hanley

  ‘And you’re self-taught, is that right?’

  ‘Not entirely – I’ve had lessons from a few people but the best has been Desidirius Orban, the Hungarian refugee. He boosted my confidence because he believes creativity is what counts, not academic training. He says an artist should not be a mere technical imitator but a creative innovator. Artists need to create a new world, not imitate an existing one.’

  ‘Can I borrow her?’ asked Tamsin, linking her arm through Deirdre’s and announcing to Paul: ‘Her works are about the wonder of nature and the ambiguities and complexities of love, infused with a Celtic sensibility – write that down. The Captain Cook series holds up a magnifying glass to Australia’s colonial origins. Now, Deirdre, you must meet these friends of mine from Melbourne – you’ve got so much in common. And they want to buy Figures in a Forest!’

  By the end of the evening red stickers accompanied nine works, ‘a very respectable number,’ as Geoffrey assessed.

  On the Saturday, Paul King’s review appeared in the paper.

  Sydney Morning Herald, 7 September 1946

  Nature possessed by a divine energy

  On the opening night of Deirdre Wild’s current exhibition at Pettifer’s Gallery, I overheard someone saying that the paintings and collages were technically amazing but that she couldn’t live with them. She meant it as a criticism. However, the question, ‘Could I live with it?’ is not the same as ‘Is it good or bad art?’

  The mystique of the Australian landscape is a powerful force in Deirdre Wild’s work, whether in her early sketches and linocuts or in the later collages and paintings. Her plants, trees and animals virtually pulse with life and movement. Nature seems possessed by a divine energy. The spiritual quality of the works, such as in Red Forest, Time Trap and Noon Day Dreaming, makes one feel that the landscape recognised a kindred spirit in the artist and opened up to her some of its secrets.

  Aspects of the landscape embody the artist’s feelings and she expresses these using a rich vocabulary of textual variations and a vibrant palette. She is drawn to isolated dead trees and rock forms, sandstone cliffs rising from the sea and weathered, honeycomb-like headlands. These and the mystical animals and plants are at the core of her iconography as a surrealist influenced by her native Ireland and her adopted country.

  From the early watercolour landscapes to the more recent large oil paintings, these are strong works of great perception and skill, which convey the poetry of our coastline. In the watercolours the sky is luminous with layered washes of cool pastel colours, and the later paintings incorporating collage evolve into the artist’s characteristic brilliant blues, greens and limes, as memories of the Emerald Isle meet Sydney’s light-saturated coast.

  The middle series, focusing on domestic interiors, explores the ambiguous, complex feelings aroused by motherhood, as in Domestic Vertigo and White Rocking Horse. The former depicts a white terrier lying asleep on a tiled floor, a gnawed bone at its side. The door next to the dog is ajar and leads to a vertigo-inducing abyss of eerie black, charcoal and grey space in which uncertain forms appear to be moving, evoking a sense of dread in the viewer. Further into the interior space a mother holds a wide-eyed baby. The mother’s linen nightgown is crumpled into a crazy-paving of deep lines and creases. The maternal figure looks fearfully across the room to the yawning abyss.

  In White Rocking Horse a small girl sleeps, one chubby arm around the neck of a one-eyed teddy bear. In the shadowy recesses of the room a white rocking horse with big black eyes seems to be animated, moving on a floor strewn with broken eggshells. Strips of wallpaper are peeling from the walls, revealing patchy stone or plaster, putting one in mind of rising damp. An exaggerated perspective that owes something to de Chirico’s eerie isolated spaces conveys a sinister ambience.

  The great degree of manual precision enhances the hallucinatory atmosphere of all the artist’s works. Deirdre Wild has a finger on the pulse of a disquiet that is distinctively modernist. Even in idyllic scenes where the landscapes are peopled with her customary cast of characters, an edge of anxiety often imbues the work with discomfort for the viewer.

  Even more discomforting is the Captain Cook series, ten small oils depicting the Australian landscape, each one with the partially hidden and distorted figure of Captain Cook, in the grasses or trees, on a ship or the beach. Some include shapes in the shadows that hover like ghosts over a landscape of loss. These works evoke an air of implacable menace and their titles indicate the thinking behind this: Nine-tenths of the Law, Good Intentions Road and For King and Country.

  It might be some time before Australians come to some sort of equilibrium concerning our past as a penal colony of what many still call today “the Mother Country”. But in this series the artist seems to be opening up a dialogue on the uncomfortable – if not taboo – topic of our colonial origins.

  The darker side of these paintings and collages explores other aspects of life than solely that which is beautiful. It is the function of art to examine everything in life – destruction, fear, dread and death as well as beauty, gentleness, whimsy and love.

  Deirdre Wild’s art enables us to confront fearful things and to emerge the stronger for the experience and to be able to engage all the more deeply with the depictions of beauty.

  *

  Daily Telegraph, 10 September 1946

  Heavy Damage in City Fire

  An art gallery full of modern art valued at approximately £6,000 was destroyed in a spectacular fire on Oxford Street, Paddington, in the early hours of yesterday morning. Damage to the building is estimated at £25,000.

  The two-storey building was unoccupied at the time of the conflagration. Mr Geoffrey Pettifer and his wife, proprietors of the Gallery, live in Birchgrove.

  The Gallery specialised in modern art. All the works in the current exhibition, a retrospective by surrealist painter Deirdre Wild, were destroyed by the fire.

  *

  ‘Oh, Mother of God!’ wept Deirdre, standing in front of the ruined building, her life’s work gone up in smoke. She had gone to the burnt gallery as soon as she heard.

  ‘I don’t know what to do!’ she kept saying. ‘I just don’t know what to do!’

  Tamsin provided emotional support and Geoffrey was able to give her some practical support on that dark day.

  Geoffrey sometimes gave the impression of having his head in the clouds but he was an efficient businessman, stronger on that than on artistic judgement. He depended on Tamsin for that side of things. He and Tamsin were not making much money exhibiting and selling modern art but he was a persuasive salesman and was meticulous about things like accounting and insurance.

  The police copied down statements by the Pettifers and Deirdre about what Jake Phipps had said to them. They took their time looking into the case and when they did, the constables and detective could find no evidence of arson or any suggestion of foul play. With the common knowledge that many of the police were on the take, this was all the friends could expect and there was nothing to be done about it.

  After the insurance assessor’s inspection and after the paperwork, the fire insurance money would pay for their losses and Geoffrey and Tamsin could look for new premises. They would be able to compensate Deirdre for the lost works, at ten guineas each for the Captain Cook series and thirty guineas for the rest except for the two large ones that had a price on them of forty guineas each.

  Jake Phipps bought the old site for a reduced price.

  ‘Friends keep you going when you want to stop.’ It was what Owen Wynter said when times were tough. And Deirdre said, ‘I won’t let the bastards be getting me down. I’m still here and Maureen’s still here and now we have little Keira. Nobody died. I have my friends and my talent and a roof over my head.’ She knew that what the universe destroys, it also builds. Theosophy had taught her that.

  And when her share of the insurance money came through, she could start again.

  *

  Deirdre was making a ne
w collage in the studio. All her materials – feathers, velvet scraps, dried flowers and leaves – were in front of her. In her absorption, she had been sitting on her foot for too long, and pins and needles compelled her to stand.

  She wobbled and regained balance. A walk would be good, at least to the letterbox. She slipped on her sandals and walked down the side driveway to the front yard.

  There was a pale blue aerogramme in the box, and she immediately recognised Owen’s writing on it.

  Her heart sang.

  She had been like a sick eagle looking at the sky – and now this!

  Her small hands shook as she tried to rip open the aerogramme without tearing any of the precious contents.

  20

  MAUREEN

  April 1973

  ‘Here we go again!’ Jim said. ‘It won’t be a better society with that arrogant shit in charge.’

  ‘He is not an arrogant shit. He is an independent thinker with high ideals, ideals that I share!’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘Aren’t you interested in fairness? Don’t you believe in ordinary people’s lives being improved? Ordinary people like our children!’

  ‘You get too emotional about politics, Maureen. You don’t know about economics and you don’t know the facts and you voted the wrong way.’

  ‘I didn’t vote the wrong way! Just because it’s different from the way you voted doesn’t make it wrong or misguided! Jesus!’ Maureen paused and a thought came into her head that she had not had before.

  ‘You are so patronising to me.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘No, you just think you know better. You treat me like a child.’

  ‘I don’t think I do. Maybe can we agree to disagree on this?’

  ‘And not talk about it anymore?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But that’s just what we always do. That’s what I meant before – we don’t communicate.’

  ‘Oh, Christ – we’re communicating now, aren’t we? I just don’t know what you want, Mo!’ His tone softened. ‘Tell me and I’ll give it to you. You know I love you.’

  It was hopeless. She picked up her book.

  The subject didn’t come up again until a couple of days later. Maureen was dabbing Oil of Olay moisturising milk onto her face.

  ‘He got us out of that immoral war and he got our son out of prison,’ she said, putting the moisturiser on her dressing table and sliding into bed. ‘And free healthcare and free education are what a civilised society should have.’

  ‘Again?’ Jim said, drawing a long breath and tying the cord of his pyjama pants, ‘I thought we’d agreed to disagree about this.’

  ‘I think we should talk about things more. Our new prime minister –’

  ‘He’s not my prime minister,’ said Jim, sliding into bed. ‘I didn’t vote for him, and plenty of us didn’t.’

  ‘Most of us did! He’s making life better and easier for ordinary people like you and me. Ordinary people can go to university now.’

  ‘Planning to get educated, are you?’ He made it sound like an outlandish idea.

  ‘Well, I could! If I wanted.’

  ‘And do you want?’

  Maureen slid into bed beside him. She was silent for a moment.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t really know …’

  ‘You don’t know what you want,’ said Jim.

  ‘I’ve got options though, now.’

  ‘I thought you were happy.’

  ‘I’ve been happy since Rowan came out of jail, but not happy happy. Maybe if you didn’t shut me down all the time.’

  Jim reached over to hold her hand. Turning towards her, he began caressing her forearm with a silky suggestiveness.

  Maureen sighed. ‘Talking,’ she said, ‘is what I meant.’

  ‘Who needs words?’ He walked his fingers over to her shoulder, feeling its bony warmth through her white cotton nightie. He shifted his hand lower.

  ‘Ji-ii-iim, I’m serious,’ she said, taking his hand and placing it gently away from her body. She sighed. ‘Women need to get close before they’re interested in sex … you just want to use sex to get close.’

  ‘We used to be close.’

  Maureen said nothing.

  Jim said, ‘I want you to be happy. What do I have to do?’

  When Maureen said nothing he sighed and picked up the Russell Braddon paperback on his bedside table.

  21

  KEIRA

  April 1973

  At Easter Alan planned to visit his parents in Canberra.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said to Keira.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got a lot to catch up on with my photographic essay. I’m interviewing Deirdre’s contemporaries and I have to work out what questions to ask them and I’m still trying to track some of them down.’

  ‘But I thought you were on top of things. You can have a break, can’t you? It’s Easter!’

  ‘No. I need to focus on this and be free from distractions.’

  ‘Distractions?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound rude. But you know what I mean. You’re an academic, you can understand – I’ve just got to focus on this to get a handle on it.’

  Alan’s shoulders slumped but he said, ‘Okay. I’ll see you when I get back.’ She walked him to the front door and kissed his cheek. Alan looked a bit pissed off but she couldn’t think about that right now.

  Keira waved goodbye to Alan and went and joined Nessie, who was half-heartedly watching the news.

  ‘I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I?’ Keira said, plonking herself beside Nessie on the sofa.

  ‘Sure,’ said Nessie. ‘I’m off to Adelaide. You’ll only have Steve and maybe Melanie to distract you, if Steve’s still with her – I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  At that point, Steve’s sister Sylvia screeched up to the house in her powder blue MG. A minute later they heard her loud rapping on the door. Steve ran down to open the door and Sylvia shoved a wriggling cardboard box with a nasty nasal whine coming from inside it into his hands. Her platinum hair clung to her head like a shiny white bathing cap. She was dressed in a white linen pants suit and white platform shoes.

  ‘Want to come in?’

  ‘Got to dash.’ She glanced down the hall at Keira and Nessie on the sofa. ‘Hi, thanks a million, bye!’ They had agreed to let Steve look after Sylvia’s cat while she went diving in the Maldives.

  Steve took the box into the living room. The newsreader was announcing that White House aide, John Dean, said on the stand that President Nixon knew about the cover-up and that he had told Nixon that the cover-up ‘was a cancer on the presidency’.

  ‘Wow!’ said Keira, as she and Nessie locked glances. Their viewing was interrupted by Steve, who put the box on the floor and opened it. The long-haired creature leapt out, a large, angry cloud of charcoal-coloured fur. It looked around and immediately padded to the person in the room who least liked his species.

  ‘Funny the way they do that,’ said Steve, and laughed.

  He walked over to Keira and bent to pick up the large cat. ‘Come on, Butch, come to Daddy.’

  ‘Yeah, Butch, go to Daddy,’ Keira said, and went to her room.

  *

  Later that night, Steve returned from the pub.

  ‘Er, Keira,’ he said.

  ‘Er, yes?’

  ‘Uh, I’m wanting to go fishing with Mike and Shane up the north coast for a few days. I don’t suppose you mind looking after Butch on your own over Easter? Sorry, unexpected.’

  ‘Unexpected,’ Keira said, ‘because you and Mike and Shane are incapable of planning anything beyond your next beer.’

  ‘Not true!’ he said. ‘We do plan: for exams and celebrations afterwards. To name just two instances of prudent planning for the future.’ He took a bottle of Cooper’s pale ale from the fridge.

  ‘That’s not prudent.’ Keira lowered her jaw in mock emphasis of his words. ‘That’s not planning.
I’ll tell you what that is. It’s frantic-panic-and-frenzied-cramming-a-bit-before-the-exams-when-it’s-almost-too-late-and-then-a-gigantic-piss-up-the-minute-you-stumble-out-of-the-exam-hall.’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear, have I offended your sensibilities?’ She took a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge and poured a glassful.

  ‘I just ask you for a little favour and I get mocked and attacked.’

  ‘It’s not a little favour. Also, not having pets was the main reason we chose you to live here.’

  ‘And I thought it was my world-famous pancake-making skills. Come on, Keira, please? I’d ask Mel but she’s visiting her parents in Melbourne. If anything happened to Butch my sister would die of grief. He’s a surrogate boyfriend, always there for her when some sod lets her down again. Look, I’ll pay you.’

  She sipped the cool, sweet apple juice, then sighed. ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thanks, Keir. He’ll be no problem. Cats are independent. I’ll buy enough cat food to last the distance.’

  Butch walked over to Steve and rubbed his body against his legs. Steve picked him up. ‘Auntie Keira will look after you, Butch, you’ll be fine.’

  *

  But Butch was not fine. He followed Keira wherever she went, miaowing pitifully until she gave in and picked him up. He curled himself tightly against her chest and purred loudly, a surprisingly heavy armful of long, soft, grey fur, his claws stretching and retracting with pleasure. He wanted to be picked up often and emitted a howl of anguish if she put him down before he was ready.

  When she tried to work he sat his vast furry bulk in the middle of the very page she was reading, stuck a back leg out, bent his head down and began cleaning his bottom. Keira noticed with disgusted fascination that he cleaned himself all over with his agile pink tongue several times a day.

  *

  Keira used the Easter break to develop and print all her interview portraits, and flee the oppressive presence of Butch by snorkelling in Clovelly Bay with Sean, as she did on Easter Saturday.

  First they walked awkwardly backwards on the sand in their flippered feet and adjusted their masks. Just before sliding into the water, Sean said, ‘The fish must laugh, seeing humans in flippers.’