by Meg Stewart
The next day I went in to help Alison and George clean up the studio before the afternoon sketch club and George recounted the aftermath of the professor’s ride to Randwick. He couldn’t get a cab in Botany Street or anywhere in Randwick, so he had to walk back to the city from Randwick. He arrived at the studio at about five in the morning to collect his clothes. Several items were missing and the professor was in a state. George had been cleaning up. The party debris was already in rubbish bins outside. George hastily went through the bins and retrieved the professor’s belongings, including his singlet and a fob watch of which he was very fond.
The professor had sobered up and was suffering from post-party remorse. He was terrified that some hint of his behaviour might leak out to the papers and besmirch his social standing.
‘I hope there were no gentlemen from the press at the party,’ he kept repeating nervously to George. No gentlemen from the press were present at the party, George assured him. The professor’s reputation, if not his dignity, remained intact.
Janna Bruce knew a group of artists who lived, or rather squatted, in Elizabeth Bay House. Wallace Thornton and Wolfgang Cardamatis were two. Elizabeth Bay House was very rundown. They had no right to be there, but the alcoholic caretaker turned a blind eye and they lived for nothing amidst the ruins of colonial splendour. The upstairs bedrooms had a wonderful view straight out across Sydney Harbour, the only disadvantage being the loose floorboards.
Janna went to a party there. The electricity had been cut off so the guests took their own candles for light. The party was a success, despite the caretaker being drunk as usual and screaming abuse at them, but not doing anything to stop the party. There was an awful lot of noise but surprisingly the neighbours didn’t complain. At midnight they were deciding to disband the party when suddenly every candle burnt down at the same time and they were plunged into blackness. It was terrifying, Janna said, having to pick her way across the holey floorboards, then make her way down to the ground floor, clinging to the curving staircase.
Soon afterwards, the artists in Elizabeth Bay House were kicked out and went to live at the Ocean Street end of Jersey Road, Woollahra. The artist Mary Edwards had a place there which had a large two-storeyed coach-house at the back and she let this to them. Many parties were held here, too. The drawback to the new residence was a nearby garbage dump. Janna said she could practically hear the cockroaches crawling up the cliff face and marching up to the house.
I never went to these parties. This was a different crowd from my friends. I started giving my own parties at 38A Pitt Street, a couple of punch parties a year, usually one at Christmas. My Christmas punch party became a real institution.
My punch set came from Leo Buring’s wine shop. Leo Buring not only sold wine in bottles; customers could also have a glass of wine to drink downstairs in the cellars, and there was a selection of glasses for sale. This is where I bought my punch set. The heavy china bowl and eight goblets that I bought were a rich vermilion colour, decorated with greeny-grey clusters of grapes. The colour first attracted me to the set; I thought it would be good for still lifes. I put a lay-by on the bowl and eight glasses; it took me quite a while to pay the ten guineas off.
The Leo Buring man came round to my studio about four days after I had scraped together the last payment and told me they had found another four goblets to make up a dozen, but I was too broke. I’ve regretted it ever since. Later I bought a wineglass from the shop because it exactly matched a green-stemmed wineglass in my reproduction of a Vermeer painting, The Procuress.
My punch, based on red or white wine, was much subtler than the rum and ginger brew George made for his and Alison’s parties. I started preparing the morning before the party. First I put in a pound of castor sugar, then poured in four bottles of claret or hock and let it stand until the afternoon, when I added six bottles of soda water, a glass of brandy, a smaller glass of some liqueur like curaçao and fruit. For a claret punch I stewed up black cherries, letting some of the syrup go in with the fruit; for a hock punch, I used sliced peaches and a few cucumber rounds.
With punch parties, the danger is the guest who brings the extra bottle. The vodka or rum flask tipped into the punch for an extra kick will have guests reeling in no time.
Just getting bright people together made those studio parties. Alison and George always came to mine, as did my friend Hilda, Dora Jarret and Ellen Grey who married Dattilo-Rubbo’s son. Ellen did very modern dancing, way beyond my Isadora Duncan ‘Pagan Love Song’ efforts. Another guest was Clarence Murphy, an actor, whom we called Murph. Murph was a great dandy, very funny at parties. He worked with Doris Fitton and we went to see him in And So to Bed, her production of a play about Samuel Pepys. Murph was in his element.
A man called Joe Collins, a friend of Hilda’s who worked for Smith & Julius, often came. So did Godfrey Blunden the writer and his wife Mick, a dear friend of mine; even John Young from the Macquarie Galleries would drop in. Later the literary ones from the Bulletin came, such as Ron McCuaig and his wife Beryl, and later still Guy Howarth from the English Department at Sydney University, his wife Lillian, and Beatrice Davis from Angus & Robertson. But that was after I met Doug.
One Christmas punch party, the Blundens, Hilda and I intended to continue the evening by going to see Mo (the character created by comedian Roy Rene for his stage performance) at the Tivoli. When we came out of the building somebody wanted something from the grocery shop about three doors down, so we crammed into it. A display of tinned peaches was built into a pyramid on a shelf. Out of merriment or mischief or both, I pretended to knock the pyramid down. The grocer was incensed at such skylarking in his domain and jumped out from behind the counter.
‘Don’t do that! You can’t do that,’ he blustered.
I must have had my fair share of punch.
‘Oh, yes I can,’ I replied swiftly.
Then I really did kick his precious tins of peaches, but the cans were empty. It didn’t take much of a kick; one nudge from my toe and the whole pyramid came tumbling down. We cleared out swiftly, the grocer’s threats and insults ringing in our ears as we raced down Pitt Street.
At the Quay we dived into the safety of Plasto’s hotel, up to the lounge for a last beer before heading off to the show. By the time we arrived at the theatre, it was so late we had to sit on the steps in the gods. Still, the look of outrage on the grocer’s face as his carefully arranged cans came down round his feet was worth it.
Bea Miles loved the Tivoli; we would often hear her calling out in the middle of a show. If Bea had something to say, she said it regardless. It didn’t matter if she was at the Tivoli or the little Playbox Theatre in Rowe Street, which put on adventurous and intellectual plays by writers such as Eugene O’Neill. Once, to the horror of the audience, she interrupted a very serious play at the Theatre Royal.
Artists’ balls were altogether different from our studio parties. Everybody went to the Artists’ Ball: Dulcie Deamer in her leopard skin, George Finey in a baby’s napkin fastened with a safety pin, everyone. At my first Artists’ Ball, we students from the Royal Art painted scenery right around the Town Hall. If we volunteered for scenery painting, we were given free tickets. The Theatre Royal lent us their stage painting brushes and paints. The paint was mixed up in big jerries and it was very funny working away brush in hand, dipping it into an old pot. To collect these jerries, the brushes and the paint, we went to the theatre and climbed up to the flies, where the stagehands prepared the scenery. Five of us decided to stay and watch the show for free. The Ringer, a thriller by Edgar Wallace, was playing. We concealed ourselves in the heavy folds of drapery and settled back to enjoy the performance. Halfway through the first act, the actors realised we were there and they were not happy.
At interval, pandemonium broke loose. The management came swarming up the ladder. I crawled off and hid among the electrical wiring. It’s a wonder I didn’t electrocute myself. I could hear an angry voice shouting at the others.<
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‘Come down here!’ the voice ordered. ‘If you’re not down in two seconds we’re calling the police and we’ll have you arrested.’
The word ‘police’ sent me into a state and I froze. I could see myself being hauled off in the paddy wagon, my career as an artist ending in ignominy and disgrace, so I stayed hidden. When the second act was under way, I managed to extricate myself and sneak down the ladder. I had almost made it to safety when I was spotted at the stage door. I was out the door and up the lane beside the Theatre Royal at top speed. Not pausing to see if my pursuers were in fact pursuing me, I tore up King Street where I could see the Coogee tram stopped at the corner of Elizabeth Street. It started to move off just as I reached the stop. With a last desperate spurt of energy I took a flying leap and flung myself onto the running board. Everyone on the tram cheered. Despite this narrow escape, I was still as keen as ever about the ball. I felt I had earned my ticket by now.
Mum didn’t want me to go. I pestered and pestered but she was adamant; she wasn’t having me traipsing off on my own to any Artists’ Ball. But Jack, my brother, said he would take me and Mum relented. My opinion of Jack shot up instantly.
Jack and I set off in high spirits. I did have a few nagging doubts, though: what was he going to do all night? Whom could I introduce him to? Please God, don’t let him be too bored, or too shocked or both, I offered a brief prayer. But I need not have worried.
‘See that clock up on the wall?’ Jack pointed inside the Town Hall. ‘I’ll see you back here at two to take you home.’ Two o’clock was when the ball finished. I didn’t see Jack for the rest of the night.
A touring Russian dance troupe dropped in after their theatre performance. Resplendent in national dress, especially the men in embroidered and braided waistcoats, they thronged around the bar. I couldn’t take my eyes off one handsome man in silky pants gathered at the ankle. He seemed to be staring back at me.
I ventured closer and he came up to me. Conversation was at a minimum, but our glances spoke volumes. Suddenly he broke into a wild Cossack sort of dance; squatting low on his heels, then almost jumping over our heads, he sprang round the room. My eyes were riveted to the leaping figure in his silk costume. The next moment, the clock struck two and Jack appeared. He didn’t say what he had been up to, but from the look on his face, he had enjoyed the artists’ ball as much as I had.
Fancy dress was the norm at the Artists’ Ball. The next year I was more fully into the swing of bohemian life. I wore my Kincoppal school uniform, complete with navy blazer and basketball pocket. The nuns would have died, I think, if they had seen me. Percy’s son Peter Lindsay was particularly taken by the sight of me in my school uniform at that ball and talked about it gleefully for years afterwards. William Dobell was there, too; the uniform must also have impressed him because he danced with me most of the night.
I was more decorous in other years and hired costumes from J. C. Williamson’s, the theatrical suppliers. I went as a Restoration lady in a heavy white wig which made my neck ache. It felt as if I was carrying the most enormous weight on my head.
In 1934, there was inordinate excitement because Smithy, Charles Kingsford Smith the famous aviator, arrived at the ball fresh from his first flight across the Pacific and was mobbed. My feet were sore for weeks afterwards from being trodden on in the crush around him.
Alison and George seemed to be always on the move. When rooms became vacant at 12 Bridge Street Alison thought, because of the extra space, it would be worth the effort of moving, which involved shifting all their belongings. Their friends were seconded into helping. It took us all weekend to get them from one studio into the other.
Furniture had to be carted down three flights of stairs, carried along the street, then lugged back up another two lots of stairs into the new studio. The tables and chairs from Alison and George’s sketch club seemed endless. Tables, chairs and donkeys, up and down, up and down. Donkeys were primitive easels with seats that could be straddled as we drew. The paper was attached to the timber upright in front. Donkeys were part of every sketch club. As well as the furniture, there were the usual studio props artists accumulate. Even when artists can’t afford the rare and gorgeous objects they may covet, they still manage to collect a mass of cheaper treasures. Anything that will look good in a still life is saved – stone ginger jars, an old green Benedictine bottle, the Chinese whisky bottles.
My first recollection of 12 Bridge Street was sitting on the floor of the studio with my back to the wall, feeling very tired and very dirty (the studio needed a lot of cleaning; that was Sunday’s chore), eating sandwiches, drinking beer, and thinking what fun life was. I never dreamed how much a part of my life the studio would become.
Alison and George started a new sketch club at number 12. The sketch club met on Wednesdays because there were no classes at the Royal Art that evening. I usually went to 12 Bridge Street on Wednesdays because their nights were so lively. We had dinner, a cheap meal consisting of pies or frankfurts – we seemed to live on frankfurts. After tea we drew from the model.
Someone was flush one night and we had a lobster party. The lobsters were cooked in the studio, which was quite a feat. I think we skipped sketching that night. After lobster salad and beer, we danced.
An elderly gentleman attended every Wednesday night most conscientiously. He drew devotedly, scarcely raising his head from his work. Totally absorbed he appeared, and we marvelled at his dedication until we discovered his secret. Our elderly gentleman wasn’t drawing the model. Or rather, he did an initial study like the rest of us, then his imagination took over. He began adding underwear to his drawings. Naughty lacy camisoles, frilly panties, wicked-looking suspenders and silk stockings and high heels. Hardly surprising that our elderly gentleman was always so loath for class to finish.
About this time we had a marvellous bearded male model; beards were unusual then. He had come out from England but was originally French. Kleber Claux was his name. Kleber liked posing naturally. He was a nudist and so was his wife.
When they first came out to Australia he and his wife had a little farm up in Queensland, where they wanted to start a nudists’ colony. Their little boy used to wander around with no clothes on, scandalising the locals. The neighbours used to dress him themselves and send him home.
The bigotry of Queensland was too much for Kleber and his wife. They moved to Sydney, hoping the city would be more tolerant. Kleber had worked as a model in London and decided to try it again. Alison and George were thrilled about him posing naturally, and had him round at their studio for the sketch club.
His physique and beard kept Kleber in demand and he posed as all sorts of characters. He turned up in one exhibition as John the Baptist; we thought he really did look like John the Baptist, as if any of us could know. I enjoyed going to exhibitions and recognising the models we knew in paintings with weird and wonderful names.
Then the Clauxes had a daughter, Moira. Kleber’s wife used to rub the baby down with olive oil each day and put her out in the sun. None of our mothers would have dreamed of doing this, but the baby looked fine and grew up to be a dancer. About a week after the baby was born, Alison, George, Dora Jarret and I were invited to dinner at their home in Paddington. We didn’t know what to expect; they had very little money and posing was very poorly paid.
Kleber met us at the door in a short toga and we sat cross-legged on the floor, the food spread out in front of us. A huge wooden platter was made up with fruits and raw vegetables, potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and cabbage all chopped up fine or grated. They were also vegetarians.
Kleber eventually worked a fruit stall in Liverpool Street near Anthony Hordern’s at the Haymarket end of George Street. I used to see him there for years. In a blue shirt and with a tanned face, he always looked remarkably healthy.
I struck up another friendship in my Circular Quay days. A nun from St Patrick’s school, Church Hill, the steep hill off George Street on the way to the bridge, rang
me up at home. I don’t know how the nun knew of me, but she asked if I would do the artwork for notices they wanted printed at the school. I didn’t want to charge her anything when the work was done, but the little nun insisted on paying me. Someone had given them money for the notices, she said.
‘Is there anything I can give you?’ I asked. ‘A present I can buy you?’ I thought she should, at least, have a share of the money.
‘There is one thing I love,’ she replied. ‘Honeycomb in the jar.’ So honeycomb in the jar was what I bought her and she was delighted.
I visited the convent again after the nun had commissioned more work from me. I was waiting for her in a tiny room. The room contained a small table and two chairs, in one of which an enormous cat was asleep. My friend couldn’t see me straight away and asked me to wait ten minutes.
‘Don’t touch the cat,’ she admonished, poised at the doorway. ‘It’s Sister Pauline’s cat and that’s his seat. He hates to be disturbed. He gets most upset,’ she concluded.
‘I wouldn’t dream of disturbing Sister Pauline’s cat,’ I assured her hastily, but I was speaking to thin air; she had already vanished into innumerable convent corridors. I sat glued to my chair.
‘I don’t know how anyone could be as fond of a cat as Sister Pauline,’ my friend remarked after her return, as we walked off to her classroom. ‘You know she picks him up when she comes in and kisses him on the mouth. I don’t like to criticise, but I think it’s dreadful, kissing a cat on the mouth. It’s not hygienic.’
Cat lovers wouldn’t think anything of that, I tried to placate her. Inwardly I, too, had misgivings about Sister Pauline. I am very fond of cats, but I have never in my life kissed one on the mouth.
