That flick, just a lick of burnt sienna with my 3 mm brush, but it failed, again. I had recently delighted in walking through the Fredrick McCubbin exhibition – his effortless expertise – a whitey-ochre streak, travelling up the canvas, interrupted with highlights from the easterly sun, dark scratches of peeling bark, shadows underneath the intersecting branches. I had studied the same results in Ashton, Streeton, Conder and that wonderful highlighted leg Roberts achieved in SA Gallery’s Axeman! My despair put me in a funk.
Bill and I bought paints, fine paper blocks, had water carried in old vegemite jars, travelled far and near. His sisters even paid for him to attend classes, and I think there was a set of the finest Derwent pencils included in the present. I am not sure if he ever went to those classes, but we made up for any lapse with earnest discussions around the evening campfires.
We took two days facing some fine looking sandhills, east of Coober Pedy. We sat beside the Murray River, in the open woodland. Our appreciation of the subtle play of colours, the way the grass played against a wetland display often held our gaze, we knew the theory, just the odium settling as the pallets are cleaned-off yet again.
There have been a few finished paintings that we individually take comfort from. Bill produced a masterpiece at a Flinders Ranges waterhole, my seaside landscape, from Mundoo Island was also appreciated. But for twenty years, not much outcome to cover the walls!
We drank deeply of honeyed coffee, sought stoutish inspiration of an evening, even occasional weed consumed to mellow the inhibitions, to inspire. But artistic outcome continued to allude.
One late afternoon, camping on a bush block on the upper Yarra, near Heidelberg, something changed. I remember there was a sunset, flecking through the young saplings, orangey-yellow hues, as a pipe smoking bloke approached our fire. A huge bushy moustache dominated a youngish face, a red kerchief wrapped perfunctorily around his neck, knee length boots, calico breaches, paint-spattered shirt, a knapsack over his shoulder. “You fellas here for the school?” he queried. I said we were, and he suggested we come down to the river early in the morning to meet the others. We said we would, as he passed on by.
We made our way through the trees towards the river. There was a light mist in the valley, a fire’s smoke competed for attention, a billy of tea sat off the flames. A gent broke from the assembled group and proffered pannikins of tea and we wandered over. Was it a dress-rehearsal, a fancy dress, it seemed that we were in some sort of a time warp – all were smoking pipes, hairy-faced, dressed as the chap from last night, someone, introduced as Tom was talking of his recent years spent in Paris, the new Impressionist Movement gaining a following, Tom’s shipboard companion, enroute to Tahiti, Paul someone, a key devotee.