Searching for Sofia, page 38
‘Astonishing, isn’t it?’ Treloar said, proudly. ‘Not like those ancient paintings that make battles appear glorious, with soldiers in fabulous uniforms, seated upright and steady, their horses rearing in advance of the charge, flags held high. It was as if they believed that war was the culmination of human achievement––the most glorious state of man. In this, Lambert certainly strips away all notions of glory! He’s captured the magnitude of the slaughter, the struggle of the men, perfectly.’
‘Yes, John. He has,’ Jack marvelled, as his own recollections of the battlefield were enlivened. The chaotic advances with panicked voices screeching orders that could barely be heard, the thunderous explosion of bombs landing just yards away, and the injured bodies that fell to the ground, sometimes with a surprised shout or cry; other times with a lifeless thud.
‘Did you know Lambert, Jack?’ Treloar asked.
Jack didn’t.
‘He died––oh, at least a dozen years ago. A real character, never so happy as when he was gadding about, surrounded by people, swigging wine and telling stories. And, I have to say, he drove me mad! Would deliver nothing on time—just made endless promises! The hours I spent cajoling him, trying to prompt him to finish a painting by offering further commissions, etcetera. It was pointless being annoyed with him; I wanted his paintings too much, and he knew it. And when he finally delivered a work... well, you can see the result for yourself. I waited eight years for this one. He must have shown it to me a dozen times, but it was never quite finished, he’d tell me. I just had to wait.’
‘It’s amazing! Well worth the wait!’
‘You wouldn’t know that he’d never been to Gallipoli.’
For all his earlier surprise at the panting, Jack found this utterly unbelievable. 'No! Really?'
‘Yes, it’s a fact. Never saw a battlefield. George painted these from photographs. They help when it comes to the little details, of course. However, its far better to have artists who have first-hand experience of the subjects they paint. That is why I commissioned you, Jack. When paintings are contrived from photographs and artefacts, they may be technically accurate, but very few can capture the essence of the battlefield. That’s what made Lambert so special. He had a knack for getting it right.’
* * *
As Jack left the barracks, he decided to pay a visit that was long overdue. After driving over the bridge into the city, he pulled up outside the familiar office building on Collins Street. Sunday and John Reed had been on Jack’s mind of late. It had been almost four years since he’d seen them, and despite his promises to write, he’d sent nothing beyond a postcard from Alexandria when he’d first arrived in the Middle East, followed by a hastily scribbled message on the back of one of his own sketches that he’d sent from Cairo one afternoon where he’d described the wonder of the pyramids. The Reeds had been very good to him, and he owed them a visit.
John’s door was closed, and the room was quiet, but Jack could see the silhouette of a figure working at the desk through the frosted glass, and he took a chance on surprising him. He rapped on the door sharply, and without waiting for a reply, turned the handle and entered.
‘Is this the office of Mr John Reed?’ he asked, adopting a posh formal tone.
John looked up in surprise, then grinned and bounced out of his seat, vigorously shaking Jack’s hand whilst simultaneously patting his shoulder.
‘Jack! I don’t believe it. Good to see you! Mind you, you’ve lost a bit of weight, don’t you think? I barely recognised you!’ John’s enthusiastic greeting warmed Jack, and it felt good to be in his company again. ‘Sunday will be thrilled to know you're here. You must come out. We have so much to catch up on. Damn this war. Who would have thought it would last so long? Are you painting?’
John’s questions tumbled over each other, and Jack laughed.
‘How is Sunday, John? I would love to see her.’
‘You must. She’d love to see you, too, mark my words. I can’t tell you how many times Sunday has said, "I wonder where Jack has got to," since you left! Wait until I tell her that you walked into my office today, large as life. She’ll be amazed. Come tomorrow? Scones! Make it early! How about for afternoon tea and then stay on for dinner? We’ve got so much to catch up on.’
‘I’d love to, John. It will be wonderful to see Heide again!’
Chapter 40
Heide was even more beautiful than when Jack had seen it last, with the trees he’d helped John plant five years earlier now tall and sturdy and the garden beds a vivid display of blues, mauves and violets.
The house was full of visitors, just as it had been on most weekends before the war. Joy Hester and Albert Tucker were there, and they greeted Jack affectionately, sharing their news confirming that which was patently obvious––Joy was in an advanced state of pregnancy. She and Tucker had married two years earlier, and the baby had been a surprise to them. Jack was amazed on both counts. He remembered how they’d argued against the notion of marriage, believing it to be an outdated institution. And Joy had always claimed that she deplored children and insisted that she’d never have any. He supposed that war changed a lot about people.
Notwithstanding her pregnancy, it was as if the same hormones that were nurturing the baby in Joy’s womb had simultaneously nurtured her artistic output, and she enthusiastically showed him a series of her latest paintings. The works were bold line drawings—full-figured nudes—and Jack wondered if Joy’s foray into the curvaceous female figures stemmed from her own pregnant state.
Three paintings framed and hanging on the wall caught Jack’s attention, and he could see that the Ned Kelly theme that Sidney and Sunday had toyed with prior to his enlistment had been developed.
‘They are wonderful, aren’t they, Jack? Not finished yet. Sid and I have got a few more ideas for them. The army has him, unfortunately, though thankfully he’s stationed here in Victoria––out west in Dimboola, guarding government stores or something. It’s not too bad. At least he’s out of harm’s way and he can still paint.’
‘Is he working as a war artist?’ It surprised Jack to think that, like himself, Sidney might work for Treloar.
‘No, unfortunately. Or perhaps fortunately! Depends on how you look at it, I suppose.’
Jack was not sure what Sunday meant, and she explained, ‘When Sidney applied for a commission as a war artist, he was told his work was too modern! However, given that most of the war artists were sent to the front lines, we are really quite thankful that Sidney’s tucked away in the wheat fields. He’s got a studio and everything, so––all things considered––it’s not so bad. John and I miss him terribly though, don’t we, John?’
‘And Elizabeth... how is she taking it?’ Jack asked.
John looked down at the floor as Sunday replied. Her answer saddened Jack.
‘Oh, that didn’t last. She and Sid married, but Elizabeth couldn’t cope with an artist husband. You know, the financial difficulties, the uncertainty of it all. Her parents put a lot of pressure on Sid, to get “a real job”, especially after the baby was born. In the end, he and Elizabeth called it quits. That was when Sidney moved in here. It was for the best, really.’
‘A baby? They had a child?’
‘Yes... Amelda. A sweet little thing. Sid sees her from time to time. It’s a shame that Elizabeth was so clingy and demanding. They might have made a go of it had she been more understanding.’
Sunday’s response, her focus on Elizabeth’s shortcomings rather than acknowledging the obsessive relationship that had developed between herself and Nolan, reminded Jack of Sunday’s inclination to see the world in simple terms that conformed to her own perspective of reality.
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘I really liked Elizabeth. I hoped that things would have worked out better for her and Sidney.’
‘How’s Margaret?... I haven’t seen her in months. Sometimes she pops into the office with Cynthia. They get along quite well, those two. I think that Margaret is good for Cynthia. Terrible news about Virginia, wasn’t it?’
‘Dreadful. You just don’t expect these things to happen.’
Jack pondered the story Margaret had shared with him, only a few weeks ago. Old news, that had occurred when he’d been somewhere between Tobruk and Greece, and so although the papers had been full of it, Jack had been otherwise occupied. Her cousin, Virginia had died the previous March, she’d told him. Shockingly, by suicide– Virginia had filled her pockets with stones and walked into the river behind the house that she and Leonard lived in. Margaret had been sad, although with a year to reflect on Virginia’s actions, she’d concluded that perhaps it wasn’t so surprising after all. Margaret explained that Ginnie always had demons, and she’d suffered a number of breakdowns since she was a young teenager.
For all of Margaret’s acceptance of the tragedy, Jack had been shocked, as memories of the fragile woman with flickering eyes and a haunted expression that he’d met at the Bell’s home, Charleston, returned to him. He was overcome with the thought that some people seemed to live their whole lives at war with an enemy within, from whom they could never escape, and sometimes that enemy defeated them.
* * *
There was a new member of the Heide Circle, Jack noted. A young man from South Australia called Max, barely twenty, who shared the Reeds’ love for poetry as well as their passion for modernism. Jack listened to him rant about the rising influence of a South Australian movement of anti-modernists, the Jindyworobaks, and how he’d created his own magazine in order to oppose them. Titled Angry Penguins, Max’s magazine focused on modern poetry, literature and art, and had proved popular in South Australia. Encouraged by its success, Max had since expanded the magazine to Melbourne where the Reeds had been excited to offer their support, and John had agreed to accept the role of co-editor. Jack could see that the Reeds were ecstatic with this new project, confident that Australia’s modern art movement had turned a corner and was finally gaining recognition. He mused there was no doubt about John and Sunday: they really poured their hearts and souls into the causes they believed in!
Later, Max cornered Jack and set about berating the Jindyworobaks for promoting their narrow nationalistic view of art and literature. Whilst there were aspects of Max’s views that were interesting, Jack wished that both the traditionalists and modernists would learn to live with each other. What did it matter whether literature or art was traditional or modern; realistic or surreal; abstract or expressionist? Increasingly, he believed there were elements of genius and mediocrity in both. He knew there were paintings that people might love, and others that they’d hate. Some people chose a painting for its looks and colours, some for the memories that a scene evoked. Others liked a painting for the story it told, or for the truth it revealed, or how it moved them. But truly, he found the endless arguments wearisome. He’d lost a wife and child, and he’d stood by men as they’d taken their last breaths fighting for tenuous ideals on battlegrounds far from their homes. Could all of this concern about the words people wrote or what was painted on canvas, really be so important?
Jack enjoyed the afternoon spent at Heide, and the dinner meal was the best that he’d eaten in a long time. After drinking more wine than he had in years, Jack happily accepted Sunday’s offer to stay the night, sleeping on their couch.
The following morning, he woke early to the aroma of bacon sizzling in the pan and the music of laughter ringing from the kitchen. Jack joined John, Albert and Max and accepted a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and toast.
‘Bacon, John! Really?’ Jack laughed.
‘It’s Sunday morning, Jack. My one day of indulgence. Isn’t it heavenly?’
The men chatted over breakfast, and Jack was surprised to learn that Albert too had worked for Treloar for a period, and furthermore he’d been based at Heidelberg—the very same military hospital in which Jack had been a patient—and that Albert had finished his commission just weeks before Jack had been admitted.
‘To think, Jack, I missed the opportunity to paint a masterpiece of you all bandaged up and a heartbeat away from death’s door,’ Albert laughed. ‘It was awful there, though. Not just the physical wounds, terrible as they were. It was the emotional trauma that got to me. I don’t think half enough is being done for some of those poor fellows.’
After they finished the washing up, Jack accompanied John on a walk through the garden and down along the river. Later, Sunday called them to the table under the magnolia tree, where they sat chatting and drinking the coffee she’d prepared. It surprised Jack when Sunday suggested that he might like to return to Heide, live there and continue his painting for the war memorial. He could help in the garden, just as he had before he’d enlisted.
Jack declined. Heide was lovely, but for him, it was part of a past life. He’d forever be thankful to John and Sunday for letting him live there, for the care that they’d provided through the worst year of his life following the death of Scotty and then the loss of Sofia, but it was time to move on.
* * *
Nora had been gone only two weeks when Jack stepped onto the front porch to find a parcel from her. He must have been concentrating so hard on his painting that morning that he hadn’t heard the delivery man. He carried it inside, carefully cut the string and unwrapped the brown paper, revealing a large box.
On opening it, he found two small parcels wrapped in tissue paper. They were the pair of paintings that Nora had promised for his mother for the dining room wall in her new home. She was right, they would be wonderful there, Jack thought, looking at them. One was a small vase of violas; the other, pansies, just as Nora had described. Their colour was marvellous, the detail incredible.
Jack had never painted flowers, a subject he’d dismissed as the domain of female painters. He chuckled as he recalled letting this thought slip one afternoon as he and Nora had strolled through the Fitzroy Gardens. Her sardonic response had been immediate. ‘ I have two words for you, Jack! No, make it three. Van Gogh... Sunflowers!’ Jack had been suitably chastised, for the whole world knew of the extraordinary series of works painted by the Dutch artist. And if that hadn’t been enough, Nora had added, ‘And then, of course, there is Monet, with his Water Lilies; not to mention Klimt with his Flower Garden! Trust me, Jack, there is no shortage of male artists who are famous for their flowers. Soon, you, too, will turn your hand to them, mark my words!’
Studying the paintings, Jack suspected that she may well be better than the lot of them, and he was sure that he could never paint flowers with the mastery that she managed so beautifully.
Besides the paintings, Nora had included a large brown envelope and a letter.
Dear Jack,
I hope that all is going well for you and that Treloar has not bored you to death since I left.
Please give these paintings to your mother, along with my best wishes. I hope that she likes them!
I have also included prints for you, two of them, which I consider the very best of my portraits. Mother-and-child images that I painted before the war. Lastly, I have sent a small watercolour that my father painted for an exhibition back in 1940. He really is very good, don’t you think?
Today is the big day of departure! Later this morning I will fly to Brisbane, and then I will go on to New Guinea to start my adventure. I must go now, but will write again as soon as I have settled and have something newsworthy to share.
Thank you again for your friendship. My time in Melbourne would have been very dull without our chats, walks in the beautiful gardens and the company of your delightful parents.
Yours affectionately,
Nora
Jack looked at the prints that Nora had included. As she’d said, they were portraits of mothers with their children, beautiful in their simplicity. One was a very natural portrayal of a mother sitting on the edge of a field, her naked infant resting on her lap, and simply titled Motherhood. The other shared a similar setting and was titled Dedication. Both portrayed working-class women with their babies in everyday settings. They were the sort of thing he had sketched a hundred times as he’d sat in his cabin watching Sofia nursing their tiny baby, or when he’d captured Scotty leaning against her, sucking his thumb, absorbed in a story she was reading or listening to his night-time lullaby. More than once, Jack had made preliminary sketches that he’d planned to develop into a serious oil painting, but none had been taken to the point of completion. Their little cabin was too small, their lives too busy with the demands of Montsalvat, and there had always been the expectation of time. A “one day” that had never arrived and was now lost to him forever.
Distracting himself from wallowing in unhelpful thoughts, Jack turned to the Hans Heysen painting that Nora had included. It was a watercolour titled White Gums, with the most astonishing blue sky providing a perfect backdrop to a stand of gleaming white smooth-trunked trees. Ghost gums, he suspected. Uniquely Australian, the painting was surely a combination of realism and modernism, with its modern colours and classic subject, Jack thought. And utterly beautiful.
* * *
In the first week of July, a headline in Saturday’s morning newspaper caught Jack’s attention: ‘Poets Use Nonsensical Verse for Great Literary Leg-Pull.’ The article attracted him, not because he enjoyed poetry, despite Sunday’s best efforts to develop his interest when he was living at Heide, but rather because the word ‘hoax’ in the first sentence jumped out at him, intriguing enough for him to start reading. And when the first paragraph had a direct reference to Angry Penguins, the magazine that John and Max Harris were publishing, Jack was even more curious.
As he read, Jack felt concerned for John, for the article was damning in its criticism of the magazine he co-edited. Beyond simply regurgitating the tired old battle between conservatives and traditionalists, this was a scathing personal attack on both John and Max’s professionalism, ridiculing their judgement because they’d succumbed to a hoax whereby they’d not only published nonsensical poetry that was deemed to be lewd and distasteful, but that they’d lauded the poems as the work of a genius.
