Suzanne Falkiner, 1996
At four in the afternoon the wind is soughing weirdly past the cairn of rocks; the sun is still high enough to have bleached the colour out of the landscape, and there is nothing surrounding us but space and light. On one side of the cairn is a man with an easel; on the other a tall man with a limp, wearing an old felt hat with a fly veil, is wielding a camera. Behind us, the desert stretches away to infinity, an endless mauve-brown under a pale sky. On one side, where the rise falls away most steeply, there is a zigzagging line of creek bed and a low, worn-down range between us and the horizon. Everywhere below, the surface of the world is covered with sharp gibbers and flints. The only other signs of life are some big black bull ants and little black bush flies. The cairn is now shrunk by some two feet since it was built, from stones falling away, and is shaped more like a human breast than a pyramid or cone. Nature abhors a too strict geometry. Time slows down. Apart from the wind there is total silence. There is no birdsong. There is no inland sea.
It was one of those invitations you say yes to without thinking about it much first. It was only when I was driving out of Sydney, heading for the Stony Desert region of north western New South Wales with three people I barely knew, that I began to wonder what I had got myself into. There was photographer Robert Walker, painter Tim Storrier, and me in the first vehicle, followed by artist and print maker Max Miller in a second landrover. Walker had planned the expedition because Storrier hadn’t painted anything new for some time, and Walker thought a trip might get him past the block. They wanted someone who wrote to go with them, said Walker. Something might come out of it. Or might not.
The first phone call was followed by several others changing the departure dates, either due to Storrier’s indecision or complicated schedule of commitments, until the time available to make the trip before winter set in seemed impossibly short. Then it rained, and sheets of floodwater cut the dirt road north of Broken Hill. The expedition was postponed indefinitely, if not cancelled. Then, many months later, another phone call, and suddenly it was on again.
I had only met Storrier once of twice, peripherally, but his reputation preceded him. A friend who had been at school with him told me that in those days he was notorious for ignoring the teachers while filling in his time by drawing fastidiously detailed copies of heroic comic book figures. Soon after, in 1968, he famously won the Sulman Prize at the precocious age of nineteen. He was still prone to the theatrical gesture in the early 70s: one gallery catalogue included a photo of Tim on horseback in Egypt, in front of ‘the pyramids, carrying a colourful banner. He lurked on the edge of the social crowd more than some painters thought he should. The seductive colours, the unabashed Romanticism and the symbolist tendencies in his work, even his sartorial elegance, caused some critics to relegate him to the Charm School, others accused him of ‘a certain soullessness. His paintings were attractive, accessible to an unfashionable degree, and popular at the Big End of town. This theatricality, this proficiency – and not least this ability to make money out of his painting both here and overseas – had earned him enemies. He was not known to suffer fools gladly. He also possessed a quick tongue which, sometimes in combination with periods of high alcohol consumption, had led to a reputation for spectacular rudeness when it suited him. It was noted that the often-dreamlike landscapes of his paintings were always people-less.
My interest in Storrier’s work stemmed partly from the fact that his emblematic images – from the early, isolated dwellings and deserted campsites to the later constructions and horizons of burning ropes; from the burdened stockman’s saddles, flayed carcasses, turps bottles – were all linked in some way to European man’s experience of the arid inland Australian terrain. Storrier, to me, was developing a painterly language of symbols to express this dialogue as important as those of any of his predecessors, such as Drysdale and Nolan. The highly controlled technique, the apparent inability or lack of desire to paint a picture that was not aesthetically pleasing, was a counterpoint to rather than a negation of a strong emotional content. Almost palpable in some of the more desolate images, also, was an aching fear – common in many bush children who are sent to boarding school- of abandonment.
The planning lunch is at a fashionable Italian restaurant in Paddington, where several of Storrier’s paintings grace the walls. Those present are Robert Walker, Max Miller, who reveals himself as a long, skinny drink-of-water with a smile like a two year old child, an advertising man, one or two others, and me. Storrier is telling a story against himself about collecting ‘found objects’ from a rural rubbish tip and coming back with a dunny-cleaning brush – ‘Must be Henry Lawson’s dunny-cleaning brush,’ the locals in the pub told him with some hilarity-and all the while under Storrier’s rapidly moving fingers the brush is appearing on a scrap of paper-, a small, perfect still life without a superfluous line. I watch the tiny drawing as it passes around the table. At some point it disappears into the pocket of the advertising man. Storrier appears or affects not to notice.
The lunch is lengthy and relaxed. The first part is taken up with discussing equipment. Miller, the only real bushie among us, seems a bit put off by the elaborateness of the arrangements and carefully maintains the option of remaining independent. Later the conversation gets onto the subject of World War I-Vintage guns-an area of interest of Storrier’s – and I begin to feel as if I am at a table of boy scouts planing their next camp fire. Well, as a child I always wanted to be allowed to play with the big boys, I reflect. Storrier is eclectically well read, a raconteur, a source of sometimes obscure knowledge about this and that. He has an edgy charm. He later tells me he learnt to use his sharp tongue as a way of keeping at a distance as an undersized schoolboy in the playground. I realise this will be a camping expedition unlike most others when Storrier gives me a list of the provisions I am to contribute: two uncut flitches of pancetta and a Stilton cheese. The restaurant owner comes over to the table in time to hear the conversation, disappears into the kitchen and comes back with the pancetta and plonks it on the table. One problem solved.
Storrier and Walker arrive to pick me up in four-wheel drive, air-conditioned and equipped with a CD player, that looks as if it has been packed by standing a dozen feet away and generally aiming things at it. On top of the pile, among a selection of hats, is a red fez. At least we won’t lose him in the desert. It occurs to me that it would take a fairly humourless critic not to detect an element of self-satirisation in the theatrical gestures. I have two sausage bags, one packed entirely with extra blankets: I remember those cold autumn bush nights from my childhood. We have a clear run through to Orange, where we stop to look at a twenty acre property that Storrier is thinking of buying – a maze of garden, trees and big corrugated iron machinery sheds. The sheds, as big as small aeroplane hangars, are what seem to interest Storrier most.
He likes a big studio, remarks Walker, as we walk around. The house itself is a world of its own: a phantasmagoria of patterned wallpapers, patterned tiles and a plethora of romantic porcelain figurines on every surface, all static and pristine in small, piled together rooms endlessly worked over as if by some manic do-it-yourselfer. There are all sorts of ways of fencing out the bush. We spend the first night at my brother’s property outside Warren, where I borrow a swag. The men sleep in the jackaroos’ quarters; being a relative I score a bed in the house. The next day we head directly west. We lose Max at Nyngan, find him again at Bourke, then drive straight on into the sunset towards Tibooburra. The country is so dry that the kangaroos do not forage in mobs, but stand immobile, singly or in pairs, to stare at our plumes of white dust as we pass. The wind is ever-present. There is not a lot you can write about this country. The hypnotic spaces take the words away. When the sun finally drops below the horizon, the headlights light up the dust from the other Landrover quite eerily, turning it to a column of mauve.
Tibooburra, 337 km north of Broken Hill, is a doglegged main street with a couple of small tin buildings with wooden-pillared canopies labelled CWA Hall and Trades Hall, and a general store and two pubs. There is a slightly eccentric shop that sells petrified wood and old bottle and five kinds of postcards. The general store sells two more kinds, and the pub sells three, but these have Clifton Pugh reproductions on them. Tibooburra is no stranger to artists. The Family Hotel, where we stay the second night, has murals by Clifton Pugh and Drysdale, among others. A low stone building with numerous doors, it is run by Pugh’s widow Marleene, a friendly woman with a wind-weathered face. She cooks and waits on six tables in the dining room and cleans all the rooms single-handed. Ray, her partner, is characterised by long skinny legs encased in tight jeans, a long grey beard and a black dog. Kev, who blew in from Western Australia ten years ago and stayed, is behind the counter. Stock Drysdale characters sit at the two bars. One is ‘Duck’, who fixes vehicles and, reputedly, has a few other lurks as well. Miller has been here before-in fact there’s an instantly recognisable sketch of him on one of the walls. Miller’s got a flat tyre, so Duck is pretty happy to see him, says Kev. When he discovers he’s got a flat battery too, Duck’s smile grows twice as wide.
Surrounding Tibooburra is ‘jump up’ country; flat topped mesas rise up to 150 metres above the plain. To the west, the red gibbers are replaced by the sand hills of the Strzelecki desert. The Wankumara people travelled widely through this area, relying on seasonal waterholes and permanent soaks. 140 kms north west of Tibooburra, reputedly the hottest town in NSW, is Cameron Comer, where the dog fence passes and the borders of the three states meet. Just below it is Fort Grey, where Sturt’s party built a stockade to protect their supplies and fence in their sheep.
On the third day we go out to look at some country. First the tourist circuit: Milparinka pub, with court house and stone cells and a couple of old stone buildings which are the only remains of the old goldmining town. Sturt’s Depot Creek, Poole’s grave and then Mount Poole and Sturt’s Cairn. Then we drive up to Olive Downs in the National Park: more singular kangaroos and emus standing round in a bare landscape. Max finds a ridge he likes the look of. We go back to the pub for a dinner of roast pork, cooked by Marleene, and an early night.
Day Four: Max Miller likes to keep his options open, not out of arrogance, but so there is always the possibility of escape. It takes two days before he is decides I am not as much of a worry as he first thought. Eventually, he even lets me into his rattletrap Landrover. On this trip, Miller is interested in colour and texture and Storrier is interested in things he can draw. Miller likes the idea of camping on the creek (shady, comfortable, water nearby) among the trees; Storrier wants a bare landscape (which comes with wind and, possibly, gibbers under the swags). There is some delicate negotiating going on. Storrier does not go in for consensus or social niceties. When he has had enough or seen enough he turns around and walks away and the rest of us can follow or not, as we please. Walker says everything will be fine with him as long as Storrier does not go into a sulk.
The plan is to go back to camp out at Poole’s grave, but somewhere in the process of Miller staying behind to get the flat tyre and the flat battery fixed we lose him and he decides to go back to camp near his ridge at Olive Downs. Storrier seems interested in Poole’s grave and sets up his easel. Poole, one of the explorer Charles Sturt’s party, is buried under a grevillea that has his initials and the date carved in the trunk. Storrier starts a sketch in oils on a board, a fairly naturalistic landscape with the tree, but his proficiency gets in the way and he disgusts himself. ‘Looks like something from the Sunday afternoon painting group,’ he says. ‘Someone should tie his right hand down and make him draw with his left,’ mutters Walker morosely. Walker lurks about taking photographs in the scrub, so I go for a walk by myself along the creek bed and discover a goat’s skull. Storrier’s only other statement for the rest of the afternoon has been: ‘You can’t make a new fucking statement about a tree.’ I spend the rest of the daylight hours putting together a pile of firewood, amid the sticky black flies, in preparation for the night.
We cook something that could feasibly be called steak casserole with pancetta, then drink five bottles of red wine. Full moon. The sky is navy-blue, endless, full of stars, the way it only can be away from the pollution and light of the cities. Everyone is in a good mood, we tell yarns, drink too much. The night is cold, but I sleep well right until about seven o clock, when the red dawn appears above the low scrub. I make a mental note to shift my swag about fifty feet away on the other side of the campfire for tomorrow night. Two men snoring in unison is enough.
After fried eggs for breakfast we go back to the Milparinka pub to make some phone calls and by then it is lunch time. So we rest through the hot part of the day and at about 3.30 decide to go back out to Mount Poole. It takes 20 minutes or half an hour to reach the top, but it seems much longer and hotter than yesterday. I carry a bottle of water and a note book, Walker carries his photography bag and the self-sufficient Storrier is laden with his collapsible easel, boards and a canvas bag of paints. I have to persuade him to let me carry the spare boards. A long walk up a track with the gibbers shifting underfoot, flaky flints and black rock. Walker, older than the rest of us, has the hardest time of it, laden down with the heavy cameras.
The cairn was built on Mount Poole by the men of Charles Sturt’s Central Australian expedition during their drought-enforced six-month stay at Depot Glen, near the 29th latitude, between January and July 1845. Sturt was unaware that he and his men, with their oxcarts and flock of sheep, were marching into the one of the hottest summers ever recorded: the temperature rose to 132 degrees in the shade and over 150 degrees in the sun. The explorer recorded that he found it almost impossible to write his diary, the ink dried before the pen touched the paper, and the leads dropped out of his pencils. During this period Poole, his Second-in-Command, died of scurvy.
‘To give the men occupation and keep them healthy I employed them in erecting a pyramid of stones …. It is 21 feet at the base and 18 feet high’, wrote Sturt, ‘I little thought when I was engaged in that work that I was erecting Mr Poole’s monument but so it was. That rude structure looks over his lonely grave and will stand for ages as a record of all we suffered in the dreary region to which we were so long confined.’
From the top, there is little to be seen in any direction. Haze, endless horizon, pale milk-coffee, pale mauve, pale pink plains-talcum powder colours. The cairn has been built around a pole, which now protrudes slightly at the top. The country looks unchanging but in fact this is misleading: it is easy to lose sight of your companions in the shallow depressions. Storrier does a quick ‘plein air’ oil sketch as a memorandum and we start down in time to finish the descent before dark. When we had first set up camp he had done a quick colour memorandum sketch of the country we had left behind. When I comment on the accuracy of his memory for precise gradations of colour he looks surprised, as if I’ve stated the obvious. After a moment he says, ‘But that’s what I do.’
Last night seemed much colder than the one before, every time I turned over the cold air flooded into my swag and woke me up. Only one blanket would be needed, Miller informed me, round this time of year. I have three blankets plus the wind-proof canvas swag and I still end up pulling the canvas flap over my head. Wake to a cold clear morning; the joy of watching Walker build up the camp fire and bring me a tin pannikin of hot tea. Walker always somehow manages to emerge from his swag looking well-groomed; his hair instantly combed and a bandanna knotted round his neck. Always the old-fashioned gentleman; he opens the door of the Landrover for me.
On the fifth day we break camp. It seems that a sudden decision has been made to cut out for Broken Hill and head home. Max has been into the Tibooburra pub the night before and stayed til eleven, in case we came in, then left a message for us. Now we leave one for him. We stop at Broken Hill for lunch and linger over the weekend papers then head for Cobar to stay the night. We pass through Wilcannia to pick up petrol: ‘They’ll try to take your car of you if you stop there’, the waitress tells us sourly in the Broken Hill Ice Cream parlour. It seems there is little warm feeling between the towns. Storrier keeps himself stoked up for the long journey with cans of coca cola and frequent forays into junk food. Driving, he occasionally pulls out a little automatic-focus camera and, without stopping, makes visual notes of the scenery, steering with one hand.
Storrier’s modus operandi seems to be to pick up a germ of an idea from something seen almost at a sideways glance; the amount of time spent pursuing it is irrelevant either it will come to fruition in the studio or not, as the case may be. The paintings done outside the studio are obviously not intended as finished works; if anything they are a way of observing, a working-through the process of seeing, so that the experience may be later developed by the imagination, usually in a series of linked explorations of the theme. Everything he does grows out of what has come before. Many of these stages of transformation, these steps in the process of solving problems are-unlike the experiments of some artists- discarded or painted over. ‘Whether I’m painting a bottle or a sunset, it has more to do with mood, memory and the distillation of time than with realism’, he has noted elsewhere in a catalogue note.
To me this whole jaunt has been either totally disorganised, or relaxed, depending on your point of view. Plans change from minute to the next. It doesn’t worry me; my only role here is to be an observer. ‘Have you got anything out of the trip, do you think? I ask Stonier at some point on the way back. ‘Yes,’ he says. Again he looks surprised at the question. Walker would have liked to camp a bit longer, for the sheer pleasure of it, I think.
The sudden decision to come home, Walker tells me disgustedly on the telephone a few days later, was because one of the phone calls home from the Milparinka pub relayed the message that Storrier had been invited to an important dinner party by Edmund Capon, Director of the NSW Art Gallery, where Storrier is a trustee.
Over 18 months later, as Storrier’s next Sydney exhibition approaches, I drive up to Bathurst where Storrier and his wife Jane are now living. The house is a sprawling 1880s brick homestead-style building with dark panelling, wrought iron exterior decorations, an old garden. The studio is in the old ballroom, added in the 1920s. The paintings accumulated towards the new exhibition are stacked around the walls of the formal dining room, where Jane’s two friendly dogs have recently, and as yet unnoticed by anyone, disgraced themselves. The move out of the city has been, Storrier says, emblematic of his position in relation to the Sydney art world; a moving closer to the roots of his current, avowedly unfashionable, preoccupations. These are closer to the past than to modemist theory. It is logical at this stage of his life, he says, to get away from the pressures of what he sees as the sometimes hostile and over-intellectualised aridity of the art scene. Today at least he seems serene.
The paintings stacked around the walls are mainly large, richly-hued nocturnes and starscapes. Night fires bum with a layered intensity. From the Tibooburra trip, the most immediate discernible addition to his symbolic vocabulary is the evocative image of isolated headlights on a bush road, filtered by dust and dusk, adding yet another challenge to the problems of painting mirages and the illusions of light. He is progressing into the unfashionable and potentially treacherous area of sunsets; a subject that can skirt perilously close to sentimentality.
In the studio he has begun a small painting on a new, yet related theme-memories of Hart Crane’s death by suicide; Crane jumped from the back of a ship in the Carribean on the eve of his wedding. In the course of the pre-dinner conversation the painting transforms itself several times as Storrier works through the technical difficulties of portraying light shining through water and the transition from the sky to the green of the sub-submarine world. Green is an uncharacteristic colour for Storrier, as Brett Whitely once memorably pointed out. Then there are the problems of portraying objects underwater. Yet, inevitably, the painting represents an evolution of the same elements present in previous works, the same counterbalancing of horizons of light. ‘If you know what you’re doing you’re repeating yourself, he has commented elsewhere, more than once. Nothing may come of it, Stonier says now. Repeatedly, he gets up from his place beside the blazing log fire and the dozing dogs and walks swiftly back to the easel to have another go at it.