Bill Remembered - Terence
Clarke AM
I KNOW VERY LITTLE OF BILL'S COUNTRY
CHILDHOOD, but it prepared him for life in the
most enviable way; it gave him a wonderful
sense of himself, an adamantine integrity. And
perhaps the Australian countryside itself -
its rhythms and seasons, the closeness to
nature, the gentle toughness - provided one of
the major themes of his life, not least of his
art.
On leaving school in 1942 and not yet 18, he
enlisted in the Navy; he served his country in
destroyers in the Pacific. On discharge in
1946, he studied painting at East Sydney
Technical College and the Julian Ashton Art
School. He began his career as a painter in
figurative work and cityscapes, and then in
formal still-lifes. This was, by a progression
- his paintings becoming less formal, the
flowers less exotic - to lead him to his true
metier. His paintings of Australian native
plants, often in bushland or surprisingly
surreal settings, have been acclaimed both by
critics for their artistry and by botanists
for their accuracy. He is represented in the
National Gallery. in regional collections in
New South Wales and Queensland, and in private
collections in Great Britain, the USA, Europe,
and as far a field as Ethiopia. In the last
few years of his life he taught himself screen
printing, and began a series of wonderfully
detailed prints. Towards the end, ill-health
(which he typically made light of)
increasingly slowed him down. He is reckoned
as fine a painter of Australian flora as we
have produced. Had he been more ambitious he
might have gone much further; but that was not
his way, not his life.
That brief history is easily given; but how
can I present the essence of the man? Bill had
many qualities. He was self-effacing, as only
the self-sufficient are. In his attitude to
life he was one of the most fearless and
capable people I have ever met. If something
had to be done, who better to do it than he? A
friend cannot afford furniture for his new
house? Buy the tools and wood, design the
plans, and help him make it; and, for good
measure, carve an intricate linenfold pattern.
A new coat is too expensive? Buy a
sewing-machine, borrow a book on tailoring
from the library, and there is your new coat,
and trousers too. He could turn his hand with
equal facility, with the same quiet
confidence, to carpentry (he substantially
assisted in the alterations and extensions to
the Church Point house), paperhanging,
crochet, house-painting, paper-making, pest
control, gardening, tennis, cooking, car
maintenance. . . To each task he brought a
painstaking thoroughness and a zestful
enjoyment that ensured the results were
excellent, the task worthwhile. He was
contented and fulfilled.
Bill was something of a Bohemian, both in his
way of life and, more profoundly, in his lack
of interest in worldly success and mindless
conformity. Although not an intellectual, he
pursued ideas intuitively; thus, to produce a
series of circus paintings, he joined a
travelling tent-show for a year. In the second
half of his life, he tended to be reclusive;
he was, nevertheless, a concerned citizen, and
was engaged by the issues of our times, though
he come to repose less faith in political
parties and in institutions generally than
once he had done.
I shall remember him most, perhaps, for the
qualities he brought to friendship; he took friendship seriously,
was indeed a passionate and loyal friend,
which may seem ironical in one so
self-sufficient. Peaceable; sweet and amiable;
kind; serious, yet with a twinkling sense of
fun; calm; understanding; always wanting to
know what you had been up to, how it was with
you - he was one of the few people whose
company I always welcomed. Bill and Trevor
Andersen lived together for 23 years; Bill's
love, devotion and support were an example to
anyone fortunate enough to bask in their
reflected glow.
Do I seem to be describing a saint, someone
larger than life?
He was wonderfully life-size, with an appetite
for life that makes most of us seem dainty
eaters; he was surely in touch with the
wellsprings of existence. And as to sainthood:
well, we are all called to be saints.
I have images of Bill: thoughtful at his
easel; playing the recorder; sitting after
dinner listening to music (one of his great
loves) while he crocheted; Bill in the garden,
talking to the plants, perhaps discovering
something new; Bill feeding the cats; Bill in
the kitchen with a glass of wine, laughing as
he prepared a meal (and always a delicious
meal). And I realise that what I treasure most
in Bill is simply this: his goodness. He was a
good man. I have not known many.
