l l a W y m n o s e r The Pictu By Elaine Lutton
in
T
he entrance to my home is slightly unusual, visitors are received via what used to be the garage but now that I no longer own a car, has been converted into my Berage, with a smart vinyl floor and two large trundle beds. It provides seating and sleeping accommodation for four or more in what otherwise would have been wasted space! Pull back a door and you can then enter my living room. The first thing you see is an original painting done by the local artist Dave Boucher. The painting itself, originally done in black and white, is of a small figure scurrying along what appears to be a platform of sorts, perhaps a station platform. Why the hurry? Is the child, for the figure appears to be a child, going to miss the last train home, or is there a more ominous reason for his haste? One cannot be sure but certainly, a feeling of fear emanates from the picture. The unease is only increased by the distorted, elongated shadow behind the figure. The light, perhaps a gaslight, has just touched the shoulders of the child, no more, just enough to cause the following shadow. The platform provides added interest; I am told it was originally painted white but because it was hung for quite a while on the walls of the artist, the light got to it and the platform has become a dull greenish colour which adds to the sense of menace. The painting is not the most “comfortable” picture on my walls but despite the artist once saying he disliked his work being described as “interesting”, with apologies, I find it to be so and find myself looking at it often. Perhaps you will be pleased to discover that not all my pictures are as difficult as “Shadows”. I have a variety, all of which mean something personal to me, most, but not all,
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my favourite black and white. On the right wall of my sitting room are two black and white prints. The first is by one, Henry Voss dated 1978 entitled Sileby, Leicestershire. Sileby was the village where my mother grew up, not your pretty thatched cottage village, but an industrial brick and stone village. Two boot and shoe factories, one belonging to my grandfather, and a Brewery! The latter added a delicious aroma to the air which was much appreciated by everyone. There was a brook running through the village but this resembled an open drain rather than something more rustic. Its greatest claim to fame was the village school where your scribe learned to read and write. (Love of Literacy.) I will not hear others quibble that the medieval church of St Mary's or even The Duke of York pub, notorious for Friday night fights, both of which can be seen in my picture of the High Street, are of more importance. Next to it is a print of a Queenslander home in Fuller Street, Lutwyche, done by someone called E.G. Twist. This was chosen by my husband because it was close to his home in Crowther Street, Windsor. He had walked past and admired the dwelling with its shady verandahs and corrugated iron roof many times when a boy. On an opposite wall are some small black and white prints, again with black frames, done by W.D. Bryce, with which many of you will be familiar. One is of what is always referred to in our family as The Rickety Bridge and the other is the old Bongaree Wreck. I remember riding my bike over the timber bridge, bumpety-bump when I first arrived at Bribie. The story goes that it collapsed under the weight of two buses meeting but you will have to consult Barry Clark, who is a regular
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contributor to this magazine on the History of Bribie, as to the veracity of this tale. I clearly remember the tree growing beside the bridge and over the creek from the branches of which the children of the '70s would swing before dropping into the water. The second print holds even more memories. The Old Wreck at Bongaree (The Cormorant) was meant to be a breakwater to prevent sand from being washed away. Unfortunately, it drifted out of control when they were attempting to put it in place and it was decided to leave it where it obviously wanted to be, in front of the Amateur Fishing Association Cottage. There it provided an opportunity for all kinds of nefarious activities for the local youth, cigarettes of various varieties were smoked, fires lit, my son's first very experimental kiss with a girl called Lucy, he twelve years, she ten, which was unfortunately witnessed by my son's older friend who was staying with us. When David began the inevitable teasing that evening, Simon grabbed the first thing to hand, his sister's hairbrush and threw it at his tormentor with unerring accuracy, breaking his friend's front tooth clean in half. After consultation with David's mother and a visit to his dentist, the broken tooth was mended and is still in place and pearly white after forty-odd years; even if the tooth was broken the friendship between the boys never has been. In later years they were each other's best man at their respective weddings. And now there is a newcomer in my collection of artworks, one that has already won a place in my heart. Amongst the gifts I received for my birthday is a large print on canvas of a handsome Kookaburra, waiting to be hung but looking proud and pleased, as well he might, to be joining such an auspicious group of wellloved pictures.
