To think of Heide is to conjure thoughts of post-war bohemian modernism. A place where mythology and dreams filled an artistic landscape that would endure for decades. John and Sunday Reed acquired the parcel of land in 1934, they named it ‘Heide’ for Heidelberg. They had a strong vision of an honest life that would be fulfilled by supporting creativity in others. John and Sunday commissioned young architect David McGlashan to build Heide II in 1963. Everything was a joint activity with John and Sunday.
In function they envisioned a gallery to be lived in that would be ageless. In form, they desired romance, ruins, and mystery. It was to be a good match, David, John, and Sunday. David was half of a design duo McGlashan Everist, an architectural practice founded in 1955. It still exists today in Drummond Street Carlton. The two Directors are John Lee and Geoff Saunders, they have been there for more than thirty years, so there remains a connectedness that bridges the bounds of time.
McGlashan says ‘they tried to design houses that were without a time scale’. The practice became known for its modular style of building. They often built on steep, sloping sites. Heide II is unique because it is made from Mount Gambier Limestone. This was chosen because it would weather and age gracefully on the outside and stay light and pristine on the inside. It would provide a neutral background for hanging art.
Heide II was designed to be a physical experience of moving ‘through space’, transitioning from the house site to the art and then extending into the garden. McGlashan used techniques of framing to facilitate this experience. He wanted it to look as if it belonged to the landscape, as elegant as a sculpture, and as timeless as a ruin.
Construction was laboured and took far longer than anticipated. The limestone required precision placement and the build became fraught with tension as the builder nearly went bankrupt. He had underquoted substantially on the cost of labour during construction. Finally, Heide II was complete. There were no skirtings or plaster traditionally associated with houses of that time. Terrazzo tiles, timber, glass, and leather door pulls had been utilised to maintain a connectedness with nature. It was a modern masterpiece that fulfilled the essence of the brief.
John and Sunday moved into Heide II just after Easter in 1967. They had been in the Victorian farmhouse on the property for more than thirty years so this was the beginning of a new era for them at Heide. In 1968 McGlashan Everist won the Royal Australian Institute of Architects Award for a residential building of the year. John and Sunday resided at Heide II until the winter of 1980.
Life had become extraordinarily difficult for John and Sunday, around this time and they had suffered some great personal losses, but their love for Heide and one another endured. In 1981 Heide II was to begin a new phase of its life as a public art gallery. John and Sunday spent the last year of their forty-seven years at Heide back in the Victorian farmhouse. They both died there ten days apart in December 1981. They never left Heide, their ashes scattered at the base of a scarred red river gum. In 2015 Heidi II received an Enduring Architecture Award, a triumph for modernist architecture.
A literary reflection of my time working at Heide II – 2015
My office, the former guest bedroom, with desk abutting wall, where the bed once did. Perpetual distraction, a tantalising essence of the incorporeal. Those who had lay in this tiny den, three stone walls, no windows. I place my hand on the limestone, little fragments of dust coming away. I go home, and the day comes with me, smudges of lime, little chalky writings adorn my dress. Another pair of heels ruined on the stone steps. Desire and destruction float in equanimity. The air is cool, and the light is thin, this little box I languor in.
For a taste of Bohemian Modernism -Heidi II McGlashan Everist is open 10 am-5 pm Tuesday to Sunday, 7 Templestowe Road Bulleen 3105 – twenty minutes from Melbourne’s CBD.
It has been said that when a bottle of champagne is sabred correctly it sounds like the sigh of a content woman. Let me show you how to sabre a bottle of champagne. It begins with peeling off the layer of gold foil, slowly and purposefully; for it is delicate. Then releasing the cage around the cork so that the pressure can escape. Carefully untwisting the wire to prevent the cork releasing ahead of time. Running my fingers along the seam on the neck of the bottle. Being confident; placing the sabre on the seam, careful to apply the right amount of pressure and then swiftly sliding along the neck. I don’t want the cork to be unyielding. An inexorable sigh escaping with a sudden burst of satisfaction. The trick is not to be strong and hard but sure and intentional. Go all the way, it is a clean movement.
The history of sabrage is surrounded by myth and mystery. It goes back to the French Revolution of 1789 when Napoleon Bonaparte would sabre champagne using his sword. It is said that he and his soldiers; Hussars, would drink it in both defeat and exaltation. They were able to sabre a bottle with their brass hilted swords whilst on horseback.
Legend has it that they would visit Veuve Clicquot in Reims and be entertained by the widow Barbe-Nicole Clicquot, dining at her vineyard. Madame Clicquot took over the champagne business after her husband died in 1805, when she was twenty-seven years old. The bottle is still representative of her today, veuve being the French word for widow. She was a woman of contradictions, described as a formidable business woman and an entertainer of great frivolity. Historians still claim that because of her “no business in the world has been as much influenced by the female sex as that of champagne”. As the soldiers would depart her vineyard she would gift them a bottle of champagne that they would sabre as they rode off to their next battle.
Champagne sabrage has been kept alive in modernity by companies such as Mumm who have made it a feature of their brand to keep this practise relevant. I was trained by a Mumm representative some years ago now. It is possible for inexperienced hands to cause injury to themselves and others but as you can see when done well it is a seamless performance and makes a welcome addition to any dinner party.
On enduring love. Thirty years ago today I met my love. I am in my forties. He calls me ‘Cosi’, although only occasionally now. It was a childhood name. Reserved for grandparents and parents and my love. It’s very affectionate. Everyone else calls me Nicole, this is the way I prefer it, I don’t like nicknames.
I don’t have strong memories of meeting him. I met many people that day. I recall he was shy and had beautiful eyes. At some point I became curious. And so there was the slow revelation of truths over the coming months. There was no internet at that time. Things were different. A stalker was someone who hid in a tree in your garden not a person at home hunting on their computer for pieces of information that would disqualify or promote someone’s worthiness. How different the genesis of love can be today.
As the months passed I would recall my Grandmothers words ‘ Patience is a virtue. Possess it if you can. Found often in a woman and seldom in a man’. We lived in a narrative of binary beliefs with a total lack of awareness. Everything was uncomplicated. Slowly we migrated from friendship to love. There was never a moment doubt for me. I’ve always known what I want. Such burning desire.
First ten years and then twenty. I was engulphed by breathless adoration. Should all loves be so lucky to have twenty years like this. Life was easy and we knew it. We didn’t sweat the small stuff. We never have. The affection and devotion upon which I regarded my love was intoxicating to those around us. I fielded constant inquiry as to what the secret is. I thought I knew. With unrivalled arrogance I would tell others the secret is ‘not to let the sun go down on an argument’. The ability to forgive. A lesson I learnt from my loves Grandmother. She was married for more than fifty years to a man with a similar temperament and the same moniker as my love.
And so we slid confidently into our third decade. Me, my love and our four children. I can hear the children’s laughter, it fills my heart with joy. The days pass with a satisfying exhaustion that comes from giving everything. The bedtime stories. The silence of them sleeping. The time for us. The closed doors, the fire, the heat, the dry skin, the moistness. I remember everything, like it was yesterday. Time and space recorded in little dioramas for my thoughts to browse.
Do you remember my love? The beginning, we had nothing and everything. Materiality was meaningless. I was a well that could not be emptied. I was young. I don’t want to be patient anymore. I feel a sense of urgency, like time is moving too fast. The world has changed. I have changed. There is only one thing I am certain of, the passion I have for you my love. Tomorrow we begin our fourth decade.
Touch me and you will know what it is to be loved… Just touch me, my love.
The following article was first published by Archiol in March 2021. It is part of a collection of essays on sensory architecture that were produced as a zine.
Architecture can be viewed as a mode of intervention in social reality. Traditionally it is narrated through a lens of function and form. What happens when a sociology writer with a lot of feeling meets a thoughtful architect? Read on if you would like to know…
A few years back I worked at Heide Museum of Modern Art. Each morning I would visit Mirka’s painted glass mural in the sunroom at the Heide farmhouse gallery, the light was diaphanous; gone once the sun reached the top of the world. It was cool at this time of day as the windows faced westerly, the crisp air providing clarity. I would think about what each of the mural symbols meant to me, I knew what they meant to her. Mirka’s art is often regarded through a lens of shared identification and experience, creating a feeling of connectedness. I want to tell her story with honesty; the way she lived.
Mirka Mora was born in Paris to a Lithuanian Jewish father and a Romanian Jewish mother in 1928; she died in 2018. I find myself reflecting on why Mirka was not awarded an Australia Day Honour or Queens Birthday Honour. So great has been the outpouring of grief over her passing. Her life was destined to be extraordinary, although she was born ordinary. She narrowly escaped death in a concentration camp as a teenager. At the age of sixteen, she read Scenes de la Vie de Boheme by Henri Murger; a novel that spawned the famous Opera; La Boheme by Puccini. The story is of a photographer who had traveled across Victoria. That book planted a tiny seed in her heart, and in 1951 she boarded a 305-airplane destined for Melbourne; with her husband Georges and her first-born son Phillipe.
Mirka’s life was laden with loving stories of random acts of silliness, many of them supercharged with sexuality. The time she cut little holes in her dress over her nipples and then cheekily regarded the restaurant patrons’ reactions. On another occasion, she went to the bathroom and returned without the slip under her dress, revealing a beautiful naked body; thinly veiled by fabric. The day she went to the shops with no underwear, and the wind caught her dress. The time she walked out into the ocean fully clothed, hat bopping atop the water. She was brave and made the everyday act of living a celebration.
Mirka’s artwork was inspired by both her new life and her old. An example of this is the lovers featured prominently in her artwork as an intertwined pair. Sometimes her lovers reminded her of a mother and son she saw on the train on the way to the concentration camp Pithiviers. “They always held each other, all the time, then they would walk in the camp holding each other,” said Mirka. This melancholy admission just hung in the air silently. But then, moments later, her joie de vivre can be seen, and she states the lovers can also be her children. “I think of them, think of my children when they were in my arms. I’d give anything now to have them one afternoon, little and just holding them, you don’t know what it is, this tenderness,” said Mirka.
A year after arriving in Melbourne, Mirka and Georges moved to Grosvenor Chambers at 9 Collins Street, an already famous address. It was a custom-built art studio building where many famous artists had resided, Tom Roberts, Frederick McCubbin, Arthur Streeton, and Ola Cohn, to name a few. They quickly settled into a bohemian lifestyle and lived a very liberated life, often hosting parties. They had already experienced so much fear that it was likely a relief to be so free. Artists and like-minded creatives surrounded them. “The atmosphere could be scooped up with a spoon,” she said. As the studio was such a bustling, busy place with all of the visiting artists, occasionally Mirka would go next door to the Windsor and take a room, just for some peace. She lived in Grosvenor Chambers with her family for sixteen years and had two more children during this time, William in 1953 and Tiriel in 1958.
In 1954 the Moras opened Mirka Cafe on Exhibition street; Mirka attracted bohemians to this place: like bees to honey. “They were crazy about my Mum,” recalls son Phillipe. Mirka Cafe was a hotbed of artistic talent, including everybody who was anybody; except Sidney Nolan, who had left Melbourne for good in 1947. Mirka Cafe hosted the first art exhibitions of Joy Hester and Charles Blackman. Georges and Mirka opened a second restaurant in 1957, Balzac, as Mirka Cafe was over-run with patrons. John Perceval would sit in the window and smoke while Charles Blackman was employed as a cook.
During the 1950s, artists were poor, and paint was expensive. Arthur Boyd would make his paint, and one particular day, he gave paint to his fellow artists. “I was so honoured to be given the paint. One day he gave a tube to Blackman, Perceval, and Mirka. He treats me equal to the boys, such a boy (Arthur Boyd), a rare man.” Mirka retells this story in the third person as though she was an outsider looking in at a beautiful scene. A scene she had replayed many times in her mind. The joy it brought her to be treated as an equal.
Mirka had her first exhibition in 1956, followed by thirty-five more over the next six decades. She spent long hours painting; her style represented both figurative and abstract art. Her works incorporated many forms of media, including drawing, embroidery, soft sculpture, mosaics, and doll making.
In 1966 Mirka and her family moved to the Tolarno Hotel in St Kilda; it was their private residence, an Art Gallery, and Café. It was also the last home she shared with Georges. After 23 years of marriage, Georges and Mirka separated in 1970; citing extramarital affairs on both sides, his began within a year of arriving in Australia and hers sometime later. During this time, Mirka painted the murals at Tolarno Hotel for some years after the separation, one of the most beautiful examples of her art; it incorporates many elements of her colourist and symbolist painting style. Large angels and serpents can be seen and many other symbols: birds, rabbits, flowers, and the sun. Angels represent love, and serpents represent sex. “My work is about the angels and the serpents fighting; sometimes they are happy together, and sometimes they fight together,” said Mirka.
Over her lifetime, she was an avid reader, enjoying history and philosophy, and believed books gave her the ability to understand life better. She had a way of taking her thoughts out of the book and into the everyday. She was particularly fond of Freud. Freud believed in the importance of the unconscious mind and the power of sexuality. His writings teach that it is a part of nature to have a mixture of love and hate in close relationships. Mirka said later in life “that the affair with Georges never ended.” Because the opposite of love is not hating, it is indifference, and I propose Mirka did not feel this towards Georges.
Mirka had become well known to the public by the early 1970s. She had held exhibitions at the Gallery of Contemporary Art, hosted by John and Sunday Reed, and had several showings at the Tolarno Galleries. In 1971 she exhibited her dolls at Realities Gallery Toorak, and the people loved them. Following that, Mirka had a series of erotic charcoal drawings appear in Vogue. Mirka had grown and became nationally recognised; Melbournians had to share her. She also began teaching at the Council for Adult Education (CAE), an association that lasted 23 years. Mirka conducted workshops in Australia, France, the USA, and Japan. During her lifetime, she taught everyone from children to jail inmates.
Whilst at the CAE, she was awarded a Sir Zelman Cowan Award for her contribution to adult education. Her peers were receiving awards too. In 1970 Arthur Boyd was awarded The Order of the British Empire (OBE), and in 1977 Charles Blackman was awarded an OBE.
In 1978, twenty-seven years after Mirka arrived in Melbourne and the year she turned fifty, she met Sidney Nolan while visiting Australia. She had attended an exhibition at the National Gallery and needed a rest, so she stepped through a doorway into an empty room, naked of paintings. Moments later, Sidney Nolan entered the room, and they immediately recognised each other. Finally, they met, having been connected for so long by many intimate friendships. This handsome man entranced Mirka. “I was very honoured. It was the most seductive handshake I have ever had in my life, and I’ve had a lot of handshakes. His hand in my hand said everything. His was a novel, you know, a great novel.” When I hear this, I am very moved; she was still connected to her sexuality, just like me; and other women of a certain age. The simplicity of a handshake stirring such strong emotions is a fleeting moment that passes but will always be remembered for how it made her feel. Not everything of meaning is a grand gesture. Life is made up of a series of minor moments that we choose to notice or ignore.
Reading and listening to Mirka’s interviews throughout her life, she repeatedly returned to a few keywords. She often recounted what a lucky life she had. She was lucky to miss Auschwitz. Lucky to have the hands of a child. Lucky to be a painter and lucky to paint every day. Her use of the word luck forms part of her Australian identity. The French word for luck is chance; it’s good luck, sa bonne chance. Many French words are the same in English, and when I listen to Mirka, I hear that overwhelmingly she doesn’t change from the French word except for luck. She didn’t say, ‘it was by chance I missed Auschwitz’.
Another word that Mirka continually returned to was honour, the same in French and English. It was an honour to meet Sidney Nolan. It was an honour to receive a tube of paint from Arthur Boyd. It was an honour to have a book published about her and Georges. Honour was something she considered to be important. A person of integrity and right-mindedness who referenced honour throughout her interviews yet appeared to be frivolous and fun, always maintaining the child.
During the 1980s, Mirka was a very busy artist and a recognisable personality on Melbourne streets. In 1986 she completed a significant mural at Flinders street station. This mural speaks to her professionalism and her commitment to the Australian public. It is a combination of mosaic and painting and took approximately a year to complete. It is a mural for everyone, combining symbols unique to her; and some notable additions, like koalas. It is very inclusive and representative of our nation’s people.
At this time, her peers continued to receive honours. Sidney Nolan was highly decorated with a Knight Bachelor in 1981, followed by The Order of Merit (OM) in 1983. He rounded out the decade with a Companion of the Order of Australia (AC) in 1988. In 1991 it was John Perceval’s turn with an Officer of the Order of Australia, and then in 2008, David Boyd was awarded a Medal of the Order of Australia (OAM). Mirka’s turn never arrived.
Women make up approximately one-third of Australia Day honours, and this is slowly changing. Furthermore, historical quantitative data is indicative of migrants being underrepresented in the allocation of honours. It is disappointing that Mirka was not formally recognised during her lifetime. A woman who made meaningful strides in the development of contemporary art in Australia over sixty years. She enriched our cultural and creative landscape. She dedicated decades to educating others in art, and her works are held in galleries around the world.
In 2002 Mirka was awarded one of France’s highest artistic honours, Officier des Arts et des Lettres. The award was presented by her long-time family friend Marcel Marceau. He stated that “This award is not just a title, it is recognition of what she has given to her country; Australia, to her country of origin; France, and to the world in general.” But the ‘big time’ Australian honours were not to be the order of the day for Mirka; she died on August 27th, 2018.
Mirka loved unconditionally, produced insane art, three sons, and a nation of daughters. She deserved more than she was given. Nostalgia has me returning to the farmhouse. It is late in the day; the glass is warm to touch; the sun is setting. I can hear her voice, “I love life so much, and I love all the problems as well; people are the best thing in the world.”
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I’ve always had a fascination with the idea of a soul mate. The mythical story told at Plato’s Symposium seems so romantic, the thought that one could possibly spend an eternity looking for their other half. Searching for your soulmate; the one who knows what you are thinking, the one who understands you, the one who will desire you forever.
It was Aristophanes who told the story at the symposium. He states that humans originally had four arms, four legs and a single head made of two faces. They were very powerful and would cartwheel everywhere; moving very fast. It is said they also had great strength and threatened to conquer the gods. Zeus, King of the Greek gods came up with a creative solution to split them in half as punishment for their pride, doubling the number of humans who would give tribute to the gods and halving their strength. Each one then longed for its other half.
What does all of this mean for us today, in modernity? We’ve all experienced the ‘we just clicked’ or ‘we are on the same wavelength’ feeling. We can all identify that there are people for whom we have a natural affinity. For me, a soulmate also has to be desired. Some people describe they have a soulmate with whom they have a platonic, non-romantic relationship. This is a best friend, not a soulmate. Searching for your soulmate is different. The narrative of the soulmate is seeking the other half from whom you have been severed. It is passionate, romantic and profoundly moving. Aristophanes says his speech explains the source of our desire to love each other.
“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a matching half of a human whole…and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him.”
So where do we find this someone who can ‘cure the wound of human nature’, the soulmate who will make us complete and restore our joy and optimism. Ancient Christian philosopher Augustine proposed this wound could not be cured. He says we bare a kernel of the infinite within us, thus finite things cannot fulfil us. Our desires can never be satisfied and this is the ultimate flaw of humanity. We always seek more, never satisfied with the beauty and love and riches we already have.
As our search continues some of us have many soulmates; because we no longer believe there is just one. There is one that satisfies our physical desires, the one that meets our emotional needs, the one we cry with, the one we talk with, the one who holds our secrets, the one who shares our joy. We become so fragmented that everything and nothing is meaningful.
How did this happen? When searching for your soulmate you are constantly told one person cannot satisfy our every desire and that we should seek out these deficits of nature in others. What does this do to us? When we have so many encounters with others, does this satiate our souls more thoroughly or just exacerbate the sense of what is missing. Our days are punctuated by moments where our hearts quicken and we feel desire and excitement and passion. But they pass by so fast, these little moments. We can barely remember them months later as they are not part of a meaningful accumulation of a lifetime of memories with one. How can we ever be certain we chose the correct one when the others are so alluring. Each of us deciding whether there is one or many whom will pass through our lives with the honour of having been a soulmate. Each of us settling on a story that is the truth we need to believe at that moment in time.
By proposition the soulmate is someone who makes you whole, someone who can cure the wound of human nature. It is someone who knows what gives your life meaning. It is someone who wants to lie entwined with you every-day. It is someone who hears you when you are silent and laughs with you when you are loud. It is someone we all search for.
Taglietti inspired us to regard our country with optimism at a point in history where we still coveted a desire to be the same as our international counterparts. He helped shape Australia’s architectural identity by showing us the beauty of a blank canvas.
Enrico Taglietti was born in Milan in 1926, he spent his youth growing up in the African city of Eritrea, a colony of the Kingdom of Italy until 1941. The city of Eritrea in the Horn of Africa was a cosmopolitan place to grow up with many official languages and cultures. A city of palm lined boulevards and European architecture with coffee houses on every street corner and a vibrant art scene.
After the war, Taglietti returned to Milan where he graduated from Milano Polytechnic in 1954 as an architect. During his time at Milano Polytechnic he participated in the Triennale Milano and met Lucio Fontana and Alvar Aalto men who would go on to be very famous in their fields. In 1953 Taglietti spent time with Le Corbusier in Marseille France. When asked about his experiences of meeting these people he explains that it was an interesting time and good to meet them but in terms of influence he feels more connected to artists than to architects.
I know you don’t like to talk about the past but that is how we make sense of things today. And you do have an interesting past, the small part of your life that happened before you became mine. Before Australia claimed you as their own.
You say you want me to be ‘full of wonder and to think about what I feel when I am in one of your spaces’. I ponder possibility and the capacity for some to create. Is this what you mean when you say that ‘we need poetry with architecture’?
Taglietti arrived in Australia in 1955 to do a small job for David Jones Sydney, he was supposed to be here for six weeks. Soon after his arrival he was invited to Canberra for the commission of the Italian embassy. Taglietti regarded Canberra as a void, a place that is not influenced by history, unlike Europe, with an oppressive past. He believed Canberra’s lack of tradition created a silence and space for design work. It was like a blank cnavas. Taglietti had an enormous desire to change the world.
I like to listen to you talk about the magnificent sky at night and the fantastic light. But it makes me sad that you want to be dispossessed of your own history. And when you talk about your desire to arrive at a place of non-memory, I imagine you are seeking original thoughts. I see them everywhere in your work, the original thoughts; but I also see a layer of complexity and I am certain it is impossible to escape our past. There are stirrings that fall below the thresholds of consciousness.
Taglietti has more than thirty prominent buildings in Canberra and many residential projects in his home state too. His work can be described as modernist and sometimes brutalist in style. He describes his work as belonging to organic architecture explaining that he creates from the inside out. He designs for a void and then later determines what the best materials will be for that project. He places an emphasis on atmosphere, light and poetry.
Taglietti’s commercial work has a distinct look and is reflective of his desire to create something modern for the times. He designed many schools, churches, libraries and public buildings of note. A favourite of mine is Giralang Primary School designed in 1974. It looks like a happy place and I can imagine laughter and learning easily taking place in this space.
One of his well-known residential projects is Dingle House designed in 1965, situated in a cul-de-sac and turned at ninety degrees to face the golf course. This three-way split-level plan responds elegantly to the sloping site and blends seamlessly into the environment. Taglietti took a very personal approach to his residential projects and would ask uncompromising questions of his clients in pursuit of understanding. Having once asked a man ‘if he loved his wife’?
When you say ‘an unhappy person in one of my buildings makes my building unhappy’ I understand why you must ask these difficult questions of your clients. I think it is generous of you to say ‘architecture is produced by the user in the end’. I wonder if you know how important your work is to our sense of self.
Taglietti was recognised during his lifetime for his contribution to architecture. The first accolade came from overseas when in 1979 he was featured at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. In 2007 he was awarded the Australian Institute of Architects gold medal. And then in 2018 at ninety-two years of age he was celebrated at the Canberra Design festival as the feature architect that year. An event he was able to participate in.
And when you tell us ‘it was a pleasure to have created something that will last’ I look to you for more; and you say ‘but the value of it in relation to your dreams is less so’. A lingering melancholy; like there is something left unfinished.
Taglietti tells us that he designs from the inside out, and the aim of his architecture is to express joy, music, silence and the desire to be. He states inside is the ‘real architecture’, the void where he designs the ‘concept of unity’. He tells us the interiors are where life takes place and when I look at the exterior, I see his desire to protect this life.
Triangles feature prominently in the exteriors of Taglietti’s commercial work and a cascading shape is notable in most residential projects. I believe the triangular composition points towards a position of power. A repeating pattern throughout history, the pyramids, the Akkadian Empire in Mesopotamia and then in modern history at Iwo Jima in Japan during WWII. The shape is associated with strength from both an engineering and emotive standpoint, representing victory.
And this is the poetry, that your focus was to give us something original, something that represented freedom whilst still ensuring we would be powerful and protected. And as we grow up, we will remember you for your modernist buildings that form part of the canvas of Canberra.
Enrico Taglietti passed away in 2019 at ninety-three years of age.
Do you remember my love you wrote me a letter asking for my hand in marriage? You paid someone to write it because you didn’t like your handwriting. I still have it. What would you say if you wrote me a letter today? Address unknown, for I have been feeling a little lost lately.
You keep telling me that we can’t go back. I went today to where it all began; 35 Fitzgerald Street South Yarra. It looks the same. I walked down the driveway and took some photos. I felt like an intruder; I didn’t look like one. I wanted to walk up the stairs and open the door and go in.
The Year is 1993 The apartment is profoundly ordinary—a one-bedroom box with a bed, bookcase, table and two chairs. No TV, as we have no money. It has a bath and a little basin that is attached to the wall. We pay $110 per week in rent. I’m wearing navy, and my hair is up; it is always up. It’s the end of the day. I place my keys on the bookcase shelf; I won’t be leaving until the morning. You are home; you are always home. I work, and you study. I take off my coat and head into the kitchen. You are there, right behind me. You want to know what’s for dinner. I think as I lean back into you. Your hand is on the top of my shoulder, four fingers resting over my collar bone and a thumb sliding down my spine. How was your day gorgeous, you say. Sometimes we eat; sometimes, our hunger is satisfied in each other’s arms.
The bed dominates spatially and emotionally; we spend days in there, leaving to get food or go to work. We fall asleep every night touching one another. I like that we still do that. And when we wake up, there are remnants of the previous day resting on top of the bed, like we barely moved in the night, so the sound was our slumber. There are novels and notes and textbooks scattered about. Do you remember we would read to one another? Something I have continued to do for others but not for you, my love. Perhaps I should bring that back.
The kitchen drawer, with unvarnished wooden base and a grained pattern. We place the spare coins in there, and every few weeks, we count them to see if there is enough for a pizza and a bottle of red wine. There are many windows in this flat, but I can’t tell you what they look upon. My whole world exists within this little box, and I do not need to leave, not even for a glance.
And so, as my mind roves the landscape of our lives, it chases the good times, the serendipity that sustains me. If I were to write you a love letter today, I would say I still feel young and hungry. Lately, we have been talking about our future life together. And the reason I keep wanting to go back is that I want to live in a room without windows, and then I will never be lost. I keep trying to find this place, but so far, it has eluded me. Let’s be time travellers together.
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I know when it is time for winter to end. It’s a morning slightly warmer than the others, and I rise from bed after having thrown off my slip in the night. I contemplate spring and removing all the layers, I desire the sun’s gentle kiss upon my skin and I want to lie in the soft grass and read novels and daydream. Spring is the season for soulful pleasure and the epicentre of my world is the garden. But the first part of spring is renewal; and I have to work if I am going to enjoy all the spoils of this season. I place my emotions somewhere between sadness and satisfaction, for winter was wonderful but now it has gone.
And so my busy mind orders what has to be done in the garden. I begin with the roses, they need to be pruned. The Pierre de Ronsard, it grows so tall now; and covers a large fence. I have a great sense of anticipation as I work away, my arms extended above my shoulders for hours. As I sweat I wipe my brow with the back of my dirty hand, it leaves a little smudge on my face. And my hair, the curls, capturing little leaves and twigs. When I come inside at the end of the first day I have a strong sense of fulfillment. I walk past the mirror and can’t help but notice I look content. That evening I ache with the satisfaction of having re-claimed my garden. The six or seven weeks I was absent have been erased.
The garden is continually calling me, and I can’t stay away. After pruning the roses I bring the orchids inside, then I shape the hedges, then I do the weeding. I gently trace my fingers across the earth in testimony of new growth. Engaged in this process of discovery and feeling like an explorer searching for treasure. I find holly hocks and dahlias emerging from the ground, already surging towards summer. My hydrangeas are covered with new leaves. All of these living things absent of senses yet bestowed with being keepers of time. Every night my thighs ache with all the rising up and down, less so as the days pass, and the dormancy of winter recedes.
The birds, there are
nests everywhere. So many birds, doves and swallows and black birds. The
sweetest sound, the chirping of baby birds. I wait patiently for my favourite
bird of all, a tiny little finch. It builds its nest along the fence line. And
every year I worry that it won’t come. It comes late in the season. This tiny
little finch, it flutters rather than flies. It’s small wings moving so fast my
eyes struggle to see more than a blur, almost otherworldly, like the fairies
that danced in the moss when I was a child. I can still see them, a tiny
figment of my imagination. When I am in my garden it as though time doesn’t
And as the weeks pass
I feel myself becoming stronger and stronger and each evening I feel less achy
until finally the equinox arrives. The day when the earth has twelve hours of
daylight and twelve hours of darkness. Noticing the refracted sunlight and
being mesmerised as it dips below the horizon and night time falls. And I know
then that this newness has arrived. I check the setting sun most evenings, it
is my barometer for the following days weather. The colour of the sky, the
translucence of the light, more reliable than any other measure.
Time passes and I
admire the growth of the roses, the leaves, they are thick and lush, a royal
burgundy colour. I watch them quickly turn to green. I am constantly checking; I
need to make sure there is no black spot. And then the aphids arrive, hundreds
of them, almost in unison with the buds. I worry and wait and worry and wait.
For I want the ladybirds too, they love to feast on the aphids. But I don’t
want my buds spoilt. And so I painstakingly remove the aphids; willing the
ladybirds to arrive. My fingers repetitiously sweep from the base of the bud to
the tip and they become stained green with the bodies of the aphids as I wait
for the ladybirds. Finally they arrive, not a moment too soon.
A month gone and spring is everywhere, the remnants of winter a fading memory. My garden is filled with the fragrance of hyacinths and primrose and jasmine and my heart is happy. And the tulips, they look at me with their expressive faces; and the pansies; they honour me with their resilience. Finally, it is time to rest. I luxuriate in the sunshine of spring; for it is genteel, my senses satiated by feeling warm. I can hear the birds singing. I lie in the grass unsure of whether I am tired or relaxed but certain I am exactly where I want to be. Spring is the season for soulful pleasure and this beautiful scene, it becomes the wallpaper of my life.