Letter from Australia #4

[Downsunder 10]

In 1975 I found myself at the Randwick School of Art in Sydney, now known more modestly as Randwick TAFE but back then in pre-computer days it was a most prestigious seat of learning for privileged Australian kids. Nestled between Centennial Park and the Royal Randwick Racecourse, the School of Art oozed class and culture and a curriculum which would be commercially obsolete within a decade. How I managed to be accepted is beyond me, it was definitely a Billy Elliot moment.

 

The tutors at Randwick were all professional artists with their own studios, the most notable being Walter Cunningham, an illustrator of some renown. (as far as I know, no relation to George). One tutor brought in the fashion pages from the New York Times and we copied the black and white wash drawings. Another taught us the airbrush and we learned how to draw letters with pen and ink which, I suspect, even the instructor knew was a monumental waste of time since rub-down lettering had been around since the 50’s. But I suppose it taught us a keen eye and a steady hand. The afternoons were taken up with Design & Colour and Art History but since I was totally unprepared for the stifling heat of a Sydney summer, by 2o’clock I was usually fast asleep with my head on the desk.

 

I made my first real Australian friend at Art School, his name was Jeff Warwick. He was, like me, in many ways a square peg in a round hole. He had left home and was living in a tiny bedsit in Paddington which made him the envy of the entire class, especially the girls. He didn’t have much artistic talent but bags of charisma and he loved music, especially the musical lyrics of Kris Kristofferson. He gave me two of his LP’s which have miraculously survived flat, unscratched and playable to this day. Every so often, I dust them off and I’m immediately transported back in time to those student days in Sydney. How well Kristofferson described our lives . . . a stomach full of empty and a pocket full of dreams. And this . . . from the coalmines of Kentucky to the California sun . . . that really hit me in the guts, but this even more . . . and it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. This was Jeff’s plight not only on Sunday Morning Coming Down but most days . . . I fumbled through my closet for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt.

We had no idea what Kristofferson meant when he . . . pulled my harpoon out of my dirty red bandana . . . but who cares, we’d have done it too if we had a bandana. And a harpoon. When Jeff handed in another crappy assignment and a concerned instructor told him it wasn’t good enough, he went home with a smile, mouthing the words of his favourite Kristofferson ballad . . . it’s good enough for me and Bobby McGee.

After spending two unforgettable years at Randwick School of Art, Jeff left and joined the fire brigade.

[grannypat 11]

Hey Downsunder we need the rest of the story. I was really getting into it.

 

Grannypat

[Downsunder 10]

Hi Pat, They're not really stories more like snapshots from the past. Too long and people wouldn't read them, I think I'm stretching the limit now!

[grannypat 11]

Oh shame. Never mind. What was the reason you posted this in the first place? Are you trying to reconnect with family and friends here? I found it very interesting although I'm sure that I do not know you.

 

Grannypat

[Downsunder 10]

I love reading people's experiences on the forum but I can't contribute because of lack of local knowledge - we left the UK in 1972. So I just write about what I know and what interests me. I'm well connected with my family and friends but none of them are on the forum.

 

Anyway, thanks for reading.

[grannypat 11]

It was so strange when I saw your first post as I am researching family members who emigrated to Australia around the 1965/6 time. I think their destination was Queensland. It is such a small world now isn't it?

 

Grannypat