Yes, as far as we know, she was the first nude and she was beautiful. Her name was Mary Ann.

Once a month or so, of a Sunday morning, I take the drive into Salamnca. There I contentedly potter around the shops and galleries. Occasionally I’ll visit the TMAG as well. One such morn of note, back in October, was just so glorious it made me feel buoyant. Often spring in Hobs is little more than a continuation of winter but, as I strode around my regular haunts, wafting in my nostrils, as well as a tinge of blossom, there was the hint of the summer to come. This was so the case that, before I headed off to the museum in my search, some of my outer layers were dispensed with. People were out and about, no doubt thinking winter had been banished for another year. The first cruise liner of the season was in port and I was on my way looking for Mary Ann.

Before all that, though, I visited the RACT Insurance Tasmanian Portraiture Prize, an annual showing at the Long Gallery. Established and emerging artists/photographers displayed their prowess here and yet again I marvelled at the talent our island state possesses, as I did when I later diverted to the Brooke Street Pier.

The Foundry is a new artistic space on the upper level of the floating attraction. The Tasmanian Photography Exhibition 2018 was being held there for the first time and I could only stand and wonder at some of the images presented. Again I wished I had similar technical mastery with my humble attempts at the skill. And again it bought home just how lucky we are to live on this scenic jewel of an island.

Then I was off to meet Mary Ann. She was waiting for me at the gates of the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, naked, fluttering in the breeze in all her glory. She was welcoming me inside to view her in various unclad poses.

There followed a fascinating couple of hours that Sunday morning during which most of it was spent with colonial convict dauber Thomas Bock. He is best known for his 1842 rendering of Marthinna, posing in her red dress. The tragic story of the Aboriginal lass has been bought to life in Richard Flanagan’s ‘Wanting’. There were also his portraits of other First Tasmanians; portraits that have been so beneficial to our knowledge of this island’s original owners. Mostly I’d seen them all before, but I had never laid eyes on Mary Anne.

It’s an easy on-line search to find the details of the life of Thomas Bock (1790-1865). He made an extensive contribution to early Tasmanian society, first as a felon gifted with a certain amount of freedom due to his talents, but later as a free man. It was his private life, though, that fascinated me. Before his transportation to Van Diemen’s Land, in 1823, this trained engraver was married to Charity, with whom he sired five offspring. He also had an affair going on that would land him in deep water. Ann Yates was only 17 years old and he managed to get her in the family way. Hoping to keep himself out of trouble with the missus he conspired to procure for his young mistress a termination using the assistance of one Mary Day Underhill. The pair, Bock and Underhill, were both shopped to the authorities and suffered the same fate of shipment to New South Wales.

The artist’s skills were soon in demand on reaching VDL. Lady Jane Franklin was a source of income and he was used at the mortuary to sketch the faces of the recently deceased. I was incredibly touched by one such of a little baby. Another, of the cannibalistic Alexander Pearce, is well known. Bock also became one of the first skilled practitioners of photography in the colony.

Mary Anne had a wall to herself in the exhibition – and so she should have. She must have been a remarkable woman. Bock was, during his time on the island, in a long term relationship with her and she gifted him another seven children. And she also lovingly, we hope, exposed her body for him to sketch, thus giving us our first nudes of a European woman in the colony, as far as we can discern. She was also of convict stock, but her partner’s tender, exquisite drawings of her are so intimate. I doubt very much if they were intended for wider consumption, but who knows? It did seem that, in his maturity, the artist mended his ways for, on hearing of his wife’s death back in England, he made an honest woman of Mary Ann. These beautiful contributions to the artistic heritage of Tasmania were drawn around 1840. They are small, delicate and quite mesmerising. I was moved by Mary Ann.

I read that Bock died not exactly the wealthiest of men, but the community of the city rallied around his widow, putting together the first exhibition of his works to provide her with funds for herself and his large brood. Several of those went on, in their father’s footsteps, to enter into artistic endeavours as well.

Mary Ann, you must have been something really special.

I hadn’t heard of Kate Spade at all. Anthony Bourdain I vaguely knew made television, the vaguely giving the clue I have never watched an episode of his work.

I remember well my first visit to Mona – the walk down the steps to the tennis court and across to the underground temple of sex and death. I was quite gobsmacked by it all and only outraged in minimal doses. It was and is fantastic.

I had my camera with me and I quickly became fascinated, even before I stepped in the door, snapping away furiously. Surrounding the ingress was a mirrored wall, reflecting the souls standing in front of it, but, more spectacularly, giving a reverse view of the houses of Glenorchy, founder David Walsh’s birthplace. He has given back to that bogan-burb in spades, as well as to the city beyond. I had never given that feature, though, much credit as to its thoughtfulness of positioning and its genesis. It is a very clever, well-done thing and had I really considered it, an art work in itself. The man behind it took his own life, at the age of 53, earlier this year.

You can read of some of his achievements in Gabriella Coslovich’s following article, including about his last installation, a symbolic land bridge connecting Victoria to this island.

His public works are spread out across the nation and he had gifted his attention to overseas countries as well, often combining a commission with teaching local wannabe sculptors and stone masons. Receiving his talent included Florida in the US, Zimbabwe and Cambodia. His thirty-plus years of artistic endeavour were soundly based on skills picked up from his Dad as a child. John, a builder, loved crafting wood, especially for marine craft. Matthew Harding underwent training for his artistic future in Canberra and lived there throughout his career. As well as wood and stone, he also fashioned stainless steel.

Harding is deserved to be wider known – as widely as some of his eye-catching, for better or worse, product. Coslovich reports he did struggle at times financially, but I’ve no idea as to why he took the courageous step to end it all. I know there are some who bleat their opinion that suicide is the coward’s way. Maybe doing that horrendous deed is a result of an unwillingness to confront whatever demons is bringing the victim undone, but even in despair, it still takes courage. And I can’t imagine a person taking that step, allowing for state of mind, not considering those left behind.

But yes, what of Matthew Harding’s children – Arabella (10), Lulu (9), Polly (6) and Hugo (4)?

Matthew Harding’s website = http://matthewharding.com.au/

Gabriella Coslovich’s article = https://www.smh.com.au/opinion/m31columnist-20180302-h0wxl8.html

She stares blankly back at the camera, her upper torso fully exposed to the lens. It wasn’t so much her that caught my attention, but the caption beneath, on a Tumblr vintage photography site – ‘The Roman Beauty, Vienna, Austria 1944’. Nazi controlled Vienna! That led me, briefly, to dig into the attitude of the Germans to nudity during the Hitler years and I supposed I shouldn’t have been too surprised to find it was fairly liberal, given the work of Leni Riefenstahl. I discovered that a book of nudes was a best seller during the period, it blatantly espousing the physical mastery of the Aryan race.

My attention then turned to the image’s photographer and I discovered a very interesting fellow, Herbert List. He, it turns out, was very focused on photographing his own gender in the altogether – so this young lady was somewhat of an anomaly. The thought did cross my mind that she may have been not quite what she seemed gender-wise, but I knew that’d be a dead-end street for delving. So, what was a gay photographer, who also happened to be a Jew, snapping a photograph of a topless young woman in 1944? I found out quite a bit about the outward man, but zilch about the inner workings. Still, half a story is better than nothing at all.

List was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, not that that counted for much once the Nazis came along – or did it? His family were resident in Hamburg and involved in the coffee trade. For a while this was also Herbert’s vocation, travelling the world, dealing in the lucrative product. During the years of the Weimar Republic he was, as a hobby, recording all of his adventures with a camera. He didn’t take it too seriously until he became caught up in the prolific art scene that was flourishing in his country at the time. He observed that, by now, what he thought of as a mere pastime, was indeed becoming an art form and he decided to push his involvement to the next level. He purchased a Rolleiflex. He played around with it for a while, experimenting on family and friends. But by the 30s he was hooked. Following his proclivities he was now paying male models to pose for him. Also, influenced by the Bauhaus movement, he tried transforming everyday objects into photographic beauty with double exposures and other techniques.

Hitler came to power and List saw that his country was soon to become no place for a Jewish gay man. So he high-tailed it out of there and took his camera to the capitals of Western Europe, his hobby now his calling card. A fellow camerasmith submitted his work to Harpers Bazaar and they took him on board for fashion shoots. But posing the female model irked him so, in 1937, he took off to the temples and landscapes of Greece. As well he landed his first solo exhibition in Paris that same year. ‘Life’ also started to feature his projects. He was getting traction on a real career in the field.

In 1941 the Axis powers invaded Greece, caught List up in their net and returned him to the Fatherland. Being a Jew he was forbidden to carry out his profession, so he took it underground. He was still permitted, though, to travel throughout occupied Europe. HL even rubbed shoulders with Cocteau and Picasso in Paris. For a while he was seconded into the army, working in Norway as a map designer. And in 1944 he was in Vienna, producing a series of images of its famous waxworks. In that city he took the likeness of that mysterious model.

So, all in all, considering the fate that could have awaited him, he had a fairly cushy war, or so it seems. After VE Day, he got back down to business with his camera. Much of his secret trove during the war years had been lost, but he didn’t waste time dwelling on that. He was soon being employed chronicling the destruction of the cityscapes of Germany and was editing the art section of a popular magazine. He became involved with Magnum, for a short while, after meeting Capra, but any notion of ongoing association with them vanished once he came under the influence of the great Cartier-Bresson. He emulated, successfully, his techniques, receiving substantial work opportunities as a result. He travelled extensively, publishing books on various locales, especially the Italian peninsula and on Africa.

However, once the swinging 60s hit, young guns were now in vogue and Herbert’s take on the world began to be regarded as old hat. He figured he was too set in his ways to change, so he retired from pointing the lens. By the time he passed in 1975 he had been largely forgotten. But I discovered him through a girl with vacant, but brazen, stare. She, no doubt, had a story too – but I had to make do with only half of his.

More images from Herbert List (above) here = http://monovisions.com/herbert-list/

As far as art and the Salamanca Arts Centre is concerned, my main interest lies with the ‘big’ exhibitions in the Long Gallery. But more and more, in recent times, I have been venturing up to the third level; to the more intimate showing areas to be found there. In doing so I have discovered much to relish and intrigue with the wares produced by my city’s vibrant arts community using these spaces.

So one morning it was the product of Sandra Petersen I was casting my eye over. Now the first feature of being ‘up there’ that struck me, soon after the opening of SAC that day, was how perfectly quiet it was. There seemed not a soul around at all – and nor, during the whole length of my stay, did anyone put in an appearance – unlike other times when I ventured up that extra flight of stairs. I suppose it was akin to a private showing.

The second aspect of that morning’s perusal to appeal to me was the variety of genre awaiting examination. What first caught my eye were her prints of Tassie fauna and landscapes. She is a refugee from Queensland and is obviously much taken with her new home. As well, Sandra works in oils, pastels and the carving of wood. She has also invested in photography; Ken Duncan referring to her as a natural. More recently has come her stone masonry. The silent exhibition that day followed on from others she has set-up around this state and across the water. A future one would be well worth a visit.

But it wasn’t until I returned to my home by the river and dived into the ether, to see what else I could find out about her, that I discovered just how difficult her journey has been.

Her introduction to art was as a sickly child, beset and often bedridden by seizures, asthma and diabetes, was the gentle whimsy of Beatrix Potter. Attempting to replicate the author/illustrator’s distinctive furry and feathered creatures set her off on her road to a lifelong love of art. Later on came the local library where she borrowed book after book to see what she could glean from the greats. Paralleling all this came her love of music. She tinkled the ivories and began studying opera. At the end of her formal schooling she was accepted into the Queensland Conservatory of Music. Then she received the offer of scholarships – one to train as a music teacher, the other in the same line of work for art. The latter won out. As she began to raise a family she taught her passion at both secondary and tertiary levels.

Then, with three young ones under the age of seven, her life changed remarkably. A huge truck, carrying a full load, ploughed into her station wagon. It was almost the end of the line. She was left with spinal and head injuries, as well as internal bleeding. All this required eight long years of rehabilitation. Her acquired brain affliction left her with a lack of mobility and speech, together with plenty of on-going pain. To her credit she eventually overcame this major trauma to produce what I saw on display that winter morning. There were numerous plastic folders containing the results of her expert labours and an array of work from many fields.

Her inspiring story is available in more detail on-line and there are various websites, as well, to check out her artistic enthusiasms. It all enhanced a lovely time spent in her absent company that morning.

The Artist’s website = http://www.sandrapetersen.net/

Brazen hussies? Ladies of the night? Like the foxy women on a Duran Duran video clip they caught my eye on the stand and I pocketed a handful. The two feline apparitions in jade, with plunging necklines encrusted in bling, certainly drew me as I passed them, climbing the stairs to view some exhibitions at the Salamanca Arts Centre. They had attitude, this duo. Were they out to tempt a cashed up john or simply making themselves available for the main chance? They were patently creatures of the night, undoubtedly falling away into the shadows when a pale dawn approached. Or, at least, that’s how I imagined the situation portrayed to be when I returned back to my abode by the river, as I placed them with the other Avant cards I had gathered here, there and everywhere over time. Then, later on, as they were still staying with me, I extracted them and put them aside to check out their provenance the next time I ventured into the ether. And this is what I discovered.

It turns out their creator is one Jane Stradwick, a pencil and ink conjurer of most appealing images. This one, ‘Late Night Hotel’, is part of a series of hers put together to illustrate some short stories, collectively entitled ‘Girls on Film’, thus the reference to Simon Le Bon and his lads from the eighties. The artist is Aussie born, but raised in NZ, doing her training at Auckland’s Whitecliffe College of Art and Design. After vocational dalliances with costuming, hairdressing and make-up consultancy, she became a site planner for archaeological digs. This career took her to Thailand, Ireland and lands closer to home. Her illustrations of artifacts from this period of her life appear on her website and in various journals devoted to this calling.

The birth of a child in 2013 caused Jane, now a resident of Melbourne, to change direction and return to her first love, drawing. Since that time she has exhibited widely, mostly around Yarra City, but in the US as well. Of her work she opines that she attempts, ‘...to extract the most beauty I can with every piece, and with coloured pencils you can layer the shades so there is a wonderful depth and opportunity to create a gorgeous colour palette.’

As for the image and others from the series that I was drawn to, she continues, ‘I have had a love affair with fashion magazines ever since discovering them as a kid in the 80s. They featured fiercely strong women, glamour, exotic locations and escape from my hometown in NZ. Strong geometric lines on one page; glaring desert sun location shots on the next. Anything was possible between those covers. Girls on Film is my homage to the memories of those pages and a celebration of the fashion of an era.’

Ms Stradwick is more than just ‘Ladies of the Night’ though, working across a variety of themes including, ‘...self-expression and identity, repetition and scale, historic fashion imagery and literary characters.’ On her website, if you care to visit as I did, there is much to please the senses from this forty-four year old, an artist who, in her own words, ‘...aims to be present in every experience and not to judge herself for whatever I feel.’ She is inspired by, ‘…people that (sic) are unafraid to be their truest selves.’

As she has showings frequently in a city I visit regularly I intend to be on the lookout for her with future sojourns. But for now, a ‘Late Night Hotel’ card has its place in my man cave.

The artist’s website = http://www.janestradwick.com/

I was moseying around art sites in the ether when I spotted them – crows. Crows are important in our family – even if they’re prone to masquerade as ravens on occasion. Here on my island, in the southern seas, a murder of them are commonly referred to as the ‘highway patrol’, due to their penchant for cleaning up the copious road kill we humans daily inflict on the native wildlife.

But for my beautiful, writerly daughter crows represent her paternal grandfather – my dad. A crow is his totem if you like. She never met him, he was sadly gone before she was born – but she feels his spirit watches over her in the form of any single crow espied. Now he has the added pleasure of watching over our precious Tessa Tiger too. Whenever the pair of them are out and about adventuring and the little one spots a black feathered avian, she asks her Mummy if it’s Grandpa Fred – invariably it is. It’s good knowing he’s keeping her safe, as he did me, once upon a time.

I love the notion of a totem. I’ve always regarded the sea eagle, the one that often swoops by our house here on the river, riding the air-currents from further up the valley, as mine. Perhaps it means that a portion of my heart resides with the First Peoples – who knows? But an eagle free in the wild never ceases to move me. And for Tess her totem is obvious – be it Tasmanian or Indian.

So when crows put in an appearance as I happened on some examples of Trisha Lambi’s art work stumbling through cyberspace, well, obviously, I took notice. In one painting a crow was perched on the knee of a semi-clad model, in another a duo of them were patrolling around a pair of legs in high heels. Yep, I liked Lambi’s crows. I wondered if they had some significance for the artist. I’m not into art wankery, just knowing what I like and don’t. When I took a closer look at TL’s work, I was taken in by it – and perhaps you will too, although there is some mild NSFW that comes with some of her output.

Her oeuvre has been routinely described as sensual and that would be the word that immediately springs to my mind too. But Lambi claims it is not for the ‘…gratification of all or any of the senses...’ that compels her to paint the feminine form. What interests her is ‘…light on skin, light on inanimate objects and light on anything really.’

She claims to have been drawing her gender ever since she was old enough to hold a pencil and with artistic endeavour seemingly running in her family, it would have a been an obvious vocational choice for her too. She was born in Warwick, Queensland, being a member of a very large family by today’s standards. It wasn’t, though, till her own children were born that she became serious about her painting. In conquering the medium she’s reached the heights of representing Australia in exhibitions all over the world. But she’s had a rough couple of years of late, losing both parents in quick succession in 2014, so she has thrown herself into her output as a salve to her grieving. She currently resides in the Sunshine State on the rurban fringe of Ipswich. There she finds the tranquility she craves.

So it’s true that it was a crow that first caught my attention, but it was her human subjects that kept my eye lingering in her site. She has stated it is important for art lovers to feel her work rather than really understand it – she says she cannot even do the latter herself. To me it’s just beautifully and wonderfully wrought so as to be so attractive to at least one of my senses. That alone’s enough, isn’t it?

The artist’s website = http://www.trishalambi.com/index.html