Statues - Henry Parkes

At the turn of the twentieth century, Centennial Park had 31 statues. Today only 6 remain and only two of those are originals. This statue of Henry Parkes was originally cast in 1897 and recast in 1998. Who was Sir Henry Parkes that he should forever gaze over this pre-eminent of Sydney parks?


On 1st January, 1901, Australia became a federation of states acting under a constitution. Prior to that, the continent housed a gaggle of squabbling self-governing British colonies all acting in their own best interests. On this date, the Commonwealth of Australia came into being. Parkes had taken a leading role in the negotiations and was known as ‘the Father of Federation’.


Born in 1815, Parkes and his wife emigrated to NSW in 1839. He had no schooling and few skills, but was personable with a fine turn of phrase. He lacked any semblance of financial acumen and was forever going bankrupt, as he was at his death in 1896 – penniless, with 12 children living, having been married three times. However, in the meantime, he had been Premier of NSW five times, mainly by recognising and utilising the skills of others.


Through the middle years of the century, Parkes supported issues like the ending of transportation, reduction of suffrage qualifications, and self-government for the colony. In 1883 he and Samuel Griffith from Queensland were instrumental in the setting up of a Federal Council to pursue Federation. Parkes delivered his landmark Tenterfield Oration in October 1889 and in February 1890 in Melbourne the first Federal Convention hammered out the contentious issues of colonial sovereignty. Amendment and counter-charge ensued for the rest of the decade, with the issue affirmed after the death of Parkes. He is buried, with his first wife, at Faulconbridge.

Statues - Henry Lawson

Dare I make a bold claim about Henry Lawson? He is a writer much derided in his own land, yet much loved as well. He has not translated into the modern age very well, hasn't our Henry. He was a product of this land, at that time - for much of the 19th century, the country called Australia did not exist. We were just a collection of independent states.

So the bold claim? Henry Lawson is to Australia as Mark Twain is the the United States. What about Banjo Paterson I hear the pundits splutter? Or C.J. Dennis or Adam Lindsay Gordon, or Henry Kendall I hear interjected from the bleechers!


Lawson almost single-handedly defined the mythical Australian in his landscape. He created the ideal of the sun-burnt battler humping his bluey around the outback blocks of this state, living off his wits and ever sus of them city-folk in their finery with their fancy ideas.


Lawson was prolific in the period before the demon drink got her claws into him. He was well served by George Robertson (of the booksellers, Angus & Robertson), and by J.F. Archibald (editor of The Bulletin). He also had Banjo looking out for his legal interests. Mainly two women, his mother and his wife, who always gave him curry. Every time Henry was locked in the clink or dead-drunk in the gutter, his mates would hand the hat around, and Henry would live to write another day.

Lawson's journal, exhibited in the Centenary '100' by the State Library of NSW

Try but two of his short stories: 'The Loaded Dog', and 'The Drover's Wife' to get the flavour of his definiton of life in this wide, brown land.

As for his poetry, I have already posted 'Faces in the Street', and 'One Hundred and Three'. Seek out 'The Roaring Days', and 'A Voice from the City'.

It is ironic that this statue puts Lawson on a pedestal - that is the last place he would want to be. But one calm, starry night wander through Sydney Hospital, across the Domain and down Mrs Macquarie's Road. Just as the loop divides, in the centre beneath a gum-tree, there you will find Henry, his dog, his mate and his swag ready to entertain you with ballads from a land that maybe no longer exists, if it ever did.

Portrait of Henry Lawson, painted in 1913 by Florence Rodway, held by the State Library of NSW

IronFest 2010 - The Shelias

Whilst the link with IronFest may be tenuous, there is nothing remotely tenuous about the punch that these women packed! They were elegant, they were mesmerising, and, above all, they were fun!


Searching for a collective noun, I decide upon 'sway' - a sway of bellydancers. There were seven sways at IronFest ranging from duos to sways of 7 or 8 dancers. Some focussed on the story-telling and rhythms of Middle-Eastern cultures. Others were more into funky, modern choreography.


Whatever way, they were having fun! They loved their full and fruity bodies, and they had learnt well how to move that body with grace and elegance.


They were accompanied by African drums, by various manifestations of the didgeridoo, and by, of all things, the exhaust system of a hot-rod.

As with the mainly male activities of yesterday, there were plenty of children participating at the belly-dance and plenty who were eager to learn with no shortage of instruction!

This was a celebration of life and sheer 'joi de vivre'.

IronFest 2010 - The blokes

IronFest commenced in 2000 to celebrate the centenary of the production of steel in Lithgow, a small town just west of the Blue Mountains. Attending out of curiosity, I was dumbfounded by the passion and skill on display. The three-day programme was eclectic, fascinating and a photographer's delight.


Out on the grassed arena, a complete medieval tent village had been erected, swirling with denizens all dressed and ready to walk the talk. On the left was the St George's Day Jousting Tourney, on the right the Battle of Lithgow between the French and the English, and in the centre there was armed combat and archery competitions. Behind the scenes, smithies toiled to ensure that all combatants were armed and protected.


As the French general contemplates the fate awaiting his small band of gallant soldiers, the mighty English army masses across the river with their rows of musketeers and phalanx of artillery. As the battle progresses, soldiers from both camps crumple, until the gallant general withdraws under superior firepower.


The plaintive sounds of the medieval French bagpipe, the chabreta, pipes the vanquished from the field of battle, until the appointed time tomorrow, when they do it all again.

Sunday in my City - The autumn of our years

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

W.B. Yeats

Now the days grow short,
I'm in the autumn of my years.

I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs.

And it poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year.

Ervin Drake

A member of the Sunday in my City community.

ANZAC Day 2010

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

A member of the Monochrome Weekend community.

Weekend Reflection - On sacrifice

Macquarie Place, along the Bridge Street boundary reflecting The Lands Department building

Deep in the shade of a Moreton Bay Fig in one of Sydney’s ‘precious places’, resides this unassuming fountain completed in 1960. It is a memorial to John Christie Wright a Lieutenant in the 20th Battalion, AIF, killed in Bullecourt, France, 3rd May, 1917. Born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, he emigrated to Australia in 1912, and was 28 years old when he died.

‘He was a man who could ill be spared, but, having heard the cry and call of duty, he went forth to fight for the liberty of others.’

John Christie Wright was a sculptor and a painter.

Macquarie Place is ‘precious’ because it is the cradle of our nation, just as tomorrow is ‘precious’ because it is the forge of our nation, ANZAC Day. This is a precious day, not just because of one battle. It is precious because men and women, Australians all, went far away from home to stand up for something bigger than any individual, bigger than any nation. Concepts that straddle nations: comradeship and freedom.

A member of the Weekend Reflection community.

Friday Flaneur (9) - Well seasoned

There is a serenity to Autumn that is not apparent at other times of the year. Beads of sweat don't form on the brow, nor pond in the small of the back. Cold does not seep into the rib-cage, nor gnaw on the bunions. Bees are not buzzing, animals mating or buds a bursting.


Autumn forgives singularity, contemplation and day-dreaming. Autumn gives of ample time, and encourages the luxury of sloth and self-indulgence.

Theme Thursday - Draft / Draught

When my chidlers were growing up, the four of us would play board games - their choice from what was on the shelf, be it draughts, scrabble, fiddle-sticks, dominoes or rummikub - Uno included. Sandwiched in between dinner and reading on the couch, this was fun. A loaded word 'fun', involving as it does a degree of whimsy, and playfulness, and a decided absence of seriousness.

Under the lid of the Spear's Draughts box (dated MCMLXXXIII and manufactured in the UK), the last line of the instructions declaims:

'Single men, whilst moving forward, can capture Kings.'

This would appear to be a statement worthy of contemplation, and a certain fraying of the edges to release myriad meanings.


A member of the Theme Thursday community

How exact do you need to be?

Sydney was established in January 1788 as a convict settlement by the United Kingdom. Arthur Phillip sailed his eleven ships and his 1,500 people into the harbour and claimed it for King George III. As he read his proclamation, the flag of the United Kingdom was raised.

But where, just where, did he raise that flag? I was told, via a throw-a-way line, ‘Oh, down in Loftus Street somewhere.’ Pardon? A significant event like this is ‘down Loftus street somewhere.’

BUT, IT'S TRUE!

There’s a Union Flag stuck on a flag-pole down Loftus Street somewhere.


And it didn’t manage to be stuck on that pole until 26th January 1967, after a Committee of Enquiry determined a definitive location. The two paintings above were executed 149 years apart, the one on the left being painted by William Bradley in 1788 and the one on the right, by Algernon Talmage in 1937. This and official correspondence was their evidence.

The final image is as much as I am prepared to show you of the flag and its location. I am sure that the Committee got the location right as much as absolutely possible - but it’s on a footpath outside the Customs House bar, and opposite the Paragon Pub.

On the other side of Loftus street there is a small park, the Jesse Street Park, and on the corner of Loftus and Bridge Street is Macquarie Place, the colony’s first town square. Either would have been preferable.

So, how exact do you need to be?