The great Australian artist wasn’t like other dads, says Bertie Blackman; he was ‘mysterious, majestic, absurd and wondrous’
Some of us feel stranded in our creative lives, as if we might be doomed to walk the hallways of imagination all by ourselves in the haze of our waking dreams. I knew from very young that I would never be alone in my journey through music, art and the labyrinths of thought; my father was always with me in my head and in my heart – traversing in parallel.
In the beginning he was there to teach me to sing Frère Jacques in French while gently advising my mother how to correctly skim the fat off a chicken soup. In the end we had our most profound conversations in silence; our eyes would draw out the narrative in the space between us and his pen would say all the rest.
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