Thank You Mum
Last week, my French-Canadian writing teacher told us a story about his parents visiting from Canada. They weren’t so impressed that he had moved to Melbourne and set up shop here. They thought Melbourne might be a bit of a backwater in the cultural ebb and flow of the world. When they eventually came to visit him in Melbourne, he took them to the National Gallery of Victoria, which we locals know as the NGV on St Kilda Rd. They were surprised they could enter for free. Apparently, in most of the rest of the world you have to pay to enter a national art gallery. Can you imagine?
Once in there, he showed them around and after some time, they found themselves in front of the Impressionist paintings that the NGV owns and displays.
‘Are these real Impressionists?’ his parents asked, disbelieving.
‘Yes,’ his simple reply.
In his telling, it was at this moment that he could see his parents realising that he was never going to leave Melbourne.
He told us this story as my Creative Writing class prepared to catch a tram down St Kilda Rd, to go and visit the NGV. Because we are the luckiest, most privileged people in the world, our classroom task that day was to wander around that beautiful, free, modernist gallery and look at world-class art and make up stories. I can still hardly believe that this is my life now. I told Raf later that this was always something I had dreamed about doing.
Chatting to my classmates as we cloaked our bags and jackets (cloaking is also free), I discovered that a couple of them had never been to the NGV before. There was a young woman from Mexico who had only been in Melbourne for a few months, so ok. There was another young hipster who had moved over from Perth about five months ago, so sure. Of the more local crew, many of them had visited the gallery once or twice when they were kids but had not visited again as adults.
Whaa?
Walking into the gallery that morning, I was flooded with memories. Simply passing the iconic water wall at the entrance had all my young selves rushing up to laugh and giggle and share their memories with me. I was 3, I was 5, I was 12 – all the countless, literally uncountable, number of times I had stood at that wall with my mum or my grandmothers, fingers pushed up against the glass, astounded every single time when the water flowed down my arm and wet my clothes. I think that water wall is one of the greatest pieces of public art in our city. I am still surprised and delighted, more so every time in the encroaching surveillance state we live in, that I can simply walk up to this glorious waterfall and stick my fingers in it without someone telling me off. In fact, touching the wall is exactly what we’re supposed to do!
Once inside the NGV, I wandered into the Great Hall and again, the rush of previous selves overwhelmed me. I remembered the feeling I used to get, still get, of coming to the opening of a new exhibition, excited at what potential delights and wonders are waiting for me in the body of the building. I remembered the times as a young adult I had lain on the ground, resting for a moment in the cool, calm expanse. I remembered being so grateful that the Great Hall was a place where a person could go and just be. A place where you could lie your body on the carpet and look up at the stunning mosaic and simply dream for a moment. Where you’re allowed to be silent and social, both at the same time. I remembered the times I had brought my kids to the Hall when they were little, how they were always so amazed they could run wild in that space and no-one would stop them. Falling and tumbling over each other, simply allowed to be around art and be happy and embodied and free. What a gift to give little boys. I remembered Friday Nights at the NGV, sitting with my adult kids, listening to music and drinking wine together.
And always, when memories of the NGV arise for me, I remember the night my mum and I met Diana.
My mum was a lot of things, a bunch of many different jumbled and opposing things. Like all the varied handbags she owned, she could be Charles Jourdan gorgeous, Nike tote bag sporty or old shopping bag practical. Her whims could change as fast as Melbourne’s weather and what was once acceptable and desired could be rejected and discarded in an instant. She was a confused and confusing parent to a younger me.
And she was also a doorway to Art.
In the adventurous hippy days of 70s and 80s Melbourne, our mum took my brothers and I to puppet shows and circus shows, to outdoor art festivals and strange music events. Famously, I was even taken to the Sunbury Music Festival when I was only three!
In her later years, Mum also had a membership to the NGV, and this provided her with a rare chance to meet a princess. I was fortunate enough to go along with her that night, and I remember standing maybe three deep in one of the bright, white, wide gallery spaces as the elusive princess wafted between the crowds. Standing beside Mum, surrounded by so many sequins and so much silk, I remember thinking that fairytales could come true. Princess Diana was so truly beautiful, so truly radiant and demure, it was like a movie had come to life. I remember the Princess’s tailored blond hair, her magnetic smile, the way light seemed to coalesce around her. She was walking slowly, waving and nodding at people. Then she came over to where Mum and I were standing silent and enthralled. She looked directly at my beautiful mother, a queen indeed in her own strange underworld, and the Princess gave her a regal nod – maybe like recognising like. My mum and I both instantly dropped into awkward curtsies, at the same time almost fainting with joy. In the store of memories I have of my mum, good and bad, this is one I will treasure till I die.
A few years ago I bought myself an NGV membership. I have it for my own sake, because Art makes me happy in a way nothing else does; there’s a part of my soul that can only be filled by staring at an oil painting. I also do it for my kids’ sake, to remind them that Beauty is worth fighting for, in and of itself. I do it for the NGV of course, may it be forever free and accessible.
And I do it for my mum, to honour her memory and all the good things that she did give to me.
Thank You Mum, I hope you’re well. I don’t miss you so much anymore but I hope wherever you are, you can watch princesses walking by and there’s great art on the walls.
Happy Mothers’ Day x