ALEC HOPE - A RECOLLECTION
By Jenni Mitchell
[Above] Jenni Mitchell and Alec Hope at the opening of poets' portraits exhibition Victorian Writer's Centre.
(Photo by unknown photographer, 1989)
Alec Hope was a special person in my life.
I first met Alec in 1982 when asked to be his host during his five-day visit to Eltham as guest of the Montsalvat National Poetry Festival.
I was 26 years of age and an art student at RMIT (then known as Phillip Institute of Technology). I knew little of Prof. A. D. Hope, except that he was acclaimed internationally and was Australia's most famous poet. I was to care for him for five days and had no idea what to do with him.
He slept in my mother's house, which is on the same property as my own. Grace had the spare room - my small timber cottage had only four rooms. We live within walking distance of Montsalvat.
Each morning, after breakfast with my mother, Grace, Alec would wander up through the connecting orchard garden to my place. He didn't want to spend a lot of time at the festival, preferring instead to stay in the cottage by the fire in conversation or sitting for me in the studio for the portraits I subsequently painted.
The first portrait depicted a serious 'professor' sitting erect and stern in a grey suit. I painted him initially as much to pass the days as to capture his image. I was in awe of his greatness: the emeritus 'professor' who had a building at the Australian National University named after him.
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We worked together for several days, in the intimate space a portrait sitting creates, and allowed our friendship to develop. Alec would walk his mind through his eyes along the path of the Little Desert track in the painting that hung behind me. We talked about art, poetry, and the Australian countryside.
He had not travelled into the desert. He listened to me talk about my feelings for the great wild landscapes of our country; I listened to him talk about his work and life as a poet.
Towards the end of the last sitting, my mother walked into the studio; it was summer and she was wearing her red sun hat. Alec reached out and grabbed the hat from her, placing it on his balding head.
He looked comical. 'Hold it there,' I commanded. I took a small canvas and 20 minutes later had finished another sketch of Alec. He later referred to the first painting as the 'long sketch for Alec in the Red Hat'. We both liked the 'red hat' sketch best; it was more like our new friendship, loose and whimsical.
Alec invited me to his home in Forrest, Canberra, where I was fortunate to meet his wife, Penelope, on several occasions. She was a wonderfully dignified woman who sat tall and supported the poetic Alec in all his greatness and devilry. |
[Above] Alec with portrait, Vic. Writers Centre, Fitzroy, Victoria, Australia (Photo by Jenni Mitchell, 1989)
Sadly, she died suddenly in 1988. Her unexpected death was a blow to Alec who was visibly greatly shaken. I returned to Canberra to stay with Alec and painted him again. This time the portrait was not of a professor, or the light-hearted Alec, but of a lonely man.
There was a large emptiness in his house. He loved peace and quiet; but he also loved people and good conversation with a glass of wine or some of his special 'Scottish medicine - just a finger, please - and water'…
I began to visit Canberra as much as I was able, and in turn Alec would come and stay in Eltham. 1989 was a particularly good year for visits. Alec had introduced me to many of the Canberra poets whom I later painted for my series of Australian Poets. It was during this time that I realised I had the beginnings of a series. Alec encouraged me to complete the series and publish the work as a book of portraits and poems.
During this period I painted several Canberra poets: Judith Wright, Bob Brissenden, Rosemary Dobson, Geoff Page, Mark O'Connor, Alan Gould, Anne Edgeworth and John Rowland.
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Returning home to Alec's place after a day of painting I would often find him in the kitchen with an apron around his waist stirring a pot - he would smile proudly over the meal he had cooked for us. There were many dinners with Alec: we talked often about his daughter, Emily, and her art and sculptures - sometimes I would sketch him after dinner. Sometimes we would visit other poets for dinner or invite them back to Alec's. Some of the warmest moments were spent with Rosemary and Bob Brissenden either at Alec's or at the Brissenden home.
Other poets we would visit together were David Brooks and Niki Stasko and Mark O'Connor and his partner Jan. Alec was a large man and was becoming increasingly unsteady on his feet. He suffered from diabetes and found it difficult to walk at times, particularly after a good night out. Too often, as I took his arm to steady him, I lost him and down he would go. Sometimes we would both end up on the ground! I would feel awful; I was trying so hard to 'look after him'. Fortunately, he never did injure himself in these embarrassing moments. He would think it funny as we struggled to get him back on to his feet. |
[Above] Alec and pear tree, Canberra, ACT, Australia. (Photo by Jenni Mitchell, 1991)
On one occasion we fell in front of the audience attending an outdoor poetry reading at Montsalvat. It was during his first stay with me in Eltham. We had finished painting for the day and went back to Montsalvat to listen to a reading. I steered Alec the wrong way and realised that if we walked up the stairs in the direction we were heading we would come out onto the makeshift stage, so we decided to 'hop' over the low stone wall and onto the grassy lawn where the audience was gathered. He had one leg successfully across the wall, he put his weight on it to bring the other leg over but his stick gave way and down we both went, into a bed of periwinkle. For the moment we stole the show as we tumbled; all that was hurt was my pride.
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Another time I dropped him on the dance floor. At a later visit to Eltham, I had decided to take him along to my favourite band that was playing locally: Sirocco. He enjoyed the music and wanted to dance. We did well - briefly.
Alec often talked about the importance of an artist or a writer devoting their life to their work totally, and how important it was not be sidetracked by other issues such as politics. Alec came to stay in Eltham again prior to the Eltham Council elections. I was being lobbied to stand in my riding as a councillor. I had previously been involved in community battles with the council over a road that was planned to cut through parkland, and other issues. Because of the time involved in community action groups, my own work had suffered and I nearly failed Art school - I was on the end of the phone instead of the paintbrush. Alec did not approve. Several community members came to ask me to stand while Alec was with me. He sat on the couch during their visits. |
[Above] Jenni Mitchell and Alec Hope at the opening of poets' portraits exhibition Victorian Writer's Centre (Photo by unknown photographer, 1989)
After each of the them left he would ask - ' ... and did you succumb?' and I would reply 'No, Alec, no'. 'Good,' he would say. Unfortunately, he left too soon and eventually I did stand for my riding. Later, when I had won the election, I had to explain this to Alec. It was not easy - he was so strong in his views about art and politics not mixing. There were times when I felt I had to step outside the creative working environment to stand up for what I believed. Alec was right, political activity can be detrimental to one's art. When I look back on the years I recognise that I spent years in political fighting instead of total immersion within my painting or writing. In the end Alec was disappointed but supportive of me doing my time as a councillor - as long as it didn't take over ...
He had been critical of Dorothy Green for her political involvement - Alec could see only how much more writing she could have done ...
Among the small perks of becoming a councillor were occasional conferences in Canberra, which meant more visits to Alec. He didn't mind that.
Intrigued by Alec's background involvement with the controversial Ern Malley Affair and the Angry Penguin's magazine editor Max Harris and Barrett Reid, Shelton Lea, a Melbourne poet, and I decided to set up an afternoon tea meeting for the literary rivals. Alec had not met Barrett for 40 years. Barrett was living in Bulleen, near to Eltham at Heide - previously the home of John and Sunday Reed.
One sunny afternoon I drove Alec across to Heide where Shelton and Barrett were waiting. Shelton and I waited in the garden as the two men drank their tea. They had a pleasant afternoon together.
There were times when I saw little of Alec; my work would take me elsewhere. But he was always there, as an encourager and supporter and I will miss him. When I drove back to Melbourne from Canberra, he would ring me in the evening to make sure I had arrived home safely - saying that he had imagined where I was on the road during the day, Holbrook, Mullengandra, and Albury, Wangaratta... In turn, I would think of him whenever I drove the Hume Highway, particularly around Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra. In his poem Country Places he writes:
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It is Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
And there at the Last Day I shall retire.
And
I shall lie beside a willow-cool meander, or
Cut myself a fly-whisk in the shade
And from Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
Fill my cup and whet my whistle unafraid.
... I shall hear the she-oaks sough at Mullengandra
And the Sweet Waters ripple into song:
... Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
For its name and for my sake the Lord shall spare.
And the last two lines question:
Even Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra,
If I went there now, would it live up to its name?
Well, Alec, I believe it has. It always appears bright, lush and green but easily missed by a careless traveller. It is in a valley flanked by rolling hills with European deciduous trees, poplar and willow - there is a tranquillity; and, for me, the spirit of Alec Hope. |
[Above] Alec Hope, O'Connor, Canberra, ACT, Australia. (Photo by Jenni Mitchell, 1991)
Although he suffered an illness that dragged on for years, his presence was always alive. It was more than sad to visit him in the Canberra Nursing home and to find him without the essence of his life, books and artworks. He had only his rich inner world. He used to record his dreams in a book beside his bed.
I visited him about a year ago and was warned that he would not know me. This was not the case. He was lying on a couch bed in a room surrounded by other elderly people who were in varying stages of deterioration. When I approached Alec I didn't recognise him. He had a full beard and was thin and emaciated. It was difficult to talk to this person who was supposed to be Alec.
I put my hand on his chest and said, 'Hello Alec, it's Jenni Mitchell. I've come to see you'. Then I knew it was Alec. The most beautiful smile creased across his face through his white whiskers. I kept touching him and talking to him as if nothing was different. After a while he responded by taking my hand to his lips and kissing it. I told him that that was lovely. He responded by taking my hand again and putting my fingers inside his mouth - he brought his jaws together and bit me hard. Hard enough to draw blood. This, I felt, was punishment for not coming to see him earlier. Also, it was a sign of the strength that he still had - it seemed that the rest of him was disappearing, but somewhere in there was a lot of strength.
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A week before he died, I was in Canberra to paint Michael Thwaites and went to visit him with Anne Edgeworth. She told me that he was not responding well. He had just had a bout in hospital and was brought back to the nursing home after recovering. By now, he was not at all the Alec I once knew. His few natural teeth were worn and black, his beard was long and the skin on his head was flaking. He was obviously unwell, but he was also very old.
I announced my visit, and again, through the fog came the sweet happy smile from behind his beard. (He refused to allow the nurses to shave him). He was refusing food too. We were with him when lunch arrived: a mush of potatoes and pumpkin and something green.
Anne tried to feed him; he screwed up his nose and turned away with tightened lips. He knew what was going on ... he didn't want it. She tried to give him a drink. The same thing happened. After a while, the nurse brought around a jar of Sustagen. I talked with him. 'Come on, Alec, it's good, etc ...' and he began to drink. He drank the whole cup. The nurses were impressed. |
[Above] Portrait of Alec Hope by Jenni Mitchell. (oil on canvas 1989 30" x 36")
Tears escaped from my eyes as I began to feel so helpless looking at my old dear friend. I held his hand under the rug that was draped over him. His hands were cold and I could feel only bones with the skin loosely hanging over them. I caressed his coldness and after a while felt a response, his hands warmed slowly and he moved his fingers over mine. We were communicating again. I continued to talk to him as we used to in the old days; every now and then, he would smile and an instant light of happiness would flash across his face. Then it would be gone again. Twice, he opened his eyes and looked inside me and I knew he recognised me.
I had always had the number 93 in my mind when I thought of Alec, and when I asked the nurse how old he was and she said 93 ... I shivered and thought that yes, his time had come. It was a week off his 93rd birthday when he died. It was close enough. I felt terribly sad the day he died, when Anne Edgeworth rang to tell me. Later that night I didn't feel so bad. He had had a long life and a slow death. He used to talk to me years ago about how all of his friends were 'popping off' and he was still here. Now I feel happy for him to have finally made the trip to the other side - wherever that may be. There is no more pain, no more laying around on a trolley to be wheeled in and out every day with only the inner world for amusement.
Seeing him lying in state was important. I knew then that he had truly left his old and worn-out body. I wonder now where he is. Is he free? Is he with Penelope and his many friends who 'popped off' before him?
Alec will be remembered for a lot of things, particularly his work as a poet and a critic. I will remember him as a warm and special friend.
About the Writer Jenni Mitchell
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Jenni Mitchell is best known as a painter of the Australian landscape and of Australian poets' portraits. She has travelled extensively throughout the inland regions of Australia, particularly the Flinders Ranges, Lake Eyre and Tibooburra. Jenni has visited the Wimmera and Mallee regions of Victoria frequently, and is interested in the Little Desert and Mt. Arapiles. Jenni's series of poets' portraits is another project involving historical documentation, commenced in 1981, since 1981, over ninety paintings have been completed to date. Portraits include such notable poets as Prof. A. D. Hope, Judith Wright, Les Murray, Dorothy Porter, Chris Wallace-Crabbe, and Geoffrey Dutton. The portraits are to remain together as a permanent collection. They have been loaned for various exhibitions including a six-month touring exhibition of Tasmania, and will continue to be exhibited in part or in total. Publication of a book is planned, once the series is complete. Jenni has had more than 30 solo exhibitions throughout Australia, and has been included in many group exhibitions. Her works are represented in public and private collections in Australia, and overseas, including USA, UK and Japan. |
[Above] Photo of Jenni Mitchell by Lawrence, 1998.
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