Rubies and Lemons

                                                      In the summer of 1983, I was in London, from Melbourne, on a 12-month Travelling Fellowship, which eventually turned into 18-months. In the months before I left Australia, I had written to a number of well-known British artists, whose work I admired, stating that I would be in London shortly, and that I’d welcome the possibility of a meeting. I received a few replies. One was a postcard from Derek Boshier, which featured one of his then recent paintings - an image of a naked cowboy floating against a lurid black and orange sky. It read, “Hi Steve, Unfortunately, I now live in Texas, so will be unable to meet you for now. But I may be in London in a few months. Perhaps we can meet then. All Best Wishes, Derek.” He had interspersed his text with small line drawings of heads in profile. Another of the postcards I received was from Patrick Procktor. It featured an C18th painting from the National Gallery. It read, “Hello Steve, Yes, do

     In 1835, one-hundred and twenty-six years before my birth, James Pratt and John Smith were hanged for sodomy in front of Newgate Prison, London, before a jeering crowd. They were the last British men executed for this ‘crime’.    In 1861, ninety-six years before my birth, the penalty became imprisonment from 10 years to life.      In 1957, in the year before my birth, the Wolfenden committee issued a report that recommended that the laws against homosexuality be relaxed. Until that moment gay men were routinely sent to jail from between 7 years - often with hard labour - to a life-sentence. During the 1950s it was very common practice for police to break down men’s doors and arrest them in bed with their male lovers. Neighbours routinely reported men to police if they suspected that they were receiving amorous male visitors to their homes. It was a time of dread. Gay men very often killed themselves, once ‘found-out’, rather than face the rest of their lives living with the shame

    It seems ironic that within a Melbourne exhibition examining the legacy of the late, radical Australian artist Mike Brown, a new work of art should have been found offensive. It is significant that the gallery in which the work was hung, Linden Centre for Contemporary Art , has not defended the artist or his work which, according to a NAVA spokesperson, does not seem to contain anything that is actually illegal. Instead, it immediately closed the exhibition with no explanation, effectively also censoring the work of the other artists in the show. The gallery’s position following the seizure of the work is a stark reminder that the freedom of expression which artists should be able to take for granted in any democratic country is steadily being eroded here.   Art can only mirror the culture which produced it. It shows us all the positive aspects of humanity: but it is also the duty of art to examine the uncomfortable dark stuff about being human. Sometimes art will be troubling,

      In 1871, two young women walked across the saloon of London’s Strand Theatre (now the site of Aldwych tube station). Their gorgeous satin dresses rustled and shone in the gaslight. They had made quite a commotion in the private box where they’d sat leering at the men in the dress circle. Their loud voices and giggles had caused some in the audience to angrily shush them. Already tipsy, they now proceeded to guzzle sherry and brandy at the bar. A small crowd of men gathered around as they imperiously preened and fluttered. They told their new admirers that their names were Fanny and Stella. The Strand was a renowned pick up place for men wishing to engage prostitutes of both sexes, and the bold young women were clearly touting for business. After half an hour of drinking the women drunkenly wobbled out to their carriage. They called directions to the cabbie, but before the cab could move a policeman let himself in the door and sat down. He told the ladies that he was a police

  In the manner of a novelist, you have spent a considerable part of your career inventing and refining a fictitious island society – ‘The Islanders’. Can you tell us the background to this project? The Island emerged from a state of confusion, or disorder.   I had various pursuits: I loved drawing, but I needed a reason to do it; I was also writing; and I had an interest in mathematical philosophy in general. Although I knew intuitively that these different areas were connected I was having trouble making them coherent – I was already an exhibiting artist and I had become acutely aware of the standardising forces in the art world. I wanted to keep my practice as open as possible, to retain the freedom. This is when I hit on the strategy of creating a space to contain the ideas and formalise their relationship. The Island provides that freedom – although it demands a rigour and level of devotion which, when I am suffering, make me wish I’d never started. I feel as though I am simul