AFTERWORDS: THE UNSENT LETTERS
Unknown photographer, Ian Fairweather’s house and studio (detail). Gelatin silver photograph. Courtesy QAGOMA Research Library, Brisbane.
Unknown photographer, view from the interior of Ian Fairweather’s house. Gelatin silver photograph. Courtesy QAGOMA Research Library, Brisbane.
Unknown photographer, view from inside Ian Fairweather’s kitchen and outhouse, and his collection of driftwood sculptures. Gelatin silver photograph. Courtesy QAGOMA Research Library, Brisbane.
Unfinished letter (two pages), Ian Fairweather to Helga Macnamara (Pippa), written in green Texta pen with mud map drawing showing Bribie, Moreton and Stradbroke Islands. Lawrence Daws collection. © Fairweather Estate. Letter 346.
Unfinished letter, Ian Fairweather to Helga Macnamara (Pippa), written in green Texta pen. Lawrence Daws collection. © Fairweather Estate. Letter 354.
THE UNSENT LETTERS
IAN FAIRWEATHER was cremated and his ashes scattered in the glade of Bribie pines that marked his home. He bequeathed his real and personal estate to his niece Rosemary Waters, the daughter of his beloved sister Queenie, and left a significant legacy to Alroy Fleming, who had made daily visits to him and attended to his various domestic needs. Following Fairweather’s death, representatives of Rosemary Waters, sole executrix and trustee of the artist’s estate, removed paintings and other items of value from his dwellings, including two signed paintings found under his mattress.
Despite protests from local supporters, the estate, working with the local council, determined that Fairweather’s huts would be destroyed. Before they were dismantled and burnt on the council tip, his friend and fellow artist Lawrence Daws salvaged from among the artist’s possessions the letters that appear in the following pages. Written to his nieces and nephews including Pippa, his favourite, the letters were undated and never sent. They form a poignant epilogue to a life that was lived in self-imposed exile yet was defined by the inescapable bonds of family. These letters stand too as an elegy, the painter’s farewell to Bribie Island, his home and sanctuary for a quarter of a century.
346. To Helga Macnamara
Dear Pippa– What can I tell you has happened–? Really nothing!–To me that is!!–The same beautiful sunsets through my Bribie Pines–I begin to realise how lucky I am to have this location–I am near a road–but can see no other houses–I could be very isolated–But people come–They used to be bad people–I dont know where they got such people–to come and see me–but they weren’t friends–That I did know–But they came!!–Not many come now! for which I am grateful
Though it is nice to have visitors–
Most of my animals–and there were so many before the bridge was built–have gone–!!
Over the bridge came the civilisation–
and that was another story–in which I feel I have no part–
Do I make any sense to you–I wonder–?
[Page 2: mud map showing Bribie, Moreton and Stradbroke islands, with directional arrows to the South Coast and Brisbane]
347. To Audrey Miller
Dear Audrey– I have at last discovered your address–under a mess of papers–and I want to Thank you for writing–!
Forgive me that I have lost it–
If you can–!! !!
But now having found it again–I salute you–Please accept my salutations–Our family was Normon–I dont know which side we were on–Presumably with William the Conqueror1–So we have survived–
Audrey Hazel Miller (1913–2011). A niece of Ian Fairweather, born in Arequipa, Peru, the only child of Arthur Fairweather and Lelia (née Chapman). Raymond C. Miller was her third husband. She later married George Shaefer.
_____________
1 William the Conqueror, the first Norman King of England.
348. To Helga Macnamara
Dear Pippa– I have just been writing to Jersey–Our only living connection with the islands–Audrey! But Audrey what? I have forgot1–So have to write to Susan–but where? 2 You would hardly believe–from what depths I have had to dig up the name ‘Belgrano’–But at least I have got it and the Xmas letter is on its way–! So perhaps communications are, or will be soon–repaired–
I have even forgotten the name of your friend Col? who has just called here–I wish he didnt have such a muscular wife–
But he comes from Buderim–near where the Balsa rafts landed–and his name was–? No!!–there is where I pass out!! but will get back to it–He was in Shanghai when the Japs were bombing Chapei and I was filling sand bags along the Soochou Canal–Where my house was–Whenever I try to think of his name I think of Col. Walcott–who was the companion of Mrs Blavatski–the author of The Secret Doctrine3–no connection at all.
But give me time–I will get round to it
Yes, after a nights sleep–it is Pollard
he has aged a bit but seems to have got over his stroke–and can use his right arm–The Government I hear are opening another large block of land–the south end of the island–I dont know how that will effect me–not for sometime, anyway–
I am wondering if you will see the Comet about Xmas time–They say we will see it here–in the Southern hemisphere almost as bright as the moon–but of course I have already forgotten its name–and now to bed–Thank you for all the nice letters you have written me–
and I hope our correspondence will continue into the New Year–
Yrs always–
Ian Fairweather
1 Audrey’s third husband was Raymond Miller. Her change of names may have confused Fairweather.
2 Susan Lelia Osborn-Smith (née Kluever, b. 1940), Audrey’s daughter, was born in Oruro, Bolivia. She lived with her husband Roland Osborn-Smith in their Jersey home ‘Belgrano’.
3 H. P. Blavatsky, The Secret Doctrine (1888). Helena Blavatsky and Henry Steel Olcott were among the founders of the Theosophical Society in New York in 1875. Olcott was its first president.
349. To Cedric Fairweather
Dear Minou–
I hope you see the comet, Kahoutek–
I hope it doesnt hit us–though it is headed straight for us–
If we survive we may see some spectacular fireworks–
Wishing you all the best–
I am ashamed to admit that I have just discovered a large envelope addressed to you. under a mess of papers–
It should have gone years ago–
but send it now–forgive me if you can–
This is not a very civilised island–and it was still when I came to it the way nature had made it–
Now it is joined by a bridge to the mainland–
The animals have all gone–
We still pay toll for the bridge–which we never asked for–
at least I certainly did not.
Well Well. Yrs Ian
Cedric Francis Sinclair Lauwick (Minou) Fairweather (1920–85). A nephew of Ian Fairweather, born in La Bachellerie near Bordeaux in France, the son of Harold Fairweather and Ghyslaine Henriette (née Lauwick).
350. To Audrey Miller
Dear Audrey– Thank you for writing–I only wanted to tell you how much I admired your handwriting–and wonder who passed on to you–‘the gene’–
All I can suggest is a mythical Uncle David–from Breechen1
Anyway you are one of the Blest
and I wish you luck
Yrs Ian–
[A line encircling a stain, inside which is inscribed:]
Fish and Chips
apologies–
1 The unmarried eldest brother of Fairweather’s father, James.
351. To Helga Macnamara
Dear Pippa– The Comet–it hasn’t come!?
Not a good start for the New Year–
It begins with a flop–
Still it has begun–that is Something–
Another flop! Ian A in New Zealand writes that he is coming to pay a visit
I write to advise him not to–
thinking what can I offer him–?
Some gin and bitters–??–But on second thoughts–there is Col Pollard–not far off–there are some friends who live in the Glasshouse Mountains and have a View–!!! of the strange peaks–that once were volcanoes1–then there is the ginger factory, no longer does ginger come in those Chinese jars–We make our own–but alas not the jars 2–However Something to see!!–and our countless acres of pineapples which nobody knows what to do with–But some genius, I hear is producing a liquer–from the essence–which promises to be good–
1 The artist Lawrence Daws and his wife, Edit.
2 The Merrybud Ginger Factory, Buderim.
352. To Helga Macnamara
Dear Pippa. I dont seem to have written or heard from you for quite a long time
I hope you are well–and all is well with you–I have been expecting a visit from Ian A in New Zealand–He said he was coming–but I wrote to put him off–
It is a long way to come and I have nothing to offer him–except Gin–and I fear he has been put off
Now I am regretting it–He writes a nice letter–and sends me English magazines Audrey Miller–Arthur’s daughter–writes sometimes from Los Angeles–She is a natural born calligraphist–but has taken to using a type writer
I do hope you will never take to that [darn] machine–
The comet Kohoutek–never arrived
But the Cyclone Pam–did arrive1
We have been nearly drowned in rain–Fortunately none of my trees (Bribie Pines) were blown down So a car can reach me and bring food–Tinned food–which can get terribly boring–I am really learning a lot about cookery–But I find it is hopeless to aim at any particular dish–I start with a stew [but] what it will turn into–there is no name!! the only criterion is if I can swallow it–!!–or not–I wis[h] somebody could do something about these pineapples–They cover all the arable ground–for miles around here–and they are almost uneatable–
I hear someone has produced a liquer from their juice–
I read of Amelia Erhart–who somehow vanished over Howland Is–
Something must have gone wrong2
1 ‘Pam Slams the Coast’, Courier-Mail, 7 February 1974.
2 Amelia Earhart (1897–1939), American aviation pioneer, disappeared in July 1937 over the central Pacific Ocean en route to Howland Island.
353. To Helga Macnamara
Dear P–We are being destroyed by pollution–Bribie that once was famous for its wildflowers–has now been planted over with an imported quick growing pine tree that makes the pulp–to feed this insatiable paper mill–Our daily evening paper has grown to 70 sheets or more–
I refuse to look at it–!
The vast shoals of mullet that came every year about this time and were netted in tons–Not one comes now–The thousands of black swans that lived in the passage–the Giant turtles that came up to blow at one–The Dugong–the original mermaid–who made our choicest hams–All are a thing of the past–Poisoned by the effluent from this God damned paper mill
354. To Helga Macnamara
Dear Pippa How to keep alive–?
‘down under’??–But it is not the same as with you–You still make sense–
Bottom upwards we dont make sense at all!!
The trouble is that everything has to be cooked–and who does the cooking?
