‘Portraits Destroyed: Power, ego and history’s vandals’

2019, 248 p.

In Australia, we’ve recently witnessed the unveiling of the official portrait of a former Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, ten years after he quit Parliament. It’s certainly ‘different’- almost reminiscent of a Graeme Base picture book illustration with lots of small symbolic details and, yes, a cat. It must be odd, having your portrait painted- especially an official one, which is going to represent you for posterity.

Art historian Julie Cotter’s book Portraits Destroyed looks at the official portrait, or representation, and its reception (generally negative) from either the sitter him/herself or their family, or by later generations. I was not surprised that she has worked on documentaries on Australian art previously, because this book and its chapter structure would lend itself very easily to a documentary series. I can already see her wandering around an art gallery as host.

She starts by considering Winston Churchill, whose now-destroyed portrait is represented on the front cover of the book. I only remember Winston Churchill as a fat, jowly old man and that’s very much the way that artist Graham Sutherland depicted him in 1954. It was unveiled by Churchill himself at Westminster Hall on 30 November 1954, on the occasion of his 80th birthday where he announced it “a remarkable example of modern art” (an ambiguous description, given that Churchill himself was a landscape artist of a very un-modern type).

He would have expected a portrait of a face that flickered with his life: a face that reflected the tumult, the devastation, the glorious victories, the might of the British Empire that the twentieth century had experienced. He would have wanted us to recognize ourselves in his portrait- to hear his speeches to the masses to keep fighting, to remain strong and unite against Hitler, to remember where we were when armistice was declared, to mourn those we had lost. He was his own muse, absorbed by his achievements

Instead, he was faced with the image of himself as a ‘down-and-out drunk who has been picked up out of the gutter in the Strand’ he concluded to his private secretary Anthony Montague Browne.

p. 37

After its unveiling, the portrait was never seen again. It was said that, after his death in 1965, his wife Clementine had burned it herself. This wasn’t strictly true: it was too big for her to take into the garden to set alight to it, and instead Churchill’s next private secretary, Grace Hablin, arranged for her brother to help her move it to his house, where it was burned.

It is fitting that the chapter about Churchill should be followed by a chapter about Hitler, given that they were arch-enemies. In this case, she hones in on an oil portrait painted by Dresden-born contemporary artist Gerhard Richter in 1962, who drew his portrait from an image showing Hitler at Nuremberg in 1934, “in a moment of strangulated shouting, hysterically commanding, his face elongated and distorted” with his right arm across his body (p. 44, 45) It was exhibited for the first and last time in 1964, and then Richter (who had since defected from East Germany) destroyed it himself, probably by cutting it to pieces. Richter himself had joined the obligatory Hitler Youth, and his schoolteacher father Horst, was drafted into the military in 1939. When he returned, he was a broken man, unable to teach because of his Nazi associations. Richter’s uncles were killed, his mentally ill aunt was killed under the Nazi’s T4 program of large-scale euthanasia. Cotter suggests that Richter’s destruction of his own work allowed “the release of a stultifying hatred”, but could also have been because of concern about the work’s impact in 1962, when Nazi ideology still circulated.

Chapter 3 ‘Presidents and Dictators’ looks at American presidents: Hayes, Roosevelt -who had two portraits, one he didn’t like by Chartran, and another which he did by John Singer Sargent- and Kennedy; Stalin; Mubarak in Egypt; and Mugabe. Chapter 4 ‘Royalty and Nobility” looks at English and French royal portraits; portraits of Imperial Roman women, especially Agrippina, and the Egyptian portrayals of Queen Hatshepsut. The Medicis used portraiture to express their power during the Renaissance, with an interesting portrait of Bianca Cappello, who bore The Grand Duke of Tuscany an illegitimate son. Then there are the portraits of Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth I and the absent portraits of Lady Jane Grey. She then moves to the present day with over 150 official portraits of Queen Elizabeth II, including one by Lucien Freud, and the slashed portrait of Lady Diana Spencer which is now one of the National Portrait Gallery’s most popular exhibits.

Chapter 5 ‘Why Not Mao?’ returns to dictators, and I’m a little surprised that she didn’t place this chapter immediately after Chapter 2 which dealt with Hitler. As she points out, without wanting to lessen Hitler’s atrocities in any way, Mao was responsible for 50-80 million deaths if the Great Leap Forward is combined with the Cultural Revolution. Yet the West has not had the same resistance to displaying Mao’s image, and it is ubiquitous in China itself, (albeit, only by official portrait painters),looming over Tienanmen Square. She then explores Andy Warhol’s images of Mao, prompted by reading in Life magazine that Chairman Mao was the most famous person in the world. There has been little concern expressed about Warhol’s images, given the level of antagonism to portraiture of other leaders responsible for deaths on such a massive scale (p. 146)

Ch. 6 ‘Whitewash: Erasing Black History in the West’ examines the fraught issue of art representing black/white history. There was resistance to white artist Dana Schutz’s portrait of Emmett Till, murdered in the American South in 1955, when the rights of white artists to represent black people was brought into question. She explores the representation of Australian indigenous people by William Westall, who accompanied Matthew Flinders in 1801, and Tom Roberts’ representation of nineteenth century indigenous people in the Torres Strait. She discusses Mount Rushmore, U.S. Confederate statues, and John Batman’s statue here in Melbourne, and their removal or disfigurement, before moving on to the desecration of Eddie Mabo’s image on his grave (I did not know about this). Then there is the destruction of a mural representing indigenous political figures on the side of the Uniting Church’s Wayside Chapel in Bondi in 2016.

In her final chapter ‘Artists Destroy and Destroyed’, she looks at the disappearance of Benjamin Duterrau’s group portrait, the 5 metre long The National Picture, painted in 1840, which I had never heard of (I am familiar with his other paintings of Tasmanian indigenous people). She discusses the rivalry between Degas and Manet, and the reuse of canvases by Van Gogh and Picasso. She looks at the politically driven attacks on artwork, like Suffragette Mary Wood’s slashing of a portrait of Henry James by John Singer Sargent, and a similar attack by Anne Hunt on John Everett Millais’ portrait of Thomas Carlyle. Rolf Harris’ portrait of Queen Elizabeth II has disappeared from public view, along with his other portraits. Then we have the Spanish cleaning lady’s attempts to ‘touch up’ Ecce Homo by Martinez in a Spanish church, and the slow drip, drip of the wax portraits of Urs Fischer, created in order to be destroyed.

As you can probably tell, this is a discursive book that takes us to many paintings. Unfortunately, she has a limited of number of portraits included in the book, so you need to rely on her descriptions (I resisted the temptation to Google them). This was not as much of a drawback as you might think, because the book is more about the context and process of creation/destruction of the portrait, rather than the portrait itself. There is enough theorizing in the book to make it more than just a gallery-hop, and you are always aware that she is an academic/historian writing from a theoretical framework and informed knowledge. But thankfully it eschews the insufferable mumbo-jumbo that clags up a lot of writing about art, and is thoroughly readable and enjoyable. Now I just have to wait for the series on the ABC which I am sure will follow.

Rating 8.5/10

Sourced from: Yarra Plenty Regional Library

Six degrees of separation: from ‘Kitchen Confidential’ to….

It’s Six Degrees of Separation Saturday, the meme hosted by Kate at Books Are My Favourite And Best (see here). The idea is that she chooses a starting book, in this case Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, then you bounce off six other titles that spring to mind. Very rarely have I read her starting book, and this month is no exception.

Well, you make gravy in a kitchen, don’t you? (I’m obviously stretching for something to connect with ‘kitchen’). Paul Kelly’s book How to Make Gravy is fantastic. The book is a written version of his A-Z stage show, which extended over four nights, where he would choose 25 songs each night from his repertoire of over 300 songs. The book is in four parts, reflecting the four nights of the performance. The songs are presented alphabetically and the lyrics precede each chapter, bolstered at times by poetry by other poets (Yeats, Donne, Shakespeare), quotations from books, and definitions. Some of the chapters directly relate to the song; others are a form of mental riffing on his childhood and adolescence, a succession of marriages and breakups, drug addiction, diary extracts while on the road, reminiscences of concerts seen and performed. You can just dip into the book, put it aside, and come back to it later. I loved it. My review is here.

As Australians will know, the song ‘How to Make Gravy’ is about a man in prison ringing his brother a couple of days before Christmas, anticipating the family Christmas lunch that he will miss because he is in jail. My mind skipped to other books about people in jail. I read En El Tiempo de las Mariposas (In the Time of the Butterflies) by Julia Alvarez in the original Spanish, and it was such a strong story that I enjoyed- and understood!- it in spite of my language limitations. “Las Mariposas” was the code-name for the four Mirabel sisters, Patria, Minerva, Maria Theresa and Dede who, for different reasons and to differing extents, were involved in clandestine actions against the dictatorship of Rafael Trujillo (El Jefe) in the Dominican Republic in the 1950s. The whole of the family came under official suspicion, and two of the girls and their husbands and father were imprisoned at various times. The narrative of the book switches between 1994 in the voice of the remaining sister, Dede, and chronological chapters told in the varying voices of Minerva, Maria Teresa and Patria. Although based on historical fact, it is fictionalized. My review is here.

Sisters don’t always have to be geographically close, and that is the case in Favel Parratt’s There was Still Love which seems to be about two cousins in 1980 :- Malá living in Melbourne with her Czech grandparents, Mána and Bill, and Ludek, also living with his grandmother Babi in Prague, completely unaware of his cousin’s existence in Australia. It’s only at the end of the book that you realize the link between these two stories of grandchildren, wrapped in the love of their grandmothers. The two grandmothers were sisters, and by sheer happenstance, one ended up in the West and the other in the East. (My review here).

There are any number of books set in post-war Europe that I could have chosen, but I have gone with Anna Funder’s Stasiland. Funder, working as a journalist in Europe after reunification, was first attracted to investigating East Germany when a request for a program on the “puzzle women” was brushed aside by the television producers she worked with. These “puzzle women”, she later discovered, were employed to reassemble the papers shredded by the Stasi as the wall was falling, a task that
would take over 300 years at the current speed.  Methodical to the end, the papers had been shredded in order and shoved into a bag together, and so it was possible to piece them together and reveal the banality and the all-pervasive intrusion of the Stasi into the lives of East Germans. (My review here).

Bringing the world of espionage back to a more mundane Melbourne setting is Andrew Croome’s Document Z. ‘Document Z’ opens with an image instantly recognizable to Australians-of-a-certain age, even if we were not born at the time.  It’s the image of Evdokia Petrov on the tarmac of Mascot Airport, flanked by a burly man each side of her, clutching her handbag, hand across her chest as if she is heaving, with one shoe lost. The book is a fictionally reimagined telling of the Petrov defection from the perspectives of the participants- Evdokia, her husband Vladimir, Michael Bialaguski the doctor go-between and the various agents on both sides. Croome has obviously done his homework (occasionally a little too obviously) and I marvel at his courage in describing a time long before he was born that is still within living memory today- lots of scope for slips and false notes there. He captures well the sterility of 1950s Canberra with the claustrophobic and enmeshed atmosphere of the Soviet Embassy enclave. (My review here).

The Petrov Affair was very much an adult, politicized affair, but a more personalized view of espionage is found in Michael Frayn’s Spies. It is imbued with wistful, golden glow of L.P. Hartley’s The Go-Between or Ian McEwan’s Atonement. As in those books, the narrator (Stephen) in Spies also sees too much and yet doesn’t know what s/he is looking at when his friend Keith announces that his mother is a spy. So the boys snoop in her writing desk and follow her, and find more than they had bargained for. The story is told with humour and humility, and the adult Stephen is affectionately kind to his younger self and withholds judgment from him. It’s a very clever book. (My review here).

Well, given that I know absolutely nothing about Anthony Bourdain or Kitchen Confidential, I have travelled to 1950s Britain, East Germany, Czechoslovakia Australia and Dominican Republic- and an Australian prison coming up to Christmas. How fitting.

I hear with my little ear: Podcasts 9-16 November

99% Invisible. This program sometimes features episodes from other podcasts, and that’s what they’ve done here, picking up our very own Marc Fennell’s podcast Stuff The British Stole which is a joint ABC and CBC Canada production, apparently. The Fever Tree Hunt is a bit different from other episodes in that it’s not an artefact or artwork this time, instead it’s the seeds of the Andean cinchona tree. At this time, imperial expansion into tropical areas by the British, Dutch and French empires saw huge swathes of colonists felled by malaria. Despite the Peruvians’ best attempts to stop theft of the tree and its seeds, the European empires were all after it once it became known that its bark was a cure for malaria. In the end, the Dutch got it (although the British had a red-hot go, claiming they were seeking it for ‘botanical research’) and they cornered the market. Ironically, establishing huge plantations has changed the DNA of the plant as the hardiest specimens were all harvested, and it’s not as potent as it used to be. To round out the episode, there is an interview between Marc Fennell and Roman Mars, the presenter of 99% Invisible.

The Ancients Of course, Gaza dominates the news at the moment. I have looked at the devastation of Gaza City and wondered if there were any archaeological or historical monuments or museums there, and whether they are standing. Origins of Gaza looks at its 3000 year history, when it was part of the interconnected Bronze Age world. It has always been a contested landscape, with a string of invasions by the Egyptians, Assyrians, Greeks and more. The sand dunes keep moving and uncovering new artefacts and structures- but who knows what there will be left by now.

The Real Story (BBC) Argentina at a Crossroads. I listened to this before Argentina held its run-off election which was won by El Loco, Javier Milei. What a disaster. But what a basket case, too. 40% of the Argentine population lives in poverty, facing 140% inflation, and Milei presented himself, and had the appeal of being an outsider. Over most of the second half of the last century, there was a populist Peronist consensus, even though it shifted shape over time and different parties were in power, sustained by electoral sweetners like pensions, no tax etc. At the moment, Argentina is facing a brain drain amongst its young people: who knows what is going to happen next.

In Our Time. I read Germinal at university, and loved it. One of these lifetimes, I will try to read more of the Rougon-Macquart cycle of books (Lisa at ANZ Litlovers has done so and co-hosted a blog about it). But in the meantime, I listened to Melvyn Bragg (how old is he??) talking with Susan Harrow (Ashley Watkins Chair of French at the University of Bristol) Kate Griffiths (Professor in French and Translation at Cardiff University) and Edmund Birch (Lecturer in French Literature and Director of Studies at Churchill College & Selwyn College, University of Cambridge) on Germinal. Zola began his cycle in 1868, planning to write 10 novels which he saw as a form of documentary on French life in the Second Empire. He worked for Hachette (I didn’t realize it was such an old publishing house), and as well as being personally familiar with the poverty he depicts in some of his novels, he did huge amounts of field research. He chose different aspects of society: banks, markets, mines, the urban poor. Germinal deals with mining and miner’s lives, and in this book in particular he displays a strong sense of the body in such a dehumanizing environment. There has been later debate about whether Zola was a revolutionary or a reactionary, with the guests leaning towards seeing him as a reformist. There have been film and television adaptations of Germinal, which all have different emphases and politics,often reflecting the politics of the time.

Emperors of Rome Episode XCV The First Triumvirate We call the pact between Caesar, Pompey and Crassus ‘the first Triumvirate’ but there was no formal context for such a thing. They were acting extra-constitutionally, drawing on the influence and authority of their armies and the support of senators to ‘go around’ the power of the senate. Julius Caesar had became consul in 59BCE and sidelined Bibulus, his co-consul, and instead formed a pact with Crassus and Pompey that they would support each other. However, Crassus died in Parthia, and lost the standards (something which brought great shame upon him). Meanwhile, Caesar’s daughter, whom he had married to Pompey, died in childbirth, severing the family connection with Pompey. By the late 50s BCE, there were street gangs, no-one wanted to be consul, and the Senate had been burned down. In 49BCE the Senate ordered Caesar to step down from his military command and come home from the Gallic Wars. Caesar defied their authority, and crossed the Rubicon with his army- that’s the significant thing. Episode XCVI Dictator of Rome saw the end of the triumvirate, but both Caesar and Pompey were looking for one-man rule and that THEY would be the one man. Civil war broke out. Pompey went to Egypt, where he was beheaded, but the Pompeyan resistance to Caesar continued. In 49 and 46 BCE Caesar was appointed Dictator by the people (that’s important). In 45 BCE he was made permanent dictator -which was getting a bit close to being a king. The assassination of Caesar can be seen as a triumph for republicanism, but it only triggered another bout of civil war, this time with Mark Anthony and Octavian against the assassins. Caesar was deified (which was very unusual at the time) and in 27BCE, having defeated Mark Anthony, Octavian changed his name to Augustus as princeps and was given tributarian power. In Rhiannon Evan’s opinion, all of this was extra-constitutional, but that was largely because the political system itself led to blockages so that natural change could not occur.

Expanding Eyes I’m up to Books 5 and 6 in the Iliad. My god, there is a lot of fighting in the Iliad. However Episode 48: Diomedes, the Noble Alternative to Achilles. Hector with his wife Andromache and their son Astynanax looks at the human scenes in these books, starting with Hector, and we finally see some love instead of just war. Michael Dolzani gives a bit of background on the writing of the Iliad. Originally an oral text, it was probably written down during the time of Alexander the Great. There were 14 books in the original, although who knows why they are divided up in the way they are.

‘Afrodite’s Breath by Susan Johnson

2023, 338p.

Even though I have very much enjoyed Susan Johnson’s work in the past – I absolutely loved My Hundred Lovers (see my review here) and The Broken Book and enjoyed From Where I Fell (review) and Life in Seven Mistakes (review)- I wasn’t tempted by this book at first. I knew that it was about a writer taking her elderly mother to a Greek island, and I feared that it would be some sort of Eat, Pray, Love book (not that I’ve read it) or one of its many escape-the-quotidian-by-travelling-to-Europe clones.

But I was wrong on both counts. It is a memoir, rather than a novel, and it’s by Susan Johnson, so of course it’s going to be much richer than a travel memoir. I just loved it.

As a long-time journalist and successful-enough author (I think she under-rates herself) she decided to put her hand up for redundancy at the Murdoch-owned newspaper where she had worked for some years. With some back-of-the-envelope calculations she worked out that, with no need to financially support her now-adult sons, she could afford to retire if she lived carefully. She had travelled to Greece as a young woman, and one of the threads of her her novel The Broken Book involved Charmian Clift’s time on Kalymnos and Hydra. Her money would go further if she moved to Kythera, a Greek island that she had fallen in love with, and in her head it was associated with the bright sun of being a young woman with your whole life ahead of you. But she was now over sixty, the promises of her life had not been fulfilled, and as the eldest child and only daughter (as am I) she felt responsible for her now-widowed mother Barbara. She felt that she could not leave her mother, but what if her mother were to accompany her….. She asked Barbara if she went to Kythera, would she come too? And her mother said ‘yes’.

And so they went, but it did not turn out as Susan expected it would (do things ever turn out the way you think they will?) Although Susan fell in love with a house that found online and managed to lease for a full year – quite a feat in a community with a large, lucrative tourist influx ‘in season’- her mother disliked it from the start. Far from being the sunlit, balmy island of her dreams, it was cold and her Brisbane-bred mother hated the cold in a house with no heating. She didn’t like walking, and although neither of them could speak Greek (which surprised me, as Johnson’s text is sprinkled with Greek words), Barbara had no interest in learning it. They managed to break the lease, and took another house further north, which Barbara preferred although, like Johnson, I wonder if it was more that she had a choice over this house instead of her daughter organizing it ahead of time. By this time, spring had arrived and it was warmer and Susan threw herself into the life and traditions of the small village in which they lived, while Barbara participated tepidly and largely kept herself apart. Eventually it is decided that Susan will accompany Barbara to London where she will meet up with her son, and travel with him back to Queensland. While Susan missed her company (because she truly does love her mother), you can sense of sigh of relief.

And so, not really a lot happens in this book. So what kept me opening it up with relish, night after night, and my regret when it finished? Part of it was a rather perverse curiosity about what would go wrong, and when- dementia? the dreaded ‘a fall’? a passionate love affair out of left field for mother and/or daughter? But it was also Johnson’s own self awareness of the Faustian-bargain she had entered into with her publisher that helped to finance their trip: that she would finish the edits on the book that ended up as From Where I Came, and that she would write this book – her memoir of “A mother and daughter’s Greek Island adventure” as the subtitle rather forlornly ventures. How would she depict this stubborn, complaining woman, whom she adored? What if there was no “adventure” but only a grapple between mother and daughter that laid bare all the compromises, micro-aggressions and resentments of many mother/daughter relationships.

The book takes a turn at the end, as COVID makes it impossible to return home as Barbara’s health deteriorates. We all know, unless Fate is perverse, how mother/daughter stories end and so there was an inevitability about the finale, and yet there was a surprise there too. For me, I was left with a sense of a circle closed, a rich love of a daughter for her mother, the psychological integrity of both these two, separate women, and a deepening of my own reflections about mothering and daughtering, aging, travel and home.

Susan Johnson is just slightly younger than I am, and I have always found that her books speak to me, and that they seem to capture where I am at the time of reading. I do wonder how a younger woman would read this book, though. Part of me feels that it is only with age, and the sense of having moved on beyond being a child against an older, more beautiful mother, that a reader can stand outside the Susan/Barbara relationship and observe. For a ‘woman of a certain age’ as both Johnson and I am, this was a really satisfying and perceptive read.

My rating: 10/10

Read because: It was there on the library shelf, and I have enjoyed her other work. But reading about a writer, I felt a bit guilty borrowing it from a library, though (public lending rights notwithstanding). When Johnson talks about her own writing and success, I didn’t quite register how personally an author takes sales figures.

I hear with my little ear: Podcasts 1-8 November 2023

Literature and History. I’ll be doing the Christmas service at my Unitarian fellowship, and even though I know I’ll end up working on the service the night before, I have started thinking about what I’m going to do. I usually have a historical bent to my services, and this time I’m thinking of looking at the historical context into which the Nativity story was embedded. This led me to Ep.76 Judea Under Herod. (You can get the transcript here). Herod was a client king under Roman rule who reigned over the province of Judea between 37 and 4 BCE, at a time when the Republic was tearing itself apart and re-forming as an Empire. We know Herod through the story of Jesus’ birth and death (and to my shame, I thought that it was the same King Herod involved in both, but it wasn’t- they were father and son). None of the historians writing at the time, even Josephus, mention the Massacre of the Innocents, which you’d think they would, if it happened. King Herod was first appointed governor of the backwater territory of Galilee in 47BCE as a result of his father’s connections with Julius Caesar. He was not a popular choice: he was ethnically Idumean and not Jewish, his father had been embroiled in Jewish civil wars and Roman campaigns against Judea. When Herod’s father died and after aligning himself with Mark Antony and Octavian, he was appointed King of Judea, but the Jews didn’t want him, preferring a home-grown Hasmonean king instead. Herod was pretty ruthless: executing his enemies, confiscating their property and even killing family members who threatened him. Apart from that (a big qualification), he put Judea on a strong economic footing, he rebuilt the Second Temple (even though it was still standing albeit profaned by the entry of Roman troops in 63BCE so think of it as Temple 2.5) but it was destroyed by 70CE except for the Western Wall. As a client King, Herod needed to manage competing demands while being essentially powerless. He did manage to keep Judea intact instead of being swallowed into Syria. He had nine wives, and after he died, the kingdom was divided in three and ruled by three sons, one of whom was Herod Antipas, who was the one who ordered the execution of John the Baptist and did nothing to stop the execution of Jesus. It was Herod Agrippa II who ended up dealing with the Apostle Paul. All these Herods! No wonder I was confused.

History This Week Chasing Utopia tells the story of Bronson Alcott (father of Louisa May Alcott) who along with Charles Lane established Fruitlands, a Transcendentalist utopian community, in Massachusetts in 1843. It never really expanded much beyond the two families, and when the men went off to try to get new members, they left his wife Abby May and her daughters to bring in the harvest alone. She increasingly resented Lane’s domination of her husband, and in the end she wrote to her brother, telling him to stop funding the farm and threatening to leave with the children. Eventually, it was Lane who left and a few months later, Bronson and his family left too. So much for Utopia.

Emperors of Rome It’s time to go back to the Emperors of Rome podcast. I take up again at Episode XCIV A Republic Worth Fighting For After Sulla died in 78BCE, the Senate didn’t want to undo his Senate-friendly moves. There was a string of strongmen in the 70sBCE: Crassus, Pompey and then Julius Caesar. Both Crassus and Pompey came up through the military, and both of them had armies behind them. In 70BCE they were made consuls, even though officially Pompey was too young (although by this time, who needs rules?). He was seen as the ‘efficient one’, cleaning up the Slave War, Pirates and King Mithridates, the latter meaning that Pompey finally got the triumph he had been hanging out for. There were extremists in the Senate, like Cato, and the ‘new men’ coming into the Senate. Cataline came from the ‘right’ sort of family, but he was rejected as Consul and so he riled up the disaffected. The existing Consul, Cicero, found out about the plot, and summarily executed the men who were plotting but not Cataline, who escaped. This came back to bite him five years later, when he was put on trial for acting beyond his powers and was exiled.

Conspiracy Theories. (I can’t believe that I’m listening to a podcast called this) Failed Conspiracies: Cataline Conspiracy In the first century BC, there was stiff competition to be consul. Cataline was from an old family but very ambitious and strategic in his search for power. Cicero, on the other hand, was an outsider and a brilliant lawyer. There was rivalry between the two men for a Consul position but Cataline was beaten twice for the position. In 63BCE Cicero learned of a conspiracy to overthrow and assassinate him from letters that had been delivered to Crassus outlining the plot. Cicero had the ringleaders executed but Cataline escaped with his troops, who were attracted by his populist policies, especially amongst ex-military men and heavily indebted farmers. Cataline’s army was defeated and Cataline died a traitor. The presenters then indulge in a bit of ‘what-if’ history that goes too far. What if Cataline had won instead of Cicero? Well, we wouldn’t have had Cicero’s letters, which were all written after the conspiracy and rediscovered by Plutarch. The Roman empire might have turned socialist- and what would the Founding Fathers do with that, given that they modelled America on the Roman Empire. Hmm. Stop already.

By unattributed – William A. Crafts (1876) Pioneers in the settlement of America: from Florida in 1510 to California in 1849[1], Pioneers in the settlement of America: from Florida in 1510 to California in 1849. edition, Boston: Published by Samuel Walker and Company, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17689791

History Hit. To celebrate Halloween and All Saints Days, History Hit revisits The Salem Witch Trials. Europe had gone through its witchy stage in the 15th and 16th century, especially when the Protestants took up the idea, but after a wave of executions, it went out of fashion in Europe. But not in Salem though, where the Puritans (who were out of fashion themselves) were living on a hostile frontier, didn’t like women and believed in Satan- a bad combination. During the witch trials, 200 people – including some men- were accused and 20 died. Some of the accused were adolescent girls, who were given an otherwise unattainable degree of power through their accusations, and rich widows who had land. Eventually, there was pushback from the legal system when they rejected spectral evidence in 1696, and when Europeans were askance that the colonies were still looking for witchcraft, which they had discarded decades earlier.

Expanding Eyes continuing on with Books 3 and 4 of The Iliad. Episode 47 The Contest Between Paris and Menelaus to settle the issue of who gets Helen. What was Agamemnon thinking at the start of Book 3 where he told his men that he was giving up and going home? He was nearly trampled as the men rushed towards their boats, eager to go home after 9 years fighting the Trojans. He was just testing them, but they took him up on it. Perhaps Homer wrote this to show his weak leadership. Paris was the first to propose that he and Menelaus duke it out between them, but then he chickened out when Menelaus took him up on it and he had to be goaded into action by his brother Hector. When Paris was getting beaten, Aphrodite flew down, swept him up, and deposited him in Helen’s bedroom. Actually, the gods are pretty ambiguous here- no-one actually saw Aphrodite do it- and when Helen decided that she’d gone off Paris after all and wanted to go home to Menelaus, Aphrodite rounded on her and terrified her. Book 4 is mainly of fighting. Dolzani comments on the complexity of Helen: she seems quite regretful about leaving Menelaus but then she gives in and sleeps with Paris. (I don’t see any great complexity here, personally. Women do what they have to).

‘Killing for Country’ by David Marr

2023, 432 p.

This is such a clever title. Subtitled “A Family Story”, the title works on several levels. “Killing“- who is killing here? Indigenous people killing families, shepherds and hutkeepers in defence of country as the waves of ‘settlers’ and ‘squatters’ sweep across the continent? Or the white officers of the Native Police who turn the other way and let their ‘boys’ of the Native Police loose killing men women and children of other tribes? Or the Native Police troopers themselves, far from ‘country’ and with no links to their victims? Or white squatters and settlers who ride alongside the Native Police, or who distribute poisoned flour and meat? “Country” as used by indigenous people as their spiritual connection? Or ‘country’ as used by white settlers as land to be used; or a political entity to be defined and defended internationally? And “a family story” – David Marr’s own family through genealogical connections of which he was unaware until relatively recently? Or ‘family’ as the protagonists sought and maintained their positions through the networks of connections which bound together the British Empire? This book is all of these and more.

I’m sometimes wary of biographies written by descendants, whose familial connection has been the impetus for the book, and whose depth of research imbues the topic with a significance that it might not necessarily have, in the big picture. In this case, though, Marr leaves the family connection largely to one side to write narrative history which is broad enough in its scope to draw on larger historiographical arguments, while maintaining its focus on his protagonists Richard Jones and the Uhr family brought into Jones’ family orbit through his wife Mary, without laboring (indeed, not even mentioning) the family link. These are important – if increasingly infamous (largely due to this book)- people in their own right, with entries in the Australian Dictionary of Biography.

Richard Jones was a merchant, who along with Alexander Riley, had a monopoly on importation to the early NSW colony, which made him for a time very wealthy and politically influential. Like other successful businessmen of the time, he invested heavily in sheep, which gave him an interest in squatter politics in the insatiable hunger for new lands, and which led to his bankruptcy during the economic downturn of the 1840s. However, with some canny land sales and disguise of his ownership in the names of his wife, brothers-in-law and children, he maintained sufficient wealth to support his inclusion in the Legislative Council of the day. There, despite his quietly spoken ways, he formed part of the conservative power-block that thwarted governors and exerted pressure on the Colonial Office to maintain the hold of the squatters on huge leased swathes of land.

It also gave him the connections to have his brothers-in-law and their families, and their sons placed in positions of authority as magistrates and, most importantly for this story, as Officers of the Queensland Native Police, as were Reg and D’Arcy Uhr, Jones’ grandsons. Instituted in 1848 on a model first established in Port Phillip, this force never numbered more than 100 at its peak, headed by 10-14 ‘gentlemen’ officers and half a dozen officer cadets. The officers would stay with the force for five years or so, where they were well inculcated into the methods and ethos of the Native Police, and were then appointed as magistrates, who drew on this knowledge in ensuring that the Native Police remained politically protected. Sometimes the Officers themselves were involved in massacres or ‘dispersals’, other times they would simply direct their troopers to chase down indigenous groups and would close their ears to the gunshots that would ring out in the bush. As a matter of policy, these indigenous troopers themselves were always sent far away from their own country, so that they would not see their victims as brothers and sisters, but as strangers.

What made them strange and dangerous to each other was being away from their own country, the country that made them who they were. Here was a deadly conundrum. While officially denying their connection to land, colonial authorities would rely on that profound attachment

p. 174

Marr does not even attempt to explain or explore the motivations of the indigenous men who joined the Native Police. As he says in his acknowledgements, this is “not my story to tell. I leave it in better hands.” (p. 415) He does say that they were often – but not always- trapped, kidnapped, threatened at gunpoint. Their desertion rate was high, and while settlers were happy to draw on their ‘services’, they were often feared and despised by white society. The legal position of the Native Police was left deliberately opaque by the colonial government and its courts: they were never issued with written instructions and euphemisms like ‘collision’ and ‘dispersal’ and ‘dealt with’ pepper the official correspondence. But it had its own inexorable, if legally dubious, logic:

…pioneer settlers are entitled to protection; blacks attack whites without reason; they grow more dangerous when left unpunished; imprisonment holds no fears for them; chastisement must be swift to be effective

p. 376

Bolstered by the political power of the squatter lobby, of which Richard Jones was a member, colonial governors did not enforce the leasehold and sale agreements that proclaimed that the indigenous people of an area retained right of access to pastoral land for hunting and sustenance. Each governor had protection of indigenous people as part of his instructions when he was sent by the Colonial Office: none of them managed to enforce it. The Colonial Office had stared down slaveholders and the slavery shipping interests elsewhere in the empire (largely through financial reparations which charged further colonial land acquisition), but they did not dare to take on the NSW squatters. There were landholders, ministers of religion and philanthropists who protested the actions of the Native Police, but they were largely ignored or silenced. The Uhr brothers, as officers of the Native Police, could draw on their family connections through their father and grandfather, and marriage connections with Premiers and politicians, to escape censure again and again and again.

Meanwhile, the voracious appetite of pastoralism, and later mining, was not to be sated. Land was eaten out by sheep, so the pastoralists kept moving ever outward, coming to further ‘collisions’ with traditional owners, as they moved across the map. Marr’s book is illustrated with pen and ink drawings of individuals, but also with excellent maps that showed the traditional owners of territory, with rivers and stations marked, often with a skull to show massacre sites spreading across New South Wales, Queensland, Northern Territory and even over into Western Australia right into the twentieth century.

This is excellent narrative history, told with Marr’s deft turn of phrase. It is well researched, with references cited according to page number at the back of the book. I regretted the absence of a bibliography: it’s just too hard to comb through pages of references to find the original publication. In her blurb on the front cover, Marcia Langton notes: “If we want the truth, here it is as told by David Marr.” In his afterword, Marr writes:

The maths is indisputable: we each have sixteen great-grandparents. Reg Uhr was one of mine. I don’t believe he’s tainted my blood. I don’t believe I am responsible for his crimes. But when I learned what he had done, my sense of myself and my family shifted… We can be proud of our families for things done generations ago. We can also be ashamed. I feel no guilt for what Reg did. But I can’t argue away the shame that overcame me when I first saw that photograph of Sub-Inspector Uhr in his pompous uniform….It embarrasses me now to have been reporting race and politics in this country for so long without it ever crossing my mind that my family might have played a part in the frontier wars. My blindness was so Australian.

p. 407,408

The failure of the Voice referendum notwithstanding, truth telling continues. This “bloody family saga” is Marr’s own contribution. He suggests that one day there might be a statue in Canberra to commemorate the Native Police, who are already recognized in the Australian War Memorial Act as a military force of the crown. A statue in bronze, perhaps, of a white officer and a black trooper. And on the plinth? ‘The Native Police in the conquest of this country killed untold thousands. We remember them’.

Yes.

My rating: 9.5/10

Sourced from: review copy Blackink Books.

I hear with my little ear: Podcasts 23-31 October

The Rest is History. 352. Amsterdam: Kings, Canals and Coffee Houses is the second part of Tom and Dominic’s Amsterdam podcast, and yes, they’re still dragging around that Wise credit card, spruiking it at every occasion. They start by revising the first episode, pointing out the paradox that Amsterdam citizens were obsessed with privacy and domesticity and inward-looking, but also that they looked outwards to commercial expansion. They start at the elite Herengract canal, one of the three canals constructed during the expansion of the city in the 17th century. They then move to the huge Royal Palace, which was originally built as the City Hall. The Netherlands were a republic, but they brought back descendants of the House of Orange as their Stadtholder, and when William III of Orange took over power in Britain, it was the merging of two huge commercial cities, London and Amsterdam. During the French Revolution, Dutch republicans welcomed the French until 1806 when Napoleon installed his son onto the throne, and the City Hall was transformed into the Royal Palace. The King returned after the fall of Napoleon, but the building remained the Royal Palace.

They then stop off at the Portuguese Synagogue, built in 1675. Just as Amsterdam turned a blind eye to the Protestants, so too with Jewish emigrants, many of whom came from the Iberian peninsula when the Inquisition started up. By the 1930s, 50% of the Amsterdam population was Jewish. In February 1941 Amsterdam staged the only public protest against the Nazis, when the unions protested both against forced migration to work in German factories, but also the treatment of the Jews. The Jews in the Netherlands had the lowest survival rate in Europe. Although France and Belgium were liberated, it took until 1944 for Holland to shake off Nazism, and 1944 became the Hungry Winter. Their final stop is the Sex Palace in the Red Light district, and although this might seem incongruous, they argue that this is both a reaction against Nazism as well as another manifestation of the blind-eye liberalism that had accommodated Protestants and Jews in the past. But they suggest that this hyper-liberalism has been pushed to its limits with anxiety about drugs, antisocial Hens Night behaviour and Islamic extremism.

The Guardian Podcast Today in Focus. Although the podcasts I received through the Guardian are usually Australian, this episode from 23 October took up a program from the UK Guardian called How a contested history feeds the Israel-Palestine conflict. Although it could have started anywhere in antiquity, this episode starts with the Balfour Declaration in 1917 which supported a national homeland in Palestine for the Jewish people. During WWII there was an increase of Jewish immigration to Mandate Palestine, and following the war, Britain handed Palestine over to the United Nations. 56% of Palestine was to go to the future Jewish state, while the Palestinian majority, 66%, were to receive 44% of the territory. But the creation of Israel was contested from the start, with the UN vote recording 33 for, 13 against and 10 abstentions. War instantly followed the declaration of Independence, and Israel won increasing their borders even further by declaring nearly 78% of Palestine as Jewish, and expelling 700,000 Arabs out of Jewish areas in the Nakba. With the rise of Arafat and the PLO, the world (and they themselves) came to think of them as Palestinian rather than ‘displaced Arabs’. The Six Day War in 1967 was a huge victory for Israel, although Israel was nearly defeated (at first) during the Yom Kippur War in 1973 after which right wing parties took power. The first Intifada during 1987-1993 was violently suppressed. The Oslo Accords did not mention a separate Palestinian state, and they were rejected by a majority of the Palestinian population, and far-right Israelis. They were followed by a second Intifada during 2000-2005. By now there were three types of Palestinians: those who lived in the West Bank; those who lived in Gaza; and those who lived in Israel but did not have the vote.

The Guardian Audio Long Read Justice for Neanderthals! What the debate about our long-dead cousins reveals about us. I have lost track of how many types of human beings there are now- half a dozen and growing. Out of the various types of hominin, Neanderthals were the dominant type between about 400,000 to 40,000 years ago (which is an incredible thought now that 65,000 years of indigenous habitation in Australia seems to be the accepted number.) The first bones were discovered in 1856 and they were named ‘Neanderthal’ in 1863 (‘neander’ was Greek for ‘new man’ ‘thal’ for ‘valley’) . They were commonly represented as slouching but in 2016 the evolutionary biologist Clive Finlayson commissioned forensic artists Kennis and Kennis to create ‘Flint’ and ‘Nana’ which gave them a far more familiar human appearance. However, this podcast argues that archaeologists are making much of very little, with no new discoveries of bones since the 1970s, although from the archaeological evidence they have deduced that neanderthals walked erect, hunted big game and knew how to control fire. DNA has shown that 600,000 Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens had a common ancestor. There has been an explosion in recent publications emphasizing our common humanity, although is this merely projection? Are they like us or different? Does the question of ‘dignity’ which engages so many current Neanderthal-promoters reveal more about us than Neanderthals?

Expanding Eyes After listening to the podcast about Achilles, I decided that I should read The Iliad. I decided to listen to it. The second chapter nearly finished me off and I was listening to a clunky copy of a CD which required me to keep jumping from track to track. So I have settled for listening to You Tube readings of the Iliad, which although not as mellifluous as the CD, are easier listening. I found this podcast where Michael Dolzani, a retired university professor who studied under Northrop Frye, examines various classical and religious texts. He has a series on Homer’s Iliad. They’re good: it’s just like attending a lecture, complete with the rustling of his notes. Episode 44 (actually, there are two Episode 44s, but that’s a mistake) Ep 44: Introduction to Homer’s Iliad starts by talking about the discovery of Troy in present-day Hisarlik Turkey in 1871 by rich amateur archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann and Frank Calvert, who owned a nearby farm. We don’t know anything about Homer himself (except perhaps a reference to himself as a blind bard?) and we don’t even know if there was a Trojan War, nevertheless Schliemann used Homer’s book to locate where he thought Troy might be. The Iliad was written in Homeric Greek, which is different from the Attic Greek which arose later. It was an oral poem in a society that did not use writing except for business, and it was a performance rather than a text. It was probably written between 750-700 BCE, a time of decline for Greece, which adds to its elegiac tone in looking back to Greece’s better times. Book 1 starts in the middle of the action, with Helen in Troy where she had been taken by Paris ten years earlier.

Episode 46 (there is no episode 45 because episode 44 appears twice) is called The Heroic Code of Honor and the Result of the Quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. The Iliad starts off with the word “Rage”, a contagion which spreads all the way to Mount Olympus. We start off with the crisis of a plague sent down by Apollo after nine years of fighting between the Trojans and the coaltion of forces for the Achaeans, led by Agamemnon, the king of Mycenae. Dolzani distinguishes between a ‘shame culture’, where men are driven by the need for status in their peer group, and a ‘guilt culture’, like ours that is driven by individual conscience (although societies combine elements of both). Was Achilles a sook when he lost his war-trophy wife Briseis to Agamemnon, and then got his mother the goddess and sea nymph Thesis involved? Not really. But Thesis getting Zeus to agree to let the Trojans win to sooth Achilles’ hurt feelings but Zeus in a difficult position. Amongst the gods, his wife Hera hated the Trojans because Paris didn’t choose Hera in a beauty triumph and she gave her husband Zeus a hard time when he promised Thesis that he would let the Trojans defeat the Achaeans as payback to King Agamemnon for taking Achilles’ wife. So Zeus couldn’t really let the Trojans win but he could stretch it out and let the Achaeans suffer for a while. And this is why so much of the Iliad is taken up with fighting- something that would have meant much more to Herod’s listeners (many of whom liked hearing about the exploits of their ancestors) than it does to us.

‘The First Astronomers: How Indigenous Elders read the stars’ by Duane Hamacher with elders and knowledge holders

2022, 266 p.

The very first sentence in the preface of the book puts its argument right there, up front. “The First Astronomers challenges commonly held views that Indigenous ways of knowing do not contain science” (p.1). For me, I don’t know if it achieved this aim, although as the most un-science-y person you could ever meet, I’m probably not the right person to discuss the philosophies of science, or philosophies of knowledge. I was not at all surprised that indigenous people have knowledge of the skies – that they ‘read’ (both in past tense and present tense sense of the word)- the stars,moon and climate phenomena. This is knowledge in terms of making sense of the universe and man’s place in it; of finding the rhythms of the universe, and of marking time and making predictions. But is it science? I guess it depends how you define ‘science’, and I probably lean towards the post-Enlightenment and western idea of science being replicable, falsifiable, separate from the individual, and systematic. I’m not sure that the knowledge Hamacher provides, through his indigenous informants, matches these adjectives. I find myself wondering if the question is not so much ‘Is indigenous knowledge scientific?’ but more ‘is our definition of knowledge broad enough?’

He uses ‘indigenous’ broadly supplementing the Torres Strait knowledge which he gathered as part of his own academic career, with indigenous knowledge drawn from cultures across the globe and history. Again, not surprisingly, there are similarities in the stories that pre-modern cultures world wide have developed and read into the star patterns- for example the ‘dark emu’ formed by the dark nebulae clouds of the Milky Way amongst Australian indigenous people is mirrored by the celestial rea (a bird similar to an emu) amongst the Tupi people of the Brazilian Amazon and the Moquit people in Argentina.

The book is simply written, which I appreciated in the more technical parts, although even then my eyes tended to glaze over. However, this simplicity also contributed a flatness to the narrative which, although broken up at times with Hamacher’s own anecdotes (e.g. losing his bearings in the outback despite being quite close to his base camp), felt rather prosaic and far removed from the splendour above that was inspiring his work.

The work is valuable in terms of presenting a breadth of knowledge that has been largely discounted as ‘myth’, and the exploration of the same phenomena explained by different stories across the globe highlighted our common humanity. But I feel as if he was trying too hard on proving its scientific (in the formal, academic sense of the word) credentials, instead of perhaps exploring whether the term ‘scientific’ is broad enough to capture the nature of knowledge more generally.

My rating: 6/10

Read because: Ivanhoe Reading Circle selection for September 2023. Their open meeting featured Duane Hamacher himself, attracting a large audience.

I hear with my little ear: Podcasts 16-23 October

The Rest is History Episode 369 The History Behind Hogwarts: Ancient Schools and Revolting Students looks at the history public (i.e. private) school in England. it’s ‘public’ because they are open to anyone who can pay, and this differentiates them from ‘private’ tuition at home, apparently. It’s a follow up from the earlier episode about Harry Potter. Originally public schools were conducted by charitable trusts. William of Wickham, himself the son of the peasants who ended up in the court of Edward III, started the first one. During 14th century they taught reading, writing and Latin and they were set up as cathedral schools. During the Black Death, when maybe 1/2 of the English population died, William of Wickham was worried that there were not going to be enough priests so he established New College, Oxford, and Winchester. These schools provided an ascetic, monastic environment. They were intended for poor, but clever, students but “special friends” of the school were accommodated as well (i.e. they paid). A century later Royal Patronage was extended to Our Ladye of Eton, and Merchant Taylors School, established in 1561 offered a more rounded education including sports. There were no few girls’ schools, and those that did exist were closed during the Reformation. By 1700s public schools were corrupt, violent and offered a poor quality of education. Drawing on a sense of Tory libertarianism, students rioted, killed animals, hazed newcomers and the system of fagging was a form of abuse. Many of the boys from this environment went on to be ‘Empire Men’ in positions of authority throughout the Empire – who knows what they took with them from their schooling. The episode draws a lot on David Turner’s book The Old Boys: The Decline and Rise of the Public School which sounds interesting (available online SLV).

History Extra: One Day in the British Empire. This new book sounds fantastic- it’s by Matthew Parker and it’s called One Fine Day: Britain’s Empire on the Brink. He takes 29 September 1923, the day when Britain took over the Palestinian mandate, which made it the day on which the British Empire was the largest that it would ever be (things started to fall apart pretty soon afterwards). He takes the British Empire as a whole, and by consulting newspapers, Colonial Office correspondence received and sent on that day, and novels from right across the empire, he illustrates the diversity and complexity of Empire. What a brilliant idea- I hope that he executed it well. (And I might just have to read it to find out if he did).

BBC Global News Podcast. This is my go-to listening when I wake up in the middle of the night. I don’t usually include it here because the podcast is, as you might expect, too topical and by the time I post this summary, things have moved on. But they had an excellent segment called Gaza Special: Your Questions Answered and it is well worth listening to, even if it’s not the middle of the night.

‘Together’ by Julie Cohen

2018, 352 p.

The book starts in Maine in 2016 with a death: that of eighty-year old Robbie, who awakes, untangles his limbs from those of his sleeping wife of decades, Emily, gets dressed, writes her a farewell note, then goes down to the ocean to die. He is a retired boat builder, father and grandfather, and his memory is failing him. He is confusing generations, losing things, feeling as if he is in a fog that descends without warning, obscuring all familiarities and, he fears, loosening secrets that he and Emily have held tight for years.

The book then goes backwards to 1990, when Emily’s mother dies and, despite years of rejection from her family, Emily returns to her native England for the funeral. Nothing has changed: the anger and hurt that has alienated her from her family still remains. While she is away, Robbie’s estranged, alcoholic son William returns, much to the delight of his younger teenaged half-brother Adam, who barely knew of his brother’s existence.

Another jump- this time to 1975-77 where the childless Emily and Robbie adopt Adam as a four-week old baby. Robbie has lost contact with his son William, from an earlier marriage, and as an obstetrician/gynecologist, Emily is heartbroken that they have no children. When an opportunity comes to circumvent the bureaucracy and waiting lists, they jump at it – only to find out that perhaps it is not what it seemed.

Back three years to 1972 when Emily and her first husband Christopher return from a stint of medical work in Bolivia, joining her family on a holiday in Florida. Suddenly she encounters Robbie, after nearly ten years separation and they are instantly drawn to each other, prompting huge changes in everyone’s lives.

And finally, back to 1962 where they meet for the first time and fall in love. It is an instant, overwhelming attraction that is to last for fifty years.

I can’t really say much about this book because of spoilers, but the backward trajectory of the narrative gave you an opportunity to get to know Robbie and Emily, from their old age forward, so that ‘the secret’, when it is revealed, needs to be held up against everything else that we have learned about their life together. I thought that she captured Robbie’s dementia well, and the powerful attraction that they exerted on each other, right from the start, is well described. It is a bit Mills-and-Boonsy – how could it be otherwise?- but I think that Cohen showed real skill in controlling the backward plotting which is such an important part of the book.

My rating: 6.5 / 10

Read because: CAE bookgroup.