Herman and Manning

In 1972, after a long absence, I returned to Australia with my newish Belgian husband.

It was to be a brief visit and, of the invitations we received from old friends, my husband—I will call him Herman, for this was his name—decided that he would live, in a World War Two parachute erected as a tent, on the property of the historian Manning Clark, in the beautiful New South Wales coastal region of Wallaga Lake.

He painted there for several months. I stayed in Victoria with my two older children, whose father had died a decade before, and my two babies, eleven months between, with the accompanying chores of baby-nurturing, whilst their father, Herman, played Gauguin on the coast 700 kilometres away

Manning, a storyteller of some merit, and Herman, with tales of his own, entertained each other and Manning took some interest in his companion’s Flemish nationalist leanings. I learned of their eccentric exchanges from friends and the occasional letters from Herman to the distant wife and children one state away.

When I received a request, with an extensive list and instructions, to make the ten-hour drive with my babies to deliver canvases, paints and brushes, I was still young enough, and in love enough, to comply. On arrival, I slept most uncomfortably on the wooden plank that was to bed us all.

Manning was in evidence and brought oysters from the nearby reef to be washed down with a fine white wine. I witnessed some stormy conversations in the parachute while trying to settle my children on their bed-plank. Herman lapsed into Flemish when talk grew heated over the nature of matter or political circumstances during the Nazi occupation.

Herman painted throughout while Manning filled in the silences. At last, Manning returned to his comfortable bungalow and his welcoming wife, Dymphna, while we settled down to the comfort of our plank bed with our grizzling brood.

With the new supplies I had delivered, Herman set about painting four large works for a series with the working title Jesus Christos in Australia. Manning took a fancy to the first one and, before it was finished, offered a reasonable and tentatively accepted price.

Manning visited his painting regularly, offering suggestions about the work in progress. The painting featured the coastline that stretched out beneath the land owned by Manning. There were the three Crosses, with animals, kangaroos and such, gathered around.

Manning’s daily visits were soon curtailed by the artist, who wished to complete the painting without distraction and have it dry in the time it needed, being an oil painting of many layers.

Finally, after several weeks, Herman wrapped the huge painting in blankets and, due to its weight and size, made a rope harness and, so straddled, stumbled through the scrub up to the Big House. He was keen to deliver and receive his fee. Money had run dry for the Flemish Gauguin, and his wife, who was again one state away, was a little less in love and could no longer be persuaded to take on the dogsbody task of bringing in supplies.

The painting was so heavy that Herman barely got it into the house, but there it was at last. As he took off the blankets, he expected Manning to demonstrate some pleasure at the perfection of the work, for Herman knew it was the best he had ever done.

Instead the man, from under his wide-brimmed hat, twisted his face in irritation. The beauty of the work was evident but Manning’s face had dropped in petulant disgust.

Herman, ever sensitive to the reactions of others, turned his palms heavenward. “You are not liking the painting?”

Manning answered in exasperation, the disgruntled teacher admonishing his student, making a fuss. “You have not signed it! I cannot be expected to pay for an unsigned painting!” He continued for some time in this fashion before he realised that the painting had been hastily draped, dragged through the flywire door and, despite its weight, was disappearing into the bush.

A month or more went by. No communication took place between the parachute and the Big House. Finally, after hearing that Herman had completed his series, Manning made his way down there, with money in his pocket and a quiet-man demeanour.

Herman was packing up his materials. The painting in question stood to the side, covered in its old blanket shroud. New paintings stood on a homemade easel; these were the others in the series, a vibrant triptych, filling the entire space. Manning gave a barely perceptible gasp at the vastness of the work.

He passed a fistful of money to Herman and began to remove the blanket from his acquisition.

He saw, understood, howled and smiled, all in the same instant.

The image of the painting could still be seen, profound and luminous, but over the entire canvas, in thick oil, was the signature that Manning had found so important: Herman.

I often wonder, forty-five years later, what became of that painting.

Manning Clark died in May 1991, perhaps still wearing that wide-brimmed hat.

Herman died in August 2017, buried in the mud of his backyard in Santiniketan, in India, with a simple wooden cross, and although he had long ago forgotten who he was, it was marked with the single word: Herman.

Lin van Hek, a writer and painter, lives in Melbourne.