Melbourne in the Fifties

The ancient wisdom of the enneagram—that diagram of two inter-locking triangles within the circle that graphs the magic power of seven—suggests that for a creative act or new configuration to take place, there must be an element of the unknown to animate the known elements. There we were in Melbourne in the fifties, the new wave of painters, class of 1928, with those active figures of the forties art revolution who had not been swept away by the end-of-decade diaspora to Europe, needing some steering, some ship in which to sail, some destination of intent.

Europe gave it to us, movers of the new force, disguised as the arrival of a salesman for Continental Chicken Noodle soup and a Parisian seamstress. Georges and Mirka Mora came from the heart of that war-wounded Europe which we, in our protected isolation, were only slowly coming to understand. Both Jewish, Georges had worked in the underground, living on grapes (for which reason he never ate fruits or took country holidays thereafter), smuggling people out to Switzerland and, later, managing camps of displaced children. Mirka had fled by night with her mother from Paris and spent her girlhood years hidden in the forest, emerging a mistress of invention untainted by formal education. After the war they frequented the Parisian theatre world but yearned for a new life away from the dark shadows. A toss of a coin brought them to Melbourne—Singapore’s loss.