Responses to the Geelong Writers Ekphrastic Challenge #3
We invited everyone – members and non-members alike – to respond to our Professor Lewis image and we publish the best entries below, for your enjoyment.
We thank all those who accepted our invitation to submit to us using up to 300 words, an original response to this image (‘Professor Brian Lewis returning to Melbourne from a trip to Turkey, greeted by architecture students in oriental costume,’ 20 March 1951, published in Argus, 21 March 1951, p.5. Photograph courtesy of State Library of Victoria) The image can be accessed here.
We publish below the work of the following contributors, and congratulate them on their submissions, which variously offered comments, in seriousness or in jest, on arrivals and departures, the personal and the geopolitical:
Catherine Mahar Edward Reilly Ian Stewart David Bridge
Geoffrey Gaskill Howard Osborne Gail Griffin Steve Gray
David Jones Deb Lucas Dulara J. Pauline Rimmer
John Margetts John Heritage Hilary Guest Adam Stone
Bev Blaskett Allan Barden Julie Edmonds Jason Taylor
Surprised by happiness
He lay back in his seat, exhausted by the flight from Turkey to London via Vienna, then on to Australia with Qantas’ hops from London to Athens, Tehran, Bombay and Singapore. (He wished the wretched girl would bring him the brandy he ordered). So tiring and all, really, for that one lecture in Ankara. Were the bloody Turks even interested in his theories of concrete rot in earthquake zones?
The rest was dross. The going away party, the endless hops to London, a meeting at The Bartlett, plenty of stuffed shirt chaps priding themselves on their ghastly buildings. Of course, he saw his old friend, Stanley Heaps, stayed the weekend with him. Different fields, a pragmatic sort of chap, Stan, but clever in his design of the London Underground.
Down to Istanbul and Ankara. The fleshpots of the Near East. His useless secretary was overwhelmed by the delights to be had by a young man. There was the loss of his speech paper, the disappearance for two days of the damned young man, the messages taken but not passed on, the hired car that never arrived, the cold, wet spring that hung on. He was minded to think of Eliot’s poem. Perhaps he wasn’t the Magi, bearing gold, myrrh, and frankincense, only theories of concrete rot but his journey had unravelled in much the same way as it had for the three kings.
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of year
For a journey, and such a long journey
It had been a hard journey, as it was for the kings. He…but here they were, at Essendon Airport. He rose, straightened his tie, climbed down the six steps from the Douglas D2, and his heart quietly leaped in great happiness.
- Catherine Mahar
Build, build & build
‘Build, build & build! Build them high!’
So said Lewis descending the silver steps.
‘The Turks have towers scratching the sky,
Whilst Melbourne is a lowly morass!’
His acolytes cheered as he descended, godlike,
Music charming their undergraduate breasts.
‘They’ve spent ten times as much, a goodly price:
Yet, our capital’s a mere paddock for beasts!’
Smug concrete boxes rose in the new British style,
Many a faux Bauhaus without the social redress!
Oh, how brutal were his architectural designs,
Consider poets, the horrors of Heide II by Everist.
Beware, beware, beware, of madness from high,
Such professors descending like a new Moses
Wanting to build rude tendrils into the sky,
To scratch angels’ arses with rude impieties.
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- Edward Reilly
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Brian Lewis: The man and the picture
According to the website of the Melbourne School of Design at the University of Melbourne, Brian Bannatyne Lewis was ‘a seminal character in the development of the Faculty of Architecture, Building and Planning at the University of Melbourne’, being Dean of the Faculty from 1947 until retirement in 1971. His progressive teaching program saw prominent modernist architects of the day, Roy Grounds, Robin Boyd and Frederick Romberg, join the faculty as guest lecturers.
The Encyclopaedia of Australian architecture tells us that Lewis was also the President of the Town and Country Planning Association (1948-1953) and President of the Victorian Branch of the National Trust of Australia (1961-1965). His life story is chronicled in the Australian dictionary of biography.
For more information on Lewis, in particular relating to the lead-up to the event pictured – Lewis descending an aircraft’s stairs to be greeted by a group of his students – a search in the National Library’s ‘Trove’ section was conducted. The Argus edition for 20 April 1951, the date supplied (presumably) by the State Library of Victoria to accompany the picture we were to write about, carried no such picture, nor any article about the event. Ah ha! Never take anything for granted, I say.
The search moved on to the same date in 1950, then in 1952, with no positive result. So, what about 20 March 1951? Bullseye! And not only was the esteemed man reported in the Argus but also in the Sun and in the Herald! So, was he that important, or was it just a slow news day?
The occasion of his arrival at Essendon Airport was one of mock Middle Eastern celebration. A cobra was piped by a clarinettist, and Lewis was presented, according to the Herald, with ’ten feminine slaves’.
- Ian Stewart
[Ekphrastic editor’s note: Mea culpa; it was my mistake that in the original posting of the Challenge on this web site, I omitted the url for the image and erroneously dated the photograph April instead of March 1951; these errors sent Ian on his chase. Fortunately, he did his own research and was not taken in by my fake news.]
Welcome to the tour
Welcome to the tour. I’m sure you’ve questions,
Do ask as we go. If I don’t know,
I’ll make it up as smoothly as I can.
You may not have heard of the man
For whom this Atrium is named, a Dean
Of Architecture, well liked, and keen
On international study. There’s more
In the pictures set out along this floor.
That’s Professor Lewis back in ‘51
Returning from a lecture tour he’d done,
The UK and Turkey primarily.
Explains the student fancy dress you see.
Quite a sense of fun, though not PC
Today, I think you’ll readily agree.
It’s cartoon stuff, but the world was smaller –
Just print and radio, though no caller
Could protest on ‘Breakfast’ or on ‘Drive’ –
Turkish migrants didn’t really arrive
‘Till the 80s, after Gough, in ‘73,
Ended White Australia policy.
We’ve seen our Turkish student body grow,
Though not a fez in sight – perhaps you know,
Ataturk banned it a century back.
As to why, try Google; there’s no lack
Of instant answers, but decades ago,
Means of research would doubtless have been slow.
Now, the internet keeps students current
With affairs at home. We’ve seen young Turks vent
Over opponents’ treatment by Erdoğan,
Considering him too hard line, a man
Clinging to power despite streets full
Of protest in cities such as Istanbul.
Anyway, no need for me to state their views,
You can see it nightly across the news.
You wonder how Australians are seen abroad.
I fear that often drunk, lazy or bored,
Are common stereotypes. Yes, laid back,
Given to bet on flies – we have no lack!
Of course I’m jesting, there’s a firm foundation
For us as a multi-cultural nation.
Good, in the depths of election hooey,
We’re mostly judged on episodes of Bluey.
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- David Bridge
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Jetlag
Professor Lewis felt exhausted as he stepped from the plane into the glare of a Melbourne day. He looked at the waiting crowd at the bottom of the steps. It had been a long flight.
But then, all international flights were long, and he should be used to them by now. Except he wasn’t. The age of aviation and international travel had arrived but that didn’t mean he liked flying or that he didn’t feel wretched when it was over.
Why, he thought, taking a step down the boarding stairs, did airlines spruik international travel as exciting? He thought of the advertisements where glamorous hostesses, well-groomed, coiffured and happy, served cocktails to smiling well-groomed, well-rested passengers. What nonsense!
One of these days he thought, as he took another step down, maybe he’d be able to pass from the plane directly into the airport. No more crossing wet tarmacs, no more navigating trucks and their miles of pipes fuelling the plane for its next leg. One day planes would be able to fly all the way from the start to their destination without refuelling. Think of that!
While he was at it, he imagined planes with creature comforts, like radio and (dare he imagine it?) television, to keep passengers entertained.
And beds! What he wouldn’t have given for a bed to have a few hours’ sleep during the flight. Or at least a seat that reclined to help him rest.
He shook himself. Enough of fanciful thinking! Today was today and, he’d arrived at last. Pity about the jetlag that had him seeing double and, at worst, imagining things.
He stopped and relooked at the crowd awaiting him at the bottom of the boarding stairs. Why did everyone look like Groucho Marx? Or Gandhi.
- Geoffrey Gaskill
Welcome back
We welcome you back, professor
Returning from a Middle East trip
Always the best smile, never lesser
Careful down the steps, don’t slip
A safe landing, now it’s all calmer
A hat and briefcase safe in his grip
The student group is a panorama
Each turban like a bandaged head
And below him is a snake charmer
That snake is rigid, probably dead
Back home in Melbourne Australia
It’s warm and sunny like the Med
With fancy dress and paraphernalia
But it’s never all about appearances
No-one believes the effort a failure
And despite whatever anyone says
It might look Turkish wearing a fez
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- Howard Osborne
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A more sombre homecoming
The first month of Daniel and Karen’s 3-year contracts in the Middle East had gone smoothly. Highly-qualified academics, their students and colleagues alike, appeared entranced, keen to learn everything they could about educational opportunities and future exchange visits to Australia. Accommodation was more than satisfactory for the couple and their two primary-aged girls who loved telling their friends back home they were living on the 15th floor of a high-rise. ‘We’re so lucky!’ they’d squeal in chorus. ‘We get to ride up in a lift!’ A brand new 4-bedroom apartment, it even had separate quarters for a housemaid. Daniel and Karen were encouraged to hire live-in help and a babysitter to enable them to attend the frequent, after hours functions at their workplaces and the Australian Embassy.
All this changed the night that Karen had a heart attack. A rare, at-home night, the girls had been tucked into bed and Daniel had gone to investigate the source of a loud thump he’d heard coming from the kitchen. He found Karen collapsed on the floor and unresponsive, despite his efforts to revive her. Immediately, he called for an ambulance. Next, he rang the Australian Embassy for back up. Within minutes, the apartment was overrun with police, emergency workers who removed Karen’s body and Embassy officials who whisked away the girls for their protection. Daniel was arrested until an autopsy, some 36 hours later, proved his wife had died from natural causes.
Unlike the public figure, Professor Brian Lewis’s arrival at Essendon Airport, back in 1951, Daniel and his two girls, along with Karen’s coffin, weren’t met with great fanfare upon their return at Tullamarine Airport in 2007. Feeling lucky to be home, met by grieving relatives, they made their solemn way, in convoy, to their chosen venue for Karen’s interment.
- Gail Griffin
Steps Forward
The Professor took another step forward—and the floor wasn’t there.
For a fleeting moment, he thought it was exhaustion, a trick of the mind. But as he glanced around, the airport was shifting, warping at the edges. The lights above flickered and stretched into towering minarets. The baggage carousel became a slow-spinning dervish, robes billowing like silk in a wind that did not exist.
His students were no longer students. They stood as if Ottoman officials, their eyes focussed beneath Fezzes, their mouths moving, though no words came. His ‘friends’ had turned into marble statues, frozen mid-argument, their faces twisted in eternal debate. The air smelled of parchment and rosewater, of ink spilled across centuries.
“Welcome home, Professor,” their voice chanted, but it was layered—one voice, then another, then a hundred whispering over one another in Turkish, Arabic, and Greek, languages he knew but couldn’t place.
He clutched his satchel, but it was no longer leather—it was a centuries-old tome, pages fluttering despite the absence of wind. The ink on them dripped and ran like black rivers, soaking into his fingers. The letters reformed, shifting, rewriting history before his very eyes.
He was not just returning. He was being absorbed.
And the battle of ideas?
It had never ended.
- Steve Gray
Harbinger
Perceptions are cast from what we are caused to believe, until it is too late to say we were wrong.
Faces
In the crowd
hidden
Caricatures of understanding
or not
look up
But down
on ‘Them’
as perceived
By ‘Us’
gathered
in pseudo knowledge
Borders drawn
strings of history tighten
constrict freedoms
Also perceived
beneath darkening clouds
of future’s storm
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- David Jones
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Frivolity
People making fun, of what it is they really fear
Authentically belonging? Or shallow fitting in?
Is it frivolity? Or an underlying smear?
Dressing up and welcoming professor back to Oz
I wonder what he thinks. What it is that makes him tick
Either way in black and white it makes me cringe inside
An awkwardness concealed, as nothings black and white
It ricochets me forwards into eighties comedies
When making fun of difference, was supposedly okay
If we collectively allow, the laughter of others
Even though it doesn’t sit comfortably within us
What does that speak to, of the culture that we’re in
Undercurrents of fear, gaining strength from fitting in
Is that how nations work? Is that how wars begin?
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- Deb Lucas
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Leader of the laughter brigade
his mouth was downturned,
always set in a harsh, grim line,
thick black caterpillar eyebrows casting shade
upon his sour face,
puckered like a lemon
the heavy scent of misery settling upon
his tweed jacket,
tamped-down rage crinkling the lines of his face,
resting in the crevices,
and that stubborn frown was
indeed the vexation of many pupils,
particularly one who called himself
the ‘Leader of the Laughter Brigade’
who vowed to unearth his smile, that smile,
always a vault, sealed away,
not a flash of teeth,
let alone sunshine drunk smile;
no matter how many jokes cracked, or pranks pulled,
when he returned from a vacation,
not even the faintest wisp of curling corners
when his legion of students conspired
to surprise him,
dressed in the most ludicrous fashion
sure to guarantee laughter,
but not even a chuckle escaped his frown,
and everyone was perplexed,
utterly confused,
and everyone,
except the one called
the Leader of The Laughter Brigade,
gave up,
until one day,
after months of perseverance,
he went up to him,
and confessed,
“I give up.”
and before his very eyes,
something he’d never believed possible,
came true,
and his professor’s lips started a-twitching,
creeping into a smile,
until he burst out with the most raucous laughter,
not unlike the bray of a donkey,
as he wheezed,
“You? Give up?”
He snorted derisively
“This whole year, you and your
‘Laughter Brigade’ have set out to try make me laugh
risking utter humiliation,
never accepting defeat,
and now you say you give up!
I don’t believe it!”
and with that,
he left,
letting his bounteous laughter drift
to the ears of the
Leader Of The Laughter Brigade,
whose own mouth lifted into a smile,
a smile of triumph,
victorious at last.
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- Dulara J.
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A long, hard road
It had been a long, hard road to get here, but I finally felt I might make it. Who would have thought that ‘Country Carl’, the goofy kid from Narrabri, would be studying architecture at Melbourne University? Not me, but here I was, and thanks to the best Professor ever, I could see a future away from the farm. Professor Brian Lewis had taken me under his wing and encouraged me. Perhaps he could see how determined I was to leave my mark on the world. I dreamt of being the next Joseph Reed and designing beautiful buildings, one on this campus, which would last centuries. He designed many famous buildings, including the State Library and Melbourne Town Hall.
Professor Lewis had been on a lecture tour of England, Turkey, Istanbul, Izmir (Smyrna), Athens, and Singapore, and was returning today. We had missed him and wanted to surprise him. He had taught me many things, but not just about architecture. He taught me how to build character, relationships with others and respect for everyone. His favourite quote is; “The person digging the hole for the foundation is just as important as the architect, for without everyone’s contribution, there would be no structure.”
It was time to get ready and head to the airport. We planned to be waiting to welcome him off the plane dressed as veiled ladies and fez-topped ‘Turks’ for a laugh. My roommate Peter had been practising his flute, and we had a plastic snake in a basket for effect. Prof was shocked to see his students sitting on the tarmac at Essendon airport, but he was a good sport. Well, he had to be, as the Sun newspaper was there too. “We will see you at the pub for a welcome home drink, Prof!”
- Pauline Rimmer
Prophet without honour …
He was welcomed warmly. They honoured his grandfather among the many not understanding yells, ‘Dur, Dur’. How could they, farm kids from the sticks, not a word of Turkish between them.
“Come eat with us. You might have met my cousin Abdul. He lives in Redfern. He loves your land. Reminds him, he said, of his beloved Anatolia. Here, have some more!”
They had laughed at Water Diviner where Russell Crowe seeks sons amid the carnage.
“Jolly good fun, that movie. Your cowboys really talk like that? Our women will never be safe!”
But the literary recognition. That was his jewel in the crown. Erzurumlu Emrah, Guntekin and many others had heaped praise on Lawson (a ‘truth-teller’ they said) and even the convict school like Marcus Clark had been read and dissected. Ahh! He prepared to return with the wealth of ancient snake symbolism, the very symbol of transformation and rebirth in Turkish traditional folk writing. That was something he could take home, begin to layer it into his students’ writing!
Yet his head was still in Istanbul when his heart landed at Essendon. The cabin door opened emitting clouds of insecticide pumped into their lungs by officials. He was ushered forward, a man of honour in his own land, bidden to exit first.
At the foot of the steps they assembled to welcome him home.
“Professor, Professor”, they chanted, “Welcome.”
An array of Fez, fake hooked noses, a traditional wailing ney sang out his return. He recoiled in horror as a paper serpent writhed in a basket at the foot of those steps.
“Oh God, let me go back. I’ve a mountain to climb.” he muttered and plastered a smile on his face.
- John Margetts
a better future
birds of a feather
don’t always flock together
some
migrate
on strong southerlies
to shape
young minds
that will unlock
this country’s
great potential
it’s not just owls
who have the
reputation for wisdom
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- John Heritage
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Consolation
The conference was indeed a success. At last the opportunity to present my paper to my peers! I am grateful.
The telegram arrived on Day Three: “Holly arrived safely, Joshua gone to Ruth.” That night I escaped to my room and wept. Gut-wrenching, pillow-soaking, moon-howling tears. My poor sweet Mary, after so long, to lose our boy!
I had long been used to the comments, subtle and unsubtle. At nearly fifty, where were my children? As their offspring powered through the teenage years, my colleagues regarded me with judgement; why had I been so foolish as to neglect to procreate?
But Mary and I were of one mind; this was a private matter. The rollercoaster of hope and despair over twelve long years – how was it anyone else’s business? With every miscarriage she mourned, then bravely turned her face to me again. Always I waited until her grief had passed, yet the question remained unresolved in my mind, how was it that our children could not hold onto life long enough to be born?
At last, the twins – and the conference. I should have been home. How could I have known the birth would be a month early? I know Mary would not reproach me; it is myself I reproach.
There is joy in one child at last, and comfort that Mary believes that our beloved son rests with her mother. Still my tears are ever present, seemingly an endless subterranean pool eager to burst through at any moment, opportune or not.
So it was that I got off the plane onto home soil, exhausted. And there they were, my students, welcoming me with their costumes and their youthful merriness! Their kindly exuberance lifted me from sorrow – and, for the first time in several days – I smiled.
It was a solace.
- Hilary Guest
The Wookiee
Johnny had been left off the chat group about Browny’s party. They’d drifted apart somewhat over the last ten years or so. Marriage and starting families has a way of consuming you. And it changes people. Of course it does. Priorities change. Their high school gang stayed in touch though. Johnny thought he was as much a part of that as anyone else. Aren’t I? He was doubting himself. Maybe there’s other things I’ve been left out of.
He felt a sting of hurt. Thinking of Browny though, there was often a degree of levity when regaling the time he shaved Browny’s eyebrows clean off when he was comatosed in their early twenties. Browny had his sister’s wedding the next day. Johnny still giggled when he thought of the family photos.
It was the time for fortieth birthdays in the group. It seemed there was a stretch through Spring of a party every other weekend. Johnny had been invited to all the rest. He knew he’d see Browny at Matty’s party.
‘Hullo brother!’ Browny said cheerily, slapping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder.
‘Hey mate,’ replied Johnny.
‘Are you coming to mine next week? I don’t think you’ve replied.’
‘With bells on mate!’
‘What about Donna? Would be good to see her.’
‘Probably doubtful mate, but thanks. Bit hard with the kids, you know?’
‘Yeah, fair enough. You know it’s a Star Wars theme? Come dressed as a Star Wars character. A bit childish I know, but what the hey?!’
Johnny was fashionably late to Browny’s party. In he sauntered, feeling proud as punch. The chatter and clatter did a sharp turn to laughter. Belly laughter. And pointing. Browny appeared in front of Chewbacca with a grin as wide as the Millennium Falcon and a comically raised eyebrow.
‘Even?!’
- Adam Stone
A new hope: May the Fourth be with you, and Albi won the nation…
Many years and shifts create differentiation
Between today and back when, with post-war rejuvenation;
Independence movements fought colonisation;
Now conservatives rally to end democratisation.
Back in 1951, Australia, secure in isolation
From Europe’s iron curtainisation,
Continued its policy of assimilation
Smugly steeped in mono-enculturation.
With full employment across the nation,
Supporting spontaneous procreation
And highly selective immigration.
Ex-soldiers attempted farm cultivation.
Optimism swept the young generation
And, with its promise of innovation,
Modernity compelled strong fascination.
Atomic science, the new sensation,
Boffins eager for Maralinga detonation.
Back then, uni students offered veneration
As their mentor returned from a work vacation
Pranking to mark his repatriation
By staging ‘Istanbul’ at his destination
Using a Groucho-Ottoman combination
To produce a body art installation
Having next to no association
To anyone of Turkish persuasion.
Melbourne’s Argus publicised the occasion.
The past is another country, a faraway nation.
Today, in light of post-modern education,
With benefit of instant communication,
Worldwide coverage and mass transportation,
We doubt that ignorance can be justification
For lampooning the Other causing humiliation.
Now Istanbul’s streets throng in demonstration,
Marchers demand justice and representation,
And, for this, thousands suffer incarceration.
Despite some attendant exasperation,
Australians have electoral determination,
And decide which party will pass legislation,
Voting for renewables or nuclearization,
While Greens float prayers for reafforestation,
The Coalition would cut fuel excise and migration,
Promising public service termination,
They claim they’d deliver US trade renegotiation,
And – as house prices rise – low inflation.
Labor touts HECS discounts, housing creation,
More health centres, tax cuts, free TAFE education,
All hoping to feel post-election elation.
Beyond our cost-of-living disputation,
Are deeper concerns: genocidal occupation,
Russian invasion, POTUS domination,
Fake news dissemination, forced deportation,
Patriarchal dictation, neo-Nazification.
All make for compelling motivation
To resist any fascist administration.
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- Bev Blaskett
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About Kevin
When I first walked into the office, green as grass and edgy with nerves, I had no idea how much one person could shape my career. Kevin wasn’t just my boss—he became the most important mentor I’ve ever had. I was young, eager, and raw, but Kevin obviously saw something in me I hadn’t yet seen in myself.
From the start, Kevin set the tone: work hard, maintain integrity, think critically, and above all, treat people well. His expectations were high, but never unreasonable. He challenged me, not to break me, but to build me up.
Kevin didn’t just hand out tasks—he explained the reasons behind decisions. He led by example: calm under pressure, ethical when shortcuts were tempting, and always respectful, no matter someone’s position or title. He taught me that leadership wasn’t about shouting the loudest, but about listening, being consistent, and showing up every day with your values intact.
Kevin’s leadership style gave me room to grow, even to fail—but never without his mentoring safety net. As I moved through the ranks, eventually leaving his office for new opportunities, his words and ways stayed with me. I carried the lessons I learned from him through every challenge, every leadership role I took on in my career.
On reflection, I realise Kevin wasn’t just shaping a junior staff member—he was building a foundation for a career. A successful one, yes, but more importantly, one based on integrity, humility, and purpose. Every time I mentored someone new, I followed Kevin’s approach—to listen, to guide, and lead as he did.
We all need a Kevin at some point in our lives. I was lucky enough to have him at the very beginning of my career journey. And I remain forever grateful.
- Allan Barden
Farewells and greetings
I’ve opened a book—a Finnish-English translation book, published in 1899.
It belonged to our great-grandfather, Thomas—his name’s signed with flair.
I don’t remember how it found me; from his hand to mine, it seems.
Thomas was born in Galashiels, Scotland, in 1869.
A skilled tweed designer, Thomas travelled to Finland with his wife and infant daughter to share his expertise. I imagine Thomas’s family proudly farewelling them, confident they’d return, his Finnish colleagues greeting them, anticipating the skills and knowledge Thomas would share, and Thomas dressed in tweed greeting them in Finnish.
Whilst in Finland, the family welcomed a baby son and brother.
Farewelled from Finland, they returned to Scotland before sailing to Australia—Thomas’s brother to America. Final face-to-face greetings and farewells, with trepidation and tears, I expect. Decisions considered and made—significant moments in our family’s history. I’m holding the book, present at those farewells and greetings, and imagining sailing away, never seeing my family or Australia again.
Three generations separate us from a kilted Thomas’s Scottish-lilted greeting. I wish this book could speak his greeting in English or Finnish.
And who greeted Thomas’s family in Australia? Officials, I suppose. Thomas shared his knowledge and skills with the textile industry in Geelong. And the family welcomed two more children—our grandmother, then our great-uncle.
Thomas died in Geelong in 1935 and was farewelled in the church he’d founded.
He and his wife are buried 700m from my home. I visit them. Clutching the book and hoping to feel a connection, I utter hollow-sounding greetings and ask about Scotland and Finland. About farewelling forever their homeland—its landscapes, associations and familiarities. And family—never shaking their hands, smelling their fragrances, hearing their voices again. Just greetings via letters and photos.
The silence of Death’s final farewell responds.
And I reflect on how greetings and farewells shape lifetimes.
– Julie Edmonds (McCaskill)
Back from Turkey
It had been a busy first few months of 1951 for Professor Brian Lewis. At the invitation of the British Council, Melbourne University’s Chair of Architecture had undertaken a series of lectures about town-planning in Turkey (as well as in Athens and Singapore). The professor was impressed by the Turks, comparing their town planners very favourably to those in Australia in interviews after his return. Even though Ankara had already been an established city, it had bettered Canberra by a long way according to Lewis; the Turkish town-planners had spent “ten times as much” on their capital as the Aussies had had on ours.
The trip was not without controversy as well. When he arrived in Sydney, Lewis had outraged the local press by stating that believed that the Sydney Harbour Bridge was “very ugly” and was against a similar design for the proposed bridge across the Bosporus in Istanbul. And that bridge, he went on to predict, would be finished before the then under construction Swan Street Bridge in Melbourne (wrong by twenty-one years as it turned out). But as the plane touched down at Melbourne Airport in Essendon and arrived outside the terminal, the professor can put that all behind him, at least for the time being anyway. He was home.
As he was getting out of his seat, Lewis could hear what was the sound of a clarinet playing Eastern music. Wondering what was going on, he glanced out of one of the plane’s windows. He saw that a small group of people wearing Fezzes and other Oriental garb were huddling around the plane’s door. The professor smiled. He knew who they were. They were his students, his welcoming committee.
- Jason Taylor
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