"DRIVEN BY LOVE"

For Nick......this report from after the funeral of Nick Waterlow says so much more than I am able to about what a wonderful man he was and in what high regard and esteem and love he was held by all that knew him.

Loving father 'never stopped trying to help Anthony'

RICK FENELEY

November 21, 2009

Driven by love ... Nick Waterlow with his daughter Chloe. Right, Ben Heuston comforts Luke Waterlow. Below, Juliet Darling, who spoke of her partner Photo: Brendan Esposito

THIS is a love story, as told by Nick Waterlow's grieving partner, Juliet Darling. Mr Waterlow, the renowned art curator, ''lived in love with love'' - even as he lived with a daily, unspoken fear of his mentally ill son.

Anthony Waterlow, 42, was not at Sydney's St Mary's Cathedral yesterday to hear Ms Darling tell her love story to about 1500 mourners. Anthony, who suffers from schizophrenia, is missing and wanted for the stabbing murders of his father and his 37-year-old sister, Chloe, at her Randwick home 12 days ago.

Two nights before the murders, Nick Waterlow and Juliet Darling were dancing at the University of NSW Bacchus ball.

''As we were dancing,'' Ms Darling recalled, ''as Nick was jiving and kicking the air with delightful abandon, like a modern-day dervish, I said to him: 'I just love the way you celebrate life, life itself.'''

He was passionate. ''He was driven by love.'' Much of it was directed towards Anthony and a long struggle to help him. In her welcome tribute to the requiem Mass for Mr Waterlow, Ms Darling said: ''Nick learned to live daily with an unspoken fear as he tried to find medical help for Anthony.''

Mr Waterlow, Chloe and her other brother, Luke, ''all tried so hard and for so long to help Anthony; it was painful to witness their very lonely journey with the increasing heavy burden of Anthony's mental illness''.

''Nick committed to his life with his whole being, embracing all of what exists and all that came his way. He loved all his children and he never stopped trying to help Anthony until the end.''

The funeral for 68-year-old Mr Waterlow, attended by arts luminaries, followed Thursday's service for his daughter, who leaves behind her husband, Ben Heuston, and their three children.

Father Stephen Sinn, a family friend, said Mr Waterlow's generation had been fortunate to avoid conscription. ''Nick spent the last 20 years of his life fighting a different kind of enemy … It was hidden and had captured Anthony … it was frightening and violent.''

Mr Waterlow had hoped that his love and acceptance would ''deliver his son from this powerful force''. But Father Sinn said: ''He was defeated.''

''We don't want to be here,'' Father Sinn told the congregation. ''It is too soon.''

Ms Darling quoted Gabriel Garcia Marquez: when a newborn child squeezes his father's finger, ''he has him trapped forever''. The film director Jane Campion, a close friend, read a poem by Juliet Darling, Ask the questions that have no answers. It was one Mr Waterlow had chosen to be included in Ms Darling's book.

It concludes:

''Soon I found a voice/Strong enough/And brave enough/To ask the questions/That have no answers.''

This was as a dominant theme in the life and work of Nick Waterlow, OAM, which included internationally acclaimed exhibitions, three Sydney biennales, his mentorship of countless students at the University of NSW's College of Fine Arts, and his directorship of its Ivan Dougherty Gallery.

With the order of service yesterday came a card featuring ''A Curator's Last Will and Testament'', as Mr Waterlow had scribbled it in his notebook. It listed seven points, including ''passion'' and ''an ability to be uncertain''.

''He distrusted conclusions,'' Ms Darling said.''He didn't cling to certainties and he didn't presume. He could say, 'I don't know'. These qualities enabled him to look long and deeply at a work of art … Looking was really a form of prayer for Nick, and he needed to pray.''

She added: ''His concerns were not mundane. He was bored by material possessions, status and career. He was driven by love.''

He had made her world a sacred place. ''On the morning of his last day, just before we said goodbye, we stopped for a while under his favourite tree, a jacaranda, to look up with wonder at the blue flowers."

''He loves jazz. Thelonious Sphere Monk, one of Nick's favourite composers, said: 'It's always dark or we wouldn't need light.' Nick was my light.''

Brief stand-off as police arrest Art Director's son, Anthony Waterlow

ERIK JENSEN AND GEESCHE JACOBSEN

Anthony Waterlow arrested

A man has been arrested following investigations into the killing of father and daughter Nick and Chloe Waterlow.

ANTHONY WATERLOW held out a knife in the moments before his arrest yesterday, after which he was charged with the murders of his father and sister and the wounding of a child.

In a stand-off that lasted only a few minutes, he threatened to harm himself before placing the knife on the ground and going peacefully with police.

Later he was asked to remove the clothes he had been wearing for three weeks, so they could be taken for forensic testing.

‘‘He is co-operating’’ ... police escort Anthony Waterlow from Windsor police station yesterday. Top right, evidence taken from the scene at Colo Heights. Bottom right, Sue Mahlenhoss. Photo: Edwina Pickles, Brendan Esposito, Cerise Burgess

Police had sought Mr Waterlow for 18 days after the deaths of his father Nick and sister Chloe. ''He is lucid,'' acting Detective Superintendent Dennis Bray said. ''He is co-operating.''

Last night a close family friend said: ''The arrest will bring relief to his family. At least now they can come out of hiding. [But there is] sadness as well to think what Anthony will now face.''

Mr Waterlow, 42, was seen yesterday morning in Colo Heights wearing a leather jacket, which seemed odd to the man who noticed him and knew he wasn't from the area.

''I saw this chap walking down the road, recognised him but wasn't sure where from,'' the man, who identified himself only as Ray, said. ''He walked into the bushes of a friend of mine's property, so I approached him and asked him what he was doing. He was well spoken and told me he was having a rest, [but] he didn't look flushed.''

Mr Waterlow then walked to the Ampol service station on Putty Road. He bought a few supplies - meat pies and baked beans, smoked oysters and a chocolate bar - but only enough to fill a single bag. The bill came to $108.95. When he left, the police were called.

''He was very relaxed and calm. He spoke to me just like a normal person, but he didn't make conversation,'' the owner of the station, Sue Mahlenhoss, said. ''He looked quite good. He looked calm - a bit scruffy, but not like he'd been outside too long.''

Mr Waterlow had been at the base of the mountains for much of the week.

He was found at the back of Shan Symons's property, and was possibly there on Wednesday night when her dogs were acting ''funny'' around what she thought was a kangaroo. "When I got home tonight I asked [the dogs] what had been going on,'' she said. ''If only they could talk."

He walked into the same service station as it was opening on Tuesday morning, a few hours after he was filmed using an ATM in Randwick.

But it was only after his picture appeared in newspapers two days later that he was recognised. ''We started to watch him,'' Mrs Mahlenhoss said. ''He just walked off and we called police.''

Until Tuesday, police had assumed Mr Waterlow was dead. Last night he was at Windsor police station. He was denied bail to appear in court

Waterlow tragedy: son faces DNA test
December 8, 2009

Anthony Waterlow will undergo DNA testing as he awaits trial for the killing of his father and sister in Sydney's east.

Mr Waterlow, who appeared briefly in Sydney's Central Local Court today, faces two counts of murder and one count of recklessly inflicting grievous bodily harm.

The 42-year-old had been at large for almost three weeks following the deaths of his art curator father Nick Waterlow, 68, and sister Chloe Waterlow, 36, in Randwick on November 9.

A two-year-old girl, who cannot be named for legal reasons, sustained a cut to her throat in the attack.
Mr Waterlow has been in custody since late last month after he was arrested in bushland near Colo Heights, north-west of Sydney.

Dishevelled, with long hair and thick beard, Mr Waterlow wiped his nose on the sleeve of his prison greens as his matter was adjourned until February, for the Director of Public Prosecutions to serve a brief. His lawyer, John Meadley, did not apply for bail and it was formally refused by magistrate Alan Moore. Mr Moore ordered a "forensic procedure", a DNA sample requested by the prosecution, to take place within 14 days.

He adjourned the hearing until February 2 at the same court, when a brief of evidence will be served. Before Mr Waterlow's arrest, police had feared the long-time schizophrenia sufferer might have harmed himself.

A major breakthrough was made when police released CCTV footage confirming he was still alive. He was arrested after someone spotted him walking in Colo Heights on November 27.
Officers responded to thecall and after a brief foot chase, Waterlow ran onto a nearby property and threatened to harm himself with a small knife, before giving himself up.

AAP and Bellinda Kontominas

Nick Waterlow R.I.P (1941- 2009)

NICK WATERLOW OAM.

Portait by XuWang

It is with deep and profound sadness I learned today of the death of Nick Waterlow and his daughter Chloe, both found stabbed to death in her Sydney home. Nick meant a great deal to me though we had been in touch but once since he left for Australia.

Nick had been the Director of The Bear Lane Gallery here in Oxford in the late Sixties and his inspiration, support and acceptance of a curious schoolboy meant that, as many have already noted in reports , this inspiration with a constant twinkle in the eye and to me an affectionate challenging, led me to sort myself out at a difficult time in my teens and got to Art School and get my degree, that I ending up working in the art world for some 30 years is due almost entirely to his early nurturing.

As a school boy, Nick came to our art class taught by the legendary teacher John 'Frank' Richards, a work I had done was chosen to be in a show of school children's work at the Bear Lane Gallery. I was at once in awe of this charismatic 'art professional' and everything about him seemed to resonate with me. Site of the Bear Lane Gallery Oxford

What he didn't then know was this meant he had taken on a protege of some kind in that I went into the gallery on what eventually would be an almost daily basis helping with installations, addressing mail and answering the telephone with his lovely gallery assistant, Jane, both of whom must have been completely bemused by this strange little schoolboy with the avid interest in all things 'art'. They did more than tolerate me. They accepted me. I still have every private invite card to every show I went to and remember so many artists and the affect their work had, including a show called 'Dorothy' that stands as one of the best art happenings/installation pieces I have ever seen . . . it challenged my view as to what art could or might be. I also recall seeing exhibitions by Terry Frost, Keith Vaughan, Martin Fuller's work particularly impressing me, Tom Phillips and John Latham.

But it was Nick's benign tolerance of what must have at times been an irritating little 'oik' hanging around the place, his bemused twinkle in his eye and his acceptance of me that proved so effecting. He also gently challenged my preconceptions and helped form my somewhat radical views today about art and art production not least the work of indigenous peoples as was already plain in his ethos clearly being one of acceptance, diversity and support.

I have brought to mind since hearing the terrible news, the last time we spoke, years later as a young man, and I had by then graduated in fine art at Leicester working at The Museum of Modern Art Oxford, when he called and he seemed to smile as the penny dropped, we recalled times spent at the Bear Lane and he seemed proud to hear that I had gone on to get my degree and end up working in such

a prestigious gallery which he had been involved in setting up with the merger of the two galleries in 1969.

I owe that career, and my degree, to him and to John Richards, who never gave up on me when expelled from school and who never questioned this precocious talent but nurtured, supported and encouraged. I shall miss him

The site of the Bear Lane Gallery today no 6 (above) is on the right here in grey reverted to a family house

My heart goes out to his family, his partner and to his daughter's husband and their children and I hope as press reports suggest that his son is apprehended quickly so that people can get some understanding of what lead him to this terrible terrible deed.

This is from the Times:

Nick Waterlow was born in England and educated in Europe before moving to Australia in 1977. He was highly regarded in the art world, taught at Sydney’s NSW College of Fine Arts (Cofa) and was awarded a Medal of the Order of Australia for his contribution to the arts.

He was appointed director of the 1979 Biennale of Sydney, where he included indigenous art for the first time. He went on to be artistic director for the biennale in 1986 and 1998 and was on the festival’s international selection committee in 2000.

Mr Waterlow, who most recently was curator of the Ivan Dougherty Gallery in Sydney, was described as an “instrumental player” in Australian art and a mentor to many up and coming artists.

Joanna Mendelssohn, an art scholar and friend of Mr Waterlow’s, described him as a “magician” when it came to discovering talent among budding artists. She added that he was a devoted family man who adored his grandchildren — he was due to babysit on Monday — and that he had returned recently to Britain to visit his elderly mother.

“He was also just a really decent bloke. He had a nice sense of humour too,” Ms Mendelssohn told The Times.

Marah Braye, chief executive of the Biennale, said: “Nick Waterlow was an esteemed curator of far-reaching reputation, who commanded international respect and the highest regard of his peers.”

Another friend, Professor Ian Howard, the dean of Cofa, a school with which Mr Waterlow held a long association, choked back tears as he said: “It’s beyond belief and beyond reason that a person of such high standing, could meet this tragic end.”

Chloe Waterlow, who co-wrote Celebrity Homecooked in 2006, featuring recipes by Australian stars, was remembered as a devoted mother to her three children.

Antinina Mautone, a neighbour, told the Sydney Daily Telegraph: “She was a wonderful lady and played with her children in the back lane. The kids sounded very happy and they were filled with the love of the parents.”

http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/national/waterlow-killings-family-feared-for-unstable-son-20091111-i7uq.html

http://www.smh.com.au/national/manhunt-chief-tells-suspect-to-surrender-20091114-ifn0.html

http://www.studio-international.co.uk/reports/waterlow-obit09.asp

So you know how it is, we all seem to have one of those days. When Murphy’s Law applies and anything that can go wrong will and the whole world seems to conspire against you to arrange for us to have, well, one of those days……


Thursday morning I get up and am late for work, my neighbour has been knocking since the early hours and she has been locked out of the house. Inviting her in to warm up and have a cup of coffee is the least I can do but it makes me even more late for work. I would have stayed to ensure she is thoroughly warmed up but there was something about cats and calling nieces and nephews and any folk who might have a key and I suddenly went quite deaf so I left her too it [she must have got back in because the time I get back home this evening she is gone but ……]


Arriving at work I find we are short handed and the floor is
being held by two operational staff . We have an agreement there should always be four but that we can shut if there are merely three. So obviously we are open with two. Kate and I lend our hands to the pumps so that we can cope with the usual numbers of clients wishing to call in and have breakfast and showers etc. Now I should mention at this point that we have a slight change in operations this week and are having to charge the homeless for their meals , fairly contentious issue in the great scheme of things, so this has significantly reduced the number of clients having breakfast and lunch but NOT the numbers wanting to use the building. Plea bargaining over slices of toast ensues daily. Horse trading over boiled eggs is not uncommon. Offers to sweep the garden for a cup of tea are rife

It is at this point that we hear the local night shelter has had a flood [tons of water hurtling through the ceiling, clients waking in sodden beds and two inches of water on their bedrooms floors constitutes a flood, I think you’ll agree] Tina from the Night shelter has called to say ‘Can we cope with any of their clients who wish to have breakfast or lunch and they will pay us for these clients’. We say ‘of course’ and this means we have to monitor a whole gang of people used to wet rooms and possibly drunk at 10.00 in the morning for porridge and toast and boiled eggs and list them separately so we can charge the night shelter. This is going to be a challenge.


As we are dealing with lads who have been given a fiver to last the day whilst the Night Shelter staff clean up assuring everyone they will be back open by lunchtime. This strikes me as unrealistic. Some of the lads have described the shelter as sounding not unlike Armageddon, water pouring through ceilings, plaster coming down and light fittings pouring with water til they explode does not sound like it will be easily remedied.

Having been given a fiver [allegedly] they have all pooled together possibly to score ‘brown’, so it’s a good day for the local heroin dealers, certainly many go to the off licence or whatever place is offering ‘White Frightening’ at the cheapest rates this merry morn. Tesco - five cans for a fiver bogof[ buyonegetonefree not an insult but always struck me as particularly funny as the cynic in me sees the number of fools conned by such tawdry deals……have I ever bogedoff, as it were? Of course I have!] So we have clients in the front room ‘gauching out’ on heroin, we have clients trying to get in clearly smashed and drunk out of their brains saying 'We are allowed in! The Night shelter told us to come here; you’ve got to let us in!”

“Erm. Well no we don’t. As our rules are different and we cannot and will not let you in under the influence.”

Certain perceptive clients note that the front to room is full of clients ‘smacked’ off their heads try to complain discrimination as they are merely ‘pissed’. It’s a nice argument but this does not wash with us!!!![As the prison service realised early on a ‘client’ on heroin is far less trouble than someone on alcohol raging at the moon!]

Its at this point there seems to be a problem and calls for the First Aider are heard [that’s me!] Gertrude a European lass who has not long ago given birth to a bouncing baby girl has had some kind of crisis in the street and can someone come and look at her. Well I’ll certainly look at people, it’s the least I can do but it turns out she has had some kind of haemorrhage and ‘erm, an expulsion of some kind, the erm, product of which she wants to show to someone and she appears to have wrapped 'something' in a small parcel clutched to her person. (Understand this very much not the language this 'event' is couched in but I am trying my darnedest to spare your feelings. Yes?)

We can’t let her onto the premises as we are not insured to cover children or anyone under 16 so she has to stay on the street and countenancing the prospect of examining this poor woman’s parcel by the bus top hardly appeals when I realise its Thursday.
No, no, this means that the redoubtable Fatima, the Luther Street Nurse is on hand to do her drop in medical sessions. Breathing a sigh of relief we get her involved and the whirling sand storm that is and always will be the Director hurtles passed on some unnamed mission. He is told and promptly insists that baby be brought in and that the nurse be called and that we all respond at the same time to what is clearly now his crisis.

Even a client attempts to challenge Herr Director that baby’s are not allowed on the premises and that the matter is in hand with offers from a list of clients to ‘keep an eye on the baby’ whilst Gertrude is ‘erm, well tidied up.

“After all its not rocket salad!”

But no, the baby is ushered pram bound and screaming into an antechamber by Herr Director and the nurse rolls up her sleeves and set to managing the situation with calm stoicism and that certain air nurses have of staying entirely in control as a maelstrom hurtles about their heads [often caused by inexperienced seniors knee jerk reacting to chaos!]

It is at this point the First Aider [that’s me you will remember] is needed in the office. A Staff member has sliced his finger and can he have a plaster. Again I am surrounded by redoubtable folk and this is David who matter-of-factly shows me a cut that forty Band-Aids would not stop bleeding with a leisurely “Its OK, Andy, it’ll stop in a minute’ dabbing at this by now bloody mess and blood seeping through several layers of paper towel, I look at the cut and think actually what this needs is sowing up with a boot lace but I better asked the nurse…who just happens to be…….



She has a look and takes the view that this cut far from ‘stopping inna minit’ will need several stitches and can we get him to the A&E department of our long suffering local hospital. The Director again dons his cape and swoops into action and scooping David into his car takes him off site to be sown back up. This is always a relief, as Herr Director is usually contributing to the hurtling chaos rather than actually doing anything every much that anyone can actually understand…… At one point in dealing with Gertrude he appeared from the kitchen holding cups and a brimming water jug which were brought into the front office left perilously close to the edge of a desk and left there for the rest of the shift and still nobody quite knows why.

He is extremely good a hurtling and sandstorm is a relevant simile as a fellow professional likened him to one early on in my role with the company and now I get it. They hurtle around you blinding you to all that’s going on and when they are gone you still aren’t quite sure what has happened, what as been decided or if indeed anything actually even happened at all!

Seeking a calm in the sandstorm I suddenly notice at the reception airlock [as it is called for reasons best known to someone else as it clearly doesn’t ever contain the freshest of air not does it lock] a client who we haven’t seen for some months.

Now Paul is a challenge, he is borderline everything its seems [border line personality disorder is one of those delightful catch-alls invented by the Americans and DSMIV diagnostic label-maker that means he is not unwell or disturbed enough to warrant entry to a hospital but is distressed enough that he cannot look after himself, is extremely vulnerable and may be autistic, has characteristics of Asperger's and indeed is bright and argumentative at times. Largely he is not threatening or violent though he can assert his views and however odd or paranoid they may be he is certainly dogmatic at times.]

On his way out the Director role models his client care expertise and shouts at Paul saying “You’ll have to leave we just can’t cope with you today!” Not exactly a perfect example of care in the community but the poor dear is getting stressed. I go out to speak to Paul.

“Hi Paul How are you?”
“Can I come in?”
“Well, yes but I thought I’d better explain that we’ve had a few changes and we have to charge you for your meals now so would you like some lunch?
“Yes, please, can I come in?”
"Yes, give your name to Rose on the desk and she will let you have a ticket for your meal if you have a pound. Do you have a pound?”
“Why?’
“Well you have to pay now”
“Why?”
“Well as I said to you there have been some changes and we have to charge for food now”
“No, why do I have to give my name?”
“Paul, you have always had to give your name so we can say who’s been in”
“Why?”
“Because we need to know”
“Why?”
“Now Paul, you know me and we have spoken before and you know you will always have had to give your name at the desk”
“What are going to do with it?”
“Well in order to look after you and make sure you’re alright and not rough sleeping we need to know some things about you”
“Well normally I just come in and have a cup of tea and then leave”
“Yes but that was before and we have to make sure you’re OK and not sleeping rough. Where are you staying?”
“I’d rather not say”
“Why?”
“Well I’d just rather not say”
"Are you sleeping rough?”
“Yes”
“Where?”
“I’d rather not say”
“Well as far as I’m aware you don’t show up on the street count”
“No well I’m very good at hiding”
"Why would you want to hide?”
“”Because I don’t want people to know where I am. Can I come in?”
“Yes if you give your name to Rose and pay a pound you can come in and have something to eat”
“Can I just come in and have a cup of tea?”
“Yes, if you give you name at the desk and then you can come in”
“What will do you with my name? Will you keep it on your computers and put it on the Internet?”
“Well no, we don’t put it on the internet. We just keep it on our database for our internal records.”
“Why?”

You can see how this goes and it went on for some time and there are those amongst you who will point out that maybe Herr Director was right and you cannot afford to spend this amount of time with one client explaining everything to him in such detail…..and erm, well you’re probably right. You have to acknowledge his logic though. It’s impeccable.

At this point Paul notices the activities sheet in the window and sees that it says SPORT at 2 o’clock
“Can I do sport?”
“Yes if you give your name at the desk and come in”
“What sport are you doing? Can you take me swimming?”
“Well no, they’re probably going to do football or maybe some circuit training”
“What’s circus training?”
“No, not circus training, circuit training…. its like…well they……..I have absolutely no idea what circuit training is Paul. No idea whatsoever and to be honest its unlikely to happen anyway” (NB those of you who know me well enough will understand what I know about competitive sports can be written on a Rizla)
“Why?”
“Because we are extremely short staffed today and probably should be shut anyway”
“Why?”
“Because its not safe to work with so few staff”
“So I wouldn’t be safe?!”
“Well no I mean…….erm……..we probably won’t do the sport today. Paul, are you going to come in? Just give Rose your full name and date of birth at the desk and you can come in”
“Date of birth? Why do want my date of birth?”
“Now Paul, you know we need your details and you need to give them to to us to get in”
“But you know who I am”
“Well, yes but you have to give your name and to be honest I can’t remember your last name and we need your date of birth to see how old you are so that can be sure to put you in touch with the right people in case you need somewhere to sleep or something “
“But I don’t need anything like that I just want a cup of tea and normally you just ………”

Round and round we go. You know, I am really fond of Paul but it is kind of endless and doesn’t really go anywhere in the end. All he wants is a cup of tea and maybe someone to take him swimming though that last bit might be a joke on his part just to wind me up. Which it doesn’t, I promise you. He waits in the foyer to see if anything even remotely sporty is about to happen. It doesn’t and as Herr Director has decided we are to be responsible enough to decide whether we shut early or not, I go back in to chat to the staff like it’s a democracy to see what time they think we should shut.


Then we get a phone call……..
The Night shelter isn’t going to be ready this evening. (No surprises there then.) Do we think we could stay open later than normal and keep the night shelter clients who want somewhere to sit until they can sort out bedding in the local Community Centre who have kindly offered them the hall for the night seeing as how its an emergency and all?

Well I say, we are short-staffed, have been coping all day, with staff who haven’t had a break yet and its 2.30 and yet we are offered all their team if its staff which is the problem.

So I envisage letting our people go and the building being taken over by another agency’s staff who don’t know where anything is and where our precious things are [you know cash, musical instruments, mixing decks, computers etc]. Not that I’m having visions of their clients completely emptying the place of all our worldly goods you understand but who would be responsible for this level of decision? This is a decision only Herr Director can make and “I think you need to put your director onto our director and they can sort it out.”


I decide to call Herr Director and tell him what is proposed. It goes to voicemail. He’s still clearly in A&E with the cut finger. I get a message back at three pm saying “Whatever you decide to do, be nice to the staff at The Night Shelter”!!!!
I’m always nice. Some will tell you its what I’m best known for

We decide to go home! Nicely.

Ok, so it has seemed like mental health week here at The Gap. And why not?

The British ‘care in the community’ policies have often commendably supported aspects of the patient’s rights movement from broader civil rights campaigns and encouraged the development of community care. [The Mental Health Act 1959, Mental Health Act 1983, Community Care act 1990 etc] But one can’t help wondering on occasion if it is for merely political and economic expediency and budgetary slash and burn of the NHS that such people end up on the streets and coming to see us of course. All of this means that many of the people using the Gap as a drop-in for food, warmth, shelter, washing, showers, toilet facilities, activities; art, music room, IT suite and housing referrals and general support are suffering a huge variety and range of various aspects of mental health.

The week has been stressful and we have been trying to accommodate a vast range of client need.

Jose is one such example and before you complain that I have infringed his human rights to have his picture taken, I asked him and he said it was OK –“ If you give me a copy of the picture.” [He has asked me every day since!]

This is Jose. He is quite lucid, not to say articulate, fluent in Spanish and often engaging to talk to if one spares him the time, does not appear to be violent and has recently been using the Gap. He needs feeding and though he chooses not to use the washing facilities we do have a tendency to not allow him to stay on site. He is brought drinks [hot or cold] and his meals and he eats then on the street. Prejudice? He seems to prefer this. And yes, OK so do we. Why? Jose has told one of our staff, the much-loved Miguel, that he suffers from Diogenes Syndrome. This caused me to look it up on’t t’Internet and it is best explained as follows: the adoption of a reclusive and squalid lifestyle, expressive of a hostile attitude to and rejection of the outside community. Sufferers often live in restricted spaces, hoard what observers might think of as rubbish and wear peculiar clothes. The syndrome is characterised by the refusal to accept all offers of help, rudeness, anti-societal behaviours and very poor levels of self-care. Interestingly sufferers of Diogenes Syndrome have often been previously very high-functioning and can be possessed of IQ’s in excess of the high 80’s and above.
Some staff are of the belief we should ‘Call the police! Call the police! Its disgusting!” but we have a more enlightened approach don’t we?Jose and I had a conversation on Monday about photography and he clearly has something of the artist’s vision as he looked at objects around him and we discussed aspects of form, colour, shape, juxtaposition and so on. He suggested to me he might be given a camera as “I see things differently you know?” I have seen things which you can only imagine” and I am working on that one.

The only SLIGHT snag, as you may have realised by now, is that Jose has the compulsive need to collect detritus.
He does this much as Pigpen in the Charlie Brown cartoons of Charles M Schultz appears to gather dirt and dust. It seems a process of osmosis is at work. One can watch him and see him rearrange things in his possession, you can even observe him going through the waste bins on the street but somehow he always seems to have accumulated more than one imagines possible.

At was at this stage we felt we had to take some kind of ameliorative action. If only to impress passers by and the long suffering neighbouring boutique owner next door who is after all trying to sell flimsy niceness to those with a predilection for pretty dresses, baubles, bangles and beads.

I leave the project to engage Jose in conversation about the stuff he has accumulated and having contacted the mental health team and the Elmore Team who have a duty of care towards him, I try in my best person centred way to engage. I presume from my therapeutic training; valuing, acceptance, conflict management and client attunement that much of what he has gathered must in some way be valuable to him.

“So Jose, all your stuff there is it in some way precious to you?”

Now, Jose gives me a somewhat quizzical look at this point as if trying to work out exactly which planet I may be from and retorts

“ No of course it fucking isn’t. It’s a load of old shit, isn’t it?!”

We make him a deal that he can come in tomorrow if he tidies up the collection which by now has reached the level that all his collection is housed in two of the largest Sainsbury’s trolleys overflowing with well, rubbish.

“No problem, it’ll be easy!” Jose responds.

It takes the following three hours for Jose to sort through the contents bit-by-bit, item-by-item, dog end, cup, and carrier bag by KFC box. So that actually he reduces the two trolleys full to the one. Half way through we bring him a cup of tea, the contents of which he decants into a beer bottle, he decants this into a Remy Martin bottle and pours it back, drains a couple of local coffee shop cardboards cups of their contents and yes, you guessed it, proceeds to sip the mixture as he works. We contact the City Refuse Service, the Anti fly-tipping Bureau, the County Refuse service and indeed Sainsbury’s to see if the wish to collect their trolleys, explaining that a mentally ill person has built up quite a collection of refuse and will they come and collect it. Interestingly the departments are extremely gifted at referring us round and round the system [system? Ha!] so that one is stuck in a never ending circle of phone calls that presumably would disappear up their own fundament if left off the hook but the experienced project worker knows when to hang-up, if not give up. It is collection day anyway and the trolley and several bulging bin bags later are all arrayed by the council refuse bins we normally put out.

So by close of business the front of the project is looking fairly presentable again and Jose disappears into the evening safe in the knowledge that he will be allowed in again tomorrow. Where does he sleep I hear you ask? Why he has his own flat or room. The Elmore Team inform us it is currently the subject of an order to re-house him. Why?

Because in Jose’s own words “It’s full of shit!”

“Its outrageous that anyone should have to live like that!”

“They need to sort it out, I can’t be expected to live in those conditions”

And you know what? He’s right. The fact that it is entirely of his own making is neither here no there as it is clearly a matter of Public Health and Safety as Jose seems keen to point out. So maybe he will sleep rough tonight but I doubt it. Probably just snuggle up on a bed of Tesco bags and several week old food boxes from the bins of Oxford.
They staff member who wanted the police called starts ‘making a book’ with us as to the state we will find the project in tomorrow. “You wait, he will have scattered the contents of all his bins back all over the front of the place again” presumably as some kind of defiant statement against our fascist restrictions.

I arrive the next day with trepidation and low and behold the front of the project looks FINE! Much the same as we left it and we start the day front of house ushering in the waiting hoards for breakfast and to start the day.

But wait…Team Leader has some bad news

The back garden is full of rubbish! Several bins of refuse have been scattered all over the garden, not only that but there is ample evidence that some has defecated all over the garden. In at least five different locations and ‘can someone lend a hand?’
We don our rubber gloves and ever the one to show willing that in my role I am not above unblocking the toilet (it usually requires a broom covered in bin bags. technical stuff!) or fixing a light bulb, re-booting the IT suite so that the porn links aren’t working anymore, etc etc. So we set about picking up all the rubbish, and I hold the bin bags as we shovel up the faecal matter from around the garden borders. What feels like several tons later we focus on removing the rest of the rubbish, card boxes, bags and paper and waste and a rather fetching umbrella covered in white polka dots dumped down by the back boiler room. This includes 12 foot lengths of used toilet paper and as the contents of the garden’s decorations are shovelled into the bin bags I am religiously holding open, it occurs to me that here I am on lovely sunny October morning shovelling shit!

Note: not you understand that I'm accusing Jose here. No, no. I wouldn’t make any such assumption, as we need evidence of any such act before we go around accusing anyone. We let the mental health team know he is currently barred from the project and that at present he is ‘plotted up’ on the steps of the architectural award winning carbuncle of the Oxford Said Business School building, part of the university, with his by now several bags of rubbish [he’s only been gone a couple of hours so hasn’t got into his stride yet.] The person from the mental health team says

“Oh dear that’s quite posh over there isn’t?”

I say well, I suppose you could call it that

“Well they won’t be happy about that will they?”

No, I dare say they wont

“Well, I’d better do something about that”

Within a couple of minutes two police officers are seen engaging Jose in conversation.
When I next take a look he has gone, no sign of him at all, not a trace, not a wrapper or a dog-end and we haven’t seen him since

Postscript: As I leave for some well earned annual leave, I take a look back at the building that is presently the Gap and there nestling in the drain at the foot of our drainpipe from the roof is a large milk carton, you know the sort plastic and the biggest container of milk Tescos can supply. Two litres or half a gallon! It is FULL of a curiously familiar yellow liquid!

No way, Jose!

Thursday 2nd October: Stephen phoned me from Prague to let me know that 'Lola' had died about 3.00pm - some 40 mins after she passed away....
He asked me to pop into 323 in Summertown to check things were OK and being dealt with etc.
I was happy to do so and yet surprised to find her still laid out in the ubiquitous & detested downstairs bed. I don't know why. I should have expected that really.

However it was good to be able to pay my respects and to see her so soon after she parted from this life. She looked at peace and a strange calm was in the room, indeed throughout the entire house. David, her last companion, asked me if he could read a poem there & then and in her presence and I of course agreed.
It was really rather moving to see her in repose and all the stresses and strains, the pain and troubles of the world gone from her face. I noticed a little ring upon her finger, her hand now relaxed and free from fretting. It felt somehow right for someone to read something at that moment. She, who I knew to be so interested in culture, art, film and always with a take on life guaranteed to challenge us and to give her unique take on the world around her and as she saw it.
I shall miss her.
Despite all the frustrations and challenges she presented, not least to her son Stephen, me and my wife Dawn saw many happy moments too in our time. She and Stephen gave us a Spanish Broom for our garden when we moved into this house........

I always enjoyed her visits to the Museum of Modern Art here in Oxford when I was working there, however challenging they might have been. She always made me think, reflect, get cross and at times laugh like a drain! She ran the University Film Society when it switched to the Museum that involved her in the film programme being run there with the Deputy Director, Marco Livingstone [authority on David Hockney and Pop Art and a dear friend who sadly I have lost touch with] may have been lost in their archives. He endured the wrath of her tongue also if a film chosen for the MOMA film programme did not suite her. They fell out and argued and we all forgave each other and laughed and moved on.

The happiest time I think we spent together was at the Playhouse Theatre in Oxford in 2001 when Catalina, her granddaughter, was in a performance of Peter Nichols' classic 'Day in The Death of Joe Egg' with Clive Owen & the lovely Victoria Hamilton and - we all went to the first performance and of course she was wonderful [accuse me of bias if you will but I am right in that that young woman is going places, has an emotional maturity beyond her years and is as a bright as a button and will be a light in the firmament of all who she chooses to work with or get to know]
We all enjoyed the performance and Lola seemed proud and happy to be with Stephen and Anne, Catalina, Dawn and myself.

That was a long time ago now and in later years as she slowly became bed ridden the fear of being left alone and the illness made her cruel and so angry at times so that I really could hardly bear to hear her vitriol especially when it was aimed at Stephen and his family. I said so, hopefully gently but assertively, on a couple of occasions and earlier this year tried again and asked her not to say anything so hurtful in my presence when it was clear I cared so much for her son. Indeed I am painfully aware that it was not only her nearest and dearest she singled out for this treatment. Any one of us could become the object of her anger and negative attentions, from the wonderful genius photographer Paddy Summerfield who lives but a few doors away to Helen Ganly the artist........to well, almost anyone in her circle or who crossed her path. Thusly I became, if temporarily, persona non grata for a while, lumped with the 'fascists', the grouping we were all assigned to if we did not comply, demur, concur or say the right thing at the right time.



Somehow of late I became accepted back into the house and the last times I saw her she rambled on to me about life, Spain, crows, Franco, girlhood at 6 years old in Catalunia, WC Fields, Salvador Dali, Truffaut, Pablo Casals, Berkeley, neighbours, rats, conspiracy theories, cats, the demise of Great Britain, asylum seekers, her carers being 'fascists' etc etc........but she never failingly forgot to ask after my children and my wife Dawn, especially as Lola knew that Dawn had her own battles with breast cancer.

I am glad I was able to say my 'cheerios'. As I say, I shall miss her.

So this is some week......I am minded to add a poem and as of late 'the blog which no-one reads' has been rather cluttered with rants and textbased ravings I feel the need to add some visuals.

However first things first and my dear friend Stephen 's mother 'Mutti", Maria Dolores Blackman, the extraordinary 'Lola' to most of us 'friends' that knew her, has passed away after the most extraordinary struggle; bed ridden for what seems like over ten years and ruling us all from her bed with her own unique perceptions and views upon us and the world around her. I am fortunate to be in touch with Stephen's equally wonderful father, Alan and he sent me this a reminder of a poet I did not know but who we had discussed and Alan minded to me that this below was one of his favourites. It seem aposite and timely and I hope in keeping with others' memorial to a truly unique individual

LAMENT

So to the elements return. Be free.
The life you sought in vain you now must part.
Your path lies over the dark syllabic sea,
May my grief be a star to your wandering heart

Those sweet roses you shall never find,
Already the time has come to re-embark,
Life must remain an undreamt dream in your mind.
My words are fingers groping in the dark.

May your memory in these words remain,
Like sea's sprung rhythms in the empty shell.
The wheel of fate and birth has turned again.
So to the elements return. Fare well.

For the seas you sail I know no chart.
May my love be a star to your wandering heart.

Patrick Bridgwater

Maria Dolores 'Lola' Blackman 1924 - 2008

....where no star shines and no birds sing....
“…a non-stop waggling of the backside as he hands out, on a salver, sentence after sentence.... So what? One feels, reaching the end of the drama in a resounding box, where no star shines and no bird sings."
Dorothy Richardson on the writing of James [Henry?]

from the originator of ‘stream of consciousness’ writing – she preferred the term ‘interior monologues’ ] predating Jack of the perpetual pen........

It was only when she was alone and in the intervals of quiet reading that she came into possession of her hands. With others they oppressed her by their size and their lack of feminine expressiveness. No one could fall in love with such hands. Loving her, someone might come to tolerate them. They were utterly unlike Eve's plump, white, inflexible little palms. But they were her strength. They came between her and the world of women. They would be her companions until the end. They would wither. But the bones would not change. The bones would be laid, unchanged and wise, in her grave.
- from Dorothy Richardson 'Pilgrimage'

So working in a drop in for the homeless can be stressful,
challenging and occasionally really quite fun. Today though I have a
headache......................
some days just take the biscuit

Starting the day well at 8.30 organising about 45 people in for
breakfast. One of our quieter clients decided in the middle of the
kitchen, it is time to do his washing so immediately divests himself
of ALL his clothes and proceeds to put them all in the washing machine.

Some of the other younger clients take issue with this somewhat
laissez-faire attitude especially whilst eating their sausages,
boiled eggs and toast and start shouting at him telling him he's a
'nut-nut' and a 'effing looney'
I talk to the client minus his garments and gently suggest he may
care to wear something whilst doing his laundry but he declines my
offer stating he is really 'OK, Thank you' and he won't be long
By this time a busy dining area is full of screams and people
claiming it 'infringes their human rights' to have to face such a
spectacle whilst breaking their fast and such is the hullabaloo that
my Boss, Dawn, decides to bar them all and asks all of them [except
the naked person] to leave the premises, that the police have been
called etc............
We contact the mental health agencies who do indeed know the
aforementioned young man sans culottes and that after previously being sectioned
[136] under the mental health act smashed all the windows in his
mental hospital room and is asked to leave and the Consultant
Psychiatrist decides the easiest way to maintain this status quo is
to diagnose him as having nothing wrong with him at all. [Its called
'Care in The Community'] The Mental Health Nurse from the nearby Night
Shelter Surgery comes to talk to him and ascertains that she thinks
he is borderline schizophrenic and needs a quite place to assess his
needs. This must be done by calling the relevant police department,
who we call and they refuse to come out unless he poses a "threat to
other persons". This is not acceptable to Dawn, my boss, as we now have
a situation where all the usual clients (50+ of them) are milling
about on the street looking forward to having their lunch by now and
the young man who by now has all his clothes in the drier is
blissfully unaware of where everyone except the staff have gone but
seems quite happy [he is smiling...........a lot]
First a couple of Community Support Officers arrive and seem a tad non-plussed as to quite what to do [if anything]
The police eventually come and say there is really nothing they can do and that
they will not arrest him, detain him for assessment and indeed appear
reluctant to take any action at all. During which conversation the
once naked client has now packed his now dry clothes into a bin liner
and blissfully walks through the building passed us all having this enlightened chat and leaves the premises
wandering off down the street towards the town centre
So we let everyone else in apart from several youngsters whose behaviour has been supremely intolerant of somebody minus the clothing which surprises me as they always seem especially keen to get into each others.

At his point Dawn my Boss realises I have broken the security latch
on the office door and that clients could get in and attack
me at any second but it looks un-fixable to me. She leaves me in situ whilst we ruminate the possibility of getting a locksmith to let me out when a client pulls on the front access door and the handle comes off in his hand. Yeah definitely a locksmith!

Dawn by now showing signs of despair goes upstairs to 'use the staff facilities' only to return
stating she has 'fallen off the toilet' as the seat was loose and that she 'slid off' and 'ricocheted across the room into a wall' [her actual words]

It is at this point that the previously naked person decides to
reappear just as I am letting everyone back in for their lunch as he
is "really quite hungry" by now - I do NOT let him in and ask one of
the staff to serve him his meal on the street, which we do.
He pronounces it 'delicious' but can he come in now. I try to explain that not everyone was very appreciative of his previous condition in the kitchen. He seems to be somewhat flummoxed by this as to there having been any aspect of unrest or disquiet that may have had anything to do with him whatsoever. Fair enough actually as an exercise in pure logic he has me beaten. Clothes need washing [including trainers and rucksack] therefore a priori put everything in washing machine...........

The days appears to be settling down now and a quiet ensues, people
are fed, people are smiling, people are coming and going again when I
hear a urgent sounding banging noise from the client toilet area only
to discover one of my favourite clients Saleem is stuck in one of the
toilet cubicles -
madness ensues with gangs of clients advising me what to do, how to
break into a locked door [some of them are experts at this remember]
and proceed to take the front of the handle and lock off the trapped
door - this of course ensures that once taken off there is absolutely
nothing we can do to get him out - its is absolutely secure and too
strong a door to break with my puny shoulders [or his and he's a big
fellah]
I tell my boss with possibly a rather sad, defeated tone to my voice
by now and she [ whilst struggling to believe what I have just told
her] decides to call the Fire Service - who when we state the nature
of the problem think its a hoax and promptly hang up.

Saleem by now is getting panicky and lets me know he suffers from
claustrophobia. I assure him help is on the way and we try a
different number for the emergency services. The Fire Service, the station being
approximately 200 yards across the square from us, decide when
convinced there is a real emergency to send a fire truck with full
crew, lights flashing, sirens blaring to get across the town square

After seeing the nature of the problem the fire crew are excellent
and try a mole wrench [I pipe up "Nope, tried that!"] and then snub
nose pliers [to which I pipe up "Nope, tried that!"] and then the
Captain says, one eye on this know-it-all squeaking in his ear,
turning to one of his team "Fetch me my special screwdriver" to which
a burly great firemen returns carrying a crowbar, whacks it into the
gap by the lock and proceeds to wrench the entire door off its
hinges, thus releasing Saleem to a tumultuous round of applause
By this time it is time to close for the day and the Director turns
up and asks us what sort of day we have
had.......................................

I am going to go now and lie down in a dark room with an ice bag on
my head muttering quietly to myself
.....you never know I might just decide to do my washing

Wondering what the rest of the week will bring. Why its only last week that we had a full armed response team try to come in. I say TRY to come in, some staff decided to tell me not to let them in! How do you do that exactly? To two DCI's in plain clothes, six armed policemen, a dog handler and an urgent tone in their voices?
I say 'Let them in!'

"They have GUNS!"

and sure enough they come in looking for two ne'er-do-wells who came in yesterday to exchange needles for their heroin habit - not folk I have seen before but apart from looking as hard as nails are actually pleasant enough and go on their way with minimum fuss. Apparently they are suspected of armed robbery and by the time any authorities have checked the CCTV footage that is forever pointed at our front door decided rather than call us and ask whether we have them on site the following day decide to send a full armed response unit.

Mind you the only people seemingly upset are those of our clients with dogs on site in the garden as the response of the assembled mutts is to start setting about the previously rather impressive looking German Shepherd dog attached to a policeman. It doesn't whimper exactly but has the distinct look of someone HUGELY outnumbered.
Realising these dastardly criminals are no longer present after 24 hours the response team decide to leave the premises with a rather hangdog attitude which is a distinct change to their demeanour from when the arrived but they get a cheerful 'Cheerio!' from me and we set about setting up for lunch.
Oh well, Hey ho! At least it's never dull.........

Early work

I had always drawn, written and painted from as early as I can remember my parent's allowed me to draw and write all over my bedroom walls, supplied me with off cuts of paper when times were hard and let me buy artist materials and sketchbooks from the earliest times possible. Here are some examples of my 'art' work

Life Room - first oil painting from life 1972 Oil on Board

First oil painting from life (detail) 1972 Banbury School of Art

Second painting from life 1972 - Oil on Board

GRADUATE WORK - Leicester 1973-1976

 

 

 

 

OXFORD WORK - 1977 onwards

Other work - when I moved back from Leicester to Oxford in 1977 to work at The Museum of Modern Art Oxford as Gallery Assistant I continued to draw and paint. I did work based on musical heroes or artists I admired some of which may be of interest here...........

Jack Kerouac (Acrylic on canvas 3'x4' - destroyed)

Jim Morrison (Acrylic and Artex on Canvas 3'x4')

Jim Morrison study for Painting (charcoal on paper 32"x 20")

Jim Morrison - (Pastel and graphite on Canvas 3'x4')

 Brian Eno (Acrylic & artex on Canvas 3'x4')

Patti Smith pastel on paper study for painting

Patti Smith study graphite on Paper A2

Portrait of Philip Burbidge (graphite & pastel on paper)

Captain Beefheart Charcoal on handmade paper 30"x 20"