John Newton
GREAT DAYS IN NEW ZEALAND PAINTING
1
They
did it hard on those gravel highways—
Six
Days in Nelson and Canterbury—
Christchurch
to Mapua through the Lewis
on
a dungery old bicycle.
The
gentler route was down the Wairau;
McCahon
tells Brasch that at Renwicktown
the
winter mountains ‘are so blue’
(listen)
‘you know them to be
whiter
than other white snow mountains’.
Woollaston,
author of ‘The Death of Shelley’,
learner
by heart of ‘The Wreck of the Deutschland’—
chanted
over the uddery slop of the separator
in
a Taranaki cowshed—rides five days to Dunedin
to
sit with Bob Field. At his back
the
magic
circle
of flower and snow and the red
pine
needles, hop vines taller than the eaves of
St
Barnabas: all that thrilling,
silent
life.
What’s a bit of gravel rash, sleeping out
under
a hedge in South Canterbury?
The
night sky, he tells us, is ‘powdered with stars’.
With
all that behind you, why wouldn’t it be?
2
Blitzed
in the back of the Newmans bus
with
a beat-up Penguin American Verse.
Rita
Angus polarised plexiglass
picture
windows. The People, Yes!
Same
route, give or take sixty years, over
the
Dashwood, the dry sierras. And a nifty
conceit
that you fiddled about with for decades
but
couldn’t make into a poem.
When
you lifted your eyes it was all there:
the
chiaroscuro of worked paddocks, wind-sculpted
shelterbelts,
volumes of firewood, railway sleepers
scumbled
with diesel—but somehow
it
only made sense from the road.
There
were spaces between
people,
that’s
what
confused you, a silence, unfolding
like
a river of shining highway.
Then
4:4 country measures
fell
short. You came to, deep in the forest,
in
the sudden dark of an October southerly,
scurf
of snowdrops, cider apples
iced
with blossom. And as if you were now deaf
even
to the distant sound of the vehicle pulling away
you
ran here and there like a lost dog,
scared
and unreachable.
3
The
trip down to Greymouth was a fearful
thing.
The sun went down Nembutal yellow
in
the black Tasman surge. Murchison
was
a small plain, a dark apex, a beard
of
trees. The Grey was the Hutt
but
with lonelier, shabbier settlements.
One
day, with luck, with ‘great violence’, in
tones
out of Goya, it might be painted,
but
those big ugly man-killing waterways,
how
could you ever trust them? Nelson
(‘The
Italy of N.Z.’, he called it)
had
this trick of ruining other climates.
The
river named for Matthew Arnold
soaked
like stewed tea into the gruel of the Grey.
4
Meanwhile,
back in the scenic zone
(Boyd
Webb’s bathtub, von Guérard’s altarpiece)
Sigrid
and Günther, saddle-sore Romantics,
tipple
on a lukewarm Lucozade, easing
their
hamstrings. All day into a moderate
headwind,
grinding up into the throat of Southland,
but
the lake edge here is a wave-lapped mosaic,
reds
and ochres, olives and blues.
Now,
as at only the most perfect places,
the
lovers build their ephemeral shrine:
cradle
of fallen, rain-softened branches;
platform
of moss and old man’s beard;
then
snail shells, pebbles, paradise duck feathers,
beech
leaves (amber and scarlet) that find their
own
way.
And
look, now:
here
comes a worshipper!
In
ten-gallon hat and psychedelic lederhosen,
whistling
a tune of his own composition,
it’s
JR—angler extraordinaire—
descending
to the water to commit to
sky-burial
the four pound slab his exquisite
skills
lately conjured from the
water
hazard at the Glenorchy golf course.
A
sensitive soul could have nightmares here:
these
strutting black-backs, their reptile
gaze,
the flush on that muscular bill
like
a congenital bloodstain. But our
fröhliche
campers, pumping the primus,
dispose
their tender thoughts elsewhere,
while
the lake water dimples
and
the athletic taste-maker packs his
evacuated
trophy with a flourish of wild mint.
5
Woolsheds
were meant to be woolshed-red.
Now
everywhere they’re galvanised iron.
What
if the colour were to vanish from
a
landscape? That oxidised crimson
like
dried blood, the pond with its sugary
crust
of duckweed, Jonathans ripening in April
streaked
with honey. Could it be simpler?
I
need this colour, as much as I need
that
towering summer in the riverbed
somewhere
below Ikamatua:
salmony
blush on the granite boulders,
water
the colour of yellow Chartreuse;
a
sandy hollow, your mahogany
tan; a happy, clumsy scribble of self.
6
Let’s
imagine it’s 1950, in Dobson,
maybe,
or Stillwater Junction, a railway
house
overlooking the river. The rain could be
easing,
the smoke-thickened clag on the bush terraces
pulling
back slightly. Drying out in front of the range,
warming
his hands on cup of tea,
is
the Rawleighs man—the painter
chappie,
the shy one, Mr W.
Nothing
odd about that, you say. You see
him
through here every so often with his
weird
little dog-cart contraption hitched up
to
his bicycle. But here’s the thing: today
he
doesn’t bother with the pleasantries.
He
doesn’t produce his sample case and lay out
his
rubs and tonics, his minty expectorants.
He
simply unfastens a flat
tin
box, with a gesture that speaks for itself.
Take
it or leave it.
You
stare at the labels.
Cadmium
orange! And pure vermilion
and
cobalt blue! Red hills with violet
mountains!
Emerald
+ geranium
lake.
The colours mix before your eyes
and
images begin to appear: something
like
memory, but kinder, more expansively
lit.
Here are the foxgloves you noticed just
yesterday,
candy-coloured in the railway cutting;
the
dredge tailings with their scarlet
lichen;
the lotus that blossoms in the cow paddock
blue
as a gas flame.
Now,
then, you have a decision to make.
Do
you buy up the shop? Of
course you do!
You
walk him out to his bicycle, and
look,
the sun has broken through, the river
has
its lights back on, and the great Grey
Valley
is heaving with colour and work.