Who is this vaguely familiar man, sitting, contemplating a beaker of Ireland's famous negri-beverage, in a boutique, Civic, Irish pub?
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Back to this solitary drinker in a moment. But first we note that Canberra sculptor Stephen Harrison, an awards-magnet, is enjoying the distinction of having one of his works accepted (and on display as we write) for the ultra-prestigious Sydney Sculpture By The Sea exhibition and prize.
But he tells us that when at Bondi recently with his father and his sons, having just been to look at his work by the sea, their minds turned to home and to the Phoenix Pub in Civic.
For while it's great to be in today's Sculpture By The Sea for over two decades, from when his sons were tiny, Harrison has been quietly accepting commissions to appropriately adorn the walls of the Phoenix with portraits of famous Irish writers. When, recently, the usual Phoenix premises in the Sydney Building were closed by a newsworthy fire (leaving the older, sealed-up for now Phoenix a bit singed), a new, temporary Phoenix arose (and we use that word advisedly) next door. All of the existing portraits survived (Harrison says "They got a bit of smoke damage but they've been dusted off") and are hanging now in the new, temporary Phoenix. Now he's been commissioned to paint some new portraits to accompany these survivors.
"So both venues are decorated with paintings of mine; commissioned work that began 20 years ago."
He is feeling understandably nostalgic about all this long, long association with these two venues, especially since now Sam, one of the two sons (the other is Oscar) who first went there as a very young child is grown-up enough now to be about to perform at the risen Phoenix as a bass player with a band.
"Ah, the circle of pub life!" Harrison, father of Sam, and of Oscar, muses.
And of course the celebrity solitary drinker of our picture is that other Oscar, Oscar Wilde.
Perhaps Wilde the aesthete, touring Canberra, has just been to Floriade. He has been so horrified by the vulgarity of it (remember, this is the man who chose to die rather than lie on his deathbed in a room with a wallpaper that offended him!) that he's hurried on to the Phoenix to use Guinness to try dull his nightmarish recollections of our flower festival.
A WWI white feather dispatched from the sewer
One day in 1916 G.T. Sims of Tamworth received an envelope the contents of which sent him into a (finely controlled) rage. He accused that the item had been sent by some subhuman "bipeds" living "in the municipal sewers"!
Back to Sims' fury in a moment. But first the observation that commemorations of the centenary of the Great War are gathering momentum. Our prime minister has just been at Albany for the 100th anniversary of the departure of the troop convoy from there. Tonight in Canberra sees the forum The War To End All Wars,* asking what lessons we ought to have learned from the Great War.
And here, while we're war-minded, and while we chaps wonder if we would have been brave enough to have gone with the convoy, is the last in our little flurry of a white feather series. During the Great War men still suspiciously at home were often anonymously sent white feathers. These letters were aimed at entirely the wrong sort of chap. Our G.T. Sims told the Editor of the Tamworth Daily Observer in a long letter (a masterpiece of sarcasm, alas, much compressed here) that he, Sims, was one of those wronged chaps.
"27 May 1916 WHITE FEATHERS.
"Sir, – On opening my correspondence a couple of mornings ago, I was surprised and delighted to discover I was the happy possessor of my first white feather since the outbreak of war. On examination, I found the feather was not plucked from the body of the good old White Leghorn which we all so much admire, but was culled from much the same breed as the sender – a mongrel. Likewise I was surprised, for on examination of the envelope I found it bore the imprint. that it was deposited at 11 pm., an hour when all respectable people should be In bed."
He said that he was soon off to the war "But in the meantime just to screw up my courage and get me in a bit of fighting trim, perhaps some members of the feather brigade would oblige me by engaging in a 'round or two' with nature's weapons [fists]. The only stipulation I wish to make is that I be permitted to wear gloves so that I shan't soil my hands on their bodies."
Sims said he wished the senders had written their name and address on the envelope so that he could find them and box with them.
"I trust they won't overlook this in future and thus save me the trouble of organising a search throughout the Municipal sewers to discover their identity.
"I am, yours respectfully, G.T. SIMS, Lieut., Adjutant New England Light Horse Regiment."
*Why not pluck up the intellectual courage to go to tonight's contrary The War To End All Wars – Our Responsibility To Those Who Died, being recorded by ABC Radio National for its Big Ideas series? It's at the Australian Centre for Christianity and Culture, 15 Blackall Street, Barton, from 7.30pm.
