Death was a favourite conversation in my house growing up. It was generally agreed that in bed was the best way to go, sleeping, with no pain. “It’s stupid to be fearful” dad would claim. “For how can you fear the unknown” he questioned. When I tried to bring it up as a light-hearted conversation with neighbours I realised they often had vastly different ideas. There was to be judgement at death for all our wrong doings, and that good little boys like me shouldn’t really discuss death. If I was good, I might end up in heaven so not to worry. End of story.
My grandmother often ended a conversation or disagreement by saying “You will miss me when I pop off”. It was true, we did. Her funeral was the first I went to. Very formal, with a celebrant, a chapel full of flowers, and a large, framed pic of Nanna on top of her closed coffin. One of my uncles died a few years ago and my aunt and cousin didn’t attend his funeral – they believe funerals are silly. “The person is gone so therefore the celebration is useless,” they said. It really does miss the point for me. Surely a funeral is a celebration and honouring of those who have gone, for all of us still here to share. To seek some wisdom and a few truths via the life of another.
I’ve attended many memorials in recent years as my parents’ generation are now passing. It’s hard not to compare them all. A new benchmark was set for me at the recent memorial for Petrus Spronk, a much-loved artist and friend. It was held at Daylesford’s Town Hall last month. In true Petrus style it was crafted meticulously from beginning to end. Beautiful in its simplicity. Powerful in its symbolism. Poignant from beginning to end. It had an artist’s hand all the way through. I could almost hear Petrus explaining how it was to be as the proceedings were unveiled before me. A final act, conceived with such detail and care for all of us there, for he knew there were many life lessons he wanted us to share. I was surprised to learn later that he hadn’t planned and orchestrated the whole thing himself. Such is the power of deep friendship; his inner circle had meticulously crafted this fitting tribute themselves. The group even has a name, Team Spronk. Led by close friends, they have been helping with end-of-life care and navigating all that went with Petrus’s Parkinson’s diagnosis in recent years.
Daylesford Town Hall was jam packed; I just managed a seat near the back. There were smiles, tears and hugs as people streamed through the doors. People kept coming, filing upstairs and into the balcony. The setting before us was simple. Nine empty plinths standing in front of the stage. A lectern in the centre with a large screen behind, beautifully simple. Another plinth to the side of the lectern. Everyone was seated. A gong sounded and a name appeared on the screen. A ritual was born. Each speaker walked onto the stage carrying a bowl given to them by Petrus. They placed it on the plinth next to them, when they finished speaking, they walked slowly off the stage and placed their bowl on one of the plinth’s in-front of the audience. Gradually all 9 plinths contained a bowl.
I was awestruck by the deep personal connections and reflections being shared. With each speaker I felt closer to Petrus because he had shared different aspects of himself with that person. In turn their interpretations and telling of their stories was incredibly moving, a list of unanswerable questions began to emerge in my mind. Toby Syme suggested the letters on Petrus’s most famous sculpture, titled Architectural Fragment, at the Victorian State Library, references more than the word Library. They are indeed broken into two words “Libra” and “ry”. Could “Libra” refer to the passage of the moon? Could “ry” refer to Petrus’s signature wry humour?
As we listen to more speakers I am plagued with questions, “How can we make necessity beautiful” asks partner Nikki Marshall. “How can we slow down to make our own life an artwork” asks Lutea Pasche. “What would happen if we said yes for a year” questions Nel Staite. I am left with a sense of awe. The profound way that one person can embody their life’s practice and art making so fully, impart such wisdom and activate deep reflections in all the lives they have touched. I got shivers when Nel described Petrus’s last movement, raising both hands in the air as if making one final bowl. I have also been pondering the word given to him via a Zen master on his last journey to Korea. Just like Petrus it is taking me a while to understand that one word, for it can take many years, perhaps a lifetime, to give our experience here on earth our full ‘attention’.
There will be an exhibition of Petrus’s work and some objects from his home on display at Radius for Words In Winter during the last week of August. Visit Radius or Words In Winter websites for more details.
