Blinds were drawn behind the glass door, darkening the background. On the surface, white lettering: Parkers Sydney Fine Art Supplies, Custom Picture Framing Since 1918. Ten feet to the left, a roller door opening to the workshop.
Inside, power leads were strung across ceiling beams. To the left, a wall of tools and a long timber workbench. In the centre a large, sturdy worktable covered with thick white cloth. Industrial machines I didn’t recognise. To the right, a spray booth. I think.
Lengths of timber were stacked vertically, creating a narrow corridor. I walked through it to another large worktable covered in dark green padded cloth with zig-zagged white stitching and yellow trim. A young man in a denim jacket over dark hoodie and purple tee was stapling canvas to small frames. Above him a mezzanine level with more materials and equipment.
Introducing myself I told him the owner, Derek Parker, said I could drop by and film him stretching linen over one of the cedar frames I ordered. Derek and the team at Parkers have advised me on materials over the last few years as I changed medium from enamel paint on board or canvas to acrylic on linen.
While he gathered the materials I walked to the front of the shop and filmed with my iPhone on the way back. Elbow pressed against my torso for steadiness, walking smoothly. By the time I returned to the worktable, he was unrolling a large square of pre-primed linen.
I like to talk with people while filming. It makes everything feel more relaxed. He’s an artist; his name is Tyler Arnold; he makes oil pastel drawings of the surrounding suburb before and after work (which I looked up on Instagram, they’re urban gritty with classic technique and remind me of psychogeography); instead of art school he studied oil painting with an artist for five years; his partner studies at the National Art School.
As he started to fold the corners a guy with a mellow, lead-singer-of-AC/DC-Bon-Scott-in-the-70s vibe walked by and said casually to Tyler, “Don’t fuck it up.”
I stopped talking while he finished. By then, silence felt companionable instead of awkward. While filming I thought about the times I assembled frames myself and stretched linen over them on the floor of my small studio. It’s a much faster process with a worktable, space to walk around it, and an air compressor staple gun.
On completion he held the stretcher up so I could see the surface. Lifted it off the table with well-practised movements, carried it to another area of the workshop. 70s-Bon-Scott-vibes-guy came back and said he could deliver to my studio in a few hours. I asked his name and he said, “Kyle.”
During the train trip back to my studio I edited the footage on my iPhone using an app. At the beginning, I added a short clip of my face taken earlier in the day as I walked down the narrow street to the workshop.
I uploaded the clip as a reel on Instagram, tagged Parkers Fine Art Supplies and emailed a link to Derek. I also sent it via direct message to the subject of my new portrait commission. I wanted to create a virtual experience so she could watch the beginning of her artwork being made.
Kyle Murrell delivered the frames in the late afternoon. He’s an abstract painter with an obvious knowledge of art history and beautifully nuanced use of colour.
After he left, I re-arranged the frames and followed both him and Tyler on social media.
I thought about how much has changed over the last decade and a half.
Way back in 2006 I was on the front cover of respected newspaper The Age’s Business section, edited by Michael Short. With cropped hair died black, I wore a black tee and masculine sunglasses. Posing with a laptop and giving androgynous-future look, under the headline, “State-of-the-art selling rivals traditional play to the gallery”.
The general artworld response (including from many artists) was rage; disbelief that art could ever be sold online; and dismissal of artists connecting directly with the audience for our work via the ‘net, as if sharing our art outside one specific context made it less.
Sixteen years later, having an online presence is a standard condition for art professionals. Even artists represented by traditional commercial galleries are required to cultivate the audience for their work via social media. The idea of artists collaborating with others – including for one-off exhibitions, like my show at MARS Gallery (directed by Andy Dinan) at the time of the article – is now commonplace.
Mainstream adoption of these ideas makes my life easier. I’m no longer speaking a foreign language when I ask to film or photograph behind the scenes. Being given permission to do so is an act of support that I appreciate.
There is no single path for being an artist. But every artist’s work – and life – is deeply enriched by a strong relationship with the people who carefully source and make the materials with which we create.
[1] Correction to article: Hazel Dooney paid graphic designer Kate Linton and digital software engineer Petras Surner to build a website in 2003, without mentorship (ref: http://www.katelinton.com/dooney.html).