The first time I saw Agatha she was saturated, standing in a knee-high bucket wearing a knitted woollen jumper that said Ho Ho Ho on it. Whatever I’d expected to see at the Christmas group show at MOP Projects – an artist-run gallery in Redfern, Sydney – this vision transcended it. As I walked into the hall-like space, it was devoid of any artwork aside from this absolutely beautiful woman standing there with water dripping on to her head.
It was 2007 and I was a graduate of the National Art School. People weren’t making this type of work there, so it’s no exaggeration to say the whole image was completely new and arresting for me. She was silent and stationary but so alive.
Some weeks later I was back at the same venue and some friends of hers introduced us, suggesting I could advise her on applying to the National Art School. To me this seemed absurd. It was already clear to me that she was a brilliant artist.
As we chatted it became clear that she was also extremely charismatic. I learned that she was the daughter of two artists and she had such a broad, intimate understanding of a creative life. I told her on the spot that she really didn’t strike me as someone who needed any more schooling to take her art further and I couldn’t wait to see what she would do next.
Over the next few weeks we crossed paths at exhibitions and openings and one evening found ourselves squashed into a corner at the Hollywood Hotel in Surry Hills. The place was heaving with young artsy types. She asked about buying a piece of mine she’d seen in a show; a painting on raw linen of a foot with a smiley face on it – it sort of looks like a happy accelerator pedal.
I was completely charmed that she was even interested in talking to me, let alone in any of my work, so I insisted that all she needed to offer in exchange for it was a bag of chips to share with our drinks.
Agatha, I was beginning to discover, wasn’t just gorgeous and talented and sophisticated, she was also completely hilarious. Being around her was such a luminous experience and the fact that she would get in on this eccentric transaction had me smitten.
Soon afterwards I went around to her place to drop off the painting. She’d shrunk down the empty chip packet in the oven and put it in this beautiful vintage cigarette tin along with a note. What she had written wasn’t any declaration of love – but it was the beginning of something more than friendship. There was something in that exchange that was so absurd, that told me we spoke the language. It was a genuine moment of clarity.
The atmosphere in Sydney at that time was alive with fantastic artists, fantastic spaces and Agatha was the brightest light out there. Since the moment I saw her in that bucket I couldn’t unsee her unfathomable beauty and now I couldn’t believe her light was shining on me.
Looking back it feels like another Sydney. Relationships weren’t born on apps, they were cradled in the crucible of this fluid world where we were out every night mingling with like-minded young people, drifting from gallery to bar to party. Our union came together in real time, face to face, every night in the vibrant chaos of exhibition spaces and post-show drinks. Within six months we were living together and I’ve continued to bask in her glow for nearly two decades.
These days the painting she tried to buy hangs in our bedroom and the cigarette tin sits on a shelf in the kitchen, in the home we share with our son. In a beautiful way that fleeting, playful moment has been immortalised in these objects that continue to absorb the energy of our life together. From those electric early days to the tender quietude of family life, Agatha has remained the most rigorous, interesting and sincere artist I know; my dream girl and favourite artist.
