Actually, it was Lloyd Rees
killed off Brett Whiteley who couldnt
live the promise of old age,
the calm terror of it. Thats what
Rees meant in his letter to Brett:
carry the torch forward
and something about being a warrior
for Art. Brett, in fact, was
skittled by a high powered mix of
narcissism & clown. Forget what
he had to, or couldnt leave behind &
anything to do with High Seriousness.
He got caught up in latitudes
of sex where the Olgas loomed round as
buttocks. Brett became his own
myth when he died, and effectively
slammed the door on the 60s.
Maybe some other seascape, like Thera,
suggestive of broken altars;
looking down into the cratered harbour
he might have seen beneath the
lapis lazuli waters, an ivory
scimitar held in the gaze of Portunus,
perfectly preserved, snapped in two.