Eulogy by Julian Mann

Gillian was born in 1939, in Derby England. World War II started shortly after and she didn’t see her journalist father Charles for her first 6 years.

In those times, women took over their husband’s jobs, and Gillian’s stressed mother Beryl faced the difficulty of raising a child, working as a journalist and worrying about her gentle husband posted in Ceylon with the Air Force.

The wartime experience had a strong influence on Gillian, and this showed up in her art 60 years later with many powerful images in the Burial Ground series.

After the war she’d spend her summer holidays on her cousin’s farm, where she would go nowhere near the animals and was frightened of the cows.

Her younger cousin Ian’s earliest memory of her talent for art was a 10 year old Gillian who did his homework. And she would draw pretty pictures of rabbits and other animals throughout his school books. “She was brilliant” he said.

After a stint as a dental nurse, a 22 year old Gillian eventually followed her passion and went to Art College in Lancaster, North West England, where her father became the editor of the local newspaper.

3 years later, she moved away to study at the Leicester College of Art, where she met my Indian father and I arrived shortly after.

My father was quite younger than her – he was 19 – she was 26. This was to become a common theme in her relationships over the years.

Well, she always did look 10 years younger than what she really was.

That relationship was thankfully short-lived but left her with many emotional scars. But she rarely said a bad thing about him. She always showed me her happy face - shielded me from bad things.

This was to become a common theme in our relationship - even up to the end. She struggled to tell me she had cancer. She couldn’t tell me she was in pain.

A few years later, Gillian married again, to a lovely person Alistair. And he is the reason we are here in Australia – with no regrets. Unfortunately it didn’t last long either – but they stayed good friends and Alistair and I have become very close over the years.

So for most of my young life, it was just me and my mum and lots of love and happiness.

I look back in amazement how she managed to bring me up by herself, while she studied in England, and later worked hard hours teaching at the Canberra School of Art and immersing herself in her artistic creations.

And she was always there for me, even as a grown up. When I was sick she would always come and look after me.

We were not just mother and son, we were good friends. We were great companions.

Mum imprinted many values on me over the years.I admire her kindness and compassion and her humane treatment of animals. She loved her many doggies, but she also showed such care, hand feeding the sheep next door in the grip of this terrible drought.

I admire her disgust of war, her concerns for the environment and her aim for women to be treated as equals.

Hey, being the only man in the house, I copped the brunt of strong minded feminist.

Despite what my mother imagined, or maybe hoped, I never had a real talent for art. I was just into sport. But although she had no interest in sport herself, she always encouraged my passions.

One of my strongest memories of Mum in recent times was my wedding on top of Mt Kosciusko. She walked all the way up, as strongly as any of my younger friends.

and lovely are the flowers. Some die quickly,Some linger through the Autumn into Winter, Strongly holding their bloom. I hope I am one of those.

Mum, you were.