“You’re a tough bastard, goddamnit.”
I’d just finished telling my second-year lecturer about my journey to get into the BA Graphic Design course. He asked me what my story was, but after hearing it, he couldn’t quite believe I was in Bendigo after everything I’d just shared. I wasn’t trying to be self-pitying; I was just laying it out like a shopping list—it was what it was.
I didn’t have a particularly hard upbringing—just a typical nuclear family in the heart of the working-class Eastern Suburbs (being a Bayswater boy was a dubious honor), with two parents who’d also had tough upbringings but shared a lot of love. I went to a happy primary school, had the hope of the future, and the naive optimism of a 12-year-old boy who spent most of his time on a BMX or playing Dungeons & Dragons. Life was good.
That was until the afternoon when I’d finished DM’ing and BMX riding, only to come home and find my dad collapsing from a heart attack. Just like that. He’d taken up jogging but neglected to quit smoking. At the time, numbness was the only way to describe it. It was a massive shock, and I had no idea in the following days what this catastrophe would mean for our family and my future. Mum and Dad had just leapt into the dream of running their own carpet consulting business. We’d had a nice extension built on the house. My sister had just finished Year 12 and left for the country to study Agriculture at Dookie.
The first rude shock was having to move house. Mum, employed but still recovering from the financial struggles of the early '80s, couldn’t afford to keep our suburban haven. So, we moved to the Hills—to rent in “The Basin,” which seemed oddly fitting. My life was heading down a metaphorical drain as my high school grades dropped, I became a bit of a smartarse, and my friends led me to skip school and indulge in petty mischief. I guess I went into my shell at home. None of it helped; I just didn’t have direction and one less guiding hand.
Mum bravely pulled the plug on our city life and moved us to the country, where she found comfort and optimism in her old stomping ground, Tawonga. It was a small farming community outside Mount Beauty, at the foot of Falls Creek, where she ran the local general store with her sister. I became friends with the mechanic’s son across the road, and we’re still best mates today.
That’s when I started to adopt a mantra: “You’re going to have to put up with a lot, and life will knock you on your arse without warning.”
If you’ve ever been to Victoria’s High Country on a misty night with a full moon, hiked the hills, or floated down a river on a lazy summer afternoon, you’ll know what I—and many others—mean when I say it really is God’s country. But life still had a habit of going south, often brutally. I crashed my car at over 180 kph and nearly died. I lost friends to mental health issues, and in rural towns, that’s not uncommon. I was up and down with money, lived off nothing for a while, and made do. When things got really tough, I think I gave up, clouded in bong smoke, and let the world pass me by.
Then ‘Stumpy,’ one of my good mates, gave it to me straight one night: “Stop moping, get off the couch, and just do the course because you’re bloody good at it—and we’re sick of hearing you moan.”
That course was Graphic Design. To be honest, I wasn’t great at it in high school, but I did enjoy it.
The journey wasn’t easy. I had to make my way to uni on student loans, Austudy, and selling my musical gear—and eventually my car—just to pay for course fees. I lived in a caravan for a while and even slept in my car for a few weeks. But a friend helped me land a paying gig as a mobile DJ, which got me back on my feet, gave me structure, and the confidence to keep going.
Bendigo was a whole new level of creativity with my fellow students. I became best friends with Robt, who introduced me to Zappa, prog-rock, cheap $1 beers, and Friday nights at the social club. What he actually taught me was patience, high standards, and stubbornness if I ever wanted good marks. He also taught me to open my mind if I wanted to create work that was anything but mundane. I owe a huge debt to Mr. Haughie for his many lessons.
Which brings me back to my second-year lecturer. The gratifying part of his “tough bastard” comment was that it was completely untrue. I’m as soft as butter. But still, the sentiment struck home: Don’t give up on yourself. Don’t give up on your naivety. Do whatever it takes to get where you need to be. Beg, borrow, don’t steal (that’s not nice). Hitch rides, sleep on couches, talk to everyone you meet—everyone—about the big stuff. Aim higher than you can see. Stop thinking you’re not worthy, because really, everyone’s faking it until they make it. Never stop enjoying life. Never stop celebrating it. Life’s pretty short.
So, here I am, 31 years later—the guy who didn’t pass my ‘Professional Practice’ class in my degree—still going, still self-made, still learning new tricks, and still (I hope) setting high standards. None of this would have been possible without the love and support of my beautiful, straight-talking wife, and the gang of REAL tough bastards—my mates who’ve kept me honest along the way.
Dedicated to Peter David Graham and Barbara Olive Mundy. Their love lives on.