And so Edna ends and with her that one person era
That is and was Barry Humphries, comedy’s true
Connoisseur, who supped culture in from craft
And charm’s golden chalice, dribbling as Les,
Or imbibing as Barry once did through drinks curse.
Starting with art and his notorious exhibitions
In Sydney and Melbourne where ‘Pus in Boots’
First stirred outrage from the custard within wellingtons,
To his love of the greats, from Raphael to Picasso,
We see his full fine face smiling proudly before
Its sad framing in the gallery of new skeletons.
But what Humphries did for flesh cannot be forgotten.
He made it vibrate with deep laughter from outright
Innuendo, to the most skilful bon mots. Sex was sly
In the mouth of his Everage alter-ego; which was
Performance Art at its finest as he showed them all
Where to go. From Gilbert and George to Cindy Sherman;
This breathing portrait of ambition and fame damned
Us all, for what we want and expect and of how fame
Itself traps the famous, freeing the fans of its horror,
As even death and children are constructs; bollocks
Crushed as paint say, by Pollock before being thrown
To the wall. Very few knew Sandy Stone, one of Humphries
Greatest creations. A suburban ghost whose sweet
Manifestos advertise a pale past. They contained scented
Words and showed how Barry led language into bright alleys
And tunnels of light lost suns cast. Les Patterson parodied
Every officiate you can think of, as well as Manhood
Which Humphries himself so enhanced. What with his great
Flop of fringe and moonlight eyes; his seductions
And various wives showed that glamour even restrained
Was style’s dance. One of his final shows celebrated
The Weimar, with Humphries as host and singer and alluring
Chanteuse; he encapsulated all art from Schiele
To Bauhaus, making each choice a prized chocolate
That those of any taste might prefer. And now he has gone.
As God or Death now selects him. And the day after
Mark Stewart, a giant of Punk; where’s the plan?
Or is this indiscriminate swoop part of the stork’s
Secret mission; for just as that image delivers,
So it removes each great man. And each great woman.
Or child. Or they we can think of. At 89, one considers
The length of the road, certainly. But it is not age
That’s key here. It is the talent age houses. And Barry
Humphries was talent. He made psychology art,
Skillfully. Watch any interview when he refers to Dame
Edna Everage as separate. Hear how she talks of him.
And you’re laughing just as you are chilled, powerfully.
For while these two people may share the same flesh,
With one a cartoon, one a painting, the space between
Is substantial. This is not an act. This is real. The culmination
With laughs of man’s small-scale evolution: to be somehow
Other, to be the kind of thing that Gods feel. Barry Humphries
Did that. He was no mere entertainer. Barry instead,
Was the trainer for how to escape; art’s true deal.
We are losing so much. I wonder who will replace them.
Bruce, Barry, Barker; the lords of lost laughs are now air.
Pixels perform. You are the scintillating stars kept above us.
Contain in your sparkle these shards of the past.
Retrieve care. Humphries. Bunuel. Newley, Pinter
And Bowie. Welles. Bergman. Lennon. Lemmon
And Newman. Miller, Williams and Monroe. Each name
Still performs, even if on unseen stages. We seek them out
Now in darkness. Stare into it, searching and see what
You can find, possums. Grow.
David Erdos 22/4/23
.