We were enjoying the
regular company around the curry table when a colleague said, "Did
you hear that Geoffrey Pie died last week?" At moments like
this, time stops as the dominoes of memory tumble into the void, with
the dots randomly aligning to give a different resonant set of varied
and diverse reminiscences; then time restarts with a reorganised
world: a new era is shaped. Such is change. Ivan Illich likened these
events to a pebble plopping into a pool. There is the immediate drama
of the splash that is followed by the ripples that expand out
concentrically, almost in slow motion, until the waters once more
settle into the reflective surface that was disturbed by the stone.
The wavelets from the question are still in motion, ever so slowly
decreasing in magnitude. The waters are yet to calm, but the memories
reverberate.
The formal statement
is: Geoffrey William Pie AM: born 1938; died New Year’s Eve, 31
December 2018, aged 80 years.#
Geoffrey Pie was, on
reflection, never 'Geoff', even when chatting. It was as though the
ear preferred the rhythmic sounding of the christian name that was
followed by the full stop of the short, sharp surname: ‘Pie.’ He
was full and formal 'Geoffrey' in both everyday and more ceremonial
contexts, never ‘William.’ The unabbreviated rigour of the name
suited his demeanour – active, aware and assured, a presence that
seemed to be followed by an alert exclamation mark. As a young
architect he was known for his enthralled enthusiasm for things new that gave us his iconic housing: deep fascias over shaded, glassy
voids. The projects fitted into the genre of work that Robin Gibson
and John Dalton were engaged in. It was Queensland modern, smart and
new; idealistic - the flush of life and ideas after the restrictions
and rigours of war.
One first knew Geoffrey
by reputation rather than personally. His projects were sought out
for inspection, admiration. One got closer to him when on jury duty,
not in a court of law, but when assessing submissions for the
Australian Institute of Architect's awards, when it was the 'Royal'
AIA. Here, with a group of other assessors, the task was to visit the
Sunshine Coast to review various projects that had been listed.
Geoffrey took on the responsibility for organising everyone's
welcome, being the manager, the entertainer, the ‘toastmaster,’ a
task that was, as usual, taken on with much keen aplomb and pleasure.
Morning tea at his lovely, award-winning, sea-side courtyard was
followed by lunch at a close colleague’s beautiful bushy home: then
dinner at a seaside restaurant, a stay at a motel designed by an
architect friend, followed by breakfast at his local cafe –
freshly-baked croissants and coffee by the ocean. Geoffrey knew how
to organise events and to charm. He was the perfect host, mannered
and stylish. These were qualities that reached out into his work too,
and were extended to all he had dealings with.
It was not until after
a talk one evening at the RAIA rooms, when he suggested that the lecture
should be published, that one came to know him better: the cheeky
sparkle of his eyes and the genuine smile on his lips. That was the
time when he charitably offered to type the text of the talk from my
scrawled notes: "Just drop it off into my office." Geoffrey
was like that, always engaging, interested in architecture and
encouraging others, creating opportunities, offering support. His
presence buzzed with a contagious energy for his profession,
constantly hoping for and fighting for the best, and making openings whenever he could, using all of his many contacts. His was an
enthusiasm that he brought to all aspects of his life, and to his
practice, his work, the Institute, and public affairs: he was
captivating and joyous, and determined.
It is difficult to
recall how the idea started: maybe it was during Geoffrey’s
involvement in the organisation of the architectural convention of
that period; but it happened: he made it happen. Geoffrey opened his
office up for a few young friends to share in preparing a submission
for a competition. With his normal exuberance, we were embraced and
encouraged during three long, memorable days and nights. The project
was completed and sent off after endless plunger coffees, chats and
pizzas, finishing with a little breakfast celebration: an omelette
filled with herbs from his garden, with champagne, consumed in the
shady morning sunlight of his leafy backyard by a fatigued, but
buoyed group of bodies. Geoffrey liked living and its little events,
the occasions.
This place, his home of
that time, Ellerslie, was familiar as a location, remembered
as the sheltered, shady, almost mysterious street corner, next door
to the little cottage adjacent to the school's tennis court where we
used to play. The mishit balls, and there were many, always seemed to
be able to find a way into this property between, in spite of the
high fence. This ‘ball house’ neighboured the leafy, verandahed
colonial Queenslander on the intersection, saving what was to become
Geoffrey’s place from all but the extremely stray balls that were
never retrieved. This home was on an intersection at the end of a
cutting in the tuff hill that framed the street, a unique suburban
location. The site was directly opposite the local brick church with
its modest corner tower, a little ‘Horbury Huntish’ in style; and
diagonally opposite the school corner shop that once sold the
‘conversation’ lollies. The heart-shaped 'love' messages were
liked least; the ‘spinner’ lollies - a disk of solid sweet paste
with two holes at its centre and a length of string through them -
were the best. The spun lolly could be made to cut paper with its
ripple-profiled circumference. The dry sweetness of the blotter-like,
tooth-breaking indulgence can still be sensed, memorised by the body:
were they ‘two-a-penny’ for the small sweets, and ‘tuppence’
for the spinner; or was it a ‘penny ha’penny’?
The nearby school, (showing new the additional storey, 1940)
Geoffrey worked with
several young architects over the years, generously allowing space
for their creativity and encouraging it. His reputation was
established in his housing, for which he won significant awards, but
there were other commercial fitouts and larger projects too. His TAB
(UBET) Building at Albion,^ drew some criticism at the time, but was
later the subject of a heritage struggle. His work on refurbishing
the Port Office buildings in the CBD## was sensitive and aware; his
master planning for the University of the Sunshine Coast took on
another scale of design:** but it was for his housing that he is best
remembered. Here the early idealism of modernism changed with an
understanding of and feeling for place and climate, creating
accommodation for lifestyles rather than for style itself.
His humour was
engaging. The New Zealand architect, Ian Athfield, who was visiting
Brisbane for the Functions of Architecture convention, noted
one evening at a restaurant table how he was told as a young boy
that: “We do not want any maps of Australia on the sheets tonight
Ian.” Geoffrey laughed, and responded with the encouragement he was
given as a lad: “We do not want any little maps of New Zealand on
the sheets tonight Geoffrey.” There was much glee when Geoffrey was
around.
Geoffrey's stamina,
principle, and commitment became evident when he led the protest on
the demolition of the Government’s Bellevue Hotel, and later, on
the Brisbane City Council's ambitions to develop a library in the
local riverside park. With these bewildering proposals, one could see
the beginning of the end for the integrity of history and public
space in Brisbane.* Geoffrey was determined to object, to resist: to
try to right the wrongs. His stance was persistent and decisive,
dogged, never wavering in spite of the threats. His dissent was such
that Government privately said that he would never again be given any
more Government work. It took him years to again get work from the
government. Such was Queensland: if Government could not get it's
way, or experienced criticism on any matter, regardless of principle,
or corruption, then there was likely to be a spiteful response.
Geoffrey bore this situation without any grudge, but somewhat grimly.
It was as if it was his duty, something that had to be done for the
good of public space and place: Brisbane’s history.
Geoffrey slowly
retreated from architectural life. One heard reports of his fading
health, but he remained a strident figure in the memory of others.
The question at the curry table marked the terminus, leaving only the
mixed memories of the journey, sealed by the thoughts of the
determined rigour and the happy commitment Geoffrey held for his
chosen profession that he loved. He will be missed. The profession
needs honest and driven architects rather than the indulgent
promoters concerned only with their own personal public persona and
self-promotion. We need architects like Geoffrey Pie who are
generous and resolute, prepared to encourage others and praise good
work, promote it, fight for it, while at the same time seeking these qualities in their own professional engagements, without
ruthlessness, rudeness or rancour, only rigour.
Geoffrey Pie will be
remembered, and missed. His passing leaves much to reflect upon as
the ripples from this time settle down to a different calm for us
to reflect upon. We need to make his example our inspiration.
See also:
John Macarthur
interview
*
It was not as though
there was no precedent for park development in Brisbane. Yeronga
Park, one of Brisbane’s quality spaces on high land looking out to
Mt Cootha, stood as an example of what could happen when unchecked.
This unique park block accommodates the:
State Primary School;
State Dental Clinic;
Boy Scouts;
Tennis Club;
Girl Guides;
Blind Cricket Club;
Basket Ball Club;
Bowls Club (now Bridge
Club);
Croquet Club;
Fire Station (now
private offices);
CWA;
Local Kindergarten;
Meals on Wheels;
Swimming Pool;
Rugby League Club.
There is no library.
The remainder of the
open space has a bitumen road down its spine leading to grassed areas
used for informal parking for the Rugby League Club. There is a
fenced-off dog exercise area in this open space, the ‘dog park’;
a barbecue/picnic zone with a play area; and a war memorial with its
dainty paths and planting.
If one isolated, fenced
off all of the dedicated and leased areas, (many are already so
defined), there would be very little open space remaining for public
access, making the park, a ‘memorial park’ as declared at the
formal gate entries, east and west, more a source of easily allocated
land for everything but open, recreational space: public parkland.
One most recent battle in this park was to stop the expansion of the
Leagues Club. The claim on ‘free’ parkland space is unrelenting.
^
In association with
Hall Phillips and Wilson Architects (now Phillips Smith Conwell)
##
In collaboration with
Kerry Hill Architects as Pie Marrs Clare.
**
With Romaldo Giurgola.
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