Tuesday, 5 February 2019

GEOFFREY PIE - ARCHITECT: A COMMITTED ADVOCATE, MANNERED & STYLISH



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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