This book is based on an exchange of letters between Jane Sinclair’s parents Jean Langley, artist, and John Sinclair, music critic 1960-62, when the author was five and her mother followed her lover, Arthur Boyd, to London, and took her daughter with her.
By the Author
My First Book…
Years before she died, my mother gave me all the correspondence she had between herself and my father. It spans more than four decades, and I read every word with an increasing desire to understand more about their relationship. But it felt like trying to complete a giant jigsaw without seeing the final picture. Even after years of trying to connect as many pieces of the puzzle as I could, the image is far from clear and by its very nature will remain fuzzy and to some degree open to interpretation.
My mother brought me up to believe that honesty was paramount. She thought it important for the sake of history, family members and future generations alike, to know the reality of people’s lives. She believed in the importance of truth but lacked the rigour required to search for it. So whenever she was interviewed later in life by the occasional art historian, or the author in the process of writing Arthur Boyd’s biography, she told her version of events as she remembered them. I’m grateful that she kept the letters and her journals because I also think it’s important for the sake of history, family members and future generations alike, to know the reality of people’s lives. The letters are evidence that her absolute faith in her ability to remember was misguided. Perspectives vary but sometimes a fact is just a fact, and she got quite a few wrong. She gave me the letters because she saw me as ‘the family historian’ and always told me the truth of people’s lives shouldn’t be white-washed or hidden. As far as I’m concerned, that includes her own.
Excerpt from review of Shy Love Smiles and Acid Drops…
“There’s some interesting social history here – life in the 60s, the experience of Aussie artistic expats in London, the challenges of communication in those pre-electronic communications days. There’s also a little about the the art world, the odd reference to a Boyd or Nolan exhibition, to the Blackmans, and to Brett Whiteley whom Jeannie calls “a shocking little upstart”. But, overall, this is a nicely presented but intense story of a “difficult marriage”, and it will appeal mostly to those interested in human relationships.”
Full review can be read here.
This book tells of two parallel lives. My mother's story is told mainly through her highly emotional letters to Sunday, and I write of my experiences as I struggled with the awkward transition from child to teenager, while living in Swinging London.
My Second Book…
Much has been written about the unconventional, turbulent love-life of Sunday Reed but my mother knew a very different side of Sun, that of an endlessly loving, ever- tolerant special friend who, despite her delicate appearance, was surprisingly stoic and hard-working. My mother also had an unconventional and turbulent love-life so it’s not surprising that when it came to my own discovery of sex and romance as a teenager, I had little idea of how to find the joy in either.
In 1969 my mother once again escaped her difficult marriage and went to live in London, taking my younger sister and me with her. We returned to Australia a year later when I was fifteen.
Sun’s letters to my mother give glimpses of everyday life at Heide for Sun and John after the so called Heide Circle had dispersed. My mother’s letters to Sunday bring a personal perspective to her relationships with Arthur and Yvonne Boyd, David and Hermia Boyd, and Mary Boyd/Perceval who were living in London at the time.
Intense, difficult people often end up in intense, difficult relationships. I share some of my mother’s emotional instability and know that it doesn’t make for an easy life. But it can make for an interesting one, and eventually with a lot of work and thoughtful reflection, an interesting book.
Published in 2024 by Aspasia, an imprint of Australian Scholarly Publishing.