William Constable

Tempers and Temperaments

When david N. Martin opened the Minerva Theatre in Sydney, I was with him as designer and scenic artist. I designed and painted Room for Two (1940)—described in one paper as ‘one of those gaily furnished bedrooms—so seductive in tone as to seem almost wicked. One cannot imagine anyone of aggressive respectability being comfortable in it for a moment, but the people in the play are not exactly that’. (H.A. Standish) Some other shows were Reunion in Vienna (1941), By Candlelight and Design for Living (1941), and for this last named the script took us from a garret studio to the respectability of a Bloomsbury boarding house. The last scene was a modern interior and David Martin and I did not see quite eye to eye over this—he said it was not sufficiently modern. Very portentously he said ‘In that box on Saturday night will be sitting a man whose ideas are extremely modern. In fact they are “avant garde” as far as any other playwright is concerned.’ He was talking about Noel Coward—it was, of course, his own play.

It was my argument that if I did modernize the scene in the boarding house, it would not contrast enough with the last scene in the way it should. I added that I very much doubted whether Noel Coward would appreciate it if I did modernize a run-down London Adams interior which, left as it was, was easily recognised as such. Anyhow, I won the argument and later Mr. Coward expressed himself as perfectly happy with the sets.

We had another disagreement over a particular colour in the set of Reunion in Vienna. This scene had necessarily to be a very elaborate salon with panels of figures and lots of Baroque ornamentation. A certain lady who ran an interior decoration shop supplied all the furniture for the show, which we hired. It was David’s expressed opinion that one colour was not in harmony with the tapestry of her settee. I refused to paint the colour out and told her it would be much easier to change the settee, even if it meant reupholstering it in different fabric. So the battle raged back and forth, each of us refusing to budge from our entrenched positions. Then David entered the lists—he told me I was acting like a temperamental actress. This was too much—so I grinned and surrendered.

David N. Martin, 1940s

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

Various Minerva Theatre programmes

From The Minerva by John Stephen Clark, Australian Theatre Historical Society, 1993

At this time I had a very young girl assistant in the paint room. I gave her the job of drawing the figures in the panels. and how rapidly and beautifully they were drawn. Today, Lesbia Thorpe is best known for her printmaking. She has exhibited her work at the Royal Academy.

One of David Martin’s chief attributes was his wide knowledge of advertising. He was extremely able in ‘putting it over’ effectively. During the time I was with him, I came in for my share of the publicity and in fact, was given as much as the producer. The first time I was made aware of this I was so startled I nearly lost control of my car. I was driving past the stadium in Rushcutter's Bay at the time and my eye was irresistibly attracted to not one, but two, 24-sheeters over the entrance to the stadium. In the traffic I only had a split second to concentrate on what I saw—my own name in huge letters. On my return journey I pulled into the opposite side and allowed this startling sight to sink in. I was extremely bewildered, but very happy and most amused—I could only think that someone had goofed, and I profoundly hoped that the mistake would not be rectified (or at least, not too quickly). I wanted to have a little time to wallow in my glory. On these 24-sheeters, which are the largest of the posters, was the title of the show Room for Two and underneath, in twelve inch letters, was proclaimed ‘Produced by Gerald Kirby and Directed by J. Alan Kenyon’. I supposed the writer had misread 'Decor' for an abbreviation of ‘Director’. Anyhow, there it was, and there it remained, not only for Room for Two but for all the other shows I did at Minerva. The denouement came many months later.

David Martin gave me the script of a show called French for Love. After carefully going over it I designed the set. It was an outdoor scene in the courtyard of a French chateau. The set was constructed and painted; but there was no word of rehearsals, and no production date was named. Then, one day, intrigued by this odd situation, I asked David what was happening to the show. It was an extremely entertaining comedy, with a very exciting plot and would, I firmly believed, have packed them in for a long season. His answer was evasive—'I'm not sure,’ he said, ‘It must be superlatively done and I don’t know if (mentioning an actress by name) she is strong enough. I doubt very much if she could play the part successfully and also, I’m afraid it is rather out of Gerry’s field.’ He continued with very heavy sarcasm, ‘Of course you have been directing the shows for so long, perhaps you could take over the production.’

Programme for The Dancing Years, 1946

Elisabeth Kumm collection

One of the opulent sets for The Dancing Years, 1946

Miles Kenyon collection

I first made Borovansky’s acquaintance in 1946 when he directed his company in the dance sequences for Ivor Novello’s musical play The Dancing Years. This was some time before I became more involved with the Borovansky Ballet Company in the early 1950s. He undoubtedly put Australian ballet in a top class and even his enemies, of whom I possibly was one, could not deny him an accolade for that. It was unfortunate that his personality was so unattractive—he had the disposition of being always ready and willing to pick a fight with anyone over anything at any time. Like most people who came in contact with him, I had my share of trouble. It arose from a perfectly simple situation which anyone but Boro could have resolved quite easily.

London’s Joseph Carl was the original designer for The Dancing Years, but George Upward, along with myself, Cecil Newman and assistants, and one of my sons during his school holidays, were all working on the very elaborate sets. Boro yelled at my son, bawling ‘Hey you painter—get off the stage!’ ‘Are you talking to me?’ asked John. He was ordered again very summarily to get off the stage. But John answered ‘I'm sorry, but I have been told to paint this balustrade (which was at the very back of the stage in any case) and I’m going to finish the job.’ And finish it he did! Boro of course marked him down for further trouble. One of his less charming traits was his vindictiveness—he never forgot or forgave even a fancied slight. He could not endure any brooking of his imperious will. So he accused John of whistling in the paint room during a performance—at the Theatre Royal in Sydney the paint room is at the back of the stage. John was assisting Bill Constable who did much of the painting for Boro. When taking up the frame with a winch, one of the pulleys squeaked. ‘What do you mean by whistling during a performance?’ he snarled at the boy. ‘I was not whistling,’ said John. ‘I tell you, you were!’ Boro insisted, with some added abuse. John then threatened him with a punch on the nose. The result was Boro complained to the management—they refused to take the matter seriously but told me to keep John out of Boro’s road in future. The boy’s defiant attitude had actually been provoked by Boro’s very shabby treatment of one of the girls.

From that time on, I was in his black books with a vengeance. Boro knew every spiteful trick in the book—he was probably responsible for the inclusion of many of them. No matter how trifling the matter, he blew it up if it could possibly cause me trouble. When I designed and painted a new Swan Lake (Act Two) in 1954, he at once expressed himself as dissatisfied with the sky of the backcloth. He asserted that it was slightly too dark and he wished it to be altered. On the next inspection he considered it to be too light, and he was only satisfied when he had had the sky changed three times, when he reluctantly gave his approval.

Swan Lake programme credits, 1954

Judy Leech collection

Edouard Borovansky as Pierrot in Carnaval, 1946. Photo by Jean Stewart.

Judy Leech collection

Then one day when I was in the Director’s office and had just remarked that ‘although no one wanted any trouble, if Boro looked sideways at me I was going to let him have it’, he came mincing in, making some derogatory remark about me not being on hand when he telephoned. Enough is enough, and I took a deep breath. When I had finished my oratory, M. Borovansky was literally shaking with rage. I was sufficiently detached from my outburst to become quite objective and to note that he was quivering like a jelly. I reminded him of his infantile persecution over the Swan Lake backcloth, which I told him had never actually been changed, knowing that his objection to the colour had no real basis but was the result of purely personal spite. I had never repainted that cloth at any time. I was sorry that the altercation had to take place in the Director’s office but Boro’s spiteful habit of pin-pricking and of bringing personalities into the business made working with him too much of a liability. I detest scrapping with anyone and have to consider myself in the last ditch before I decide to take up arms.

There is no doubt there is a great variation in people's temperaments. There was the case of technician Jack Kingsford Smith—a scrap of any kind was meat and drink to him.  One time I passed the office of the General Manager of a film unit and issuing from it were the unmistakable sounds of combat. Abuse was being shuttled back and forth between the belligerents. In a few minutes the identity of the combatants was made plain by the emergence of Jack Kingsford Smith, wearing all the outward signs of victory.  Rubbing his hands, he said, with a triumphant beaming smile, ‘Cripes, I enjoyed that!’ As the philosophers truly remark, ‘It takes all sorts’, or if one recalls the Latin tag ‘De gustibus non est disputandum’!

Before the restaurant became known as Mario’s, Poppa Becker had established himself at the tavern opposite Her Majesty’s in Melbourne. As Mine Host, Poppa was a well-known character in Melbourne’s cafe society. His home had been in Vienna and he always wore what a well-dressed Viennese gentleman would wear, he was sartorial perfection. He sported a trilby and spats, and had a beard which resembled the tail of a partridge, divided in the centre and then carefully brushed to the sides. We had a brush in the paint room which was divided exactly like Poppa’s beard and someone stuck a paper trilby on the handle to further the resemblance to the genial maître d’hotel. Poppa Becker lived to the ripe old age of eighty plus. He was often heard attributing his long life and good health to good wine, and his many theatrical friends.

Then there was Fasoli’s cafe in Lonsdale Street, founded in 1897, and a mecca for artists, journalists and writers during the early years of the century. The walls were lavishly decorated with signed samples of the artists who frequented the establishment. Rather than washing up, some poverty-stricken artists painted for their suppers - no one was ever denied this privilege. At least that is how the story ran.

Drawing of Fasoli’s Restaurant by Herbert Moore

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Stirring the pots in the paint room, c.1950

National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra

There was once a Lord Mayor of Melbourne who ventured as far as the paint room. He was a sufferer of gallstones and having no mind for surgery, he drank gallons of olive oil which he thought would keep his condition under control. During one visit he expounded what he considered to be a brand new theory to do with making money. It was to go into business and supply gravel for road making. We considered that, with such an off-beat sense of humour, he might have a future as a comic and make some money that way. Another character who had apparently frequented the paint room was John Ford Paterson, the artist. He used to say about scene painting ‘It's not art. It’s mechanical contrivance.’

The following is a story of a well-rehearsed reply to a demand for an explanation—something which I had fully expected. The play was Edward My Son (1949). Some of the sets were painted in Melbourne by me, and some in Sydney by Bill Constable. The show opened in Sydney and was then to open here in Melbourne. By some mismanagement, the railway truck from Albury—with the scenes on board—got shunted to a siding at Montague. To make matters worse, the tarpaulin came adrift, it rained for days, and when we at last got the scenes to the theatre, we were aghast at the mess we were presented with.  Everything was completely saturated, flats which had been packed face to face had become glued together and when we separated them found that the image on one had been transferred to the other. It was a frightful job to get them into some sort of presentable shape—by the fast approaching opening night.

There was one particular scene which had been painted in Sydney by Constable, and much beloved by the producer. When the stage manager arrived and was shown the extent of the disaster, he expressed his amazement at the result of my efforts to reproduce this particular interior. I did not know whether he meant what he said, or whether he was simply deriving some enjoyment by watching my discomfiture. However, I accepted his assumption that ‘His Lordship, the Producer’ would really hit the roof when he saw the transformation of his favourite set into what I had done my best to restore.

Bill Constable working on a piece of the Edward, My Son set, 1949. Photo by B. Rice.

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Robert Morley discussing Edward, My Son with director Daphne Rye and J.C. Williamson’s business manager Eric Wahlquist, 1949. Photo by B. Rice.

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Because the flats and wings had been stuck together most of the paintwork on them had been lost. The ornament of this French bedroom set was absolutely non-existent. I had to scrape off one side, put thick colour on the other, stipple and repaint. In my mind at least the result was satisfactory, I had quite honestly considered we had done an excellent job. The set had appeared damp and water-stained and altogether dilapidated when we saw it first, but when the mouldings were repainted the whole scene looked to be what it was supposed to represent. But the stage manager continued to needle me, assuring me that ‘His Lordship’ would never in this world accept it as a substitute for the glory it had been. By this time, I was completely fed up because of all the trouble and worry—and the many late hours—this extra work had given me. I was prepared to do battle—I was quite determined that I would have my say and that if there was any unpleasantness, it would not be altogether one-sided. So I awaited the arrival of 'His Lordship' with a large-sized chip on my shoulder, going over my lines like an actor, what I was going to say—I was word perfect. By the way, the gentleman happened to be Robert Morley.

When at last he actually did arrive, we began the customary procedure of going through each scene, the props and the lighting. The curtain was lowered on each scene until it was set and then raised so that the producer could see the scene from the stalls. I had my speech fully rehearsed and when the fatal moment arrived and the bedroom set was about to be revealed, vowed to myself that I would not retract a word. Everyone was in front and when the curtain went up, there was complete silence. Then Robert Morley, in his most peremptory voice, asked ‘And who painted the set out?’ No one answered, but every face turned to me. Then Frank Tait stepped into the breach and explained ‘George Kenyon did his best with the mess it was in when it arrived from Sydney.’ I opened my mouth to say my piece but failed to get started because Mr. Morley was speaking. ‘It is much better than it was originally.’ For a few minutes I did not know whether I felt deflated or inflated!

Brigadoon (1951) and South Pacific (1952) were two shows I completely re-designed. The producer of the former (James McGregor Jamieson) was quite definitely not afflicted with false egoism. He informed us that he had danced as one of the ballet in the American production. He was an excellent producer and played a leading part in the show. Actually the show stayed on an even keel from the opening night until the last performance.

When he arrived from America he wished to see, quite understandably, what we had done. We lowered the cloths and other scenery for him to inspect, and I heaved a sigh of relief when he gave his unqualified approval by saying ‘Now you have really given us something—we can really be seen.’ He went on to say that the American production had mauve and yellow skies, also a lot of bright reds and greens, and on the stage the kilts of the performers just faded into the scenery. I was of course gratified to hear him say that he liked my treatment much more.

Scene from the original Broadway production of Brigadoon featuring Oliver Smith’s sets, 1947

 

Kenyon’s forest in the Scottish highlands, Brigadoon, 1951

National Library of Australia, Canberra

The producer of South Pacific, Charles Atkin, had a completely different personality. When he arrived the models were all made and set out in the paint room. This is the moment of truth for the set designer and painter! Frank Tait brought him up to the room and made the introductions and he and the producer walked slowly along inspecting the models I had constructed. Nobody uttered a word and in spite of my efforts to appear detached and give a convincing display of sang-froid, I began to sweat. Then the producer broke the silence by announcing ‘Well, when I get back to America, I shall tell ‘so-and-so’ he hasn't a clue how to design scenery.’ This speech had the effect of increasing my confusion, because for the life of me I could not decide whether he meant it as a compliment or it was just his way of being sarcastic.

Anyway, the scenery was made from my models and it was duly painted. At regular intervals the producer, who turned out to be a very nice person, came up into the paint room. He generally had some comment to pass—‘You must love palm trees,’ he remarked one day. ‘As a matter of fact, I loathe the things. I must have painted thousands of fronds!’ I answered. The house I had designed was, to my way of thinking, quite suitable for the Frenchman who was one of the leading characters in the play. I had decided on a style of architecture which I felt would follow the lines of this particular character’s taste—Emile, a cultured Frenchman—I gave it a suggestion of French as well as jungle construction. I considered it had to appear sufficiently solid to enable it to weather monsoons and tropical storms. When speaking, Mr. Atkin never lost a certain bantering way he had. ‘What a truly magnificent house,’ he exclaimed, gazing in mock admiration at my structure. He continued with this kind of badinage right through the entire period of production.

Kenyon’s Act 1, Scene 2 scene from South Pacific, 1952

Miles Kenyon collection

Double page spread from the souvenir programme for the JCW production of South Pacific, 1952

Theatre Program Collection, Theatre Heritage Australia

On the final rehearsal night, he informed me in a frightfully condescending manner that he thought the scenery was ‘very good’. Somewhat piqued, I made a reply both adequate and dignified—I told him that if the scenery was really atmospheric to the needs of the play and did not intrude, but was subservient to the actors, then I was happy and satisfied, had simply done my job and did not look for any applause. Maybe that was the reason why, on opening night, I never received any. After the curtain calls the producer thanked everyone, but failed to mention the scenery. Next day I went on holidays, as I had some leave owing. When I returned and duly reported to Frank Tait, he let me know about the thanks and best wishes for a successful season left behind by the producer of South Pacific. After making his farewells, he left the office, but as he went through the door turned around and said ‘Oh, and by the way, he said to tell George Kenyon that his production makes the New York show simply look shoddy.’ He was a funny man.

In Brigadoon there was a tree cut-cloth. This is a cloth that is painted with foliage, branches and trunks. When the painting is finished, the portions between the foliage etc. are marked for cutting out. At that time, I had a most efficient pupil and I showed him what to do with the cloth and left him to it. He really was efficient—he marked that cloth for cutting until it looked for all the world like lace. Then it was removed from the frame and carried to the workshop beneath. When it was opened up on the floor, the boys gazed at it in astonishment.

I was in the paint room, very busy painting, when one of the lovable characters from the workshop came up into my work space. Walking straight up to me, and towering over me by about twelve inches, he said quite simply, ‘Kenyon, you bastard!’ Then he walked out.

They did cut every small marked piece of that cloth, and the result was really something. Personally, I would hate to have been responsible for such a job, lacking the time, the patience and the audacity. My pupil possessed an ample supply of all three. Eventually, he decided to leave me, and I considered I had wasted four years of my time. He finished up teaching art at a secondary school.

Example of a tree cut-cloth

Miles Kenyon collection

Kenyon’s design for ‘Outside the Kirk’, Brigadoon, 1951

National Library of Australia, Canberra

The ballet Terra Australis, 1946. National Gallery of Australia, © Estate of William Constable, NGA 87.1943

William Constable’s career as a scenic artist spanned some sixty years, working for leading companies in Australia and Britain, but as Judy Leech explains, it was through his close association with Edouard Borovansky from 1940-1956, that he honed his craft.

What would the Reverend Archibald Henry Constable, rector of Bendigo's St John's Church of England, make of the fact that one of his housemaids, on her day off, had taken his four year-old son, William, to a performance of a play! The reverend gentleman deplored the theatre and he had forbidden his three sons to ever attend. 

The young William recalled, not the play nor the actors, but the colours, the painted walls and doors of the settings—his first experience, or exposure to, scenic design. The year was 1910.

In his teens William received some training or guidance in water-colour painting from the artist Meta Townsend, wife of Reginald Sturgess. These two had both been students at the National Gallery Art School of Victoria from 1909 to 1914. It was not until 1926, at the age of twenty, when William's apprenticeship at the Jolimont Workshops was terminated, that he could commence full-time study at the National Gallery, which was followed by a move to the UK and a period spent at St Martin's School of Art in London. He found work as a graphic designer and became involved in experimental theatre: at theatres such as the Embassy, in Swiss Cottage, now home to the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. He was influenced by the modern school of stage design first introduced by the English designer Gordon Craig and the Swiss architect and theorist of stage lighting and design, Adolphe Appia. These experiences set his passion for life.

Returning to Australia in the early 1930s William Constable was engaged by Gregan McMahon to contribute his design expertise to the inaugural production of James Bridie's Jonah and the Whale at the newly opened Garrick Theatre in Melbourne.

Thus began a long and astonishingly varied career in scenic design, for the theatre a long, long list of plays and operas in Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, Brisbane, New Zealand and the UK, for film and television both here and during the years he spent in London from 1955 to 1972. He illustrated books, produced paintings, prints and murals, his work was exhibited across Australia and England.

But the principal subject or aim of this article is to be Constable's design for the ballet, most notably for one particular ballet company here in Australia.

Constable acknowledged his formative experience with the McMahon company and later, his indebtedness to the three tours of the de Basil and Ballets Russes companies, from 1936 to 1941, visits that had an extraordinary impact upon designers for the stage, local artists, dancers and choreographers. At the conclusion of these tours, or a dancer's contract with a company, a number—around one dozen—preferred to remain in Australia, and for an understandable variety of reasons, given the current state of the world. A few endeavoured to set up schools or companies, others were to join forces with these new ventures. Edouard and Xenia Borovansky opened an Academy of Dance/Russian Ballet in Roma House in Elizabeth Street, Melbourne (Czechoslovakian born Edouard —originally Eduard Skrecek—met his future wife Xenia Smirnova when they were both members of Anna Pavlova's company), others, including Valentin Zeglovsky, were to join the soon-to-be-formed Borovansky Ballet Company. 

Constable met Borovansky through the photographer Eric Rowell when they both attended the 1939 opening of the Roma House Studio. This was the start of a creative partnership and friendship to last until Boro's untimely death in 1959.

Constable's early designs, Vltava, Pas Classiqueand Autumn Leavesin 1940 were for the Roma Studio's recitals to help raise money for war charity benefits, from 1939 through to 1943. His first professional dance commission was for En Sagain 1941, a ballet choreographed by Laurel Martyn (who had danced with Sadler’s Wells and Borovansky and was later to form Victoria's Ballet Guild) and performed at a Red Cross Gala in Melbourne University's Union Theatre. The ballet was, essentially, an expression of hatred and rebellion against war. With a Finnish poem as a basis, and with the music of Jean Sibelius—chosen from one of his Tone Poems—Constable created costumes inspired by the folk-dress of Finland against a bleak, windswept backcloth. The whole production was greatly admired—the principal dancers, the choreography, and most importantly, the design.

The following year, 1942, the newly-formed company presented Les Sylphides at the Princess Theatre—designs by Constable, no doubt following the usual romantic woodland-glade tradition. That same year, Harry Tatlock Miller, journalist, art critic and expert in paintings and antiques, assembled an exhibition of Australian art for ballet and theatre, which included work by Constable, Loudon Sainthill, Amie Kingston, Elaine Haxton, William Dobell, Daryl Lindsay—among others. Many of these artists had contributed designs for another ballet company, albeit a short-lived one, formed by the Sydney-based Hélène Kirsova, another one of the dancers who had ‘stayed behind’.

In the early 1940s the dancer Valentin Zeglovsky, who had also chosen to remain in Australia, set up a school in a studio in the house in which he lived in Potts Point. He submitted patent applications to the relevant authorities for four ballets, one of which was The Red Poppy,a ballet first created for the Bolshoi in 1927 and the first Soviet ballet with a modern revolutionary theme. Who knows exactly what Zeglovsky had in mind—the original version had over sixty separate segments or divertissements! The most famous, and remembered, being the Russian Sailors' Dance. The music was by Reinhold Glière, the original choreography by Lev Laschiline and Vasily Tikhomirov.

There is no evidence of Zeglovsky's version, apart from Constable's beautifully rendered costume designs, shown here. A tragic waste! From Zeglovsky's autobiography, his Ballet Crusade,we know he danced in the original ballet with the Riga State Opera Company in 1929.

In 1943 the ballet Façade was to be presented by the Borovansky Ballet and with these designs Constable decided not to attempt to follow the lead of the London production at Sadler's Wells. When he began to prepare his designs, he had no knowledge of the score—he knew only the outline of the crazy plot. Once he had heard the music he scrapped all his designs and started over again. His keen musical sense dictated his designs—'you paint the music’ he was often quoted as saying. He considered the English costumes and decor far too literal and conventional for William Walton's marvellously ‘mad’ music.

The original Façade was first produced in July 1940 in London with sets and costumes by John Armstrong. The one-act ballet was freely adapted from poems by Edith Sitwell, but Walton's orchestral suite Façade was first used for a ballet by the German choreographer Gunter Hess, who created a series of six divertissements for his German Chamber Dance Theatre. First performed at the International Musical Festival in Siena in 1929 the Hess production inspired the Camargo Society (later to be known as Vic Wells, Sadler's Wells, and ultimately the Royal Ballet) to commission the English choreographer Frederick Ashton to create their own version.

George Upward, a scenic artist featured in previous THA articles, executed Façade’sscenery. He was well established as a designer and scenic artist with Kathleen Robinson and Alec Coppel's Minerva Theatre at Potts Point in Sydney when Constable, in 1941, was given his first commission for the play Mr Smart Guy. (Hélène Kirsova's 40-member ballet company had a six-week season at the Minerva Theatre in the same year, before relocating to His Majesty's Theatre in Melbourne.) Constable went on to create the designs, over the years, for at least two dozen productions at this theatre. Obviously, and as Scenic Director, he was under some form of contract with them as the scenery and costume designs for Façade were by courtesy of Robinson and Coppel's Whitehall Theatrical Productions. He would have used the company's paint-rooms and workshops at the Minerva Theatre, as Whitehall had held the lease since 1941, only vacating the premises in early 1950 when Metro Goldwyn Mayer purchased the building.

But for the most part, sets for Boro were constructed and cloths painted in Melbourne, in the dedicated areas behind His Majesty's Theatre in Cohen Place, once Brown's Lane.^1. Constable, and Upward, called on the talents and expertise of scenic artists such as J. Alan (George) Kenyon and his son John, Rupert Browne, Cecil Newman and many, sadly un-named, assistants. Ballet programmes now, invariably, inform us where sets have been built, scenery painted, costumes created, and so on. Very few, back in the 40s and 50s, were so enlightening.

In 1943 Constable created the designs for Vltava,a ballet he had first worked on during the studio recitals period. The music was written by Bedrich Smetana as part of a cycle of compositions entitled My Country (or Má Vlast). The ballet expresses the River Moldau, as it flows from its source to the sea, and old Bohemia with its legends, its castles, forests and plains.

Giselle,with very traditional decor and costumes by Constable, followed in 1944, and another exhibition of designs and drawings, created in connection with the company, was displayed in the foyers of the J.C. Williamson theatres. Constable again, along with Alan McCulloch, John Rowell, Daryl Lindsay, William Dargie and Len Annois. Also in 1944, Act 2 of Swan Lakewas staged—designed by Constable.

The following year, 1945, would appear to be a year devoted to a formidable string of dramatic and comedic productions, predominantly in NSW for the Minerva, Independent and New Theatres, and for the Tivoli circuit.

For the ballet Terra Australis,in 1946, Constable designed the decor for the Sydney version only. Eve Harris was responsible for the original Melbourne one and her design was criticised for its lack of depth. In the 1947 season Constable produced a new backdrop using a row of totem poles of diminishing height to create an illusion of greater depth. Terra Australispremiered in May 1946 and, as Boro's first work on an Australian theme, was considered his most important original creation. Based on a story by Tom Rothfield, the ballet was set to a score by Esther Rofe and told of the struggle between the white man, the Explorer as danced by Martin Rubinstein, and the Aboriginal (Vassilie Trunoff, late of the Ballets Russes), for the possession of Australia, represented by a young girl, as portrayed by Peggy Sager. Helen Ffrance created the role of the Earth.

The original costume designs by Leon Bakst for Diaghilev's 1910 production of Scheherazadein Paris had a considerable impact on fashion, French in particular, popularizing loose and flowing oriental-style garments. Obviously Constable used these designs, in 1946, as an inspiration—Edward H. Pask in his Ballet in Australia: the second act—claimed that ‘those of William Constable and Leon Bakst evoked a great deal more of the supposed sultry, mysterious and perfume-laden atmosphere than any subsequent production’. The photographs recording Boro's 1946 Scheherazadeillustrate just how exotically dramatic and sumptuous the ballet was—if only there existed some film footage in colour!

In this same year Constable was responsible for the designs for Coppélia and, thanks to Boro's wonderful characterisation as Dr Coppelius, and Edna Busse as Swanhilda, this ballet became a firm favourite of the company's repertoire. (In 1960 Kenneth Rowell was commissioned to create new designs for the ballet and in 1979 it was Kristian Fredrikson's opportunity.)

For the next two or three years Constable produced many designs for a variety of theatre companies, principally, again, in NSW. As financial assistance had been withdrawn from JCW, the ballet company had disbanded, but in August 1949 Boro's Educational Ballet Club was formed and programs were again presented at Roma House, even though a number of the dancers had headed for Europe or sought employment elsewhere in Australia.

The Black Swan,the second of Boro's Australiana ballets, was premiered at Roma House in September 1949 (but was fully and theatrically presented at the Empire Theatre in Sydney in June 1951). The story, set in three acts to the music of Jean Sibelius, tells of the 17th century visit to Western Australia by the explorer Captain Brandt of the Dutch East India Company. Of the decor and costumes the Age critic wrote: ‘William Constable's sets are superb: his design for the Black Swan's costume produced something ethereal and beautiful … However, more effective lighting on a larger stage would improve it [the set], but as it was presented last night the melancholy loneliness and wonder of an undiscovered land were not suggested’. No doubt with the re-staging of the ballet two years later these faults were rectified!

A newly re-formed Ballet Company assembled in late 1950, to commence rehearsals for a new season.

But earlier, in July 1950, Sydney was treated to the premiere of Rex Reid's Corroboree,choreographed for Melbourne's National Theatre Ballet Company, and to the world-acclaimed music of John Antill. It was built up from snatches of tunes of the indigenous people at La Perouse that Antill had heard and which had then taken him eight years to compose and complete as a score. The Sydney Morning Herald critic wrote, following the ballet's premiere on the 3 July 1950—‘Constable's decor, a rocky desert outcrop rising to a garish sky, is a masterpiece of theatre design’. And much later Olga Sedneva, writes: ‘… [he used] bold organic shapes, strong details, variation in textures and contrasting colours in set designs …’.^2. He created a minimalistic composition that accurately translated to the desert of Central Australia to contrast with the night sky’.^3. The ballet travelled to Perth and then to Melbourne in early 1951.  

And, leaping ahead, in Sydney on 6 February 1954, a reworked version of Constable's set for Corroboreewas the highlight of a royal gala for Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip. Beth Dean (originally from Denver, Colorado and a lecturer, choreographer, writer and critic) was commissioned to completely re-choreograph the ballet. Dean and her husband Victor Carell had made an extensive study of the music, legends and dance of the Australian Aborigines. A more authentic production of Corroboreewas created as a consequence.

And how interesting it is to observe the progress and development of Constable's style, or styles, from those first designs for the studio through to those of Terra Australis, Scheherazadeand Corroboree.The early ballet decors, somewhat two-dimensional, simply replicated what had gone before, with other companies, but soon the versatile and creative Constable was illuminating our stages by demonstrating his true artistic prowess!

Nineteen fifty-one was to be an important and momentous year, being both the Centenary of Victoria and the Jubilee of the Commonwealth, and a year of the most extraordinary artistic achievements for William Constable!

Click here to read Part 2 of this article»

Endnotes

1. See Framing the Past, https://theatreheritage.org.au/on-stage-magazine/general-articles/item/558-framing-the-past
2. See ‘Rediscovering the Stage Designs of Bill Constable: Corroboree and other ballet designs’, Sydney Mechanics’ School of Arts, 18 October 2016, https://smsa.org.au/events/event/rediscovering-bill-constable-ballets-lost-designer
3. See also William Henry Archibald Constable, Design and Art, https://www.daao.org.au/bio/william-henry-archibald-constable/biography

Sources

Cornelius Conyn, Three Centuries of Ballet, Elsevier Press, Houston, 1953 
Jean Garling, Australian Notes on the Ballet, Legend Press, Sydney, 195-
Norman MacGeorge, Borovansky Ballet in Australia and New Zealand, F.W. Cheshire, Melbourne, 1946, available online, http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-498778442
Edward H. Pask, Ballet in Australia: the second act, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1982
PIX Magazine, vol. 14, no. 19, November 1944, available online, https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-449744968/view?sectionId=nla.obj-478973642&partId=nla.obj-449934804#page/n17/mode/1up
Sydney Ure Smith (editor), Present Day Art in Australia, Ure Smith, Sydney, 1943 & 1945
Valentin Zeglovsky, Ballet Crusade, Reed & Harris, Melbourne, 1943

I am indebted to:
Australian Performing Arts Collection, AusStage, Tom Breen, Alan Brissenden, Cornelius Conyn, Frederick W.L. Esch, Jean Garling, Bob Hill, John Hood, Joan Kerr, Barry Kitcher, Norman MacGeorge, Edward H. Pask, Michelle Potter, Frank Salter, Olga Sedneva, Jean Stewart, Frank Van Straten, Pamela J. Zeplin Waite, Kenneth Wilkinson, and Valentin Zeglovsky

Constable & Borovansky: collage by Judy Leech.

Judy Leech concludes her look at the life and work of Australian scenic artist William Constable, with particular focus on his creations for the ballet stage and his designs for Edouard Borovansky’s company. Click here to read Part 1 of this article»

Nineteen fifty-one was to be an important and momentous year, being both the Centenary of Victoria and the Jubilee of the Commonwealth, and a year of the most extraordinary artistic achievements for William Constable!

In February, as part of these celebrations, the National Theatre Arts Festival Committee held a Theatre Arts Display in the Print Gallery of the then National Gallery in Swanston Street, Melbourne. The artist, teacher and stage designer John Rowell (brother of William and uncle to Kenneth) was appointed convenor and various items, equipment, costumes and designs were lent by the Myer Emporium, J.C. Williamson Ltd, the Ballet Guild and the Victorian and New South Wales Galleries. Puppeteer Don Nicol and Swinburne Art College lecturer Mrs Winter, and her students, created a puppet theatre, complete with performances.

Over one hundred items were exhibited, including those of John Brunton, W.R. Coleman, Phil Goatcher, Ann Church, J. Alan (George) Kenyon, Daryl and Norman Lindsay, John and Kenneth Rowell, Loudon Sainthill, George Upward—to name only a few—and, of course, Bill Constable.

Alan McCulloch (also represented) wrote an excellent and enlightening foreword entitled ‘Designing for Theatre’. ‘The year 1909,’ he wrote, ‘When Serge Diaghilev produced the first Russian ballets in Paris, marked the beginning of a new era in the art of designing for the stage.’^1.

The Constable designs displayed were decors for Petrouchka, Aurora's Wedding and Scheherezade. A celebration indeed.

On the 6 April at Sydney's Empire Theatre the ballet Petrouchka was premiered. The choreography was by Borovansky, after Michel Fokine, with the music of Stravinsky, a ballet first presented to the world in 1911, at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris, by Serge Diaghilev's Russian Ballet. Forty years later, William Constable truly did the ballet justice. In the original 1951 programme Thomas Essington Breen wrote: ‘His work is exciting, imaginative and real theatre. While principally confined to the perceptual, Constable's decor is always at one with the dancing, the while commanding separate attention and yet fusing into the whole. When Constable appends a faded and forlorn-looking rose on the heart of Petrouchka, one respects his innovation. Constable says that the rose makes Petrouchka seem most pathetic—and I agree with him. Pursuits may consider this to be sacrilege, but, set in the subtle variations given by Constable to the costume, it is not.’^2.

Breen was a journalist (plus a man of many passions and interests) on The Sydney Morning Herald where he covered his long-term loves, the ballet and the theatre. He had married the sculptor Charlotte ‘Bill’ Hart and her clay figurines of Petrouchka and other characters from the ballets were displayed in the foyer of the Empire.

Breen also wrote of Petrouchka that Constable's decor for the opening scene had ‘more theatre feeling’ than Benois' original which preserved the real appearance of a Russian Fair. And, again, of Constable's costume design for Petrouchka: ‘It shows a masterly conception of the character's profound tragedy. If anything, Constable has deepened this aspect of the character.’^3.

In 1976 the late-lamented Ballet Victoria (originally Laurel Martyn's Ballet Guild) staged this ballet at the Palais in St Kilda and their sets were based on the original Alexandre Benois designs of 1911. Dennis Law was the Scenic and Property supervisor. Where are these designs now—where indeed are those of Benois? not to mention those of Constable?! But the Petrouchka of 1951 will long remain in the memories of many—the combination of Stravinsky's music, the Fokine based and inspired choreography and Constable's vividly imagined and executed sets (assisted by Michael Biddulph) and frankly, gorgeous costumes.

Two weeks later, La Boutique Fantasque premiered in Sydney. The music was by Gioachino Rossini, arranged and orchestrated by Ottorino Respighi, and the choreography was by Leonide Massine, on which Borovansky based his. In fact Borovansky stole the show, time and time again, dancing the role of the bewildered and befuddled shopkeeper. In 1919, in the original Ballet Russe production, this role was played by the legendary Enrico Cecchetti.

This is a ballet that really should be re-staged—it is a delight from start to finish, although one should be prepared, very possibly, to be moved to tears by the sad plight—albeit temporary—of the two ‘can can’ dolls! Many a local ballet school has attempted to reproduce this ballet but what it requires is a fully professional re-creation, and as close to the original 1919 designs of Andre Derain as possible—or to those of Constable in 1951!                                

On the 4 May 1951, Aurora's Wedding (the final act of the full-length ballet, still in the planning stage, The Sleeping Princess) had its first performance at Sydney's Empire Theatre. Another magnificent backdrop by Constable, and a mere fourteen days later the premiere of The Outlaw, and Boro's second major work on an Australian theme, relating to episodes in the life of Ned Kelly, the country's (in)famous outlaw. Boro commissioned the music and worked closely with the composer Verdon Williams (the following year he was appointed Musical Director of the National Theatre Ballet), Clive Turnbull wrote the Prologue, and after hearing the story and the score, Constable set to work on both the sets and the costumes.

In this same year, on the first of June, there occurred one of the most important events of the season. A new work set to the music of Schumann, his Piano Quintet, Op. 44. The ballet Chiaroscuro was contemporary in all senses of the word. Choreographed by the Australian Dorothy Stevenson, a highly-regarded and stunningly beautiful dancer, for both the abstract decor and the costumes Constable made much use of shades of grey, and of yellow and white. Winding motifs were appliqued on the costumes, setting off the sensitively-lit and extremely striking ‘modern’ decor.

What with the preparations in 1951 for so many new ballets, the Paint Frame at Sydney's Theatre Royal would have been stretched to its limits, and this just happened to be the year that Paul Kathner commenced work in the painting department, thanks to Bill Constable and to a newly created vacancy, brought about by the departure of a staff member having been diagnosed with a form of colour-blindness. Paul had been working as an office boy at J.C. Williamson's in Sydney and had become curious about the painting of scenery, having avidly followed the ballet, from Kirsova's Company and the Ballet Rambert tour, through to Boro's.

Once again, I am greatly indebted to the words and findings of designer Rosemary Simons.

Paul, at sixteen, was now assistant to Bill—who headed the Scenic Art team—a team consisting of Rupert Browne and Irishman Tommy Moor. Daily, Paul had to arrive before Constable and prepare the paint and equipment, which included setting up the pallet—large movable tables for blending paint—assembling and positioning the required buckets of water, ensuring the glue-size was heated to the right consistency and making sure the primer, made from a combination of whiting, glue-size and water, was mixed and ready. This was an established daily routine for Paul although, generally, Bill was not a highly regimented person, in fact could be quite haphazard in his approach. Nevertheless, he taught Paul the craft of ‘getting a show on stage’.

Constable and Rupert Browne were the two most influential scenic art teachers in Paul's career—the former a graphic artist and serious painter and Browne, who had been formally trained and worked alongside Constable on many of the ballets. Paul spent a lot of time just watching Rupert paint. Bill painted his own designs and his scenic art style was often tailored to the needs of these designs—he invented techniques to suit. In those days it was common practice for designers to execute their own designs. Paul was greatly influenced and impressed by Bill's commitment to designing ballets while listening to the ballet's score, allowing time for the music to sink in. He maintained that a good ballet design was an exercise in ‘painting the music’.

Still in this same year, 1951, Paul, Rupert and Bill moved to Melbourne, to the King's Theatre, to work on Boro's Sleeping Princess. At this time the theatre, near the corner of Russell and Little Collins Streets, was principally a cinema, however scenic artists could hire the old paint frame located above the stage. Paul remembers it as a ‘lovely paint room’, bigger than either the Princess or Her Majesty's paint rooms, with skylights so large you could paint relying just on natural light.

On the first of December, Melbourne was treated to the premiere of a ballet by Paul Grinwis (Belgian dancer and choreographer who had, that same year, choreographed and created the decor and costumes for his interpretation of L'après-midi d'un faune) entitled Les Amants Éternels —The Eternal Lovers—(a story) telling of Romeo and Juliet united and awake in the after-life. Constable created a surrealistic and very dramatic decor in ochre and grey—shades of Dali and Loudon Sainthill! Set to Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet fantasy overture, this was the only original work that year to be included in further seasons, its final performance occurring in 1960, with a 1954 revision of the work by Grinwis, when the ballet gained in dramatic force and showed more clearly the struggle between Love and Death.

Intended as a Christmas attraction, on the 22 December 1951, at Her Majesty's Theatre in Melbourne, the full length ballet The Sleeping Princess was presented and again, Constable was responsible for the designs. The ballet was first produced at the Mariinsky Theatre, St Petersburg, in January 1890, but was not seen by the west until a good thirty years later, when it appeared in London and was presented by Diaghilev's Ballet Russe.

Boro's ballet boasted three intervals and an astonishingly long list of cast members, including students from Madame Borovansky's Ballet School. According to many, the production, set in five scenes (with 300 costumes), was far too colourful and the costumes distractingly lavish, but according to the programme notes it was ‘the first production in Australia of the most spectacular ballet ever produced’.^4.

How many assistants, over 1950-1951 would Constable have needed in order to create this staggering line-up of ballets? (It was not until 1960 and long after Bill had left Australia for the UK that Ross Turner—much later to found, along with Paul Kathner, the firm Scenic Studios—joined Williamson's and the staff of scenic artists and designers based at Her Majesty's Theatre's Paint Frame in Melbourne.)

Due to the sudden death of King George VI in 1952 the proposed Royal Visit by Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip was cancelled, which meant the cancellation also of a Royal Command Performance of the Borovansky Ballet. It was not until early 1954 that the company reformed (having been somewhat decimated in late 1952) and once again Constable's work was displayed upon the ballet stage, although in the interim he had been far from idle, producing glorious settings and costumes for four important opera companies, one of which happened to be the début performance of Joan Sutherland!

January 1954 saw Constable's fabulous designs for the ballet Symphonie Fantastique, with choreography by Kiril Vassilkovsky based on that of Leonide Massine. Vassilkovsky had danced here in the original Ballets Russes production in 1939-1940. Two months later Fokine's Prince Igor was presented, and in April the ballet Candide. In one of the company's 1954 programmes, Constable wrote ‘ballet is a blending of three arts... a meeting of the poetry of movement, music and painting—a poem distilled of three arts and beyond the need of the spoken word’.^5.

Set to Hector Berlioz's powerful and haunting score, for Symphonie Fantastique Constable produced surreal and strikingly macabre decors for the ballet's five scenes. They follow the drugged Musician's wandering mind where he imagines his Beloved, the woman whose image haunts him, has been transformed into the leader of a Witches' Sabbath. Constable presents a ballroom, a peaceful rural place, a landscape with spinning-top-like shapes and a further two settings. The Age reviewer wrote that the ballet ‘has many memorable moments. Among them are the vermilion and white ballroom scene with its swirling choreography; the idyllic pastoral scene and the leering, grotesque March to the Gallows, with its Daumier-like costumes and attitudes’.^6. And the Melbourne Sun's reviewer: ‘Here is a company of more than 50 dancers of world standard, a symphony orchestra, and a lavish artistry of costume and decor which would receive acclaim in any country.’^7. It was a hugely successful ballet according to many, but to others, not, it is reported, a completely satisfying production. It would really be something to see it reproduced, with reference to either these designs of Constable, or those of the original designer, Christian Bèrnard.

The Polovtsian Dances from the opera Prince Igor, by all accounts extremely colourful and energetically danced, was a ballet that actually brought about the reinstating of the male dancer. The wild barbarity of these dances (Fokine's choreography, reproduced by Vassilie Trunoff, another of the Ballets Russes dancers) had been enthusiastically welcomed, back in 1909, when Diaghilev's company first presented them. The ballet is an excerpt from the second act of the opera, by Aleksandr Borodin. The original backdrop, by Nicholas Roerich, and of which there are many records, revealed an empty, desolate landscape, in which were pitched the beehive tents of the Polovtsi, with the smoke from their camp-fires trailing across the sky. We can only imagine that Constable produced something similar and that Roerich's wonderfully textured and patterned costumes also inspired him.

For Candide—a ‘Farcical Ballet in One Act—A Parody by Kiril Vassilkovsky’—Constable made use of a screen for the Lovers and others to hide behind, a lovely light Rococo-inspired setting. The music, chosen from Rossini overtures, thoroughly matched the choreography and the telling of the tale, an adaptation from Voltaire, with a cast of characters that included Candide, Cunegonde, Paquette, Pangloss and The Baron. Bill designed the scenery, Jean Miotte the costumes. Miotte (1926-2016), was a French abstract painter, in the style known as l'abstraction lyrique. Born in Paris, he was greatly influenced and inspired by the Ballets Russes. Unfortunately, the ballet Candide was only moderately successful and did not remain long in the repertoire.

Now we come to 1955 and Les Presages—or, Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony. In Paris in 1933 this ballet, choreographed by Leonide Massine, sparked a controversy worthy of the old Diaghilev Ballets Russes days, purely because it was danced to a symphony. Shock! Horror! Critics, musicians and angry balletomanes proclaimed that the use of a symphony for a theatrical dance work was sacrilegious. Simply—not on. Later, in London, leading British music critic Ernest Newman was overwhelmingly in favour ‘... the inner life of the work, as an organic piece of musical thinking, is not diminished but actually enhanced’.^8.

In the Borovansky production, choreographed by Warsaw-born Yurek Shabelewski, the 1955 programme states: ‘The choreographic design of Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony is inspired by the composer's notes to his score which reflect his fatalistic nature and his fear of the inadequacy of man in the face of Fate.’^9. The ballet is in four movements—Action, Love-Passion-Fate, Volatility and Conquest.

In Australia Dances, Michael Brissenden (with Keith Glennon) wrote: ‘The most effective feature of the production was William Constable's scenic design.’^10. Edward Pask wrote that the ballet ‘was designed in splendid style by William Constable’.^11.

In November 1955 the ballet, Francesca da Rimini, by David Lichine and Henry Clifford, and choreographed by the former, was presented at Sydney's Empire Theatre. With music by Tchaikovsky this ballet was first performed by Colonel de Basil's company in 1937 at Covent Garden and was now restaged by Lichine for Boro, with all new sets and costumes by Constable. The ballet was in two scenes, and featured a huge castle doorway at the rear of the stage, to the left a throne on a dais, and to the right a row of pillared casements. The richly coloured costumes created an atmosphere of Renaissance luxury and decadence. The story is taken from the Fifth Canto of Dante's Inferno. Boro had created the role of the chief spy, Girolamo, in the original 1937 production. In 1955, Frank Salter danced this role—he went on to write Borovansky: the man who made Australian ballet, a biography published in 1980 by the Wildcat Press.

Also in 1954 Bill was involved, in a major capacity, in the production of the film Long John Silver(and later the TV series The Adventures of Long John Silver) at Pagewood Studios in Sydney. He was appointed Production Designer on what was to be the first Cinemascope film to be shot in Australia. For more on this period in his career please refer to Bob Hill and his article ‘The Strange and Wondrous Tale of Bill Constable and the Cinemascope Pirates of Pagewood’.

On the 17 February 1956, David Lichine presented the world premiere of Corrida, a Spanish ballet set to music of Scarlatti—a dramatic and violent tale of a great matador who is driven mad over a love obsession that goes horribly wrong. This remarkable setting, with strikingly colourful costumes, was Constable's—I have counted up to two dozen!—last design for the Borovansky Company.

But by the end of 1955, and at the conclusion of his work in Sydney with the film and television studios, and the ballet, with Sophie his second wife, and their very young daughter Deirdre (Dee), Constable had left their Castlecrag home in Sydney and set off back to London. Over the next sixteen years old acquaintances and connections were renewed, much film work ensued—he worked on at least a dozen productions, including The Trials of Oscar Wilde, Dr Who & the Daleks and Lord Jim—and in 1959 the London Festival Ballet, now the English National Ballet, commissioned him to design sets and costumes for the ballet London Morning. The music and libretto were by Noel Coward and the choreography by Jack Carter. According to The Sphere, a London illustrated newspaper, ‘Coward was commissioned to write the work (performed at London's Festival Hall) which brings to the stage a number of London characters and types in what some purists regard more as dance revue than true ballet’.^12.

The choreographer Jack Carter was to create, five years later, the ballet Agrionia, in which Joyce Graeme dominated. She had directed the National Theatre Ballet Company here in Melbourne from 1948 to 1951, having stayed on after the Ballet Rambert's tours in the 1940s. Clement Crisp wrote of her ‘a superb dance artist—her Myrtha (in the ballet Giselle) with Ballet Rambert still remains the best I ever expect to see’.^13.

Back in Australia that year, 1959, two days after delivering his usual opening-night speech in Sydney at the first performance of a revival of The Sleeping Princess, Borovansky suffered a heart attack. Less than a week later in hospital, he died, shortly after suffering a second attack. On the 18 December his death was announced to the audience, after the company—both shocked and stricken with grief—had somehow managed to perform, to ‘carry on’. When Constable had met up with him in London the year before, he had found him aged, exhausted, and in a futile search for a new assistant, an ‘artistic controller’, having very recently lost his long-time personal assistant/stage manager Colleen Gough. He felt that he had been abandoned—by everyone. Their farewell was intensely distressing to Bill, and he realised that it really was, this time, goodbye.

In 1966 Constable was back in Australia, briefly, to design the sets and costumes for the Australian Opera's (now Opera Australia) Boris Goudonov. Sadly his sets were replaced three years later as they were thought to be ‘over-saturated with colour’.^14.

But in 1973 Constable returned permanently to Australia. He worked briefly for J.C. Williamson and was asked to design the house curtain for Her Majesty's Theatre in Sydney, which, happily, was recently discovered in Adelaide and now hangs in the Queensland University of Technology Gardens Theatre. The original 1973 design depicts the muse of the theatre, instead of the rather obvious phoenix, rising from the ashes, flanked by candy-striped banners symbolising light entertainment and sombre ones symbolising opera and tragedy. This theatre had first burnt down in 1902 (having been built in 1887) and then again in 1970. Two other major works of Constable's, during the 1970s, were lost to fire or demolition.

A digression I feel must be made, in view of several recent articles dealing here with theatre design and ballet: very understandably, through J.C. Williamson's, Constable had become acquainted with Sir Frank and Lady Tait and their three daughters, Isla, Ann and Sally. Over the 1950s and later, when he had returned to Australia in the early 1970s (and after Frank Tait's death in 1965), Bill had become a real friend of the family. Ann, an artist (illustrator and doll-maker) in her own right, and because of their shared interests and passions, was most probably the one closest to him.

Principally Constable was now concentrating on painting, exhibiting extensively artwork and prints of Central Australia and the Great Barrier Reef. So many paintings, illustrations, set and costume designs for theatre, ballet, opera and film—his list of achievements is staggeringly long. In late 1987, and into 1988, the Performing Arts Museum (now Australian Performing Arts Collection) mounted an exhibition and celebrated his life and work as ‘one of Australia's most noted stage, film and television designers: a lifetime of achievement presented against an exciting insight into the development of the performing arts since the 1930s’.^15.

When William Constable died, on the 22 August 1989, in Melbourne, you may be sure his easel, paints and brushes were not so very far from his side. His establishment of the stage designer as a profession is one of his many important legacies to us, and most particularly, as I hope I have somehow managed to convey here, to the world of ballet.

Endnotes

1. Theatre Arts Display, National Theatre Arts Festival, Melbourne, Feb 1951, p. 2.
2. Borovansky Ballet Jubilee programme, Apr 1951, p. 17.
3. ibid.
4. Borovansky Ballet Jubilee programme, Dec 1951, p. 16.
5. William Constable article in Borovansky Ballet souvenir programme, 1954.
6. J.B. McA., ‘Brilliant spectacle at ballet opening’, The Age (Melbourne, Vic), 1 Feb 1954, p. 2, https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/206087351
7. The Sun (Melbourne, Vic), Jan 1954.
8. Valerie Lawson, ‘The Birth of Symphonic Ballet’, 2007.
9. Borovansky Ballet programme, 1955, p. 17.
10. Australia Dances by Alan Brissenden & Keith Glennon, p. 29.
11. Edward H. Pask, Ballet in Australia, p. 81.
12. The Sphere (London), 15 Aug 1959, p. 39.
13. Clement Crisp, unidentified clip, Sep 1964.
14. Frank Van Straten, ‘William Constable 1906-1989’, 2007.
15. Performing Arts Museum Exhibition schedule, 1987.

Sources

Alan Brissenden & Keith Glennon, Australia Dances: creating Australian dance 1945-1965, Wakefield Press, Kent Town, SA, 2010

Valerie Lawson, ‘The Birth of Symphonic Ballet’, 2007, https://dancelines.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Pages-from-Destiny-2007.pdf

Edward H. Pask, Ballet in Australia: the second act, 1940-1980, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1981

Frank Salter, Borovansky, the man who made Australian ballet, Wildcat Press, Sydney, 1980

Theatre Arts Display, National Theatre Arts Festival, Melbourne, Feb 1951, p. 2.

Frank Van Straten, ‘William Constable 1906-1989’, 2007, Live Performance Australia (website), http://www.liveperformance.com.au/halloffame/williamconstable1.html

Acknowledgements

Again, I am most indebted to the following: 

Australian Performing Arts Collection, AusStage, Alan Brissenden, Deirdre Constable, Mimi Colligan, Claudia Funder, (the late) Keith Glennon, Bob Hill, Barry Kitcher, Joan Kerr, Elisabeth Kumm, Paul Kathner, (the late) Edward H. Pask, Michelle Potter, Simon Piening, Frank Salter, Olga Sedneva, Viola Ann Seddon, (the late) Jean Stewart, Rosemary Simons, Ross Turner, Frank Van Straten, and Pamela J. Zeplin Waite