In 1998 my father died. I didn’t know a great deal about him, except that he was a very talented artist who had his portrait paintings 3 times exhibited in the Archibald Prize, that he was a bomber pilot with the RAAF in the Second World War, an intelligent, funny man, and a teller of stories. This blog seeks to document some of his life and his works; a memoir if you will, for his family and friends.
Peter Louis Elliott (1922-1998), a man never much a part of my life, but a very clever man, a nice man, with an artistic talent that largely went unrecognized.
Recently I thought about him. It had been nearly 20 years since he died, and I decided to google the man who had twice been a finalist for the Archibald Prize.
No mention of the artist. Or at least not this Peter Elliott. I called the Art Gallery of NSW to enquire as to why he was not documented on the Archibald site; they advised I would need to come in personally to have the archives checked. The assistant at the Gallery was able to find original documentation of Peter’s entries in the Archibald and confirm a mistake had been made and the mistake subsequently rectified.
His name came up once, on the Australian War Memorial Site, for the Distinguished Flying Medal, 1943 (No. 61 Squadron RAF).
He was an unknown and I daresay preferred It that way. But I felt he has a legacy that his own family deserves to bear witness to. I therefore took it upon myself to build a web-site to show-case his works.
This is a site for myself and my siblings (Jock, Andrew and Jane), for my daughter Lara, my nephews Gal (and his son Leo), Ron; and Michael, and Michaels’ children Iris and Henry, and any more who come along. This is also for Peter’s second wife Joan and my half-brother Warren, and his daughter Severinne.
This man is part of all us, whether or not we knew him, and from what I have seen, none of his progeny has walked away without inheriting some of his artistic talent.
This site is for anyone else with an interest in the arts, who can appreciate a style and talent that deserves a little spot in art history.
OUR STORY
My father was a very talented artist and portrait painter. I have been told this many times over the years, and though I was somewhat impressed, I did not much care. He was not in my life and it just wasn’t relevant to me.
I was 3 when my father left us. I have one memory of him around that time. I am pulling all the books out from the book-case, which is clearly great sport at that age, and he is cross with me. That is all I have of that time.
We were living in England, with my mother Shirley, my brothers Jock, Andrew and my sister Jane (14, 10 and 8 years older than me respectively). The family had moved from Australia to the UK a little while before I was born.
Family home Capel 
Before the move, my brother Andrew remembers my Dad calling the children together and telling them he was moving to England, but the family was not coming with him. Evidently, they all moved together after all and settled in the prettiest of towns , Capel, in Surrey, before moving to Horsham, which is where I was born.
He remarried a lovely lady called Joan and they had a son Warren (pictured below, with my sister Jane), who I believe is a talented artist himself.
Sketch by Warren , Peter’s son, second marriage 
Sketch by Warren 
Warren and Jane Elliott
It was strange going to meet him for the first time. It occurred to me that it was probably awkward for him, though I could only assume he had to be as curious as I was. He and his second wife Joan were incredibly welcoming. I remember to this day a lovely roast pork lunch served up about 5pm. My brother Jock said take him a bottle of scotch, which I did and it was very well received. Clearly, money was tight, he chain-smoked and rolled his cigarettes with the leftovers from the last one.
My mother did her best to raise the four of us and was finally able to manage to bring us all back to Australia on assisted passage ….10 pound poms. Peter wasn’t much talked about as I grew up. Mum never bad-mouthed him; any inference was that he was just a bit hopeless with money, but a funny man, a great raconteur.
Peter had severed contact when the marriage failed. When I finally went to meet him in England, at 25, he said he chose to have no contact, because he didn’t know what to do when he left, so he did nothing.
I enjoyed meeting him and I visited him again a couple of years later, but that was our last contact. It’s sad really. I’d like to have known him better.