It seems fitting that the big, BIG book of Roslyn and Tony Oxley and their epic gallery bears the metallic sheen of a purple dinner jacket as worn by Prince. Purple is a rare hue in nature and the most powerful wavelength of the rainbow. It’s also rock and roll. Roslyn Oxley9 opened in 1982 in an almost volcanic eruption of large oils by Gareth Sansom followed by the gutsy homoerotic parables of Juan Davila. Sheer physical scale and bombast were key elements of trans-avantgarde, post-punk, and neo-expressionist art of the time but despite the plethora of raw painting talent, the gallery also featured experimental video, installation, and sculpture.
From the get-go, the signature of the house was urbanity. Bang! Here was Jenny Watson’s “Crystal Ballroom” waifs sprawled on red velvet shaking off the musty stranglehold of landscape. And there was Dale Frank rocking the boat with his sardonic titles and visceral intricacy. The first shows changed the scene, and the Mother Ship had landed. I remember Marion Borgelt dressed in a leather corset and cigarette pants stalking past her massive charcoals and stopping to flash my stocking tops for William Yang’s camera on the street in front of the gallery. Up till then, Australian art still felt so isolated. I distinctly recall copies of arriving in suitcases
