Allegedly

Christopher Henderson

21 July - 2 August

Please join us for the opening celebration Thursday 23rd July 6-8pm

I met him in 2024. “He’s a bit silly, you’ll like him” said his girlfriend, my friend of ten years. There were other important details, of course, not least of all that he was an artist. We were to visit him at his studio, tucked behind Piedemontes. I had seen a sculptural work of his, wondering whether we might have a wildstyling, Naarm-based Alexander Calder on our hands. I should admit concern washed over me. Though, fortunately, it did not stay. 

His energy bounced off every surface, the air wet with his enthusiasm for art-making. This is a quality that he seems to maintain, even outside his workspace. I soon learned he straddled the line between not taking life too seriously, and caring deeply for those around him. He had a child-like mad scientist energy, like there might be slime varieties hiding in his cupboard or an immaculately designed termite farm waiting at home. While his practice didn’t seem to follow many rules, he was dogmatic in his commitment to show up each day, in the way that made calling it a practice legitimate and well-earned. 

It’s clear he intends to follow any brain tangent all the way to its edges but is unbothered by a detour along the course. Propelled forward by a bottomless curiosity and compulsion to play and try and wait to see what comes from each thought and motion. Canvas painted and unpicked and flipped over, simple and accessible materials offered a new existence. A mobile engineered, turned wall piece and reconstructed into mobile once more. 

Somewhere along the track, he advised me he had set out on what can only be described as sheer tom-foolery, a practical joke played upon himself. He was to draw 1000(+++) Holden Commodores. During years teaching art to young men in youth detention centres, a lesson focused on cars became a moment for friendly one-upmanship, an unexpected comradery. Cars became a medium through which to tap into memories of outside; or for the artist, a younger self. 

Growing up in Eldorado (Victoria, not the mythological city), cars had been a lacklustre topic of great repetition. To his great disinterest, he was born the son of the town mechanic. It wasn’t until he met the boys at Malmsbury and Cherry Creek that the car took on new value as symbol, as conduit, as a leading character in each of their story. Not least of all, the Commodore, a cultural icon that also claims the title of Victoria’s most stolen car. The boys were inside for defying the law, oftentimes a split second decision gone wrong. Winding up in this nation’s very own oubliette, they are confronted by a deeply backwards system. He said it seemed to operate like quicksand, except that in reality, most make it out of quicksand unscathed. 

And still, the boys found joy sharing stories of cars, name-dropping models they’d “collected” like they were pokémon cards. Irrespective of what made it onto paper in those classes, it was understood that a simple creative prompt became the central motif, and the motif had undergone a transformation in his mind. A mundane, overrated object turned high-speed vehicle for connection.

With the same six markers, he committed himself to an unwieldy project. A monotonous challenge lay ahead, but with a new-found love for the subject matter and a resistance to hand cramps, he might just get there. Always in his mind, the work became an homage to the boys and their days spent together. He imbued each drawing with a playful spirit and cheek, and reflected… As the educator, it was him who had actually learnt the most. 

In Alexander Calder’s high school yearbook, his peers described him as “evidently always happy, or perhaps up to some joke, for his face is always wrapped up in that same mischievous, juvenile grin.” Well if you gave me this excerpt today, I’d say you’ve got the wrong guy! That’s Christopher Myles [the yearbook continues]  “... for he is one of the best natured fellows there is."

~ Ellanor Webb