Dead Dads

In 2004, when I was studying Fine Arts at Nepean TAFE, we had to go on a class excursion to see an exhibition at the Art Gallery of NSW by a sculptor named Ron Mueck. I remember my immediate reaction: “Never heard of him, probably some wannabe.”

I like to be punctual, so I caught an early train just in case there were any track works. State Rail was notorious for midweek disruptions, much to the frustration of commuters. I arrived about 45 minutes early, and the gallery was still shut, so I wandered over to Terrace on the Domain for a coffee. Figuring it would be my only one for a while, I ordered a large.

As I sat admiring the view of the parklands, the waiter plonked a soup bowl down in front of me. I was about to object when I realised—it was full of coffee! It took so long to drink that I needed to pee before I could even finish it. By the time I was done, I was on hyperdrive, body twitches firing at regular intervals.

Eventually, my teacher arrived, the doors opened, and in we went. The exhibition space consisted of four rooms dedicated to this sculptor I had never heard of. But the moment I stepped inside, I was overwhelmed. I was in awe. I was shocked. I was in disbelief. Ron Mueck was from another planet.

His hyperrealistic human sculptures took realism to a level I had never imagined. The scale of his work was outrageous. I approached a sculpture of a naked pregnant woman towering over me. The level of detail was astonishing—every goosebump, every bluish vein beneath the skin, all meticulously crafted with acrylic paint.

Standing before her, I found myself contemplating pregnancy—the sheer weight of carrying another life inside you. Her belly bulged, her feet were swollen. I spent 15 minutes absorbing every detail before moving on, filled with empathy.

Then, I stepped into another room. There, on a raised wooden platform, lay a tiny, naked man. My heart skipped a beat. He seemed so exposed, so vulnerable. Something held me back at first, but then I felt compelled to approach him.

I crouched at the edge of the platform and read the plaque: Dead Dad.

Oh my goodness. It was a sculpture of Ron Mueck’s father, stark naked for the world to bear witness. I found myself analysing why an artist would immortalise his own father in such a raw and confronting way.

We enter this world naked, and when we die, all is stripped away. Our achievements, our possessions, even our bodies—left behind.

The details were haunting. Every individual hair strand had been plucked from Mueck’s own body to populate Dead Dad’s anatomy. As I studied the piece, completely absorbed, something inexplicable happened—Dead Dad turned his head and looked at me.

I staggered backward, a suppressed sound of shock escaping my mouth. Others in the room turned to stare. I quickly left, completely shattered. The sculptures were so compelling, so lifelike, that I could almost imagine having a conversation with them. I left the gallery that day with Dead Dad sitting on my shoulder. He followed me home.

I urge you to look up Ron Mueck’s work. Due to copyright issues, I couldn’t find royalty-free images to share here, but his art is worth discovering.

That was the prelude.

Not long after the Ron Mueck exhibition, my own father got sick. It took months to diagnose—terminal cancer of the duodenum. The worst news. My father only had months to live.

Mum and Dad were retired and living in Forster. After a short stay at John Hunter Hospital, Dad requested palliative care so he could pass away at home. It was an agonising time for our family.

I won’t recount his final days here—they were too painful. But this is where the story begins.

After Dad passed, Mum asked us—her sons—to visit her to discuss what to do with his ashes. Dad had expressed his wish to be cremated and have his ashes scattered at sea. In our phone conversations, Mum had also shared stories of strange occurrences in the house. Books disappearing and reappearing in different places weeks later. Hearing Dad’s voice.

Before we arrived, I had completed a painting titled Cruci Fiction 505 — a triptych in oil, expressing pain, loss, and fond memories of Dad. The shadowy figures in the painting symbolised life fading into spirit form. The bars represented confinement, the hourglasses time. Together, they were a metaphor for a life sentence. The crosses — tombstones. Painting it helped me grieve.

Steve travelled up from Canberra, while Nitcha, Pim, and I drove up from Sydney. After unpacking and chatting, I switched on the TV for Pim. But as we sat down to discuss scattering Dad’s ashes, the television suddenly flickered to static.

“That’s odd, it was working before,” Steve said.

We turned it off and on again, but it remained static. Giving up, we told Pim to play with her toys instead.

The conversation turned to Mum’s experiences — objects disappearing, hearing Dad’s voice. I left the table to put my phone in the bedroom. As I walked back down the hallway, I heard a low humming noise coming from the bathroom. I turned left instead.

Nitcha’s electric toothbrush was vibrating wildly, yet it was switched off.

Bemused, I carried it back to the dining table. “Look at this,” I said, holding it up. We all gathered around, bewildered, watching as flicking the switch on and off made no difference whatsoever. It just kept going. We were all bewildered.

I started piecing together everything that had transpired since we arrived—the strange static on the television, the talk of things going missing, and now this impossible toothbrush. Something wasn’t right.

“I’ll fix it, watch this,” I declared. Grabbing the toothbrush, I yanked the battery out… and then—holy hell—it kept going! Horrified, I threw it straight into the bin. But even in there, with no power source, it continued to vibrate.

We stood frozen, staring at each other in stunned silence. And in that moment, all the odd occurrences Mum had been telling me about over the past few months suddenly took on a whole new weight.

“See, I told you,” Mum said, her voice laced with certainty. “Jimmy is talking to me. I don’t think he wants us to scatter his ashes at sea—he wants to stay with me.”

Just as Mum finished speaking, a pair of sunglasses, which had been sitting undisturbed on the kitchen benchtop, suddenly slid from one side to the other. The room was completely still. No wind, no movement—just us, watching in disbelief as they travelled nearly two metres across the surface.

The eerie scraping sound broke the silence, snapping all our heads toward the benchtop at the same time. It was undeniable. We had all heard it.

Mum clapped her hands together with finality. “Right, that’s it. Jim doesn’t want to leave. I’m keeping his ashes.”

That was back in 2007. To this day, Mum still has Dad’s ashes.

Rest in peace, Dad.

We love you and miss you… so please, behave yourself!