It was the eve of my trip to California, touring the first group of oils from my 'Banjo Paterson's People' series. The pictures to be exhibited were being previewed for Australian collectors at a cocktail party hosted by the gallery which represented my work at the time.

Suddenly, a trendy local architect loomed up beside me, champagne flute in hand. Looking down the considerable length of his nose at me, he commented, 'So, you're really an illustrator, I see.' I beamed up at him and gushed, 'Oh, thank you!' His smirk made his thought transparent: (She's too dumb to even realize she's just been insulted.)

Then I added: 'You've elevated me into the company of Michelangelo and Leonardo, Raphael and Rembrandt.' As his jaw hit his chest, it was clear the truth had hit him between the eyes, and I walked away, chuckling. Now, why could I dare list my work alongside the Masters? Because their 'book' was The Bible; mine was 'Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941.)

(That night, I didn't bother to point out that of close to 300 titles in my Register of sold paintings at the time, only 33 were based on Paterson poems or stories. The current totals are 400 and 63, plus 30 illustrations of my own version of the story of Paterson's words to 'Waltzing Matilda.')

But back to the Masters: When you stand gazing up at the massive marble sculpture of David by Michelangelo, you know it can be no one else but the youth who challenged and defeated Goliath. Yet, it might be anyone. He stands naked of any identifying costume. And in this portrait - of the young man destined to become the second Jewish king - he is shown not circumcised. We are given only one clue: the slingshot. But that is enough.

Still, as you know, no artist is content to simply illustrate the facts. S/he is thinking always of how to present those facts in a new way; a way that will stimulate the viewers own imaginations, start them thinking about more than the remembered story. Michelangelo pared away everything superfluous. No action is evident in the sculpture. But every gesture of the figure, the complex expression of the face, tells us that something is about to happen.

Leonardo was thinking the same way when he made The Last Supper. The great innovation here is the placement of Judas on the same side of the table as all the other disciples, a breakaway from the tradition of isolating the betrayer by seating him apart. In the hands of the Master painter, all that's needed is the expression on the face of Judas and the gesture of his figure.

Both masters used every skill of craftsmanship at their disposal to engage our emotional response to the work and the story it tells. And even today, these images, made 500 years ago, fill our minds when we think of those ancient stories. How is that for memorable art?

Now, jump to New York post-WWII, when Abstract Expressionism was riding the crest of its wave. Abstract Art was declared the successor of all art that had come before, a new broom sweeping away the unfashionable traditions of representational art. And with it, a new dogma was proclaimed: 'Narrative is dead!'

I believe all artists from Kandinsky (1866-1944) to the latest 'name' in 'Modern Art' circles have been genuine in their desire to revolutionize art by experimenting with (seemingly) new ways of laying paint on a surface. Left to themselves, they would have done no harm. Art is the biggest game we humans have invented, and within it there is room for all manner of playfulness. But some art dealers, and those critics who served them, soon awoke to the golden opportunity this new art presented.

There are people who have much money but little confidence in their own taste, others who feel the need to display a 'sophistication' above that of their fellows. Then there are those who must demonstrate their superiority by possessing whatever is the latest, or most exclusive. They were the perfect targets for the purveyors of this new style of art that was presented as beyond the understanding of 'the common people.' They pushed the new fashion to unprecedented heights of hyperbole and obscene prices. And each novelty, regardless of its worthiness by any standard except fashion, was hailed as a masterpiece as soon as it hit the market.

But we need to be sure we're all 'on the same page' when we discuss Abstract Art. The officially accepted definition specifies: art in which the portrayal of things from the visible world plays no part. No recognizable objects can be included. It follows that there can be no such thing as an 'Abstract portrait' or 'Abstract landscape.' Those paintings misnamed as such should properly be described as 'Figurative.'

The astonishing body of work by Picasso (1881-1973), which covers 80 years of innovation and experiment, contains no works that are actually Abstract, so far as I know. If you have found one, I would like to hear about it.

A true form of Abstract painting can be found in the work of 'Colour Field' painters such as Mark Rothko (1903-1970) and his many imitators. On these - always vast - canvases, geometric shapes are filled with colour, sometimes solid, sometimes transparent. Sometimes they are given titles apparently freighted with mysterious meaning e.g. The Existential Sadness of Happiness. Sometimes the title is more honest: a stark Untitled #14. And when you leave the museum where they are displayed, can you recall which design told of 'The sadness of happiness' or which extolled The kindness of cruelty?' Can you differentiate between Untitled #7 and Untitled #13 from memory?

Picasso never lost sight of the power of Story. Only think of his incandescent protest against the futile brutality of war in 'Guernica.' Or the psychological power of his series based on the ancient myths of the Minotaur. It seems to me that all forms of art are servant to the Story. Let me show you why I think that.

The Movie: This has to be the most perfect art form, I think. It combines all the classic forms, embellished by the many technological innovations now available and who knows what wonders yet to come. Yet, without a Story, there is no movie.

The Novel: Attempts have been made to produce a novel devoid of narrative. Famous examples include 'Finnegan's Wake' and 'Ulysses' by James Joyce (1882-1941.) Complex constructions using devices of 'interior monologue' and the 'stream-of-consciousness,' these books fascinate literary critics. But have you ever read them? Do you know anyone who has?

Architecture: If I mentioned the Sydney Opera House or Notre Dame cathedral, you would not need a photograph to remind you of them. You would immediately see a mind-picture of them. Two buildings set far apart in time, they reflect the very different Story of the people who raised them. Then think of a skyscraper, the icon of modernity.

Except for those topped with identifying decorations, or those endowed with emotional significance like the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York, you would be hard put to say which city housed any one typical box. A founding father of the skyscraper, Louis Sullivan (1856-1924), believed 'form follows function' and the skyscraper embodies that principle. Its function is to fit the largest number of paying tenants into the smallest piece of high-priced real estate. And its design clearly states its lack of interest in who those tenants might be.

Music: When you listen to a recording of, say, 'Hall Of The Mountain King' by Edvard Grieg, you have no need to know about the folk stories that inspired him. But you will see pictures in your mind as you listen. And yet, unless you are a classical musician, you are unlikely to be able to hum the entire composition in the shower. This is because there are no words to help you recall the music. Incidentally, this is why 'Banjo' Paterson scribbled some verses that we can sing along with, to the old marching song we now know as 'Waltzing Matilda.'

So when the trendoids try to convince us that 'Narrative is dead,' my answer is a giant raspberry that says: 'Oh, yeah?'

About the Author:  ©Dorothy Gauvin  Dorothy Gauvin is an internationally acclaimed Australian painter in oils who specializes in an epic theme of Australia's pioneers. She is also the author of what may be the only novel ever published about Australia's 'Secret Civil War' of the 1890s,'Traveller's Luck,' available online. See images of her 'Life-Story' portraits of fascinating and successful people, limited edition prints of Outback heroes and horsemen, plus tips and advice for aspiring artists and collectors on her website at www.gauvin.com.au