Trevor Kennedy's extraordinary collection

A good eye

So where did it all begin? Where did this love story start? Perhaps unusually, Kennedy’s passion for collecting Australiana did not begin in Australia.

Kennedy was a journalist, beginning as a 17-year-old cadet at the Albany Advertiser in Western Australia before moving to Canberra to work for the Financial Review. He remembers the provisional parliament house fondly – the labyrinthine corridors, the cramped but convivial working conditions and, most importantly, the easy access to politicians and power brokers. In 1968, he was posted to London as the Financial Review’s European correspondent.

In London, Kennedy was busy but not all his time was devoted to work. On his days off, he scoured antique markets in Portobello Road and beyond. The antique scene in London during the 1960s and 70s was a bustling hive of activity. Stalls, shops, fairs and markets overflowed with objects of every conceivable description. This was an era of discovery, when treasures could be unearthed and fortunes made.

There was no internet to assist in determining an object’s history or value. You needed a good eye and a willingness to take a risk. A nondescript item might have untold significance. A piece picked up for a pound could turn out to be worth thousands. It was exciting and clearly addictive.

When Kennedy moved back to Australia, his collection and interest in Australian history continued to grow. It was perhaps his role as editor of the Bulletin, a magazine with a special place in the history of Australia, that continued to fuel Kennedy’s fascination with Australiana and Australian history. An active and longstanding supporter of, and advocate for, Australian museums, he noticed a lack of engagement by the general population.

He wondered why Australians were not fascinated by, or alive to, the stories of the nation. In part he blames this on the way in which Australian history was, or was not, taught in Australian schools. It is an issue he still laments today. His collecting was, in some ways, a demonstration of the remarkable depth of Australian material culture and history that was waiting to be appreciated and understood.

A private museum

What began as an amusement grew to immense proportions. In 2005, Kennedy significantly increased his existing holdings when he purchased the Ruth Simon collection – approximately 1,475 Australian artefacts including furniture, ceramics, clocks, artworks, gold and silver.

Simon, like Kennedy, had been an avid collector of Australiana at a time when Australian antiques were not particularly fashionable. In her obituary, journalist Terry Ingram credited Simon with ‘almost single-handedly creating the market in Australiana in the build-up to the 1988 Bicentennial’.

Kennedy’s collection now required a home. In 2008 he began to renovate Rawson Hall on Kent Street in Miller’s Point, Sydney. The building became a display space for his growing collection, his own private museum, as well as his office. Although I am thrilled that this collection has come to the National Museum, there is one sadness for me – that this wonderful place no longer exists.

Over the past 3 years, working at Kent Street has provided months of fascination, discovery, wonder and joy. It was a remarkable display. The walls were densely hung with paintings, posters and ephemera of every kind. Shelves were crammed with ceramics. Priceless artefacts sat alongside garish salt and pepper shakers from the 1950s. Beautiful wooden cabinets housed cups of glittering gold. A mezzanine level was dedicated entirely to drawer after drawer full of sparkling jewellery.

This place was a curator’s delight. It was the type of museum you dream of as a child, where you can wander freely among objects and open every drawer, peek in every cabinet.

Kennedy’s pleasure in his collection was evident in the way that it filled each room, with objects jostling for space and competing for your attention. A mass of history enveloped you. It was a beautiful and chaotic house of treasures and the unique creation of a man with a tremendous vision.

If you ask Kennedy to pick a favorite object, a quick look of pain crosses his face. It’s the kind of look a parent might give if asked to disclose a preference for one of their children. He avoids answering directly. This is not due to any lack of beloved objects to choose from, or stories to tell. What it highlights is that for Kennedy, this is not about one object over another.

His true passion is for the collection as a whole. It is not the number of objects that matters. It is the power that comes when so many themes, ideas, makers and moments come together in a single space. It is a cacophony of stories. A wealth of ideas. As Kennedy sat in Kent Street, surrounded by his creation, he would tell you, laughing, that it contains some junk. The sense is, however, that even the junk is dear to him and has a legitimate place in his collection.