For her latest novel, Jane Caro spent 18 months researching coercive control and domestic abuse. To understand its complex machinations, she spoke to survivors, judges, police, lawyers, ex-prisoners and those working in the sector.
The longtime writer and social commentator poured everything she learned into The Mother, a domestic thriller about a woman who becomes concerned when her daughter withdraws in a new marriage. The plot of the book arose from Caro’s anger at how little is being done to protect women in Australia, but it is also about how far a mother will go to protect her children.
Caro herself is a mother of two, and has portraits of her children hanging in her living room. The pair of paintings are “utterly unsentimental” in artistic approach, but beloved items nonetheless. Here, she tells us why she’d grab those two portraits in a fire, as well as the story of two other important personal belongings.
What I’d save from my house in a fire
On the wall above my TV are two separate portraits of my children painted by my friend Denise Morden. She painted them in the early 1990s, when they were both toddlers. Although she was usually a sculptor, she was going through a phase of painting young children. I was delighted when she asked if she could include my daughters in her next exhibition.
Denise’s paintings of children – she has two of her own – are utterly unsentimental. The children stare unsmilingly from the canvas, challenging us with their uncompromising gaze. Morden’s children are not cute or sweet; they are furiously, mulishly themselves – especially my younger daughter.
Denise’s painting captures an expression of sullen obstinacy that I remember vividly. My older daughter’s expression is more mischievous, perhaps, but she too stares at the viewer as if daring them to dismiss her as a mere child.
My most useful object
Wherever I go, one thing always comes with me – some might call it an accessory. Currently it is a rounded brown leather version. The first one I had, however, was designed for men and I bought it in Bali. I used it daily until its chain corroded and became useless. I still miss it. It was a small, faux-snakeskin envelope-style bag suspended from a long, dullish-gold chain.
I am often attracted to male accessories (I have bought many a man’s scarf) because I am allergic to the frilly embellishments and wishy-washy colours that so many designers believe suitable for women’s clothing.
The point of the bag is that it is small, just big enough to carry my glasses, phone, credit cards, lipstick and now a mask. One of the five or so I have owned so far has variously been with me on planes, trains, camels, treks, climbs, bush walks, boats, ferries and a helicopter. I expect to have one with me – maybe on the bedside table in hospital or at home (if I am lucky) – when I die.
The item I most regret losing
I’m cheating a bit here, because it’s many items. I grievously miss (and suspect I always will) the loss of 30 years’ worth of collected earrings. Our house was broken into a few years ago and the thief snatched my jewellery box off my dressing table. Once they opened it, I am sure they just threw it away. Everything in it was worthless (I am not a diamonds and pearls kind of girl) except to me.
I began collecting those earrings in the 80s, when big was fashionable. I couldn’t really have big hair – I am not genetically blessed in the follicle department – but I could wear statement earrings. I used to work opposite the legendary Cash Palace on Oxford Street and I’d spend up big. They were all just paste and plastic – the epitome of costume jewellery – but I loved them.
I had wooden elephants so big that I would only ever wear one, never both. I had architectural black ones with rods that bounced and twirled on invisible thread. I had all the colours of the rainbow and I wore them for years.
I have begun amassing another collection, of course, but it’s not the 80s and it never will be again, and I miss those earrings my 20-year-old self chose with such bold precision.
