Lizzie Newman

After last weekend, I know Mutlu better than I did before: now I know how singular and certain he was. You can see this in his work, in his project: he knew something about himself that we didn’t. His death is a loss because we could have learnt more from him – could have got to know more about him and how he saw things.

Once, when I went with him to the Ian Potter at Melbourne Uni. to see an exhibition, he took me into the other wing and showed me the ancient vases he liked, and also the Roman coins, so small that you had to use a magnifying glass to see what was on them. Now when I see them I will always think of him.

It’s a painful loss for us not to have him anymore – it seems a cruel waste to go on with him missing, and hard to bear right now – he was part of our community, and lots of us will wish he were still here.

As soon as I heard about him I missed him - his strange and comforting company, his warm and quizzical presence, his soft and erect bearing, and wanted to call him up and see him. Or to tell him ‘No, don’t do that!'

Sometimes on sunny days we rode our bikes around the place, talking and laughing – or maybe that was just me laughing – Mutlu always made me laugh, so that when we parted I was always smiling, thinking about things he had said. Once I went to meet him and he was already outside, wheeling around on his bike, waiting. He explained in a self-mocking way that he was too full of anticipation (or was it agitation?) to wait inside. Funny old thing…