Hard times for Mr Dickens

Eventually, he was lost to the mists of time, and a Charles Dickens Statue diaspora sprawled across Sydney.

Image credit: Joy Lai, The Guardian

Listen up children, move in. See there, there’s some space for you — let’s begin. Huddle like a pack of wolves in the bone-cold Arctic frost. 

Can you all take a guess as to why we might make a statue of someone?

We make statues of people we revere, typically white writers of so-called classics or racist slave-traders. These statues are gazed at and adored, passed by and ignored, or sometimes spat on, scandalised and vandalised.

But occasionally, something even more sinister happens to them. 

Does anyone know what they did to the Statue of Liberty to transport it?

It was disassembled and chopped up Mafia-style into 350 pieces. Once transported to New York City, each piece was reunited in a poetic feat of immigrant labour. 

It would be scary to split a statue up, that is for sure. The sea is a greedy force, and we are just lucky it wasn’t craving metallic morsels in the late 19th century. 

But not all stories of statue dismemberment end up as iconic as Lady Liberty’s. Mr Charles Dickens of Centennial Park fame is the protagonist of a fading ill-fated tale. 

Once upon a time, when smoke first touched clean air and women were institutionalised for hysteria, our very own NSW Premier Sir Henry Parkes dreamed of paying homage to the man responsible for Great Expectations. In effigy form, of course. This dream thwarted the stars, as the author decreed that none of his countrymen should fashion his likeness into statue form. 

The accursed statue was carved with marble — very expensive, I know — and stood tall and proud for 80 years. 

But like any tall poppy, it would soon be cut down. Radicals looking for some fun played a prank on unsuspecting old Dicksy. Charles lost his head, so park officials lost theirs. The headless statue was removed, dismantled, emotionally wrecked and placed in storage: first in Rozelle and later in the Royal Botanic Gardens depot. Eventually, he was lost to the mists of time, and a Charles Dickens Statue diaspora sprawled across Sydney.

What would your parents do if they lost you?

Perhaps they would forget about you for 35 years. In 2006, then President of the NSW Dickens Society, Sandra Faulkner, reinvigorated the search. She wrote to the Sydney Morning Herald’s Column 8, begging for a sign. Her prayers fell on deaf ears, until the Sydney Morning Herald republished her request in 2007, with the editor’s compelling call, “We must find Mr Dickens.” A random fellow who would soon become a saviour contacted the newspaper — the worn-down sculpture apparently resided in the backyard of a Wentworth Falls residence. I spoke to the heroic Faulkner herself, who rejoiced, “It was a long search by me for the statue and so wonderful to see him back in Centennial Park.”

After this raving revelation, there was work to be done if Mr Dickens were ever to stand tall and proud again. Sculptor Paul Thurloe was entrusted with re-carving Mr Dickens’ head, so he desperately sought a marble which matched Dickens’ body. 

Not everyone was satisfied with placing a young head on old shoulders. Some experts wanted to deprive Dickens of his head forever to maintain the statue’s integrity, comparing the reconstruction to “giving the Venus de Milo a new pair of arms”. Despite protest, the ‘find him a new head’ school of thought prevailed. The sourcing period took 12 months, and led the architects to the pearl-white town of Carrara, Italy. After three attempts, a suitable piece was seized. 

Can anyone guess how heavy it was?

That’s right! The builders selected a 450 kilogram block, from which they carved Dickens’ head, alongside his missing pinkie and writing implements. The reconstructed statue was finally unveiled on February 7, 2011, a date commemorating 199 sun-laps since the author’s birth. The event was well-attended by NSW Governor Marie Bashir, past President Faulkner, Minister for Sport and Recreation Hon Kevin Greene MP and more. 

Was I there? 

Why no, I wasn’t. I was probably writing a lesson plan for you ungrateful squirts.

With great gratitude to the NSW Dickens Society for their assistance with this article.