‘A bit jealous’: When mum and daughter go to uni at the same time

Titania Henderson, 79, was a stay-at-home mum in her 50s when she started at uni. Her daughter Amy, 43, was happy to help with her essays – for a fee. Now the sculptor and the creative agent share their Melbourne studio.

Titania and Amy Henderson. “It’s wonderful to have something in common, especially art – because art is full of love,” says Titania.Credit: Josh Robenstone

TITANIA: Amy was born on Christmas Day. My husband, Ian, was a very efficient man, an orthopaedic surgeon, and he always had a green piece of paper in his pocket with a list of jobs for that day. Christmas Day wasn’t my due date but I saw written on that paper: “Titania having baby.”

It freaked me out: “Goodness, am I doing that today?” So I put my mind to it and the contractions started. With all four babies – Amy came third – I was left to fend for myself; Ian was a hard-working man. I thought, “OK, let me do my job.” She was born that night.

My going to uni caused both bonding and conflict with Amy. I was well into my 50s when I got into RMIT to do Fine Arts-Ceramics, studying with some of her friends, like ­[jewellery designer] Lucy Folk. I didn’t know how to write an essay; I wasn’t good at the computer; I had to learn how to use a library. There were all these deadlines and I was living with a man who’d come home at 9pm and I’d have to cook a meal. I had to push myself. Amy would check my essays, but I ended up having to pay her to do them on time.

‘She rings me less, but I think that’s good – good for her, good for me. She’s become a lot stronger.’

Titania Henderson

Amy and I share my studio now … with difficulty. I had that space when I was a student and it was always me silently working there. I’ve moved into the laundry a bit lately. She has four staff [at creative agency, The Artl–ne], and they’re all Zooming and talking on the phone. Amy gives me her opinion on my art. I’ve got a big pile of failures and she pinches them for her house. She’s proud: she’ll come to my exhibitions and bring all her friends.

Ian died in March last year of cancer. Amy lost her dog at the same time, so sometimes she’d use her dog as the excuse when she was struggling. We don’t talk about it a lot. As a mother, I was conscious of not being selfish – of listening and not being too self-involved. I’d only just started to feel in control when I ­recently had to have an operation for breast cancer; I thought, “Wow, that’s a real bugger.”

Amy didn’t know what to make of it; I didn’t really go there with her. We got to the hospital and, at the lift where you go down to the ­operating theatre, I just said goodbye and took myself down. Because I’ve been a very protected woman with a very capable man, I just feel it’s time for me to get on. Amy would want to stay the night, and I’d say no; I do need her, but it’s my journey now. She rings me less, but I think that’s good – good for her, good for me. She’s become a lot stronger.

She can be challenging to pin down, but once you finally get her, you get all of her. She’s a very good woman. We walk along the Yarra with the dog and discuss exhibitions, design, architecture and interiors, and we’re always learning from each other. In fact, sometimes I think she’ll pass me by. It’s wonderful to have something in common, especially art – because art is full of love.

AMY: My friends and I call her Titty. They’re big fans; everyone is. It’s that Dutch quirk – she moved to Australia when she was 11 – but also her charisma. She can read people, so they feel connected to her. She’ll see my friends in the street and they’ll be like, “I saw your mum and suddenly I was telling her my life story.”

At school, everyone knew who she was. If we went out for dinner and there was a couple who Mum thought were on a first date, she’d walk up and ask, “How’s your first date going?” I’d be mortified – but it’s a quality I see in myself now. It’s almost too much, but it’s the Titty Effect! People are taken aback, but then feel this sense of warmth and fun, and it breaks them open. She leaves an imprint.

Her life was very much in support of Dad’s. If she resented it, she didn’t show it. She’s stoic, and there was an intense loyalty. I could always talk to her, but she was strict: I couldn’t go to nightclubs or have fake IDs. I went through a hippie phase when I had dreadlocks and wore flares. Recently, I told Mum not to say something in public and she said, “Embarrassing? You made me walk around with you when you were a teenager with really long underarm hair – and I never told you that was embarrassing!” Touché!

‘At the hospital, we got to the lift and she told me to leave. She said, “I know that you won’t cope.” ’

Amy Henderson

Mum went to uni around 2000. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around why – and I was a bit jealous she got into RMIT. With her essays, I had to draw out of her what she was trying to say. It felt like a drag, and I could see that she was vulnerable; it makes me emotional now. But I was curious: she had an interesting take on things. I thought I had a mother who was artistic and exploring pottery; I never foresaw that she’d create large sculptures and have work in the NGV, but now I can see why.

She’s coped unbelievably since Dad passed, but sometimes I wonder what’s actually happening under the surface. They were together for 55 years and he was in charge of everything practical. Dad was very much a go-to for me, too – so there’s a re-learning for both of us. I don’t think I’ve dealt with her breast cancer well. Mum never goes to a place of “poor me”; she just quietly went through the process. You’ve almost got to throw yourself at her to get on the journey with her. At the hospital, we got to the lift and she told me to leave. She ­actually said, “I know that you won’t cope.” She felt she was protecting me, but that’s the moment when you 100 per cent want to be there.

She’s never put pressure on me to marry and have babies. She once said, “One day you’ll never be alone again” – as in, all your friends are married and have children, but you need to see how wonderful this time is. It flipped my perspective. I’m quite certain Mum has this big, bright chapter ahead. I jump through hoops to [evolve and] get to her stage sooner, but I forget that she’s spent years becoming this person. She’s like an icon to me. A real inspiration.

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