What the ceiling remembers
When we pulled down the fibro ceiling, we found something none of us had expected. Here's the story of the plaster roses, told by the man who stood underneath them.
Under the false ceiling
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and three of us were taking down the last of the fibro. I was holding a torch, Angus Crawford was holding a ladder and a builder named Wayne was holding his breath. When the final sheet came away, a rose the size of a dinner plate looked back at us.
There were eleven of them, in two rows, each different, each with a ring of acanthus leaves and a small scar where a light fitting had once hung. Wayne said they were the best he'd seen in thirty years. Then he sat down on the stalls floor, which is what a lot of people do.
Bringing them back
The cleaning
Dust and soot had settled in every groove. We cleaned each rose with soft brushes, a damp cloth and more patience than any of us knew we had. It took a month, and a plasterer visited twice to mend a crack above the stage.
The paint
We chose a warm cream and left the leaves a shade darker, so the shapes read from the floor. The painter said it was the slowest job he'd ever enjoyed. He's since eaten dinner under his work eleven times.
The lighting
The lamps in the long room are low on purpose, so the roses are lit from beneath. At night, they look almost alive. Guests often stop in the aisle and look up before they notice they've done it.
What it taught us
That old buildings are worth waiting for, and that you can't really design a room like this. You can only uncover it and try not to spoil it.
If you come in, look up. The roses will still be there, and so will the torch mark where we first saw them, which Wayne signed.
A historian from the valley visited recently and told us the roses were cast from a mould that was also used in two other theatres in the north of the state. Neither survives. Ours, she said, is the best preserved, which we took as the nicest thing anyone has said about the place.