It was a summer morning and Jenny Kee was running late to visit fellow artist Linda Jackson. It saved her life

Fashion designers and artists Jenny Kee, 79, and Linda Jackson, 75, have been close friends and collaborators for more than 50 years. Together, they introduced Australian fashion to the world.

Jenny: I was 26 when I met Linda; she was 23. It was a magical moment. I’d just come back from London, where people were very cool and dressing up like movie stars; Sydney felt very brash. Linda, who had a magical face and a mass of beautiful, golden curls, was decked out in 1950s-style clothing she’d made. I thought, “This is someone I can relate to!” – and she felt the same. The attraction was instant.

We’re both artists, but very different. Linda’s cool; I run hot. You don’t have arguments with Linda: the temperature just drops. She has this quiet confidence that commands respect. It can drive you mad if you’re in the mood for a bit of a scream.

Our first fashion show was in 1974 at Hingara, a yum cha restaurant in Sydney’s Chinatown. It’s always had this special, retro feel. After dinner, we whipped away the cloths and the tables became the runway. Everyone was looking up at these goddesses as they walked down the tables, swaying to reggae.

When my daughter, Grace, was born in 1975 [Jenny was married to artist Michael Ramsden], she fitted right in. Linda would create baby outfits for her and the three of us would go out wearing the same thing. I can be very energetic, like a child – I have ADHD, which we didn’t have a name for back then – that could hype Grace up, whereas Linda was always so calm and focused with her.

In early 1977, Linda had a nervous breakdown; she took some time off and went to a rest home in east Sydney. They wanted to do electric shock therapy, but Fran, her partner then, wouldn’t let them.

Grace and I would try to visit her every Tuesday. On January 18, 1977, the train we were on derailed and ran into a road bridge, which collapsed on top of us [the Granville Rail Disaster, in which 83 people died and 213 were injured, remains Australia’s deadliest rail accident]. We were supposed to have been travelling in the third carriage, but were running late and ended up in the first. Most people in the third carriage died that day. It was horrific. Grace emerged with a small scratch, but I sustained a lifelong back injury.

Afterwards, we both immersed ourselves in alternative medicine; we went to the same doctor every week for acupuncture and became quite spiritual. I was drawing a lot, perhaps recognising what I would’ve missed out on if I’d died. Linda and I would go on bushwalks, too; it was the only thing that calmed me down.

Linda has always been really sure of herself professionally, which is a quality I admire: I’ve always been plagued by insecurity. We did a collection together at Sydney’s Powerhouse Museum in 2019 and, at one point, I looked at my work and thought it was all rather terrible. I remember Linda looking at me in horror. She said simply, “Stop it!” She actually got quite sharp with me.

Even though we’re both in the National Gallery [of Australia], we’ve never really thought of ourselves as “women artists”. We’ve always been just two women working together creatively: Linda’s my twin flame.

Linda: In 1973, I came to Sydney [from Melbourne] to take part in an exhibition at Bonython Gallery [in Paddington]. It seemed as if everyone was telling Jenny and me that we simply had to meet each other. I was feeling really inspired by a recent journey through Asia. When we did meet, I was like, “Wow! My Chinese princess!”

Jenny was just about to open [her shop] Flamingo Park in the Strand Arcade, in Sydney. The layout, the vintage artwork, the colours, the music – it was so different to anything else I’d seen. I immediately started making clothing for it. People always think Flamingo Park was our shop, but it was Jenny’s: I got my own studio on Bondi Road. It was like an outdoor photographic studio for us; Jenny was my muse.

Our life was one big working party. There was no distinction between our personal and professional lives. Everything Jenny and I did – reading magazines, visiting art galleries, even dinner with friends – was about feeding our creativity. I’ve always found it interesting that we’re both short-sighted: the minute you take off your glasses, you have this slightly blurry, other way of seeing things. When I was little, I’d tell Mum I could see faces, or pixies, in the bush. As I got older, it became about working out how to deal with these visions: not everyone understands. The first time I told Jenny about them was at Bondi; I pointed to a cliff and said, “There are faces in that cliff.” She said she could see them, too.

‘We’re both short-sighted … [without] glasses, you have this slightly blurry, ‘other’ way of seeing things.’

Linda Jackson

By 1977, I was exhausted and the visions had become overwhelming. My doctor suspected schizophrenia and sent me to a rest home; if he’d had his way, I would’ve had shock treatment. That’s how they often treated creative women like me back then. Being around Jenny, who didn’t criticise me and encouraged my creativity, helped me heal. I learnt to use my skills without feeling overstimulated.

Jenny and Grace were on their way to visit me when their train derailed. Strangely, I’d been having all these dreams about Jenny where I was wrapping her in rainbows. Fran brought them both to see me a few days later, but I can’t remember much besides being so happy to see them both. I was so off the planet it wasn’t until much later that what had happened to them hit me.

We’re very different – and fit together like a pair. I’m left-handed and she’s right-handed. Jenny’s dyslexic and not a big reader, whereas I’ve always read a lot. And I’m always early while she’s often late, which, in the case of Granville, saved her life.

After our last show in 1981, I took off to go and live in Alice Springs, but our bond remained deep. We’re like family. We’d chat on the phone and discover that we’d been thinking about the same things. We’re still very close even though we live in different states. We talk all the time and usually spend Christmas together in Blackheath.

Because of the exhibition, we’ve been together a lot this year. Posing together still makes us smile. We’ve never worried about what anyone thought.

Know My Name: Kee, Jackson and Delaunay is at Canberra’s National Gallery of Australia now.

twoofus@goodweekend.com.au

Read more from Good Weekend’s Two of Us column:

What is it like to become friends in your 70s? Very different to when you are in your 20s
Camilla and Marc on the rule that saves their sibling partnership
‘I just lay in bed and hugged her all night’: When your bestie loses her life partner

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