The echoes of forgotten lives are being transformed into vibrant art at Abbotsford Convent, a place once shrouded in shadow and silence.
Imagine stepping into a space where the whispers of the past are not just heard, but actively woven into the fabric of the present. This is the profound experience at Abbotsford Convent, a former religious institution now pulsating with creative energy. As a jeweller shared, her voice hushed with reverence, "You can see it in their eyes," referring to the women who once resided here and now return, decades later. Witnessing their connection to this place, she explains, feels akin to a sacred encounter.
The imposing labyrinth of the Abbotsford Convent grounds, with its stark concrete corridors and a rusted green gate where a more formidable barrier once stood, now houses a music academy. The once-silenced halls now resonate with the cheerful notes of a piano. Yet, beneath the surface of this modern melody, a subtle undercurrent persists – a murmur, a faint whisper that can still send shivers down one's spine. Patricia Sykes, an 84-year-old woman whose infectious laugh belies her slender frame, knows this feeling intimately. She was brought to the orphanage here at the tender age of 11 in the 1950s, alongside her three sisters, following the tragic death of their mother during childbirth. Her father, a labourer, faced the agonizing choice between separating his daughters through adoption or keeping them together in the orphanage. She vividly recalls the sharp clang of a nun's brass key against the architrave of her dormitory door, a daily signal for the orphans to awaken, offer prayers, and make their beds.
"There were two days we used to get a treat," Sykes reminisces, her backpack holding a prepared lunch for the day. "It was biscuits, or bread and jam." As a young girl, Sykes was a radiant presence in the convent's church choir, her spirit captured in a patch dress. She even received a sixpence from the mother superior for her part in a dance during Queen Elizabeth's 1954 visit to Australia. It was within these walls that she discovered the pentameter, a poetic form that would later define her as a poet.
The true fear, however, emerged later, after they returned to live with their father. He would threaten to send them back to the convent if they misbehaved. "There were two occasions he made us pack our bags, and he drove us back here and pulled up in front to scare the living daylights out of us," she recounts, the memory still potent.
But here's where it gets controversial... The convent grounds were segregated, with different buildings housing distinct groups of girls. There were the paying boarders, local primary school students, orphans, and then, crucially, the girls and young women of the Sacred Heart building. These individuals were subjected to grueling work in the Magdalene laundries, a system that amounted to little more than slave labour. Some were placed there by their families, while others were sent by court order, surrendering them to the "care and control" of the Good Shepherd Sisters, often for the most trivial and questionable reasons – one girl's father, for instance, sent her for the 'offense' of walking on grass barefoot. Each girl in the Sacred Heart building was assigned a new name, effectively erasing their personal histories. Their world was confined to views through metal window grilles, overlooking bleak concrete courtyards. Their desperate pleas for help, heard by passersby, went unanswered. This harrowing past is so profound that some former residents now refuse to set foot on the convent's grounds, unable to confront the painful memories, according to Justine Hyde, the chief executive of the Abbotsford Convent Foundation. And this is the part most people miss... Others, however, find healing through the convent's transformation into an arts and culture precinct. A group of former residents, for example, gather monthly at a café on the grounds to support each other.
The Good Shepherd nuns sold the convent to the state in 1975 for $5.5 million. Nearly 30 years later, a powerful community campaign thwarted plans for private development, leading the state government to gift the site to the public. The non-religious, not-for-profit Abbotsford Convent Foundation was established to oversee its management.
Remarkably, some nuns who reside nearby still visit the convent. Legend has it that one nun walks anti-clockwise around the grounds, defying the old rules that deemed such a direction unholy. Sister Monica Walsh, who joined the Good Shepherd order in 1963 at the age of 18 with a desire to assist disadvantaged girls, was once a novice nun working in the Magdalene laundries' counting section and later in the packing room alongside the Sacred Heart girls. She recalls the nuns being taught that their role was to prepare the girls for work, acknowledging, "For some, that would be helpful; for others, it would have been probably just dreadful."
Australia was home to eight Magdalene laundries, all operated by the Sisters of the Good Shepherd convents, from the 1940s to the '70s. While precise numbers are elusive, it's estimated that several thousand girls passed through their doors. The lingering sensory memories include the hiss of steam, the oppressive heat, the musty scent of linen, the relentless pounding of machines, and the boiling soap.
For the directors of Ink and Spindle, a hand-printed textiles studio operating within the Sacred Heart building for nearly a decade, their love for the aging premises is deeply connected to the women who toiled there before them. This same sentiment fuels She Shapes History, a feminist social enterprise that offers tours of the convent, prioritizing human stories over mere architecture. Consider the inspiring journey of acclaimed Aboriginal activist Mollie Dyer, who attended boarding school here from age 10. She harbored anxieties about entering the workforce, but the nuns gently guided her, framing the convent as a sanctuary for preparation, not a place of hiding. "They suggested a transition: employment, but still living here for three months. She agreed," explains tour guide Catherine Noone. Dyer went on to profoundly impact Australia's foster care system, advocating passionately for Aboriginal children to be raised within their own kin for cultural continuity.
Then there are the four pioneering women who established the convent itself. In their late 20s, they embarked on a 127-day voyage from France at the request of a bishop, with promises of a house, land, and financial support awaiting them. Upon arrival, they found none of these provisions. "They have to go and hustle and find a location," shares Sita Sargeant, founder of She Shapes History. They discovered the Abbotsford grounds, a sprawling estate with a house draped in cobwebs, where possums occupied the windows and birds nested in the kitchen.
Sykes, the former resident, could never have envisioned herself gazing upon the convent gardens today, where violet cardoon flowers bloom with the same vibrancy as the blue confirmation cloaks worn by children here long ago. When she finally gathered the courage to revisit, drawn by its artistic reinvention, she contacted the mother superior, who dismissively replied over the phone, "Oh, for god's sake, come and visit – there's nothing here but old women." Yet, sitting in a former nun's bedroom, where she later undertook an artist's residency and penned a poetry collection in 2004, she discovered something profound: a beautiful confluence of art and religion. And one more thing that beckons her back.
"There were whispers in the walls."
Do you believe that places can hold the emotional residue of past experiences? Share your thoughts in the comments below! The She Shapes History public walking tours are held every Saturday and Sunday at Abbotsford Convent.
