Unsung icons: Wrought iron Our nod to the favoured ‘metal’

COMEDIAN DAVID SMIEDT TAKES AN IRREVERENT, BUT APPRECIATIVE, LOOK AT THE CLASSIC THINGS THAT DEFINE YOU-BEAUT AUSSIE LIFE

ASIDE FROM BEING an excellent Scrabble word (14 points at a minimum), “wrought” is one of those terms that has faded from fashion. At least in the emotional sense, where it’s often preceded by “over” and means “in a state of nervous excitement or anxiety”. For many Australians, we were simply never in danger of being over “wrought”. Pay attention to the space between these words, because what we’re talking about here is wrought iron.

Wrought iron introduced a sense of decorative possibility to a substance previously relied on for its rigid functionality. For the amateur metallurgists out there, we’re talking a low carbon content (about 0.08 per cent, but you knew I was going to say that, right?). It’s also semi-fused (no idea) and has “fibrous slag inclusions” (not touching that). Whatevs – all you need to know is the end result was a material that had all the durability of iron, but through judicious use of hammer and anvil, could be fashioned into the most elaborate curlicues, crests and motifs.

It’s hardly surprising, then, that Aussies took the view that if it wasn’t wrought, it was wrong. It matched any style of architecture you dared to team it up with, it could be produced on a scale from grand balustraded statements to eye-catching flourishes, it lasted longer than that bottle of Tabasco sauce most of us have had in the cupboard for decades and, even when it did start to weather, it acquired a flecked patina that made it look even better.

Wrought iron was such a favoured material it was often the very first thing you saw when looking at dwellings from Engadine to Esperance. In a garden fence, wrought iron was aesthetic and hard-wearing. It demarcated a boundary with elegant swirls and curls, yet provided a window to the gardenias and buxus beyond. It was like putting a refined stencil over a mini wall of greenery. Most often painted white, the contrast was crisp, trad and inviting. Even when used as a security device, the spikes on wrought-iron fences sent a message that said “we’d prefer it if you didn’t come in, thanks” rather than “keep out”. If you had a home with a balcony, there was invariably more wrought iron up top. More frangipani-scented breezes floated through the iron and into our sweltering summer bedrooms than can ever be counted.

It was one of your more democratic decor touches, too. If you couldn’t afford the cost of the metres of wrought iron required to create a fence or balcony railing, it was pressed into lace. These intensely worked mini mazes – which were also sometimes made of tin – were no bigger than an A4 sheet of paper but, affixed in pairs above a doorway, they brought a touch of whimsy and ye olde charm. That was the restrained approach. Alternatively, you could go all out and run so much wrought iron lace around the borders of your home it would look as if it was leaking doilies.

We loved wrought iron so much we sat on it. Sure, the chairs needed cushions the size of bread loaves to be comfortable, and the patterns could leave a verdigris of dust, dirt or sunburn on your skin, but if you wanted to add a touch of Louis The Whatever chi-chi to your garden, there was nothing better. You could even leave it out there during winter and all it took was brushing away a few huntsman spiders the size of kittens and you were good to go.

But metallurgy is a science and, as such, new, better, cheaper variants will always be on the flinty horizon. The subject of this column has largely been replaced by something which goes by the name of “mild steel”. And, if you ask us, that sounds like the cover band version of wrought iron. Rock on.

“IF YOU WANTED TO ADD A touch OF LOUIS THE WHATEVER chi-chi TO YOUR garden, THERE WAS NOTHING BETTER”