This floor, smoothed by the passage of millions of feet, yet retaining its colours and images, was not simply beautiful, he found it utterly compelling. How could all those tiny fragments come together to produce a coherent and seamless whole? All those tiny pieces — tiles? stone? — forming patterns and human figures, and of such variety: some resembled friezes from the ancient Greeks, others looked quite modern. He squatted down, ran his hand over the pieces. He had to know how this wonder had been created. He had to know more.

He left the arcade and rushed through the lanes towards Bourke Street. At the first phone box, he stopped to ring his parents. He explained he was with friends and would not be home for dinner — they’d be happy to hear he was not alone — and bolted up the street to the Paperback Bookshop, open late every night. In the art section he found a book on the world’s most famous mosaics, an oversized volume with many coloured plates. With insufficient money to buy it, he settled himself on a bench near the window. He studied the pictures, he read the text.

And so it happened, in a city bookshop an hour after he had seen his first mosaic, Andrew Morrow decided on his future. Page after page of mosaics from Spain and Morocco, Italy and Russia, Turkey and the Middle East; mosaics in stone, glass, pottery, enamel, gold and jewels; geometric patterns, landscapes, interiors, animals, human figures, the sacred and the secular; skin shadings, fancy hair, flowing garments, complex movements. Mosaic, this extraordinary enduring art, was the work he wanted to do.

He decided to complete the first year of engineering before telling his parents of his new career. With a creditable pass, he hoped they would see that his choice not to be an engineer really was a choice.

He studied, he passed with honours, and he made his announcement. His parents were not happy; his father in particular was very unhappy. Finish the engineering degree, Leonard said. Give yourself something to fall back on; after all, he added, very few artists make a living from art alone. Sylvie was worried he would become even more ‘socially isolated’ than he already was. Those were her exact words, and the first time in Andrew’s memory she had described him in such a way.

Andrew ended up doing what he wanted, and his parents continued to worry. He found more books to read, he studied every mosaic in Melbourne, he travelled up to Canberra to surround himself in Napier Waller’s great mosaics at the Australian War Memorial. He enrolled in short courses (the major art schools ignored mosaic as pensioner craft and sheltered-workshop activity), and eventually secured an apprenticeship with one of the few established mosaicists in Australia. He had never been happier.