The Bird Lady of Shoobridge St. Oil and acrylic on wood.1998

Poster for the 1998 exhibition.



Right now I am trawling through imagery and notes made years ago. It is the wee small hours of the morning. The suburb sleeps. Gentle rain, irregular distant growl of thunder. Susseration of ceiling fans. No other soundsBy scratching through into the white ground I could make marks like bleached bones.
Olive had just died when I made this one so in a moment of indulgence I've imagined the birds picking the flesh from her bones.

"My name is Olive. Every morning I feed the hawks. I started doing it in the railway camps. Now I do it because I love to see them swoop. There are so many. we counted 53 along the powerlines.Fifteen kilos of chicken wings a week. I cook them every night. We live on the pension. You know someone complained to the Council once. They can't stop me. I always pick up the bones so dogs dont' choke. I love animals."