These paintings were done while living at Mijijimaya
This book was sent to me from Nepal. I set myself the challenge of doing one painting a day in it.
When I finished I sent it back. It was very kindly repatriated electronically for this blog.
The battered cover attests the distance and time that this little book has come
There was Law business happening up near the bore on the way to the forbidden hills.The men passed on thei way back to camp wearing the ochre rubbed hair belts.
They sometimes stopped for water.
The tree is a Parntal, a reminant of the long passed rainforest still with shiny deep green leaves and hard round nuts with sweet flesh. The bones feature later. Rising up like a great ocean wave the first of the sandhills that march ever East.
Rhidian adopted this teddy from his maternal grandmother.
One of the bones
The perennial hope; 'Everything will be alright...in the morning'.
Lunch and a reflection back to the Bruny Island painting.
The stone from the river; round and smooth. Under the jagged stone from the hill,
The sprig from the Turjey bush. Edible fruit , a little sweet. Where these grew we hunted the birds.
Some early thoughts....
Pandanus, perched above the beach at Cape Leveque.
The sound of these insects cut through the morning ringing out until the afternoon's light waned.
The small bundle of feathers rapidly dissipated as the heat and the ants took their toll.
I tried to keep the joey away from the leg of its' mother that was being kept for lunch.
The quiet of the sandhills as the night falls,wind dies and insects have yet to start singing.
A seed-pod collected at Fitzgerald River National Park and carried to Mijijimaya.
Lighthouse at Cape Leveque.
A kangaroo foot, long dried and bleached by the sun.
A study of the leaves from the tree that scrapes and whispers against the iron roof.
A by-product of getting fresh meat was the baby's that were pulled from their mothers pouch. Growing some of them up involved having a little face peeping from a sack every time you pass.
A line from a Midnight Oil song from their album Diesel and Dust. Altogether apt for the setting.
This waterhole was on the road into camp and filled with a single storm. The frogs would emerge and breed.
Citrus fruit grown locally travelled far surviving the heat, light and long corrugated roads.
The small parrots flash green and red across the deep bowl of the sky.
After the rain insects clattered against the light and crowded along window ledges. In the morning their bodies were scattered by the early breeze.
Collage bird wings and watercolour. In the shade of the old sea container the boys waited with shanghais watching the dripping tap. When the birds settled to drink they fell stunned to the precise stones. The little kids ran in and grabbed them. leaving the little bodies to the ants after the game had finished.
'The brilliant fires remind me of home. Long ago.'
The Plains Bustard, or bush turkey, were wary and difficult to get close to. For good reason as they are very good to eat. Only the feet and feathers remained after people and camp dogs had their pickings.
'I am calling you'. I did this while staying with a friend in South Hedland. He had a frangipanni that shed white flowers generously. The rich green leaves and fleshy white flowers were always there by the open door to welcome me.
An old bone found at the bottom of a dried well. A kangaroo must have fallen and become trapped long ago.
A collage of a band aid and watercolour. I was thinking of wounds that are raw but hidden.
'And with the night small insects count out the moments of the velvet black between the staring lights that wheel over and into dawn.' The kids played this bat to death and I painted it as its wings shrivelled in the heat.
A collage of the red desert sand, a fishhook and a dried flower. I had found the fish among many that had died when their river was cut from the sea and as the water evaporated and became more and more salty they lay twitching feebly in the shallows. The crows pecked out livers and eyes as they died.
Yalalu looked over us. In the absolute stillness of dry season nights the echo from clapping hands came ringing back across the spinnifex.
'The Forbidden Hills';These hills are the site of a waterhole that only initiated men could go to.
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