More painintgs from Mijijimaya 1991

It was here that I learned what painting was truly about. The idea of generating a commodity, a product for sale was incomprehensible to these people.
The main thing about this image is the horizon. that sand hill running North South marked the beginning of thousands of marching waves of sand. They reminded me of the great swells of the Southern Ocean.

Rhidian, about two and a half. Everywhere I went he went and (within limits) everything I did he did.
The boys wrote the story of each of the small watercolors in Nyangumarta and then translated for me.

We saw these emus and Peter Woodman told the story in such explicit marks.
The River, where all of our daytrips ended.
Paulie claiming the prized liver.
Paulie, Peter and Charlie sat on the roof. lookout. The barrel of the gun is in the top right corner.
The faithful toyota with the hunting crew.
Cranky Iti preparing a snack to eat while the rest of the kangaroo cooked. The kidneys and liver were put into a washed out stomach that acted like an oven bag in the coals.
Dinner camp in the clean sand of the Oakover river
Waiting for the meat to cook
Oil on board, the snake that made the hills and the river.
Whitegum. Watercolor. (below) We waited while the boys went to get meat.

Painting at Mijijimaya. Great Sandy Desert West Australia

Peter Woodman; The best painters of running dogs I have ever known

There was a constant volley of small stones flung at high speed with deadly accuracy using slingshots
One of the main young artists. Who did the painting above.

Everyone had a go.

Sitting in the river bed the old man marked out the country in chalk. This was used to frame the paintings done back at camp.

The back of the painting where he has written in Nyangumarta the fundamental statement;
This is my Country.

One of the early watercolour paintings by Peter Woodman showing the river, sand hills and a dead tree.

We ended up painting the school as well.

None of these paintings were ever traded for money. They were regarded as far too precious for that.

A detail from the big painting showing both a hunting story and a traditional story.

These paintings emerged as a result of me giving some of the older boys some materials to make images with. I was trying to get some of my own painting done and they were hanging around distracting me. My role at the time was Mr. Mum while my partner worked at the school. In the mornings two year old son Rhidian would go with mum to the school and it was then that these young men would visit to have a yarn.
I was obsessively keeping up with painting. The clarity and strength of their imagery astounded me. This relationship developed into trips to the river, that often took all day I was often saying' how much further' and they were saying 'not far'. An older man or two would come along sitting next to me while the boys sat on the roof with the guns looking out for kangaroo.
At first the content of the paintings was the story of our trips. The big painting is bisected by the track of the local rivers.

This place is Mijijimaya. In the Great Sandy Desert in North West Australia. It's name is derived from "Missus Maya" (camp) referring to a time when there was an attempt by white people to farm sheep among the sand hills and a woman was brought out to live there. They say she never came outside. The people are the traditional owners, Nyangumarta who had refused to continue working for the white man in 1946. Some background about their commitment to cultural maintenance can be found here.
The leaders were at the time locked into a battle with the WA Government that is symbolic of the ongoing oppression of Indigenous people. A Google search on Strelly Mob' will unearth more background on these people.

The journey here began travelling South over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the setting new moon caught my eye, it was at that moment that I knew the plan to go out into the desert and be with these people was the right plan. Since that moment that first sliver of the moon following the sun below the horizon has always reminded me of that journey over the bridge. All my ambitious peers with whom I competed so lustily were off to London and Paris. I was always planing to do the same; the traditional template of the budding Australian artist required as much. So to do the opposite, head in instead of out, was challenging the accepted wisdom and until the moon spoke I was fearful.

Feeding the Kites at dawn. Darwin 1998. Ceramic plate and Oil on board. 1.5x.5 M

This is a true story.

At first I just noticed the Kites. She emerged carrying a red bowl in a shapeless nightshirt with a cigarette smouldering in the first of the light, the Kites had already gathered along the power lines and rooftops. Squinting in the new sun she cast meat into the air. Some were caught on the wing others subject to savage competition as the meat was plucked from the road.

Dawn is my time too, I was already holding a paintbrush taking advantage of the very early calm to to some painting, she and the Kites became my models.

One morning, seeing the bird silhouettes against the fading stars, I grew impatient to begin and threw some lamb chops out onto the road. The Kites ignored them. At the usual moment she brought the bowl out. When the feeding had ended and the birds dispersed into the new day she picked up all my lamb chops and with a hostile glance at me returned inside. After feeding the kites the next morning she came and asked me what I was doing.

I explained about the images I sought to capture of the kites as the swooped down to catch the food she provided, I showed her the pictures. I asked her about feeding the birds.

" Every morning for seventeen years I've been doing this. And before that down in Katherine when the children were born. Every morning I've been feeding the kites. They only eat boiled chicken wings. Don't you go throwing rubbish to them, people might think it was me and start complaining again. Once I counted 67 kites."

One day she was late. The birds watched. An old man brought the red bowl out. I went and asked.

" Shes' dead. I am only going to feed them whats in the fridge. All these years buying chicken wings, the money she spent. That's it. Don't' go spending all you time worrying about what has passed. You cant' change it so you have got to forget about it. It's no use thinking all the time about your mistakes. Just forget about it."

For a while the birds gathered and watched. I cant' forget that backward squint into to morning sun before she returned inside. Looking up into the great chamber of the sky.

The Neck. Bruny Island Tasmania early 1991. Oil.

The wave. Hobart early 1991. Tryptich 1.2 M square oil on canvas

The Departure. Hobart 1991

Jacqui Stockdale helped with the hand. The bird is a fluttering sheerwater. Only seen at sea


The anchor is an eye surveying the offerings spread across the wharf. The fish are swimming deep below.

Painted in a 3rd floor studio in in Liverpool Street Hobart.

shell series 1988

I did 12 of these metre square paintings. The actual shell had come up in the net on a trawler I was working on. Each painting seemed to develop it's own mood. I imagined that there was water in the hills.