My father and I sat in the dry river bed of the Finke River painting Mt Hermannsburg which towered above the river gums and spinifex.
Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds. Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’Read more "SALA Special"
Still, nothing like a thorough study of my muse which I have also now painted in miniature on Huon Pine and on canvas in acrylic—each time different.Read more "Story Behind the Painting: Sala Special"
No. 2 Son bolted. Now that we were at Ormiston, he wanted to see what it was about the place that Grandpa found so attractive.Read more "T-Team Next Generation 2013: Ormiston"
The car neared, and we lifted our right hands up and down. The Indigenous owners of the sedan did the same. Dad tracked the car as it passed us. Then he looked back.
‘Felix! (not his real name),’ Dad said. ‘It’s Felix, I would recognize him anywhere.’ He stopped the Rover in the middle of the road.
Dad pointed at the expanse of red sand dotted with spinifex. ‘This land belongs to the Pitjantjatjara people.’
I sat in the front seat while he negotiated the corrugations, bumps and lumps of the poor excuse of a graded road. Abandoned cars, just shells really, languished in the scrub each side of the road. He waved at the wrecks that were planted in crimson fields of wild hops. ‘They run their cars to the ground. Anyway, normally you need a special permit to go onto their land.’
Mr. B had a sour expression on his face as he sipped his porridge. He finished a mouthful and then remarked, ‘I dare say, ol’ chap, what’s all this running around?’
‘I want us to get to Ernabella today,’ Dad said.
‘Can’t we just take it easy? I’m still adjusting to the inferior sleeping arrangements.’ Mr. B massaged his back as if emphasising the pains that he endured.