All is not Lost
2005
Oil on Linen
60" x 36"
SOLD
Recently I was camping with friends in a relatively remote area in South West Queensland, Australia.
Late afternoon had fallen and the sun had sunk below the tree line leaving us to frolic in the purple light of dusk, alone, safe and surrounded by trees. I noted that the trees looked like very tall pale beings receding into and yet illuminating the night.
I tried to listen to the night, but instead of hearing it, I felt myself being watched. I felt it (the bush) listening. The ghostly silver bark of the trees, the last wash of color fading from the dusty green of the leaves, the cool air, the snap of small branches underfoot, all grass, saplings, shrubs and animals listened gently to us.
I felt self-conscious for all of us, for in me there are the traces of my ancestors, I am part of the European history that met Native history and ploughed right over it.
In those moments of historical awareness and guilty feelings I realized that our dark and mysterious history claims many players, has many scenes, is complex, perplexing and has no ending. Dark events, a silent witness and the passage of time.
I am fascinated by the darker side of recent Australian history particularly certain iconographical 'events' (be they myth or fact) that helped to shape my understanding of the natural world and my place within it. It’s not so much the events themselves but the fact that they took place in the bush – by accident or design?
It comes as no surprise that criminals use the cover of darkness and tree density to conceal certain horrific acts. But it is interesting to note that despite human involvement the bush appears to conceal certain clues and objects -a shred of cloth, a strand of hair, a partly buried human femur bone -fragments of lives extinguished. The bush keeps these objects, fondles them, hides them and sometimes gives them back. It is the passage and hand of time that returns these objects, perhaps? And in doing so delivers to us the possibility of discovering, dark and secret histories.
And yet there is one common element present in all of these secret histories. It is the long and spindly arm reaching into the crime scene photograph in the background. It is the rotting ground cover and peat moss that conceals a body. It is the dust on the boots of some man. It is footprints, fossils, and ancient bones. It is the disappearing bush walking trails. It is the air, the ocean and it is the land. And all of it is deeply personal, beautiful and weirdly melancholic.
Recently I was camping with friends in a relatively remote area in South West Queensland, Australia.
Late afternoon had fallen and the sun had sunk below the tree line leaving us to frolic in the purple light of dusk, alone, safe and surrounded by trees. I noted that the trees looked like very tall pale beings receding into and yet illuminating the night.
I tried to listen to the night, but instead of hearing it, I felt myself being watched. I felt it (the bush) listening. The ghostly silver bark of the trees, the last wash of color fading from the dusty green of the leaves, the cool air, the snap of small branches underfoot, all grass, saplings, shrubs and animals listened gently to us.
I felt self-conscious for all of us, for in me there are the traces of my ancestors, I am part of the European history that met Native history and ploughed right over it.
In those moments of historical awareness and guilty feelings I realized that our dark and mysterious history claims many players, has many scenes, is complex, perplexing and has no ending. Dark events, a silent witness and the passage of time.
I am fascinated by the darker side of recent Australian history particularly certain iconographical 'events' (be they myth or fact) that helped to shape my understanding of the natural world and my place within it. It’s not so much the events themselves but the fact that they took place in the bush – by accident or design?
It comes as no surprise that criminals use the cover of darkness and tree density to conceal certain horrific acts. But it is interesting to note that despite human involvement the bush appears to conceal certain clues and objects -a shred of cloth, a strand of hair, a partly buried human femur bone -fragments of lives extinguished. The bush keeps these objects, fondles them, hides them and sometimes gives them back. It is the passage and hand of time that returns these objects, perhaps? And in doing so delivers to us the possibility of discovering, dark and secret histories.
And yet there is one common element present in all of these secret histories. It is the long and spindly arm reaching into the crime scene photograph in the background. It is the rotting ground cover and peat moss that conceals a body. It is the dust on the boots of some man. It is footprints, fossils, and ancient bones. It is the disappearing bush walking trails. It is the air, the ocean and it is the land. And all of it is deeply personal, beautiful and weirdly melancholic.
