The story of seven tenths

‘Love in the Anthropocene, II’ (subtitled – this is not an oil painting)

Acrylic paint on linen

170 x 170 cm

2018

This work is a scale representation of the nest of a White-bellied Sea Eagle. It is an intimate view, looking directly into the nest from above. Spilling over the edges of the canvas, it is accurate in construction and form. If anything, it is modest in size, as these nests may be used over many successive years and grow to several metres in dimension. It has been done in consultation with Simon Cherriman, an ornithologist specialising in Australian raptors, who has generously shared his expert knowledge and images as reference material. These nests are typically built in tall, dead trees or high on rocky outcrops. Branches are snapped off in flight for the construction. Fish frames and the remains of other food items such as crustaceans will often be found within the margins of the nest. Sea Eagles, like other Australian raptors, use eucalyptus leaves as a lining to keep nests free of mites.

The piece contains over one hundred fragments of human artefacts cast from acrylic paint, in a technique I have developed over the past six years. Amongst these artefacts are ropes, single use plastics such as straws, balloons, lighters, bottle caps, and packaging. All of these have been collected by me from Australian beaches, many from Bruny Island. In addition to these fragments are drone components and rotor blades. The incidences of clashes between birds and drones are increasing as both professional and recreational drone use grows. Many of the plastics found in the nest will be collected incidentally as nesting materials, but others will be present as a byproduct of ingestion occurring throughout the food chain and terminating in the diet of an apex predator.

The work explores the theme of adaptation through the motif of a nest, specifically of one of Bruny Islands’ vulnerable species. Despite changes wrought by human activity and challenges presented by a changing environment, nesting – and the raising of offspring – remain a constant. It is a celebration of this imperative and the ingenuity required to realise it, whilst acknowledging the impact the Anthropocene age has, and continues to exert, on this endeavour.

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I was recently asked by Dylan Jones, a fellow artist, why I paint rope. It’s a very good question, (and one to which I didn’t entirely have a ready answer) so I gave it consideration.
Ropes and bindings have been with us since prehistory. The ice man carried twisted hide strips, and string held his backpack together. The first ‘modern’ ropes appeared about 4000BC, made by the Egyptians. The materials of their manufacture have charted our own progress, from gathered reeds to cultivated hemp, and now to polypropylene in the Anthropocene.

On a personal note, I spent my formative years on a cargo ship (until school became a pressing issue at age six), and frequently spent school holidays at sea with my father after that. The release of the last hawser was the final part of the ritual of seeing my father off to sea, often for six months or more.

I have a maritime qualification myself, and have worked as skipper of a dive boat. I grew up knowing the uses and importance of rope, it is such a ubiquitous item aboard a vessel. I was drilled in knot tying and usage from an early age too, so it is something that has always been a part of my life. As a diver, it is not benign – rope underwater is a thing to avoid. It saves lives, and it also takes them.
Following a career as a designer and illustrator, the first large scale painting I did  (in 1995) has a coil of rope on the deck. I found it challenging then, and it is a challenge that I’ve enjoyed ever since. It has become a motif that has run through almost all of my work.
It forms such a useful compositional element. In marine art it communicates much about atmospheric conditions, and understanding the principle of a catenary is vital in depicting it.
Outside of that genre, it conveys direction, tension, can bind or support. Knots possess an entire lexicon of symbolism on their own.
The rogues yarn is the coloured strand laid up in ropes. Originally used to mark naval rope, it was a deterrent to theft. Rope of naval manufacture was generally considered to be superior, thus making it a desirable object to smuggle from dockyards and sell to merchant ships. Latterly it has been used to identify the type of rope, and its place of manufacture. The colour, and number of strands laid up in a rope will also identify its country of origin. Depending on a rope’s manufacture and use, it can hang loosely, or have a very firm structure. By putting a turn in it, it can be made to support relatively weighty objects, something I have made use of in the most recent series. Foreshortened rope is another fascinating challenge, as all the elements have form, as well as the whole.
I have used it as symbolic of a timeline, and as a means of conveying measurements and quantity through the nautical convention of using a line knotted at regular intervals to determine speed (a log-line) which was tied to a log dropped over a ship’s stern.
It has become a piece of personal symbolism, and provides an ongoing challenge that I never tire of. One day I might measure the number of metres I’ve painted. As a piece of trivia, it usually advances at a rate of 20cm an hour.

I’m thrilled to announce that I had a wonderful call from New York this morning to say that my application for a residency with Golden Foundation next year has been successful. This represents an amazing opportunity to work in the Golden Paints facility and learn so much. I am so excited!

Over the past year I have been trawling the coastline of Australia for all the things that wash up… both man-made and natural.

I have accumulated a mass of objects that I have stored outside the studio, sorted and labeled according to the area that they were collected.

These have been cast, and form the basis of the new works. Pretty happy so far!

I have a number of pieces on exhibition in the Blue Room in Paddington for September and October.

Drop in and have a look if you’re in the area.

From another Great Bower painting destined for Melbourne, a brightly coloured collection of objects found in a  bower at Alligator creek, south of Townsville. This enterprising bird had been thieving objects daily from the dressing table of a little girl, accumulating a very respectable haul.

I love the way these bowers represent such a microcosm of the area they’re constructed in. I’m managing to get quite a bit of relief on these, which has been interesting to incorporate into the final work.

I really love the pencil.