Visit to the Art Centre
The room full of creations – dream time – the life saving explosions of each artist – man, woman, child – and there were men, black-skinned, white haired, slow, benevolent, moving slowly in this grey concrete floored room. The walls were line with soul journeys – explosions into colurs – magenta, blue, green of trees, ochre brown land picked, pocked and personned with vulva^shaped water-holds meeting piints, circles, dots black by blue green purple and overpainted with the gods of the dreamtime – the rainbow serpent, the barramundi, the praying swaying browngreen dried grass, the witchety grubs in ochre spokes radiating from the turquoise heart.
The quietly moving silky eased presence of the old man sitting at the table- firm in place, no sense of urge or walling, simply doing the task of painting into being the colours shapes and spirit of country.
I feel first staggered and then blown off centre by the power ofthis whirlpool spiral of creation. I hold the painted stick in front of me, pointing it down, to ground my spirit, using it as a lightning rod.