Yolngu Songmen: Rorruwuy Manikay

Last week I shared a couple of clips of Yolngu rock ‘n’ roll from the Seven Star Band, a bunch of rowdy young rockers (and I say that with love in my heart).

This week, I want to turn to a production from the Mulka Project, a hauntingly beautiful, both visually and aurally, recording of Rorruwuy manikay.

Rorruwuy lies just west of the mouth of the Burungbirinung River on Arnhem Bay.  The song men here are Manydjarri and Ngongu Ganambarr, and the yidaki is played by Marrawulwul Garmu.

A CD recording of these songs is available from the Mulka Project.

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Yolngu Songmen: Seven Star Band

Each year at Christmastime I try to kick back a little and instead of putting together an essay, I try to offer a little lighter entertainment: photographs, or short reading lists, or something similar.  This year, it’s time for some music videos, and I’ll kick off a pair of posts today with a couple of clips from Yirrkala’s Seven Star Band.

The first is a highly polished music video, and I’ve cribbed this text from its appearance on Vimeo:

“Baru” means crocodile in Yolngu Mata, the language spoken in the Seven Star band’s hometown of Yirrkala, in NE Arhemland, Australia.

Crocodiles are important to each of the band members, in more ways than one. Baru are strong symbols representing the central way in which each Yolngu clan is connected together in an age-old system. The image-rich lyrics of this song reflect this connection, with words talking about the responsibilities of the band’s generation.

One of the central messages in the song is how the band’s generation are next in line to follow in the old people’s footsteps, and keep the culture alive and strong.

In August last year, the Seven Star Band won the School Band Award in the Indigenous Music Awards. 105.7 ABC Darwin supported the School Band Award prize, and the ABC worked with the band to produce a clip of their winning song, ‘Baru’.

ABC Open producer Will Tinapple and NT State Director Mark Bowling travelled to Yirrkala in November for a three-day video-making workshop.

Despite two days of torrential downpours, the team worked hard to pull off some great shots and locations.
It was a big few days planning and shooting for the musicians who put in extra hours to finish year-end schoolwork. They braved the unseasonal downpours, layered on traditional white clay paint, Gappan, and got out on location to shoot multiple takes at different spots in the community.

As well as its cultural significance, Yirrkala has massive musical heritage producing the likes of Yothu Yindi and Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunipingu.

A couple of the members of the Seven Star Band have family members who played in and toured with Yothu Yindi.

Seven Star Band guitarist said, “This video gives me a chance to be a role model and share culture to other members of my generation.”

The second clip is rougher in its sound production values, as it was recorded live at a Battle of the Bands, but it gives a good sense of what the boys sound like live, which is kind of a cross between Yothu Yindi and Iwantja.  Good stuff.

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Papunya Tula Trifecta

Each November, Papunya Tula Artists hosts their annual in-house blockbuster exhibition in the Todd Mall gallery, and this year, while no exception, was truly exceptional.  Not one, but three shows were mounted: a general selection of recent works from the cooperative’s artists; a benefit for the Western Desert Nganampa Walytja Palyantjaku Tjurtaku Aboriginal Corporation to assist in establishing a dialysis service in Kiwirrkura; and a solo exhibition of recent work by Johnny Yungut Tjupurrula.


My faithful friend and correspondent Glenn Manser was in Alice and sent along some lovely shots of the installation that I can share with you today.  There are also PDF versions of the catalogs for the dialysis benefit works and Tjupurrula’s solo to be found on the Papunya Tula website.  I’ll begin with the front gallery and a few of the recent works by the company.

A selection of recent paintings by Katjarra Butler

A selection of recent paintings by Katjarra Butler

Bobby West Tjupurrula, Kawayi Namiptjinpa, Yinarupa Nangala

Bobby West Tjupurrula, Kawayi Namiptjinpa, Yinarupa Nangala


Yukultji Napangati's golden glow

Yukultji Napangati’s golden glow



Top row, unidentified, Yukultji, Willy Tjungurrayi
Bottom row, Warlimpirringa, Yinarupa, Kawayi

Bobby West Tjupurrula Can he get any better?

Bobby West Tjupurrula
Can he get any better?

A selection of 61x55 cm jewels

A selection of 61×55 cm jewels

In the second gallery, the dialysis project paintings included works by four major artists of long-standing accomplishments.  This may be the final time that works by N. Napurrula grace the gallery’s walls, and there’s no getting around the sadness in that fact. Carrying on the tradition though is her son, Morris GIbson Tjapaltjarri, and another tjilpi, his friends and painting companion at Kintore, Hilary Tjapaltjarri.  The fourth contributor to this part of the exhibition is Patrick Tjungurrayi, who will be able to return to Kiwirrkura if the company is successful in funding dialysis treatment in WA.

Hilary Tjapaltjari

Hilary Tjapaltjarri

Works by Napurrula, left, and son Morris Gibson, right, flank a large canvas by Patrick Tjungurrayi

Works by Napurrula, left, and son Morris Gibson, right, flank a large canvas by Patrick Tjungurrayi

And in the back gallery, Tjupurrulaku: Paintings by Johnny Yungut Tjupurrula.  This old man goes from strength to strength, his compositions still powerfully torqued, his colors more molten than ever.








If y ou look closely at these photographs, you’ll see a lot of red dots on the wall labels.  But a few works from each category are still available, and are available for review from the Collectables section of the PTA website.  Congratulations to the company on another great close to the year!

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Remarkable People

They say that all good things must come to an end.  That doesn’t make me any happier when they do.

Truth, it’s not so much endings as changes in the air, but they are momentous changes.  Dallas Gold is ceasing to operate Raft Artspace as we have known it, though he will keep his hand in with special activities and still be around for Desert Mob.  And Edwina Circuitt is hanging up her halo and heading out from Warakurna.  In some important ways, these two individuals have defined my experience with the Aboriginal art market in this new century of ours.

I can’t remember how we came to know about Raft Artspace but records show me that we bought a pair of works from Ngukurr artists Faith Thompson and Joyce Huddlestone from him sometime in 2001.  I do remember receiving email from him in mid-September of that year, when, in the wake of the destruction of the World Trade Center, he wrote to ask if we had any means of making contact with people in New York City.  He had an artist friend working on a show there at the time, and news was scant.  I remember we tried unsuccessfully to make contact; I know, too that all was well in the end.

remarkable-dallasWe first met Dallas at the end of that year, as he was just moving into his upstairs gallery space in Parap.  The gallery hadn’t opened yet; it was the Christmas season of closures and Darwin was miserably, paralyzingly hot.  But since we were only in town for a few days, and Dallas was busy organizing his stock, he agreed to meet us.  The gallery walls were stacked with works from  Balgo and Warmun and Ikuntji.  At that point our horizons were just beginning to expand beyond the desert acrylics of Papunya Tula and Warlukurlangu; we were beginning to realize there was more to life than dot paintings.  The Ngukurr work earlier in the year had been significant in that regard, and the experience of standing in the midst of Dallas’s eclectic vision was a huge step forward in my appreciation of the varieties of Aboriginal art.

It was an experience that would often be repeated.   For throughout the next dozen years, Dallas was to introduce us, consistently, to artists we had never heard of before, artists whom we might never have considered seriously were it not for our trust in his judgement.  We’d drop in to the gallery and there would be yet another killer show from Maningrida or Yirrkala on, and by that time Dallas had done much to further our education in those areas.  Knowing that he’d already introduced us to the power of Jimmy Njiminjuma, Wukun Wanambi, and Djirrirra Wunungmurra, he’d say, “Well, I don’t have much to show you.”  And then he’d go into the back and come out with a small work on board by Mick Jawalji and say, “Here’s a new guy you might be interested in.”

Nor was his instruction limited to Aboriginal art.  I came to know and admire the work of Ildiko Kovacs and Peter Adsett thanks to Dallas.  And the tiny balcony in the Parap space that overlooked the gum trees in the parking lot was the closest thing to a nineteenth-century French salon that I’ve ever experienced anywhere.  There was no telling who might be out there with a coffee, but I remember vividly hanging out with Will Stubbs, Djambawa Marawili, Howard Morphy, Nicolas Rothwell, Colin and Liz Laverty, and David Angel at different times.  For an American whose participation in the Australian art world took place mainly on the internet, I found going to Raft Artspace to be a bit like  stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia.

We’ve only been to visit Dallas once since he moved the Gallery to Alice Springs, but the experience of discovery remained undimmed.  He was hanging a show from Ernabella and Iwantja and two stunning large paintings faced one another from the ends of a room in the gallery, and when I asked who the artists were, I felt no wiser, for their names were unknown to me.  But a couple of days later, in Darwin for the NATSIAA, there was Pepai Jangala Carroll onstage accepting the award for Dickie Minytjiri.  And no, I wasn’t surprised.

Nor am I surprised to discover, looking back over this past year, that what was, for me, the most exciting gallery show of 2013 was Desert Boards, which brought Dallas together with, among others, Edwina Circuitt.

remarkable-edwinaI’ve known Edwina only about half as long as I’ve known Dallas.  We first met when she picked up my American Austrade expedition group from the airport at Warakurna and loaded us all into the Warakurna Artists troopie for a drive down the corrugated road, past the Giles Weather Station, and on to the great big yellow shed that housed the art centre.  It was May 2007 and our second full day on the fourteen day tour.  We’d spent the morning in Warburton being treated to a look through their amazing archives and my mind was already reeling from the strangeness of the whole experience.  And now Edwina was introducing me to Peter Lewis, who had a photograph album full of pictures of Warakurna in the 1950s that he wanted to share with us!

In thinking back on the afternoon and evening we spent in Warakurna, I remember being struck by two things about Edwina: she was unflaggingly earnest and infused with joy at what she was doing.  I remember that pair of qualities helped keep me a bit off balance.  I might have expected one, or the other, but not both qualities co-existing so harmoniously in one soul.  One thing was certain: they both manifested themselves in enormous energy.  In a matters of hours I heard about her trip to Perth to swear out a restraining order against a carpetbagger who was trying to disrupt the community and another journey, not quite as long, to take her beloved dog to see a vet.  And her outrage when someone suggested that a medicinal bullet might be equally effective.

That night we had accommodations at the famous Warakurna Roadhouse.  We sat around the cook shed watching question time in Parliament (another mind-boggling experience for someone whose experience of watching the government on television was CSPAN capturing an empty congressional chamber in Washington DC) until Edwina showed up with dinner.  Then we all repaired to the fire that had been built outside; Mrs Porter came along for the evening and told us about making bush medicines.  Finally, we were too sleepy to stand any longer and retired to our rooms for the night.  Edwina was back before daybreak to make sure we all got loaded safely into the troopie again for our flight to Kintore.

Edwina is not one to brag about her accomplishments, and she’s certainly an organizer who brings together the strengths of many people for the common good of all.  So it’s hard for me, an outsider, to understand exactly what role she played in creating the Western Desert Mob, the alliance of art centres from the A/NPY lands. I do think of it as the first manifestation of  a whole new school of desert painting that everyone today agrees revolutionized the art of the deserts.  It brought color to the forefront of contemporary Indigenous art in a way that even the startling innovations at Yuendumu almost twenty years earlier didn’t quite achieve.  It’s hard to say exactly what role Edwina played in documenting that revolution in last year’s exhibition Purnu, Tjanpi, Canvas: Art of the Ngaanyatjarra Lands and the publication that followed, Ngaanyatjarra: Art from the Lands.  

It’s hard to say how the careers of Mr. Lewis and Mr Mitchell, of Carol Golding and Myra Cook might have prospered without Edwina’s guiding hand.  Would the astonishing history paintings that first appeared in Warakurna: All the Stories Got into our Minds and Eyes have come to pass?  Would this year’s amazing light boxes that debuted at Desert Mob been the logical outgrowth of those history paintings?  All I can say for certain is that all of these remarkable achievements, indeed, almost the entire history of Warakurna Artists, have taken place since Edwina arrived at the art centre almost a decade ago.

And now its time for new chapters.  Although Dallas is ending the formal exhibition program at Raft Artspace, he had plans to remain active with special exhibitions and events at the gallery space, and will continue to be a presence at Desert Mob in the future while (quite literally) tending his garden in Alice.  Edwina will be on board at Warakurna Artists for a few months into 2014 and plans beyond that…well, who can say?

What I can say is that Dallas and Edwina have vastly enriched my appreciation of the art they have worked with and that these very personal reflections don’t do justice to the accomplishments of either of them.  I wish them both the best in whatever paths they choose to follow next, and hope that I have not seen the last of either.  In the meantime, my sincerest thanks to both.

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Big Name No Blanket

big-name-dvdAt the end of May 2007, I found myself in Alice Springs for a couple of days as part of a tour of Aboriginal communities and art centres sponsored by Austrade.  We had an afternoon free and so I made arrangements to catch up with Daphne Williams, the longtime heart, soul, and backbone of Papunya Tula Artists.  There’s always plenty of news to share, but I wasn’t expecting or prepared for one story Daphne had for me.

She asked if I’d heard the news about George Rrurrambu.  Bone cancer; he doesn’t have long.  “I was always fond of him,” Daphne said, “even if he was a real hellraiser when he was young.”  I was shocked by the news, and almost equally surprised at the thought of Daphne and George being friends, for on the surface of things, you could hardly imagine two more dissimilar personalities.  But now, looking back with a few years’ perspective, I  find it easy to believe that two people with such large, warm hearts would be fond of one another.

These thoughts came back to me last night while I was watching Big Name, No Blanket (Night Sky Films, 2013, directed by Steven McGregor), the new documentary about the late lead singer for the Warumpi Band, .

big-name-grThe film is in many ways a standard biopic.  There are lots of interviews with people who knew the singer well throughout his life, including his wife Suzina, his children, bandmates Neil Murray and Sammy Butcher, other musicians like Lou Bennett and Shane Howard, and desert filmmakers Rachel Perkins and Warwick Thornton.  There are clips from a couple of the Warumpi Band’s music videos (the ground-breaking first-song-in-language “Jailanguru Pakarnu” and the perennially popular “My Island Home“) and from the film of their 1986 Black Fella While Fella tour with Midnight Oil.  And there are many other, all too brief scenes from concert dates around Australia, from early days in Papunya through their hell-raising farewell performance at Stompen Ground in Broome in 2000.

In this respect the film enlarges upon the earlier ABC documentary about the band, The End of the Corrugated Road.  (The new film clocks in at just under an hour, twice the running time of the earlier feature.)  Any film project about the Warumpis is going to find its focus in the outsized personality of the band’s frontman, but much of the story here is told by those who knew him, even more so than through the interview clips with—as Neil Murray refers to him—G.R. himself.  As a result, Big Name No Blanket isn’t simply a biopic of one man.  Rather, G.R. comes to embody—much as he did back in the day—what the entire band and its story meant and continues to mean to their legions of fans, blackfella and whitefella alike.

The band is a legend; there’s no disputing that.  The first rock ‘n’ roll single to be sung in an Indigenous language; the band whose tutelage brought Midnight Oil to the creative peak of their own career with Diesel and Dust, the Oils’ album that grew out of the joint tour; the performance of “My Island Home” by Christine Anu at the closing ceremonies of the Sydney Olympics in 2000; the song “Blackfella/Whitefella” itself the anthem of reconciliation: all these are indelible markers in the renaissance of Indigenous culture in Australia in the final decades of the twentieth century.  One of the great strengths of Big Name No Blanket is the way in which it revivifies the legend and sends back into your heart the jolt of excitement all those events generated .

Because I have to admit, over the years, I’ve become a bit jaded, begun to take the Warumpis, and even G.R. himself, a bit for granted.  I groan whenever a film or a television show, needing to dramatize a feelgood moment, decides to splice in a troopie full of characters singing along with “Blackfella/Whitefella” on the radio.  Or when “My Island Home” gets pressed into similar service as a land rights lullaby.  There are times when it’s all a bit cringe-inducing, like the millionth time an elevator door closes and you find yourself listening to the strains of the Beatles’ “Yesterday” or worse, “Michelle”.

Big Name No Blanket manages to scrub away a lot of that accumulated overdose and reveal just how buzzworthy the Warumpis were thirty years ago, and  better, makes you realize how thrilling they still are.  The concert footage certainly helps: the blistering version of “Kintorelakutu” (my personal, all-time, best-of, favorite Warumpi song) filmed on an early tour of the Kimberley, or the crunching chords of “From the Bush” and “Warumpinya” that make you realize how much the band owes to AC/DC as well as to Chuck Berry.  But some of the most powerful moments in the film are in fact, much to my surprise, centered on the stories of “My Island Home.”

big-name-nullarborI bought the Warumpis’ first two albums many years ago in a record store tucked into a major shopping mall in the Brisbane CBD.  At the time I didn’t know a lot about the Band itself apart from the fact that they’d been on a bush tour with Midnight Oil.  I’d found the first album, Big Name, No Blankets, in a bin and taken it up to the counter, where the clerk asked, “Don’t you want their other album?  The one with “My Island Home”?  I just love that song.”  (In fact, I did want Go Bush! as well, but couldn’t find it; their only remaining copy was behind the counter for playing in the store, and they were kind enough to sell it to me.)  For lots of people, it seemed, the Warumpi Band began and ended with “My Island Home.”

The song has a vexed history, as many legends do.  It was a huge commercial hit for Christine Anu, not for the Band, ten years after they broke it on the radio.  And it was Christine Anu who got to perform at the Olympics.  Neil Murray movingly relates how hurt G.R. was by that incident, how G.R. believed he should have been the one making that eloquent statement of land rights at that crucial moment when Australia had the international stage.

Sadly, there’s no mention in the film of the other performance at those closing ceremonies that directly addressed the issues of land rights and reconciliation.  It was given to Midnight Oil to take that message to the world with their performance of “Beds Are Burning” in their black trackies emblazoned with the word SORRY.  Although their performance and its strident rebuke of John Howard was an absolutely thrilling moment, there is a cruel irony in the fact that the band that embodied reconciliation, that galvanized audiences, that demanded that everyone “stand up, stand up and be counted” was nowhere to be seen or heard that night.

Murray also talks about the other long-standing, problematic legend relating to “My Island Home,” the question of its authorship.  Murray states that he wrote the song for G.R., and indeed it tells the story of the saltwater man marooned in the desert, far from his country (much as Murray himself was far from his Victorian roots).  Over time, G.R. came to regard the song as his own.  As Murray says, in G.R.’s mind, the song belonged to the singer and not to the author.  It’s clear that the confusion, the accusations that Murray somehow co-opted G.R.’s ownership, have hurt Murray over the years; it’s equally clear that he remains steadfast in his own beliefs about copyright and intellectual property while recognizing that G.R. saw things very differently.  This vignette does a lot to demonstrate how the respective cultures of blackfellas and whitefellas operated in the band, how the visions worked together and sometimes at odds with one another.

The films tackles a lot of the tensions that defined the Warumpis’ history: Neil’s desire to build a big, professional career, the Butchers’ will and obligations to stay close to Papunya that frustrated Murray, and above all, G.R.’s hell raising antics that cost the band business and clearly raised Murray’s blood pressure.  It doesn’t simplify the stresses.  It takes a chestnut of “reconciliation” and burnishes it to reveal the complications, the give and take, and the pain that surrounds the issues.  In doing so, it somehow re-animates not just “My Island Home” and “Blackfella/Whitefella,” but the whole legend, the thrills and the stumbles of what the Warumpis represented in those exciting days when the band was creating a new consciousness.

And finally, there is G.R.’s exquisite ultimate rendition of “My Island Home” with the Black Arm Band, only months before his death.  If you haven’t seen the performance, I’m not going to spoil it for you by describing it in detail.  But it is a moment that shows how much the song ultimately came to belong to the singer, not the least for it’s being sung in yolngu matha.   It’s much like the version that can be heard on G.R.’s single solo recording, Nerbu (Message), from 2004, and it’s the version that I saw a different incarnation of the Black Arm Band perform earlier this year here in America.


There’s a scene in Big Name No Blanket in which the Warumpis are shown performing “Blackfella/Whitefella” at Stompen Ground, the concluding bit where the music drops out and G.R. exhorts the audience to sing, unaccompanied, “stand up, stand up and be counted.”  Then he exhorts them to jump while they sing.  The entire hall is buzzed, arms stretched high above their heads in imitation of G.R.’s energy, bouncing up and down, singing along with all their might.  It’s one of those moments of utter abandon and exhilaration.  G.R.’s  final performance on “My Island Home” with the Black Arm Band back in 2006 was another, and it reminded me how here in America, where probably fewer than a dozen people in the audience that night last February knew the Warumpis, Emma Donovan and the Black Arm Band managed to get the entire auditorium to join them in singing out over and over again, “my island home is a-waiting for me.”

Such is the power of the Warumpi Band; such is the charisma of George Rrurrambu Burarrwanga.  If you’re new to the Band’s magic, Big Name No Blanket will act as a superb introduction to the legend, and there’s just enough of the music there to get you hooked.  If like me, you’ve basked in the glow of the Warumpis for a long, long time, the film will regenerate the rush that came with discovering them for the first time.  In either case, you’ll come away with a nuanced appreciation of their history, their struggles, their achievements.  G.R. is often compared to Mick Jagger or to James Brown for his sheer energy and presence onstage.  But for me, the Warumpi Band is better perceived in light of Elvis Presley or the Beatles.  Not because there’s necessarily a strong musical kinship,   but because after Presely and the Beatles, nothing was ever the same again.  And that is true of the Warumpi Band as well.  Big Name No Blanket is an exquisite reminder of that fact, and a renewal of my faith in the meaning of rock ‘n’ roll.

Here’s the trailer for Big Name No Blanket; there’s another video on YouTube in which director Steven McGregor and co-producers Lisa Watts and Rachel Clements discuss the background and making of the film.  (Photos here are from the BNNB FB pages.)

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Vivid Histories, Living Memories

aquitaine-catalogThe latest in a stunning series of international exhibitions of Indigenous Australia art opened on Octover 16, 2013 at the Musée d’Acquitaine in the French city of Bordeaux.  It is called Mémoires Vives: une histoire de l’art aborigène.  In the catalog, this title is translated as Vivid Memories: a history of Aboriginal art.  In my high school French, I would have read it as “living memories,” which just demonstrates how inadequate much translation is, for both senses, vivid and living, inhere in the French original.  And both are important to the purpose I perceive in the show’s presentation.  This will be another exhibition that I’m unable to see in person, but I’ve gleaned a sense of it from the lovely installation shots that Bertrand Estrangin has provided in his post at Sur les pas d’une collection, the premier French blog on indigenous arts.

It certainly was a thrilling experience to turn back the cover of the catalog (Êditions de la Martinière, 2013) and browse through the first fifty pages; I suspect this would be true even if you don’t read French.  (But never fear, the numerous catalog essays are all presented in English translations, or in many cases, the English originals, in the volume’s final pages.)  For in these opening pages the editors attempt to produce the sensation of vivid (living, colorful) histories in a juxtaposition of past and present that evokes Stanner’s everywhen to startling effect.

The cover and the initial photographic spread reproduce Baldin Spender’s 1894 photograph of Kata Tjuta, overlaid by a graphic representation of concentric circles that look more like a Pop-Art target than a Papunya icon.  More of Spencer and Gillen’s photographs follow: Simpson’s Gap, Uluru, with more concentric circles and truncated triangles reminiscent of Wiradjuri dendroglyphs.  Turn another page and you are confronted with the enormous wooden trumpet of Brook Andrew’s installation piece 52 Portraits, a construction that combines the circular and diamond motifs into a single shape and leaps more than 100 years from Spencer’s Outback to modern Melbourne.

aquitaine-tony-albertA few pages on there is another installation shot, of Richard Long’s glowing mud circle splayed above the Walrpiri men’s sand painting that dominated a room in the 1989 Paris exposition Magiciens de la terre.  Coiley Campbell’s Tjintjurra (2004), equally glowing with  red and yellow meanders and circles is set beside a  spear thrower engraved with rough, vibrant Tingarri designs collected from the central desert in 1957 by Donald Thomson.  A few pages further on Baldwin Spencer’s photographic portrait of the Arrernte man Twairira, his chest covered with ritual cicatrices stares out at us in company with a print from Tony Albert’s recent series Brothers (Our Past, Our Present, Our Future) in which a young Aboriginal man, his chest painted with a red target of concentric circles, his gaze confronting us mutely but expressively.  What astonishes is not the conceit itself, but audacity of its success and the complexity of emotions it evokes: survival yoked to defiance, the ancien to the moderne, history bleeding into the present, the gaze of the other and the gaze of the brother.

These are the themes that are evoked in the essays that open the volume.  Arnaud Morvan, who has been a consultant to the Musée des Confluences in Lyon,  surveys the idea first in his introductory “Mémoires vives: de l’ancien et du moderne, which is followed by Paul Taçon’s exploration of the traditions stemming from “Art pariétal: traditions anciennes, expressions contemporaines” or the influence of “enduring rock art.”  Philip Batty is up next with “Reflections on Émile Durkeim, Religion and Aboriginal Art,” another essay brilliantly illustrated with a two-page reproduction of Spencer and Gillen’s documentary photograph of seven men prepared for a Rain Dreaming ceremony, their bodies covered with intricate designs in ochre down, some bearing enormous painted headdresses adorned with circles and chevrons.  This portrait is followed by Shorty Lungkarta’s Children’s Water Dreaming (1972), which hints at the same ceremonial regalia.  Both of these images are modernized simultaneously in Brook Andrews’  2011 construction, Union Jack, in which a 19th century postcard is illuminated by a surround of illuminated neon tubing.  The postcard depicts another staged  tableau: eight Aboriginal men crouch for the camera, their bodies covered with vivid ceremonial designs, their heads crowned with elaborate feather headdresses. The central figure has a Union Jack blazoned on his chest amidst the traditional designs.  Behind them stands a white man in suit and tie, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like the original of one of the many rock art portraits of the early settlers who knew the trick of making their hands disappear at will.

aquitaine-garry-jonesGarry Jones provides a surprising and most welcome reflection on “Recognizing South East Australian Aboriginal Cultural Heritage.”  Jones is an artist and academic of Aboriginal and European descent who currently works at the Woolyungah Indigenous Centre at the University of Wollongong.  Jones’s sculptural renditions of traditional Indigenous weapons fashioned in polystyrene are included in the exhibition, and his essay is a moving account of the ways in which he and other artists of the south east coast are attempting to discover and revive the cultural remnants that have been left to them after centuries of colonization.  He argues that this new art is “neither ‘traditional’ nor ‘urban’ but consciously ‘intercultural’ [as] artists and their communities position themselves strategically, interpreting, re-interpeting, and innovatively responding to the circumstances that have shapes their histories and continue to shape their lives.  They transform local cultural knowledge and enable broader community to transcend the narrative of culture loss” (p. 238).

Other Indigenous contributors to the catalog include Marcia Langton, whose essay “Aboriginal Art: Sacred Past and Existing Present” chronicles the centuries of misapprehension of Aboriginal culture by successive generations of colonizers, and the artist Brook Andrew in an interview with Arnaud Morvan.  Andrew categorically rejects the anthropological intervention, disavowing knowledge of Durkheim and rejecting the colonial gaze altogether.  “To me,” he says, ” art and anthropology are terms that break culture.  They divide parts of the self and history to make them available for categorization and consumption by a ‘dominant’ worldview” (p. 246).

In addition to Morvan and Taçon, there are several other essayists with European connections.  Barbara Glowczewski, who has published extensively on her work among the Warlpiri, offers an intriguing essay titled “Empreintes” (Impressions) in which she ponders the nature of signs—not in an abstruse, theoretical fashion, but in a manner revealing of the way in which different cultures regard “traces” such as footprints, and by extension marks on bodies or on canvas.  Where we might regard a footprint as evidence that is “left behind,” for Indigneous people, such an imprint might imply the presence of an animal, or more broadly, a spirit.

The relationship is not that between an agent, the whole, and the imprint of a part of its body such as the foot.  For Aboriginal people, the symbolic relationship is more dynamic. It ties an agent—which can also be a plant such as a yam tuber, or wind or rain—and its various imprints together to allow the interpretation of its performance to be reconstituted: a trace is grasped when it forms part of those left by multiple actions that make impressions on the media …. the many can be one (pp. 247-248).

Glowczewski’s frequent collaborator, Jessica de Largy-Healy, provides a brief look at the inter-relations between Yolngu and Macassans that offers context for one of the most interesting works in the exhibition.  Johnny Bulunbulun collaborated over many years with the Chinese artist Zhou Xiaoping.  There is a striking portrait of Bulunbulun that is a mixture of conventional Western portraiture (Bulunbulun as drawn and painted by Zhou) and Indigneous self-portraiture (clan designs executed in Bulnbulun’s trademark rarrk style).  De Largy-Healy also offers an interview with Zhou that details the fascinating story of their collaborations over time.

Portrait of John Bulunbulun (detail), 2007 by John Bulnbulun and Zhou Xiaoping

Portrait of John Bulunbulun (detail), 2007 by John Bulnbulun and Zhou Xiaoping

Georges Petitjean from the Aboriginal Art Museum Utrecht provides the necessary and invaluable service of laying out the history of contemporary Aboriginal art focused on the rise of acrylic painting in the desert.  He traces the transition of the work from outposts like Papunya and Yuendumu to urban galleries, and thence across international boundaries and ultimately to Europe.  Although the French are generally no strangers to Aboriginal Australian art, this brief history lesson will give those whose prior exposure is minimal a good context for appreciating the work in Mémoires vives, and the place of this exhibition in the French program of exhibiting the art.

A European connection runs through an Australian’s essay as Ian McLean builds his study on “Intercultural Patterns in Indigenous Art” from the observations of Charles Baudelaire on the rise of modernism in Europe.  Baudelaire was, in his time, fascinated by the appearance in Europe of art from faraway lands, not just from la France outre-mer, but also from places like China and Japan.   McLean takes Baudelaire’s musings on this upsurge in cosmopolitanism as a starting point for European engagement with Aboriginal art.

Baudelaire asked what “any honest man — [would] say, if faced with a product of China — something weird, strange, distorted in form, intense in color and sometimes delicate to the point of evanescence? … In order for it to be understood it is necessary for the critic, for the spectator, to work a transformation in himself which partakes of the nature of a mystery — it is necessary for him, by means of a phenomenon of the will acting upon the imagination, to learn of himself to participate in the surroundings which have given birth to this singular flowering.  Few men have the divine grace of cosmopolitanism in its entirety: but all can acquire it in different degrees” (p. 251).

For McLean, one of the ironies that this investigation exposes is that Australia’s Indigenous people have displayed a far greater degree of cosmopolitanism in their appreciation of Western aesthetics and commerce than their supposedly more worldly colonizers have.  From this starting point, McLean goes on to investigate the development of cross-cultural practice, which he defines as those that result from two cultures coming into contact with one another and in so doing enriching and strengthening existing traditions.  Drawing on the work of Thomas Spear, who examined encounters between the British and the indigenous cultures of East Africa, he argues that “‘neo-traditionalism’ should not be seen simply as a return to past practices but as the assertion of present interests in terms of the past” (p. 252).  This strikes me as an eloquent assertion in itself of contemporary Aboriginal art production.

aquitaine-posterThe catalog (and I’m sure, the exhibition) of Mémoires vives is a thorough-going delight.  The essays may not all be equally engaging, but they offer many new insights and perspectives that are worth attending to.  The presentation of the art is uniformly excellent, and the juxtaposition throughout of nineteenth- and twentieth-century work is truly vivid.  Unlike Tjukurrtjanu, where the shields and woomeras seemed adjunct to the Papunya paintings, Mémoires vives makes each integral to the other and enriches our appreciation of both.

Even better, much of the work shown here comes from European collections and is thus relatively unfamiliar in its particulars.  While there is certainly an ample representation of well-known work, especially from artists like Christian Thompson (his Emotional Striptease series is a logical choice to include amidst the artifactual shields and woomeras), many of the paintings included here are new examples to me of the work of familiar artists.  This is not just another greatest hits collection.

I have two minor complaints.  GIven the richness of illustration in the catalog, it is frustrating at times that there is no checklist of the exhibition itself.  While the photographs I’ve seen of the installation assure me that many of the glories on the page are present in the Musée itself, better documentation for the ages should have been provided.

There is an extensive bibliography, but it is maddeningly incomplete.  The essays carry footnotes of the briefest possible formats.  For example, on the points where I have quoted from McLean, the footnotes refer to “Baudelaire, 1965″ and “Spear, 2003.”  When I turned to the bibliography to seek out the source of McLean’s references, I found nothing in either case.  Access to a good multidisciplinary database of scholarly literature enabled me to track down Spear’s article in the Journal of African History (“Neo-Traditionalism and the Limits of Invention in British Colonial Africa,” v. 44, no 1, 2003).  But there were 65 editions of works by Baudelaire published in 1965, according to Worldcat.org, and I am thus no wiser about the source of McLean’s quotation.

But truly, these are minor blemishes in an extraordinary work.  Mémoires vives is one of the most exciting visual treats of 2013.  Do yourself and your friends a favor, and add this marvelous book to your holiday shopping list.

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A Dance with Bangarra

CLAN-JACKETMy first reaction when I opened the new volume about Bangarra Dance Theatre, Clan by choreographer Stephen Page and collaborating photographer Greg Barrett (Allen & Unwin, 2013), was surprise at the sheer beauty of what I saw.  My second reaction was to wonder how I would be able to write a review of a book that has, apart from two introductory pages, no text.  I’ll admit now that was a foolish response.  After all, I’ve written several reviews of performances by Bangarra, and there are (usually) no words to rely upon in performances, right?  And this new book, although it appears to sit comfortably in the coffee-table genre, is actually much subtler, more nuanced than a simple collection of photographs.  It is a sort of dance itself.

Let me begin by quoting from the Allen & Unwin press release, which sums up much of the thought behind the book.

2014 marks Bangarra Dance Theatre’s twenty-fifth year.  Clan honours this milestone and those people who have inspired Bangarra over the years.  By having its feet in both old and modern worlds, Bangarra creates contemporary theatrical experiences that are influenced by timeless stories and customs.  The land shapes the people, the people shape the language, the language shapes the songs, and the songs determine the dance—and the spirit flows through it all.  This is the Bangarra Dance Theatre.

Dancers communicate profoundly with the mere flex of a foot or hand, a shift of focus, the roll of a head, the transfer of weight within their body.  As the dancers move in and out of the space and light there is a momentum and energy, even with the smallest of steps.  Greg Barrett and Stephen Page in a unique collaboration have beautifully and skillfully given shape to, and recorded, these magical, ephemeral moments.  Clan‘s intimate and dramatic collection of photographs captures the personal, the professional and the sacred moments of artistic expression.

All of this is true, and yet there is much more to these photographs.

As I have noted in earlier discussions of Bangarra in performance, Stephen Page often structures his evenings of dance through the use of color, gender, and lighting, as well as  mimesis and cultural allusions.  All of this is present in the construction of Clan, and that is how the book manages to brilliantly capture the essence of performance.  It is not simply that Barrett’s talent manages to suggest the motion of the choreography through startling still photographs, carefully weighted and composed by Page.  The pages resonate with Pageian structure, echoes, and themes.


As is often the case, the understated presence of Kathy Balngayngu Marika acts as the guiding, tutelary spirit of the company.  Much of what is timeless, much of the “old world” that inhabits the contemporary structures of Bangarra’s dances, derives from their continuing contact with the ceremonial culture of Yolngu, facilitated by Marika and by Djakapurra Munyarryun.  For Clan, that role of presiding genius is given to Marika in just a few dramatic photographs.

Clan is divided into five sections, much as an evening’s performance by the troupe might be; with a single exception, each of these is introduced by a portrait of Marika, who also features in the book’s final image.  And thus the journey opens with a striking image of Marika in profile, her face turned toward the camera, her long white hair streaming down her back, her forehead and arms smeared thickly with white clay, armlets of parrot feathers encircled above her elbows.  And from her outstretched, magical hands, a thick curl of smoke ascends.  If you let your imagination sway ever so slightly, you can almost discern the figure of a dancer in those dense wisps of smoke.

clan-act-oneThe remaining pages of this first section (act one, if you will allow me to call it that) are devoted to portraits of the men of the present day company.  The first is of Daniel Riley McKinley, head thrown back to allow the light to fall strongly on his face, shoulders squared, arms loose at his sides and weighted by his strong hands, feet emerging from the shadows.  The background is black, as is the facing page.  The following spread introduces other men of the company: Luke Currie-Richardson, Kaine Sultan-Babij, Leonard Mickelo (with his modified Mohawk reminding us of Patrick Thaiday’s recent departure), and Waangenga Blanco.  The men wear the simplest black loincloths, and they are shot against a black background.  McKinley introduces the movement in a series of startling, dramatic leaps and postures.  And in the remaining pages of this section, the rest of the men join him as they twist their bodies through the air, twine their limbs up, around, and under one another.  There is heft and weightlessness together, frozen motion, impermanence belied by balance and intensity.

clan-act-2The second movement features both the men and the women of the company.  Once again, a portrait of Marika opens the act.  This time she is seated facing the camera, cross-legged, her cupped hands now resting on the floor, empty.  The smoke has dissipated, and there is an expression on her face that wavers between maternal concern and loss.  For this act the color scheme lightens.  The backgrounds against which the dancers appear are a deep pearlescent gray, their costumes white, their limbs and hair smeared with the familiar white pipe-clay.  They pose singly and in pairs, and once in a dramatic triple as Tara Gower and Jasmin Sheppard vault to either side of Jhuny-Boy Borja, who looks like the electric ground, the lightning rod that draws them to the elemental earth.

clan-act-3A duet for the Torres Strait Islands, featuring Elma Kris and Waangenga Blanco, occupies the midpoint of this performance.  The color this time is deep blue, so deep that it verges on gray-black.  In the opening portrait,  Kris wears a headdress of stars that fall, trailing feather-tipped from the night’s depths towards her equally deep, dark eyes.  In the final shot of this sequence, Blanco confronts the camera wearing the familiar dhari headdress of the Torres Strait.  There is less motion in these pictures than in the rest of the book; these are portraits of faces in close-up, the dancers staring into the camera’s eye, or into each other’s.  In one, Blanco contemplates a gott, the percussive cluster of dried bean-pods that is used along with warup (a large drum) and lumut (the hollow bamboo drum) to acompany traditional Torres Strait island dances.

In the transitional photograph to the fourth movement, Kathy Marika similarly cradles her orange parrot-feather armbands in her hands.  This movement mirrors the second: it is scored for the whole company again, men and women, and the color scheme reverts to gray, although deeper and darker than in the earlier movement.  The clay that decorates the dancers’ bodies is flat and smooth, almost the color of wet concrete, as are the simple costumes they wear.  This brief scherzo once again brings the camera close in, tight on the faces and torsos of the dancers.  When they appear in groups their arms wrap around one another’s faces or hold a group of three balanced along a horizontal axis.  Unlike the leaping energy of the second movement, everything here seems slowed down, tending towards stasis, imbued with resignation, determination, sadness.


The fifth and final movement, again in black, belongs to the women, as the opening movement did to the men.  Marika sways, lifting her hands to her face, her eyes to a sound that seems to call from above.  On the following pages, a portrait of four women, again echoing the line-up of the men at the start of the performance, features Elma Kris, Deborah Brown, Yolande Brown, and Ella Havelka.  Most of the portraits in this section are again of the dancers solo, except for what it one of the most dramatic shots in the entire book in which that initial quartet is joined by the other women of the company (Tara Gower, Jasmin Sheppard, and Tara Robertson) in a frieze of outstanding complexity, swirling arms, crossed legs, all darkness and light, beautiful and frightening all at once.  In their solo portraits the women leap and spin with grace, with abandon, determined, thoughtful, torquing through darkness, conjuring not just Indigenous spirits, but maenads somehow captured and transported into transcendent realms usually reserved to kathakali dancers of India.

clan-act-5And then, at last, with a surprising suddenness, Kathy Marika lies stretched out upon the floor, one arm extended far in front of her; exhausted perhaps, seeking succor from the earth, or finally in majestic repose, it is impossible to tell.

Although these shots were artfully staged in a photographic studio and are not moments extracted from a swirl of movement on a proscenium, they nonetheless manage to bring the performance of Bangarra to life: perhaps as Yeats surmised, we can not in the end know the dancer from the dance.  The short video clip below offers a glimpse into the magic that created these images, and has the added benefit of augmenting the experience with a bit of (what I presume is) David Page’s musical accompaniment.

Clan is certainly one for your holiday gift lists, but it is also for the ages.  It is a book to be dreamed over and savored.  It has the uncanny ability to call up in my imagination single images and whole sequences of movement from performances I have seen over the years.  It offers an evening of dance with Bangarra any time you want one.

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