The Dealer is the Devil

by Adrian Newstead

  Balgo Hills was the first community that I visited regularly for extensive periods. Each time I returned I brought piles of clothes which were pounced upon as soon as they were unloaded and distributed amongst the women and children. Several artists had stayed with us at our home in Bondi Beach during their Sydney exhibitions, and invitations from my gallery and photos of them with me and Anne were stuck all over the noticeboard. Perhaps Dominic understood that I had become an important bridge between Balgo Hills and the outside world; I had spent enough time in Balgo to necessitate a place in the kin system.

  Once you have a ‘skin’ name, or ‘kin’ name, it is yours for life, as are all the consequent ‘skin’ relations anywhere you go in Aboriginal Australia. The term has nothing whatsoever to do with the colour of skin. It means that you have a place, and you have been accepted as kin.

  Freda Napanangka, who was sitting on the verandah that day, broke into a big grin. Rather girlishly she explained that I was now a Tjupurrula, like Dominic, and that women of her own skin, Napanangka, were most suited to being my wife. As it turned out it was a fortunate alliance, as Napanangka women were the most powerful and talented of the established female artists in Balgo Hills at that time. Anne, my wife, now became their sister.

  Yet a skin name can be a mixed blessing. Many new art coordinators have been given a skin name, unaware of the implications. It can result in difficult political and social obligations. I’ve been comparatively lucky, but at one point, a Nakamarra artist decided to press her filial advantage. She often called asking for money. Anne didn’t take kindly to being referred to as ‘Mum’ by a 50-year-old woman, and the repeated requests to cough up an advance for yet another painting we might never see. Noel Pearson, the controversial Guggu Yalanji political activist, has had a lot to say over the years about the distortion of kin obligations, especially through alcohol abuse.

  Skin names originated when the basic social group consisted of several families that travelled together, and lived in a particular region where their significant sites were located. As well as determining how people should relate to each other, the system may well have prevented inbreeding amongst these small clan groups.

  This is the way it works for me, on my branch of the Warlpiri kinship system: I am a Tjupurrula, so my daughter Mandala is a Nakamarra. I am absolutely forbidden from having a sexual relationship with any Nakamarra woman. This would be considered tantamount to incest. My preferred wife is a Napanangka although it may be acceptable for me to take a Nungarrayi wife. It is not acceptable for me to take a wife from any other female skin group, because these women are my aunties, sisters-in-law and mothers-in-law. The greatest taboo of all is to sleep with your mother-in-law, as this could result in your later marrying one of your own daughters.

  Transgressions of these skin laws are punishable with the strictest severity, a fact that is at the heart of many of the most important Dreaming narratives and paintings, for instance, Clifford Possum Tjapaltjarri’s Love Story series. The worst thing that can happen to any Aboriginal person is to be expelled from the community. In the old days it was practically a death sentence. The taboo also applies to people from other cultures. I have witnessed its consequences on several occasions over the past three decades. Friends who have lived and worked productively in communities for years have been given less than an hour to pack their bags and leave after inappropriate relationships were discovered. It made no difference that they were white people.

  Across Australia, Aboriginal people are divided into eight sub-sections that reflect their kinship to other members of society. Each of the eight male and eight female ‘skin groups’ has its own male and female equivalent. All the male names begin with a ‘J’ (or Tj), and all of those starting with an ‘N’ are female. The spelling of these names and their pronunciation varies according to linguistic convention and spoken dialect. They have changed several times during the 30 years that I have been involved in Aboriginal art, but whether the name is written Jangala or Tjangala it is still the same name. For instance, Jampijinpa amongst the Warlpiri of the Tanami Desert can be written or pronounced as Tjampitjinpa amongst the Pintupi in the Central and Western deserts, or Tjampitjin amongst the Kukatja in the northwest; while Nakamarra in the Central Desert can become Nakarra when it is used amongst Gija people in the Kimberley. Similarly Kngwarreye amongst the Anmatjerre of the Eastern Desert becomes Nungarrayi amongst the Warlpiri.

  It is helpful to think of these as family names as long as you remember that this family structure is quite different to the Western one, which is based solely on blood descent. In contrast, all Aboriginal people are related to each other. All men of the same skin group, whether actually related by blood or not, are considered to be brothers. Women with the equivalent female name are sisters, which means that all Tjupurrulas, no matter where they were born, are brothers, and all Napurrula women are their sisters. All Nakamarra women are sisters, and Tjakamarra men are their brothers.

  Obviously the names Napanangka, Tjakamarra and Tjupurrula and their variants are even more common amongst desert people than Smith or Jones are in our society, but they are not surnames. Finding particular Aboriginal artists in an art catalogue or book is often complicated by the fact that they are most often indexed as if their skin names are surnames. Clifford Possum is always listed under Tjapaltjarri but there are literally thousands of Tjapaltjarris. Amongst the most important desert painters they include Billy Stockman, David Corby, Tommy Lowry, Joseph Jurra, Mick Namarari, Tim Leura, Warlimpirrnga and Walala, all of whom are classified as brothers. Some are actually related by blood, but most are not.

  This is further complicated by the use of ‘adopted’ names. Clifford Possum Tjapaltjarri was given the Christian name ‘Clifford’ at birth. ‘Possum’ is the name that was given to him by his blood family because of his totem affiliation, and Tjapaltjarri was his skin name. Given that there are just so many Tjapaltjarris, those with less distinctive names often adopt or are given alternative names by their countrymen: names such as Left-hand John, Motorcar Jim or Helicopter Joe are good examples. Motor Car Jim Pwerle was given his name because he was one of the few people who had a motor car at the time, and Helicopter Tjungurrayi was flown to hospital at six years of age out of the old Balgo mission in one of the first helicopters any Kukatja people had ever seen.

  ‘Adopted’ names are not always the result of a nickname sticking, however. At the height of the missionary days, names such as Vegemite, Buttercup, Nugget and Sambo were adopted after the death of a namesake. They would be considered insensitive and definitely politically incorrect today – the artist Sambo Burra Burra is now referred to as ‘Djambu’ in order to avoid the obvious racist connotations.

  As a general rule, for at least a year after an Aboriginal person dies, every person with the same first name changes their own to something else that will not cause distress and offence to the dead person’s family.

  For modern secularists to really understand this, they must start by imagining the circumstances in which Aboriginal culture has evolved. To people living in small groups in vast landscapes, night-time is alive with inexplicable rustlings. To Aboriginal people, the world is teeming with spirits; they are everywhere, threatening impending doom. In Arnhem Land, there are the Namarodo, the lightening spirits, the mischievous Mimis which live in the rocky crags of the stone country, and the Balangjalngalan who steal children in the night.

  There’s a fabulous scene in Wayne Blair’s hit Australian feature film The Sapphires, which illustrates the way Aboriginal people confront fearsome apparitions. It’s set in the middle of the Vietnam War, and the young singers are driving through the thick jungle in the dead of night when they are suddenly ambushed by Vietcong. Ordered out of the car and caught in the glare of the vehicle’s headlights, the girls are quaking in their boots, but the mixed blood sister stands her ground. Speaking to these malevolent spirits in Yorta Yorta, her native tongue, she makes the traditional declaration of respect to the c
ustodians of the land through which the group is travelling. After a stunned pause, observed by both parties, the Vietcong let them pass. I’ve heard bedtime stories exactly like this from my Tiwi grandson John Abraham. He does the same thing on Bathurst Island, when he’s frightened by Moperdidis as he walks home in the dark. ‘I am Tiwi,’ he says, addressing the spirit directly. ‘My name is Kitchamana. I am Shark. I pay my respects to the ancestors. I am only passing through. Please uncle, let me go in peace.’

  The recently deceased must also be treated with a similar respect. Mention of their name is strictly forbidden, as it is believed that the vibratory pattern of a person’s name can hold their spirit to the world of the living. If their name is pronounced inadvertently or in ignorance it is likely to elicit a whisper under the breath or into a cupped ear. The Tiwi may whisper, ‘Pukumani that one!’ while a Warlpiri will furtively say ‘Kumanjayi!’. Should you be in an Aboriginal community and share the same name as someone who has died in recent memory, you too will be referred to as Kumanjayi, or a number of variants including Kumanarra or Kumanjarra, depending on which people you are with.

  In an attempt to avoid offending the families of deceased Aboriginal artists, the Australian art community has also adopted this convention. This can be especially confusing for art lovers. The famed Anmatjerre artist Emily Kngwarreye was referred to as ‘Kumanjayi Kgnwarreye’ for many years following her death. For nearly ten years after the death of Wandjuk Marika, the revered Arnhem Land elder, he could only be spoken of as Mawalan’s eldest son. It was common to refer to the great bark painter David Malangi for years after his death as Dr Daymurringu. This acknowledged both his honorary Doctorate of Letters from the Australian National University and directly linked him to his totemic land at Yathalamara near Ramingining in Arnhem Land.

  The convention can also utterly confuse collectors. Protocol dictates that galleries refrain from using the names of deceased persons in catalogues, invitations and other publications, and when mentioning them in the public domain. Many art industry insiders and observers, however, now believe that it is important to be respectful when visiting or living amongst the affected communities, but a warning in a publication should suffice. Although very few Aboriginal people from the clans directly affected will ever read these publications, the protocol remains.

  Over the past 30 years, I have often watched Aboriginal people enthusiastically exploring the family photograph albums my wife creates each year. Far from witnessing dismay or offence I’ve often been touched by the love and reverence invoked by the photograph of a deceased person. It is invariably stroked gently with the open hand, before accompanying relatives and friends are called to look upon and reminisce about the dearly departed.

  Beyond the Horizon

  In which the reader discovers the role of art in Aboriginal society, and the rich and diverse culture of the first Australians before and during their earliest contact with outsiders. We meet the early artists, anthropologists and collectors who first introduced this art to the world.

  CAVE PAINTING

  In the 1980s a wealthy American of my acquaintance, a former trader on the New York stock exchange, was shown an engraved rock platform on an outback cattle property.

  ‘This place is so spiritual,’ he exclaimed. ‘I gotta buy it!’ And he went on to do just that. He never considered himself to be an intruder on the Australian landscape. It was up for grabs as far as he was concerned. I’m different. My parents emigrated from England after World War II. I have always known that I’m an introduced species.

  Only 100 years ago, the freshwater stream that flowed into the beach near my home still cascaded through rainforest to form an estuary before meandering to the ocean. It is now buried in a stormwater pipe under 10 metres of landfill, cement and very expensive real estate. Forty metres below the foundations of my house are the middens where Aboriginal people camped, feasted and celebrated a good catch.

  I grew up in Sydney, and the rock engravings along the cliffs at Bondi Beach, in the nearby Blue Mountains, and overlooking the ocean at Bundeena are very special places to me. My travels have taken me to the magnificent rock galleries at Carnarvon Gorge in Queensland, the Stone Country in Arnhem Land and the Mitchell Plateau in Western Australia’s Kimberley region. It is in places such as these that even a person of non-Aboriginal heritage can grasp how ancient and deep the Indigenous history of this country really is.

  Now that Aboriginal people no longer ‘own’ their own country, everyone else thinks they can lay claim to it. Anthropologists, tour operators, bureaucrats, politicians, mining companies and land developers all have a vested interest. I remember a particular example of this that struck me as quite shocking at the time. It was 1987, when my exposure to Aboriginal culture was growing rapidly. A Kimberley pastoralist created a scandal by claiming that local rock art sites were being ‘desecrated’ by Aboriginal people who were painting over them. This seemed a bit rich, as I’d seen plenty of rock art galleries scratched and painted with white people’s tag lines and initials. It turned out that these Kimberley paintings had been purposely re-marked by David Mowaljarlai, a local Ngarinyin elder, artist and teacher. Far from robbing modern Australia of valuable historic evidence,1 Mowaljarlai was actually keeping his Dreaming alive.

  Ngarinyin elder David Mowaljarlai.

  Aboriginal people believe this ritualistic re-marking is necessary in order to bring the seasonal rains, and to increase the abundance of plant and animal life. Mowaljarlai later used this particular rock art gallery to prove the Ngarinyin claim to native title of the area, a case which he took to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) in 1997.2

  The continuing Aboriginal relationship with rock art sites reminds me of the insights of two Native American elders that I’ve never forgotten. Chief Seattle of the Suquamish said of rocks that they ‘thrill with memories of past events’,3 while Cherokee Elder Willy Whitefeather bemoaned the fact that rocks have become ‘like lonely old people’ living in a ‘hollow, unsung world’.4

  In Australia the repainting of rock art sites has been carried on for millennia. Archaeological studies in Western Australia point to sites with up to 30 layers of pigment placed one above the other. Some Queensland caves have been shown to have more than ten superimposed layers of paintings to a depth of 20 millimetres, representing a period of 30,000 years of unbroken human creativity.

  Most cave sites are not particularly sacred places. For millennia, Aboriginal people moved through the country, sleeping in caves during the wet season, and in bough shelters and bark huts during the dry. Bark shelters were ephemeral. Only a few, such as the relatively recent example displayed in the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory, have survived with the designs painted on their interiors intact.

  Rock art sites are different. Aboriginal people believe they contain the powerful remnants of creator beings who left their original imprint during creation. Some of the most spectacular examples include the joyous, animated Quinkan figures of Laura in Queensland, the fragile Mimi spirits of Arnhem Land, the Lightning Men of the Wardaman people, and the iconic Wandjina found in the north of Western Australia. These and many others attest to a tradition that still continues to be practised into the 21st century.

  Having visited many of these sites during the past 30 years, I have often sat wondering why, and how, these images were painted. Many of the cave ceilings are so high, and rock ledges so low, that it seems impossible they could have been painted in such detail and so often. Thousands of years of movement, erosion and collapse is the usual explanation.

  The range of rock art imagery varies greatly depending on the original purpose of the site. Throughout Arnhem Land and along the coastal plateaus of eastern Australia, paintings and petroglyphs (rock engravings) depict fish and animals that were painted and carved to accompany elaborate increase rituals. Symbolic iconographic images associated with fertility and initiation can still be seen engraved on roc
k platforms and painted on cave walls and ceilings throughout Central Australia and the Central and Western deserts. Elaborate X-ray art and giant creation ancestors can be seen on the rock ledges in Kakadu National Park at Noorlangi Rock and Deaf Adder Creek in the Northern Territory, while hundreds of small and large handprints, stencils and engravings of boomerangs, axes, leaves and curiously erotic anatomical grooves and crosshatchings adorn the walls of Central Queensland’s Carnarvon Gorge.

  Others sites, such as the Wellington Ranges of coastal North East Arnhem Land, depict interaction with other cultures including our northern neighbours, the Macassans, who came on trading missions more than 400 years ago. As late as September 2008, thousands of paintings, including those of Macassan and European boats, from tall ships to World War II destroyers, and images of a bi-plane, a car, a bicycle wheel, a rifle, a missionary and a sea captain, were all ‘discovered’ in this region by a team of scientists working closely with traditional owner Ronald Lamilami and his community.

  Custodian at Western Arnhem Land rock art site.

  Many of the most important Arnhem Land bark painters of the past 50 years were taught to paint in these cave galleries by their fathers and uncles. Modern portable Aboriginal paintings had their origins here. These men weren’t the first to use bark as a medium, but they were amongst the earliest whose names were recorded: Yirawala, Mick Kubarkku, Lofty Nadjamerrek, Peter Marralwanga and others.

  Long before the desert artists began painting on canvas in the 1970s, bark paintings derived from this rock art tradition were considered the epitome of contemporary Aboriginal fine art. There were some records of bark paintings that were created in Tasmania, Victoria and New South Wales prior to European contact, and later, during the early 20th century in the Kimberley, but very few of these have survived. The earliest collection of Eora and east coast cultural material that was displayed in Sydney’s magnificent Garden (Crystal) Palace was completely destroyed when the building was engulfed by fire in 1882. No other bark paintings from Queensland, the Northern Territory or Western Australia entered museum collections prior to the 20th century. It was not until Baldwin Spencer’s scientific expeditions to Oenpelli in 1912 that the barks were recorded along with their related myths, and it was to be another 30 years before any serious collections of bark paintings were assembled.