Utopia is about 250 kilometres northeast of Alice Springs. It's the traditional country of Emily Kame Kngwarreye. Her huge, lush, abstract paintings have been compared to Monet and Jackson Pollock, yet Emily knew nothing of Western art, had not attended art school and was illiterate in the English language. As enigmatic as either Monet or Pollock, she rarely discussed her painting, except to say that she painted 'whole lot, that's whole lot, Awelye (my Dreaming).' But, unlike them, she was the land's sacred caretaker and myth-keeper. In a sense, Emily created herself as an artist, though her perception, most likely, was that the land created her.
Emily, as she signed her paintings, was born around 1910. The date is inexact because Aboriginal births were not recorded until the 1960s. Much of her life is a mystery, though it is inextricably tied to the occupation of Aboriginal land by European colonisers. In 1976, Aboriginal land rights were made law in the Northern Territory. Three years later, Emily's people gained the freehold title of Utopia and once more the land was truly theirs. At the same time, Emily began making bold, brilliantly coloured batik prints. In 1988, when she started painting, she won immediate critical acclaim and, over the next eight years, produced over 3000 artworks, a feat worthy of Picasso.
I travelled to Utopia with Tim Jennings, a big, energetic, talkative fellow, a former policeman who became fascinated with Aboriginal art and opened a gallery in Alice Springs. I was accompanying Tim on a regular trip where he purchases art directly from Aboriginal people.
Emily's country is not a tourist destination. There's only one way in and that is by road, even if you catch a plane part of the way. There are no towns, one shop and no service stations. Sometimes there are no roads either. I visited several remote communities, places where Emily spent much of her life and where her relatives continue to live including Mulga Bore (Akaya), Rocket Range Camp (Arnkawenyerr) and Arlparra. Utopia was formerly a vast cattle station belonging to Sonny and Trott Kunoth, young Germans who settled there in 1927. So delighted with the abundance of rabbits they could catch by hand, the Kunoths named it after Thomas More's imaginary island paradise. Utopia, the byword for an ideal community, means, in Greek, no [ou] place [topos]. Emily lived, travelled and painted throughout Utopia and regarded all of it as her land.
Because it is illegal to visit the communities without a permit, Tim obtained one for me from the local land council. It's worth noting permits are rarely denied, and most are issued without charge. Alcohol is forbidden in the communities, an ordinance decreed by the people themselves, and the restrictions are designed to stop the flow of grog. After seeing Aboriginal people weaving drunkenly through the streets of Alice Springs or boozing from morning till night in the dry bed of the Todd River, it seems a wise plan.
Ours was a one-day trip: we set off from Alice Springs in the pre-dawn darkness in Tim's blissfully air-conditioned, four-wheel drive, and returned fifteen hours later. I left knowing one Australia and returned, in a state of utter bewilderment, having encountered another. Utopia provided me with a series of schismatic visions, of a tribal people who choose to live in the harshest circumstances and who produce subtle and sophisticated art for a non-Aboriginal audience, who appear to have scant regard for the environment yet who have trenchantly fought 'whitefella' law for decades to reclaim their land, who often look unhealthy and listless yet are the land's proud, spiritual custodians, and whose aesthetic sense, from their crude, makeshift lifestyle, seems opposed to beauty, order and harmony, yet whose artworks offer compelling examples of exactly that.
Heading up the unsealed Sandover Highway provides a leisurely introduction to the Central Desert. The earth is a deep, burning, sensual red like the flesh of a great, soft, warm body that stretches out in magnificent display towards the infinity of the horizon. I want to plunge my hands into it. The sky is electric blue, massive and cloudless like New Mexico: it's the same pristine atmosphere, the same feeling that, on such an ancient earth, the sky's relentless clarity offers perpetual and magical renewal. The eye is constantly drawn upward, away from the ground and into the air. The boundary between earth and sky, between red and blue, is dramatic on the land's flat plane, and visual contrasts are piercingly immediate. There's no perspective, no object on which to fix the gaze and assign three-dimensionality; there's only distance that shimmers and quivers and vanishes. The land is like a reckless and flamboyant gesture. Lavish, potent and open, it dares you to paint it, and survive it.
Expecting 'desert', I'm surprised at the amount of vegetation: the country is scattered with spinifex and low, scrubby trees but, during winter at least, the colours are muted: the grasses are dull green and the trees, eking out a meagre existence from the soil, are subdued in tone. Water governs the country which flourishes only because of an underground water supply. The communities gather around the soakages, turned into artesian bores during the era of the cattle stations to prevent animals contaminating them.
A few hours later, we drive off the highway towards Mulga Bore. I'm expectant, excited. Like many white, urban Australians, I've had little contact with indigenous people. The Aboriginal people I know are of Aboriginal-European descent; members of the art world, they're either curators or artists. My overwhelming sense of guilt usually disables frank discussion, leaving me either speechless or behaving in a manner that seems, to me at least, both patronising and obsequious. Quite literally, I don't know what to say.
Driving into Mulga Bore is like arriving in a documentary about 'Aboriginal poverty' and 'Third World squalor', the awful, popular narrative, the negative imagery with which the media mostly represents Aboriginal Australia. Before visiting Emily's country, I'd considered such reports extravagant, embellished or prejudiced. Now I see they're sometimes accurate. One of the chief consolations of Aboriginal art's massive, international success is to provide a good news story in the mire of bad.
Mulga Bore is a settlement of about half a dozen houses, some tin, some concrete, some surrounded by wire fencing, and all at a distance from one another. How do people bear the heat in a tin house? The walls of the concrete houses are stained a dusty ochre. Rubbish is scattered everywhere, cans, plastic shopping bags, empty milk and soft-drink bottles. Wrecked car bodies form rusting metal sculptures. There are also piles of discarded clothes, a bizarre sight in the desert, as if the people wearing them simply took them off and walked away. In the distance, I can see a basket-ball court where children are playing. Next to it is the school house that caters for around 45 pupils.
As I slide out of the car, a brindled dog with the smart, friendly eyes of a dingo cruises up, sniffing the stranger's scent. Instinctively, I hold out my hand to stroke it. 'Don't touch the dogs', Tim commands. I peer at the dog, and the others clustering around the car. They're underfed and filthy, their skins are pocked with sores, and they scratch constantly. The bitches have long, withered, swinging teats. I have my camera in my hand but I don't know what to photograph. I stare at the ground and take a picture.
We're parked outside the house of Lindsay Bird Mpetyane. From inside comes wailing, a high, shrill keening that spirals into the still air and hovers like smoke. Lindsay, impressive and self-contained, is the community's elder, a former stockman and a well-known artist. He's related to Emily, and Tim has told me I can interview him. At around sixty, Lindsay cuts a dapper, youthful figure wearing a cowboy-style hat, white striped shirt and black jeans. In a soft, rhythmic voice, he explains that 'sorry business', or communal ritual mourning, is taking place. Yesterday, a man from the community went into Alice Springs where he was shot and killed. Later, we hear from other people that the man wasn't shot: he fell asleep in the middle of the road, dead drunk, and was run over. Apparently, an all too frequent event.
Lindsay was the only man from Utopia making silk batik prints in the 1980s, around the same time Emily did. When Tim encourages me to interview him, I don't which of us is more shy. I am the white lady with the notebook and the camera, the clumsy intruder from the First World. As I reach for my biro, I notice how
pale my skin looks, freckled and fragile, under the desert sun. Though Emily married twice, she had no children of her own, so she was appointed Lindsay's chief carer, his 'mother'. Lindsay tells me, '[She] grown me up. Look after [her] son. Not when big, when little. Good person.' Emily was 'always painting...everywhere she paints.' I've heard Emily was a real character, with a wicked sense of humour and a penchant for whacky hats. What was she like? Long pause. 'Shout me', he says reflectively. Then Lindsay steers the talk to the 'good prices' that he and Emily have earned for their paintings. When Lindsay makes the point he didn't ask Emily for money, he's referring to the obligation that Aboriginal people are under to distribute whatever they have among family and community. As Emily's fame escalated, together with her prices, she was under pressure to produce, not only from a hungry art market but from her needy relatives and her community - which meant she was supporting around 80 people. It was such a burden that she wanted to give up painting: it made her 'sick with worry'.
As Lindsay and I talk, other members of the community slowly arrive, carrying paintings they've produced since Tim's last visit. The women wear loose t-shirts and long skirts, some of the older men are in overcoats and beanies. It's chilly and most people wear shoes. The children arrive from the school, curious to find out what's happening. Graceful and quick, they skim the ground like swallows. With huge, dark eyes, honey-coloured skin and tawny hair, their beauty and joie de vivre is dazzling to behold. As Tim introduces me, everyone smiles courteously, distantly. I'm the art historian who's writing about Emily. I wonder how that strikes them. After all, Emily is the most renowned Aboriginal artist, and she's from their neck of the woods. But their reticence and self-possession make probing impossible. There's also the language barrier. Most people speak only a smattering of English. Conversations with newcomers, as I learn from interviewing Lindsay, can be excruciating.
Then it's down to business and I have my job, too. Because of the numerous fakes on the market, agents and dealers photograph the artists with their work as proof for the buyer. Lindsay has produced an impressive pile of small, elegant, paintings. As he holds up each one, I'm meant to photograph him and the painting. As I find out later from Tim, I've completely botched it: the photographs are either of Lindsay's face, or the painting, but not both. Tim will have to do them all over again. It comes as no surprise; I feel like I can't see straight.
Along the road, Tim pulls up and hails a family, artists whom he'd hoped to meet at another community, a couple who are heading for Arlparra with their three children. While Tim chats to the adults, I try communicating with the kids. We stumble with English words but end up exchanging smiles. Suddenly, the children whirl off like the wind into the grasses, and return with their palms outstretched. They're offering me a handful of small, orange-brown berries. I pop some into my mouth: they're juicy and, curiously, taste like curry. Tim's jaw drops. 'Do you realise some of those varieties are poisonous?' he asks. I feel rather foolish. Tim is responsible for me out here. 'I'll be fine', I say flippantly. But as we get into the car, I wonder how long it takes for poison to hit the system. What comes first? Pain? Nausea? Bush Tucker Kills Writer, Coroner Reports. I implicitly trusted the children: they know which foods are safe, and acted from courtesy and friendliness. It was a gift. The traveller's motto - trust your instincts - pays off and, by the time we get to Arlparra, all I need is a cold drink.
Arlparra is the hub of the district, the neighbourhood drop-in centre. It's where the Urapuntja Council, Utopia's governing body, and the community-controlled health service are based. A recent report shows that Utopia is one of the healthiest areas in the Northern Territory for Aboriginal people. We're heading for the store, the only one in the district, and it's busy. A mural graces the front wall, a colourful, realistically rendered, dot-painted landscape. Inside, it looks like any well-stocked, mixed business with take-away food, shelves of groceries, a fridge filled with milk, juice and soft drinks, and some trays of fruit and vegetables. The truck bringing fresh produce comes only once a fortnight. I buy a bucket of chips and a mineral water. At the check-out, the most popular items are soft drinks and vacuum-sealed, ready to cook, kangaroo legs, complete with fur and claws. Tim sees another artist, and introduces me. I crank up a smile. The heat, the drive, the confrontation with this new Australia, have overwhelmed me and I'm starting to tire.
Rocket Range Camp is named for the shape of the local water-tower. Dozens of junked, rusting car bodies surround the camp. The ground is strewn with broken glass, empty cans, cardboard boxes, plastic bottles and stained mattresses. We pull up beneath a tree, where several elderly women are sitting. With them is a naked child whose mucous-stained face crawls with flies. Near where we park, a make-shift home has been constructed around the remains of a brick chimney: its walls are tree boughs and corrugated iron sheets, draped with clothes and blankets. The government-built houses are empty, stripped. Tim gets on with business, unloading wads of rolled up canvases and bags crammed with acrylic paints. A young woman approaches, smiling shyly. She's barefoot and skinny, her stiff, unwashed hair radiates from her head like an aureole. In her hands, as tenderly as a baby, she carries a small, beautifully rendered, abstract painting.
I guess I'm slow but it suddenly hits me it was in a place like this Emily produced great art, where she sat cross-legged on the earth, brush in hand, painting with absorption and determination, surrounded by her family, her friends and her dogs. Any one of these old ladies could be Emily. I try to wipe the shock from my face. The little boy catches my eye. He grabs a puppy by the legs, and slams it on the ground as hard as he can. The dog screams in pain. Whack. He does it again, and laughs. The women sitting next to him - his mother? His aunties? - continue to talk among themselves and pay him no attention. He can see I'm furious. He shrieks with laughter. Whack. 'If he does that again, I'll kill him', I mutter to Tim. I turn away and face a tall, white wooden cross, supported by beams, opposite the camp. There must have been a church here once, built by the Lutheran missionaries. Of course, I despise the missionaries who tried to convince Aboriginal people to conform to their rules. Now I'm not so sure of my opinions, an ideology built in my safe suburban world, surrounded by people who agree with me. I want to snatch the puppy from the boy and explain it's wrong to hurt animals. I want to clean his face and wash his hands. Give him rules, my rules. Standing alone, the cross resembles the ruin of a previous civilisation.
The shimmering web of the Dreaming that Emily illustrates shows no rupture, no crude or ugly passages, no marks of sadness or mourning, no lack. In her abstract paintings, the Dreaming is represented as a perfect, luminous entirety, shining with health and optimism, stretching out forever. A key reason for the appeal of Emily's work is the frank and lucid spirituality it conveys, a rarity in the cool world of contemporary art. Her paintings beat like a heart with conviction. But, equally, they offer no place for a clash of cultures, for our seemingly insoluble, intertwined problems. Emily's political statement is her Dreaming: transcendence, unity, eternity, an ideal community. Utopia.
Tim veers off the road, then veers off that road, and we're heading down a bumpy track.
When we pull up, I encounter the most extraordinary sight in an extraordinary day. Surrounded by native grasses and graceful ghost gums is a black marble grave with an imposing headstone. There's nothing else in sight; no houses, no people, no fences. The headstone reads: Emily. Emily Kame Kngwarreye. Died September 2 1996. A Great Australian Artist. It's a well-meaning though incongruous tribute representing the differing expectations, the contradictory results, the unpredictable and often startling intersections of our black/white, non/indigenous relations.
Under the night sky, we head back to Alice Springs, and I'm dumb with fatigue. Although I've been looking at Aboriginal art for years, I didn't understand the context, the conditions under which it was made. The documentation of Aboriginal art largely ignores the issue, either unconsciously, or from respect, or political correctness. It is
difficult to write about the communities without feeling you're offending someone, or you're 'making things worse'.
In some modern cultures, art can exist separately from its environment. In traditional Aboriginal art, there is no 'separate'; there is only 'environment'. Emily asks us to consider it.
Airport delay
Ed Byrne
The Voyage: Edited by Chandani Lokuge & David Morley Page 6