This gallery has many hands and feet of children, parts of it are faded and parts are weathered away which make me think it predates the 1870s, which was literally 'The End' of 40,000 years - the period of genocide.
Unnamed Carnarvon Bluff
Bingil Bay, 1950s
I could see Dunk Island and the Percy Islands out in the shining blue of the Coral Sea. To the south there was Clump Point and in the north past the rocky headland was Garners Beach; it was panoramic.
House called ‘Tranquility’
This house featured in Home Beautiful; the pictures of my daughter and I probably mark some kind of high water mark in my life; I still had my strength; I felt promise, optimism, I felt respected, but sadly it wasn’t to last.
My First Building: Regent Street
I was very proud of it; not simply my workmanship, which still had way to go, but the conception; it fitted and appeared as natural in it’s location as if it had been built that way in 1870. I planted a multitude of trees too; this became part of my signature.
The Origins of ‘The Parisienne’
I spent a few days location scouting when I sold the Limited Rights to my short script. Scouting conjures up all kinds of ideas; I found scenes for films I hadn't even thought of writing, or wished I could write.
Christmas in the Carnarvons
A missing finger indicates death of a child. On a cave wall in The Basin a whole line of hands show missing fingers; these are among the last hand stencils made, still sparkling fresh after 150 years
Bettridges Bridge
In these slides most of the workers can be seen wearing Army Surplus clothing; many of the men had not long been demobbed; some even knew Dad from the airstrips he'd built during the war
Carbine Creek
On a later visit the engraving had become ‘known about’ and targeted for vandalism and graffiti; not long after this steel cages were welded over the engravings to protect them.
Bali Surfing
With hindsight I’d give quids to have some 8mm footage of those days. Not just the lifestyle, but the look and feel of the time. It was the same time that William Eggleston was producing a body of photography that would become his signature work.
Paris 1989
I'd had the pleasure of going to the screening of an original print of Jean Cocteau's 1946 classic La Belle et la Bete. The theatre light had seemed charged with the nascent shimmer of the silver halides off the print; an indelible memory.
