Fires By The River
Michael Leunig – May 2006
At last the Aboriginal sacred fire by the Yarra River has been most forcefully put out by the powers that be, and the place where it burned has been repaired with a neat and nicely clipped square of English turf – the stuff that golf courses are made of. The smoke ceremonies have been banished, the sacred circle broken, and the Indigenous protesters sufficiently belittled by the passing parade of hooligans and hit-and-run media people.
Apart from a carload of security men still eyeballing the vacant scene, banality has been restored to the surface of this unspectacular ground where the mortal remains of thirty-eight Indigenous souls lie buried, and upon which joggers are now relaxed and comfortable enough to democratically do their push-ups and stretching exercises once again.
Near the resting place of these human remains, the grotesquely huge statue of one of their conquerors, Edward VII, looms like some giant Hooray Henry over the parkland. He sits on his gargantuan warhorse with bronze lions in attendance, who spurt wobbly, humiliating little fanfares of water from their throats.
Some way downstream, the lavish, gas-fuelled flames of -Melbourne’s Crown Casino burn brightly, and in their weird glow stories of recent crimes come to light: rape, murder, robbery, fraud and violent assault. No unusual crime wave – this is what is known to come organically and permanently with casino culture – it is precisely what was predicted when the government fostered and sanctioned this sad centre for the celebration of spiritual poverty. The lights of progress bring considerable darkness.
Back upstream and across the river in the Ian Potter -Centre, the glorious Indigenous paintings illuminate the rooms. Miracles to the nation, wealth to the art dealers, and grave embarrassments to so many whitefella painters and art theorists – who are overwhelmed and frightened by such abundance, such astonishing brilliance and fecundity from the hands of ‘untrained painters’ – these images shine down upon
wonder-struck tourists and on the many locals who come to stand in the presence of all this breathtaking colour and radiant mystery. Paintings of Ngurra (country), paintings of Wandjinas, paintings of story, of ceremony, food, animals, and sometimes just freeform, no-story paintings from some spirited ‘old girl up there in Top End’.
The exuberant flourishing of Indigenous painting in the past thirty years has been the most spectacular creative episode in the history of white Australia. This vast natural outpouring has enriched and regenerated the country’s deeper imagination immeasurably; it’s a phenomenon which is at once a broad illumination of life’s joy and, in the breathtaking beauty of its imagery, a condemnation of the traumatic injustices perpetrated against Indigenous people. A people of sensitivity, integrity and skill enough to create such brilliant pictures.
But apart from the rapture and the vibrant spirit, what could these paintings be saying to us – and singing to us? It might be simply this: ‘Take us seriously, take this country (Ngurra) to heart, take what we offer – listen and see before it’s too late.’
It might be a cry in the wilderness, because what seems difficult for many to understand is that the unique and vital spirit which made these paintings – down on the ground and in the dust of remote and troubled communities – is the very same enduring spirit which was so mocked and abused at Camp Sovereignty by the Yarra River in recent times. Such authenticity can be acknowledged by whites in paintings but not, it seems, in the cry for a treaty and justice.
When a people demand justice they are both wanting something and offering something: they are offering the chance for collective truth and liberation from the sickness of denial. Why can’t white Australia see what’s on offer in this ongoing call for truth? Could it be that we still suffer from the Burke and Wills syndrome?
Before those two explorers perished so miserably in the outback, they stumbled lost, starving and delirious – and shooting at Aborigines who were trying to offer them food, water and salvation.
In our contemporary materialistic culture, cursed and bloated with lies, deceptions and a thousand varieties of fool’s gold, the symptoms of spiritual poverty gather strength; anger, depression and fear become normal, and political activity conforms around the sickness.
Casino culture, wars of ambition, junk food and media hypnosis are paramount – they can hold a society together. Art, innocence, intelligence and nature are besmirched, while home and family are becoming gradually impossible or unaffordable. The Western dream of wealth may well be eclipsed by the -simple dream of survival.
Like Burke and Wills, we’re getting into deep shit and we know it. But we don’t say so readily – unless of course we’re talking about Indigenous communities and their tragic horrors and dysfunctions.
Just keep on refusing the smoke ceremony (which heals the earth, heals the people) and keep firing shots at those -Aborigines. What would such troubled people know about justice, survival and spiritual truth?
