A short drive west of where the artist lives and works lies a graveyard of dumped cars. A logging route through the state forest skirts a steep embankment. Below the small cliff, a dozen or more cars lie submerged in foliage, rusted beyond recognition.
This car, not yet rusted, sat starkly on its roof, thrust onto the landscape like a child’s collage, its belly bare and its naked panels glowing white in the afternoon light, out of place among the blackened eucalypts and xanthorrhoeas. Despite swatting and stomping, the artist was bitten incessantly by march flies and bull ants as he painted, their persistent reminders that he’s no more coherent in this landscape than the upturned Mazda.
This work is not for sale.