Media Release 29/6/2001

Quite Activist

Up until the age of 36, my life had been coasting along very happily. I was married to a man I adored and had three beautiful healthy sons. As a self-taught artist, I worked from home in my studio on the Sunshine Coast. My community involvement was limited to school activities and the arts.

My involvement with Aboriginal people began in 1968, at Goondiwindi a town on the Queensland New South Wales border. My husband Brian's work as a plastering contractor on large government buildings, meant we lived in a caravan and travelled all over Queensland for twelve years. While at Goondiwindi I produced and sold my first paintings. Art was one of my better subjects at school and came very natural to me, along with cooking and sewing. From the first painting I knew as I watch and stare at the Aboriginal kids from Toomelah a small reserve over the border near Boggabilla. They were the subjects, I wanted to paint.

I asked a few of the local art group for advice, about the possibility of going to the reserve. They advised me not to go down there, as I would not be safe. Thank heavens I didn't listen to them.

I phoned the Government Manager who was not that helpful, but he did say I could come down to see him. His feeling was no one on the reserve would be that interested in being painted. At that time you could not just drive into the community; you had to have Government permission as they were in charge. I headed off so excited - not knowing what to expect. The first thing I noticed while at the manager's office, was the large number of dogs he had. In fact as he showed me around the settlement there were lots of dogs everywhere. It was a strange feeling walking down the dirt roads past the houses with lots of people staring at me, me trying not to stare at the surroundings which were not as I expected or was use too. It struck me then - that I was smiled at, but the heads were always down when the manager spoke to them. Giving me the impression they were not game to look him in the eye. I had seen it before with my kids when they felt they might be going to get into trouble, this was not kids- but grown up adults. I got a strange sense that something was not as it should be. It would take many years for me to know or begin to understand what these people really were feeling.

I was introduced to a local Aboriginal lady called Leila, we clicked straight away. She took me under her wing and we walked around the settlement stopping as she introduced me to many residents including the O'Grady family. Once the manager had let us do this alone, it was far more relaxed. The kids were game to come up to me and ask "who your name" cheeky as could be with big smiles from ear to ear. I left that day full of so many pictures in my head, wanting to get back to share my day with Brian who was waiting and probably a bit worried about me, as this was the first time I had headed off to the unknown, without him to protect me.

Next time I returned to Toomelah with paints boards and brushes. I found quickly that there were different rules for different people. The lack of dogs barking this time around made me comment to Leila about it. She said, " They all shoot , order of the Government and manager" I noticed that the dogs I had seen in the managers yard had been spared this fate.- funny that.
Leila and I went down on the river bank. There I would paint her while she talked to me about the reserve. Mostly about cultural things like why the water was moving in cirlces and about the trees and plants. How they rubbed witchetty grubs on the baby's gums when they were teething. She told me lots about her past and dormatory times. I must admit while I was listening and taking in what she was saying, I was so wrapped up in the light shining on her face and how different her bone structure and nose was to mine. I was having the best time and as I looked at her smiling face, I thought how lucky I was that I didn't listen to the Goondiwindi artists - who I felt missed out on so much by having such closed minds. The only threat I had while I was there was the mossies.

I also got to spent some time just sitting in the classroom watching the kids as they worked bent over at their desks, trying to concentrate on what the teacher was saying, but sensing I was watching them, would shyly look up at me and grin and look away. Meanwhile I was recording that look, that face in my mind's filing cabinet for future reference. My painting were about emotions and there were plenty on Toomelah to inspire me for years to come. For many years I painted happy little scenes through my rose coloured glasses.

The houses on Toomelah at that time were no more then shacks, the number of people who lived in each one, could be fourteen to a house. Small very dark, bare board floors, the main rooms were the lounge, kitchen, bedroom with mattresses on the floor. These houses were always to me very friendly. Something I liked and felt comfortable with was the lack of pretension, what you see is what you get. No one racing to tidy up as you walked in the door, life just went on as it always did.

I found it really strange, that curb and guttering was being put on the roads outside on dirt roads. That a bridge got so much publicity, with the government people all patting themselves on the back. What I could see is they needed better housing or at least a bathroom. How would the general public ever know if they -like the artists from the nearby town, never bother to come and have a look. Lots of things that just didn't seem right, stayed in my mind forever, the problem being I so young and naïve. I didn't know then, what I know know or what I should have been saying about it. If it had been ten years later they would had heard me yelling for miles. Toomelah was my first introduction to Aboriginal culture but it was also my introduction as to how the government and most people treated them - like second class citizens. That is not how the people of Toomelah treated me. I was treated as a friend from the first day one. Toomelah was the start of my long journey of learning what it really is like to be Aboriginal in Australia.

Over the years and in many different towns I would still seek out my favourite subjects or draw on my memories from Toomelah.

In 1975 we finished our travelling and settled at Marcus Beach south of Noosa. My painting changed from outback scenes to beach scenes but most times the figures in the painting were still drawn from my memory files of aboriginal figures. As each year passed these figures became shadows in my seascapes, bearly there. I knew in my heart that I had been away from them for too long and I missed them greatly. In 1982 this was to change and set me on a path that would shape my future from that day.

While arranging an Exhibition of drawings by Kath Walker at the Noosa Gallery. Kath over the phone mentioned that the Mornington Island Dancers were in Brisbane and that we might like to have then perform at the same time as the exhibition. This the committee agreed to and we quickly arranged their visit.Many of the dancers including Heatherstayed at my home. Before leaving they invited me to visit them on Mornington Island.

Talking to Brian, after a planned trip with a group of people fell through it was decided I would go there by myself for a month.

To get to the island at that time, I had to have the permission of the Government's Shire Clerk. I also, out of respect, sent a letter to the Aboriginal elders, who were delighted that I was coming. I attached letters of support from my local Member Gordon Simpson, and the Chairman of the Noosa Shire Council, Bert Wansley, as well as from the Noosa Gallery Society, where I was a founding member, who all said I was a nice and good person.

The Shire Clerk on Mornington Island wrote back to say I was welcome on the island - but I should stay at the guesthouse and not with my Aboriginal friends. I was in shock as I read this.

Thinking what if my friends wanted to come to Noosa to visit me and had to first apply to the Noosa Shire clerk with letters of recommendation about their character. Then receive a letter back to say they were more than welcome to come to Noosa, but to stay in the motel instead of with me, the person who had invited them. I don't think I or the Noosa community would have stood for that, more likely we would have stormed the Council building. Well, removed them at the next election. We would not be dictated to like that. What right did the Government have to dictate to Aboriginal people like this in 1982?

I went to Mornington Island and stayed at the guesthouse, run by a strong Aboriginal woman named Roberta Felton. Reberta would early mornings and late at night fill me in with the history and background of the island. Within a week I went camping with my friends. There's more than one way to skin a cat -or Shire Clerk. Something that stands out even today about that time, the same kids who in town were breaking in everywhere and running amuck, were completely different camped out at the most beautiful stretch of beach with the elders. The respect shown to the elders and the interest in wanting to learn from them was obvious and a privilege to be part of.

The camp fire at night, the stories being told as the fish and damper cooked, the laughter, my bed on the sand under the stars. What was it the Government people reasons for wanting to keep me away from my friends.

As luck happened my visit to the island coensided with a school carnival. This was one of those best and funniest times of my life, watching wheel -barrow races, and greasy -pole climbing, spear throwing, egg- and -spoon races sent me back to the Guesthouse exhausted from laughing and competing. The feast of dugong and the dancing were great, though something I had seen many times before.

Getting to go down with the men for the paint up was a first.

Watching them rub their bodies with red ochre and then paint on their tribal marks. Explained to me while the broad mark appeared behind the brush loaded with white ochre, going up the arm and down the chest of Henry. Then he turned and repeated the same process on the other side. After the leaves were tied around their arms and legs, the cone shaped bark and hair hats with the emu's feathers coming out of the top were placed on their heads. I was given my mark, a simple mark slowly painted, across my cheeks and over my nose. It was cool and soft and very spiritual, as the feathered headband of Lindsay's was tied around my head. I hated washing off that mark, when I got back to the guesthouse, after a very long memorable day.

I need not have worried, Mornington Island was already being etched on my heart.

Watching the movie Elisa Fraser at the open air theatre, we sat on the ground, which was the only seating unless you brought your own chair. All the residents who had seen the movie a million times roared out laughing each time one of the characters was a Mornington Island resident. Each word was said along with the actor as they rolled around in fits of laughter. Even writing this brings back the wonderful sounds of that laughter.

These were just a few days, the rest of the time was very depressing, to watch these proud people and witness their pain. The island had nothing for the kids or anyone to do when they were back in town. No wonder there was crime - sheer boredom showed on most faces.

What I saw on Mornington Island changed me forever. I was no longer the naive twenty-two-year-old person from Toomelah time. I was a thirty-six-year-old woman who was now used to standing up for my rights. I could see the Government had it wrong. They had taken away the people's self-respect. A new life path was appearing, as I sat like everyone else waiting for the highlight of each day, the canteen opening.

I spent a lot of time with Lindsay Roughsey, the brother of Dick Roughsey the artist, writer. I never did get to meet Dick then, nor before he passed away in 1984, as he was up in the Gulf Country, around Laura, with Percy Tresize working on another of their many books. I heard all about him from his wife Elsie, who had her own book, "Sweetness of the Fig", writen for her by an overseas writer.

Lindsay adopted me and gave me his tribal headband - a great honour. I often gave him my rations of two cans of beer a night. As I was not a beer drinker, I found myself very popular, flattered and flirted with as I sat with everyone and waited. The black market and the prices charged were unbelievable. The people operating this disgusted me. The little money these people got went to these parasites. I was happy to give my two cans to someone if it saved them paying these creeps for them. No prizes for guessing they weren't Aboriginal.

I was also very popular with the children as I had long red hair down to my butt that they loved to feel or comb. I started to supply my own comb after I noticed an activity of nit picking going on close by. In fact, most of the men also liked to feel and touch my hair. As the hair in the headdresses were mostly black or grey, they saw mine as adding a nice bit of colour. They often asked if they could have my hair. Some often asked if they could have me. I said if I ever cut it I would send if up to them. I said no to the second request.

I found I could no longer paint, no matter how I tried. The new easel Brian had made me and my bundle of boards and paints lay in the corner my room. This was the first time I had been away from Brian for any length of time and I missed him terribly. Being alone on this trip was the right thing to do, as I really soul searched for the first time in my life, something I was to do often after this. I talked, listened and learnt what it was like for my friends. I wrote my first of many poems.

Kerry Bowden 1982

I returned to Noosa and produced a large protest painting, which I entered in the Noosa Rotary Art Show. It shocked a lot of the locals who were used to my pretty pictures. It also made them talk about the painting and my reasons for painting it. Brian was disappointed that I hadn't produced some of my "pretty" pictures as well as this one, but he was proud of what I had painted, as he understood my reasons and always supported me. I now wonder if he also then feared what might lie ahead.

The painting made the local and Brisbane paper. This was Commonwealth Games time, with marches in the streets by indigenous and non-indigenous people, trying to get across the plight of the original owners of this land.

This same year I was included in the "Women of the Year" luncheon, which was held in a different State each year. In 1982 it was held at Lennons in Brisbane and attended by about 400 Australian female achievers. Pat O'Shane, our first Indigenous Magistrate, was the last guest speaker - spoke of the plight of indigenous people and the mortality rate of the babies.

Many at the lunch were offended, not wanting to hear what she had to say, and walked out on masse. Our highest women achievers, some well-known identities I had admired before, didn't want to hear the truth.

,B>They didn't want to hear then, let's hope they want to hear it now.

The room was all but empty by the time the chooks with the ruffled feathers had left. I am pleased to say that all or most of the people at my table, including Tracey Wickham, who had just won her Gold Medal at the Commonwealth Games, stayed and gave Pat a standing ovation.

If what I had witnessed on Mornington Island wasn't enough to convince me - the day of that Luncheon did. We knew so little about the problems Aborigines had faced for nearly 200 years or the impact the arrival of Captain Cook had had on their health and lives. I knew then that the road to reconciliation would be long and hard, when these so-called Australian "Women of the Year" could treat another human being with so much disrespect. If this is how a top Aboriginal achiever like Pat O' Shane could be treated, what must it really be like for other Aborigines who, unlike Pat, had no way to stand up for themselves.

As I stood with tears of shame running down my face, because of having my name on the same list as some of these women, I knew my days of being an observer were over. My days of painting pictures through my rose-coloured glasses were finished.

Like Pat O'Shane, I knew I had to tell the truth, even if people were not ready to hear it. The quiet activist I had been no longer existed.

I promised that day to fight for the rights of Aboriginal people to be able to tell the truth and help them to be heard.