George Gittoes

George Gittoes,  a lively 66 year old artist, enthralled us with snippets from his life story in GOMA’s cinema on Saturday. Two qualities become clear as you listen to George, The first is that he is fearless and the second is his fierce advocacy of the arts as a force for positive change.

He credits his paternal grandfather who was a pub pugilist for his physical toughness. After teaching George to fight he paid two young thugs to waylay him on the way home. When his mother confronted the Grandfather he was unrepentant simply saying that “George needed to learn how to take a beating.”

George discovered the power of puppets when he was growing up in Rockdale. Post WWII Rockdale was a mix of migrant groups from Europe - he was particularly interested in the Maltese girls across the road. One Saturday afternoon his father came home to find 300 people in the backyard watching George’s puppet show. He decided to pass a bucket around, then sent the proceeds to the Red Cross. As this pattern continued the Red Cross was curious to find out more about this kid who was sending in regular donations. They made a trip to his house to talk to him about how their organisation worked and the way the money was spent. This early inculcation to altruism remained with George.

George is famous for his YELLOW HOUSES. These multi-arts centres are set up to champion social change. The Yellow House in Jalalabad, Afghanistan has amazingly been blessed by the Taliban – though George emphasises that Afghani Taliban are very different to Pakistani Taliban and thinks they should have different names.  Their website describes their credo:

“All the artists of the Yellow House believe the best way to bring peace and positive social change is not with the weapons of war but with a broad range of creative media and strategies.”

It was fascinating to experience how much vigour George has for his mission – he embodies the saying bursting with energy. He is next harnessing that energy to tell the story of marginalised black kids in Brown Sub, Miami. Though he released a documentary in 2006 called Rampage, his friends from Brown Sub have asked him to come back to help find ways to improve the situation.

As impressed as I was with George's adventures there was a part of me that wanted to ask how he could free himself from parental responsibilities to pursue these passions across the globe. To fund his many humanitarian projects George relies on sales of his art, donations and has released a beautifully illustrated new book called Blood Mystic. This chronicle of his life and art is waiting to be purchased at the GOMA shop. Buy Now!

littoral

Sharon invited me over to her island on Thursday. Instead of making our usual Lines in the Sand on Minjerribah (North Stradbroke Island), she encouraged us to explore Mudlines in the Mangroves of Russell Island. Also known by the Aboriginal name of Canaipa (rhymes with sniper, which is apt as it means land of the pointed spear), it is a fifteen minute sojourn on a cat from the mainland. Six of us have shirked our usual routine to find artful meaning in the littoral.

When we get to the site and wander down to the shoreline I can see across the Canaipa Passage to the western shore of Minjerribah. I have never seen this side of the island, a line of trees descends into small sandstone cliffs that descend into the sea. The mangroves are alive with bird-call - small honey eaters dart through the branches while ibises honk in the sky. We wander round stumbling as we get used to the suck of the mud as we walk. Abandoned boats are being reclaimed by nature, exposing old copper nails greened by the elements.

I settle away from the group under the spreading boughs of a mangrove, it's soothing looking up into the branches. I settle to sketch the scene, tucked into the curving trunk. When returning to base-camp I find Sharon experimenting with the idea of scale. Using the grassy marshland as a canvas, she is arranging fallen branches which to my eye looks to be a dragon rising from the ground.

Island time ends I'm dropped back to the jetty to catch my boat back to my usual regime. This seven hour adventure has given me the fabulous illusion of a much longer break. The winter sunshine, the listening to juicy art-talk, the travelling across the bay and the sanctuary of the natural environment have nourished my being. Days later, idly scratching at my midge bites I'm remind that I'm itching to get back out into nature - littoral or literal.

littoral |ˈlɪt(ə)r(ə)l|
adjective
relating to or situated on the shore of the sea or a lake: the littoral states of the Indian Ocean.
• Ecology relating to or denoting the zone of the seashore between high- and low-water marks, or the zone near a lake shore with rooted vegetation: limpets and other littoral molluscs.
noun
a region lying along a shore: irrigated regions of the Mediterranean littoral.
• Ecology the littoral zone.

Seattle Art Museum 2

SAM has rooms full of fabulous First Nations art. One display by Jack Daws - INCONVENIENT TRUTHS - had the American flag bottled up in a jar and an edifying declaration from Chief Seattle in 1971.

"If we sell you our land, you must remember, and teach your children, that these rivers are our brothers and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness you would give to any brother.

The white man does not understand. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a wanderer who comes in the night and borrows from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother, but his enemy, and when he has won the struggle, he moves on. He leaves his father's grave behind and does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children. And he does not care. The father's grave and the children's birthright are forgotten by the white man, who treats his mother the earth and his brother the sky as things to be bought, plundered, and sold, like sheep, like bread, or bright beads. In this way, the dogs of appetite will devour the rich earth and leave only a desert."

Seattle Art Museum 1

SAM was showing an impressionists exhibition called "Intimate Impressionism", which was a catalogue of masters from the 1800s. Many of these works are so known to me they are almost cliched, but it was something else again to see the originals. The PORTRAIT OF MADAME HENRIOT by Pierre Auguste Renoir was a joyful image filled with bright light. BEHIND THE SCENES by Jean Louis Forain though vaguely creepy, with a tuxedoed old guy standing behind a lush young performer backstage, was beautifully composed with the left side light and the right dark. I drank in the various compositions, like that of THE TOWPATH by Johan Barthold-Jongkind with its diminishing row of trees to the vanishing point and his clever use of a limited pallete of green, tan, blue and white. Another standout was Eugene Boudin's CONCERT AT THE CASINO OF DEAUVILLE, I loved the lumpy iron work around the bandstand and the luminosity of his painted frocks.

I have no aspirations (or sufficient talent) to paint in this style, but I'm happy to learn more about art by wandering through the halls of art museums and galleries. It also puts me in mind of some wise words from Howard Hodgkin,

"Your talent stays the same, your critical eye gets better. "