Visual Arts
Colorful aboriginal 'dreams' ripple with energy

By Sheila Farr
Seattle Times art critic

If you could look straight down at the Earth from a point above the center of the Australian continent and your eyes could pierce through layers of earth to the roots of the yarla plant (the native potato bush), and if you could see ‹ as in Kirlean photography ‹ the fields of energy radiating out in a vibrant maze of yellows and reds that surround the plant, and the women seated on the bare ground digging tubers; and if, in the back of your brain, that image took on a force-field that lifted it into the realm of mythology that re-enacts continually throughout time, you might see something akin to the painting "Bush Potato Dreaming" by aboriginal artist Serena Nakamarra Granites on display at Jeffrey Moose Gallery.

Granites' work is part of an exhibition by the Warlukurlangu Artists Aboriginal Association, a nonprofit cooperative of 160 artists that fosters the traditional imagery of the Australian desert people. Moose, who has been showing aboriginal paintings at his downtown gallery for a number of years, says that the more he learns about the artwork, the more intriguing and mysterious it becomes. The symbolism of aboriginal art is said to be the oldest continuous visual tradition in existence, by far predating the cave paintings at Lascaux, France.

The imagery first was transferred to canvas in 1971, when a British school teacher gave a group of elderly aboriginal men painting supplies so that they could record the symbols and stories passed down in their culture. Their artistic traditions obviously didn't include acrylic paint, but it turned out that the symbols and designs of native body painting and earth art translated to that medium startlingly well.

In the 30 years since then, many more artists have taken up the brush to record their "Dreamtime" stories ‹ the myths and rituals of their people. Sometimes with materials provided by the Australian government (a small price to pay for its former decimation of native cultures), the villagers are able to make artworks that reinvigorate their civilization while bringing much needed income into desolate areas.

Not all aboriginal paintings are created equal, and this show contains some that are especially fine. Many of these paintings from the Warlukurlangu cooperative ripple with energy and force. Though they may resemble abstract expressionism, or the eye-deceiving patterns of Op art, these paintings ‹ composed of countless dots of color ‹ are much more than formal exercises or emotive displays. Each tells a story, and with a little knowledge of the symbols you can easily discern something of the meaning.

The images originate from an ancient tradition of sand paintings and large-scale environmental artworks made of colored sand and vegetation, and the symbols reproduce the way scenes on Earth would appear from high above. So a "u" shape is a seated person; concentric circles designate a campsite, fire pit, ceremonial site, or even the origins of life. "The visual similarity to abstract expressionism is only skin deep," Moose says. "These paintings have literal meaning."

All the paintings in the show have the word "Dreaming" in the title, because each represents a story that belongs to the individual who envisions it. Moose equates a person's ownership of a story to a modern copyright. He says that traditionally a person would not be able to sell another person's story under penalty of death.

Some of the dot paintings represent journeys, some show several "Dreamtime" stories simultaneously. "They are myths that are told and retold to teach different messages of morality, sharing of resources, using only what you're allowed to. The same story can be told to emphasize moderation or preservation of habitat," Moose says.

"There's a very soft but very important environmental message in these paintings."

Other examples of aboriginal art are on view at Seattle Art Museum in a show called "Women of Utopia," selected from the extensive collection of Margaret Levi and Robert Caplan.

Sheila Farr: sfarr@seattletimes.com


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