There were golden fields under charcoal skies on the road to Swansea. The service station guy there had a smile to match the colour of those fields. ‘It’s a terrible place here, ‘shocking’, he said through a wide grin. ‘You wouldn’t want to live here’. Across country at Ross, it was a fresh March early morning with a chill in the breeze and a warmth in the people. ‘I’ve never been to Port Arthur, never bothered with Devonport,’ said the local garbo 15 minutes into our conversation. ‘This is god’s country right here, I’m not interested in looking anywhere else.’ North-West again, and there was even more gold and charcoal around Stanley. ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s home’, said the uber-friendly waitress at a local restaurant. The landscape reflected her glow, as it did around the vast majority of Tasmania. It didn’t matter that it was grey, charcoal or black in the skies above. The open spaces, the meandering fields, the ever-changing seas‚ they paint a compelling picture. I understand why the people call it ‘home’.
Acrylic on canvas