Read Online Color: A Natural History of the Palette by Victoria Finlay - Free Book Online
Authors: Victoria Finlay
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What they signified was precious, but what they were was not. However, today, when much of Aboriginal tradition has disappeared, all the paintings have become valuable in their own right, both as artifacts and as ancient messages for future generations.
According to George Chaloupka, in his book about the paintings of Arnhemland entitled Journey in Time , there are eight main color terms for the paints: black, yellow, deep yellow, the red that is made by burning yellow, a light pink and the shiny hematite red with a purple tint. A color from the twentieth century is “blu” or Reckitt’s Blue, introduced in the missionaries’ laundry baskets in the 1920s. And then there is delek , which is the word both for “white” in particular and for “color” in general—a linguistic affirmation perhaps that although red is sacred in these parts, a good white is also very precious. It is valued partly because it shows up well on both caves and bodies, partly because it is useful for painting both spears and coffins (one evening I found myself in the Aboriginal Town Camp in Jabiru, in the middle of Kakadu, and was taken to the home where a man had just died, and where his relatives were painting around the car with white paint) but partly because the best of it—a clay called huntite—is believed to be the feces of the Rainbow Snake. 21
When I first heard this I was rather taken by the metaphor: the idea that the rainbow spectrum should somehow shimmer through the sky and over the earth, and that it should leave a dazzling white behind it. The truth was rather more prosaic. “Have you ever seen reptile droppings?” asked Alex Dudley, a ranger with whom I discussed the myths one evening. I hadn’t, I admitted. So with his penlight we went hunting for gecko droppings, and soon found some on the glass dome of a Telstra phone box. They looked like little white slugs. A python’s droppings are bigger, he said, making a shape in his hand that suggested feces the size of a tennis ball. “Imagine what the Rainbow Serpent could do after a good meal.”
A few mornings later I was disconsolate—I had returned to the permit office and no progress had been made. “Thompson invited me,” I said. “How do we know?” was the answer. I knew no Oenpelli phone numbers except for the arts center telephone, which rang and rang. I asked the woman whether she could try again, and went for a long walk to think about what I was going to do instead in order to learn more about this elusive paint. During the walk I bumped into a guide who specialized in animal tours. “You’d better go to the buffalo farm,” he said. “Patsy will show you how colors work.” Which is why the next morning I found myself pulling up to what appeared to be a deserted homestead at the end of long tracks guarded by plenty of “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” and “Attention: Electric Fence” signs. It was a strange place: there were huge bits of iron everywhere—red and raw as if a container ship had rusted in the desert. I got out of the car and looked around. It was one of those mornings that shimmer with heat and silence, warning that it is going to be hot. There were flies buzzing around a buffalo horn that had been neatly sawed in several places and left lying on the ground, exposing blood and marrow, and everywhere there was the sweet smell of the abattoir.
Just when it seemed as if there was nobody there at all, Patsy and her husband Dave appeared from a shed. Patsy was born in Arnhemland and had grown up in a traditional community; Dave was a white Australian who had been a ranger for many years and was now managing the farm as a live larder for the local Aboriginals. When they wanted meat they would come and get it from him. Patsy had been married to a man in Maningrida, a coastal settlement in the heart of Arnhemland, but when he died she was pursued by a man she disliked. “My uncle Paddy said marry Dave, so I did.”
Patsy was quiet at
According to George Chaloupka, in his book about the paintings of Arnhemland entitled Journey in Time , there are eight main color terms for the paints: black, yellow, deep yellow, the red that is made by burning yellow, a light pink and the shiny hematite red with a purple tint. A color from the twentieth century is “blu” or Reckitt’s Blue, introduced in the missionaries’ laundry baskets in the 1920s. And then there is delek , which is the word both for “white” in particular and for “color” in general—a linguistic affirmation perhaps that although red is sacred in these parts, a good white is also very precious. It is valued partly because it shows up well on both caves and bodies, partly because it is useful for painting both spears and coffins (one evening I found myself in the Aboriginal Town Camp in Jabiru, in the middle of Kakadu, and was taken to the home where a man had just died, and where his relatives were painting around the car with white paint) but partly because the best of it—a clay called huntite—is believed to be the feces of the Rainbow Snake. 21
When I first heard this I was rather taken by the metaphor: the idea that the rainbow spectrum should somehow shimmer through the sky and over the earth, and that it should leave a dazzling white behind it. The truth was rather more prosaic. “Have you ever seen reptile droppings?” asked Alex Dudley, a ranger with whom I discussed the myths one evening. I hadn’t, I admitted. So with his penlight we went hunting for gecko droppings, and soon found some on the glass dome of a Telstra phone box. They looked like little white slugs. A python’s droppings are bigger, he said, making a shape in his hand that suggested feces the size of a tennis ball. “Imagine what the Rainbow Serpent could do after a good meal.”
A few mornings later I was disconsolate—I had returned to the permit office and no progress had been made. “Thompson invited me,” I said. “How do we know?” was the answer. I knew no Oenpelli phone numbers except for the arts center telephone, which rang and rang. I asked the woman whether she could try again, and went for a long walk to think about what I was going to do instead in order to learn more about this elusive paint. During the walk I bumped into a guide who specialized in animal tours. “You’d better go to the buffalo farm,” he said. “Patsy will show you how colors work.” Which is why the next morning I found myself pulling up to what appeared to be a deserted homestead at the end of long tracks guarded by plenty of “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” and “Attention: Electric Fence” signs. It was a strange place: there were huge bits of iron everywhere—red and raw as if a container ship had rusted in the desert. I got out of the car and looked around. It was one of those mornings that shimmer with heat and silence, warning that it is going to be hot. There were flies buzzing around a buffalo horn that had been neatly sawed in several places and left lying on the ground, exposing blood and marrow, and everywhere there was the sweet smell of the abattoir.
Just when it seemed as if there was nobody there at all, Patsy and her husband Dave appeared from a shed. Patsy was born in Arnhemland and had grown up in a traditional community; Dave was a white Australian who had been a ranger for many years and was now managing the farm as a live larder for the local Aboriginals. When they wanted meat they would come and get it from him. Patsy had been married to a man in Maningrida, a coastal settlement in the heart of Arnhemland, but when he died she was pursued by a man she disliked. “My uncle Paddy said marry Dave, so I did.”
Patsy was quiet at
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