SONGS OF THE EARTH & SKY In this unprecedented year, Trisha Dixon swapped international travel for a bicycle that allows her to explore her local landscape at a slower pace.
When I came to live on the Monaro plains at the foothills of the Snowy Mountains in my mid-twenties, we were plunged straight into drought after drought. Thankfully I had a pilot’s licence and a writing and photography background to fall back on. I took on commissions, and, with time, my work led me further and further afield. Now, I am fortunate to take tours to the Greek islands, cycling and sightseeing in France, Morocco and throughout Australia. This year, of course, looks very different. COVID-19 has clipped my wings and I’ve found myself at home for the longest stretch in over a decade. But what fun it is. It’s such a relief not to be in and out of cars, planes and boats and instead to be able to immerse myself in the beauty of home. My fabulously unconventional parents thought nothing of canoeing, rafting and exploring wild rivers—sleeping in old army hammocks slung between two trees along isolated river banks. My father always wanted me to see as much of Australia as possible before going overseas. I am now so pleased I followed his creed, as it did imbue such an incredibly strong sense of country and of place. And of the vernacular. Of beauty in deserts and gorges, in the road less travelled, in old rural buildings and being able to travel simply. This has stood me in great stead while abroad, but also at home too. And especially now.
I’ve been out on the bicycle each day exploring every small dirt road I can, with stops for photographs along the way. It’s the vernacular that catches my heart strings. A simple sheet of corrugated iron, mud spattered or with peeling paint, has as much resonance as walking through a stand of white-trunked eucalypts or an abandoned farmhouse in rural France. I often think about the Australian sculptor Rosalie Gascoigne who, in her late fifties, began transforming found farm objects from around this area—pieces of corrugated iron, old road signs, wire, wooden crates and enamelware—into pure poetry. She knew about the beauty of the vernacular. She knew how to shine a light on it so that it glowed. Somehow Gascoigne, and other artists such as Fred Williams and Arthur Boyd, and writers such as Tim Winton, Bruce Pascoe and Charles Massy help us see more than what simply meets the eye. Their work rests deep within, and can transform the way we see, we evaluate, we marvel at our surrounds. ‘Like the druids of old,’ Gascoigne said, ‘artists should sing songs of their district.’ That’s what this unplanned but joyous stretch at home has given me time to do: to sing a song of this district—an ancient landscape that comes back from the brink of drought, fires, floods and all we impose on it, and nurtures, delights and uplifts the spirit. A place that will always welcome me home. n
