Graham Cox is widely respected as an "Artist Extraordinaire" for his masterly ability to capture the unique Australian 'air' in his landscape paintings, and his beautiful paintings are always on display at Morpeth Gallery. From the craggy, snow capped mountains and tranquil lakes of his beloved Tasmania, where he lived for a time in the early stages of his professional career, Graham's paintings take us through the many familiar areas of Australia that he has painted so well over the years.

He captures the rugged majesty and expanse of the Blue Mountains, with the distinctive eucalyptus haze and golden cliffs synonymous of the area, and explores the winding beauty, grandeur and wide expanses of the Hawkesbury River. His recent paintings also explore the craggy shoreline and turbulent seascapes of our Coastal waters. Following in the steps of Arthur Streeton, his paintings convey a deep feeling for our natural landscape, and have been widely exhibited and acquired by discerning Australian and Overseas collectors.

Graham’s journey into art…

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar.
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
to mingle with the Universe, and feel what I may
Ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal?

These are words from Byron – words, which startled me by their closeness to my own feelings when I first came across them at around the age of eighteen. Disliking crowds, it was my nature to wander through the bush examining structures and textures in an attempt to convey their vitality in my own work.

Graham Cox aspires to paint in a remarkably Australian tradition. Yet, if you compare a Graham Cox to any of the nineteenth and early twentieth century Australian landscape paintings, you can see how entirely different they are and how Graham's work could not have been painted at that stage of art development. In Graham's work there is a 'conscious' attention to the landscape, which, to my mind, parallels the developing, urbanised, sharper, focused consciousness of twenty first century man in all fields of endeavour not least artistic.

If genealogy is to be taken into account, one only has to go back to Graham's great grandfather, Claude Leplastrier, who was a 'lightning sketch artist' around the turn of the century. He travelled throughout the southern hemisphere with a group called the 'Scarlet Troubadours' and created instant portraits and landscapes upon demand. Having viewed his sketchbooks, I can confirm that he was certainly no mere talented amateur.

Graham was born on 6 July 1941 at Burwood, a suburb of Sydney. He met his wife Krysten Walker, an accomplished sculptor, in 1979 and they made their home on the coast north of Sydney before moving to Newcastle in 1998. They share a love of music, poetry, and literature, sculpture and, of course, painting. They have three children, Sebastian and Cameron, born in 1985 and 1987 respectively.

The only early artistic influence Graham remembers was his fascination with Rubery Bennett's landscapes on Legend Press Christmas cards and how he would gaze at them for hours. One particular area in which he loved to spend his free time away from school was in the Blue Mountains near Sydney where his grandmother owned a holiday cottage.

During the early 1960’s, while working by day as a clerk for the chemical manufacturer ICI, Graham went every Monday evening to the studio of artist Peter Panow. Panow had studied in St Petersburg (now Leningrad) and Paris, finally settling in Sydney a World War Two. His great aunt influenced Graham’s choice of this art teacher, who painted in an entirely different manner to him, at that time music mist at PLC Pymble. Panow gave him an excellent grounding in colour and composition while insisting on the use of top quality materials.

After he was encouraged to leave ICI in 1961, Graham joined the Commonwealth Employment Service (CES) and transferred to various offices throughout the Australian mainland before finally arriving in Tasmania in 1963.

It was in Tasmania that he found settings which inspired some of his most outstanding canvases, laying the foundation for a very strong link with art collectors in that state. His first one show was held in 1967 at the Mary Jolliffe Gallery, Launceston, and the budding artist rapidly increased his popularity around the local community with succe exhibitions and the occasional commission. It was a sad day indeed for them Graham went back to Sydney in 1969.

From an early age Graham had visited the annual Archibald, Wynne and Sulman Exhibitions shown at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. He submitted several works over the years and in 1975, 76,78 and79 was selected to hang. The show is one of the most visited and controversial art competitions known in Australia. His work did not sit easily with most of the other entrants and it became a bit of a thorn in the flesh to the staff of the Gallery as many people wrote to the Director and spoke to the curators endorsing his work as 'true landscape', asking why couldn't they see more of the same? The exposure of his work at these earlier exhibitions proved invaluable and many commissions followed.

'Painting is a science and should be perceived as an enquiry into the laws of Nature. Why then may not landscape be considered as a branch of natural philosophy of which pictures are an experiment?'

Modern landscape painters seek to dig beneath the surface of form, to speak with colour in the same way that a scientist perceives the structure of the universe. The artist, on the other hand, translates the outer form of Nature that Nature we all delight in when we perceive a magnificent landscape, at dusk, at dawn, whenever...

Landscape is an art form only a few centuries old. It is said the first 'true' landscape was painted by EI Greco (1547 1614); it was called Storm over Toledo. Until that time the landscape was merely a backcloth to the subject of the picture. This painting by El Greco caused a sensation when shown, and down over the years one can see how man has gained a clear sighted view of the world by studying the way artists depict landscapes. A John Clover of 1840 with its sinuous waving branched trees, a Conrad Martens using a Turneresque impression of the landscape, through to Streeton and Hans Heysen all of these artists seeing in a way conditioned by their time.

Therefore let those who revel in the beauties of this land be glad we have a Graham Cox, an artist who not only loves the country but also has the ability and talent to record it.

Graham was transferred to Armidale to further his work with the CES. He wrote of his stay there…

Being in Armidale for the best part of 1962 gave me further opportunity for such meanderings, and I spent a lot of time sitting on hilltops, soaking in the countryside and its unique atmosphere. There seemed to be a secret locked away in the landscape, the key for which I painstakingly searched. It was many years before I found my answer to this problem. While I was on the shores of Lake Marion in Tasmania it finally struck me: I should paint from the heart, not just from the subject.

All artists are questioned on the subject of creativity, as if with a few glib words and phrases they can appease their interrogators. What is it about creativity that so entrances the inquiring mind? This ability to fashion something from nothing, this power to transform our everyday vision of the world? To my mind, an artist does not feel the need to question, only to continually create, always attempting the unattainable. All through my life I have enjoyed living with creativity; a never ending flow of ideas mingled with music and poetry accompanies me everywhere and sometimes makes it difficult for me to appear 'normal'.

Dreams also figure strongly. Always in colour, they have enabled me to develop a new way of seeing what I love most the Australian landscape. It is perhaps to this phenomenon that I owe some of my best work. From dreams to day dreams and so on to canvas, the creative excitement of working without a preparatory sketch, one's mind on full power. It is at these moments that I get the feeling of being taken over by a universal force. By experience you learn to recognise the moment and thereby seize golden opportunities.

It would also be difficult to overestimate the influence of music on my work. A dreary creature once commented, on hearing my battered and much travelled (thanks to the CES!) record player happily wafting through Schubert's Trout Quintet, that I was drugging myself with pleasant sounds in order to paint. How far from the truth can one be! We all need to revel in beauty in order to heighten appreciation of the finer things the only problem being the miserable amount of time available for revelling!

I have often felt that the most serious obstacle facing any young artist in this country is the lack of an older generation of creative minds willing to share their artistic and technical expertise in an open and forthright manner. How many times have budding artists heard, in response to pleas for help, the words: 'Just carry on as you are it will work itself out.' Apart from my first teacher, Peter Panow, only one artist ever assisted me with rock solid information, enabling me to turn new corners in my search for artistic excellence. I spent but one day with this master, Sir Hans Heysen, hearing words that have carried me through many a creative difficulty over the years. However, perhaps there is another side to this lack of sharing. Many see commercial opportunities alone in the art world and will seize upon information relating to shortcuts, and so forth, with glee. I have no time for these people and have not exactly proved helpful when it was my turn to be approached.

Traditions have to progress, otherwise they shrivel up and eventually die. If those who seek to record their vision of this landscape should be forced to spend twenty or so years discovering basic techniques by chance, it is no wonder that so many give up. There is no way that the craft of painting can be studied in any major art school today.

When I began to paint seriously in the early 1960s it was the adventure associated with discovering ways and means that attracted me. Determined to succeed, I studied all available and mostly little known material in an effort to understand the thinking behind some of our finest heritage of Australian landscapes. In so doing, I found that I developed a kinship with artists like Tom Roberts, Arthur Streeton, Walter Withers, Elioth Gruner and Hans Heysen. It was their larger works that I found intriguing the paintings by which most of us identify with the 'grand' vision of this country. It is those canvases which have become classics of Australian art history: Fire's On; Bailed Up; The Purple Noon's Transparent Might; Spring Frost and The Coming Storm, to name but a few.

So, having glimpsed the goal, I found a focus to my journey. Turning landscape into art provides endless opportunity for travel! Well, you have to get around a lot in order to eventually discover your own special plots of ground from whence the ideas spring: places where mountains and bush land provide exquisite compositions and delightful feelings; little known aspects of the coastline where the sea can be glimpsed down through tangled undergrowth; a river valley untouched by civilisation. From such places can come fine works of which one may feel justly proud? I often think, when in such pleasurable places, of the thrill of capturing on canvas a scene that no other artist in history has had the opportunity to record.

Australia is like that a land full of undiscovered landscape delights. Yet that unfortunate comment: 'oh, the Heidelberg Group said everything about romantic realism. There is nothing new to say these days it's all been done before' can still be heard now and then. A sincere approach to subject matter leaves no one in any doubt as to the painter's honesty of intent. Artists should continually strive to discover their individuality through patient endeavour from which recognition will surely follow. What we paint today influences generations yet unborn.

During my life as an artist I have visited many beautiful places. One of these, the Cradle Mountain Lake St Clair National Park, has provided the most wonderful glimpses of a creative heaven not only for myself but also for generations of bushlovers. In this awe inspiring part of Tasmania can be found romantic landscapes in abundance a great gift to the creative artist. I have spent years discovering the various beauties of the area and have only just begun to understand the real challenge of primeval grandeur. Some of the reproductions contained in this book will give but a distant hint of that challenge.

The painting of atmosphere alone is a study for perhaps five lifetimes and not just the wretchedly short span we are all allotted. I will probably be getting frantic as I turn 80, having realised that I still know next to nothing while always hoping that the next big canvas will say it all mountains, mists, crags. The lot!

I love Tasmania and return every six months or' so to gather new material. During the years I have developed many lasting friendships with some delightful people, especially in the north of the State, and these have added to my pleasures in the outdoors. Good friends, good wine, music and warm fires constitute such a store of memories that a book of anecdotes would not go astray. So I imagine there will be many, many more trips and countless attempts to attain perfection at the easel. Any excuse returning!

In the Great Western Tiers, near Launceston, lies yet another wonderland seemingly undiscovered by the artistic eye there is just so much in this small State it is hard to believe. When I first arrived in Tasmania, I found it interesting to note the absence of a school of traditional oil painters; watercolour had become the chief medium of the serious artist. Jack Carington Smith seemed to have led the way and many competent followers contributed to a unique and fascinating style, which conveyed the very essence of the island. I believe that the reason for this was the weather very changeable, very fickle! Working quickly and directly outdoors was obviously the best method of approach.

It is with amazement that I now recall my attempts to portray the early mornings in the Tamar Valley in oils, with frozen fingers, dogged determination and eyes screwed up against the sun's rays. Getting up at 5 a.m. seemed so easy then, and I suppose it was only natural to take advantage of the wooded hillside above my home as the starting point for many an ambitious work. Of course, this all had to happen in the two hours or so before setting off for a daily stint at the office.

It was around this time that I heard of an Australia wide competition for landscape painting, restricted to artists under 25 years of age, and I decided to enter something grand: Fire on Cluan Tier. To my delight this particular painting was deemed worthy of the Namatjira Prize and I was treated royally in many exciting locations. This was fame! Shortly after receiving the prize money, a 3UZ 'nicest listener' award, and a free cup of coffee at Fitzgerald's department store in Launceston, I lapsed into a lengthy period of relative obscurity as I attempted with very little knowledge to complete grandiose arrangements of the Tasmanian landscape. It was indeed terrible to finally realise some months later that the prize-winning picture had probably been a stroke of good fortune rather than a show of competence; it took another three years before I was able to arrange my first one man show in Launceston. My relief was audible when I saw that the public were then most appreciative of these latest attempts to romanticise their island and were willing to open their purses for my benefit.

'It 1968 I decided that my public service career should grind to a halt. Art beckoned, but as it turned out she did not pay the bills, nor inspire the occasionally uninspired hopeful me. Freedom lasted six months before I was forced to return to the 'real' world. After turning down a $52 per week position as a production planner with a firm in Launceston, I returned to the bosom of the CES in Sydney.

It was wonderful indeed to be the friend of the newly arrived at Heathcote Road Migrant Hostel south of Sydney I can still smell cabbages cooking, visualise the astounding greyness of the finished, sodden product and remember the shock on the faces of those who were offered this repast masquerading as good traditional Aussie tucker! How could one forget the despondency and dismay in those who, thinking they had arrived in a land flowing with milk and honey, were rudely bundled into houses resembling chopped up 44-gallon drums and promised illustrious jobs at the Water Board, Railways or Steelworks? 'But, I was told at the Embassy...' they would protest in an ever growing chorus.

Being back in New South Wales gave me an opportunity to explore the Blue Mountains of my childhood; their beauty remained undiminished, their mystery had only deepened. To capture that elusive haze became paramount in my painting. After many failures, however, I had to finally give away the challenge only to find the answer many years later. It often happens this way for artist problems lie dormant for ages while the subconscious mind continually seeks solutions.

I began to paint around Katoomba again in 1984 and made some remarkable discoveries in the process. This spurred me on to greater effort. For instance, when I first decided to paint the Three Sisters, I wondered at the reaction from my friends. Such a landmark is fairly well known, to put it mildly! I had never seen a satisfactory rendition of the location, so the challenge was on. As mentioned earlier, I have found that by treating a subject with respect, it will bring you closer to its reality.

By approaching the Three Sisters in this way I met the challenge, gained immense satisfaction, and hopefully gave a great deal of pleasure to those who bought the paintings. The canvases are now becoming larger as my Blue Mountains' fascination increases who knows where it will end?

The Warrumbungles have had a similar effect on my development. Compositionally they are raw jagged peaks, which continually refuse to be tamed by any well meaning aspirant to Streeton's lofty throne. The fight to create magnificent pictures from this area has intrigued me for years; results can be seen in a number of paintings during this time.

The Grampians, Barrington Tops and the Hawkesbury have also provided similar challenges, making it rather difficult to choose a selection of paintings for a publication such as my first book so many works to be shown and only so much space available...

When I was avidly seeking pictures of paintings from an earlier era in Australian art during my formative years, I was often disappointed to find some books which purported to be definitive studies of certain artists and their creations offering so little in the way of good colour plates and interesting subject matter especially when other good paintings were not considered worthy of reproduction. Little did I realise that years later the same criticism might be levelled at me. I hope this will not be so. Choosing paintings is not the prerogative of the artist alone others must be consulted in order to achieve a balanced offering. My paintings are too close to me; I cannot be objective!

It is nine o'clock on a Friday evening. I take up the pen and begin to sketch. Lines run this way and that across the page, there are many nervous dots and dashes, and I find myself waiting for one of the lines to suggest a new development. What will it be a mountain, a river, or whatever? There are more diagonals, horizontals, and verticals and suddenly the image appears! I roughly sketch in a border and begin to fill out the spaces with light hatching; the landscape comes into its own. Half an hour on and it is finished a dream has become reality.

Working this way is truly exciting, letting my subconscious guide the hand, and waiting for a sudden outcome. Then it is a matter of stopping before it is too late otherwise all might be ruined.

This approach to landscape is best tackled following a day out in the field, after I have carefully soaked up the atmosphere and made detailed drawings in a sketchbook. Then, after returning to civilisation, I find the creative process begins often resulting in five or six new ideas being based on the day's experience. Sometimes the drawings flow so quickly it is necessary to rough in outlines and then move on to the next page, coming back later to complete the idea. It is imperative not to lose a single new thought.

Friends in Tasmania with whom I often stay are used to this odd way of being a houseguest and bear such artistic indulgences with great fortitude. I have filled book after book in this manner over the years, providing a virtually unlimited repertoire. Sketches are not used just once, for with small variations and~ colour harmonies, completely different pictures can be brought forth.

Quite often themes such as Mount Olympus and Lake St Clair allow for interesting variations. The artist Piguenit, I have noticed, embraced this very subject from 1875 onwards, perhaps because he also found such wonderful material irresistible. Having always looked upon Piguenit as a kindred spirit, I have found it easy to imagine him looking over my shoulder at yet another technical impasse. I feel the same closeness to many other great men of art, and it is not necessarily vanity that brings this about rather it is a deep desire to excel in my calling.

At the time of the American Bicentennial an exhibition toured Australia, presenting paintings by some of the finest American artists of the 18th and 19th centuries. I was especially taken by the landscapes of George Innes, Thomas Hill and Thomas Moran and subsequently researched their lives and work. Tracing Thomas Moran's artistic career was an eye opener. Here was an 'artist of the mountains' who had conquered problems with ease I had not encountered before. Freely admitting his great debt to Turner, he triumphed in portraying the wilderness. He was clearly a man of vision and perseverance.

Having already made an exhaustive study of the works of Turner, I was excited by the existence of a disciple who had taken the master's principles and applied them in the American West with such brilliance. At this point I must also mention Frederick Church, another follower of Turner, who probably also influenced Thomas Moran in his developmental years. It is interesting to note that both these men were acclaimed as great artists in their middle years, before being pronounced passé by learned critics, as they grew older. Nowadays it is with wonder that we gaze on their works, marvelling at the courage with which they approached their subjects, the technique employed and the feeling achieved.

It is all very well for critics to slash away at reputations. In our own country we have seen artists such as Eugene von Guerard, Nicholas Chevalier and John Glover ridiculed as recently as the 1950s before being 're assessed' and pronounced important.

By the same token it has often been difficult to understand the lack of critical acknowledgement of serious present day artists who employ 'traditional' methods.

Recently, at a later travelling American exhibition at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, I saw Thomas Moran's Shoshone Falls on the Snake River, Idaho. I was transfixed! The excitement and energy generated by this painting accelerated my determination to strive towards higher goals.

Without having studied these American painters I feel that my development might not have progressed as far as it has. As it is, new doors seem to open when needed, which is more than comforting when 1 am faced with a difficult situation. Recently 1 was working on a canvas of a wooded hillside above the sea a large work, full of technical problems. I found that the challenge in keeping the composition brisk and the colour lively yet restrained, sharpened my mind while giving verve to a day's employment at the easel. I owe thanks to Turner and his friends for their guidance at times like this.

The years between the two World Wars saw a remarkable publication come into being the periodical Art in Australia. Three men were associated with this venture Sydney Ure Smith, Lionel Lindsay and James McDonald and together they produced a beautiful art journal which brought to public attention a whole world of artistic endeavour in this country. Criticism was levelled at the editors for favouring the Society of Artists in their commentaries and colour plates but, as they pointed out in their defence, the most prominent artists were the members of the Society and therefore worthy of the attention given.

I first came across this great publication back in 1962 when I ventured into Tyrrells bookshop, and there behind the counter stood the unassuming but unique Barry Willoughby. 'I know what you need', he said, upon hearing my enquiry, and immediately produced the Arthur Streeton, Hans Heysen and Robert Johnson numbers of Art in Australia from under the counter. (It wouldn't happen today they have been collectors' items for the past 20 years!) Having never met Barry before I was intrigued at his perception, hurriedly paid, thanked him, and rushed up to Central Station to catch the Armidale night train. I pored over the volumes that evening, entranced by what I read and saw here was the link I had sought for so long.

I clearly remember the following frosty morning, as the train slowly climbed up the Moonbi Ranges, I was sitting up in the sleeper and discovered that on re reading the Arthur Streeton edition (1931) I had missed one plate the night before: Golden Summer. What a magnificent work! To me this has always summed up Streeton's early vision; I believe he considered it to be one of his best works.

The country around Armidale became my Golden Summer. Living in a boarding house and working for the CES could not quench my desire to paint in every spare moment. Early in the mornings I would pedal my bicycle out along the Dangarsleigh Road with an easel strapped on my back and I would spend perhaps two hours working away on a hillside before returning to breakfast and then to the office.

Weekends meant more freedom. Off I would go for miles, searching out subject after subject after subject, and meeting along the way some of the more interesting inhabitants of the northern tablelands. It never seemed to rain, I remember, but maybe that is a quirk of memory. Strangely enough, many of the people I came to know while at Armidale could have walked straight out of the pages of Patrick White's Tree of Man and Riders in the Chariot. This was long before I realised that he too had lived in the area many years before.

Looking back, it must have been a timid looking creature indeed who arrived at Smith's Boarding House that warm January afternoon in 1962, for I found out later that the other inhabitants took bets on my lasting not more than two weeks in that establishment. Nine months later I had outlasted most of them and gained a little experience in the process.

In Armidale I learned fortitude and independence; I found adventure as well. It was a great place. Far from the city, the art of the 1890s became my guide. A romantic employment office clerk who couldn’t quite believe in the 20th century created many pictures of golden hills and distant Blue Mountains with little pale moons rising above idyllic bush land pastorals.

Being conveniently blind to the harsh realities of life I was able to innocently set off in pursuit of my life's ambition to join the ranks of Streeton, Roberts, McCubbin and Withers. It was at least ten years after our first meeting that I again came across Barry Willoughby, by chance one day, when I visited Tyrrells bookshop which was now located in Crows Nest. I was surprised he was still there, and was delighted when he immediately asked me if the Art in Australia volumes had helped in any way. What a memory! I explained that my work continued to bear no relation to present day trends, a point, which concerned me not a little. 'Be yourself', he insisted, as I purchased some titanium white, 'You can't be anyone else!' The benevolent Barry seemed to spend half his time sorting out the problems of Sydney artist’s they flocked to his shop in droves. Whilst no doubt they purchased sufficient quantities of art materials to keep him gainfully employed, I am sure it was often only an excuse to seek encouragement and helpful advice. It is good to know that such caring people still exist in this world.

My indecision and occasional self doubt seemed to evaporate as the years passed by, making it easier to come to the conclusion that the CES need not be my companion for life. Having already made one frantic attempt to escape from the Public Service in 1968, resulting in a mere six months' freedom, it was nine years before I built up enough courage to take another leap in the same direction. This time I understood what was involved, so I had taken precautions money wise to ensure that the 'freedom' continued indefinitely. Working six and a half days a week (well, sometimes anyway!) at something you love doing is obviously far more enjoyable than waiting for advancement in the nine to five, Monday to Friday world of Government employment. Besides you didn't have to get dressed up to go to work!

The only problem is self discipline, especially in those first six months or so when you wonder if you'll ever earn any income. After ten years, professionalism cloaks like a second skin and the ideas flow in a steady stream, as well as hopefully the wherewithal to live. The popular conception of artists carousing and generally spending their time making merry is not really true of the vast majority, who are so keen on making a reputation as well as earning a reliable income that they barely have time to sleep, let alone celebrate. Anyway, if you stop working you begin to rust.

My wife laughed upon reading this last sentence. She feels that the presence of two small boys has somewhat interrupted her progress as a sculptor. Having made her escape from teaching to live the life artistic, Krysten now finds domesticity and motherhood entangling her erstwhile winged feet! However, she assures me that the joys of motherhood more than compensate for the temporary hiatus. Krysten's work attracted me long before I made her acquaintance, and she said my pictures had done the same for her. She remembers coming across a large painting of mine for the first time and thinking: 'Goodness, I didn't think people could paint like that any more.' Such remarks are very good for one's vanity!

We appreciate and criticise each other's work, finding in our partnership both an emotional and a professional strengthening. Living at Wamberal provided us both with a quiet, semi rural atmosphere in which to work, while being within easy reach of the city. I remember people asking me after we had lived there for a little while if I was unemployed or on long service leave, as they couldn't quite believe that artists could make a living from the sales of paintings.

Krysten's work blossomed at Wamberal, resulting in some quite ambitious terracotta and bronze achievements being successfully exhibited at the Cooks Hill Galleries in Newcastle in 1984. She always meant to create a life sized 'Fallen Icarus' in the garden but the birth of our first son put an end to that project perhaps one day it will eventually appear, to boggle the mind of the milkman!

One man exhibitions are a wonderful way of making a reputation, provided they are carefully planned and well presented. Over the years I've managed to have a number of these shows, finding the interaction between artist and viewer most rewarding. Many of the plates in this book have been reproduced from exhibition paintings created for clients in New South Wales and Tasmania, the sources of much of my inspiration. Victorian subjects are also lately becoming of great interest to me, especially the Grampians, and I hope to spend a lot more time there in the future.

When it comes to deciding what to paint, every artist thinks differently. The straight transcription of a superlative scene can be the approach of one, while another may opt for an interpretation allowing for imaginative digressions, the landscape providing a vehicle to venture beyond what is merely fact.

Landscapes are pursued. The artist develops the hunter's instinct, sneaking up on a rare find unawares. Around the Hunter Valley of New South Wales lie a few of the subjects that I have made my own with the passing of years. At Glen Oak, where the Williams River flows slowly through casuarina country and swamplands there is a viewpoint from a friend's home on a hill high above the surrounding countryside that must take in the most perfect classical panorama ever created. I first saw it two years ago and have since itched to use some smaller studies in the making of a major picture. It was pure 'Claude Lorraine': the man would have wept with delight. Do you think I would even breathe this location to another traveller on the grand highway of art? Indeed not! The prize has become mine. For the next few years I shall develop this theme until a definitive image emerges.

When one paints, the choice of mood and colouring cannot be settled quickly it takes ages to bring forth the treasures of the subconscious. Often by under painting in a variety of greys, one can formulate ideas more easily, for through this misty veil delicacies of treatment can be planned well in advance of final finishing. Such is the case with paintings of moonrises. These must be handled ever so gently if they are to succeed.

One of the major problems confronting the painter of larger canvases is the combination of subtlety and strength required to give weight to the painted statement. Standing for hours in front of a huge canvas can be tiring when one is in a poetic mood, and painting with real feeling. It is at these times that a great deal of care should be exercised in not trying to rush effects onto the canvas. Far better to sag onto a convenient chair about three metres from the easel and gaze 'enraptured' at progress! Then, renewed, arise and put the required touch where it will have most impact. Large canvases present large problems, not the least being subject matter, which must catch and hold one's attention from a distance. This is important, because the artist's interest has to be held also, from start to finish, otherwise the lack of 'thrill' will result in a nondescript and empty effort a waste of time.

One has only to look at the majority of '6 foot' canvases exhibited at the annual Royal Academy Exhibitions between 1890 and 1914 (courtesy of the Royal Academy yearbooks) to realise just how lifeless 'canvas covering' can become. All the old pictorial clichés, which so rightly enraged the 'modernists' of the time low horizons, minimal subject matter and nondescript compositions gave, I imagine, little to the, viewers of the day, and probably a great deal less to the modern eye.

I recall reading that Streeton also complained about it when he was in London between 1898 and 1907. Still, the framers would have been content all that curly, swirly decoration covered, in gold leaf, dancing around 24 square feet of buttery oil paint. This was something of an art form in itself! But I digress.

There comes the moment when a major picture is completed to your satisfaction. Everyone is asked to look but woe betide any who dare to question this or that effect. To be lauded and called a 'master' is quite sufficient comment! It sounds odd, I suppose, but without a certain amount of praise the spirit tends to flag and the artist runs the risk of developing slightly antisocial tendencies!

This leads me to make a comment on the role those members of the public play in my corner of the art world. When it comes to criticism, it is amazing just how much can be learned from an interested bystander. The eye cannot be easily tricked into believing that wrong is right, and people judge art works from this viewpoint. Like any other creative artist I've had to learn some unpleasant lessons and hear things said that displeased me intensely, but in listening I gained valuable knowledge and that pushed me to greater effort. Constructive criticism is a boon, not a bane.

At exhibitions, where many people view my latest offerings from the easel, I am constantly surprised at the differing responses to any one painting and I find it stimulating. It also spurs me on to further creativity. Thus, like the many who travel more for the sake of the journeying than the destination, I shall continue my creative meanderings, secretly hoping never to meet journey's end.