Lost and Found

In 1990, at the age of 22, I poured my heart and soul into creating a unique collection of 30 artworks. Painted in acrylic on recycled Australian timbers, these pieces were meant to celebrate the rich culture of the Central Australian Pitjantjatjara people and the incredible wildlife of Arnhem Land.

The inspiration came from my first trip to Uluru in 1986. Armed with a sketchbook and pastels, and with permission from the local Aboriginal community, I spent time illustrating portraits of the people I met and the magnificent birds of prey I encountered, particularly the raptors that seemed to dance on the desert thermals. Those early drawings became the blueprint for this special body of work.

The paintings were scheduled for an exhibition intended to honour the land, its people, and its creatures. However, that exhibition never materialised. En route to its destination, the truck carrying all 30 pieces mysteriously disappeared from a truck stop in Western Queensland. The explanation I was given never sat well with me, and I was devastated. I had invested not just time, but deep emotion and cultural respect into that collection. Losing it felt like losing a part of myself.

For more than three decades, I assumed the paintings were lost to time, either destroyed, hidden away, or forgotten.

Then, 32 years later, I received a text message from a friend. He had been telling someone about my art, casually googled my name, and stumbled upon something extraordinary: two of those long-lost paintings had surfaced at a Brisbane auction house. He sent me a photo. There they were unexpectedly, vividly like old friends returning from the wilderness.

Among them, I immediately recognised Kukatja, a portrait of a young child whose presence had stayed with me over the years, and a bold depiction of a Wedge-tailed Eagle, a bird I’ve always felt a powerful connection to. Seeing them again stirred a mix of emotions—grief, nostalgia, and yes, even a strange sense of joy.

I missed the auction. Had I known, I would have bid on them in a heartbeat—less for ownership and more for the emotional reunion. I would have gladly paid whatever price they fetched, simply to have them home again.

To whoever originally took those paintings well, I suppose I can say this: at least you had an eye for good art. And to those who now own them, I sincerely hope they’re displayed somewhere special. They carry with them stories of culture, history, and memory. More than just paint on wood, they are fragments of a journey that began in the red heart of this country, crafted with respect and awe.

And somehow, after all this time, a part of that story found its way back to me