The National Gallery of Australia (NGA) has an exhibition on the short, brilliant career of Hugh Ramsay.  Although the Gallery is closed now, along with many other of the world’s museums, I thought I’d share the work of this remarkable Australian artist.

Born in Scotland in 1877, Ramsay came to Australia on a ship with his parents. He lived in Australia his entire life, except for a short stint in England and France in 1900 to 1902. Although he died at the young age of 28 from tuberculosis, his paintings represent some of the greatest works of portraiture in Australian art. The NGA website’s search function allows people to enter his name to see more of his many drawings and paintings.
​
Ramsay grew up as one of nine children, and family played a large role throughout his life. His talent appeared early. He painted Kookaburra at age 14. 

In 1897, at age 21, he painted The Tent, a modern and abstract work for the time. That same year, he painted Lamplight, which is reminiscent of some of JMW Turner’s work.

​His interest in portraits started early. In 1897, he painted his sister Madge. What I found most interesting about this portrait was the Australian landscape in the background. 

​In 1901, Ramsay travelled to Paris and learned from artists like Diego Velázquez, John Singer Sargent, and James McNeill Whistler. He painted himself and his roommate, a fellow artist, many times.

My favorite painting of his from this period is The Four Seasons, inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites and Alphonse Mucha.

​For his health, Ramsay returned to Australia. There, he focused on portraits of family and the occasional landscape.

His masterpiece is probably Two Girls in White, painted in 1904. Inspired by Sargent’s painting of a group of sisters in gowns, Ramsay’s rendition is less formal. He places his sisters close to us, making viewers part of the scene.

He died in 1906, aged 28, at his family home in Melbourne. Ramsay has been called an “artist’s artist,” admired by many in his own generation and those that followed. One of his early mentors wrote after his death, “Australia, I think, does not yet realise what she has lost in him but she will in time, and I and some others I know will do what we can to make his memory live.”
​
This exhibition does indeed bring Ramsay and his work alive for a modern audience.

​When I travel overseas, I look for connections to Australia. Often I find them in unexpected places. On a recent visit to Glasgow, I saw this exhibit in the Riverside Museum.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, transportation for life was a common punishment for Glaswegians who broke the law. Until 1867, they were transported to America, Africa, and in the later part of that period, to Australia.

In the 19th century, Australian authorities asked for 1500 female convicts to be sent from Glasgow to North South Wales to increase the population of women there. The convicts could bring their young children with them. And with that, the story ended in Scotland.

When I returned to Australia, I discovered that Scottish women made up a very small percentage of the convicts transported; most came from England and Wales, and especially Ireland. The women arrived on transports ships like the Mellish, pictured above. Many would end up in the Parramatta Female Factory, which was modeled on the workhouses of England.

Travel not only broadens my mind but also increases the number of connections I can make between pockets of forgotten history around the world.

The Tasmanian tiger, also known as the thylacine, was a large carnivorous marsupial that carried its young in a pouch. Fossils and cave paintings show that it once lived all over Australia. Thylacines didn’t survive on the mainland, dying out about 3,000 years ago. Scientists speculate that pressure from dingos, a type of wild dog, may have been a factor, along with a dryer climate and less vegetation. By the time Europeans arrived in Australia, thylacines were found only on the island of Tasmania, where they lived in the eucalypt forests and coastal lands. Early settlers called them Tasmanian tigers because of their dark stripes. Thylacines hunted at night and ate possums, other marsupials, rodents, and small birds.

In 1863, naturalist John Gould predicted that more people and more development would be the end of the Tasmanian tiger. He was right.

Settlers targeted the animal, believing that thylacines killed sheep. The Tasmanian Government paid a bounty on every thylacine killed between 1830 and 1909. More than 2,000 were slaughtered, and the species never recovered. 

What thylacines remained were kept in captivity, and the last one died in 1936 at a zoo in Hobart. In the wild, the animal was officially designated extinct in 1986 after years of fruitless searches.

​This display at the National Museum of Australia, and others like it, are most likely all that's left of the Tasmanian tiger. 

That dismal thought doesn't stop people from trying to find them though. In Tasmania, there are still eight to ten sightings reported every year, but no convincing proof. And if Tasmanian tigers can't be found, maybe they can be brought back to life. Progress has been made in attempts to clone the thylacine.
​
As I walked away from the thylacine exhibit, I hoped it wasn’t a portent for the future. Australia leads the world in extinction rates, with 29 species lost since colonial times. I wonder what the chances are that one or more of the animals I see every day will end up in a display like this.

Recently I saw the exhibition Storytime: Australian Children’s Literature, which runs until February 2020 at the National Library of Australia. It traces the development of children’s literature from colonial days to the present and includes everything from picture books for small children to novels aimed at young adults. For many native Australians, this would be a nostalgic journey, reminding them of many old favorites from childhood. For me it was an odyssey through a whole new landscape—a chance to learn more about Australia’s culture by exploring what stories authors have chosen to tell children.    
​
No surprise, I gravitated to the stories featuring iconic animals like kangaroos, possums, koalas, and wombats. Women have written many of these books, and the work of three authors resonated with me.

The earliest work, written by Ethel C. Pedley and published in 1899, is called Dot and the Kangaroo. A kangaroo comes to help Dot, a young girl who’s lost in the bush. After eating berries that the kangaroo offers her, Dot can understand the animals around her.  The other bush animals help the kangaroo and Dot to find her way home. The book was made into an award-winning film in 1977 and eight more movies were made about Dot. Both the book and the movies include the idea that humans have had a terrible effect on the lives of native animals.

Mem Fox focused on possums, and in 1983, finally published Possum Magic. She started writing an early draft in 1978, and like Jackie French later, the book was rejected many times. The possum protagonist is Hush, whose grandma made her invisible to keep her safe. The problem is, Grandma has forgotten how to reverse the spell, but she knows it has something to do with food. The pair leave the bush to journey across Australia, trying traditional Australian foods along the way to find out which ones will make Hush visible again. This story, a popular favorite for Scholastic Books, has never been out of print since it was published and was turned into a musical. 

Five years later, in 1988, Mem Fox wrote Koala Lou, when Australian singer Olivia Newton-John asked her to write a book about a koala named Blue. That idea led to Koala Lou, a determined little koala who enters the Bush Olympics to get her mother’s affection and approval.

​Jackie French has written more than 140 books. Her breakthrough picture book, Diary of a Wombat, published in 2002, features a lively, demanding wombat named Mothball. The book is in the form of Mothball’s diary entries for a week as she tries to coexist with her new human neighbors. She soon learns how to train them to give her carrots, her favorite treat. With charming illustrations and Mothball’s deadpan delivery, this picture book is laugh-out-loud funny.  
​
After seeing this exhibition, I not only feel like I learned a lot about Australian culture through its children’s literature, but I also made some new literary friends along the way.

On this anniversary of 9/11, a friend and I found ourselves on a hill to the north of Canberra. Walking through the National Arboretum, we listened to a guide talk about the 94 forests of different trees planted at the Arboretum.

Our guide stopped in front of a modest tree, called a Chanticleer Callery pear. 

This pear tree, he told the group, had been planted in 2011. The U.S. Ambassador at that time, Mr. Jeffrey Bleich, had planted the tree to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.

This type of pear tree, our guide continued, has a history. In October 2001, 9/11 rescue workers at Ground Zero found a Chanticleer Callery pear tree under the ruins. Its trunk blackened, its roots and limbs snapped, the tree was alive, just barely. It was nursed back to health and later replanted in 2010 in the National September 11 Memorial, where it became known as the Survivor Tree. That tree, the guide concluded, and the one planted here in Canberra to commemorate that awful day are both symbols of hope.

My friend and I hadn’t spoken during the tour; no one knew we were Americans. And yet the guide had told the story thoughtfully, and the Australians had listened with respect and sympathy. What could have been a moment of alienation and separation, of feeling so far from home, was instead intensely moving because of the kindness and empathy of the people around us. Thank you, Australia.

How citizens go about protests can tell you a lot about their country. In an exhibit called Activism: Forces for Change in Canberra at the Canberra Museum + Gallery, I saw this:

It’s a float called Stop Arms for Export. Handmade from oil drums and metal swimming pool walls re-purposed from a dump, the float is 7 meters long (about 23 feet). It was used to protest defense companies coming to Canberra to show off their wares to the Australian Government in the Australian International Defence Exhibitions (AIDEX) of 1989 and 1991.

The 1991 exhibition drew around 2,000 protesters, leading to more than 200 arrests. As part of these protests, nine naked men hid inside the arm of the float. The plan was to rush the exhibition center’s main gate, and then the men (calling themselves Penises for Peace) would jump out inside the exhibition.

The police foiled their plan, diverting the float and then overturning it. The men spilled out and were promptly arrested.

The protests, however, were effective. Because of the disruption and bad publicity, local and state authorities refused to allow a massive arms exhibition in the Australian Capital Territory (ACT) ever again.

What did I learn about Australia from this local version of the Trojan horse? Its people will band together with their mates and find the quirky even in something they believe in passionately. 

​I grew up outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and whenever I feel a little homesick, I just go to my local Australian grocery store. The rows of Heinz products soon remind me of my hometown.

How did the H.J. Heinz company get all the way from Pittsburgh to Australia?

In 1869, using his mother’s recipe, H.J. Heinz started selling bottled horseradish from a pushcart on the streets of Pittsburgh. Other products soon followed, including sauerkraut, vinegar and pickles. Most famously, bottled ketchup and baked beans came a little later.

Those baked beans were Heinz’s entrée to the rest of the world. London’s famous store, Fortnum and Mason, became the first overseas sellers of Heinz products. The Heinz company introduced baked beans to England and marketed them heavily, eventually succeeding in making baked beans a staple of the British diet.

Heinz products came to Australia via American miners working in the goldfields in the 1880s. They shared Heinz foods with their Australian counterparts. Heinz representatives also held in-store demonstrations to introduce unfamiliar products like baked beans or India relish (a sweet mixture of pickles, celery, and spices).

​In 1935, Heinz’ Victoria factory began producing bottled horseradish, followed by baked beans and canned spaghetti.

​Heinz quickly learned to adapt to local tastes and change their products accordingly. The famous ketchup formula has different variations across the world. 

Heinz also purchased Wattie’s, a venerable New Zealand company, in 1992. 

​Today, Heinz products are sold in more than 50 countries, including Australia. Traveling around the world can still remind me of my hometown.

The Birds of Australia—a massive seven-volume work published between 1840 to 1848 and one of the most influential books about Australian birds—contains stunning illustrations by a woman named Elizabeth Gould … but you’d never know it. Her name doesn’t appear on the title page. The individual plates are credited only to “J & E Gould.” The “J” is John Gould, Elizabeth’s husband, a taxidermist and ornithologist. The book’s author, he took credit for each illustration, even though the work was his wife’s. She was reduced to an initial.

Born into a military family in England in 1804, Elizabeth was probably taught to draw and paint, skills that were expected of middle- and upper-class women of the time. At 22, she was working (unhappily) as a governess. Her brother, a taxidermist, introduced her to one of his colleagues, John Gould. They married in 1829 when they were both 24.

John wanted to write a book about birds from the Himalayas and informed a no-doubt-surprised Elizabeth that she would do all the drawings, paintings, and lithographs. She taught herself the new art of lithography while pregnant with their first child. Elizabeth designed and illustrated 80 lithographs of 100 bird species, all hand colored.

When the book was published, John listed only himself on the title page. In the preface, John noted her “well-known abilities” in “delineating these birds.” Although Elizabeth didn’t sign any of her artwork, each plate bears a small credit: “Drawn from nature on stone by E. Gould.” The book was a huge success, leading to another project on the birds of Europe.

Over the next five years, Elizabeth worked on the illustrations and created 448 plates for the book. She also gave birth to five more children, but only three survived.
​
During this time, Charles Darwin brought back bird specimens from the Galapagos Islands, and Elizabeth created the illustrations to go with John’s text about the birds. One of these was of the famous Galapagos finches, referred to in Darwin’s theory of natural selection. Elizabeth’s name didn’t appear on any of the illustrations. 

Again, when Birds of Europe was published, Elizabeth’s name was not on the title page. Worse, each illustration now had John’s initials along with Elizabeth’s. He often claimed that she contributed only the lithographs, while he was responsible for the original art. Both contemporary sources and documentary evidence of the original sketches confirms his assertion was untrue.

With another successful book, John now wanted to tackle Australian birds. Elizabeth’s brothers both had farms in New South Wales, so the Goulds could base themselves there for the new project.

Elizabeth didn’t want to travel to Australia. The Goulds had four surviving children, and the plan was to take their oldest son (age seven) with them, leaving the three youngest children with Elizabeth’s mother. The idea of leaving behind her youngest child Louisa (only six months old) was extremely distressing, and Elizabeth nearly didn’t go. However, John insisted, so they traveled to Australia in 1838.

In her letters to her mother and diaries, she didn’t talk about her art. She missed her children and mother and was frustrated by the separation. She stayed busy, working on hundreds of drawings and paintings and learning about native plants as well as the birds. She worried about how many bird specimens her husband was collecting, calling him “a great enemy of the feathered tribe,” and wrote to her mother: “I hope he leaves some of the birds in the skies.”
​
As a zoological artist, Elizabeth faced real challenges in the days before photography. Bird specimens to draw from were collected, killed, and stuffed. The resulting illustration was often stilted and unnatural, a style referred to now as “birds on a stick.” Their time in Australia allowed Elizabeth to observe and draw birds in their native habitat. Her art had to be scientifically accurate, lifelike, and beautiful—she achieved all three. 

​Elizabeth spent a little more than two years in Australia, returning to England in 1840. A year later, she died of puerperal fever after giving birth for the eighth time. Another artist had to finish the lithography from her drawings and paintings.

While John Gould never put her name on the title page of any of their books, he did name an Australian bird to memorialize Elizabeth, calling it the Gouldian Finch. He noted that his late wife had “laboriously assisted me with her pencil, accompanied me to Australia, and cheerfully interested herself in all my pursuits.” Ironically, even though he named the bird in honor of Elizabeth, he used only his surname.

​Today, although her husband is still sometimes credited for her work, Elizabeth’s enormous contributions are becoming better known through Her Natural History campaign, related presentations, and a novel written about her. The enormous breadth of her work can be seen in various archives, including this one of her lithographs, thanks to the Biodiversity Heritage Library. 

In the National Automobile Museum of Tasmania is a green 1974 Holden Monaro HQ GTS in completely original condition. Even though I know nothing about cars, it didn’t take long for me to recognize how special this one is.

To understand why, imagine a foggy night in early January 1975 on the Tasman Bridge in Hobart. In the Derwent River below, a bulk ore carrier, called Lake Illawarra, collided with several pylons of the Tasman Bridge. A large section of the bridge deck collapsed, falling into the river and onto the ship. The ship sank, and seven of its crew died. Four cars failed to stop in time, plunging into the river, killing five occupants.
​
The green Holden Monaro was balancing precariously on what was left of the bridge.

Frank Manley was the driver of that new car. His wife Sylvia was with him, along with their daughter and her uncle in the back seat. As Frank later recollected, the lights had gone out on the bridge, so they thought there had been an accident. His wife realized the bridge was gone when the road’s white line disappeared. She yelled for Frank to stop, and he hit the brakes. 

“Next thing,” Frank remembered, “we dropped over, and the wife said, ‘Put her in reverse!’ And I said, ‘Bugger reverse, get out!’” Frank explained later, “The back wheels were off the concrete, off the bridge, and if I had put her in reverse, I think the vibration would have sent us the rest of the way off the bridge.”

Frank and his family escaped the car. Since the bridge collision had happened on a Sunday night, there was very little traffic, with few cars on the bridge. The disaster had cut the main artery to Hobart’s eastern suburbs, causing major disruption.​

The repairs to the bridge took nearly three years. It reopened in October 1977. Frank Manley continued to drive his Holden Monaro.
​
Every museum is filled with objects that defied the odds, that lasted long enough to make it to a museum. This car, however, feels like a particularly lucky survivor.

The Kemal Ataturk Memorial recalls the heroism and sacrifices made by soldiers on both sides. Rather than demeaning adversaries or seeing them somehow as less than human, it asks us to instead acknowledge our shared humanity—a worthwhile thing to do on ANZAC day.