Above the sink in the Munupi Arts Centre there is a handprint left by an unknown artist and all artists.  Some newer technology could unravel the spirals of the fingers or the hollows of the palm but none of that matters.  The face has been marked pronouncing the lion.  

Her teaching face watches the hands of the novices, only permitted to learn on clam shells!  Yet, as she directs the accolytes to use their brushes to work with a palette of three colours, her eyes demand a patterned precision.  The spilled splatters merge with all the surfaces at the Arts Centre.

When the traditions are honored and the whitewash is laid on the background of body or canvas with palm leaves then the work can begin.  Then the work of hands and heart spreads across the night sky.

      

Somewhere in my image bank there are preconceived notions of greater and lesser lights.  Around  the Tiwi artist I had to take stock of what my head said, where my handprints went and finally learn that two feet might not be enough.  In the school grounds a bread baking oven, a memory.  The good news is that head, hands and feet live in and create a spirited world,