Why Australia’s Relationship With the Beach Isn’t Always Straight Forward

A place of sun-kissed relaxation, or an interface for danger? The beach embodies a complicated legacy.

Article by Lance Richardson

Byron bay beachThe Pass, Byron Bay NSW. Photograph courtesy of Delphine Ducaruge.

When the British colonised the harbour they named Sydney, they didn’t think much of the beaches, although the Aboriginal residents had been enjoying them for centuries, swimming and eating shellfish and creating rock art. Indeed, early settlers were so turned off by the sun and sand that the Sydney Police Act in 1833 incorporated a law prohibiting ocean swimming between the hours of 6am and 8pm, ostensibly for the sake of public decency. It was not until the start of the 20th century that the ruling was finally overturned, and crowds began to flock to the seashore in modest neck-to-knee costumes.

How much has changed. Today, of course, the beach is a cardinal landscape for many Australians, scantily clad in bikinis and budgie smugglers — so much so that it is hard to imagine Australia’s culture without beaches. The bush and the beach: twin compass points, like north and south, used to fix our place in the world. We have evolved from beach-averse into beach lovers, by and large, clustering along the coastlines. “Girt by sea,” as our terrible anthem has it. This is why the surf lifesaver is such a significant national symbol. It was Australia, in fact, which originated surf lifesaving in 1907, pretty much as soon as swimming was made legal.

I am an expat living on the East Coast of the US, and sometimes I get homesick for antipodean life. Whenever I do, I pull a book off the shelf containing a photograph: “Sunbaker”, by Max Dupain, shot in 1937 at Culburra Beach in New South Wales. The silver gelatin print shows a man lying on sand so white it is almost indistinguishable from the sky, so he seems to be floating in his hedonistic bliss. Droplets of water glisten on deeply bronzed shoulders. His head is resting on his hand, vulnerable but carefree. The heat is palpable: you can almost feel the blistering sun. I look at this photo, so famous that I probably don’t even need to describe it to you, and I am instantly transported 15,000 kilometres around the globe to Nobbys Beach, or Bondi Beach, or Rainbow Beach, or any one of the countless beaches etched into my memory after years of visiting them.

If I imagine an Australian beach right now, I picture red and yellow flags flapping endlessly. A lifesaver sits in her high wood chair, surveying a domain of umbrellas and towels. There are surfboards in the waves and seagulls in the air, permeated by the unmistakable smell of sunscreen and hot chips. The sound of someone crinkling the wrapper on a Golden Gaytime.

It is a seductive vision — who wouldn’t want to be there? (Why am I over here?) But lately, my fantasy beach has been invaded by an old memory. When I was 10 years old or so, I saw my younger sister get caught in a rip-tide off a beach, and a stranger had to dive in to rescue her, slicing up his feet on concealed oysters. The pleasure and freedom embodied by Dupain’s “Sunbaker” is mixed up, for me, with recollections of my mother screaming and blood on the sand (my sister was fine).

This memory doesn’t diminish my enjoyment of beaches; I will still gladly go with an Esky and a book. But it does remind me that the beach is a more complicated space than we generally acknowledge.

While they are certainly sites of play and relaxation, they are also wild and can turn dangerous in an instant. When you dip your toe into the tide, you are really dipping your toe into the edge of a vast wilderness. Bluebottles and blubber jellyfish are reminders of this, thrown up from the deep. So are sharks. There is an old story by H. P. Lovecraft and Sonia Greene, “The Horror at Martin’s Beach”, about a monstrous sea creature that attacks lifesavers and sailors. The point of the story is the sea’s unfathomable power: we do not really know it at all. To lounge in the sand, sunbaking like Dupain’s friend, is to brush against this giant force, which also makes itself known through tsunamis. Part of the function of the surf lifesaver is to insulate us from such a troubling reality.

At the same time, the beach is also a place of refuge. Perhaps because they exist on a literal periphery — the edge of a landmass — they also seem to sit on the edge of society. As a result, they invite alternate ways of living. “The Beach”, by Alex Garland, is about this very thing: a supposedly utopian community of backpackers built on a beach in Thailand. Fire Island, near New York, is not too dissimilar with its long, windswept beach. In the 1930s, LGBTQ New Yorkers escaped a repressive city and set up a queer enclave, called Cherry Grove, where they could live as they wanted. The beach gave them freedom.

Even now, when the repression is largely gone, Cherry Grove and its neighbour, Fire Island Pines, remains a home away from home for many people.

For others, though, the beach is a site of violence and conflict: think Gallipoli, Normandy, Dunkirk. Because it mingles people from disparate backgrounds, the beach can see class and racial tensions reach boiling point, as we saw in Cronulla in 2005.

On a more existential level, the beach is also an early casualty of climate change. Across the world, beaches are receding or eroding, some slated to vanish entirely in the coming decades.

But for me, above all, the beach is a reminder of time. Every grain of sand is made of stone or shell — the remaining granules of ancient geological and biological processes. To walk along a beach is to walk over millions of years; as the nature writer Rachel Carson once wrote, sand contains “the history of the earth”.

It is not a coincidence, I think, that the traveller in H. G. Wells’s “The Time Machine”, when he goes far into the future, finds himself on a beach. The beach becomes, in Wells’s novel, the terminus of human evolution. A beginning and an end.

I think of all these things when I look at Dupain’s “Sunbaker”, the most famous photograph ever taken by an Australian. Is there a more beautiful picture in existence? “It was a simple affair,” Dupain once recalled of the day he shot it. “We were camping down the south coast and one of my friends leapt out of the surf and slammed down onto the beach to have a sunbake — marvellous. We made the image and it’s been around, I suppose as a sort of icon of the Australian way of life.”

The Art of Buying Art? Make Things Personal

Whether you rent, own, or are searching for the perfect gift, Rainbow Studios’ Jade Gillett shares her guide to purchasing art that goes the distance.

Article by Victoria Pearson

Jade Gillett of Rainbow Studios, Sydney.Jade Gillett of Rainbow Studios, Sydney. Photograph courtesy of Rainbow Studios.

Rainbow Studios in Darlinghurst is not your typical art showroom; it’s the vision of co-founders (and partners) Jade Gillett and Brent Gold who, after relocating to Sydney from London, set out to create an accessible space where emerging Australian artists could find an audience. “We wanted a place where people can truly connect over art,” says Gillett. Since opening in September 2021, the gallery has become a haven for those seeking contemporary works, blending a laid-back Sydney vibe with bold artistry.

For Gillett, selecting art isn’t just about what’s trendy; it’s about finding pieces that feel personal and lasting. “Start with something that resonates emotionally,” she advises. “Look at how a piece feels in relation to your space and how it complements your existing style.”

In the lead up to Rainbow Studios’ 2025 expansion to a two-level showroom, T Australia sat down with Gillett to get her guide to buying art, design trends and the Australian artists on her radar.

Rainbow Studios in Sydney's Darlinghurst
Rainbow Studios in Sydney's Darlinghurst. Photograph courtesy of Rainbow Studios.

What inspired you to pursue art professionally, and to open a boutique art showroom during such uncertain times?

Our inspiration to showcase art came from a long-standing love of design, creativity and the talent of emerging artists that we personally loved and followed over the years. Even amid uncertain times, we felt there was a need for a space where art could be accessible, meaningful, and celebrated with the support from our online platform and hosting events – a creative showroom felt like the perfect way to bring this vision to life and share it with our growing community.

How does your multifaceted perspective (moving from London to Sydney) influence your work, and how does the Sydney art scene compare to London’s?

Relocating from London to Sydney has opened up career opportunities I may not have found in London. Starting a business here feels more attainable, and small businesses can thrive by building a supportive community eager to see them succeed. The Sydney art scene has a vibrant, fresh energy that’s uniquely exciting. Here in Darlinghurst, we’re surrounded by art and creativity, with a strong appetite for new experiences and emerging talent. Having been in Sydney for seven years now, with only occasional visits back to London, it’s hard to compare directly, but from following London-based artists, I see that both cities are offering great opportunities for recent art school graduates. In Australia, there’s a strong emphasis on artists viewing themselves not just as creators but as brands, which has led to incredible achievements and growth as they navigate the art world with this mindset.

Jade Gillett 2
Jade Gillett of Rainbow Studios, Sydney. Photograph courtesy of Rainbow Studios.

What tips would you give homeowners on picking the right artwork to complement their existing decor? How do you balance size, colour, and style?

For homeowners, I recommend starting with pieces that truly resonate on a personal level, then considering the scale, colour, and style in relation to the room. Large works can anchor a space and become a focal point, especially in neutral settings, while smaller pieces work beautifully as part of a gallery wall or paired together. Colour should both complement and enhance the room’s palette, creating a harmonious flow without overwhelming. Finding this balance between size, colour, and style will make the art feel integrated and intentional. At Rainbow Studios we always want to offer fun, colourful and interesting artworks that you might not usually see, from what we have discovered over the years is that we are introducing a really accessible variety of art for anyone to enjoy and style in their home or workspace.

Now for the renters—what advice do you have for art acquisition when your home feels transient?

For renters, versatile art pieces are ideal as they can easily transition between spaces and styles. Look for meaningful works that don’t require a significant investment – smaller pieces grouped together can make a big impact, and art that’s easy to mount or frame can adapt to new environments. Temporary framing, ledges, or easels also let you enjoy art without a long-term commitment to a specific spot. Even though many Sydney apartments are on the smaller side, we still see clients opting for larger pieces, viewing them as valuable investments that also serve as striking focal points. We love seeing how clients style their pieces, and with our local delivery and installation services, we often get the rewarding chance to see the artwork in place.

What contemporary art trends do you see emerging in 2025, and how can people incorporate these into their personal spaces?

In 2025, we’re seeing a lot of texture, sustainability, and storytelling in art. Artists are delving into layered materials, organic shapes, and narrative elements that infuse interiors with warmth and character. People can embrace these trends by choosing pieces that tell a story or incorporate sustainable, tactile materials—such as canvas prints with natural fibres or sculptures made from reclaimed materials—to bring depth and personality to their spaces. At Rainbow Studios, we’re excited to explore this diverse trend landscape through upcoming partnerships aimed at educating and inspiring our customers to integrate these concepts in their own homes.

For those looking to invest in art, what should they be on the lookout for? Are there any key factors that distinguish a good investment piece?

For art investments, seek pieces that hold emotional, as well as market, value. It’s essential to look at the artist’s career trajectory, the medium’s durability, and whether the work is part of a limited series or one-of-a-kind. Emerging artists can often provide valuable investment opportunities if their work has been well-received. Ultimately, a good investment piece combines aesthetic value with the potential to appreciate over time, but it should also be something that speaks to the collector personally. We have recently just had a near-sell-out show with Australian artist Reif Myers, and we see his art being great collectable pieces. His works are iconic landscapes with many fun, nostalgic features and characters, which will continue to increase in value over the years as he grows into a more established artist.

Who are some of the Australian artists we should be watching right now and what makes their work stand out?

Many Australian artists are producing exceptional work right now. Among them is Jordy Hewitt, a Perth-based artist who recently held her debut solo exhibition with us. Known for her distinctive technique with oil pastels and thick textures, Jordy’s work captures ethereal, dreamy emotions through her large and medium-sized pieces, making each one a striking statement in any home or space. Another artist to watch is Dan Kyle, whose paintings of Australian landscapes evoke a sense of otherworldly beauty. His work resonates because it feels deeply authentic, sparking conversations about culture, nature, and society and pushing creative boundaries in meaningful ways.

Rainbow Studios 2
Inside Rainbow Studios, Sydney. Photograph courtesy of Rainbow Studios.Photograph courtesy of Rainbow Studios.

How do you curate exhibitions at Rainbow Studios? Is there a through line that connects the artists and creators you choose to showcase?

Curating exhibitions at Rainbow Studios is about finding artists ready to take a significant leap in their careers. We carefully select creators who share our dedication to crafting a successful, collaborative exhibition experience. Our commitment to authenticity, brand narrative, and meaningful support is at the heart of what we offer. We seek artists whose work tells a unique story or embodies a thoughtful perspective, aligning with our vision of fostering cultural connections and community. This approach creates a cohesive, engaging experience for our growing audience, both across Australia and internationally. Our goal is to inspire and excite, partnering with emerging artists who make art accessible and impactful.

What is on the calendar for the rest of 2024 and early 2025 – what can we look forward to at Rainbow Studios?

We’re closing out the year on a high note with an array of creative events happening in the showroom, plus collaborations with several brands that will showcase a variety of artists we’ve worked with throughout the year. As we gear up for the holiday season, we’re offering custom jewellery services and promoting our art stockroom, filled with pieces that make perfect gifts and help us prepare for our 2025 exhibitions.

Our biggest news to share is that we’re expanding Rainbow Studios to Level 2 – a project that’s been in the works for some time! Soon, our showroom will span two levels, creating an even larger space for exhibitions and events.

This interview has been edited and condensed.

Under Increasing Cost-of-Living Pressure, Many Australians With Full-Time Jobs Are Taking On a Side Hustle

And they’re finding breakout success.

Article by Nina Hendy

Side HustlersFrom left: Boss Media founder and actor Tahlia Crinis. Photograph by Sally Flegg Photography; The brand strategist and now gallerist Damian Madden. Photography by Rose Jiiwulee Madden / A.Single.Piece.

Working full-time as chief of staff for one of the world’s biggest tech brands keeps Clare Barrins more than busy. She relocated to Silicon Valley from Melbourne almost seven years ago for what many would consider a dream role operating within the upper echelons of leadership. Although it can be demanding and challenging at times — one day, Barrins could be mapping out and executing a strategic plan, the next managing stakeholders and working out how to improve operational efficiency for the tech juggernaut — she loves the work. Yet Barrins always wanted to pursue her own business. On and off for the past decade, she has been working on various ideas, but never fully progressed them. That was until 2022, when she conceptualised plans for a new venture after trying to buy new swim shorts and finding none in stores that appealed to her. “Due to my own insecurities and not wanting to wear traditional swimsuits, I was living on the sidelines,” she says, “missing out on these moments with my children and friends.”

Now, after a long day in the office, she ticks over to Australian business hours to work on her side hustle, Sheila, a swim- and activewear brand she launched last year, having built it from scratch. “I’m on Zoom most nights of the week, actively working with the Sheila teams in Australia,” Barrins says of the brand, which instantly found a niche. Australian sales have grown 25 per cent year-on-year and Barrins plans to expand into the US market later this year. Right now, Australia has a vibrant side-hustle culture, as motivated, entrepreneurial people close their front door after a day at work and then begin building businesses they can call their own. The barriers to entry are relatively low thanks to the availability of a wide range of online tools and services to help set up new businesses, empowering go-getters to push ahead with their side hustle. Meanwhile, real wage growth remains relatively stagnant against the high cost of housing amid a shortage that’s at crisis levels, prompting households to tighten the belt, pick up extra work where they can and get creative about how to grow their income. New research by Great Southern Bank shows that Australians are looking for ways to combat unrelenting cost-of-living pressure and keep home ownership in sight by taking matters into their own hands, rather than leaving it up to their boss to dictate their financial worth. Two in three (64 per cent) of Australians say their financial plans have been set back by at least 12 months due to the current economic climate, and 67 per cent of homeowners have started or say they are considering a side hustle or second job to help cover loan repayments. Meanwhile, labour force data from the Australian Bureau of Statistics show that 6.5 per cent of people have more than one job.

It’s hardly surprising. The cost of living crisis is dragging on as households battle against the highest inflation rate in more than 30 years. Living costs have risen as much as or higher than the Consumer Price Index, with food prices up 7–8 per cent and utility costs up 12–14 per cent. A second research report from the web hosting company GoDaddy found that establishment costs for side hustles were low in many cases. Almost a third of respondents set up their side hustle for less than $500, and the majority are making at least $2,500 per month from it (almost a quarter are earning 10 times that). More than half (56 per cent) say they spend less than 10 hours a week running their new venture.

Damian Madden
The brand strategist and now gallerist Damian Madden. Photography by Rose Jiiwulee Madden / A.Single.Piece.
Upcyle founder Kylie Wallace
Upcyle founder Kylie Wallace. Photograph by Giorgia Maselli.

This path to a supplementary income stream also appealed to Damian Madden, a busy brand strategist who has co-founded a contemporary art gallery in Sydney’s Surry Hills area with his wife, Rose Jiiwulee Madden. He describes A.Single.Piece as an “immersive art experience” that exhibits artists from across the Asia-Pacific region, with a particular focus on art from Korea (Rose is Korean). The gallery also derives income from offering art advisory services to brands and businesses. Madden, the father of two young children, believes in the power of art to transform lives, and recognised the opportunity to do something different that provided a platform for artists to gain greater exposure for their work. “Since our launch late last year, we’ve held the Australian debut shows for seven artists, and 70 per cent of our artists are based overseas, selling pieces priced between $2,000 and $5,000 each,” he says.

Helping people sell their unwanted items and sharing the profits with them has become a reasonably profitable side hustle for Kylie Wallace. By day, she’s the CEO of the charity matching service Seedling Giving. As it’s her own venture, she has the flexibility to try her hand at other social enterprises. She spotted a chance to help households wanting to declutter, and launched the Melbourne-based business Upcycle. Most of its customers want help selling household goods like furniture, rugs and art, but the company has also sold gym equipment, a camper van and electrical items including a vintage turntable. While it’s early days, Upcycle has already proven profitable after 20 sales, with a deceased estate in Melbourne’s Brighton neighbourhood contributing to a record week’s takings of $12,000. Wallace is now in talks with investors to scale the business.

Conservative spending trends have sparked growth in the second-hand economy, while many consumers want greener products as they look for ways to shrink their carbon footprint. “Australians want to do their bit to reduce their waste, recycle household products and lighten their impact on the planet,” Wallace says. “But they’re time poor and fearful of being scammed.” Wallace draws a modest monthly salary from Seedling Giving, which represents about 75 per cent of her personal income, while Upcycle earnings constitute the rest. “Helping people and the planet is my passion,” she says. “I’m so grateful to be working in this space and helping to make a difference through these two very different and unique ventures. At the moment, income generated from Seedling Giving is reinvested in the business to help it grow, while Upcycle is great for being able to generate quick cash to keep everything afloat.”

Tahlia Crinis.
Boss Media founder and actor Tahlia Crinis. Photograph by Sally Flegg Photography.

Tahlia Crinis brings in extra dollars by picking up acting gigs, despite already working long days at her own Sydney-based PR business, Boss Media. After auditioning for acting school and studying two nights a week for a year, she has been training and building her experience, mostly in theatre and short films, and working as an extra. “I put the extra money I earn back into acting, paying for professional headshots, acting classes, filming showreel footage and paying subscriptions to all the platforms actors need,” Crinis says. While Crinis has always loved acting, she says that when she was growing up, a grandparent, along with schoolteachers and friends, urged her to get a “real job”, so she went into public relations. In 2016, her husband encouraged her to finally give acting a go. “People say the acting bug never goes away and for me, that’s true,” she says. “I always found myself thinking ‘what if’, because acting felt like an out-of-reach dream. So I decided to do something about it.”

Crinis has had some incredible opportunities already, including being picked as a stand-in for Asher Keddie on the drama series “The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart”, for which Crisis spent two months filming around rural New South Wales, and getting to watch Mark Wahlberg and Ryan Gosling in action. One day, she hopes to find fame and fortune herself.

Natalie Scanlon
Writer and Oska & Ed founder Natalie Scanlon. Photograph courtesy of Natalie Scanlon/Oska & Ed.
Jacqueline Beltz
Okkiyo founder Dr Jacqueline Beltz. Photography by Ksenia Belova.

Sometimes, ideas for side hustles seem to land in your lap. Dr Jacqueline Beltz, an  ophthalmologist, has become a beauty boss after seeing countless patients with sensitive eyes having to forego eye makeup. It was difficult to know which products to recommend, because most weren’t tested on people with sensitivities. “Traditional teaching in ophthalmology has always exacerbated the issue,” Beltz says. “Most ophthalmologists are men, and the teaching was always to tell patients not to wear makeup. The problem was, I hated that advice. I didn’t want to take makeup away from people.”

Beltz decided to create her own makeup line, starting with mascara. It meant learning about mascara science, branding, business and entrepreneurship — Beltz admits she was naive about how much work and expense would be involved. Eventually, she launched Prioriteyes mascara, and promptly sold more than double her projected sales. Beltz’s brand, Okkiyo, is the first Australian beauty brand dedicated to the more than two billion people globally with low vision. Okkiyo now has 19 stockists in Australia and an online store, and more products in development. Beltz hopes to disrupt the beauty industry and change the game for those with vision impairments, eye sensitivity and allergies. “Most of the stockists have come to me,” she says. “When I have time, I’ll focus on this more and I’m sure we can have a lot of retailers, but for now the slow approach is working nicely and is at least manageable.”

For many side hustlers, it can take a while to turn a profit — and there are tax implications to consider. But the adage “It is better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all” seems to propel these entrepreneurs forward, making the effort feel worthwhile.

Natalie Scanlon, a freelance writer, has created a range of vegan leather tote bags and briefcases under the brand Oska & Ed. While she admits the initial investment was substantial, working directly with the manufacturer cuts out middleman costs, meaning the profitability of the product is relatively high at $300 for the tote. Scanlon is confident that in time, the investment will pay off. “Making the business financially successful means I have to launch products individually for the time being,” she says. “Each product launch and subsequent sales are then reinvested into the business to support the next product launch.”

Inspiration for Scanlon’s side hustle came from attending an event in Sydney. “I noticed that the majority of attendees were reaching for their phone,” she says. “So many attendees were looking for a seat near a power point to charge their devices.” The problem was so noticeable, it distracted her from the event. So Scanlon created the Muse planner with internal power bank and wireless charger ($180). While Scanlon admits that her side hustle is essentially “also her social life”, she says she’s happy building the business.

In Silicon Valley, Barrins says managing a side hustle in addition to a full-time job is a major juggle. She says she doesn’t think she has yet nailed work-life balance — “I’m not sure anyone who’s juggling a full-time job, a business and a family does,” she says — but employing a part-time nanny for school pickups and help with extracurricular activities certainly helps. “I do lead quite a scheduled life,” Barrins says. “I block my calendar as needed and book things in advance, and I say no to a lot of things.”

Beltz says that it always helps to celebrate the wins, no matter how small. “It’s easy to get stuck in the grind and forget to do that,” she says. “The to-do list is infinite when you start a small business, so the most important tasks need to be at the top. Also, done is better than perfect. Some tasks need to be absolute perfection, but others just need to be done, and I try not to get the two mixed up.”

Above all else, a side hustle requires a degree of passion, says the gallerist Damian Madden. “If you can tie it to something that’s important to you or provides additional benefits outside of financial ones, then that makes it easier to push through and maintain the motivation when times are hard or you’re pushed for time.” Madden says it’s critical to have realistic expectations, constantly reassess your goals and be prepared to walk away if it doesn’t make you happy. “Having that plan can make the decision making easier and less emotional,” he says. “Because you’ve invested a lot of yourself in this project, it may be hard to see the forest for the trees down the line.

“You also need to set some rules to make sure you maintain a balance with the other aspects of your life, especially if this is effectively a second job and you do it at home,” Madden continues. “It can be all too easy [for the side hustle] to take over your life.”

Kylie Wallace agrees. Her advice for those managing multiple ventures is to focus on building a strong support system, prioritise tasks that drive the most value and be disciplined with your time. “Also, be willing to adapt and make changes as you go,” she says. “Flexibility is key to thriving when juggling multiple roles. Remember that balance is dynamic — some weeks one venture may need more attention than the other, and that’s OK. The goal is to maintain overall progress and impact across all fronts.”

A Dangerously Modern Exhibition That Redefines Art History

“Dangerously Modern: Australian Women Artists in Europe 1890-1940” spotlights 50 pioneering Australian women who redefined modernism on the global stage.

Article by Victoria Pearson

Dangerously modern 1From left: Grace Crowley ‘Miss Gwen Ridley’ 1930, oil on canvas on board, 72 x 53 cm, Art Gallery of South Australia, Adelaide, purchased 1995 with the assistance of South Australian Government Grant; Alison Rehfisch ‘Oranges and lemons’ c1934, oil on canvas, 50 x 40 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased 1976 © Estate of Alison Rehfisch.

In a landmark exploration of Australian modernism, “Dangerously Modern: Australian Women Artists in Europe 1890-1940” delves into the artistic achievements of 50 pioneering women whose works redefined the global art scene in the early 20th century. Presented by the Art Gallery of New South Wales (AGNSW) and the Art Gallery of South Australia (AGSA), the exhibition unites over 200 pieces spanning paintings, prints, sculptures, and ceramics.

Launching in 2025, in honour of the 50th anniversary of International Women’s Year, the exhibition will initially debut at AGSA in Adelaide, followed by its Sydney premiere at AGNSW.

“Dangerously Modern” illuminates the daring journeys of these women artists who, defying societal constraints, traveled from Australia to Europe’s artistic capitals at a time when women were beginning to access professional art training and exhibition spaces in cities like London and Paris. In these bustling hubs, they found inspiration and opportunity, often embracing permanent lives abroad. As Emma Fey, AGSA’s acting director, notes, Dangerously Modern “builds on the strengths of AGSA’s collection of South Australian-born modern women artists,” showcasing icons like Dorrit Black and Margaret Preston, alongside Sydney-born counterparts such as Grace Crowley and Thea Proctor.

Girl with Cigarette
Agnes Goodsir ‘Girl with cigarette’ c1925, oil on canvas, 99.5 x 81 cm, Bendigo Art Gallery, bequest of Amy E Bayne 1945, photo: Ian Hill.
Bessie Davidson ‘An interior’
Bessie Davidson ‘An interior’ c1920, oil on board, 73.1 x 59.7 cm, Art Gallery of South Australia, gift of Mrs C Glanville 1968.
Hilda Rix Nicholas 'An Australian (Une Australienne)' 1926, oil on canvas, 103 x 81 cm, National Gallery of Australia, purchased 2014 © Bronwyn Wright.

The exhibition’s title, inspired by an article by Proctor, who famously encountered the term “dangerously modern” upon her return to Australia, underscores the boundary-breaking spirit of these artists. “This exhibition reconsiders the contributions of fifty women, challenging long-held definitions of Australian art,” co-curators Wayne Tunnicliffe, Elle Freak, and Tracey Lock explain.

Alongside celebrated names, “Dangerously Modern” reveals lesser-known voices, expanding the narrative of Australian art to include figures whose lives and works moved fluidly across continents, connecting with artists in New Zealand and Europe.

“Dangerously Modern” will be on view from May 24, 2025, through to 7 Sep at the Art Gallery of South Australia, agsa.sa.gov.au, and from Oct 11, 2025 through to Feb 1, 2026 at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, artgallery.nsw.gov.au.

David Finnigan’s “Deep History” Is a Stark Wake-Up Call on the Urgency of the Climate Crisis

With his latest stage show, the playwright and performer from Canberra probes 75,000 years of our collective past to ask how we might survive our current era.

Article by Lance Richardson

David FinniganThe theatre maker David Finnigan’s new show, “Deep History”, is part of a decade-long project about planetary transformation in the face of climate change. Photography by Sarah Walker.

At the end of 2019, David Finnigan, a writer and performer from Canberra, agreed to do his father a favour. John Finnigan, a climate scientist, was being treated in hospital for a spinal infection, and the drugs made him too foggy to work on his paper about “six key moments in human history, six turning points where we changed course”. The premise was that humanity is “an adolescent species”, still growing up, but by examining these turning points in our collective past we might be able to glean lessons, or morals, to help us secure our admittedly precarious future. How, for instance, had Homo sapiens survived the catastrophic eruption of Toba, a supervolcano in Sumatra, which nearly wiped out humans (and 13 other mammal species) some 74,000 years ago? What might the history there teach us about resilience?

John couldn’t focus while he was recovering, so he asked if his son would type his notes into a rough draft. As the new year approached, Finnigan agreed to create what was, in theory, “a guide for how humanity can get through the climate era”.

The one-man show “Deep History” dramatises Finnigan’s engagement with his father’s notes. Staged at the Public Theater in New York through this month, it unfolds like an idiosyncratic TED talk. Barefoot, casually dressed in a T-shirt, Finnigan skitters around the stage for 70 minutes, cycling through a slide deck and playing snatches of pop music. He describes each of humanity’s “turning points”, like the Toba eruption, and then offers his proposed findings on a handy flip chart. (“1. Survival is possible.”) He pours sugar into an oversized funnel, each grain representing 100 people on earth, so that sugar cascades over the table and onto the floor. As the show progresses, he becomes increasingly jittery, agitated — so agitated, in fact, that the central premise threatens to break apart, because something else is going on here too.

In 2019, when Finnigan sat down to write “Deep History”, bushfires were ravaging New South Wales. He was dividing his time between London and the English countryside, but his best friend, Jack Lloyd, was back home on the front line. “He was in this situation,” Finnigan recalls, “where he needed to make a decision between evacuating on a highway through a forest that was going up in flames, or staying put with the fires approaching, and with three kids in the back of the car.” As Finnigan worked on his script in England, Lloyd was texting photos and video from an unfolding apocalypse. “All of those stories about deep history suddenly became very real, because in this exact moment, my friend was making life and death decisions,” Finnigan says.

Finnigan performs “Deep History” at New York’s Public Theater this month.
Finnigan performs “Deep History” at New York’s Public Theater this month. Photography by Sarah Walker.

He wrote the dissonance he felt into his show, which is also set in 2019. On stage, as he tries to talk his way through each of humanity’s turning points, he becomes sidetracked by what’s happening at that moment in Australia, a horror defying any attempt to draw out reassuring lessons.

“We seek comfort by understanding what we’ve already survived,” Finnigan says. “But there is also the experience of going through a shock like this.” “Deep History” makes space for both comfort and shock, and the result is as powerful to watch as it is difficult to categorise. Is this a play? A presentation? A call to arms?

Finnigan has been making experimental performances about the climate crisis since the early 2000s, when he got involved in Canberra’s do-it-yourself theatre scene. It was “very punk”, he recalls, with little interest in high-end production values or in appealing to an older audience. “We were really making work in this sealed bubble, and because of that it became really odd. Our reference points were science fiction and punk music, electronic music, video games.” In the atmosphere of anything-goes, Finnigan and his friends began to approach scientists at institutions such as the CSIRO. “One of the great secrets I always want to share with people is that if you email a scientist, they’re probably going to email you back,” he says. “We were these nobodies, but we just said, ‘Hey, can we meet with you?’ And they were like, ‘Yeah, sure.’ ” The scientists were happy to share their work, and Finnigan responded to what he learned by crafting shows about game theory, complexity theory, ecology and so on. By his own admission, some of his early efforts were misfires — too didactic to be effective — but he finally found a footing as an artist by approaching the work as an open discussion with an audience.

Deep History
Finnigan performs “Deep History” at New York’s Public Theater this month. Photography by Sarah Walker.

In 2014, he was commissioned by the Aspen Island Theatre Company to write a play exploring climate change in the context of Australian politics. His pitch-black comedy, “Kill Climate Deniers”, caused an outcry before it even reached the stage. Right-wing pundits complained that the title was an incitement to terrorism. “I was referred to the police,” Finnigan recalls, still clearly astonished.
At first no theatre company was willing to take on the risk, so he reconceived the play as an album, a dance party and as a Parliament House walking tour. (Finnigan is nothing if not resourceful.) In 2018, Sydney’s Griffin Theatre finally agreed to stage a first production. By then,
Finnegan had incorporated the controversy into the play, so that it now included a layer of meta-commentary. “I actually brought in the comments from these climate deniers, the attacks from these right-wing pundits, as well my response to those people, the ways I found myself questioning the work,” he says.

More recently, in 2023, another of his productions was staged at the Belvoir St Theatre in Sydney. “Scenes From the Climate Era” attempts to grapple with the sheer velocity with which our thinking about climate change has shifted over the past five years alone. “There had been so much movement, in both good and bad ways,” Finnigan says — people are more aware of the science, but disinformation has also run rampant. “I really spent the first couple of years of the 2020s just trying to keep up. I was like, ‘Oh my God, I’ve been in this space for 20-plus years and now things are going so fast.’ ” He is now working on “The Seventh Assessment”, an epic eight-hour staged adaption, in three parts, of the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change Seventh Assessment Report, which is due to be published in 2028.

“Deep History” was initially performed just days after it was written to raise money for Australian bushfire relief. Finnigan wanted to help friends and family as they struggled with the chaos back home. He has since performed the show at the Barbican in London, at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and during a brief visit to New York’s Public Theater last year. The Public programmers were so impressed that they invited him back for the full run of performances this month.

Finnigan sees his role in “Deep History” as a kind of catalyst. He tries to salvage meaning from the distant past and he confronts his confusion about the turbulent present, but it is all with the hope that something will resonate with the audience. Indeed, the most interesting part of the whole evening happens after a performance, he insists, over drinks at the bar. “People come to the show with their own stories, their own ideas, their own experiences, and the conversations are electric,” he says. Finnigan’s goal is to spark discussions about what it means to be alive during the Anthropocene. How do we make sense of a planet where ecosystems are literally transforming as a result of human intervention?

“There are so many stories happening in the world today,” Finnigan says. “A lot of the theatre I make is just wanting to share those stories. It has nothing to do with trying to communicate any sort of message. It is simply a case of, ‘Have you heard about this? Because it is wild. Let’s talk about it.’”

The show will play at the Public Theater in New York from 5 to 10 November 2024.

Is the Pathway to Happiness Lined With “Yes”?

The consequences of being open to possibility are, by definition, unknown — and might be exactly what we need.

Article by Lance Richardson

Pathway to happiness

Before the phrase “yes, and?” was made into an anthem of unflappable disregard by Ariana Grande and Mariah Carey, it was a well-known rule in improvisational comedy. An actor throws something out there, and his scene partner accepts the statement and runs with it, adding their own embellishments:

“The children appear to be turning into goats,” says Actor One.

“Quick, let’s hide the washing before they start eating it off the line,” replies Actor Two.

Actor One then begins gathering the laundry, and adds their own new twist. If they refused to do this, or if Actor Two rejected the initial observation that the children were turning into goats — if they said “no”, in other words — the scene would grind to a stuttering halt. Saying “yes” ensures momentum on stage, while fostering an atmosphere of generative possibility. Anything can happen because the actors are open to collaboration and serendipity.    

I’ve always loved the principle of “yes, and”. During high school and in university drama club, I was dreadful at improv — the example above is proof that little has changed in the intervening years. But it was thrilling to roll with the punches, to see how others adapted on the fly to some outlandish suggestion they had to accept. We are confronted, at virtually every moment, with so many decisions. What if the decision was, in a way, made for you? I often think about “The Dice Man”, a cult novel from 1971 by Luke Rhinehart (a pen name for the American writer George Cockcroft). Its narrator, a psychiatrist, submits himself entirely to what he calls “dice therapy”, where a roll of the dice decides his actions in every situation. The plot that ensues is predictably horrifying: as an agent of chaos, he ends up wreaking havoc on his friends and (spoiler alert) killing a patient. But there is something seductive about the central conceit, in the same way that “yes, and” is a kind of liberation for an actor.

For the sake of self-preservation, we have to say “no” a lot in our lives. Yet this impulse can calcify into a defence mechanism, a way of protecting the self from every possible contingency. In the face of uncertainty, we respond with “no” to maintain control of the scene. We do not accept every suggestion and run with it, or even most suggestions, preferring the safety of what we already know. This only becomes truer the older we get.

But what if we stopped doing that? What if we said “no” less? Lately I’ve been wondering what would happen if I imported the improv rule into reality, saying “yes, and” at moments when I might instinctually shut down discussion. Rolling dice feels like a step too far into randomness, but I could do with a little more spontaneity as I enter my 40s.  (Call it my midlife crisis.)

Indeed, if I survey my life thus far, some of the most extraordinary moments arose out of just this kind of open-minded submission to the current, when somebody made a suggestion and instead of saying no, I said yes.

Once, for instance, I was staying in a beach town on the south coast of Sri Lanka. I was using a homestay for accommodation, somebody’s spare room, and my host, after we got talking, asked me if I wanted to accompany him to a local ceremony. I had no idea what I was getting into, no idea what he even meant by “ceremony”, but I went on a whim — and found myself at an exorcism. A young woman was ill, and her community believed she was plagued by a demon. So she squatted on a mattress, looking glum, as elaborately masked dancers moved around her to the rhythmic beat of drums, trying to drive away the spirit and thus restore her to health. I was amazed, watching the torch fire in this private ritual, to think about the tourists sitting right that moment in beachfront restaurants less than a kilometre away. Two different worlds, which I had crossed between with a spontaneous “yes”.

Another time, I was sailing in the San Blas Islands off Panama, on a yacht owned by a friend of a friend. The trip had been something of a surprise: I’d had no idea where we were going when we got up that morning. This new friend, seeing how overwhelmed I was by these pristine islands, dared me to call the airline and change my flight so we could sail off into the sunset for a few days. Again I said yes. I called, paid the penalty fee — and immediately dropped my phone, by pure accident, into the ocean. It felt like the universe nodding its approval. We sailed into one of the best weekends I have ever had as a traveller, all unplanned.

There are countless other stories I could tell here. There are moments in my work, too, when I said “yes” to something and it changed the direction of my career. My first book only happened because I took a friendly suggestion and ran with it all the way to the archives. I could just as easily have put it out of mind — the easier option, really, which would have set me on a very different path.

Then there is my marriage. Because every marriage, I think, is really a commitment of “yes, and”. When you make those solemn vows, what you are making is the vow to share the stage with another person, to accept their prompts and to build on what they say continuously. No healthy marriage can function on a strict diet of “no”. Even compromise requires a little give.

Going forward, maybe I could do even more, become a better scene partner. Maybe this is where I say “no” less. Next time I feel the urge to shut down one of my husband’s propositions, what if I did the opposite? What if I assented to everything for an entire week? He’d be more satisfied, I bet, but who knows, maybe I would be as well.

Maybe the pathway to happiness is lined with “yes”.