HUSKISSON'S COLLINGWOOD

I walked down to Collingwood Beach late in the afternoon, hoping to watch the kite surfers. Their sails had filled the sky earlier, tugging at the horizon like restless birds. But by the time I reached the sand, they were gone. The wind had dropped without warning, leaving the beach hushed, as if the day itself had drawn to a close.

Only a few bathers lingered, packing up slowly, reluctant to leave. The water lay flat and silver, the bay emptied of motion. Above the horizon, a single low cloud hung in the otherwise blue sky. Out of place, suspended and watchful, it lent a strange kind of magic to the silence.

I stood there with that odd mix of disappointment and gratitude. There is something in the sound of Huskisson that always tugs at me, like a memory I haven’t forgotten. Each time I say it, I see husky dogs with thick fur and ice-blue eyes pulling sleds across an Antarctic plain. That is the picture in my mind: Huskisson, a place that pulls me back, steady as a team of dogs, whenever I let the word slip from my mouth.

Oil on stretched canvas / 50cm x 70cm / framed in Tasmanian oak.

* This painting is still drying and will not ship until late October 2025