I found this picture when skimming through some photos I took in Tasmania. Since then, I still can smell the freshness of the grass along our road trip.
Port Arthur, where used to place thousands of prisoners for Australia and England in history. I would love to live here until death as a prisoner if I got to see this beautiful scenery everyday. It was a historical, slightly sad place where kind of reflects to the whole Tasmania. I like their euro like buildings with vintage look. This place has never been fully developed before it starts to wither.
This image reminds me of father sketch practice when he was at uni. I enjoy chasing the line on the papers, so I feel the purity of joy, imagining how grateful he used to be drawing with a dream. Sadly, dad is not like that any more. He has the stereotype of "artist personality" that is (I might be very wrong) overly pride, bad mood, overly insistent, lack of communication with others because he believed so much there was no one could understand him and he ridiculously trust that the only one who understand him will need to say no more. Hence, he didn't get to survive in the majority of society, he has his eyes on the top of his head so he could see no one, trust no one... As time passed, he's still holding a great dream with less and very little confidence deep in his mind, he become even more harsher to people around to hide his sense of inferiority, protecting himself from being criticized or corrected. I see him bullying himself, hiding himself in a dark cage...
The more I look at his sketch, the sadder I become, but I can only see this happening to him. Family is like this, generation is like this, isn't it?
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