I remember finishing off my drawing in a communal lounge in an old pub in Broken Hill. An old shearer who had drunk a few too many beers was trying to aim his fork laden with spagetti into his mouth. You guessed it, most of his food landed on him or the floor. He was ever so polite and kept apologising to me but I didn't take offence. Broken Hill is in far west NSW in Australia. A mining town with a flourishing art community. The surrounding desert was so beautiful and the colours of the sky at sunset held such magic for me.
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