I didn’t know Bea Maddock’s work until I saw it on the walls of the National Gallery of Victoria. There’s something soul-destroyingly sad about her work that I can’t quite put my finger on.
The statement as you enter the gallery is touched with melancholy, about an artist who tries to crack the art world, doesn’t quite make a living, retreats home and hones her craft.
Bushfires engulf her studio in the Ash Wednesday fires on 1983 and a life’s work is destroyed.
She’s one of Australia’s greatest print-makers, imbuing her works with a haunting spirit, tearing at the darkness behind my heart. It’s beautiful.