John Peter Russell is a myth in his own native land. They are all myths in Australia, Russell’s mates. They’re my envied elders, my mentors. Hearts in their hands they engraved their passion across canvas after canvas. Under Claude’s wing, Russell spellbound attacked his paintings, oil strewn on the canvas savaged by tempestuous salty air. Gritty rain thieving the pigments from their purpose. Just as Saturn devoured his young, Vincent’s only heirs were nibbled at, gnawed. With a great gnashing of teeth he expelled his Thujone soaked visions. Spat out yellow lead, lashed fast to his transcendent soul he ate his paint. And here I find these myths wandering in my mind, across the land I see. Manipulating my hands, soaking my eyes, linked by the Australian, John Peter Russell.