I have only visited Victoria once—Melbourne, to be precise—where I took part in a small cultural exhibition at the National Gallery, in support of a collection centred around Dalí’s oil paintings. I remember, quite vividly, how the sky outside changed in an instant. The light of the setting sun cast a warm, glowing hue across the heavens, turning it a striking shade of red.
It was in that moment that the colour palette for this painting took shape in my mind. I chose soft pink as the dominant tone, curious to see whether such a delicate hue could sit in harmony with the green of the grass and the finely detailed blossoms. Pink is often a jealous colour—it can overwhelm the light and character of the main roles. But here, I wished to let this tender pink not only blend seamlessly into the sky but also gently support the floral elements in the foreground, allowing their beauty to shine all the more vividly.
In this way, the painting seeks to capture something of Victoria’s charm—its playful elegance, its radiant, almost flirtatious grace.
It is precisely in the spirit of playfulness that this piece stands apart from the others in the series—for it is the only one to feature an animal. Yes, a kookaburra. If you look closely at its expression, you may find it rather delightful: its right eye holds a touch of innocence, while the left betrays a mischievous glint, as though it were in on some private joke.
Its posture is no less expressive. With feathers proudly fanned, it seems to revel in its own beauty—bold yet unselfconscious. And yet, it does not stand, but rather sits heavily upon a curling vine, its plump body settled with almost theatrical indolence. This unhurried stance, half-lounging, speaks quietly of the relaxed, unbothered rhythm of life in Australia—unrushed, sun-warmed, and altogether at ease.
Each year, Melbourne hosts the State Rose & Garden Show, where—under the golden sun—over 5,000 rose bushes burst into bloom, creating a tapestry of colour across the landscape. It was during one such year that I encountered a particularly striking English rose, a specially cultivated variety of David Austin’s. Compared to the Boscobel rose, it bore a slightly larger bloom, with an intricately layered centre. Yet the outer petals enclosed it so tightly, so modestly, that the flower seemed to hold its beauty inward, with a quiet dignity that felt almost aristocratic.
To honour the history embodied in such roses, I chose to capture this one in oil. I had recently learned about heirloom roses—a term used to describe those cultivated prior to 1867, the year that marked the birth of the modern hybrid tea rose. These heirlooms, unaltered by contemporary breeding, are passed down through generations. Often bearing dense, rounded blooms, they tend to grow as climbers or shrubs, their forms closer to that of the wild rose—untamed, enduring, and filled with quiet grace.
Some of these heirloom varieties bloom only once a year—typically in spring. Gallica, Damask, Alba, Bourbon, and Centifolia roses all belong to this ancient lineage. One begins to understand, perhaps, why damask rose oil is among the most precious and costly in the world—its beauty, like its scent, is fleeting, rare, and never taken for granted.
If you wish to uncover more of the stories woven into this painting—including the tale of the pink salt lake that lies just beyond the blooms—you will find them gently gathered in the pages of 《The Beauty of Australia》.
—— A.G