John O'Dal

John O'Dal

Otway Ranges, Victoria, Australia

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Below is a preamble for an exhibition sent to a friend who is curating it with me.

I include it here on Redbubble because the exhibition, to me, is a concrete work of art which will bring together years of stuff which has been happening around me: in my head, in my classrooms, in my studio – even in my soul.Please don’t see this as being dark. It is in fact the complete opposite. I am sure all artists will relate to what I am doing – if not actually wish to do it.

I will post reminders in the coming weeks and hopefully meet the Melbourne and Victorian locals who occasionally follow my offerings on Redbubble at the show.


Make Your Band's CD Cover

Google ‘Photos’ and pick and copy any at random from the first page only.

Google and select the last four or five words of the last quote. This is your album’s title.

Go to wikileaks. Choose ‘random article’. This is the name of your band.

Put it all together in photoshop or similar editing program.

John O’Dal


Autumn in Arcadia, where I live, brings the ever-changing wonders of nature.

One of these is field mice. The colder weather sends them on an annual migration to the nearest house.

Preferably one with central heating, or at the very least, a refrigerator with an out of sight out of mind warm humming motor which offers comfort and seclusion twenty four seven until the coming of Spring.

Field mice have a role to play in nature’s great plan. What this is I am yet to learn.

And how they survived from the moment of creation until the eighteenth century in Australia without the comforts of white civilisation is a question science is yet to satisfactorily address.

They are tiny things, almost cute in the half-light of evening as one enters the kitchen to prepare a hot chocolate ready for re…


Written by Michelangelo as an old man………………….

I live alone and miserable, trapped as marrow under the bark of a tree. My voice is like a wasp caught in a bag of skin and bones. My teeth shake and rattle like the keys of a musical instrument. My face is a scarecrow. My ears never cease to buzz. In one of them, a spider weaves its web, in the other one, a cricket sings all night long. My rattling catarrh* won’t let me sleep. This is the state where art has led me, after granting me glory. Poor, old, beaten. I will be reduced to nothing, if death does not come swiftly to my rescue. Pains have quartered me, torn me, broken me and death is the only inn awaiting me.