Imagine uncovering a piece of history hidden away for decades, a silent testament to a painful chapter in Australia’s past. That’s exactly what happened when a long-lost Indigenous artwork, created over 70 years ago by a child from the Stolen Generation, was rediscovered in the trunk of a regional Western Australian museum. This isn’t just a story about art—it’s a story about resilience, loss, and the enduring power of creativity in the face of adversity. But here’s where it gets even more compelling: this artwork, drawn by 12-year-old Claude Kelly in 1947 at the Carrolup Native Mission School near Katanning, was found nearly 200 kilometers away from its place of origin, tucked away in a trunk for over 25 years. Why was it there? And how did it end up so far from home? These questions linger, as the curator who received the donation decades ago has since passed away, taking much of the story with her.
Claude Kelly’s piece is just one of hundreds of Carrolup artworks that have scattered across the globe, often under circumstances that raise eyebrows. For instance, in 1949, Englishwoman Florence Rutter was gifted hundreds of these works to exhibit and sell in London. Meanwhile, American collector Herbert Mayer amassed 127 pieces, which later found their way to Colgate University in New York, only to be rediscovered by chance in 2004. These artworks, created by children who were forcibly removed from their families, are more than just historical artifacts—they’re windows into a time and experience that many of us can barely comprehend. But here’s the controversial part: should these artworks, born out of such trauma, remain in international collections, or do they rightfully belong back on the lands and in the communities from which they were taken?
Today, Claude Kelly’s artwork is safely preserved at the John Curtin Gallery in Perth, where it’s being meticulously cared for. Patricia Ryder, the gallery’s senior Carrolup adviser, emphasizes its significance: ‘For the families of these artists, this could be the only tangible link to their loved ones—a connection they might not even know exists.’ And this is the part most people miss: these artworks aren’t just relics of the past; they’re a call to understand history through the eyes of the children who lived it, not through our modern lens.
The journey to restore these pieces isn’t easy. Many, like Claude Kelly’s, have suffered damage from insects, dust, and poor-quality materials—a stark reminder of the harsh conditions under which they were created. Lisa Liebetrau, Carrolup collections officer, notes, ‘These works were made with whatever was available, often in environments where the government provided subpar materials.’ Paper conservators are now working tirelessly to restore them, ensuring their stories can continue to be told.
The search for more Carrolup artworks is far from over. With only 17 artists identified out of 127 pieces in the Herbert Mayer collection, the race is on to attribute more works to their creators. In 2022, an exhibition of Carrolup art toured the United Kingdom, aiming to uncover pieces that might be hanging in homes or galleries abroad. ‘While we hope to bring them all back,’ Ryder admits, ‘the reality is, this may not be possible. Our focus now is on reconnecting these artworks with the families and communities they represent.’
This discovery raises a thought-provoking question: What does it mean to reclaim a piece of history, especially one born out of such profound injustice? As we marvel at these artworks, let’s also reflect on the stories they tell and the voices they represent. What do you think? Should these artworks be returned to their communities, or do they serve a greater purpose in international collections? Share your thoughts below—this conversation is far from over.
