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Each week, Benjamin Law asks public figures to discuss the subjects we’re told to keep private by getting them to roll a die. The numbers they land on are the topics they’re given. This week, he talks to Tony Albert. The Girramay, Yidinji and Kuku Yalanji artist, 45, is Australia’s first Aboriginal official war artist, was awarded France’s Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in 2025, and has exhibited his work across the world.
RELIGION
What do you remember of the rhythms of church and faith, growing up in suburban Brisbane? We weren’t a particularly religious family, but in the 1980s – coming from a low socioeconomic Aboriginal family – we found a community system in our church in Arana Hills. Childcare came through the church, for example. It was a mechanism of community and survival, more so than a deeply embedded belief in religion. I’m really happy to have had that upbringing.
You’re Aboriginal through your father. Was there a sense of Indigenous spirituality, culture and tradition in your upbringing? Yes, but it wasn’t until I was older that I realised our spirituality and values were necessarily Aboriginal, because they were just part of life. You don’t think – with family connectedness and hierarchy, even your vocabulary – “Oh, this is an Aboriginal thing.”
What’s your personal version of heaven and hell? An art teacher once told me [about the Allegory of the Long Spoons]: in hell, food is everywhere and everyone has a spoon, but the handle is so long they can’t get it into their mouths. Heaven is the exact same scenario, but everyone is feeding someone else. What I love is how it’s the same circumstance: it’s how we deal with the situation that makes us who we are.
What are your Commandments – or guiding principles – for the art that you make? Reflecting historical truth is the biggest underlying factor, as well as optimism in the face of adversity. I can say that, because I stand in the shadow of giants who were able to knock through those doors for me. So my approach doesn’t have to be as [politically] aggressive as my mentors’, and I really value that. Success for me is using a gentle kindness – and a calm, non-aggressive way – to discuss difficult things. I provide something nostalgic as an entry point. It might not hit people on the head straight away, but later they might think, “Oh, I get what Tony was talking about.”
Complete this sentence for me. “Other people go to church; I go”… to the studio.
MONEY
You’ve mentioned your humble beginnings. What was money like growing up? Non-existent, although we were a very hard-working family: Dad was in the army and Mum worked across multiple jobs. We never went without. We used second-hand and op shops, which is where I first came across “Aboriginalia” [kitsch, racist paraphernalia depicting Indigenous people, which Albert now uses in his art].
So why embark on an art career? For the financial security? [Laughs] You know what? At a younger age, I thought being an artist meant making money! I don’t think I would have it any other way. It’s still week-to-week, but I’m always confident the work will come. My feeling is: I know how to live poor, I know how to eat poor, I know how to dress poor. If that happens again, I’ve got it covered.
What’s the richest you’ve been? The biggest financial gain I had was in 2014 when I won the Basil Sellers Art Prize, which was $100,000, then the Telstra National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Art Award, which was $50,000. I was the most hated artist in Australia! A very senior artist said to me that year, “Go and buy a house,” because there had been times for him, in the 1980s, where he didn’t sell a thing. Owning a house was what kept him going. So I bought a house on Brisbane’s outskirts, which seemed like it was on the edge of the world. It wasn’t something I particularly loved, but it has been a lifesaver.
What’s your indulgence now? Labubu dolls! [Laughs] But I love giving as well. If I had $100 in my bank and someone needed it, I’d just give it away. I know I’ll always get through.
BODIES
You and your sister grew up with dark skin around mostly white kids. How did that make you feel in your body? Not great. All you want to do is fit in and feel a sense of belonging. That’s why art has played such a pivotal role for me. Art was my saviour and safety: I could go to that classroom in lunch hours and do my own thing.
Tell me about your tattoos. How many do you have now? [Counts] One, two, three, four, five, six … seven.
Which one was your first? A Smurf – just above my arse. I collected Smurfs as a child: they were distributed through service stations. So every time we got petrol, I got a Smurf. I’ve still got my huge collection. So there’s a beautifully nostalgic relationship there.
When do you feel most comfortable in your own skin? I feel really particular about my clothing! I’m well aware that I wear clothes a lot of other people probably wouldn’t, and I’m known in the art world for my matching sets. But if I wore them to my local shopping centre in northern Brisbane …
What superpower do you wish you had? Could you really pass up invisibility? That would be very cool.
Whenever I hear people say they want to be invisible, I immediately think, “Perverts”! [Laughs] Yes! But also, why not?
This is a pervert-positive space. Finally, what superpower do you actually have? Being a conduit between different people. I meet someone and know instantly who they need to meet.
Tony Albert: Not a Souvenir is at Sydney’s Museum of Contemporary Art until October 19. The 5th National Art Triennial: After the Rain – curated by Albert – is touring until 2028.
