It was a stinking hot summer’s day on the family farm at Ballendella [1] in Regional Victoria and I decided to ride my horse to the back of the farm to see my Grandpa. We galloped the mile long dirt track over roughly farrowed paddocks through gates and past dams. The wind blew onto my face as we raced to the back of the farm and I was free. I arrived to greet Grandpa, with my horse covered in a lather of white foaming sweat. On seeing the state of the horse my Grandpa berated me: “What do you think you are doing to that horse Susan?” At thirteen years old I was made aware of the dangers of overextending my horse.

Horse ownership played a significant role in the family transport businesses that typically relied on the resilience and strength of the draught horse. Belonging to my grandfather Seward Charles Newman, the draught horses hauled goods from Rochester to Swan Hill in Northern Victoria. With an interest in the horse that went beyond his livelihood, he was an advocate for exceptional grooming and horsemanship. Grandpa loved his horses. My father John Newman also enjoyed the benefits of owning his horse which he used for working purposes on the farm.

A passion for art and the horse have been the driving force behind this research project. My childhood experience whilst growing up on the farm involved being surrounded by animals. My father bought my first horse Stormy, a grey stock horse, when I was twelve years of age. From this experience I learnt the value of horse ownership, how to ride and care for the horse, and that distinctive bond that forms between human and animal. In later years my last and favourite horse Mia was a beautiful black retired show jumper, a large barrelled Warmblood [2] with strong legs and large feet. Mia and I spent many days working or taking leisurely rides on the farming and around the local area until her death in 1998 at age 18. The sense of loss of a loved animal can be similar to that of losing a close friend. I remember Mia’s characteristics and her large black eyes peering at me through the kitchen window. I recalled these moments as I read the Light Horse soldiers’ stories and their empathy towards the suffering and fate of the Australian horse during World War I in the Middle East.

Throughout my art practice, the visual form and motion of the horse has been a pre-occupation of mine. When we look at the horse we see a body capable of motion and coordination much like our own.[3] The collective motion caused in riding the horse unites human and animal, because ‘we can know their mobility almost as they know it, when the blow of the hoof on the ground is our moment of touch with the ground beneath us.’[4]

This unity was certainly felt by the soldiers and the horse during the Palestine Campaigns of World War I and throughout one extraordinary event, ‘The Charge of Beersheba.’ At the beginning of this investigation, I learnt of the capture Beersheba, in October 1917 during a conversation re-told in the broadest sense:

Eight hundred Australian horsemen had charged for miles on their horses towards thousands of Turks. In the heat of the Sinai desert, the horses were mad, crazed with thirst. They galloped straight at the Turks, straight towards the firing line. And hardly any (Australian soldiers) were killed. And the Aussies won.[5]