Brett Whitelely is a national treasure, but you need only look at his work to see that he's from Sydney. It's obvious. Like the Emerald City itself it's seductive, punchy, fecund, writhing in a self-satisfied indulgence, just as it's befouled by ferocious melancholy, baked into its canvas pores by the January sun. Quite simply: Whiteley IS Sydney.
This is where Whiteley spent his final years - an airy space tucked into a narrow street. The exhibition on the bottom floor rotates quarterly while upstairs stays the same. It's a time capsule of personal ephemera: sunglasses, records, postcards, photos and other insights to the alchemical shift - from young Sydney boy to revered Australian artist
Su-Sa: 10:00-16:00