Commissioned to paint my favourite part of planet earth— Central Karoo
This painting, titled Arundel Farm, was commissioned by Rob Southey—a man whose roots run deep into the Karoo soil. Arundel is the name of the Southey family farm near Colesburg in the central Karoo... I'm sure a place of memory, of dust and sunlight, and the quiet constants of rural life. When Rob reached out to me about doing a piece based on this farm and this part of the Karoo, I was immediately drawn to the idea. As you might know by now, I have a deep and somewhat incurable affection for the Karoo. So to be handed the opportunity to not only paint the landscape but also build something emotionally significant for someone else—well, that was right up my alley.
This isn’t a photographically exact replica of Arundel Farm. Rather, it’s a Bonney interpretation. If you’ve seen my work or read any of my previous blog stories, you’ll know by now that I’m not out to copy a photo pixel for pixel. That’s not really what painting is about for me. It’s about mood. It’s about memory. It’s about the feeling of a place. Rob sent me a handful of photos: the farmhouse, the old barn, the fynbos with its distinct Karoo hues, the Arundel sign—and, wonderfully, many, many sisal plants. Jackpot!
The Sisal plants again
Yes, the sisal plants again! They’re right up there on my list of most favourite Karoo artefacts and natural treasures. These tall, spiky sculptures seem to hold something ancient and knowing. Their silhouettes have a way of anchoring the scene, of saying, “This is here. This is Karoo.” I’ve already gone on about them in another blog post (Central Karoo Sisal), so I won’t drone on again here. But suffice it to say—when I saw those plants in Rob’s reference photos, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
An easy brief right up my alley
Rob’s brief was an interesting one: very specific and very loose at the same time. The subject was clearly defined—Arundel—but he gave me complete freedom in terms of interpretation. Our conversation was something along the lines of, “Do your Bonney thing—but here are photos of the Southey farm.” That, to me, was saying—"Do your Bonney thing—but make it personal to me". And I just loved that. I love the trust in that. It’s always a gift when someone allows you to work with both freedom and meaning. I didn’t want to just reproduce one image. So what you see in this final piece is a kind of amalgamation—a ‘mishmash’ (If you like)—of the photos Rob sent, blended with a good dollop of me and my own soul.
As it often happens, what started out as his painting gradually became our painting. And if I’m being completely honest, had it not already been committed to Rob, this would’ve been one of those I’d have loved to keep for myself.
Talking colour
Let’s talk colour. This piece is very blueish-grey in tone. Rob’s photos already leaned that way, but you might say that blue-grey is also my natural habitat. Anyone who knows me well enough (especially my long-suffering wife Janis) knows that my entire wardrobe lives somewhere between blue and grey. It’s the colour of my tee shirts, my socks, my jackets, my mood when I haven’t played a round of golf for a while—it’s just me. So when those Karoo blues and greys came through in Rob’s imagery, I leaned into them wholeheartedly. This is a painting that feels visually quiet, dusty, and honest—just the way I like it.
Not to mention gates
Another layer I added—something that wasn’t in Rob’s photos—was the foreground: a gate, a fence, and a bit of dirt road leading you into the picture. Those elements are classic Bonney. I find that a good composition, especially in a landscape like this, always benefits from a strong foreground. It’s like opening a door to the scene. It invites the viewer in, gives the eye something to step into before it starts wandering around in the rest of the image. These gates and fences are part of the Karoo language, and they’re part of mine too. If you’ve read my 'Wagon Wheel Gate" post, you’ll know that I have a thing for gates. It’s probably borderline obsessive.
To me, a gate isn’t just a practical object—it’s metaphorical. It’s about entering a space. A transition. Maybe even a bit of storytelling in its own right. Who came through this gate? Who shut it behind them? What stories passed along that dusty road? It adds more than structure; it adds a sense of time.
It’s not just a landscape; it’s a memory-scape.
As I painted, I found myself reflecting on Rob’s childhood Karoo experience. Of course, I don’t know all the ins and outs of his memories. It turns out in fact, that although Rob didn't actually grow up on Arundel, the Southey family nevertheless has deep roots in farming that region of the central Karoo. I know what a place like that can mean to a person. I grew up on a small farm myself—not quite in the Karoo, but with enough dust and animals to make it resonate. There’s a rhythm to farm life that stays with you. The early mornings. The quiet conversations at dusk. The animals that become part of your day’s soundtrack. I wanted this painting to tap into that. Not just what Arundel and the surrounding areas looked like, but what it felt like to be a boy there, running through that fynbos, hearing the crunch of gravel underfoot.
Robs Arundel story in his own words:-
"Arundel was actually the farm my father grew up on. By the time I came around, my grandfather had sold the farm, but for whatever reason, Arundel remained the family farm that was spoken of way more than any of the other family farms. Even in the wider Southey clan. It was in the family for quite a few decades and quite a few Southeys are buried in the little graveyard behind the trees. Maybe also because of it’s history – it was the headquarters for the British during the Anglo Boer war when the Brits and Boers were fighting for Colesberg, but also because it was classically a “Southey” farm. I.e. one deep in the Karoo where the Southey’s are said to be as plentiful as meerkats. The saying in the Karoo is “kick over a Karoo bush, and a Southey will come out”. Interestingly, while the Arundel sign actually came from Arundel originally, it currently stands proudly at the gate of my parents house in Oaklands, Johannesburg. Maybe it was a part of my dad’s history he didn’t want to part with.
But you are not wrong when you talk of the fond memories I have of the Karoo. When I was a lad, said grandfather moved to a farm about 50km away, near Hanover. (His move is a bit of a long story. He originally retired from Arundel to Port Alfred and so sold the farm. But after less than a year he was bored and went farming again). I spent many happy years on the other farm and looking at your painting reminds me of those happy times. I can still smell the smells, hear the farm sounds and even feel the duiweltjie thorns sticking into my bare feet as I ran around with my little coloured friends".
A More Intimate Experience
For this artist, working on a commission like this is always a slightly more intimate experience than painting something purely from my own source material. There’s a weight to it—a responsibility. You’re stepping into someone else’s story. But I enjoy that challenge. I enjoy trying to find that meeting place between their world and mine. It’s like a collaboration, only with brushes and pigments and soul.
It warms the cuckolds of my heart to know that this painting serves as more than just a nice visual on Rob’s wall—That it's bringing back to him something of the pleasure of the big sky big space far away Karoo of his formative years. I hope that every time he looks at it, it gives him one of those subtle time-travel moments—the kind where memory gently sneaks up behind you and taps you on the shoulder.
Thank you Rob for making me part of the Southey story
So thank you Rob. Not just for commissioning this piece, but also for trusting me with your past. Thanks for the photos, for your Arundel story, for the freedom, and for letting me get stuck into a palette that feels very much like home.
And to those of you reading here, if you haven’t yet fallen for the Karoo—the big skies, the blue-grey hush, the shaggy sisal, the sun-baked silences—well, I can only encourage you to take a long drive, stop, get out of your car, take a walk and— smell the fynbos! Or failing that, look at it through the lens of paint and memory.