© 2018 Greg & Sylvia RAY

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Read more about the article Band photography: a visual language
It's all in the look, right? This band was called Cutaway.

Band photography: a visual language

Seems just about everybody fantasizes at some time or another about being in a band. The limelight. The sense of belonging. Adoring audiences. Sex, drugs, glamour, fame. Or maybe some people just like playing music. I don't know really. I mean, I'd have liked to be in a band too, except I can't sing or play any musical instruments. Not that that stops some people. Anyway, I was thinking about this recently when I was given a couple of big boxes of band photos that used to be in a newspaper library, along with thousands of…

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Read more about the article Ptomaine: naming your poison, and your disease

Ptomaine: naming your poison, and your disease

Ever had ptomaine poisoning? Ever heard of it? I hadn’t until I was loaned a scrapbook which included newspaper clippings from 1929 reporting the hospitalization in Newcastle of more than 40 children suffering from this dread ailment. It was March 10, 1929, the day of Mayfield Baptist Church’s annual picnic. About 150 children, with various adults in attendance, had traipsed off to “Beresford” [Beresfield?] at about 9am, spending their morning at various games. They had lunch, some picnic sports and then were called to the canteens for ice cream. Not long after the ice cream, one…

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Read more about the article TB, an old foe, half-forgotten but not gone
First patients at Rankin Park chest hospital, June 12, 1947.

TB, an old foe, half-forgotten but not gone

The recent appearance of two clusters of tuberculosis disease in Australia is a reminder that this deadly old foe has not been eradicated. Indeed, it is estimated that about a quarter of the world's population harbours the TB bacteria, with new variants emerging that are harder to treat. No widely effective vaccine is available. Growing up in the suburb of Rankin Park, Newcastle, NSW, I was aware that there was - a few kilometres through the bushland near my home - a "chest hospital". That's what my father called it, whenever we drove past. It was…

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