Well, lemme tell ya, that Brett Whiteley fella, the one who painted them pictures, he didn’t die in no fancy way, that’s for sure. Heard tell he was found in some motel room, all by his lonesome.

Wollongong, they say it was. Not Sydney, where he used to paint them pretty pictures of the harbor. Nope, this was far from that blue water, miles and miles away. A motel room, can you believe it? Not a grand house or nothin’, just a plain ol’ motel room.

Now, they found him with needles and pills and whatnot all around him. A real mess, it sounds like. And a whisky bottle too. Lord have mercy. Makes you think, doesn’t it? All that talent, all them pretty pictures, and then this. Just a mess in a motel room.

He was 53, they say. Still young, if you ask me. Born in Sydney, way back in ’39. But it seems like he lived a hard life, you know? Always chasin’ somethin’, maybe. I don’t know for sure, but that’s what it sounds like to me.

• Found in a motel room
• Near Wollongong, not Sydney
• Surrounded by needles, tablets, and whisky
• Age 53 at the time of death
• Born in Sydney in 1939

Folks say it took someone four years to write a book about him. Four years! Must’ve been a lot to tell, huh? Art and life and “the other thing,” they called it. Wonder what that “other thing” was. Maybe the troubles, the demons that chased him. Who knows?

It ain’t right, a man dyin’ like that. All alone in some strange place. Makes you wonder what was goin’ on in his head. Was he sad? Was he sick? Or just tired of it all? We may never know for sure.

They didn’t say right off what killed him, you know? Not like when old Mrs. Higgins down the road passed – we all knew it was her heart. With this Brett fella, they kept it quiet for a while. But it ain’t hard to guess, is it? With all them needles and pills around… well, you put two and two together.

Seems like a lot of these talented folks, they burn bright but they burn out fast. Like a fire that flares up real strong and then just…poof…gone. Maybe that’s the price they pay for seein’ the world different, for makin’ them pretty things. I don’t know. I just know he was one of those.

It’s a sad story, ain’t it? A man with so much talent, endin’ up like that. Alone in a motel room, far from home. Makes you think about life, about how fragile it is. And about how sometimes, even the prettiest pictures can’t hide the darkness underneath.

Some folks say he died of a drug overdose. And seein’ as how they found all them needles and pills, well, it kinda makes sense, don’t it? It’s a terrible shame, though. A waste of a good life, if you ask me.

The manager of that motel, he’s the one who found him, poor fella. Can you imagine walkin’ in on that? Must’ve been a frightful sight. And it makes you think, that motel manager, he probably didn’t even know who Brett Whiteley was, not like the folks in Sydney who bought his paintings. Just another guest, until he wasn’t.

So, yeah, that’s how Brett Whiteley died. Not a pretty story, but it’s the truth, as far as I can tell. A talented man, gone too soon, and in a way that nobody deserves. Makes you wanna say a prayer, don’t it? For him and for all the folks who struggle with them demons. Lord have mercy on ’em all.