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19.04.2016
Occasionally a play comes along and everyone says, ‘thrilling, epic, majestic, towering bigger than Ben-Hur’.
That gets them a Guernsey in the marketing machine, puts them on the marquee, and puts them on side with the promotional world.
Sometimes – more often than not – on opening night audiences stand up at the end of the show and cheer along ‘Bravo Bravo’ and that suggests an instant hit. Much of the time that’s a pointer to nowhere, but this time around both those things happened and they were entirely appropriate. Kate Grenville’s The Secret River is indeed a masterpiece – albeit a modern one – and while I felt ho-hum about the TV miniseries version of the book, I believe the stage version as good as the original if not better. It is certainly the best and finest QTC production in recent times and will undoubtedly go down as one of the most memorable productions the company has ever produced.
Of course it has the credentials, Neil Armfield directs, and Stephen Page has a supporting directing role, among others, but overall it is a genuine altogether creative achievement. For those who never read Grenville’s original book, or saw the TV mini-series, The Secret River tells the simple almost obvious – but often overlooked – story of white settlement coming to New South Wales. Convict William Thornhill (Nathaniel Dean) and his free wife, Sal (Georgia Admanson), come to NSW at the beginning at the 19th century.
He gets a ticket of pardon and looks to land along the Hawkesbury as a salvation, but she hankers for London despite its coldness toward the workers and poor. That’s just part of the division as the land is also home to the indigenous people who, under white settlement, where not only robbed of their land, but had no say in their rights. The ensemble performers – features nearly two dozen actors, including whites, indigenous performers and children – make up a magnificent ensemble cast. However, writer Bovell and director Armfield make it all work as a play rather than a book or a TV show. The Secret River (the play) doesn’t only show us a great piece of work but demonstrates why the immediacy of the theatre is so human and so important.
In film and TV – great mediums – we are always one step away from our connection with other humans, but the stage brings it into full focus. The last 20 minutes of The Secret River – when the high drama of the piece has unfolded – is a stake revelation of the disconnect between the relationship of the white settler and the indigenous people of Australia. If you genuinely want to understand the whole of our culture – the whole of our relationship with the people and Australia – see the Secret River. Neil Armfield’s new stage adaptation of Kate Grenville’s 2005 novel, The Secret River invites us to think about the complex relationships between personal and national histories, and the past and the present.
Where historian Inga Clendinnen criticised Grenville for framing fiction as history, actress and director Rachael Maza has recently challenged playwright Andrew Bovell’s representation of Aboriginal experience.
Armfield wrote in a Sydney Theatre Company teacher resource, “The Secret River is a difficult story to tell” because “it leads relentlessly into dark places”.
Until we go back and retell our stories and put the shadows in we won’t grow up as a society.
Unpacking family histories can be a way to confront the past and understand our ancestor’s choices. When Grenville was a child, her mother, a keen keeper of the family’s tales, told stories about their ancestor Solomon Wiseman. Now, for the first time, I wondered what had happened when Wiseman had arrived there and started the business of ‘settling’.
Grenville wanted to understand Thornhill’s actions, and by proxy, the actions of many settlers. Though it confronts hidden stories, The Secret River has been criticised for having its own blind spots.
But upon returning to Sydney, Grenville decided to “get rid of all the Aboriginal dialogue”.
The play tries to remedy The Secret River’s limited perspective, and moves towards telling a more inclusive national story.
Similarly, in the novel the Indigenous characters are known only by the nicknames that the Thornhills give them: Whisker Harry, Polly, and Meg. Armfield has also spoken about the difficulty of telling a story that both “respectfully mourns the genocide that occurred across this land” and “celebrates the survival of Aboriginal culture against all forces”. As the actors bowed on the stage of Art Centre Melbourne’s Playhouse it was clear they were unsteadied by the racism, violence, and suffering they had just performed. The audience was reminded that the repercussions of the frontier violence acted out in The Secret River are not just historical. Three years after its premiere on the Sydney Theatre Company’s main stage, Andrew Bovell’s adaptation of Kate Grenville’s novel maintains its profound storytelling power, as an emancipated convict, Will Thornhill, “takes up” land on the Hawkesbury River in the early years of the 19th century, only to be drawn into frontier murder of indigenous people. The base of an enormous gum tree is the backdrop, dwarfing the performers and reminding us this is no new country whose original inhabitants can simply “bugger off”. The Secret River, as Neil Armfield confirms in his programme director’s note, continues to evolve as a stage work.
Jamieson’s muscular, magnetic performance meanwhile is the equal to that of Nathaniel Dean, who originated and continues the stage role of white invader Thornhill: both commanding performances imbued with a pathos as the characters make their respective claims on the soil and haphazardly attempt to trade in food, sometimes comically, but inexorably slipping into fury, poisoning and gunfire. Georgina Adamson brings the right balance of vulnerability and toughness in her debut as Thornhill’s wife, Sal.
In just under three hours, the play manages to give a stronger sense of indigenous voices than the mini-series, for all its vivid and gripping rendering of the novel, manages to achieve in a similar time.
Grenville based her book on how she imagined her own great-great-great grandfather, Solomon Wiseman, took up land west along the Hawkesbury. The Hawkesbury, incidentally, is named after a British baron and lord; its indigenous name is Deerubbin, which means “wide, deep water”. Armfield meanwhile is partly drawing from a deep Western theatrical well in this beautifully realised vision.
When Piper strode onto set, loudly projecting and ramping up the villainy as Smasher, I wondered if his performance needed to be dialled down, that it was out of kilter with the more realist mood, but subsequently, set among his group of fellow malcontents, Piper’s performance fused into a coherent vision: these lost souls would be worthy of Beckett players, albeit their absurdist switch is flicked to carnival grotesque as they swoop into violence.
The indigenous narrative voice, in English, invites us all to own this shared story, this piece of our history.
Sydney Theatre Company and Allens present The Secret River at the Roslyn Packer Theatre until February 20, then on tour to Queensland Performing Arts Centre, Brisbane, February 25-March 5, and Arts Centre Melbourne, March 10-19. The Secret River was, to begin with, the irresistibly intriguing title of Kate Grenville’s 2005 work of historical fiction, the story of a convict-made-good, a man who, after toil and trouble, rose to become a respected member of the infamous squattocracy. Andrew Bovell has adapted the novel for a production directed by Neil Armfield, with a cast headed by Nathaniel Dean. The scale of the production is massive; unequalled, thus far, by anything locally-sourced during the Upton-Blanchett years.
The novel is known for the thoroughness of its evocation and this hasn’t been lost on Bovell, or Armfield. Speaking of idealisation, Roy Gordon is Yalamundi, the very picture of a wise, heroic, patient and stoic tribal elder.
The cast and crew are so large, it’s hard to do everyone justice, or even give due credit (not least because quite a number of actors play multiple characters). Tying all the narrative threads together (speaking of August: Osage County, not in an entirely dissimilar way) is Ursula Yovich.
Upton, dramaturg Matthew Whittet, Bovell and Armfield have banged heads and banged out a winner.
There are powerful devices that point to the yawning dissonance between black and white, such as the nursery rhymes and songs (London Bridge) the newbies chorus around the camp fire, which sound strange and foreign, even to my ears, now. Leave a comment Cancel replyYou must be logged in to post a comment.Not already subscribed? Crikey is an independent news website featuring commentary on politics, media, business, culture and technology. PAINTING OF THE WEEK - Ruins of the Holyrood Chapel by Moonlight, oil on canvas, 1824, Louis Daguerre.
G+ #Read of the Day: The Daguerreotype - The daguerreotype, an early form of photograph, was invented by Louis Daguerre in the early 19th c.
The first photograph (1826) - Joseph Niepce, a French inventor and pioneer in photography, is generally credited with producing the first photograph. Easy Peasy Fact:Following Niepcea€™s experiments, in 1829 Louis Daguerre stepped up to make some improvements on a novel idea. Adafruit: The oldest street scene photos of New York City - Check out these incredible (and incredibly old) photos of NYC, via Ephemeral New York. The oldest street scene photos of New York CityCheck out these incredible (and incredibly old) photos of NYC, via Ephemeral New York.
I still remember reading about Louis Daguerre's invention, the daguerreotype, in high school.
The Making of the American Museum of Natural Historya€™s Wildlife DioramasFossil shark-jaw restoration, 1909.


Very old portrait of three men identified as (from left to right) Henry, George, and Stephen Childs, November 25, 1842. In 1840, Hippolyte Bayard, a pioneer of early photography, created an image called Self-Portrait as a Drowned Man. 10 Times History Was Captured in Living ColorColor photographs go back to before you might think. The play reopens these contentious questions about who can tell the story of our shared history. She wanted to fill in the blanks of inherited stories about her ancestor, a pardoned convict who may have killed Aboriginal people during Australia’s settlement. Wiseman, the inspiration for The Secret River’s protagonist Will Thornhill, came to Sydney as a convict and eventually settled on the Hawkesbury River where he established a ferry-run and an inn. But walking across the Sydney Harbour Bridge for Reconciliation in the year 2000, she exchanges a glance with an Aboriginal woman and imagines their ancestors meeting 200 years before. Until this moment it had never occurred to me to wonder who might have been living on that land, and how he’d persuaded them to leave it. What events were masked by terms like “settled” or “took up land”, which had, until now, seemed so innocent, repeated in family stories countless times?
When the novel was first published, historians – most fervently Clendinnen, writing in Quarterly Essay – charged Grenville with conflating fiction and history, and excluding the voices of her Aboriginal characters.
But they also draw attention to ongoing anxieties about how non-Indigenous storytellers represent Aboriginal experiences.
In her memoir Searching for The Secret River, Grenville says she wanted the Aboriginal characters to be as “fully alive, complex, and individual as the settlers”.
Brought to life by a cast of both white and Aboriginal actors, the story was no longer just about the settlers’ vision. The script still affords the Thornhills more dimension and dialogue, but the introduction of an Aboriginal narrator, the prophetic Dhirrumbin, unsettles the balance. For Armfield’s production, actor and Dharug man Richard Green has given the characters Dharug names, language, and songs. She argues it perpetuates the myth that “the real Aboriginals died out”, rather than celebrating the “resilience and adaptation” of Indigenous groups.
It works to “find a way forward” in what is “going to be [an] awkward and … uncomfortable” effort to get the shared history of Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians right. Describing the play as a work in progress, he says “and so we keep searching to make it right”.
To see Nathaniel Dean (Thornhill) and Trevor Jamieson (Ngalamalum) hold to each other in recognition of their emotional sacrifice brought home the living politics of the story. As Armfield writes in his program note for the play: “Nine generations later, we are all living with its consequences”. But as an audience we are also left with the question: can understanding the past from different perspectives help us confront the inequalities that linger in our present? In 2013, performer Ursula Yovich sang a song in the finale, playing both narrator Dhirrumbin and Dulla Djin, the lover of the reasoned white man Blackwood (Jeremy Sims in 2013, Colin Moody in 2016). There is a new ending, involving Trevor Jamieson, who plays Ngalamallum, the Dharug warrior who befriends ex-convict Thornhill’s youngest son, Dick. Jamieson played virtually the same role in the mini-series of The Secret River, seen on ABC last year, in which the character was called Gumang or Grey Beard (or Whisker Harry in Grenville’s novel). Rory Potter, charmingly memorable on stage three years ago as Dick Thornhill, the white child who represented the Australia of reconciliation that might have been, moves up to the adolescent role of eldest son Willie, which he also played in the TV adaptation.
In her book, Grenville, perhaps wisely, does not try to inhabit the minds of the indigenous people, or tell their story. The author has subsequently referred to the euphemistic “dispersal” of Aboriginal people as a “guerrilla war”, although she has no evidence of Wiseman’s involvement in killing.
When several of the obstreperous white folk gather to sing a homesick London ditty – Smasher Sullivan (Richard Piper), Loveday (Bruce Spence), Sagitty Birtles (Matthew Sunderland) and Mrs Herring (Jennifer Hagan) with her ever-present pipe – their pancake white makeup and black comedic characterisation momentarily recalled more surreal stage history: perhaps Armfield’s own production of Patrick White’s A Ham Funeral of 1989. In 2016, as in 2013, a prompt opening night standing ovation unleashed an audience’s appreciation but also pent-up emotion: a rebuke, in part, to centuries of silence and denial about the genocide upon which modern Australia was built.
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Kate Grenville's 2005 novel on Australian race relations is even more alive on the Sydney Theatre stage. I suppose, if we whitefellas were able to look at it through indigenous eyes, we might come to realise we’re all members of an ongoing squattocracy, having invaded and appropriated (to state it with the euphemistic politeness we seem to prefer) the land of others. This, despite the fact he turns a blind eye to the brutal enslavement and repeated rape of a young Aboriginal woman (played courageously, and chillingly, by a naked Miranda Tapsell, corralled by a rope ’round her neck). The only work rivalling it for sheer, breathtaking magnitude of vision is, or was, August: Osage County.
Colonisation was a systematic process of brutalisation which, first and foremost, required seeing Aboriginal people as less than people.
In fact, Grenville originally embarked on a work of non-fiction, but along the road, decided to generalise Wiseman’s story. Of course, some sacrifices have had to be made but, on the whole, all the important boxes are ticked, dramatically and historically. Despite his suspicion of the natives and their ways, Thornhill is too preoccupied to prevent his sensitive younger son Dick (10-year-old Rory Potter, who was so charismatic in Medea, not so very long ago, at Belvoir) from making friends with Narabi (James Slee) and, especially, Garraway (Bailey Doomadgee). He remains steadfastly fearless in the face of hysterical outbursts and opportunistic putdowns from the graceless settlers.
Suffice to say, one and all do justice to their roles, including Daniel Henshall, as Dan Oldfield, an old mate of Thornhill’s, who must now endure the ignominy of working for him. One can hardly imagine how alien they must’ve sounded to the Dharug whose land and culture was being pulled from under them.
Talbot was active from the mid-1830s, and sits alongside Louis Daguerre as one of the fathers of the medium. Niepcea€™s photograph shows a view from the Window at Le Gras, and it only took eight hours of exposure time!The history of photography has roots in remote antiquity with the discovery of the principle of the camera obscura and the observation that some substances are visibly altered by exposure to light.
Again employing the use of solvents and metal plates as a canvas, Daguerre utilized a combination of silver and iodine to make a surface more sensitive to light, thereby taking less time to develop. Half of the Limburg province of Belgium is added to the Netherlands, giving rise to a Belgian Limburg and Dutch Limburg (the latter being from September 5 joined to the German Confederation).June 3 a€“ Destruction of opium at Humen begins, casus belli for Britain to open the 3-year First Opium War against Qing dynasty China. Bayard had just perfected the process of printing on to paper, which would come to define photography in the following century, but the French government had decided to invest instead in the daguerrotype, a process invented by his rival, Louis Daguerre.
Do writers like Grenville have the right to speak on behalf of Indigenous peoples, or to tell their stories? To learn about Indigenous experience she travelled to the Kimberley and listened to elders. Commenting on an earlier version, she said that the inclusion of Dharug language meant the Aboriginal characters had a voice but one she couldn’t access, which left her feeling closer to the Thornhills.
Stephen Curtis' set design, Mark Howett’s lighting and music played on stage from Iain Grandage’s score by multi-instrumentalist Isaac Hayward and others all harmonise empathetically with the unfolding of tragic human miscommunication. It was a deftly realised final moment that lingers; Yovich has a soulful tone built upon personal struggle with such material.
This time around, Toby Challenor ably fills the younger boy’s role, a free spirit not yet encumbered by prejudice, a vessel upon which to project our own better selves, as he plays with the Aboriginal boys and learns to make fire.
Henry Reynolds, in his 2013 book Forgotten War, for which Grenville wrote an approving foreword, says some 2,500 settlers died in more than a century of conflict, while “steeply upwards to 30,000 [indigenous people] and beyond, perhaps well beyond” were killed. Dharug man Richard Green was employed as a language consultant, and Bangarra Dance Theatre artistic director Stephen Page was an artistic associate on the play.
This view, widely promulgated and practiced, enabled traded flour to be laced with strychnine, for example. These three are very much at the beating heart of the play, for its the kids, free of the baggage that stems from fear of the other, that can (but, regrettably, don’t) teach their elders a thing or two.
Of course, this doesn’t make his life easy, particularly with the likes of Smasher lurking, ever-ready to undermine, white-ant, backstab and bludgeon.
Though he is most famous for his contributions to photography, he was also an accomplished painter and a developer of the diorama theatre.
As far as is known, nobody thought of bringing these two phenomena together to capture camera images in permanent form until around 1800, when Thomas Wedgwood made the first reliably documented although unsuccessful attempt.
It didna€™t take long for others to seize the new technology and create daguerreotypes of New York City street scenes. Daguerreotypes are sharply defined, highly reflective, one-of-a-kind photographs on silver-coated copper plates, usually packaged behind glass and kept in protective cases.
It asks provocative questions about the silences in one family, but also in our nation’s history. Future directors of this play – for surely this work will become part of an Australian theatrical cannon – have a choice between two equally throat-knotting endings.


Perhaps one day, an indigenous artist might turn such a story around to make the indigenous perspective the greater focus. Bovell, Armfield, and artistic associate Stephen Page, have broadened the perspective of the book, such that we might see things through Dharug eyes, as well as the pardoned convict William Thornhill’s.
Centre stage is a the monolithic trunk of a gum; a visionary inclusion by set designer Stephen Curtis, since it embodies the grandeur of the country, majesty of indigenous culture and size of the threat to such. Miranda Tapsell (Gillyagan) shares in this mirth and mayhem and, again, language is no barrier to understanding.
Rhimi Johnson Page and Trevor Jamieson (who was so engaging in Namatjira, again at Belvoir) deliver upright, forthright and dignified roles as Wangarra and Ngalamalum.
But The Secret River extends a hand not unfurled since the bridge walk that inspired Grenville’s reflection on her own ignorance, which predicated her authorship of this, one of the best books in the pantheon of Australian literature. A daguerreotype, produced on a silver-plated copper sheet, produces a mirror image photograph of the exposed scene. The Government, which has been only too generous to Monsieur Daguerre, has said it can do nothing for Monsieur Bayard, and the poor wretch has drowned himself.
Stanner’s 1968 Boyer Lectures about the suppressed memory of colonial violence – “there is a secret river of blood in Australian history”. The result is something much more thoughtful, sophisticated and sympathetic than mere political correctness would yield.
It serves also to point to the multi-millennial tenure of Aboriginal people and the sturdiness of their roots in the land.
It’s a moment of idealised childhood that everyone present is anxious to embrace and celebrate, so the scene plays rather longer than one might expect. Meanwhile, Jeremy Sims (whom I didn’t recognise) outdoes himself as Smasher Sullivan, a man who is almost evil incarnate, with few, if any, redeeming characteristics. Jamieson is also a significant contributor to the live, onstage music, chiefly rendered and composed by Iain Grandage.
Matthew Sunderland is especially characterful as Saggitty, one of Sullivan’s reluctant but, nonetheless, willing coterie. No one, black or white, is portrayed as an outright saint or demon (although Sullivan and his nightmarish Jungian canines come perilously close). Chemistry student Robert Cornelius was so fascinated by the chemical process involved in Daguerrea€™s work that he sought to make some improvements himself.
Thornhill’s stubborn, heels-dug-in stance is understandable given, having come from abject poverty, he sees his one chance at making good and seizes the day. It was commercially introduced in 1839, a date generally accepted as the birth year of practical photography.The metal-based daguerreotype process soon had some competition from the paper-based calotype negative and salt print processes invented by Henry Fox Talbot. And in 1839 Cornelius shot a self-portrait daguerrotype that some historians believe was the first modern photograph of a man ever produced. For over two weeks in the summer of 2002, scientists and conservators at this prestigious facility subjected the artifact, its frame, and support materials to extensive and rigorous non-destructive testing.
Bruce Spence, whose range seems to keep expanding, is one of three veritable teufelhunden; belonging to the devil himself, Sullivan. The result was a very complete scientific and technical analysis of the object, which in turn provided better criteria for its secure and permanent case design and presentation in the lobby of the newly-renovated Harry Ransom Center.The plate also received extensive attention from the photographic technicians at the Institute, who spent a day and a half with the original heliograph in their photographic studios in order to record photographically and digitally all aspects of the plate. More substantially, Spence is Loveday, who sees himself as something of a man of letters (and is the only one among the settlers who can read), but is more akin to Frank, the tedious (if loveable) pedant in The Vicar Of Dibley. The object was documented under all manner of scientific lights, including infrared and ultraviolet spectra. Long before the first photographs were made, Chinese philosopher Mo Ti and Greek mathematicians Aristotle and Euclid described a pinhole camera in the 5th and 4th centuries BCE. In the 6th century CE, Byzantine mathematician Anthemius of Tralles used a type of camera obscura in his experimentsIbn al-Haytham (Alhazen) (965 in Basra a€“ c.
Wilhelm Homberg described how light darkened some chemicals (photochemical effect) in 1694. The novel Giphantie (by the French Tiphaigne de la Roche, 1729a€“74) described what could be interpreted as photography.Around the year 1800, Thomas Wedgwood made the first known attempt to capture the image in a camera obscura by means of a light-sensitive substance. As with the bitumen process, the result appeared as a positive when it was suitably lit and viewed. A strong hot solution of common salt served to stabilize or fix the image by removing the remaining silver iodide.
On 7 January 1839, this first complete practical photographic process was announced at a meeting of the French Academy of Sciences, and the news quickly spread.
At first, all details of the process were withheld and specimens were shown only at Daguerre's studio, under his close supervision, to Academy members and other distinguished guests. Paper with a coating of silver iodide was exposed in the camera and developed into a translucent negative image. Unlike a daguerreotype, which could only be copied by rephotographing it with a camera, a calotype negative could be used to make a large number of positive prints by simple contact printing.
The calotype had yet another distinction compared to other early photographic processes, in that the finished product lacked fine clarity due to its translucent paper negative. This was seen as a positive attribute for portraits because it softened the appearance of the human face.
Talbot patented this process,[20] which greatly limited its adoption, and spent many years pressing lawsuits against alleged infringers. He attempted to enforce a very broad interpretation of his patent, earning himself the ill will of photographers who were using the related glass-based processes later introduced by other inventors, but he was eventually defeated.
Nonetheless, Talbot's developed-out silver halide negative process is the basic technology used by chemical film cameras today. Hippolyte Bayard had also developed a method of photography but delayed announcing it, and so was not recognized as its inventor.In 1839, John Herschel made the first glass negative, but his process was difficult to reproduce. The new formula was sold by the Platinotype Company in London as Sulpho-Pyrogallol Developer.Nineteenth-century experimentation with photographic processes frequently became proprietary. This adaptation influenced the design of cameras for decades and is still found in use today in some professional cameras. Petersburg, Russia studio Levitsky would first propose the idea to artificially light subjects in a studio setting using electric lighting along with daylight.
In 1884 George Eastman, of Rochester, New York, developed dry gel on paper, or film, to replace the photographic plate so that a photographer no longer needed to carry boxes of plates and toxic chemicals around.
Now anyone could take a photograph and leave the complex parts of the process to others, and photography became available for the mass-market in 1901 with the introduction of the Kodak Brownie.A practical means of color photography was sought from the very beginning. Results were demonstrated by Edmond Becquerel as early as 1848, but exposures lasting for hours or days were required and the captured colors were so light-sensitive they would only bear very brief inspection in dim light.The first durable color photograph was a set of three black-and-white photographs taken through red, green and blue color filters and shown superimposed by using three projectors with similar filters. It was taken by Thomas Sutton in 1861 for use in a lecture by the Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell, who had proposed the method in 1855.[27] The photographic emulsions then in use were insensitive to most of the spectrum, so the result was very imperfect and the demonstration was soon forgotten. Maxwell's method is now most widely known through the early 20th century work of Sergei Prokudin-Gorskii. Included were methods for viewing a set of three color-filtered black-and-white photographs in color without having to project them, and for using them to make full-color prints on paper.[28]The first widely used method of color photography was the Autochrome plate, commercially introduced in 1907. If the individual filter elements were small enough, the three primary colors would blend together in the eye and produce the same additive color synthesis as the filtered projection of three separate photographs. Autochrome plates had an integral mosaic filter layer composed of millions of dyed potato starch grains. Reversal processing was used to develop each plate into a transparent positive that could be viewed directly or projected with an ordinary projector. The mosaic filter layer absorbed about 90 percent of the light passing through, so a long exposure was required and a bright projection or viewing light was desirable. Competing screen plate products soon appeared and film-based versions were eventually made.
A complex processing operation produced complementary cyan, magenta and yellow dye images in those layers, resulting in a subtractive color image. Kirsch at the National Institute of Standards and Technology developed a binary digital version of an existing technology, the wirephoto drum scanner, so that alphanumeric characters, diagrams, photographs and other graphics could be transferred into digital computer memory.
The lab was working on the Picturephone and on the development of semiconductor bubble memory. The essence of the design was the ability to transfer charge along the surface of a semiconductor. Michael Tompsett from Bell Labs however, who discovered that the CCD could be used as an imaging sensor.



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