Imagine finding out that the crinkled spare change
sitting in your desk drawer didn't just buy a
cup of coffee back in 1966. Right. But it actually
triggered one of the most massive indigenous
civil rights legal battles in the nation's history.
It completely shatters the illusion that money
is just like a neutral tool for buying things.
Exactly. We tend to view old currency as just
useless paper, you know, an artifact of an older
economic system. We rarely stop to actually interrogate
the physical object itself. And that is exactly
our mission today. Welcome to the Deep Dive.
Glad to be here diving into this one with you.
Today we are taking a defunct everyday piece
of pocket change and really cracking it open
to see what's inside. That's a fascinating story.
It really is. We're exploring the layered history,
the Australian $1 note. We've compiled the research
detailing its design, its launch, and its incredibly
controversial legacy. Which is quite a legacy
for a piece of paper. Totally. We're going to
see how a few inches of paper acted as a pocket
-sized museum. OK, let's unpack this. To really
understand the sheer weight placed on this specific
piece of paper, we have to look at the environment
it was born into. Right. Set the scene for us.
So the year is 1966. Australia is undergoing
a fundamental, continent -wide economic shift
known as decimalization. That's a huge deal.
Massive. They are ripping out the old complicated
British system of pounds, shillings, and pence
and introducing a modern base 10 decimal system.
So the old 10 shilling note is basically being
retired. Exactly. And in its place, the brand
new $1 note is introduced. Which is, you know,
easy to say, but... You have to picture the logistical
nightmare of what that actually looked like for
the country. Oh, it was chaos. This wasn't just
flipping a switch on a banking app like you do
today. You are physically replacing the representation
of wealth for an entire nation. Armored trucks
crisscrossing the continent. Printing presses
running around the clock, swapping out the contents
of every cash register, every bank vault, and
every citizen's wallet simultaneously. It was
a monumental physical undertaking. The government
ended up printing around 1 .7 billion of these
specific notes over the next 18 years. Wait,
1 .7 billion? Yeah, billion with a B. These were
tangible objects, slightly larger than the bills
you probably carry today. They were exactly 140
by 70 millimeters. Wow, very precise. Printed
on a durable cotton fiber blend. And you had
to get this completely unfamiliar physical currency
into the hands of millions of people. People
who were probably already incredibly anxious
about having to learn, you know, the new math
of their daily lives. Absolutely. The anxiety
was real. And if you take a magnifying glass
to those 1 .7 billion notes, they actually document
a shifting national identity in real time. Yes,
the wording on the note itself. There's this
subtle but massive change printed right there
in the ink. Between its introduction in 1966
and 1974, the front of the note carried a very
specific title. Right. It read Commonwealth of
Australia. They pumped out at least 680 million
notes with that exact phrasing. A huge print
run. But then, after 1974, the text changed.
They dropped the words Commonwealth of entirely.
Just wiped them off. Yeah. For the rest of its
lifespan, which was over a billion notes printed,
it simply read Australia. That is one of those
details hiding in plain sight that carries enormous
geopolitical weight. It makes me think of like
a corporate brand refresh, you know, like when
a tech company drops its clunky formal name to
sound more sleek and modern. Like dropping the...
The in a name exactly like the Facebook just
becoming Facebook. Well, I see what you're trying
to do there But let's not reduce a sovereign
nation's geopolitical evolution to a Silicon
Valley marketing stunt Fair enough. Fair enough
a tech company drops a word to sell more ads
When a nation alters the text on its physical
currency is making a formal declaration to its
citizens and to the world about how it views
itself. Oh, absolutely. Dropping the colonial
title Commonwealth of is Australia actively stepping
out of the shadow of the British Empire. It's
making a statement. Exactly. It is asserting
a distinct standalone presence on the global
stage. Physical currency is a nation's ultimate
calling card because it crosses borders and is
handled by everyone every single day. That is
a very fair point. The stakes are a little higher
than a social media rebrand. Just a bit. But
here is the massive contradiction in all of this.
While the words on the note were changing to
reflect a new, independent, modern Australia,
the images and the security features they chose
to embed in this new money were heavily anchored
to the distant past. The visual language of the
note was definitely fighting a tug of war with
the text. Let's look at the front of the note,
the obverse. The design was finalized in 1964
by an artist named Gordon Andrews. A brilliant
designer. And what is the centerpiece of this
fresh modern decimal currency? A portrait of
Queen Elizabeth II. Right. Specifically, a portrait
of her wearing formal garter robes based on a
photo by Douglas Class. Alongside her is the
Australian coat of arms. Very traditional imagery.
And then you have the anti -counterfeiting features.
There was an upright internal metallic strip
woven right into the paper. Which they actually
moved to the left side later on in 1976. Oh,
good detail. And there was also a prominent watermark
of Captain James Cook. Both the metallic strip
and the watermark are fascinating examples of
analog security. How so? Well, the metallic strip
isn't just printed on. It's a physical ribbon
incorporated into the cotton fiber during the
manufacturing process. So you can't just scan
it. Right. If a counterfeiter tries to simply
photograph or chemically copy the note, the camera
can't replicate that physical three -dimensional
disruption inside the paper itself. Well, wait,
I have to challenge the logic of the watermark
here. Go for it. I understand the need for security,
obviously. But if decimalization is this massive
leap into a modern independent future, breaking
away from the old pound and shilling system...
Why reuse the exact same Captain James Cook watermark
that was used on the old outgoing pound banknotes?
It does seem counterintuitive. It feels like
you're driving a brand new sports car, but demanding
the dashboard be carved out of wood from an 18th
century galleon. This raises an important question,
and it comes down to the underlying mechanics
of fiat currency. We have to remember how money
actually works. It is, at its core, a shared
illusion. A piece of cotton fiber has no intrinsic
value. It only works because an entire society
collectively agrees to trust it. And as we mentioned,
a massive systemic transition like decimalization
makes people terrified. Because suddenly the
value of their labor and their groceries, it
all feels completely unmoored. Exactly. If you
change the underlying math of the economy, the
size of the paper, the colors, and the name of
the currency all at once, you risked a catastrophic
crisis of confidence. People might look at this
new dollar and feel like they are holding monopoly
money. Precisely. They need a psychological anchor.
Ah. So the old watermark isn't a lack of imagination,
it's a calculated bridge. It is a vital signal
of continuity. by carrying over the Captain Cook
watermark from the old pound notes and prominently
featuring the Queen in garter robes. Which is
a very specific choice. Extremely. It represents
the absolute highest most ancient order of chivalry
in the British honor system. The government is
sending a subliminal message there. They're telling
the public, yes, the math is new, but the underlying
sovereign authority is the same. Exactly. The
history and the trust backing this paper remains
completely unbroken. You combine that psychological
security with the physical security of the woven
metallic thread, and you have an object designed
to project unshakable stability. It makes total
sense when you frame it as a psychological tool.
You need the ancient symbols to validate the
new math. You really do. But this sets up a genuinely
shocking duality. Because if the front of the
$1 note is this calculated masterpiece of Western
tradition, British monarchy, and colonial history,
you flip that note over and you're staring at
a completely different ancient and deeply controversial
story. The reverse of the note is where this
specific piece of currency completely transcends
economics and enters the realm of cultural history
and civil rights. So on the back of the note,
the designers decided to include a piece of contemporary
Aboriginal art. Yes. This specific artwork was
created by a Yongu artist named David Malangi.
Alongside his work, the design also featured
a selection of ancient rock art. A group of four
figures, to be precise. Taken from Injalak Mountain
in West Arnhem Land. The intention from the designers
was likely to showcase a uniquely Australian
visual identity on the back, something distinct
from the heavy British imagery on the front.
But David Malangi's art wasn't just a decorative
pattern they found pleasing. The research outlines
the profound cultural reality of this specific
piece. It's deeply significant. It depicts the
mortuary feast of one of Malangi's creation ancestors,
a figure named Gun Mirangu. The great ancestral
hunter. Right. For the Manharngu people, this
specific narrative is attributed as the very
origin of their mortuary rites. We aren't talking
about a simple drawing here. We are talking about
a highly sacred ancestral text. That distinction
is crucial. In Western art, a painting is often
just an aesthetic expression. But in indigenous
culture, a design like this is a profound expression
of spiritual lineage. It means so much more.
It acts almost like a title deed and a religious
sacrament combined. It is a document of historical
identity governed by incredibly strict cultural
laws regarding who possesses the authority to
view it, let alone reproduce it. Here's where
it gets really interesting. This deeply sacred
artwork mapping the origin of these mortuary
rights was mass produced on the national currency
entirely without David Malanke's knowledge. It
is a breathtaking violation when you actually
break down what happened. Put yourself in his
position. You're listening to this. Imagine meticulously
crafting something that is the most sacred personal
religious origin story of your family's history.
Unthinkable to have it stolen. And then a year
later. You discovered that the federal government
has casually scooped it up and printed it on
a billion pieces of everyday cash. People are
crumpling it up, shoving it in their wallets,
trading it for a beer. And the government didn't
even bother to tell you they took it, let alone
ask for your permission. What's fascinating here
is, well, tell me how this clash happened. What's
fascinating here is how perfectly and tragically
this encapsulates a monumental clash of systems.
On one side, you have the relentless Western
machinery of a modern state. You have central
bankers and graphic designers tasked with the
mass production of fiat currency. Just doing
their jobs in their eyes. Right. They are operating
entirely on a paradigm where art is just a graphic
element to be utilized for a national branding
project. They likely saw a reproduction of Malangi's
work, thought it looked appropriate, Australian
and simply absorbed it into the bureaucratic
machinery. They just treated it like public domain
clip art. Like a picture of a kangaroo or a tree.
Precisely. The Western system of mass production
blindly collided with an ancient, sophisticated
system of cultural ownership. Such a massive
blind spot. The government operated on the assumption
that indigenous culture was simply ethnographic
flavor for the taking, completely failing to
recognize that this image was intellectual property
and sacred inheritance. And when Longi discovered
this, it caused an absolute uproar. The fallout
was massive. As it should have been. The Reserve
Bank quickly realized they couldn't just sweep
this under the rug or ignore him. In 1967, just
a year after the note was released, they were
forced to publicly acknowledge David Malangi
as the artist. A huge step. And this issue went
all the way up the chain of command. The governor
of the Reserve Bank himself, H .C. Coombs, personally
intervened to handle the matter. The fact that
the governor of the central bank had to step
in demonstrates that they recognize the gravity
of the situation. And they couldn't ignore it.
This wasn't treated as a minor administrative
typo. It was a national, cultural and political
crisis. So after Coombs intervenes, Malangi is
ultimately given financial compensation and he
also receives a specially struck medal. Right.
But looking at how institutions operate. I have
to ask, was this just the Reserve Bank trying
to quickly make a PR nightmare disappear? You
know the playbook. Cut a check. Take a photo
with a medal and hope the newspaper headlines
fade by the weekend. If we connect this to the
bigger picture, the answer is a definitive no.
Oh, really? This was not just a quiet settlement
to make a problem go away. The research explicitly
highlights that this specific intervention and
payment by the Reserve Bank to David Malangi
actually ignited the entire movement for Aboriginal
copyright issues in Australia. That is incredible.
It was an absolute watershed moment in the legal
system. Before this collision over the $1 note,
the Western legal framework in Australia had
largely failed to recognize, let alone protect,
Indigenous cultural and intellectual property.
Institutions routinely treated indigenous art
as public domain material. By forcing the central
bank to acknowledge authorship, provide financial
compensation, and formally recognize his ownership
of the design, Malangi set a concrete legal precedent.
So a piece of pocket change accidentally triggered
a massive civil rights turning point. Yes. The
fight for indigenous copyright in Australia was
sparked by the back of a one dollar bill. It
forced the Western legal system to finally begin
grappling with concepts of communal ownership
and sacred imagery. That single oversight by
the currency designers laid the groundwork for
decades of subsequent legal battles and rights
advocacy for indigenous artists. It is genuinely
mind boggling how much history, much geopolitical
weight and how much legal precedent is packed
into this little 140 by 70 millimeter cotton
fiber rectangle. It's dense with history. You
have the continuity of the British crown. You
have the evolution of a nation dropping its colonial
title. And you have the catalyst for aboriginal
copyright law, all coexisting on one piece of
paper on your wallet, which naturally leads me
to ask with so much profound cultural weight
attached to it, why did the government eventually
decide to kill it off? As is almost always the
case with the machinery of government, the end
came down to cold, hard, unromantic pragmatism.
The demise of the dollar note. The source outlines
that on Monday, May 13th, 1984, the paper note
was officially retired. And replaced by the gold
-colored one dollar coin that Australians use
today. 18 years after it acted as the great psychological
shock absorber for decimalization. Its run was
over. And the reason is entirely driven by logistics
and cost. A $1 denomination has an incredibly
high velocity of circulation. Meaning it changes
hands constantly. Exactly. It buys a newspaper.
It pays for a coffee. It gets shoved into a sweaty
pocket. It gets crumpled in a cash register drawer.
It accidentally goes through the washing machine.
Even a durable cotton blend can only take so
many folds before it literally disintegrates.
The lifespan of a heavily used low denomination
paper note is incredibly short. The government
was hemorrhaging money constantly running the
printing presses just to replace the notes that
were falling apart in people's hands. But a coin
just makes more sense. Right. A metal coin can
circulate through the economy for decades with
barely any wear and tear. It is vastly more cost
effective. The machinery of the state doesn't
care about the rich history printed on the paper
if the paper keeps ripping in half. So what does
this all mean? for you, the listener, right now.
Let's say you are cleaning out a grandparent's
attic, or you're digging through an old box of
travel souvenirs, and you find a crisp 1966 Australian
$1 note. A lucky find. What do you actually do
with it? Well, functionally speaking, it remains
legal tender. You can technically still redeem
these notes at their face value by walking into
the Reserve Bank of Australia or almost any commercial
bank. But hold on face value. That means you
walk in with this incredible historical artifact
and they will just hand you a single modern one
dollar coin in return. That is correct. To the
bank, it is simply one unit of currency. Ouch.
However, you absolutely should not do that. Numismatists,
the formal term for currency collectors, will
pay a significantly higher price for these notes
on the open market. I would hope so. The actual
value depends entirely on the age and the condition
of your specific note. A pristine, uncirculated
1966 note carrying the Commonwealth of Australia
text is going to fetch a much higher premium
than a crumpled, faded note from 1980. So the
golden rule is definitely don't take it to the
bank to buy a candy bar. Keep it far away from
a cash register. This has been such a wild journey.
We started with the incredibly simple premise
of examining a piece of obsolete pocket change.
And look where it took us. We watched it act
as the vital psychological anchor for an entire
nation during the terrifying transition of decimalization
in 1966. We saw it act as a real -time canvas
for shifting national identity as Australia slowly
dropped its colonial title. A true timeline in
paper form. And most importantly, we uncovered
how a massive, blind institutional theft of David
Malangji's sacred ancestral artwork accidentally
became the spark that ignited indigenous copyright
rights. It really challenges our perception of
the everyday objects we interact with. And I
think there's a final thought worth pondering
here that builds on everything we've just discussed
about the physical nature of money. Oh, I'm listening.
We spent this entire time talking about how the
physical reality of this note, the cotton fiber,
the woven metallic thread, the specific ink dropping
the word Commonwealth, the physical printing
of Milanki's sacred art, acted as a tangible
record of society's values, its struggles, and
its identity at a very specific moment in time.
It truly was a pocket -sized museum. Exactly.
But today, we are rapidly accelerating toward
a completely cashless society. We tap our phones,
we wave our smartwatches, we use credit cards.
money is increasingly becoming nothing more than
invisible ones and zeros sitting on a server.
Right, it's totally frictionless. It is frictionless,
but it is also invisible. Think about the irony
of face value. A bank only gives you a coin for
this history, but when physical currency disappears
entirely, what happens to that pocket -sized
museum? Wow, yeah. A banking app doesn't have
a watermark. A digital transaction doesn't carry
an engraving of an ancestral story. When our
money loses its physical form, we might be losing
one of the most democratic, widely circulated
canvases for recording who we are, what we value,
and how our society is changing. It makes you
wonder what future historians will actually have
left to hold in their hands when they try to
understand us. What a brilliant question to leave
off on. What happens when the museum becomes
invisible? I love that. It's something to think
about next time you tap your card. Thank you
so much for joining us on this deep dive. To
you listening, next time you're emptying your
pockets or sorting through loose change, take
a second look. You never know what kind of history
you might be holding. Keep questioning the everyday
objects around you, and we will see you next
time.