This past month has been a deeply rewarding, fluid convergence of painting, sculpting, and grounding myself in the dirt of the garden. In the main studio, I have been exploring the skeletal forms of a major new sculptural piece, currently carrying the working title ‘The Ghost Forest’. At this early stage, I am honestly not entirely sure whether the concept will ultimately fly or dissolve, but embracing that uncertainty is vital; pure, uninhibited play is an essential engine in my practice. Alongside this experimental piece, I have returned to the specialized sculpture workshop to refine my smaller ‘Sailing with the Sirens’ series, fastidiously tuning their metal proportions and chasing the perfect structural form before handing them over to the industrial galvanizers for their final protective coat.
Simultaneously, the painting studio has been overtaken by a vibrant shift in palette as I develop a new collection of SPRING paintings-on-paper. It is the brilliant, piercing yellow of the changing season that completely commands my attention this time of year, a visual awakening mirrored perfectly by the wattle trees bursting into bloom across our home garden. There is one specific tree on our grounds that proudly claims the title of the first to blossom, exploding into an absolutely wonderful, saturated cloud of color. Yet, with a fragile predictability, a fierce, sudden wind inevitably sweeps through the property shortly after it peaks, scattering the delicate buds across the landscape. It is a heartbreakingly fleeting burst of yellow, but I like to think that perhaps those wandering flower buds are destined to bring beauty or do some quiet good elsewhere.
When I step away from the canvases and metal dust, I have been dedicating my energy to cultivating a brand-new, intimate pocket of our outdoor space, which I intend to carefully guide into a dedicated moss garden. It is a slow, meditative process that requires immense patience, moisture control, and a willingness to let nature take the lead; it certainly has a long way to go yet before the green carpet completely takes hold. This constant dialogue between the patience required for a garden to grow and the immediate, physical decisions made in the studio serves as a powerful reminder of how deeply interconnected my life and my art truly are.
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