Palingenesia Group Exhibition

Wonderful way to start the new year – joint exhibition Palingenesia at Folonomo Gallery, with images from my Floracopia and Returning to My Roots series.


There are always tears in time

Blue Veil

One of my earliest images, that I just came across as I was looking through my archives. Some of my favourite things in art – here right from the beginning of my evolution: the colour blue, simplicity, nature and peace.

BLue Veil

Blue Veil

This Time Transient

This Time Transient

I sat

Watched the darkness

This time

Passed me by

Whisper in

the growling doom

With glow bug


Tiny murmurs mimic wind


I sat

Heard the wailing

This time

Deafness saved me


Drop and float

On water

Ripples like a long silk cloth


Did Walk



And breath


Did daylight


Blue button


In a breeze


These things


Birthing scare

But I am



As if to

As if not to




I am



Seconds which

Do not punish


Did not ever think.

But now




This time the darkness



I waved.


from the ashes 8 smallFrom the Ashes

Random Detritus

In contemplation of objects. In search of simplicity. In creation of minimalism.

Studies of the random things that people no longer need.




Random Detritus_3

Random Detritus_4

Random Detritus_5


Random Detritus_7

Random Detritus_8

Random Detritus_9


Fleeting – Part 2

It goes without saying that it’s been a while. But I don’t want to write about that. Before the long silence, the crisis of faith, and the months where I couldn’t even look at the camera, I posted a poem called “fleeting”. Now, finally, I am posting the series of images that goes with it.

I know that I like to write what is an abbreviated version of an artist statement for all of my works, but this one hurts. This is such a personal, honest and heartfelt series, and it has not had the best reception when I got up the guts to offer it to galleries and competitions.

Honesty is what I do, and what I believe in.

I will not ever be the most technically proficient photographer. I will only rarely be neat and clean around the edges. My cropping is eccentric. My focus is deliberately eschew.

Those are not the things I make art for.

Have you ever held your mother, or your daughter, your son or your father, or your brother or sister in your arms and realised how the time has passed? How they are fatter, thinner, taller, more stooped, stronger or more fragile? Have you pulled up your favourite memory of your family and found that it is blurred around the edges, or the middle is missing?

When you learn that someone close to you is suffering, and will suffer more, do you see a part of yourself start to fade? When they start to change beyond recognition and you need somewhere to turn, are there ghosts in the corner of your vision?

This is not just a series about my mother and myself. It is about all of those things and every other change and experience we have ever had. It is our past, present and our path into the future.

For we are Fleeting:





Turning away

Turning Away

Turned her face

Turned Her Face





Once was

Once Was

Only have to ask

Only Have To Ask





38 years

38 Years

Seeking Solace in the Sea and Sky

I have been putting off posting this series for very strange reasons. Perhaps the strangest of these, for any who know me, is that I am out of words for it. I couldn’t originally figure out why. Words are things that abound in my head, and they flow from me remarkably freely. Perhaps too freely sometimes.

So why the block on this work? And then I realised. This is a work that springs from the moments in between the turbulence. When I am just sinking in to one breath and out of another, letting slip all of the myriad complications I like to add to my life, and indeed, to my art.

I wrote a poem, during the making of this series – a lovely, short, and bracing holiday at Black Head on the New South Wales Coast, where I singularly managed to fail in dragging myself out of bed so I could photograph the most amazing light show out to sea you could imagine. It is a failing of mine, that when it comes to early, late, or generally unfriendly hours, I am lazy photographer. What I did capture, though, was what I sought to, and how often does that happen? The weather, the wind, the rain and the eternal movement and complementary stillness of the ocean and the sky.

Time and simplicity.

Here is the poem, the images and the quiet expression of how it felt as I was:


Seeking Solace in the Sea and Sky

For there is solace in the sea and sky


when in the moments flicker


blending one into the other at

the limit of my sight

So water becomes air and

wind rolls in

toward the land.


The rain on my face

and the salt

down my throat

as I breath

the waves in time.


It is as if peace were a moving

changing wisp

which summoned with the tide

would only stay but such a short

and insubstantial


then sweep itself far

out of reach again


grasping and catching


and waiting once more


the wash with the water


the sky mists over

and the grey



my skin is tingling numb

as I am both lost

or found

Whole, yet

missing the intangible


as I seek the still perfection

of the line between.


I strive for the Horizon.



Horizon #1




Boomerang Beach #1


Boomerang Beach #2

Manning Point_004

Manning Swell #1

Red Tide Beings 2

Red Tide Begins #1

Red Tide Begins

Red Tide Begins#2

Red Tide 1

Red Tide#1

Red Tide 3

Red Swell #1


Sunset at Blackhead #1

Crowdy Head

Crowdy Head

In the Rain

In the Rain


A little bit of poetic wandering (and wondering) over the transience of our existence, and the power of our family ties.




One second

It seems

No more –



Outward breath


Just that:

The past is gone

The present goes

And the future

Is a fleeting



I blink.


Grasping hands

Cannot close

Fingers about them,

They are

Insubstantial moments

Of extreme



A person


Only be the



By remembering.

I will lose them.



Not today.



Bianca and Pomegranate #1


Bianca and Pomegranate #2


Winter Time – with a hint of chiaroscuro



It’s been a long couple of days shooting this series. With nothing really to “aim” for with it, apart from my own enjoyment. I really just wanted to shoot something that captured simplicity. Some more traditional Still Life, with produce rather than detritus, on two planes, the vertical and horizontal. Without complex heights, layering or position. Natural light and one reflector.  Without a “polished” background, something rough and in tone.

Winter vegetables and winter flowers.

Here’s what I came up with:

Winter Pumpkin_013

Winter Pumpkin_001

Winter Pumpkin_015

Winter Pumpkin_017

Winter Pumpkin_029

Winter Pumpkin_025



The World Behind the Mask a Poet Wears

I’ve really put off writing anything on this blog about the main series that I am working on. Some of that is because it’s going to be a really long haul series. Some of that is because I’ve stalled on it at the moment – it takes so much time for each shoot, and my health and weight have not been good lately, which doesn’t work when you’re shooting yourself as the subject, and you can’t make yourself configure in the way you want to for your images… Some of it is a reluctance to say anything about it because it’s complex, and I don’t want to to have to explain it’s complexity until it’s complete, and it can talk for itself as a narrative.

But it will be a while before I start shooting it again, and I do want it to at least sniff the air a little.

It is, in a holistic sense, a series about what it means to take the journey of a poet. More specifically it references the poetry of Yeats, and it does so because as a poet I have sought out so many other writers and drowned myself in their words. I have lived their journeys as I have lived my own through words and verse. Yeats is one of those I consider who have a pull in their poetry that sucks me in the deepest.

When I was struggling to shoot, as I have been for all this year, I sat and read his later poems, and I thought, I know what these make me feel. Can I express in pictures to others my empathic reaction? That was how it started, just to get me shooting again, but it became so much more, as  I explored verse after verse the images became more about the masks I wear as I shoot and write, they were my experiences on a journey of words.

There is so much more to shoot, but here, briefly is a snapshot of the first narrative from the series, that of:

The Muse

Yeats first _007

Yeats first _006

Yeats first _009




Returning to My Roots

It’s hard to know where to being with this post. There’s a large part of me that is trying to get me not to write it. How do you describe what is almost a rebellion against my own desire to be an artist? An urge to bury my creativity? An anger against the very concept of whether I am an artist?

Why should I feel this way? Why am I struggling so hard to conquer that feeling? I’m not alone I know – it does seem true that being an artist also involves a hefty chunk of angst, uncertainty, denial and confusion. I am just one of many expressing these thoughts, and that in itself is one of the reasons, I think, that I am questioning my intention of creating art.

Who am I to think I’m special? Who am I to know what to do and how to achieve it?

Let’s face the truth here, I suck at social media and networking. I am a recluse, an introvert. It’s not an affectation, it’s who I am. I have a blog, I have a Facebook page, I have a website, but I don’t have the ability to push it out there and make myself known. My peacock feathers are my artworks… they are not the rest of me. The rest of me is hidden in a quiet, bland and un-noteworthy  shell. Just as I like it.

And if my art is my display, then it is flawed, for it does not fit into the local market, and I lack the ability to kick my way into other markets elsewhere, even if they would welcome me…

And so I question where I stand at present… After all if I am not really made for notoriety and success with galleries and punters and all the rest, then what am I doing? For I keep trying to make series and works that will be shown as exhibitions. I heed the advice of gallery curators, critics and my own mentors – who tell me what not to keep working on and what makes fine art and where I should stretch myself. They define what is “play” and what is “true” uniqueness. They shove me into corners where apparently only I will live, struggling to be an individual in the face of all those other poor buggers also stuck in their corners, trying to be individuals. Rather than reaching into my soul to pull out what is there I am sanctioned only to allow the emergence of what is “original”. When it seems that these other authorities are the keepers of the definition of what it actually means to be “original”.

But what does that make me? Surely then I am not “myself” the artist, I am “them” the artist.

So here I stand in the middle of uncharted nowhere – do I just go off and make a career with money and nice job title or do I keep going? It used to be that I would shoot and play around and edit for hours and days and feel happy and if not satisfied, then would not think that  the time had been wasted or lost to me forever. Do I push and shove and try and pummel myself into an artistic creation that belongs to other people – which maybe one day the world will say “She is truly gifted, what a talent” or do I say, no I am who I am, I do what I do, and I create what I create?

It seems to me, that that is the only true answer. And so here I go, giving it a try, returning to my roots – playing with the camera and props and bits of nature and whatever I can find. Seeing what the hell comes out of Photoshop when I set my crazy mind to it!

I hope that you enjoy this journey with me – I hope that the works which will appear hear in the future are beautiful and meaningful and true to me, and that in being all those things, they still inspire you… If you want pure photography, if you don’t like digital imagery, if you are a purist, you probably want to look away now.

Here are the first of those images – made from the detritus of the fierce storms that lashed us last weekend, the leavings of the garden so drenched and windswept…

All are fragile

All Are Fragile

The root of all stems

The Root of All Stems

Univers in the curls of a leaf

Universe in the Curls of a Leaf

Against the Autumn Windstorm I Will Hold

Against the Autumn Windstorm I Will Hold

Delivered on the storm

Delivered on the Storm

From the stem of winter

From the Stem of Winter


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