Untitled, interior artwork for Rustico, spray paint and acrylic, approx 3m x 3m. Second photograph courtesy of Rustico Tapas and Bar.

Painted this for Rustico last week. The brief was about tiles, tessellation, making by hand. Kept it all quite loose and painty. Thanks to the crew at Rustico for the Kings of Leon vibes on the final day.




Like Dust


As I continue to paint walls and wood and to grow into my practice as an artist, I keep finding myself wandering inside myself and having an almost monologue about what it means to paint and what it means to live and to be around other people. I’m caring less and less about clean lines (somedays?) and more and more about the connection with self, with others, with God, with everything than breaths and spins around us … and maybe my travels will see me wander out of myself and share the stories. Maybe. Cheers to 10 years.

Read this recently and felt that I immediately had my practice challenged;

He told the boy that although he was huérfano still he must cease his wanderings and make for himself some place in the world because to wander in this way would become for him a passion and by this passion he would become estranged from men and so ultimately from himself. He said that the world could only be known as it existed in men’s hearts. For while it seemed a place which contained men it was in reality a place contained within them and therefore to know it one must look there and come to know those hearts and to do this one must live with men and not simply pass among them. He said that while the huérfano might feel that he no longer belonged among men he must set this feeling aside for he contained within him a largeness of spirit which men could see and that men would wish to know him and that the world would need him even as he needed the world for they were one. Lastly he said that while this itself was a good thing like all good things it was also a danger. Then he removed his hands from the boy’s saddle and stepped away and stood. The boy thanked him for his words but he said that he was in fact not an orphan and then he thanked the women standing there and turned the horse and rode out. They stood watching him go. As he passed the last of the brush wickiups he turned and looked back and as he did so the old man called out to him. Eres, he said. Eres huérfano.

Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing




Spent the week before in the Pilbara running create2cope workshops. Was a beautiful week; came home to find that the first rains for Autumn had come and the mornings have that sacred, full feeling about them.

First fires, first rains.



First Fires, acrylic and spray on brick











Tracks, 81cm x 80cm, acrylic and spray on plywood



Then the morning was cool and the seasons had changed, Acrylic and spray on wood

Dear 2014,

You vanished in a vibrant blur and I did some painting and sharing stories and went to the sea and found colour/life/hope in depth.

Here is what we did. Thankyou.



















Shot this image in 2009 sometime, around May/June from memory.

It’s my favourite photograph.




North Looking West, 8 x 10 mounted on salvaged wood.

Frances and I spent a few days in Karratha/Cossack/Roebourne in July while running a workshop. Being where the earth is red, warmth and vast was like oxygen for the soul. Reminds me of how much I love the red earth beneath my feet.











Untitled, 81cm x 100cm, acrylic and spray on marine ply.



Trying to capture things that fly, she scrawls under the proof sheet’s numbered erasures late at night. She tucks it inside the back cover of the blue album and looks out through the living-room window. The dark river, defined only by the reflections of far-off stars and the boat-shaped  moon on the ocean’s horizon.

Despite the relentlessness of her life’s passing, despite the disintegration of the cottage and her body, despite everything, there were moments like this when a kind of grace descended on their precarious home. In these moments, it seems to Ruth that her life with Dewi has somehow sunk below the usual surface activity of the town, roads and vineyards into a quiet, truer place. Here, Dewi and she are beyond the reach of illness and death.

River of time. Sea of life. Please carry us.

Lost River, Simone Lazaroo

“To see God in the world, in other faiths, in our lonely cities and dismal suburbs, we have first to have found the image of God in ourselves.”