Grief and beauty are not opposites.

I have always known that my hands were ahead of my understanding.

I grew up close to the land, foraging, noticing, learning to read what the more-than-human world was saying. That early attunement has never left me. It is in my body, in my practice, and in the work I make.

I am a fibre artist and breathworker living on Gundungurra Country in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales. I work with materials that carry the specific character of this place and this season. 

My sculptural work traces what I think of as a shared language: the marks on the body  and the marks on the earth.  Scars, roots, tracks, veins, waterways. Not wounds to be hidden, but testimony to be honoured.

I have come to understand that making is a form of listening. When the hands are fully occupied with something that cannot be rushed, something else becomes possible, a quality of attention that feels less like creating and more like receiving. The work that emerges from that state carries it. It holds what came through in the making.

I have found, again and again, is that grief and beauty are not opposites.

The breathwork practice I hold alongside the making has never felt separate from it. Both are a form of return. One through the hands, one through the breath. Different doorways back to the body, back to belonging, back to the luminous thread that runs through every living thing.

Our bodies carry knowledge our minds have forgotten. My work is an invitation back to that knowing.