Growing up in suburban Western Australia, I learned to navigate a landscape of borrowed beliefs, quiet conformities and unspoken rules.

FEAR.

Later, I discovered that stories are not fixed. They can be torn apart, stitched back together, rewritten. Perhaps we become the stories we inherit — and perhaps we can become something else.

HOPE.

 This body of work is an excavation. A digging through memory, myth and the debris of a life half-remembered. I collect fragments: headlines, maps, images, objects, gestures. I archive the factual alongside the fabricated, never quite sure where one ends and the other begins.

News headlines become altars. Maps lose their way. Australia is cut, marked, stitched and rewritten in a search for somewhere — or someone — to belong to.

Graffiti meets the classical. The sacred collides with the disposable. Mass media is interrupted by the handmade. Collage, stitch, paint and porcelain wrestle across the surface, each demanding to be seen, each carrying its own version of truth.

There is tenderness in the vandalism. Absurdity in the archive. Beauty in the ruin.

The work questions and celebrates, remembers and distorts, seduces and disrupts —

with a sprinkling of pop sensibility and a queer wink beneath the surface. Perhaps identity is not something we find.

Perhaps it is something we make. And remake.

And make again.