Gentle Signals

My work grows from learning to listen differently.

After my injury, my body became an unrecognisable territory – a map of complexities even experts struggled to chart. The world outside became a sensory assault; everything from the angle of light to the sharpness of birdsong became overwhelming data points. But over time, I began to reframe this as information.

I’ve come to see my body as an ecosystem, much like this landscape. To survive within it, I have to chart more than just terrain. I try to find the coordinates of my own recovery in the gentle signals that help me navigate my body through the day.

Walking the paddocks of our family homestead in the biodiverse foothills, I map seasonal growth, bird flight, my health, and the weight of my footfall. These rhythms mark changes in light, energy, and capacity; they are my practical guides, telling me when to rest or shield, and when it is safe to wander – and to wonder.

I navigate in layers. I map the property through GIS systems, the verticality of the trees, the flight paths of birds, and my own footsteps. The property becomes quadrants I loop through as I walk. Each section marking a phase in my body and the environment.

In my work, these layers sit like a staccato pulse; distinct, stacked, yet somehow in harmony. These aren’t just maps; they capture my physical head postures – the distinct ways I must hold myself to process data while bracing against the world.

Little sparks of joy are found in the colourful feathers, flowers and seasonal changes I find on my walks. These spots of vibrant colour inform my jewellery and creative process, rooted in observation and beauty; but grown from survival.

Sometimes, one may only see the singular bloom or the loudest birdsong because they catch the attention. But a landscape, like a body, has layers that hover under the surface, requiring a ‘bird’s eye view’ to truly comprehend.

I have distilled the colours of these walks into a personal palette: the bright yellow pop of wattle, the pink of shed bark, the flash of red-tailed black cockatoos, and peach sunsets. I remind myself not to forget the quiet foundation – the grey of the sand, the yellowing grasses, the vast blue and night skies; the boundary fences that hold the space.

This new body has taught me to seek and cherish tiny moments of joy, however fleeting, to nourish my soul.

To a casual observer, this focus can be confusing; to the professionals screening me for medical PTSD, it is a sign of resilience.

Art is my way of surviving.

Choosing to embrace joy is my act of defiance.