Where perfection ends, creativity calls

As a child I searched for stones that sparkled. My home tucked deep in the Australian bush. Savouring scents of Golden Wattle, befriending caterpillars and snails. If I listened carefully I could understand the language of the land.

Life breathes you in slowly and then exhales, somersaults tumbling waves of emotions and leaves you vulnerable, raw, yet brave.

Be like the rain, unafraid to fall. Here where perfection ends, creativity calls.

I return home to myself. My painted love affair seduces me, shades transform into rhythmic strokes of colour. Textures ripple and swell and then… pause… be still, subtle, a feather touch.

If I listen carefully, I understand.