n Scrubland #12, the bush whispers rather than shouts. This work invites the viewer into that quiet margin of the Australian landscape where the trees have grown old, the grasses lie low and the light shifts in subtle layers. Here, oil and wax on canvas become more than medium — they are a way of holding time, of tracing the rhythms of growth, decay and renewal within the scrub.
 
My practice has long been drawn to what might be overlooked: the fallen branch, the skeletal trunk, the tangled under-growth of the terrain around places like Nailcan Hill and the river corridors of the Murray River region. In this piece I build layer upon layer of translucent and opaque tones, of ochres, greys, muted greens, warm sun-fades and deeper shadows — to evoke not a pristine ideal but the real, lived terrain, full of complexity, fragments and gestures of resilience.
 
In Scrubland #12, the patterns of dry grass, the lean of a branch, the quiet echo of a form pressed by wind and time — all these are both literal and metaphorical. They speak of the land’s endurance, but also of its vulnerability. There is no heroic sweep here, only the invitation to linger, to watch how light flickers, how forms recede, how textures accumulate. The waxed surface holds what might otherwise be impermanent: a trace of movement, a suggestion of memory.
 
My hope is that the viewer, when faced with this work, will slow down and enter that space of noticing: the whisper of twig meeting ground, the gentle tilt of dried foliage in late-afternoon light, the tangle of broken branches against sky. This is a quieter kind of landscape — not panoramic, but intimate; not narrative, but contemplative. It asks: what do we see when we look closely? What do we miss when we walk past? And how might our regard for these places shift when we take the time to see their patterns, their subtle harmonies, their resilience?
 
50cm x 62cm Oil and wax on card