Layer by Layer: On Making Art, Building a Home, and Finding a Place to Nest
Through stories, we make sense of who we are. They give us our sense of identity, shape our integrity, and establish our closest intimacies. Ultimately, we make up our minds about life through the very stories we choose to tell.
In my own art practice, my work explores the essence of "place", a way of being in the world filtered through my own lived experience. I often use the land as a metaphor because, much like me, the earth bears scars and strong traces of past activity and turmoil. In the studio, I build up layers with graphite dust and charcoal, only to erase them and work over them again in a constant search for form. Erasure metaphorically becomes part of my palimpsest. The faint traces left behind on the canvas are a testament to our human need for memory, and the need to give that memory a physical place to rest.
Lately, that search for a literal place to nest has beautifully unfolded in my personal life.
Last year, we made the massive decision to sell our house in Blairgowrie. We bought a gorgeous block of land overlooking the water in San Remo, right on the spectacular Bass Coast of Victoria. After a grueling building process, I am absolutely delighted to say we have finally moved into our new barn-house style home.
I’m currently sporting a huge fever blister under my nose, my literal badge of honour after pulling countless long hours painting cabinets and walls!
Building a home is full of unexpected creative adventures. One of my absolute highlights was finding an antique cabinet with a wonderful, weathered painted surface. Our brilliant cabinet maker helped us transform it into a kitchen island, and it turned out an absolute treat.
Taking the DIY spirit a step further, my husband and I decided to pour our own white cement countertops for the kitchen, the bathroom, and the new island. It is an intense process that I definitely wouldn’t recommend for the faint-hearted!
Just when we thought we were smooth sailing, the building process threw us a major curveball.
One morning, I arrived on site to find our cabinet maker standing there, wide-eyed. He pointed silently at the kitchen island. Overnight, white cement had spilled and hardened over the entire beautifully painted antique front.
I was completely stunned. My heart absolutely sank. In that moment, looking at the crusty white mess, I honestly couldn’t see a way forward.
But just like the layers on my canvases, the only way through was to work the surface. Slowly does it. Armed with wet wipes, a soft scraper, extra-fine steel wool, and a mountain of patience, the two of us chipped away at the mistake, bit by messy bit. We had to be excruciatingly careful not to damage the original antique paintwork underneath. It was a lengthy, nerve-wracking rescue mission that took several attempts, but we restored it.
Much like the charcoal traces left behind in my drawings, the faint marks of that hectic morning are now woven into the fabric of our home. It’s all part of the palimpsest of building a life, scars, spills, hard work, and all.
