immersive body art exploring our connection with nature
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a sense of place
We are nature. Natural surroundings can ground, connect, and balance us. Our survival and emotional state is deeply entwined with our connection to the spaces we inhabit. These series of artworks communicate how each environment transforms us both physically and emotionally,
Boranup
We are the remaining giants. This place is nature's cathedral. Fed by the earth, rain and sun. People come here to pay us homage.
We are the remaining giants. This place is nature's cathedral. Fed by the earth, rain and sun. People come here to pay us homage.
Serpentine
A serpent cuts a path through old ancient iron soils, carving slowly away at the red rock. Layers upon layers, cascading downwards. Still yet moving, solid yet fluid, held but released. Rock, water and a face reflect the energy of this place. The drone of life can be heard above the rumble of the falls. Frogs chant their song in the still pools above while flying insects court the air, catching moisture from the droplets that fill the atmosphere. A slow dance of rock and water.
A serpent cuts a path through old ancient iron soils, carving slowly away at the red rock. Layers upon layers, cascading downwards. Still yet moving, solid yet fluid, held but released. Rock, water and a face reflect the energy of this place. The drone of life can be heard above the rumble of the falls. Frogs chant their song in the still pools above while flying insects court the air, catching moisture from the droplets that fill the atmosphere. A slow dance of rock and water.
Nannup
I weave a quiet magic that soaks into the branches and mossy earth. This is a place of fairytales and enchantment. Return to me and remember.
I weave a quiet magic that soaks into the branches and mossy earth. This is a place of fairytales and enchantment. Return to me and remember.
Coogee Power Station
Thirty five years. Abandoned. I am an anarchist. I am a rebel. I have something to say, but I am falling apart. Art belongs on the streets. To be seen yet not observed. Are we being watched? The motion sensor siren blares. The security man counts another lap.
Thirty five years. Abandoned. I am an anarchist. I am a rebel. I have something to say, but I am falling apart. Art belongs on the streets. To be seen yet not observed. Are we being watched? The motion sensor siren blares. The security man counts another lap.
Green Pool
I yearn to move free. Like the shifting sands. Facing the horizon I watch the sea shift and sway. Longing for her touch once more.
I yearn to move free. Like the shifting sands. Facing the horizon I watch the sea shift and sway. Longing for her touch once more.
Perth Hills
This ancient jarrah tree is a relic of the pre-logging era. Think of all the life she sustained. The birds whom she homed in her canopy, the insects that nibbled on her leaves. Even in her transition, she still provides a home. Skinks hiding under bark, beetles boring tunnels through her. Unearthing and emerging a gateway to a space of belonging.
This ancient jarrah tree is a relic of the pre-logging era. Think of all the life she sustained. The birds whom she homed in her canopy, the insects that nibbled on her leaves. Even in her transition, she still provides a home. Skinks hiding under bark, beetles boring tunnels through her. Unearthing and emerging a gateway to a space of belonging.
Blackwall Reach
This wall reflects the sands of old. Long ago it was a coral reef, home to an underwater world of fish and all sorts of aquatic life. Over time, the flowing water exposed her walls. The river has begun to lick at the limestone wall. The water wants to reclaim her space once more. Soon divers, and not climbers will explore this place.
This wall reflects the sands of old. Long ago it was a coral reef, home to an underwater world of fish and all sorts of aquatic life. Over time, the flowing water exposed her walls. The river has begun to lick at the limestone wall. The water wants to reclaim her space once more. Soon divers, and not climbers will explore this place.
Myalup
I am monoculture. My needles are toxic. No-one can grow under me. Where are the birds? Just silence. My time has come. I know what the yellow line means. The shadows fall on the fallen.
I am monoculture. My needles are toxic. No-one can grow under me. Where are the birds? Just silence. My time has come. I know what the yellow line means. The shadows fall on the fallen.
Stirling Ranges
A fire ravished me. They thought I was dead. An ash bed of nutrients. stimulating new germination. Fierce proteaceae poking their leaves through. My roots grip onto my host plant. I have never put on such a good show. This is my celebration of life.
A fire ravished me. They thought I was dead. An ash bed of nutrients. stimulating new germination. Fierce proteaceae poking their leaves through. My roots grip onto my host plant. I have never put on such a good show. This is my celebration of life.
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artists
jamie mcwilliam
lora flora
exhibition
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