Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
This piece is part of my Possum Skin series — a body of work that carries the memory of Country and the old ways of marking story. When I made it, I wasn’t just painting. I was uncovering.
I laid down thick layers of paint, knowing that each one would hide something older beneath it. Then I took a high-pressure water hose for the water to tear through the surface, carving its own path, just like time and truth do. It exposed the history that lived inside the paint, the same way a possum skin cloak reveals its story through scars and ochre.
In the old way, markings were cut into the skin, and ochre was rubbed in — the wounds becoming the story. My process mirrors that. The hose becomes a carving tool. The paint becomes the skin. What’s revealed isn’t polished or planned; it’s raw, layered, and alive. It speaks to the way our history survives — sometimes buried, sometimes washed over, but never lost.
This piece is part of my Possum Skin series — a body of work that carries the memory of Country and the old ways of marking story. When I made it, I wasn’t just painting. I was uncovering.
I laid down thick layers of paint, knowing that each one would hide something older beneath it. Then I took a high-pressure water hose for the water to tear through the surface, carving its own path, just like time and truth do. It exposed the history that lived inside the paint, the same way a possum skin cloak reveals its story through scars and ochre.
In the old way, markings were cut into the skin, and ochre was rubbed in — the wounds becoming the story. My process mirrors that. The hose becomes a carving tool. The paint becomes the skin. What’s revealed isn’t polished or planned; it’s raw, layered, and alive. It speaks to the way our history survives — sometimes buried, sometimes washed over, but never lost.