April 24, 2017


Hexagons cut from magazine paper and musty op-shop sun frocks

carried home like trophies. Washed and unmade, faded

fabrics like snatches of song, reminiscent of times long gone,


Bolts of bold beauty arrest. Hands caress endless ranks of cloth,

drunk on possibility. Soft brushed cottons, florals,

and stripes, checked candy colours and vibrant deep hues,


Needles prick pincushion fingertips, tongue tastes rust, bright

blood blooms slow. Patience grows. Cable, stem and feather

stitch embellish, texture, pattern and shape fascinate.

I create.

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We acknowledge the past, present and emerging traditional owners of the land on which we live and work, the Wadjuk people of the Noongar nation and acknowledge that sovereignty was never ceded.

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