In good times, my father was a fisherman. A thin, nylon line tethering him to an army of anglers. Long summers spent among “the optimists” – as he called them – all waiting patiently to hook the big one. In bad times, my father was a fisherman. His quest to catch the big one quashed by disease. With beer in hand, his fishing trips grew more reflective, as energy and will drained from him. In death, my father swims with the fish. A smattering of dust, forever connecting him to the community of fishers.

Frangapani for Life is reflective of my own feelings for my mother and my connection to the community I live within. Mum lived in the tropics for all of her life, the frangapani is representative of mums community roots. My mother had the strength to withstand tough challenges and we shared an intense love and a ever lasting bond as not just mother and daughter but best friends. Her spirit and immortality through my artwork will span multiple lifetimes. My artworks message is; Being delicate and beautiful doesn't mean you are weak or incapable of rising to meet a challenge.

My son Ivànovic spent 8 months of his 10 months and 24 days of life inside the hospital mostly unable to move more than a metre from oxygen connected to the wall or some sort of breathing support. On this day just days after we spoke with palliative care and just days before he passed away, I took him outside so the sun could kiss his face there we were connected, connected to the community that we had looked at through his hospital room window. It would be his last walk

Moths are nocturnal creatures. They go largely unnoticed, but are always there, and rarely alone. With no conclusive reason why they are so drawn towards brightness we assume they use the light of the moon as a constant bearing to navigate. In it’s absence they adjust their course towards man-made light or otherwise. When they unexpectedly arrive at the destination they never actually intended to reach they remain stuck in an endless spiral, but they persist. Determined. They are graceful, fragile, vulnerable creatures, yet remain connected to their community of travelling companions, feeling their way along their journey.

I began making pom-poms after my partner was diagnosed with cancer. The joy of making something quickly focused my attention and momentarily relieved my fears. As his illness progressed I invited others to make pom-poms. Craft became a way for people to spend time with us, in our home. The repetition was comforting and people opened up. Having something to do with our hands shifted the focus from words, making human connection easier. After Steve died communal crafting became a way for me to connect with other people’s experience of death. This accumulation became ‘The Nature of Things.'

As a casual worker at a funeral home I make a lot of cups of tea for members of the community who are planning a funeral or grieving for a friend or family member. At times the grief seems overwhelming. The gesture of a cup of tea and the chance to speak openly about death and dying soothes the soul. This dress has been sewn together with the teabags from grieving family, friends and staff from the funeral home.