How a full cup overflows onto the canvas
Sometimes you need to step away from the studio to remember why you picked up the brush in the first place. In February, I returned to Western Australia for time with family and dear friends. Before leaving, I closed the studio with care — works brought to a deliberate pause, brushes cleaned, and the space left in quiet readiness for my return. There is a discipline in how an artist leaves a studio, just as there is in how they re-enter it. I came back with my cup overflowing.
That's the thing about stepping away – you don't just recharge, you refill. And when you do, it spills back into everything else, including the art.
I travelled the coastline in a small hybrid — practical, efficient and quietly zippy — moving between Dunsborough and the Perth Hills. Along the way, I sought out galleries, fellow artists, and studios tucked beyond the expected path. I spent time with aunts, uncles, cousins — the full constellation of family. One afternoon, I found myself gardening at my cousin’s Airbnb in Como, hands in soil rather than paint. There was something profoundly grounding in that shift — another kind of making, another way of being present.
In early March, my father came to visit. We travelled together to National Gallery of Australia, and later to the Australian War Memorial, where I came across my grandfather’s battalion etched into the wall. It was a quiet but powerful moment — one that expanded my sense of family across time and place, stretching in all directions: past, present, and future.
Returning home, that thread of connection continued. Together, we built a chook shed and worked to flood-proof the studio. The same hands that once taught me how to hold a hammer were now helping me protect the space in which I create. There was something timeless in it; an echo of generations past, grounded in simple, purposeful work.
Time away like this doesn’t interrupt the practice, it feeds it. What I’ve carried back into the studio is a renewed sense of connection: to land, to family, and to the quiet rhythms that sit beneath the surface of the work. I can already feel it beginning to emerge in the next pieces.
Austin helping build the chook shed - another multi-skilled man in the making!
As all this extended family time came to a close, I was grateful for the chance to fill up all my other cups as a way to welcome the new year. Family, connection, rest, memories – they all feed my art. At the end of the day, art is a reflection of life. Both look markedly different from person to person. But to have art, to create, you must have life first.
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