Byron School of Art: 2024–2026
This ongoing chapter of study at the Byron School of Art is a space of deep exploration, where I’m expanding my practice, challenging old patterns, and opening myself to the unknown. As I move through this three-year program, I’m drawn again and again to themes of belonging, impermanence, transition, and the feeling of being caught between worlds—between places, cultures, and identities.
Through projects like Impermanence of Identity, Threshold of Self, and Fragments of a Beginning, I’m beginning to unravel and reweave personal and collective narratives. This space is a window into the work behind the scenes—unfinished thoughts, layered processes, quiet discoveries, and the slow unfolding of ideas. It's where curiosity leads, where doubt is welcomed, and where each mark made or material chosen becomes a way of understanding the self in motion.
This page will continue to grow alongside my studies—reflecting not only finished work, but also the fragments, questions, and transitions that shape it.
Through projects like Impermanence of Identity, Threshold of Self, and Fragments of a Beginning, I’m beginning to unravel and reweave personal and collective narratives. This space is a window into the work behind the scenes—unfinished thoughts, layered processes, quiet discoveries, and the slow unfolding of ideas. It's where curiosity leads, where doubt is welcomed, and where each mark made or material chosen becomes a way of understanding the self in motion.
This page will continue to grow alongside my studies—reflecting not only finished work, but also the fragments, questions, and transitions that shape it.
Traces of Presence (2025)
In Traces of Presence, everyday interiors become quiet witnesses to memory and time.
This recent series of oil paintings follows on from last term’s series of chairs and explores the quiet spaces where absence intersects with memory — rooms and objects that seem to breathe with what’s no longer there. Chairs, mannequins, windows, and letters stand in for the figure. They remain still, contemplative, carrying traces of presence.The palette shifts between muted nostalgia and deeper contrasts. In some works, soft light falls across the floor and furniture; in others, darker backgrounds amplify solitude and silence.
After a recent visit to the Tweed Regional Gallery, two works reference Margaret Olley’s studio — a way of entering into dialogue with another artist’s lived space. Her familiar chairs, table, flowers, and palette were an invitation to her world.
The Olley interiors provided the inspiration for my own interiors and motifs: a scarf, books, a mannequin thoughtfully arranged in my home. These objects blur time creating a quiet meeting point between her world and mine.
The mannequin works lean into psychology. A scarf draped over shoulders, a letter left on the floor, komboloi poised with a book of love, incense burning — these simple gestures hold the residue of presence. Light and shadow become metaphors for time, change, and what remains after leaving.
The outdoor chair paintings introduce slender grapevine runners that wind quietly around the iron legs and backs. These vines aren't rooted — they’re placed, as if memory itself had taken shape. They suggest connection and lineage, yet also impermanence — a living thread linking past and present without being fixed. They draw on memories of growing up in our terrace home and dodging the occasional grape or caterpillar falling from the overhead vines. Set against soft pink tones, these scenes feel suspended between interior and exterior, warmth and uncertainty.
Throughout the series, I focus on emotional simplicity. Each painting is a quiet narrative — not a portrait of a person, but of presence itself. I’m asking how space remembers, how everyday objects hold the memory of lived moments.
This series marks a shift in my practice — a move deeper into metaphors and symbolism. I’m painting not just what I see but what I sense. Phillip Guston once said, “I got sick of the purity of the forms, I wanted to tell stories.” I feel this shift from representation to narrative, from surface to story.
Painting interiors is new for me. But with our BSA focus on place and self, I’ve been exploring the rooms that hold us — and the stories they contain. A chair becomes a conversation that’s gone quiet. A mannequin echoes the absent body. A scarf, a book, a letter — these everyday things hold emotional weight.
I’ve been influenced by Rebecca Solnit and her idea that being lost is a necessary state — one that opens up new ways of seeing. And Gaston Bachelard’s Poetics of Space reminds me that rooms, corners, and objects carry emotional histories — they are architectures of memory.
Through this work, colour, composition, and light speak emotionally — muted palette, fragile highlights, and empty chairs become metaphors for presence and absence. These are rooms where someone just left — or never arrived. They hold stillness but also tension, silence but also story.
This recent series of oil paintings follows on from last term’s series of chairs and explores the quiet spaces where absence intersects with memory — rooms and objects that seem to breathe with what’s no longer there. Chairs, mannequins, windows, and letters stand in for the figure. They remain still, contemplative, carrying traces of presence.The palette shifts between muted nostalgia and deeper contrasts. In some works, soft light falls across the floor and furniture; in others, darker backgrounds amplify solitude and silence.
After a recent visit to the Tweed Regional Gallery, two works reference Margaret Olley’s studio — a way of entering into dialogue with another artist’s lived space. Her familiar chairs, table, flowers, and palette were an invitation to her world.
The Olley interiors provided the inspiration for my own interiors and motifs: a scarf, books, a mannequin thoughtfully arranged in my home. These objects blur time creating a quiet meeting point between her world and mine.
The mannequin works lean into psychology. A scarf draped over shoulders, a letter left on the floor, komboloi poised with a book of love, incense burning — these simple gestures hold the residue of presence. Light and shadow become metaphors for time, change, and what remains after leaving.
The outdoor chair paintings introduce slender grapevine runners that wind quietly around the iron legs and backs. These vines aren't rooted — they’re placed, as if memory itself had taken shape. They suggest connection and lineage, yet also impermanence — a living thread linking past and present without being fixed. They draw on memories of growing up in our terrace home and dodging the occasional grape or caterpillar falling from the overhead vines. Set against soft pink tones, these scenes feel suspended between interior and exterior, warmth and uncertainty.
Throughout the series, I focus on emotional simplicity. Each painting is a quiet narrative — not a portrait of a person, but of presence itself. I’m asking how space remembers, how everyday objects hold the memory of lived moments.
This series marks a shift in my practice — a move deeper into metaphors and symbolism. I’m painting not just what I see but what I sense. Phillip Guston once said, “I got sick of the purity of the forms, I wanted to tell stories.” I feel this shift from representation to narrative, from surface to story.
Painting interiors is new for me. But with our BSA focus on place and self, I’ve been exploring the rooms that hold us — and the stories they contain. A chair becomes a conversation that’s gone quiet. A mannequin echoes the absent body. A scarf, a book, a letter — these everyday things hold emotional weight.
I’ve been influenced by Rebecca Solnit and her idea that being lost is a necessary state — one that opens up new ways of seeing. And Gaston Bachelard’s Poetics of Space reminds me that rooms, corners, and objects carry emotional histories — they are architectures of memory.
Through this work, colour, composition, and light speak emotionally — muted palette, fragile highlights, and empty chairs become metaphors for presence and absence. These are rooms where someone just left — or never arrived. They hold stillness but also tension, silence but also story.
Celestial Forest (2025)
This installation sits at the intersection of material repetition, spatial awareness, and poetic gesture. Working with black clay twigs allowed me to consider the floor not as support, but as active field — echoing Carl Andre’s thoughts that sculpture can exist horizontally, directly in the viewer’s space, rather than elevated or framed.
The choice to arrange the pieces in a loose circular formation draws directly from Richard Long. His use of humble materials gathered from the earth — arranged, walked, or placed through simple gestures — helped me understand how rhythm, movement, and trace can be embedded in form without narration. The circle became a way to speak of cycles, moons, and return, without illustration.
Lee Ufan’s writing on encounter and emptiness became an anchor. I became increasingly aware that the power of the work lies not only in the presence of the clay, but in the space around and between it. The intervals allow viewers to complete the work through their own perception. Stillness becomes an active force.
Wolfgang Laib helped me understand repetition as devotion. Just as Laib builds form through small, accumulated gestures — pollen sifted over days, milk poured and replaced — the process of rolling each twig by hand became a quiet ritual. One that became more in tune and less forced. The simplicity of the act held meaning equal to the finished installation.
Isamu Noguchi offers another layer — the sense that earth, material, and cosmos are not separate. His work exists in the overlap between sculpture and landscape, and this helped me think of the clay both as forest floor and as lunar reference: fallen debris and celestial rhythm at once.
Fred Sandback’s ability to define space through almost nothing — just line, tension, suggestion — reminded me that the installation doesn’t need mass to occupy space. The negative space is doing as much work as the clay.
Through this process I’ve learned to trust LESS - fewer elements, fewer materials, more presence through repetition. The work is not a picture of nature, but a quiet encounter.
The choice to arrange the pieces in a loose circular formation draws directly from Richard Long. His use of humble materials gathered from the earth — arranged, walked, or placed through simple gestures — helped me understand how rhythm, movement, and trace can be embedded in form without narration. The circle became a way to speak of cycles, moons, and return, without illustration.
Lee Ufan’s writing on encounter and emptiness became an anchor. I became increasingly aware that the power of the work lies not only in the presence of the clay, but in the space around and between it. The intervals allow viewers to complete the work through their own perception. Stillness becomes an active force.
Wolfgang Laib helped me understand repetition as devotion. Just as Laib builds form through small, accumulated gestures — pollen sifted over days, milk poured and replaced — the process of rolling each twig by hand became a quiet ritual. One that became more in tune and less forced. The simplicity of the act held meaning equal to the finished installation.
Isamu Noguchi offers another layer — the sense that earth, material, and cosmos are not separate. His work exists in the overlap between sculpture and landscape, and this helped me think of the clay both as forest floor and as lunar reference: fallen debris and celestial rhythm at once.
Fred Sandback’s ability to define space through almost nothing — just line, tension, suggestion — reminded me that the installation doesn’t need mass to occupy space. The negative space is doing as much work as the clay.
Through this process I’ve learned to trust LESS - fewer elements, fewer materials, more presence through repetition. The work is not a picture of nature, but a quiet encounter.
Plena Luna (2025)
Plena Luna explores the circle as a symbol of wholeness, balance, and calm — a visual pause within a world of noise and movement. The works evoke the quiet rhythm of the moon, where stillness and change coexist.
Each piece combines muslin and tarlatan layered over wood panels, then washed with acrylic paint in earthy tones of burnt sienna, yellow ochre, and white. The materials are chosen for their honesty — the softness of textile, the solidity of wood, and the delicate interplay between opacity and transparency.
The process involves layering, sanding, and reworking, allowing surfaces to reveal their own history of touch and time. Through this repetition, the work becomes a meditation on presence and persistence rather than perfection.
Influenced by artists such as Eva Hesse, Richard Long, and Hilma af Klint, Plena Luna continues the dialogue between form, material, and meaning. Each circle holds its own quiet gravity — a moment of stillness that invites reflection and breath.
Each piece combines muslin and tarlatan layered over wood panels, then washed with acrylic paint in earthy tones of burnt sienna, yellow ochre, and white. The materials are chosen for their honesty — the softness of textile, the solidity of wood, and the delicate interplay between opacity and transparency.
The process involves layering, sanding, and reworking, allowing surfaces to reveal their own history of touch and time. Through this repetition, the work becomes a meditation on presence and persistence rather than perfection.
Influenced by artists such as Eva Hesse, Richard Long, and Hilma af Klint, Plena Luna continues the dialogue between form, material, and meaning. Each circle holds its own quiet gravity — a moment of stillness that invites reflection and breath.
Place - Petit Assembly (2025)
Petit Assembly ~ Five chairs sit in quiet dialogue, each a marker of place and time. Four are mine, gathered second-hand, already carrying stories I can only guess at. The fifth remains in my childhood home, a house now empty but still alive with memory.
For me, a chair is never just furniture. It is a witness, a vessel, a stand-in for the lap of a mother where a child was once held. The mother’s lap as the first world, the first resting place, the place where the self is gathered.These chairs extend that image — they cradle lives through joy and through grief, through birthdays, exhaustion after work, or evenings when the house has finally gone quiet.
Bachelard writes that the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace. In the same way, each chair shelters memory — it holds its sitters and, in return, is shaped by them. Even when left behind, the presence remains.
Van Gogh painted his own chair and Gauguin’s chair as portraits of absence and self, claiming he was painting “the soul of a chair.” I feel the same with these works: each chair becomes a portrait of the unseen lives it once carried.
Each - Oil on board | Oak frame | 28x23cm
For me, a chair is never just furniture. It is a witness, a vessel, a stand-in for the lap of a mother where a child was once held. The mother’s lap as the first world, the first resting place, the place where the self is gathered.These chairs extend that image — they cradle lives through joy and through grief, through birthdays, exhaustion after work, or evenings when the house has finally gone quiet.
Bachelard writes that the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace. In the same way, each chair shelters memory — it holds its sitters and, in return, is shaped by them. Even when left behind, the presence remains.
Van Gogh painted his own chair and Gauguin’s chair as portraits of absence and self, claiming he was painting “the soul of a chair.” I feel the same with these works: each chair becomes a portrait of the unseen lives it once carried.
Each - Oil on board | Oak frame | 28x23cm
Self and Site - Wish You Were Here (2025)
Wishing You Were Here is part of my ongoing exploration into absence, memory, home, and belonging, created for the Byron School of Art Site and Self project in expanded painting. The work began with projections of four chairs traced onto the wall, which I transformed into three cut-out silhouettes. A real bentwood chair and the original photograph were included in the installation, deepening the dialogue between image and object.Throughout the project, I grappled with direction while holding steady to the themes and emotional undercurrents. Influences included Antoni Tàpies, Joseph Kosuth's One and Three Chairs, and the work of Doris Salcedo, known for her evocative use of chairs.This piece is a step towards a broader investigation into absence, silhouettes, and the traces of what remains, as I continue to question how these elements can inhabit space and evoke memory.
Self and Site – Holding It Together (For Now) - (2025)
This emerging body of work responds to the physical and emotional aftermath of a recent cyclone in my region. The materials I’ve used—hessian sandbags, medical gauze, SES bandages, and weather-beaten palm leaves—carry embedded histories. These were not chosen for aesthetics, but for what they have witnessed: rupture, resilience, and recovery.
The making process has been somatic and intuitive. Acts of wrapping, binding, and suspending mimic both emergency response and domestic gesture. These forms evoke protection and fragility, echoing how we physically and emotionally respond to crisis. The materials, often overlooked, become vessels of care, defence, and restoration.
My husband’s role as a State Emergency Services (SES) volunteer has brought another layer of proximity and meaning. The work references these unseen support systems, and our quiet association with them during moments of environmental upheaval.
I'm influenced by the material storytelling of artists such as Hema Shironi and Dego. Like them, I use humble, often salvaged materials to explore themes of impermanence, identity, and memory. I’m particularly drawn to Arte Povera’s ethos—transforming the ordinary into something deeply symbolic and affecting.
At its heart, this series explores how we carry and care for disruption—how materials, bodies, and gestures can help us process grief, offer protection, and begin to repair.
This work is just starting to unfold, and I expect there will be some changes over the next few weeks.
The making process has been somatic and intuitive. Acts of wrapping, binding, and suspending mimic both emergency response and domestic gesture. These forms evoke protection and fragility, echoing how we physically and emotionally respond to crisis. The materials, often overlooked, become vessels of care, defence, and restoration.
My husband’s role as a State Emergency Services (SES) volunteer has brought another layer of proximity and meaning. The work references these unseen support systems, and our quiet association with them during moments of environmental upheaval.
I'm influenced by the material storytelling of artists such as Hema Shironi and Dego. Like them, I use humble, often salvaged materials to explore themes of impermanence, identity, and memory. I’m particularly drawn to Arte Povera’s ethos—transforming the ordinary into something deeply symbolic and affecting.
At its heart, this series explores how we carry and care for disruption—how materials, bodies, and gestures can help us process grief, offer protection, and begin to repair.
This work is just starting to unfold, and I expect there will be some changes over the next few weeks.
Fragments of a Beginning (2024)
Fragments of a Beginning, inspired by a single, nostalgic photograph from my kindergarten days, explores memory, identity, and the evolution of my artistic self. The image, a snapshot of me painting at an easel, evokes a sense of innocence and curiosity—the foundation of my creative journey.
Each painting represents a distinct fragment of that moment, capturing not just the literal details, but the subtle, perhaps subconscious, connections I have with my past and present.
The first piece, isolates a youthful expression, frozen in time. It's an exploration of the self—the moment before I fully understood the language of visual art. There is a certain vulnerability in the half-face, a fragment of identity that has since been shaped and redefined.
The cardigan, the second piece, is an emblem of comfort and warmth, the soft textures of memory that shape how we perceive ourselves over time. It's a symbol of family, of home, and of an era in my life that remains woven into the fabric of my current creative process.
The third, my shoes, represents the quiet grounding of childhood. These shoes, humble yet distinctive, anchor me to the past—both physically and metaphorically. They remind me of the beginnings of movement, both in life and in my artistic practice, and the delicate balance between where I’ve come from and where I’m going.
Finally, the painting on the easel, is both a literal and metaphorical reference. In recreating the scene of the photo, I’m not just revisiting a past version of myself, but also reflecting on my ongoing relationship with the act of creating.
This series is a personal reckoning, a celebration of beginnings, and an ongoing exploration of how memories shape and inform the artist I am today.
Each painting represents a distinct fragment of that moment, capturing not just the literal details, but the subtle, perhaps subconscious, connections I have with my past and present.
The first piece, isolates a youthful expression, frozen in time. It's an exploration of the self—the moment before I fully understood the language of visual art. There is a certain vulnerability in the half-face, a fragment of identity that has since been shaped and redefined.
The cardigan, the second piece, is an emblem of comfort and warmth, the soft textures of memory that shape how we perceive ourselves over time. It's a symbol of family, of home, and of an era in my life that remains woven into the fabric of my current creative process.
The third, my shoes, represents the quiet grounding of childhood. These shoes, humble yet distinctive, anchor me to the past—both physically and metaphorically. They remind me of the beginnings of movement, both in life and in my artistic practice, and the delicate balance between where I’ve come from and where I’m going.
Finally, the painting on the easel, is both a literal and metaphorical reference. In recreating the scene of the photo, I’m not just revisiting a past version of myself, but also reflecting on my ongoing relationship with the act of creating.
This series is a personal reckoning, a celebration of beginnings, and an ongoing exploration of how memories shape and inform the artist I am today.
Threshold of Self (2024)
FINALIST - Dean Cogle Portrait Prize 2025 and Lethbridge Smalls Art Prize 2025
The Threshold of Self series explores the complexity of identity in a world that often feels fragmented and in flux. Each painting presents a self-portrait of only half my face, symbolizing a sense of partiality, incompleteness, and division—reflecting the liminal spaces I find myself inhabiting. These spaces, both physical and emotional, are thresholds between one state and another—moments of transition, ambiguity, and uncertainty. The half-face becomes a visual metaphor for the space between presence and absence, engagement and detachment, reality and illusion.
As life becomes increasingly complex, there are times when I feel disconnected from my own experience, as if operating on autopilot or drifting through the motions. The shift from light sketch to greater detail in each painting mirrors this tension between disconnection and the slow process of re-engagement with the world around me. The early, more fluid sketches represent a state of ambiguity, while the later, more refined portions of the work suggest moments of clarity and reconnection, though never fully resolving the underlying sense of incompleteness.
Contained within a 20x20cm square and life-sized, each work invites the viewer to engage intimately with this journey of self-exploration. The small scale, coupled with the focus on a single half of the face, draws attention to the internal nature of the experience, while the concept of liminality suggests that identity is never fixed, but always in transition—caught between different stages of understanding, between who we were, who we are, and who we may become.
The Threshold of Self series seeks to capture this delicate balance between engagement and withdrawal, offering a meditation on the experience of living in a liminal space—where one is neither fully here nor fully there, and where the process of self-discovery remains unfinished, ever-evolving. It is an attempt to give form to the quiet, complex space between the known and the unknown, the seen and the unseen, the present and the absent.
The Threshold of Self series explores the complexity of identity in a world that often feels fragmented and in flux. Each painting presents a self-portrait of only half my face, symbolizing a sense of partiality, incompleteness, and division—reflecting the liminal spaces I find myself inhabiting. These spaces, both physical and emotional, are thresholds between one state and another—moments of transition, ambiguity, and uncertainty. The half-face becomes a visual metaphor for the space between presence and absence, engagement and detachment, reality and illusion.
As life becomes increasingly complex, there are times when I feel disconnected from my own experience, as if operating on autopilot or drifting through the motions. The shift from light sketch to greater detail in each painting mirrors this tension between disconnection and the slow process of re-engagement with the world around me. The early, more fluid sketches represent a state of ambiguity, while the later, more refined portions of the work suggest moments of clarity and reconnection, though never fully resolving the underlying sense of incompleteness.
Contained within a 20x20cm square and life-sized, each work invites the viewer to engage intimately with this journey of self-exploration. The small scale, coupled with the focus on a single half of the face, draws attention to the internal nature of the experience, while the concept of liminality suggests that identity is never fixed, but always in transition—caught between different stages of understanding, between who we were, who we are, and who we may become.
The Threshold of Self series seeks to capture this delicate balance between engagement and withdrawal, offering a meditation on the experience of living in a liminal space—where one is neither fully here nor fully there, and where the process of self-discovery remains unfinished, ever-evolving. It is an attempt to give form to the quiet, complex space between the known and the unknown, the seen and the unseen, the present and the absent.
Impermanence of Identity (2024)
The theme of impermanence and identity has motivated the work. My father’s surname was discarded on arrival to Australia and replaced with a new name. Assimilation into society discards old for new, just as a woman takes on a man’s name with marriage discarding her maiden name.
As my father’s name was changed when he immigrated to Australia, my own sense of identity has been challenged throughout my life. Being given the Macedonian name Lena at birth, my name then became Helen, the translation of Lena. The continual need to explain my name difference from what appears on government papers to what is used more commonly, wore thin over time. It felt like my identity was being questioned. Who was I? Why was I using another name? It felt odd, as a chair or a cup could be called many different names in other languages. Yet a given name was more difficult to grasp as a translation.
Women in particular have their names changed in marriage. They take on the male family name discarding their own. But what happens when the marriage doesn’t work? Is it discarded or retained for the sake of the kids?
These cultural and societal norms of labelling and giving names to people provoked a search for understanding of the transient and impermanence of identity. This impermanence swirls around us creating confusion at times, playing with our sense of identity, our sense of belonging. Who are we? What are we? Associations are lost over time whilst new ones emerge temporarily. We shed our layers whilst we sleep and wake to the dawn of a new day.
In the making of my artwork, IMPERMANENCE of IDENTITY, I used a combination of discarded natural and manmade objects that change, evolve, or can be deconstructed, reconstructed and reused, influenced by art movements such as Art Povera and Environmental Art. It allowed me to come to terms with my own identity as something dynamic rather than static. We are constantly surrounded by the used and discarded. We ourselves, are part of this natural and manifested discarded state of existence. Our identities are fragmented over time.
When a snake sheds its skin, it’s leaving behind an old, worn-out layer to make way for new growth. This process symbolizes the idea that change is a natural and necessary part of life. Just as the snake must shed its skin to continue growing, we too must let go of outdated aspects of ourselves to evolve and progress. The old skin, while once vital, becomes irrelevant as it is cast off, reflecting how our past experiences and stages are transient and give way to new phases.
Cicadas undergo a remarkable transformation from nymphs to adults, emerging from the ground and leaving behind their old shells. These empty shells cling to trees as a testament to the cicada’s past life but are no longer functional. They represent the idea that while our past selves and experiences are important, they are not permanent fixtures; they are stages in our ongoing transformation. The cicada shell serves as a reminder of how our own lives are marked by phases of change and renewal.
Seed pods contain the potential for new life but eventually dry up and decompose after dispersing their seeds. They symbolize the end of one phase and the beginning of another, showing how life is a continuous cycle of birth, growth, decay, and rebirth. The pod’s impermanence highlights how endings are not final but are merely a prelude to new beginnings. It underscores the idea that even in our endings, there is the potential for renewal and continuation.
IMPERMANENCE of IDENTITY is a reflective, hopeful and provocative installation that encourages viewers to pause and reflect on their own self in society, and what it means in the context of identity. While dealing with themes of used and discarded, the use of transformed objects can also create a hopeful tone as it shows the potential for creativity and renewal from what is discarded. The installation can provoke critical thinking about societal values. It can challenge viewers to confront their perceptions of identity, fostering dialogue and awareness.
As my father’s name was changed when he immigrated to Australia, my own sense of identity has been challenged throughout my life. Being given the Macedonian name Lena at birth, my name then became Helen, the translation of Lena. The continual need to explain my name difference from what appears on government papers to what is used more commonly, wore thin over time. It felt like my identity was being questioned. Who was I? Why was I using another name? It felt odd, as a chair or a cup could be called many different names in other languages. Yet a given name was more difficult to grasp as a translation.
Women in particular have their names changed in marriage. They take on the male family name discarding their own. But what happens when the marriage doesn’t work? Is it discarded or retained for the sake of the kids?
These cultural and societal norms of labelling and giving names to people provoked a search for understanding of the transient and impermanence of identity. This impermanence swirls around us creating confusion at times, playing with our sense of identity, our sense of belonging. Who are we? What are we? Associations are lost over time whilst new ones emerge temporarily. We shed our layers whilst we sleep and wake to the dawn of a new day.
In the making of my artwork, IMPERMANENCE of IDENTITY, I used a combination of discarded natural and manmade objects that change, evolve, or can be deconstructed, reconstructed and reused, influenced by art movements such as Art Povera and Environmental Art. It allowed me to come to terms with my own identity as something dynamic rather than static. We are constantly surrounded by the used and discarded. We ourselves, are part of this natural and manifested discarded state of existence. Our identities are fragmented over time.
When a snake sheds its skin, it’s leaving behind an old, worn-out layer to make way for new growth. This process symbolizes the idea that change is a natural and necessary part of life. Just as the snake must shed its skin to continue growing, we too must let go of outdated aspects of ourselves to evolve and progress. The old skin, while once vital, becomes irrelevant as it is cast off, reflecting how our past experiences and stages are transient and give way to new phases.
Cicadas undergo a remarkable transformation from nymphs to adults, emerging from the ground and leaving behind their old shells. These empty shells cling to trees as a testament to the cicada’s past life but are no longer functional. They represent the idea that while our past selves and experiences are important, they are not permanent fixtures; they are stages in our ongoing transformation. The cicada shell serves as a reminder of how our own lives are marked by phases of change and renewal.
Seed pods contain the potential for new life but eventually dry up and decompose after dispersing their seeds. They symbolize the end of one phase and the beginning of another, showing how life is a continuous cycle of birth, growth, decay, and rebirth. The pod’s impermanence highlights how endings are not final but are merely a prelude to new beginnings. It underscores the idea that even in our endings, there is the potential for renewal and continuation.
IMPERMANENCE of IDENTITY is a reflective, hopeful and provocative installation that encourages viewers to pause and reflect on their own self in society, and what it means in the context of identity. While dealing with themes of used and discarded, the use of transformed objects can also create a hopeful tone as it shows the potential for creativity and renewal from what is discarded. The installation can provoke critical thinking about societal values. It can challenge viewers to confront their perceptions of identity, fostering dialogue and awareness.