GHOSTSCAPES, FONTANELLE GALLERY
I live here, in South Australia, as have some of my ancestors for nearly 180 years. Like them, I am not a homemaker but a settler. I build and stitch makeshift ‘homes’ atop this ancient land to whose inner workings remain mystifying and to which I have no historical ties (bar the humble lineage of settlers who have similarly sought resting places). I associate ‘home’ here, particularly in my darker moments, with uneasy foundations and an enduring obliviousness to what lies beneath and before. As such, I imagine ‘homes’ as teetering and temporary dwellings merely balancing atop hughnormous (as my son would say) hills. The hills are staggering; formed from innumerable layers of rich history, including the universe’s dust and rocks mixed with the bones of all past life. From the hills ghosts rise. Some seem familiar and most don’t, but their presence can be felt; in a stone, an old river red gum, the force of the wind, a street name and more. Rather than pretend they aren’t there, it seems a better plan to settle in with the ghosts of this land(scape) and to give them space in which they can howl and hush their inexpressible pasts.