The Year That Was

#art #brisbane #AspireGallery #PetitePieces2018

It’s almost February. This time last year, I was nervous about being in my very first exhibition. Now, I’m nervous again as my four artworks make their way from Sydney to Brisbane all on their own.

Every February, a beautiful little gallery in Brisbane’s inner western suburb of Paddington called Aspire Gallery puts on their “Petite Pieces” exhibition. It’s open for all with the only restriction being that artworks must measure 40cm cubed or less for 3D artworks and less than 40cm squared for wall art.

The curators and the team at Aspire Gallery are some of the best people you will find in the art world – their gallery is impeccably presented and feels like home. There is no space for pretention or egotism here. They are all refreshingly down to Earth and wonderfully kind and helpful.

The best part is that they love their local talent: both experienced and amateur, career artists and hobbyists and everything in between. So it doesn’t matter what your personal taste in art is, you will find something you love there.

The only thing that makes me sad about this beautiful gallery is that I didn’t know about it when I lived in Brisbane but it is a must see when you go.

My art isn’t for everyone, hell, some of my pieces aren’t even for me, but they represent a part of me, just as I have found pieces in this gallery that other artists have made which speak so purely to parts of my soul and imagination. That’s why I urge you to get along to see Petite Pieces if you can.

The Eye of the Storm

All of the information you need on how to find the exhibition is here.

Please go and see it and support this beautiful gallery.



If Dr Seuss Owned Cats

A cat!
A cat!
To be exact
Two felines are here in fact.

Fur is here
And fur is there
Feline fur
is everywhere.

I cleaned the house
And vacuumed too
I turn around
And there’s some poo!

The cat pee smell
Is strong it’s true
And every day
There’s furballs too.

They’re very cute,
Loving and sweet
When they purr
And rub your feet

They cuddle and snuggle
And curl up on the bed
And they miaow so softly
When they want to be fed

Having fur babies
Is definitely nice
But some days it feels
Like sucking dry ice

Lego hurts to step on,
It’s true
But I know of something
Worse for you

Crystal cat litter
Will draw blood
You’ll hit the floor
With a resounding thud

Let the cats outside
To frolick in the sun
But they think
Eating grass is fun

And though you cleaned
The rug just before
They’ll come back inside
To spew on the floor.

Yes living with cats
Is a constant stream
Of piss and shit
And all things to clean

They’ve scratched my flyscreens
My chairs and my bed
I swear these cats
Make me wrong in the head

But it has its rewards
Any cat owner can tell
That a cat who loves you
Puts you under their spell

They’re like furry humans
Unique, moody creatures
But they also have many
Loveable features.

Cats aren’t for all
And all aren’t for cats
But they’ll chase away moths
And spiders and rats

Although they’ve chewed cords
And more than just some
I can’t imagine not
Being a cat’s mum.

#cats #felines #shesthecatsmother



My husband rolls out of bed gingerly to avoid waking me up.

My eyes spring open and my mouth says “Where are you going?” before my brain knows what just happened.

“I just can’t sleep with your snoring. I’m sorry.”

Did I mention my anxiety is hyperactive at the moment?

I’m now awake, and while I furiously google all the possible cures for snoring, my brain kicks into a dialogue.

“If you don’t do something, he’ll leave you.”

Me: “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous!”

Anxiety: “Wouldn’t you? Look at him! He’s exhausted. And he’s exhausted because of YOUR snoring. He’s exSnoreSted!”

Me: “But it’s not my fault! I’ve done everything I can!”

Anxiety: ” Have you?”

Me: “Yes. You know I have. And now I need an ENT specialist.”

Anxiety: “Ooh, sounds expensive. Hey, aren’t you about to take a pay cut? How will you afford that?”

Me: ” Don’t start this shit. It’ll be fine!”

Anxiety: “And what if they need to do surgery? You know they don’t like taking tonsils out of adults for a reason.”

Me: “Is it because the chances of bleeding out are higher?”

Anxiety: ” You DO listen to me! Oh, my little girl is growing up. I’m so proud!”

Me: “I’ve found an ENT, I’ll call them tomorrow. It’s 230am. Goodnight, arsehole.”

Anxiety: “Hey, you know what else can go wrong in hospitals?”

Me: “Screw you, I’m going to sleep.”

Anxiety: “You know he can hear you from the lounge room.”

Beauty Standards

I have had enough of the media. I have had enough of vapidity and shallowness. I’ve had enough of capitalist companies telling us how we should look and feel.

Here’s my very, very simple criterion for being beautiful:

Are you a good human being?


Then you are beautiful.

The Pro

I’m an artist.
I’ve waited a damned long time to say that and every time I do, I feel excited about it. To you, you might read that and automatically have visions of me in loose fitting tops and maxi skirts, bare feet and in a house full of dream catchers and random pieces of art all over the place. Some might immediately think that I’m a bit of a social climber, impeccably groomed by my husband’s millions, attending all of the big art world events dripping in designer clothing and jewels.
Nope, neither. Sorry to disappoint you. I have an “adult job” (sort of), I’m about to start studying again, we’re comfortable but by no means rich except in the soul and I don’t socialise much thanks to my anxiety.
But I am an amazing procrastinator. If it were an Olympic sport, I would be the all time greatest gold medal winner and, to be honest, I don’t know where I find the time.
I was cleaning and organising my bedroom the other day when I decided the walls were too bare and I needed to make something for it. The above picture is the result. Did I finish cleaning and organising? Not on your life! But I now have one less bare wall – and that makes me feel much better.
I’m an artist. I make an art out of procrastination and I make art while procrastinating.


#lace #artist #procrastination #homebeautiful #pinteresteatyourheartout

How do you feel?

It’s a miniature version of the original. This piece measures exactly 8 inches by 10 inches. It’s made inside a pine box canvas which is not designed for this purpose. (I’m an artist, you can’t tell me what to do!)

I actually had bigger plans for that backing paper – it’s quite stunning in real life. Unfortunately, it doesn’t hold a fold very well which makes it completely and utterly useless for most origami. Not all, but most.
I found it perfect for this, though.
My 7 miniature black origami lillies sit lightly on top but I still feel that the focus is not on them. That’s the point.
This piece is a comment on how giving flowers for special occasions is the norm in our society but we do it without thinking. Personally, I dislike it. It’s like saying to someone: “Hey, I really love you and these awesomely gorgeous flowers which will die in a week remind me of you!”
Don’t hand me a bunch of beautiful death to show you love me.

It’s 1am

It’s 1am. 
I arrived home from work two hours ago. My body thinks it’s dinner time but it’s actually WAY past bed time.
It’s  1am.
I’m trying to change my life in one night – I’m searching for jobs and courses I could complete to make me love my career again.
It’s  1am.
My amazing husband is asleep beside me while my brain continues to move at a hundred miles an hour, refusing to let me sleep.
It’s  1am. 
I’m still wired from being at work, from the stimuli of the music, the people, the physicality of my job and the responsibilty of being in charge of something as huge as that. 
It’s 1am. 
And I’ve had enough. Enough energy drinks. Enough cigarettes. Enough wine. Exhaustion sneaked in somewhere around 4 pallets of wine ago and has been, very slyly, tightening it’s grip on my entire body.

It’s 1am. 
And I have to change something. 

I can’t keep living like this.


#1am #anxiety #insomnia

Life With Allergies

One thing that has been very hard for me to admit is that I have allergies. I grew up with none. I believed that allergies meant that you were somehow defective as a human.


Now, I am defective as a human, but it isn’t my allergies that make me so. That’s all me, baby.


When I first “became a woman” I discovered these allergies. I went to a doctor who prescribed me creams to apply (yeah, because that’ll get rid of it) and told me it was a fungal infection.


It wasn’t.


And, since then, every doctor I’ve been to has basically told me I’m crazy.


I’m allergic to nickel. And Latex. and Kiwi Fruit – or Gooseberries for any weirdos not living in Australia.


And they’re all connected.


The best part, is that they’re all so me. They’re all just one hundred percent weird.

Let’s start with the latex allergy: that one flared up because my sensitive areas don’t like contact with it. Did you know that most pads have latex in them? I didn’t. My lady bits apparently did. It makes condom shopping extra fun! Also bandaids. Anything from the waist down, I get a welt the exact same shape and size of the bandaid, after it’s removed, from the adhesive.

The nickel: only when I eat it. Yep, you read that right. No I do not make a habit of sucking on heavy metals. Nickel is present in high quantities in almost everything I love – grains, nuts, bananas (I know, right?), avocados (God, give me strength), spinach, leafy greens, tomatoes (as an Italian, that’s just offensive), tea, soy anything, garlic (again, Italian), licorice (oh my God I love bullets), onion, baking powder (what the actual?), red wine (just hell no) and chocolate. You try avoiding those. Not possible, nor do I want to. I’ll take dermatitis over eliminating those from my diet, thank you very much.

On to the Kiwi Fruit. Only since I had my child. Yep, pregnancy, as completely messed up as it is all by itself, decided to give me the eternal gift of never being able to consume Kiwi Fruit ever again. It’s as if mother nature greeted me herself and said “Hey, congratulations on what was one of the most awful experiences of your life! The only way I could make it any better for you was to make it so that now you can be actually killed by a small, brown furry fruit. Thanks for coming, and have a great life!”

Seriously. What is that? I grew up eating those things like they were lollies. They’re on every bloody fruit platter you order. They’re in fruit salads. Hell, us Aussies put them on pavlovas like we’ll never see them again! Every time I go to my mum’s for Christmas it’s like “Hey! Merry Christmas, don’t eat the pav unless you want to die and ruin everyone’s day!”.

To get to the age of 28 and suddenly realise your mortality could be decided by a dessert is just so depressing it’s almost hilarious.

So, in true “me” style, my body hates everything I love and would like me to know that it has other plans for me, and those plans are strange.

Sorry, body. I refuse to give up most of those things. You won the Kiwi Fruit war – mainly because I refuse to be removed from Earth by a testicle fruit – but I will not play your messed up game on the rest of that stuff. And I will punish you with red wine until you get the message.

What they don’t tell you

When you make the decision – or the decision is made for you – to have a baby, you know that you may feel tired, need to pee a lot (every hour on the hour. Hell, eastern standard time could actually be set to your bladder.), get fat, get swollen, get achy, crave random things like dirt and copper and, most importantly, grow an entire human inside you. You also know that there are two possible endings to your pregnancy: through the sunroof or the door.

Personally, I don’t care which way you do it. People bang on about “natural” birth being vaginal. I disagree because, and I can’t stress this enough, all birth is natural. 

Even nature needs help sometimes. Bananas. Bananas are sterile. So I hope all you “having a caesarian is the easy way out” people don’t eat bananas.

But I digress. I have one child because the pregnancy and birth were disgustingly traumatic. The birth, more so. Mainly because they wouldn’t do an emergency caesarian. 16 days overdue, 23 hours of labor – 9 of which were endured only through the blessing of an epidural – which climaxed in a tachycardic baby, exhausted mother, a private doctor forcing her way into the birthing suite to help, 13 randoms looking on, the ventouse and a 9 and a half pound baby with meconium staining causing a severe respiratory infection. Blood hit the ceiling when my child was born. Literally.
Funnily enough, I was prepared for that. It was awful and I ended up with severe depression afterwards but I think I always knew birth would be difficult. Do you know what? At least I was able to take my baby home and, for that, I could not be more thankful.
But, and there’s always a “but”, there are a few things you aren’t told. I don’t care how many books you read, the following content will be in none of them (I’m the light apricot. The grey is a friend):

Yes, folks, you absolutely will have an adjustment period after a vaginal birth. And, trust me on this, even though your biggest worry is whether it will still feel the same for your partner afterwards, you’re going to find other things to worry about. Like whether a fart bubble can cause infections.
So here’s cheers to them not telling you that you will feel like Helen Keller if she came home and some bastard had moved her furniture as a joke. I still don’t know why my front door seems smaller or why the hallway seems more roomy after almost a decade.
What I do know, though, is that there are some things they leave out of the “list of things you should know”. I didn’t have anyone I could talk to about it. My friend always asks me these things.
If I could offer any advice during someone’s pregnancy, it’s to make sure you have someone you can talk to about everything. And have two people. One for a sunroof birth and one for the door birth. They’re very different and each brings unique challenges.
Also, if anyone, at any point in time criticises you for how you gave birth, throw some mashed banana at them for me.

Work take 2

In the last two days we’ve received 60 pallets. 60. 

Scratch that. 

In 24 hours we have received 60 pallets.
20 team members have had to deal with this. 6 of those can operate the forklift. 
This is what Christmas in liquor looks like. 
So the next time you’re at a bottle shop and you’re frustrated that what you want is “out the back” or “coming today” or “out of stock”, remember this photo.

Remember that the person you speak to has to move three tonnes of stock each day so that you can buy one bottle. Remember that that person has a family and a life, just like you, and risks injury every day so that you can buy that bottle. Remember that we give up our holidays for you. Remember that you needing things last minute is our entire year. Remember that you and your attitude can make or break our day. Remember that we are just doing our jobs.

Don’t be a dick this silly season.