Water pools in water holes above Tolmer Falls, flows down waterfalls along Walker Creek, splashes into the pool at the base of Florence Falls. It is always agitated, bubbling and swirling and rushing. impossible to capture in still ink. I try anyway. Drawing the water is a study in contrasts – hot and cool, still and flowing, silent and noisy.
The days are hot during the dry season at Litchfield National Park in the Northern Territory and, with the exception of the water, it is lazy and peaceful. Perfect conditions for drawing the natural environment.
Concept sketches for an unrealised early project. Rivendell was the whimsical name of the sprawling rural site in Mount Martha, for which we proposed a house partially embedded into hillside. Our design was composed of an off-form concrete, partially subterranean volume linking to a series of above ground, timber towers. The project was to achieve a balance between raw terrain and delicate, finely crafted objects, the former part of the landscape and the latter growing from it.
From sketches originally drawn in 2000 / 2001, re-discovered recently while cleaning up the studio and rifling through old sketchbooks.
The ski lodge grows out of the mountain, an upwardly thrusting rock. It is resolved as two separate volumes, with different functions, orientations and materials. One volume comprises services; the other comprises living spaces. One volume addresses the street; the other addresses the sun. One volume is heavy, made from concrete and stone; the other is light, made from timber and glass.
When I was younger, maybe 12 or 13 years old, I would daydream about sending a letter to my future self requesting he travel back in time to show me the future. I imagined that I would ask to be collected on the exact date and at the exact time I deposited the letter into the letterbox, so that the time portal would materialise next to as the letter left my fingers.
Unlike most contemporary forms of communication, there is no direct reaction to sending a letter, no dial tone or “sent” confirmation. Instead, there is a complex process, an entirely hidden industry, that connects the letterbox to the rest of the world. The mystery of this process establishes the likelihood of magic.
Patchwork Piemonte, northern Italy. On the outskirts of a small village called Mombaruzzo, the land is naturally undulating and heavily cultivated. Even the hills of Tuscany cannot compete with the particular-ness of this vista.
Speed bumps he stomps, traffic lights he chomps.
Speed cameras he munches, round-a-bouts he crunches.
Stop signs he smashes, roadworks cones he bashes.
Traffic jams he corporate elbows.
Just outside the entry to the Umayyad Mosque in old town Damascus. As the bells for noon prayer sound out across the city, the streets quickly empty, leaving a convoluted tapestry of urban fabric. Power lines, phone lines and washing lines are strung out across the street; courageous vines crawl up the cracks between buildings; shadows are sharp, unsullied by the softening effect of clouds; brightly coloured souvenirs clash with the subdued desert shades of the walls.