Ground truth. Beneath our feet – mud and blood, generations gone.
After rain, new things are growing. Skywards.
But what are they? What is the ‘truth’ of this land, and what does it give birth to?
This grouping of small pieces represents my musings. Elbow pressed into a nest of leaves, supported on a curly tail, their skin is a thin wash of clay from the land I live on. The fractured circles on the upper ‘bowl’ represent water – the occasional rain on our flinty goldfields landscape.