Following the Pull: The Journey of Flux
A little while ago, I began writing about Flux while waiting to hear whether it had been selected as a finalist for the 2026 Gosford Art Prize.
I imagined writing about waiting: that strange space between submitting an artwork and discovering where it might go next.
But I never quite finished the text.
Then the results arrived.
Flux wasn’t selected.
There is always disappointment attached to an unsuccessful art prize entry, however much we try to prepare ourselves for the possibility. By the time an application is submitted, more has gone into it than simply choosing a painting.
There is research. Reading the conditions. Looking at previous finalists. Thinking about the judges and the context of the prize. Deciding which artwork feels strong enough, and somehow right enough, to put forward.
Then come the photographs, measurements, writing, editing and checking.
And finally, you press send.
For a while, you allow yourself to imagine what might happen.
Looking at Flux differently
After receiving the result, I returned to the painting.
And strangely, Flux seemed even more relevant after the rejection than it had while I was waiting.
The work is not really about arriving anywhere. It is about movement.
Across the painting, areas of density meet openness. Earthy forms shift against flashes of colour. Marks emerge, disappear beneath later layers and leave traces of themselves behind.
Nothing is completely fixed.
There are different forces acting at once: pushing, pulling, dissolving and becoming.
This idea of continual transformation appears again and again in my practice. My paintings are informed by my observations of both the landscape and the human body: two living systems that are constantly adapting, responding and changing, often through processes that remain invisible to us.
Flux sits within that territory.
It asks what happens in the space between one state and another.
And lately, I have been thinking that an artist’s career exists in much the same place.
When the answer is no
An artist’s path is rarely a clean sequence of exhibitions, prizes, sales and opportunities.
There are applications that lead somewhere, and many that don't. There are paintings that receive immediate attention and others that quietly wait. There are ideas that arrive fully formed and others that need years before we understand what they are trying to become.
The difficult part is that we rarely know which is which while we are living through them.
Not being selected for an art prize can easily feel like a full stop. Someone looked at the work and said no.
But increasingly, I don't think that is the most useful way to see it.
A prize result belongs to one particular moment: a particular group of entries, a particular judging panel and a particular set of decisions.
The painting itself continues. And so does the artist.
The work behind the work
I have also begun to value something that isn't visible in a finalist exhibition: the process of applying.
Every submission forces me to step outside the intimacy of the studio and look at the work differently.
Which painting represents where my practice is now?
Why does this work matter?
Where does it belong?
What am I willing to stand behind?
These are useful questions, regardless of whether an application is successful.
The research, decision-making and writing involved in submitting Flux to the Gosford Art Prize helped me see the painting, and my wider practice, with greater clarity.
That effort hasn't disappeared because the result was no.
The journey continues
Of course, I would have loved to see Flux hanging as part of the Gosford Art Prize.
But that wasn't its destination.
Or perhaps more accurately, it wasn't this destination.
Flux is still moving.
At Hake House, where it is currently available, Flux is waiting for a completely different encounter: perhaps with someone who sees something of their own experience in its shifting layers and uncertain forms.
We often speak about perseverance as though it means relentlessly pushing towards the same goal. I am beginning to think it can be quieter than that. Sometimes it simply means remaining open to where the work wants to go next.
Not every movement produces the outcome we imagined. Not every application becomes an exhibition. Not every door opens.
But each experience leaves something behind.
A little more clarity. A new question. A different direction.
Another layer.
Perhaps that is what Flux has been reminding me all along: movement doesn't need to look like arrival to still be movement.
Sometimes we simply follow the pull.
