When I first introduced medical imagery into my painting practice, I was excited — and scared.I was still finding my voice. My early attempts were too literal, too clinical. The feedback wasn’t what I had hoped for, and instead of using that feedback constructively, I shut down. I stopped talking about the medical inspiration altogether.

This silence coincided with a move to a new studio in Brookvale, on Sydney’s Northern Beaches. The space was surrounded by factories, graffiti, construction noise — and something about it gave me permission to play.

I began to experiment with materials and textures that felt raw and immediate: bandages, stitched thread, layers of recycled fabric. My once-legible writing became chaotic, a reflection of the noise in my mind and the processing my body was still doing.

Graffiti seeped into my work. So did pom-poms. So did the imperfect handwriting I could no longer control after developing a wrist injury.

It wasn’t tidy. But it was honest.

These works became my language of healing — not just for the body, but for the artist in me that had gone quiet. My process mirrored surgery in some ways: stitching, patching, mending, cutting. Not to erase or beautify, but to reveal what was already there.

The medical conversation never really left. It was just waiting for me to grow into it.
Today, I see my practice as one that holds both the emotional and physical weight of being human. Every canvas is a place to feel, repair, unravel, and rebuild.