When Magpies Warble

When I hear that distinctly Australian warble, I head to the back door, picking up the bag of peanuts I keep on a bench close by. The magpies that live close to my home had three babies this year - a highly successful breeding season. They are all strong and fearless, they play, they are sharp eyed and deeply observant. And they love peanuts.

Just the raw kind of course. And not shelled - obviously - we are not monsters around here.

I take a half of a nut, and break it down the centre ridge, then break each half again, four tiny bite sized quarters. I have found that if I just throw a half, the younger ones, not yet confident in the use of their big, strong, snapping beak get the nut stuck, half ‘chomped’ on the tips of their beaks and run around in a panic looking for a way to scrape it off. A little quarter though? They can both chomp, or swallow whole, very nicely indeed.

I have a Sulphur Crested Cockatoo, one of a half dozen really, who visits nearly every day. His name is Jake, and his beloved partner is Lady. Jake only has one leg - maybe 12 months ago now (what is time anymore?), he showed up with a badly broken leg. The kind that makes you go cold to see. Over the next few days when he came I could see he had nibbled at his broken leg until one day when he came, there was only a stump. I fretted for him, worried about infection, debating if I should try and catch him (impossible), but like other wild birds he showed me his resilience, his tenacity, his presence. And yes, I make sure to give him a little handful of sunflower seeds - he and Lady - because his life is precious and a little more difficult for trying to balance on one foot (even as he deftly uses his beak to steady himself as he hops around), and I can provide him with energy that ensures that his beautiful big wings still fly strong, to keep him and Lady safe and healthy, that’s what I will do.

It is what I have done, for years.

When an ill or older bird comes to my yard, I do what I can to help them live wild and free for as long as they can. Sometimes elder birds come here as respite. Sometimes they pass here, and as much as it upsets me, it is also an honour. The same honour as it is to be a backyard creche for baby Galah in the summer.

I live on a small suburban block, only 642m2, but I interact, purposefully, with delight and joy (and sometimes a little exasperation at the cacophony) with our native wildlife every single day. I know it is a privilege, but it is also a choice. I choose to see them. I choose to acknowledge their divinity, their abundant life, their individual personhood. I choose to plant species that help them thrive, for food and shelter. I choose to see them. I choose to see myself in them.

From a genetic standpoint I am a stranger to this land. I love this beautiful brown island, but I wonder if I will ever connect with it in the same way that I felt like I had come home when I got out of a cab and stood on the Royal Mile of Edinburgh, Scotland. In my art I have found myself drawn - ahem - to representing owls and wolves and deer, and yet they don’t belong here, either. Well, owls do, and even Tyto owls (barn owls, of a sort), but I think you get the gist.

They are the animals of my genetic heritage,
but they are not who I share land, space, time with.

I have a dozen beautiful roses, mostly David Austen, that I cherish for their flagrant, elaborate beauty, and for their fragrant, exquisite scent. They grow under a lemon scented gum tree, and a juvenile leaf eucalyptus, but also an oak, and a maple, and a Mulberry. In so many ways we are strangers in a strange land, and yet this is home - I know that in my heart and soul. There is no place I would rather be.

When I spent some time (oh a lot of time) thinking about this, I realised there is a general dichotomy here. Maybe it is everywhere, I can only speak for me, though. A reverence for traditional beauty as seen through the eyes of European ancestry, often at the expense of witnessing native beauty fully. We grow exotic cultivars, we hang artwork of distant landscapes and florals, we bring vases of cut flowers grown here, but not from here, into our homes. When there are so many beautiful native alternatives.

I am generalising of course. A broad observation that may say more about myself than anything.

But it spurred my desire to talk about this through my art.

On 21st August this year, my first solo exhibition will open at Field Trip Gallery in Queensland, and I am incredibly excited and utterly terrified and all the feelings in between. The exhibition is titled "(t)here is still life" - a play on words that captures both the traditional art form and my exploration of presence and belonging. The works feature oil paintings in the tradition of 16th and 17th Dutch Masters' still life, but with a significant difference. Where there will dark and moody backgrounds, exotic florals and the objects of traditional still life, there will also be native wildlife, very much alive, and vibrant in their beauty and resilience and tenacity. They are the star of the show - the Wrens, the Wombat, the Roo, the Galah. They have so much more value than imported aesthetics. I want to draw our attention to the extraordinary that we are surrounded by that we often overlook - and I am doing this from a distinctly Australian lens, but the message is relevant everywhere. Who do you share land with? Do you take time to celebrate them? To be completely in awe of their individual presence?

Of course, there is no right or wrong, we bring into our homes the things we find beautiful, and now more than ever we are a global society, with access to so much from so far away. That is a beautiful thing too. Like my roses, my mulberry. I adore the few (and ever dwindling) Sparrows that visit my yard too, I love the sounds of the red Whiskered Bulbul. They are all dear and important. This exhibition is a way for me to question my own aesthetics, to make something beautiful from that philosophising, and maybe spur thoughts about those questions for yourself too.

Yesterday I held my first live painting session for a patronage program I opened for the exhibition.

Every Sunday morning (my time) I will be painting pieces from the exhibition live, answering questions, interacting, sharing space. I am creating community around this body of work for both the selfish reason of wanting accountability and cheerleading and support funding the expenses of canvases, paints, frames, but also because I want to create a space where art lovers and wildlife enthusiasts go from passive appreciation to active participation in the creative process. I want to create a place that transforms distant admirers to engaged community members who directly influence, witness, and celebrate the creation of meaningful artwork that honours Australia's extraordinary wildlife.

I think this patronage program offers something quite special - the chance to be part of an artistic journey from concept to exhibition. I am sure it has been done before, but oh how I would have loved to see behind the scenes of such a feat. Especially a first exhibition like this - I am learning as I go, this is all new, full of FFTS’s as Brene Brown would say, and being a part of the patronage gives you full and unfiltered backstage access. I aim to be completely transparent, the good the bad, the messy middle, the fatigue, the wonder, the awe, the stretchy, the surprising, all of it.

I know this patronage is not for everyone.

And I know that there is so much unrest, so much uncertainty in this world at this time. But I truly believe art can be a salve to so much of this current turmoil. In times of chaos and division, art reminds us of our shared humanity and our connection to something larger than ourselves. Creating and supporting art becomes an act of gentle rebellion—a way of insisting that beauty still matters, that wild connection endures, and that moments of wonder remain possible. When we make space for art in our lives, we refuse to let despair have the final word. Instead, we participate in a centuries-old conversation about what it means to be alive on this extraordinary planet, to share it with countless other beings, and to find meaning in that relationship.

Art doesn't solve the world's problems, but it nourishes the part of us that can face those problems with courage, compassion, and clearer vision.

So I invite you to join me on this journey over the next six months through a limited time patronage. You can find all of the information on this beautiful page I created (if you can, look at it on a computer rather than just your phone, it is soooo preeeeetty!).

This is not a course or a class. There are no lessons, only insights and discussions around art and beauty, and walking beside me on the wild and bumpy path of creating a body of work to celebrate Australian wildlife.

If the patronage is not right for you right now, maybe you would like to buy me a pencil ($5), or a tube of paint ($20) as a one off tip here. Or maybe you would like to leave me a comment of support, or send me an email cheering me on - all of this is so deeply appreciated!

You will continue to see snippets of the show evolving, I want to share this with my larger community too, of course - I want you beside me all the way. I really believe that goodness and joy ripples out in tangible ways. But if you want to get a bit deeper, maybe wade through the weeds with me, come over to (t)here is still life, and hold my hand along the way.

The sun is rising on the last day of March, I can hear Magpies in the distance, singing the sun above the horizon with their beautiful song. A southerly breeze is helping to usher Autumn in, finally, and for the first time in months I do not have the fan on, yet, anyway. I feel the future unfurling, beautifully, in front of me.

I will finish my tea, hit send on this missive to you, beautiful human, and then pick up my paintbrush again. There are four more wrens and a tangle of climbing roses waiting for me.