We are told, politically, that it has no bearing on our lives here. But the atmosphere tells another story of disconnection, of heat, of collapse, of compounding loss. In this unsettled space, I turn to photography not as resolution, but as response.

Mornings are brittle, not damp. I realise I haven’t seen a spider web in the bushland for weeks. The weather, now a constant topic of conversation, is met with delight “Isn’t it lovely to still be so warm? But I experience it as quiet grief.
Thousands of kilometres away, a genocide unfolds.

disconnection, of heat, of collapse, of compounding loss. In this unsettled space, I turn to photography not as resolution, but as relief

Mornings are brittle, not damp. I realise I haven’t seen a spider web in the bushland for weeks. Thousands of kilometres away, genocide unfolds. We are told, politically, that it has no bearing on our lives here. But the atmosphere tells another story.

Sleeping on the job too!