We slept under granite for a week. By the third night I had stopped trying to take photographs; the photographs were never going to be the point. The point was a particular sound the wind makes when it moves through a banksia at four in the morning — a sound I could not get out of my head for weeks afterwards.
The seed pods I brought back are still on the studio bench. Two became part of “Observer”; the rest are waiting, the way things wait when they aren’t sure yet what they want to become. I’m content to leave them there.
If a piece of work has been any good at all, it usually carries a place inside it that someone else can also recognise. That’s the only useful test I know.
— Katherine
(Placeholder essay — to be replaced with the artist’s real letter.)
