The Collection

Parrot feathers, a bleached bird's skull, worn shards of bottled glass. Bits of iron pyrites, flints, a knuckle of harden clay with a twist of crumbly opal running through. Handfuls of different stones.

Dried Waterhole

Dead meat. Roos with wool attached, mud trapped. Green flies, blowflies, bush flies, maggots, meat ants, crows thrashing around. So much death in this parched dry place. Eyeballs in skulls, carcases, stark rib cages and yellowy pelvises. The pile up exceeds the capacity of scavengers to affect their removal. A young fox, crouched, intact, still. A smell like body gas - a released sigh of disgust. We stand our hands covering our noses, taking in the water hole alive with the process of death. When the animals entered they entered the foulness, their last resting place, the ruin that had drawn them to the end of their journey, offering them, not the comfort of water, but the image of death and stink as they took their last breath of stillness.