Super excited about the upcoming all-female Praise You exhibition in Sydney next week... my piece, Wallflower, will be hanging alongside around 30 other artworks in what is shaping up to be one hell of a girl gang exhibition. 

Event curator Lusid Art (Alex Saba) and I spoke to the good guys over at No Cure magazine about the show, you can read more here. 

Praise You will showcase works in styles from collage and illustration, to painting, and photography, all of which celebrate female bodies, art and their support of each other. Sydney friends, join us at aMBUSH gallery on Friday, September 8, for beers and visual treats! All event info here. 

Visit for more details. Donate directly to Praise You (The Butterfly Foundation) here. Catalogues featuring works included in the show can be requested by emailing


The 'graveyard' is where unused drafts or bits of projects that don't make the cut go to rest... and it's full of ideas and drawings that I kinda love, but usually forget about.

As soon as I have a spare second, I'm hoping to make a little space on my website for cuts from the graveyard.


After such a long time in the development stages, my new round of jacket back-patches are finally here. And there are two options for the new Moon Patch: decorative roses or simple stars... mostly because I'm terrible at making decisions, but also because my graphic-designer brain says one thing and my overly-embellished-illustrator mind demands that the other is better. 

But both are a limited edition of 100 of each variant, and they have this amazing metallic gold embroidery that catches the light and sparkles just like all magic should... so, check 'em out. 



I've taken such a long time to finish and release new prints, but here they are!

The Lunar Sisters (Moth and Hawk) are an open edition of A4 fine art prints that were driven by my move back to the country: days spent drawing and listening to the hawks whistle, and clear, crisp nights spent looking at the moon. 

The Killer Ladies is a limited edition (10) A3 fine art print, which pulls together the drawings of women that litter my sketchbooks. From classic Botticelli babes to full moon desert wanderers, this print celebrates the magic of women in mixing strength, power and sweetness. 


Earlier this year I teamed up with the good people at Stone & Wood to create a shirt graphic for a limited edition tee that celebrates the Galaxy hop harvest. For me, this was an extra special project – not just because I love Stone & Wood's beers and I love drawing spacey star-spangled graphics – but because Stone & Wood has such a great approach to everything from environmental impact and community involvement, to content creation and creativity... they're just the dream company to be involved with. 

The Galaxy tees are available here. 


May is a magical time on the farm (but maybe all the times are magical, I'm remembering...): the mornings are crisp and sharp but the days are sunny. We're still seeing lazy snakes around everywhere, basking in pools of sun. From my desk, I watch the dappled gum-tree shade roll across the front lawn and descend into dusk. The clouds are unreal pastel-palette oil paintings heaped upon the horizon. Camellias drop petal carpets around the garden, soft purple magnolia buds appear and everything smells vaguely of mandarin skins and campfire.

In celebration of one of my favourite seasons in my old/new home, there's 35% off sitewide, using the code MAYMAGIC (ends midnight Sunday, Australian EST). 


No worries: A colour story of floods and flowers and fires and autumn skies and standing with my back to the trees at night, as a big bank of cloud crawled across the full moon... 


Just a quick note to let you know there's free shipping on my online store (here) until midnight Wednesday (April 5, Aus EST). Use the code: FREESHIP 

Also, I'm including both the mini-prints above with all orders. And as always, thank you so much for supporting my work! 


Half the house is packed. Things like super-fancy clothes and books and travel souvenirs and wall decorations and all my old sketchbooks – things I don't immediately need – are boxed up and slid to the side. We are ready to move and I am living with just the possessions I would have were I not a hopeless hoarder.

There are no shells and seed pods and kangaroo skulls on the desk. No embroidered ceremonial jackets hanging on the walls. No Aerosmith tapestry, no strings of foil stars, no stack of HST books and back issues of art magazines. No sliding avalanches of scrap paper sketches, no precarious piles of polaroids. No dried flowers hanging in the window, no Japanese fish flags and Icelandic post cards and Southwest serapes. 

We are ready to move and I am ready to go.  


I have vague memories of all the places where I used to hang out when I was younger. I remember the cliff edge we walked over to get to the best ocean pool, but that might only be because I long carried a photo of my friends walking along it.

I remember exactly the density of grass where I used to park my car by one of our favourite creeks, but I can no longer navigate my way to that creek with any confidence.

I remember standing on the edge of the big jump-off rock, but I couldn’t tell you how high it was – I would undoubtedly exaggerate it.

I remember parks and takeaways and riverbanks, but no specifics about the landmarks or what we would order or exactly how the land disappeared into the water.

Every time we drive out to the pub where I worked for a few months after I turned 18, I’m surprised by the winding road and how long it takes to get there.

Everything has blurry patches and blank spots; all the overfamiliar paths are just kind of unobserved, unrecorded for being so unremarkable.

Returning to these places, there is a strange feeling of walking through the warps and gaps of memory, the replacement and embellishment of things imagined, and the actual physical changes over time to a place preserved in memory.

This past summer, I visited the beachside reserve where we used to drink cheap box wine under the banksia trees. It now has a coffee cart on the weekends that makes it seem – like almost everything in the world – less waywardly bored and more upwardly entrepreneurial.

And of course, the version of me that walks through these places sees them very differently now, more wholly. Having seen, and lived in, more of the world, I can appreciate how unusual some of those everyday things are. How rare that it’s easy to find a park close to the beach. That on a perfect-weathered summer Sunday, my partner and I could be the only two people walking around the headland. That there are no guard rails or concrete paths or noticeable human fuck-withery apart from soft-worn foot tracks. That there are tiny wildflowers and monstrous banksia blooms everywhere. That from the headland, we can’t really discern any structures, just more thick coastal scrub, and the coastline sliding away, north and south.

These are the things, that in my memory, had faded in all their unremarkableness and now seem quite spectacular and special.