Dog Rocks
Dog Rocks. 2019.
At Dog Rocks on the Golden Plains, this battered tree feels like a gatekeeper between paddock and sky, one limb arched low like a crooked arm, the other rising into a tangle that catches every bit of wind. The long exposure turns the night into a slow, luminous wash, star streaks brushing across the clouds while the foreground grass glows almost unreal in the torch and ambient light. I wanted the photograph to feel slightly enchanted rather than purely documentary, as if the tree had been caught mid gesture, holding its ground in a place that is usually passed at speed on the highway but rarely seen with this kind of patient, lingering attention.
24 mm • f/5.6 • 293 sec • ISO 100
Even the trees remember
Even the trees remember. 2025.
In the cold blue of a Tasmanian evening, a single street lantern hangs in a web of bare branches, its small pool of light pressing back against the weight of the sky. The trees tangle together like a memory map, each limb a line that leads away into Port Arthur’s layered history, while the lamp feels almost human, holding a quiet vigil beneath them. I wanted the frame to feel like looking up into a crowded mind at night, thoughts branching and looping, with that one steady glow acting as a keeper of stories, or perhaps a reminder that places remember us long after we have left.
24 mm • f/5.6 • 1/8000 sec, ISO 400
Interior landscape
Interior landscape. 2022.
A winter river painting hangs inside a field of retro wallpaper, one quiet landscape floating in the middle of another louder one. The framed scene is all soft blues and snow, a calm, almost nostalgic vision of nature, while the surrounding wall repeats its ornate brown motifs over and over like a tapestry that never ends. The photograph is less about the painting itself and more about that collision of worlds, the way domestic decoration turns a borrowed view into an object, and how the frame becomes a window, a barrier and a decorative shape all at once.
9 mm • f/2.8 • 1/100 sec, ISO 200
Port Melbourne 4
Port Melbourne 4. 2021.
A soft evening light brushes across the curve of the roof, turning industrial fabric and steel into something almost weightless. The tall floodlight rises cleanly into a sky of slow, cotton clouds, a single vertical cutting through all the arcs and ribs below. The composition hangs on that simple conversation between curve and line, warmth and cool, man-made structure and drifting weather, a quiet moment where a working port feels briefly like a piece of drawing pinned to the sky.
70 mm • f/5.6 • 1/640 sec, ISO 64
Between shorelines
Between shorelines. 2018.
From above, the little white boat becomes a punctuation mark between land and water, resting neatly at the hinge where grass falls away to sand and the sea begins to darken. The frame stacks itself into bands, soft green turf, a strip of shell and weed, then the quiet weight of green water below, each layer carrying a different texture and sound. The boat feels both invited and abandoned, close enough to launch yet set back just far enough to read as stillness rather than action. It is a small study in edges and thresholds, and in how a single human object can hold its own against the slow, patient geometry of a coastline.
8.8 mm • f/2.8 • 1/500 sec, ISO 100
Angles of afternoon
Angles of afternoon. 2020.
This picture is really about how a city can fold into itself, one structure colliding with the next until it feels more like a collage than a streetscape. The rust coloured ramp, the tilted green glass and the pale hexagon dome all lean into each other, each one catching the afternoon light in a slightly different way. Soft shrubs anchor the bottom of the frame and keep the scene from becoming entirely hard edged, a small band of life pressed up against steel, concrete and glass. I was drawn to the way these surfaces share the same sun yet tell very different stories, turning a familiar civic space into a stack of planes, colours and shadows that could almost belong to an invented city.
70 mm • f/2.8 • 1/1250 sec, ISO 64
Night tree
Night tree. 2019.
This tree at Dog Rocks feels less like part of a paddock and more like a character on a stage. A long exposure and a narrow beam of light pull it out of the darkness, turning the twisted trunk silver and the leaves into a thick green canopy floating above the grass. Behind it, the sky falls away into deep purple and rust coloured glow, a mix of distant town light and low cloud. The rocks scattered at its feet and the empty space around it add to the sense that the tree has been standing here for a long time, enduring weather, wind and whatever passes through. The photograph is part portrait and part performance, holding a single living shape in the middle of a quiet, night lit field.
24 mm • f/5.6 • 30 sec • ISO 64
The quiet divide
The quiet divide. 2020.
A small tree holds its ground beneath a sky that takes almost everything for itself. The frame is mostly cloud and air, thick with soft greys and faint blues, while the land runs as a thin green band along the bottom, cut by a textured strip of grass that leads the eye toward the lone figure on the hill. I liked the way the scene feels both fragile and calm, as if the tree is a single thought trying to stay upright under the weight of the weather. This photograph sits between emptiness and detail, using space, scale and that quiet diagonal of land to turn an ordinary paddock into a slow, breathing pause.
125 mm • f/5.6 • 1/800 sec, ISO 160
Amsterdam at night.
Amsterdam at night. 2012.
This scene turns a quiet Amsterdam neighbourhood into a stacked arrangement of light and geometry, the cantilever hanging over the canal like a ship’s bow frozen in place. Warm rooms glow against the deep blue night, while the streetlamps flare into stars and drop thin reflections onto the still water below. The building’s sharp lines and layered balconies feel both heavy and weightless, anchored to the brick base yet hovering above the street. I wanted the photograph to hold that balance between lived-in warmth and cool architectural precision, a small slice of the city where everyday life and considered design sit perfectly on top of their own reflection.
24 mm • f/10 • 30 sec • ISO 100
Rainlit silence
Rainlit silence. 2019.
A single pale tree stands in the paddock like a figure caught in a spotlight, its limbs lit against the dark and the rain hanging in the air as a drifting veil of white specks. The long exposure turns the field into a quiet green stage, while the sky behind stays heavy and almost featureless. What drew me here was the feeling of being alone in a storm yet strangely protected, the world outside the cone of light disappearing while this one tree absorbs all the weather and all the attention. It becomes less a document of a place and more a small theatre piece about endurance, silence and the strange calm that sometimes sits right in the middle of bad weather.
24 mm • f/5.6 • 30 sec • ISO 400
Fields aligned
Fields aligned. 2020.
The paddocks fall into order, three horizontal bands of colour laid one on top of the other. The canola is a solid block of yellow, almost buzzing, held back by the thin dirt road that cuts across the frame. Above it, the line of flowering trees becomes punctuation, bright white commas marking the divide before the eye climbs into the darker green of the upper field. I was drawn to how the chaos of a working landscape briefly reads as something printed or painted, a simple barcode of colour and rhythm, before you recognise flowers, tyre tracks and the slow curve of the land underneath.
24 mm • f/4.0 • 1/400 sec • ISO 100
Quarry
Quarry. 2023.
From this height the quarry turns into a diagram, all circles, spokes and straight lines etched into powdered earth. Tanks read as pale coins laid on a table, conveyors stretch like black pencil marks, and the trucks become tiny markers pushed around a board. The warm rusts and cool teal pools fight for attention, hinting at water, metal and mineral all working at once. It is an image about extraction, but also about how easily a working site slips into pure abstraction when seen from above, the machinery of industry rearranged into a careful drawing across the ground.
10.26 mm • f/5.0 • 1/400 sec • ISO 100
Turn of the wave
Turn of the wave. 2018.
The reef reads like a sheet of rusted metal pressed hard against a pane of swirling glass. Water works its way in from the left, frothing and dissolving into lace, while the orange rock holds firm, scarred by channels and pockets where the tide keeps testing the edge. The image is as much about contact as it is about colour, that charged line where green and blue collide with ochre, hinting at the constant negotiation between movement and solidity along this stretch of coast.
24mm • f/2.8 • 1/1000 sec • ISO 100
High road, soft sky
High road, soft sky. 2020.
A single lamp and a slice of road are lifted out of their usual rush and dropped into quiet air. The Y shaped pole reads almost like a bare winter tree, its thin arms holding a patch of pale cloud while the overpass cuts a calm diagonal through the frame. Below, dry grasses cling to the slope and two birds slip through the open space, small marks of life against the concrete. It is an image of infrastructure paused between uses, a moment where a place built purely for transit becomes a simple arrangement of line, weight and sky.
92 mm • f/5.6 • 1/400 sec • ISO 64
Holding pattern
Holding pattern. 2021.
The scene is really just a wall of boxes, but in the late light it turns into a painting. Branded colours stack themselves into bands, soft clouds drifting above this hard grid of global trade. The fence and the white road arrow pull you back to ground level, reminding you that you are still standing on an ordinary bitumen verge on the edge of Melbourne. I was interested in that tension between distance and proximity, the romance of ships and far–off ports pressed up against the quiet, slightly tired reality of the working dock.
24 mm • f/5.6 • 1/1000 sec • ISO 64
Tidal etchings
Tidal etchings. 2020.
Seen from above, the edge of Swan Bay turns into handwriting. Water, algae, stone and mangrove each take a line, banding across the frame like stripes on a tide-drawn map. The top third feels heavy and dark, the colour of soaked paper, while the lower marsh breaks into bright, almost neon moss and small reflective pools. From this height the landscape stops looking purely natural and begins to feel designed: channels curve like brushstrokes, trees gather into a soft green bar, and the shoreline becomes a single drawn line holding everything in place, a quiet record of how water keeps sketching and revising the same edge over time.
24mm • f/4.0 • 1/320 sec • ISO 100
Among the reeds.
Among the reeds. 2024.
This little body is almost weightless, yet it holds the whole frame. The butterfly rests on the skin of the water like a pressed flower, suspended between air and mud. Around it, reeds, algae, bubbles and broken stems crowd in, a tangle of life that is already turning back to sludge.
It’s an uncomfortable mix of beauty and rot. The wings still catch the light, almost luminous against the swampy colour beneath, but you can see the damage and the stains creeping in. It becomes a quiet study of how short grace is, and how the world keeps moving around it anyway.
34 mm • f/2.8 • 1/320 sec • ISO 800
Under all that was
Under all that was. 2019.
From above, the lake turns into something closer to a chalk drawing than a place on a map. The little scrub island feels like it is being slowly erased, ring by ring, as mineral traces spread out around it.
The land records every season as a faint line of colour. Seen from ground level this was just a scrappy patch of salt and weeds. From the air it becomes a quiet orbit, a reminder of how much history sits just under the surface.
24 mm • f/6.3 • 1/1250 sec • ISO 100
Airport carpark
Airport carpark. 2022.
I wanted this to feel like a piece of infrastructure caught mid-gesture. The ramps curl around the frame like a slow concrete wave, while the drainage pipe holds the centre line, almost like a spine keeping the whole thing upright. From underneath, the carpark stops being a place to leave your car and becomes a study in weight, repetition, and the small strip of sky that reminds you the outside world is still there.
50 mm • f/10 • 1/2000 sec • ISO 400
Morning tree
Morning tree. 2023.
I was drawn to how this dead tree refused to disappear into the fog, a black ink sketch against a sky of gentle pastels. The mist flattens the paddocks into soft bands of tone, so the branches feel almost like thoughts reaching out into the morning. It is a picture about quiet resilience, standing alone in a field that is half memory, half dream.
200 mm • f/5.6 • 1/3200 sec, ISO 250