Catalyst of Motion, Reframer of Expectations, Instigator of Chaos

Forty years. Forty revolutions.
Dance is not a step. It is a collision.
Art is not a concept. It is a whirlwind.

Every story counts, every step disrupts. Dance is her first language, a radical force, reframing what’s possible. Voices. Limbs. Light. Collision. Creation. Life and art fuse—explode—transform. The dance disintegrates, reforms, disappears, yet lingers. 

Creative Director. Choreographer. Designer. Alchemist.
Kelly shapes the world from chaos—her hands craft, her feet smash.
Art is not tidy. It is messy, disjointed, fractured.
She has built worlds across continents, from the United States to Uzbekistan, from Brazil to Finland—all pieces of an unfinished puzzle, all voices in a cacophony.

Teaching? A trap. Research? A curious place of failure.
It is the collision that matters, the disruption.
Curriculum? Innovation. Collaboration? Necessary chaos.

In Tasmania, Kelly disrupts, builds, moves.
Salamanca MOVES. Moonah MOVES. Performing Lines pulses.
Second Echo Ensemble? A riot. A revolution.

There are no answers here—only fragments.
Art does not exist to be understood.
It exists to be felt, torn apart, and reborn.
Movement is not control—it is freedom.

Architect of Motion, Builder of Absurdity

Aidan steps in. Branch twists, Book turns, Bench shifts. Spring explodes, Land contests, Beauty refracts. Inside, Outside, Displayed, Undisplayed. Signal boxes whisper his name in paint. Tasmania hums, New Zealand watches, movement unspools. Tempo—beat shifts, feet carve echoes. Outside Boy breathes. Beauty Project shimmers. 2025—Relâche calls, Aidan answers. Assistant choreographer? No. Architect of motion. Cartographer of limbs. Dance is ink. The floor is a canvas. Can’t wait? Neither can we. Moves are coming. Watch closely. Blink and you’ll miss the revolution.

Maestro of Strings, Whiskers & Kicks

Canberra—bows fly, notes collide! Youth orchestras, symphonies, chamber halls—melodies run wild. Tasmania calls! Sedivka whispers, bass rumbles, 1976—TSO takes him in. Paris, 1988—Rabbath, rhythm, revolution! Back to TSO, back to bass, back to breaking rules. Exit 2013—no more suits, no more scores. Boardrooms, panels, unions—music mutiny! Lecturer, leader, low-frequency conjurer. Now? Kickstart Arts, chair of what matters, a free spirit in sound. Specialist in whiskers and kicks—interpret as you will.

Sonic Architect, Alchemist of Noise

40 years—sound bends, echoes break, silence is a myth. Marrugeku murmurs—five shows, five worlds, five revolutions. Second Echo moves, Terrapin breathes, Kickstart ignites, Circus Oz tumbles. Music or collision? Studio or playground? Bedlam hums—30 albums, 30 sonic spells. Hip Hop meets Dance Hall, Blues shakes hands with Metal, Folk whispers to African Roots. Uganda chimes in. Iran replies. Hobart listens. Space is sound. Sound is space. Safe. Spectacular. Alive. First Nations voices rise, migrant rhythms stretch, marginalised beats break free. Medal of the Order of Australia? No—medal of the untamed frequencies. The air vibrates. The past dissolves. The future sings. Music doesn’t wait. It arrives.

Architect of Light, Sculptor of Sound

Light bends. Sound hums. Reality glitches. Space dissolves—projected, refracted, reimagined. See static? He sees movement. Hear silence? He hears echoes. Sensory alchemy—touch it, feel it, fall into it. Audio. Visual. Interactive. Boundaries blur, perceptions crack. Installations pulse. Performances breathe. Festivals shimmer. UTAS. Second Echo. Salamanca Arts. Rosny Barn. Ten Days. Beaker Street. Special Olympics 2023. Tassie’s landscapes remixed, warped, reborn in light and frequency. 2023—Best Sound Design for Outside Boy. Award? Trophy? No—just proof that sound isn’t heard, it’s felt. What’s real? What’s illusion? Step inside—see, listen, disappear.

Timewalker, Wordsmith, Wavebreaker

Born in salt. Raised by currents. Flinders whispers, truwana calls. 14—sea takes him. 50—land reclaims him. Fisherman. Seaman. Soldier. Fighter. Writer. Words sharpened by tides, poetry forged in resistance. We Are Survivors—not just a play, but a truth. Scripts, stories, speeches—ink against erasure. Documentaries breathe, land listens, history shifts. truwana’s soil underfoot, the past whispers in wind. 2023—81 turns around the sun. Master’s degree? No—mastery of survival, of storytelling, of time. The struggle moves, the words echo, the tide still rises. Jim walks. The land remembers.

Architect of Shadows, Sculptor of Light, Whisperer of Electrons

Fourteen years - designing, dreaming, building worlds from flickers and form! Opera sings, puppets dance, theatre breathes - Jason bends light, sculpts space, summons visions. Backwards from Winter, Riddle of Washpool Gully, Babel, Fall, Winter, Spring - stories stitched in beams and shadow. But wait! Sound hums, projection flickers - seven years of chasing electrons, catching waves, tuning the unseen. Festivals call: Wind and Waveforms! Eat Art! Angry Electrons! Tasmania glows with his touch. A Fine Arts degree? Sure. But really, Jason speaks the language of the in-between - where light meets dream, where sound is seen.

Architect of Chaos, Keeper of Time

Scripts scatter. Lights hum. Theatre breathes, I chase its pulse. Performer? Once. Technician? Always. UTAS-born, backstage-bound. Curiosity crackles, wires tangle, cues whisper in the dark. Logistics. Operations. Magic. Who makes the stage move? Who pulls the unseen strings? Enthusiasm—uncontained. Systems pulse, bodies shift, art erupts. Meet. Learn. Build. Break. Performance—not just seen, but structured, scaffolded, summoned into being. This is home. The unseen rhythm, the silent conductor, the machine inside the dream. Lights up. Curtain lifts. The moment arrives. And I—I press ‘Go’.

Dancing? No. Choreographing? Maybe. Directing? Acting? All. None. Zen Zen Zo? Brisbane. Butoh? Japan. Hakuba 2024—still spinning. Tasmanian stages bend—DRILL, MADE, Tasdance, fractured timelines. Now—Second Echo—Assistant Stage Manager? What is that? First time, first fracture, first pulse. Performance is not a job—it is a transformation. Movement bleeds, silence speaks. The stage is an echo, the role is a shadow. Angela steps—does she ever stop? Maybe. Maybe not. Everything is new. Everything is old. Everything dissolves.

Auslan is first. Spoken? Second. Born to sign, to speak in silence. Mother Deaf, words formed in motion. Melbourne—epicenter. Tasmania—connection. Interpretation? No, transformation. Doctor’s appointments, funerals, bushwalks, Mona Foma. A gravedigging course? Yes. I know how to bury people. Never the same, always shifting. Remote? Yes, the world bends—iPads become voices. Deaf, hearing, interpreting—the spaces between collapse. Trust takes time, time is movement. Language doesn’t wait. It speaks in all directions. Ben is here. There. Everywhere. Hands move, words twist, silence speaks louder.

Alchemist of Light, Architect of Vision

100 films. 100 illusions. Cannes applauds. BAFTA nods. Oscars whisper. Salaam Bombay! frames a world, Master and Commander charts its ghosts. Wonder Years? Wondered. Drug Wars? Captured. The Endurance? Endured. Light bends at her will, shadows submit. Frames flicker—truth or trick? A Kodak Crystal forged in legacy. American Society of Cinematographers—she walks among giants. Australian Cinematographers Society—boundless vision. Academy of Motion Pictures—history breathes through her lens. What is real? What is memory? What is captured, what is lost? She shoots, she sculpts, she sees. The camera rolls. The world follows.

Cinematic Witchcraft, Celluloid Séance

Flicker—melt—rewind. Tasmania’s light fractures, spills into the lens. Frame by frame, shadows breathe. Relâche whispers, EXPAND LAB answers—film distorts, vision twists, images mutate. Screens pulse: MONA. MIFF. MDFF. Netflix. SBS. ABC. Signals shatter, reform. Narrative? Documentary? Music? Illusion? The reel is alive. Processing—dissolving—rebirthing. Alchemy of silver and shadow. Film scratches, bleeds, unravels. What is seen? What is lost? A moving image, escaping capture. Celluloid ghosts, dancing on light. The past flickers, the future is exposed. Who controls the frame? Who owns the dream? Click. Whir. Silence. The reel turns. The vision warps. The story never ends.

Surveillance, Signal, Disruption

Watch. Listen. Record. Disassemble. Video hums, sound fractures, installations breathe. The Hawker’s Song—Cambodia whispers, Singapore Art Museum holds the echo. Centre Pompidou frames it. History, rewired. Melbourne pulses—White Night flickers, Laneways distort. A commission? A glitch in the system. Building Run—Sydney blinks. Sampling the City—architecture collapses into moving light. Perspectives? Or distortions? Who is watching? Who is watched? Politics seep through the frame, gesture disintegrates into surveillance. Art is a lens. A trap. A mirror. The city blinks, the signal scrambles. Which reality is real? Which frame holds truth? Click. Blur. Repeat.

Cutter of Time, Weaver of Frames

NYU-born, celluloid-bred. Words splice, images collide. Cut. Rearrange. Story reassembles itself. Hobart calls—documentaries emerge, ghosts of truth caught in pixels. Good Grief breathes. Terrapin shifts. Second Echo pulses. What is real? What is crafted? What is left on the cutting room floor? The edit hums. Time bends. A frame here, a whisper there—narrative mutates. The unseen becomes seen, but only for a moment. The reel spins, memory flickers, meaning dissolves. A sequence of light, of movement, of echoes. Slice. Cut. Rebuild. The story is never still.

Cosmic Baton, Celestial Soundwaves

Stars align. Batons rise. Gravity hums in rhythm. Brisbane-born, galaxies mapped in notes and stardust. Astrophysics meets orchestras—dark matter, bright brass, expanding crescendos. Masters in motion, hands carve symphonies from silence. 2018—UTAS, Fritzsch whispers, the baton ignites. 2021—Australian Ballet calls, Alberts open doors, Fraillon guides. 2022—Queensland Ballet sways, strings pulse, movement breathes. Community orchestras, Tasmanian Youth Orchestras—echoes of passion ripple outward. Music isn’t played, it’s discovered—planetary, infinite, vibrating. What is time? A tempo. What is space? A rest. What is a conductor? A cartographer of sound.

Keeper of Keys

Netherlands-born, Queensland-forged. Piano hums, ballet breathes, chambers resonate. Fingers chase melodies, shadows of sound spill into air. Repetiteur? Yes. Conductor? Sometimes. Scholar? Almost. A PhD waits, ink drying—he walks away. Music is not theory—it is touch, pulse, presence. Tassie whispers, he listens. Chords unravel, choirs rise, ensembles shimmer. The keys move—he follows. Not academia. Not analysis. Not ink on pages. Only sound. Only movement. Only now. What is knowledge? A note held in silence. What is music? The space between touch and time.

Architect of Sound, Cartographer of Silence

Keys strike, time fractures. Notes—etched, unbound, unruly. Composer. Pianist. Teacher. Journalist. UTAS, Melbourne—degrees, scholarships, ink stains. Australian Chamber Orchestra hums. Tasmanian Symphony surges. Musica Viva exhales. Hush 18 whispers—ABC captures echoes. Festivals shimmer—awards drift through air, applause dissolves. Virtuosi Tasmania—touring, spinning, unraveling sound. 2 Composers 1 Channel—pixels tremble, music mutates, YouTube bends. Experimental? Traditional? Neither. Both. Beyond. What is melody? A map. What is rhythm? A riddle. What is music? A ghost in the machine. Hands move, chords shift. Silence waits. Listen.

A Symphony of Fractured Time, A Collision of Sound

Strings whisper, brass roars, woodwinds sigh. Percussion cracks, rhythm fractures, echoes scatter. Violin bends, viola hums, cello stretches, bass anchors. Flute flickers, oboe murmurs, clarinet slithers, bassoon broods. Horn spirals, trumpet bursts, trombone growls. Percussion—heartbeat, thunder, breath. No conductor, no center—only motion, only sound. Scratch, break, reassemble. Notes leap from nowhere, land in unexpected places. Is this music or an accident? Is this chaos or intention? Scratch Orchestra—where melody unravels and harmony is rewritten. Listen. The experiment begins.

Crumbs, Chaos, Cabaret!

Overdressed, over-accessorized, over-the-top! French Femme, absurd, delirious. Cabaret unravels—Hobart sways, laughter lingers, sequins fall. Edith Perrenot—voice, vision, velvet drama. Svetlana Bunic—accordion breath, percussion heartbeat. Emma Field—keys whisper, bellows sigh. Sasha Gavlek—bass rumbles, low-end mischief. Julia Drouhin—Petit Cristal Baschet sparkles, sound cracks, crumbs scatter. Miettes played, Miettes remains—Altar, Winterlight, Ladies Who Jump, Emergence Residency. Supported, distorted, adored. Jazz Hothouse flickers, Clarence Jazz Festival pulses. Laughter spills, crumbs fall—Miettes! What remains? A melody, a mess, a moment. Follow the crumbs—cabaret awaits.

Saxophone Speaks, Sound Walks

Taroona whispers—reed hums, breath bends. Notes unravel, air sculpts music. Grade 6 AMEB—Honours! UTAS—High Distinctions! Festivals pulse—Dark Mofo flickers, Mona Foma sways, Taste of Tasmania lingers. Why music? Why not? Cultural echoes, neurodivergent waves—sound is not one thing, but many. Expression, exploration, expansion. Multicultural melodies crack open time. Inclusivity is not a word—it is a note, bent, broken, reassembled. The saxophone speaks. The audience listens. Art shifts. What is jazz? What is identity? What is a breath, held, then released? Sound answers.

Weaver of Worlds, Architect of Illusion

Scissors snip, fabric swirls—transformation begins! Threads whisper, puppets awaken, costumes breathe. 25 years—festivals shimmer, theatre dreams unfold. Stage bends, events glow, masks grin in the dark. Wind in the Willows rustles, Outside Boy steps forward—awards follow. Big stages, small hands—her workshops spark revolutions. A stitch here, a spectacle there—communities ignite. Production? Installation? No—alchemy! Collaboration fuels the fire, imagination spins the wheel. Grand visions, wild ideas, impossible creations made real. What is theatre? What is costume? What is a festival, if not a dream stitched together? Lights up. Curtain rises. Magic begins.

Stitcher of Myths, Weaver of Chaos

Needles dance, thread coils—fabric breathes. Sewing is ritual, cloth is incantation. Gothic shadows, surreal stitches—costumes awaken, sculptures loom. Dark Mofo calls—ten times the night unfolds. Marina Abramović watches. MONA listens. Sydney Opera House hums. Films flicker, threads tighten, silhouettes emerge. 2023—The Emergency Dollhouse—63 performances, 63 doors unlocked. Textiles twist, folklore mutates, stitches hold secrets. Emergency Sewing Circle—patch, mend, disrupt. Art or alchemy? Installation or spell? Threads tangle, unravel, re-form. The needle moves, the story weaves itself. Costume, sculpture, performance—fabric remembers everything.

Enter Sabio's world, filled with objects of her creation, sometimes fantastical, sometimes grotesque, sometimes visceral, often pulling the carpet from beneath you. She is one of the most outstanding artists of her Tasmanian generation but often hidden and reclusive. Opposite sides of Sabio are captured here together - intense and brooding, playful and fantastical - embodying rebellion, her sense of the absurd. Her powerful work extends across couture, visual art and film, including commissions from Netflix projects to the Opera House. In 2022 Sabio's world was upturned by aggressive cancer, a double mastectomy, chemotherapy and radiation. She rose fantastically from the ashes.

Architect of the Unreal, Sculptor of Possibility

Ideas twist, form bends, objects breathe. Museum walls hum, spaces shift—what is real? MONA pulses, Contemporary Art Tasmania warps—art uncontained. Ecoscenography whispers, jewelry glints, sculpture trembles. Creative producer, chaos conductor—KK Projects ignites. Vince Trim stirs, plates become landscapes. Sustainable design? Or a rebellion against waste? Restaurants are canvases, interiors are experiments. Materials fold, time dissolves, strategy rewrites itself. Natalie builds. The world reconfigures. Touch it. Break it. Reassemble it. What is curation but disruption? What is design but storytelling in space? She moves. The frame is never fixed.

Eiffel Tower Design and Construction

Art Unraveled, Assumptions Dismantled

Stage? Floor? Street? No walls, no borders. Radical equity—two words, infinite ruptures. Movement mutates, voices unspool, silence is loud. Who holds the brush? Who moves the frame? Disability? Ability? Labels crumble, assumptions burn. Art is not given—it is taken, remade, stolen back. Bias bends, inclusion isn’t enough—reimagine everything. Access? No. Evolution. Who? Us. You. Them. Everyone. Echoes distort, ripple, rebuild. 2025—20 years of breaking rules no one agreed to. Performance as protest. Art as a question with no answer. SEE. UNSEE. RESEE.

Time Bends, Bodies Speak, Dance Refuses to Fade

Shirley. Chrissie. Penny. Annie. Mary. Names? No. Frequencies. 50+? No. Numbers dissolve, time bends, bones hum. 2005—a crack in the stillness. 16 productions, 38 seasons, 132 shapeshifters, 287 rhythms, 20 echoes, 31,000 legs marching toward infinity. Dance as rebellion. Dance as whisper. Dance as storm. Dark Mofo pulses—feet on fire. MONA FOMA flickers—spines unravel. Japan watches—Tasmania exhales. Health. Education. Performance. No labels. No cages. No stillness. Not young. Not old. Just movement. Just breath. MADE un-makes. MADE re-makes. Bodies break rules no one wrote. The floor is not the limit. The air is waiting.

Dancers - Esther Walsh, Grace Legosz, Violet O'Brien, Bella Birchall, Edwina Blakeway, Sydney Howlett, Gen Millington

Esther. Grace. Violet. Bella. Edwina. Sydney. Gen. Names? No. Notes in a grand orchestration of limbs. Shayne Davies conducts—no baton, just muscle, breath, sweat. 2015—TYCBC cracks the floor, lifts the air. 10-18 years? No. Ageless in movement, timeless in discipline. Launceston. Hobart. Divided yet one, split yet whole. Training? Yes. Coaching? Yes. Transformation? Absolutely. Tradition grips one hand, innovation seizes the other—both spin, twirl, collide. Feet whisper, silk sighs, gravity is a myth. Performance is not the goal. Performance is the becoming. The stage is an illusion. The leap is real. What is ballet but defiance of the earth? What is training but rebellion in disguise? They move. The world stutters. The air belongs to them.

Movement as Revolt, Silence as Choreography

Kuopio exhales. The floor inhales. Dance? Protest? A footstep or a fracture? Inclusion bends, power structures crack. Expose, conceal, dissolve—who holds the veil? Capital-centric? No center. No edge. Only motion. Facilitator. Disruptor. Conductor of limbs. ANTI Festival murmurs. ZODIAK unspools. Lonely in the Rain evaporates. Tasmania flickers—Ten Days unravel, MONA FOMA pulses. Bodies negotiate, collide, disappear. Space resists. Space yields. Dialogue is rhythm, silence is choreography. The stage is a question. The body is a manifesto. She steps. The world shifts.

Beatmaker, Earthshaker, Timebender

Not footsteps, but drumbeats. Not silence, but resonance. 2005—SEE emerges, David answers. Gorilla stumbles, Outside shifts, Land resists, Beauty refracts. Tasmania hums, Australia expands, New Zealand listens. Awakenings tremble. Undercover conceals. You Are Here—where is here? Tempo fractures time. Signal Box glows—his art hums in the streets. Drums pulse, bodies follow, choreography unspools. 2025—Peacock, Chicken, Pony take flight. Assistant choreographer? No. Conductor of motion, translator of sound. His hands summon. His feet command. He moves. The air listens. The rhythm never stops.

Queen of Poetry, Weaver of Worlds

Jump, Fly, Hold, Become. Pages turn—This Much of Me, The Company I Keep, Branch bends, Rite ignites, Land contests. Eyes dry, Display shatters, Beauty reimagined. New Zealand listens, Tempo shifts, words ripple. Director, mentor, maker of movement and meaning. The BEAUTY Project—community in motion, poetry in form. SEE Pathways—guiding hands, lifting voices, building futures. Fashion stitches sustainability, fabric whispers revolution. A line is drawn, a dress unfolds, a stage transforms. She speaks. Poetry moves. Art breathes. Elise—queen of words, sculptor of possibility.

Sonic Alchemist, Chocolate Licker, Rogue Frequency Chaser

Radios hum, dodgem cars spin, chocolate records melt on tongues—Julia transmits. Rope, lipstick, electromagnetic whispers, edible instruments—collision of senses, friction of sound. A skip bin sings, a vegetal antenna bounces off the moon, waves ripple through forgotten airwaves. Paris, Hong Kong, Tasmania—wherever noise needs bending. She walks, she scores, she builds instruments from water, for hands that listen. Sisters Akousmatica—feral frequencies, botanical radio, anarchic transmissions. Emergency drills in abandoned pools, rogue broadcasts from ghost ships, a Tasmanian Midi Orchestra hums in the background. Walking? A Ph.D. in it. Broadcasting? She rewires the rules. Julia is here, Julia is there, Julia is everywhere sound dares to misbehave.

Body in Flux, Movement in Thought

Lily Alcock, born dancing, born moving—Lutruwita/Tasmania, the floor her canvas, gravity her ink. Ev&Bow (2021), then scattershot across Tasmania, Sydney, Adelaide—Second Echo Ensemble, MONA, Limosani, Quinteros, DRILL, Bluem. 2023, 2024: Create NSW flings her global—Jacob Jonas, Akira Yoshida, Ferus Animi. She bends, breathes, hums: yoga, sound, breathwork, Rishikesh, Breathless. Now home: MONA, DRILL, SEE. Relâche – The Last Dance On Earth(2025) brews at The Odeon. Annie Greig Scholarship unlocks India, Berlin. Her dance? A question, an answer, a riddle—breakdance weaves with floorwork, somatics pulse, movement spills, flows, vanishes, reappears.

Painter of the Whispering Brushes

Memory stacks like leaves, a garden of past and present tangled in pigment. Edges blur, time loops—was that childhood? Or now? Or both? Plants wink, roots whisper secrets, colors spill, puddling in nostalgia. First-class in wonder, she studied brains and brushes, mentoring, making, marveling. California called—170 artists, Creative Growth, a blooming mind. Then Paris, then Patterdale—ghosts of gardens past and future. 2024: a studio at Contemporary Arts Tasmania, a canvas humming, a Women’s Art Prize finalist. Since 2018, Despard Gallery doors swing open, her paintings crawl in. Next? Who knows? The brush decides.

SEE breathes, William steps in. Gorilla falls. Wings stretch. This Much of Me unfolds. Company shifts. Branch bends. Rite ignites. Land contests. By My Hand—whose hand? Beauty fractures, beauty reforms. Tasmania hums, Victoria listens, ACT stirs, New Zealand pulses. Tempo—beat shifts, feet carve echoes into foreign soil. Movement is history, history is movement. Stages dissolve, borders blur. He steps. The past moves with him. He leaps. The future catches up. What is dance but memory remade? What is William but a story still unfolding?

Stage or screen? Voices shift, faces blur, presence lingers. Claire Connelly—Amazon breathes. Lyn—Netflix waits. Dawn—Rosehaven glows. Sister Julia—In Our Blood murmurs. Jean—The Kettering Incident lingers in the fog. Characters flicker, dissolve, reform. SEE calls—Pathways to Work ignites, hands lift, possibilities unfold. Performance by proxy, desire satisfied in the movement of others. Relâche unfolds, dance whispers, she listens. Coach. Conduit. Catalyst. Indelability Arts hums, NIDA Open expands, The Warehouse Workshop molds, The factory constructs. What is acting but transformation? What is teaching but passing the fire forward? She steps back. Others step forward. The story continues. What is teaching but an exorcism? She whispers. The scene changes. The story escapes.

30 years—sound drips, strings tremble, frequencies collide. 20 years—bodies twist, theatre expands, meaning fractures. Film flickers, radio whispers, video loops, photography waits. Not one medium—many. Not one voice—chorus. Tasmania breathes—festivals bloom, programs unravel, art spills into cracks. Inclusivity isn’t spoken. It vibrates. It pulses. Music bends into image, image melts into sound, everything rewinds. Nothing is still. Nothing is static. Rodrigo weaves time, stitches story, tunes silence. Where does the beat end? Where does the frame begin? He doesn’t answer—he lets it play. 

Communities gather, voices amplify, moments crystalize. Mediums blur, disciplines dissolve—where does sound end and image begin? Rodrigo doesn’t just tell stories—he shapes them, layers them, lets them unravel. Art is not a stage. It’s not a screen. It’s the space between the beat, the silence before the note, the light before the shadow. He creates. We listen. The world shifts.The signal glitches. The art transmits. The world listens. 

Embers swirl, bodies twist, fire listens. Heat curls, sparks dance, movement consumes. A flame is not chaos—it is choreography. Tasmania burns bright—Samson at its center. Leading. Teaching. Igniting. Safe hands, wild fire. Performances flicker across the country—light painted in motion. What is a fire artist but a conversation with heat? What is performance but surrendering to the elements? Fuel, spin, burn, repeat. The air glows, the body moves, the flames remember. Samson steps forward. The fire follows.

Amplifier of Fragments, Creator of Chaos

Marketing? A mask. Communications? A distortion.

Laura’s hands shape fabric, film, and movement into something undefined. Costume, textile, sculpture, improvisation—everything and nothing. Thirty years. A puppeteer? A designer? An explosion of possibility. Terrapin Puppets, Second Echo Ensemble, Mona Foma—collaboration or collision? Both.

Art lives here. Art dies here.

Sawtooth ARI, The Gallows Gallery, Moonah Arts Centre—spaces crumbling, creations birthed. Eugene O’Neill. Puppets in Prague. InFlight ARI.

And yet, Laura amplifies. Through brand, business, artifice.

Retail, lifestyle, health—nothing escapes her touch.

Visible, invisible, alive, forgotten.

We speak, we break, we create.

Keeper of Chaos

Spreadsheets hum, grants align, events unfold. Budgets dance, policies weave, communities thrive. Heritage breathes, volunteers rally, public spaces ignite. City of Hobart listens, Narryna remembers, Southern Cross maps futures. Not an artist? But gardens grow under her hands. Projects bloom, programs take root, initiatives stretch toward the sun. Strategy meets soil, precision meets petals. Creativity is not only on the stage—it’s in the careful tending of ideas. She plans. She nurtures. She cultivates. Numbers and nature, logic and leaves. The work thrives. The garden grows. The community flourishes.