An exhibition questioning how the Earth's movements shape how we gather, act, and move through space at Darren Knight Gallery, Sydney.

Curated by Mara Schwerdtfeger.

“It should be of the hill. Belonging to it.” – ‘An Autobiography’, Frank Lloyd Wright

I wanted to write [to you] about harvested clay. I have struggled because this clay contains so much. I am far away from that place both physically and mentally. Sticking to my 5km radius in body and spirit. The red hills where the clay is, are a long way away now.

I wanted to write about memory and material, about feeling grounded amongst the words igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary. Soothing scientific language.

I wanted to write about how this clay is a conductor of science and ideas and feeling and yet transcends the very substance it claims to be and becomes something else, something new, every time.

I wanted to write about the repetition of working with harvested clay, how wetting, drying, mixing becomes a sort of prayer, praying this will work, knowing it most likely won’t but trusting that through this process, something will arise.

I wanted to write about how I never sieve this clay, allowing the rocks and plant matter to splinter and burn out during firings. I wanted to emphasise that this is a collaboration between me and a material that has its own ideas and decisions. I step back and nod in agreement.

I wanted to write [with] clay about how the first forms of writing appeared on clay tablets and about how no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop writing in clay and watching the words fire into permanence. A feeling similar to writing my initials in cement at the bottom of my street: M.E. = me, amazed that those are my initials, amazed they will stay after I’ve gone, amazed that they become part of the landscape’s writing.  

I wanted to write about how precious this dirt becomes when I transport it the 185 km from home to my city studio. Something to use sparingly, on special occasions, for something really important. Something that instantly brings my body 185 km away with a touch.

I wanted to write about how I gasp every time at the colour of this clay. It is ruby red, bright orange, and deep purple all at once. Its rich iron content spills and stains, leaving its trace on studio tools no matter how much I scrub. I promise to try not tire of this brilliance.

When I sit down to write though, all that comes to mind is the feeling of sandy red clay embedded in the skin of my hands. How my palms become orange for days. All I can think of is the smell that fills my city studio when I pour water over the dry clay to turn it into something malleable. It smells like rain. It smells like summer rain falling on dust. It smells being stuck at the end of a dirt road, unable to drive the 50 minutes into town because the road had turned into clay. Like it used to when I was little. The road slowly melts into a red river bringing with it the glee of being stranded and alone.

When I peel the plastic away from my small bag of red clay, its physicality is overwhelming, my senses are overpowered, and I surrender with ease. I start a conversation with this mud, a conversation I have constantly in my head, a conversation with red hills 185 km away.

“When you give yourself to places, they give you yourself back” – ‘Wanderlust – A History of Walking, Rebecca Solnit

All photographs by Zoe Baumgartner.