BROKEN HEAD

There are coves up near Byron that hide like daydreams too shy to form, little servings of sand and salt where the water snaps so clean it could be ironed.

I used to drift toward them when I was younger, when my thoughts were restless, when tobacco smoke danced in my hair, when my heart was weighted with grief. Back then, eyes glazed with desire, hands uncalloused and clever, and my purpose dreadfully unclear.

Some hitch, some ride, some walk.

I took a beat-up Kingswood WB ute on its last rodeo.

Somewhere in that wandering, Broken Head found me.

It slips under your skin, soft as a thumbprint. Like most of Byron, it is lush, wild, and beautiful, with coconut oil, smoke, coffee, sensory worlds crashing together. The sand is the colour of old fairy tales. You run toward it, and it warms your feet.

My clearest memory is the shore rocks, like hippo heads in quicksand, like lumps of multicoloured coal. I remember sitting on driftwood, watching them glimmer and sink. That is my memory of Broken Head: magical rocks and the gentle quieting of the mind.

Check out the close-up

* This painting is still drying and will not ship until late January 2026