When the pandemic arrived in 2020, it amplified a stillness I had already been seeking. During the long Melbourne lockdowns, the home became the centre of our entire universe, and I began to reclaim the invisible labour of care as a family-engaged practice, treating my home as the smallest social and political group.
In Being Keepers: Home, my practice shifted from installation to inhabitation. The Yarn stopped being a sacred art object and became kin. It worked as a trellis for peas in the garden bed, a marker for planting plots, a tool to hold the front door open. The boundary between art and life dissolved. Following the independent life force of my children and of the Yarn, I was no longer an overseer directing a result, but an inhabitant guided by the messy, unpredictable flow of life itself.
