THE FIRST TREE

Surf Coast Victoria, AUS 2014

The philosophy was simple. Get out in nature, take your tools, find a tree, make a work.

Living in Victoria, no matter which direction you head, you find an interesting landscape. I headed south west toward the surf coast, toward the Otway ranges, with no plan beyond feeling it out. When something stands out, take notice.

I came over a crest into a large clearing and stopped.

It was so strange — to know something was once there but is no longer. I could almost see the forest, feel it. Instead, a muddy battlefield. Cleared trees, piles of logs, burn piles, forestry signs.

It looked like a war zone. It felt like a war zone.

Over the next hill I could see a neat and dense pine forest, probably destined for the same fate.

I sat for a while, observing. Asking myself the questions I hadn't fully answered yet. Why am I doing this? Is this right? Is this even it? I didn't have an idea so much as a feeling — and sitting in that clearing, surrounded by what had been taken, the feeling got louder not quieter.

The mud was thick, but willing. Sometimes mud holds you down, steals your footwear. But this mud didn't care that I was there. That was the sign.

I followed an intuitive thread down into the valley, using stumps as stepping stones as I made my way through. I didn't even register that these could be the trees to work on — I was drawn to something further in. Then it appeared.

The most interesting of shapes. A twisted stump, buried among others, but different. This one called out.

The light was leaving the sky, grey and overcast, the earth protected by quilted clouds. I lifted the slippery stump over my head, found my balance, and made my way back uphill — holding my breath with every footstep, trying not to slip or slip a disc.

This wasn't part of the plan. The vision had been to work on the tree in place, out in the forest. But this tree chose me. It wanted to be remembered.

I set up camp at the car, stump in the boot, a long night ahead. When the light left completely I decided to head home — early, but excited. I had the stump.

I spent the next couple of days working on it. Sanding, planing, burning, brushing, grooving. The first ink wasn't right. I found a printmaker in Fitzroy who pointed me toward an oil-based ink — something that would give me time to work and wouldn't smudge. I went back and started again.

I loaded the stump with ink, again and again, rolling over every inch, ensuring I captured as much detail as possible. I remember being over the paper with my hands and fingers, feeling the dampness pulling through. I could see the silhouette from the back of the sheet. I was close. With every pass of my thumb, a little more detail appeared. I was nervous. Excited. I couldn't be sure, but I thought it was going to work.

I slowly but firmly peeled the paper up and off the stump.

The weight of this tree's life hung on the paper — immortalised, remembered, seen.

Direct translation of its life. It worked.

38°38′11.0″S, 143°35′53.6″E