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My childhood home was one of the last houses before open bushland. It was a natural playground of BMX tracks and shoddy treehouses. When I was a … Read More
My childhood home was one of the last houses before open bushland. It was a natural playground of BMX tracks and shoddy treehouses. When I was a teenager, the motorway came. Then the housing estates. Tree by tree, my childhood was bulldozed. We moved on, deeper into the bushland. My parents thought they were outrunning suburbia. In fact they were egging it on. In part, this series records telegraph poles that surround my family home. These dead trees stand as mocking markers of what once was. Each pole a tombstone painted with an epitaph to a playground long gone. Read Less
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My childhood home was one of the last houses before open bushland. It was a natural playground of BMX tracks and shoddy treehouses. When I was a teenager, the motorway came. Then the housing estates. Tree by tree, my childhood was bulldozed. We moved on, deeper into the bushland. My parents thought they were outrunning suburbia. In fact they were egging it on. In part, this series records telegraph poles that surround my family home. These dead trees stand as mocking markers of what once was. Each pole a tombstone painted with an epitaph to a playground long gone.