Art Prize Virtual Gallery 2025

Students are highly visible in this city. Melbourne attracts domestic and international students alike to its multitude of reputable universities. Accommodations that are tailor-made for such a demographic are numerous, and not a day goes by without spotting people with hoodies or sweatshirts of where they are studying. In the city that has been voted for one of the most liveable places in the entire world, less visible is how, for many students, the reality of their day-to-day life is far from romantic or glamorous. At the same time, students, especially international ones, are hastily pinpointed as the culprits behind inflating the property/rental prices and costs of living in the city, getting in the liveability of others, although studies have invalidated such causal effects. The reality is, whether domestic or international, many students tighten their belts to get through the month, week, or the day, waiting for groceries or the eateries they occasionally visit to have ‘__% off.’

This work explores the interrelationship between death, transformation, and the multispecies systems we are inseparably entangled with. I am merging digital environments and physical materials, investigating how human mortality is not an end, but part of a continuous cycle of decomposition and regeneration. Using photogrammetry, a process using hundreds of photographs to generate 3D models of objects and environment, I have constructed a virtual ecosystem composed of fungi and forest floor textures, symbols of decay, resilience, and relational intelligence. These digital organisms, typically hidden beneath our feet, are recontextualised as visual forms made into a woven rug. The rug is then placed directly over a human body, lying in the landscape, and photographed, a gesture that evokes shrouding, burial, and surrender to the earth. It proposes a future where we understand ourselves not as separate from, but as feeding into, the complex systems of life and death that sustain the world. It is an act of both mourning, for the planet, for species loss, and for the impermanence of being.

We are never our true selves to the world around us. We adapt and adjust our looks and our personalities. For me, that usually means hiding a lot of things. I have weird quirks, habits, ways of moving. I feel restricted in the ways I can interact with the world and how I can make myself fit for others to see me and remember me. I will take away the parts of me you don’t like.

Survivals was painted during a time of deep personal distress, as my family remains confined in our Tehran home under the terrifying threat of war. With bombs raining on residential areas and constant, heartbreaking news, this work became my quiet act of resistance and hope. The withered branch in the painting, still blooming against a backdrop of decay, represents the strength of those forced to endure war in silence. Each red flower stands for a moment of courage under fire—of breath taken between explosions, of love held in the dark. The heavy shadows and muted tones echo the fear and tension of those anxious seconds, while the resilient growth from the pot is a tribute to my family’s enduring spirit and the unyielding will to survive. This piece is not just about survival—it’s about the unseen cost of conflict and the emotional scars left behind. It is dedicated to those whose suffering remains unheard, but whose strength blossoms quietly in the face of cruelty.

Can you spot it? ‘Not just yours’ invites the audience to rekindle with the natural environment and with non-human species. Taken during the golden hour on the majestic shores of Phillip Island, VIC, this image depicts a wallaby looking back towards the camera as it watches the sunset. The nature-man divide has often led to the overlooking of the importance of the natural environment in our daily lives. This image shows that the environment we inhabit is not just ours, but rather shared with non-human species as well. It is simply time to open our eyes to the “unseen” world that we have so often ignored.

Are we ever truly ourselves outside the quiet of our own minds? The parts we choose to reveal are often carefully curated - shaped to align with what society deems acceptable. But there is more. Aspects of our identities that are unpredictable, harder to define or control, yet deeply beautiful. It’s a rare privilege to witness those hidden layers in someone else. That’s when you truly know them. In this painting, I juxtapose strict, angular forms with flowing organic motifs to reflect the contrast between our public personas and the private, often concealed depths of our identities. It’s an invitation to pause and consider the invisible forces, emotional, social, internal, that shape who we are and how we choose to be seen by different people.

“Scars are like tattoos. They leave a mark, but the mark no longer hurts.” No, it doesn’t. But tattoos are permanent, tracing back to the spots where the skin was once pierced, repeatedly. Scars remind you of your past, sometimes your present as well. But we bargained and we compromised. I know they’re there, and that’s how it is.

This year, we have seen the daily news cycle ever-tightening into a spiral of doomscrolling, schlock and horror. We need hope, rather than misinformation, fear and conquest. I have been looking for concepts that can convey the pulse of cooperation over tyranny, instances of positive human behaviour under duress, and acceptance of a natural world on its own terms. This requires care, so I trawled my stash of media images to find some of these positive examples. The resulting project investigates our individual relationships with mass media - its boundless breadth and micro attention span. Through the reflective process of painting, this project translates the urgency of clickbait into the dry slow tempo of oil paint. I selected three images, including two of unknown origin, and attributed social media acronyms to them. This anchored them in the stream of imagery and provided a narrative. As a series, their acronyms – TL;DR, F2F, IFYP produced a mini poem: Too long; did not read. Face to face…………… ………..I feel your pain.

The Birth of Love is a non-figurative oil painting to express my emotion and memories. Using expressive gestural strokes, my work reflects the seen and unseen dynamics of being a recognised carer. You may see that I carry my duty day and night, and some people say all mothers are carers. You may not see there is an enormous hidden of love, affection, sacrifice and commitment of being a recognised carer. By putting your feet into a recognised carer’s shoes, you see I am caring someone that needs ongoing support for life and my dream coming to university study may or may not be happened. The unseen inner mind of love, vulnerability have created the resilience and empowered people to move forward. My brush strokes in The Birth of Love aim at becoming an emotional dance that engage my viewers’ senses with the sublime feelings. My work creates a mirror in which someone may see their own hidden reflection.

This collage was one component of my final project for semester 1 in Studio Materials and Methods. During the project I became intrigued with the idea of exploring what lies beneath the surface of ordinary appearances. I began playing with layers of different materials – pictures torn from old National Geographic magazines, fabric, thread, embroidery cotton, paint and pastels – finishing with a ‘skin’ of paper napkins soaked in PVA glue and peeled back to reveal glimpses of what lay beneath. Multiple interpretations can be placed upon this work. Simultaneously abstract and figurative, it can be viewed as a body – human or animal – with fragments of organs, muscles and veins both exposed and concealed – the seen and unseen. It also portrays the way urban development is engulfing vast swathes of our natural environment, little by little obscuring our native flora and fauna. In this piece, the colours green and red are used to signify potency, peril and beauty, while white denotes both enclosure and erasure.

As I have gotten older, I have become increasingly well acquainted with death. This self-portrait represents the seen and unseen, through a seemingly normal representation of myself, shadowed by the unseen; the embodiment of the feelings of grief and mourning that have been ever present in my life over the past 18 months. Though somewhat morbid, this painting is also a celebration of the strength and resilience I’ve found within myself when dealing with loss, as well as the acceptance of the unavoidable relationship that death has with life. In a world that often overlooks silent struggles, I believe it is important to celebrate resilience and the ability to keep showing up and facing each day with grit and grace. This work is a quiet declaration of survival, and a reminder that vulnerability is also a form of power.

Confirmation of Aboriginality is a woven raffia sculpture depicting three frontier-era guns arranged in a triangle, each pointing outward. The guns symbolise the three-part Confirmation of Aboriginality test: descent, self-identification, and community acceptance. Weaving the guns removes their physical threat, instead highlighting the psychological harm caused when Aboriginal people are made to police one another’s identities. The test has become a cultural weapon—enforcing lateral violence within our communities in the name of colonial legitimacy. For those disconnected from community through the Stolen Generations or displacement, the process can be especially painful, often resulting in exclusion from culturally appropriate services or recognition. This work calls for a shift: the outward-pointing guns propose a redirection of focus—away from each other and toward the colonial state, which created and enforces this system. The real conflict lies not within our communities, but with institutions profiting from Aboriginal culture while denying proper restitution. Confirmation of Aboriginality urges us to end lateral policing and demand accountability from the structures that divide us.

This envisioning of the continent that the University of Melbourne is located on was developed as I worked on my research on carceral geographies and military bases; as I organised with Unionists for Palestine; and supported our students who have been surveilled and targeted by the university. It also came with the awareness that these lands, airs and waters are hurting from the ways in which they have been cut up by colonisation, and that they have been reshaped to accommodate generations of incarceration of First Nations peoples, as well as means of hurting other parts of the world, such as the American military base Pine Gap, which connects with satellites to coordinate drone strikes in Palestine and elsewhere in the world. It is meant to demonstrate that as massive and distant as so-called ‘Australia’ is, there is no disconnection from the lines of violence that connect us to ecocide and genocide, on these lands, and across the world in the occupied territories.

This piece explores the grief of disconnection; a personal experience of the sorrow of loving someone whose personality has changed, beyond their control. Two puzzle-formed figures stand in a surreal, split world. One offers a piece above the surface, once part of the other, but now mismatched. Though it resembles what was lost, it no longer fits. Above them, fish swim through the sky; below, birds drift through a flooded forest; an inversion of natural laws that echoes emotional disorientation. What is seen is connection, effort, memory. What is unseen is the pain of change, the quiet grief of loving someone who has become emotionally unreachable. This artwork visualizes the deeply personal ache of unspoken grief; when connection lingers in form but not in essence. It is about holding space for something that once was, even when it cannot be restored. It asks: what do we offer when our closeness no longer fits, and what do we carry when the other no longer receives it?

This work is inspired by the famous line from The Little Prince: “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Leaves are everywhere in our lives—on the ground, in the wind, quietly growing and falling—but most of the time, we pass them by without notice. I chose leaves as the subject to express the idea that the most meaningful things are often overlooked in daily life. Their texture, shape, and quiet presence symbolize unnoticed beauty and natural resilience. Through this piece, I want to draw attention to the ordinary details that surround us, encouraging the viewer to reflect on what we take for granted. By presenting something “unseen” through the lens of what we “see” every day, this artwork challenges perception and invites a deeper emotional awareness. The work echoes the theme by asking: what do we truly see, and what do we fail to see, even when it’s right in front of us?

This work consists of three components: the word WOMINJEKA, a landscape photograph of eucalyptus trees, and a colour composition inspired by the First Nations Flag designed by Harold Thomas in 1971. I combined these into a fragmented, mosaic-like photographic collage. These elements reflect my first impressions upon beginning my PhD studies at VCA, University of Melbourne, in 2023. The word WOMINJEKA is prominently displayed at the gates of Melbourne University’s Parkville campus and many other buildings. The First Nations flag flies alongside the Australian flag at Federation Square and throughout the city. Native eucalyptus trees are carefully preserved along streets and in parks. Together with the country’s acknowledgment practices, these symbols convey a strong message of respect and recognition for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, their history, and their culture. They also represent a broader commitment to reconciliation and an inclusive future. For international students like me, this welcoming gesture affirms that we’ve come to a place where cultural acknowledgment and purpose-driven journeys are both valued.

What is seen in this image are three flowers. One stands free: radiant, untouched, alive in its natural stillness. The other two begin to wither the moment they touch the wire of a computer mouse. What is unseen is deeper. This isn’t just a photo of flowers and wires. It’s a quiet confession—a reflection of us. Each flower is a soul—our soul. The first represents who we were: grounded, present, deeply alive. The others show who we are becoming—fading slowly, silently. It’s a quiet portrait of how technology addiction seeps in—not all at once, but gradually. No noise. No violence. Just small, invisible surrenders— moments so subtle we barely notice, until we no longer recognize what a blooming life once felt like. Until one day, the soul forgets it was ever in full bloom.

We all wear masks, both false and true To shield the self, we never knew In mirrored glass or strangers’ eyes The seen is veiled, the unseen hides. A silent grief, an unseen grin An outer shell, a soul within What we reveal, what we disguise A fleeting glimpse as time flies by We all wear masks , both false and true To hide the pain or let light through What’s shown is never all it seems The truth lives quietly, seen and unseen.

In this piece, I invite the viewer into a cosmic narrative—a visual interpretation of the birth of the universe and the eternal dance between the seen and the unseen. Inspired by the Big Bang theory, the swirling spirals at the heart of this work represent not just galaxies in motion, but the very expansion of time and space from a singular, unknowable origin. The bright, concentric rings mimic the ripples of an ancient explosion, radiating outward from the glowing centre—symbolising the initial flash of the Big Bang, forever expanding and forever shaping. Specks of vivid colour orbiting these rings capture the formation of matter, stars, and life, emerging from cosmic dust. However, what fascinates me most is not what we see, but what lies beyond our perception.

This piece reflects the dual existence we all carry, the face we show, and the truths we conceal. It reflects the tension between the polished, composed self that faces the world and the vulnerable, fractured inner self that often remains hidden. The outer figure appears serene, beautiful, and controlled. Beneath the surface lies quiet turmoil, exhaustion, emotion, and unspoken pain that rarely sees the light. Through deliberate use of contrast, light, and shadow, this piece gives equal weight to both realities. It honours the strength in maintaining composure but also the courage it takes to acknowledge what is unseen. Rather than separating these identities, the drawing brings them together, showing that both are valid, both are true, and both should be seen. Unspoken invites viewers to look inward, to recognise their hidden layers, and to find the power in vulnerability, acceptance, and speaking openly. In doing so, it creates space for honesty, healing, and the quiet beauty of the fully human experience and the individuality of each person.

A woman stands in the rain, her face hidden, her identity undefined. But when a spotlight shines down on her, we begin to see her outline and feel her strength. She remains calm and powerful, like a modern moon goddess. The rain, darkness, and blurred crowd reflect the reality many women face: being overlooked, unheard, unseen. Yet at her feet, a soft halo recalls the moon—an emblem of feminine energy and inner power. Even no face, she carries a strong presence, suggesting quiet dignity and resilience. The light from above represents both external recognition and internal awakening—a rare moment when the unseen becomes seen. “Moon Goddess” tells about the neglected women. It speaks to the unseen struggles and quite confidence that deserve to be seen. It reminds us that even in the darkest places, there is light—if we choose to look. Moreover, it not only reveals “who is being seen”, but also emphasizes “even if it is unseen, it is still shining”.

We rarely see the full picture. What’s visible from one perspective may be hidden from another. ‘Bird’s Eye View’ explores the unseen impacts of human activity through an ode to the passenger pigeon: a once-abundant species driven to extinction by human activity. Viewed front-on, a passenger pigeon emerges, its 3D wings built from mussel shells and wool. Yet, from a different angle, the bird resembles a river flowing alongside mountains. This duality reflects how we compartmentalise what we understand but remain ignorant to the systems connecting life, land, and loss. Mussel shells, once part of a living waterway, now echo the remnants of what’s been lost. The embroidery, made from organic material, mimics flowing water; reminding us that the boundaries between lifeforms and environments are fluid. A bird’s eye view is still only a fragment of the whole picture. This piece asks us to shift perspective, consider what we overlook, and what remains invisible until it’s too late. What we miss may still shape the world below our gaze.

Inspired by the winged figure of Victory in our crest, a symbol of aspiration, excellence, and endless discovery, our academic lives rise and drift between the seen and the unseen. Knowledge shines as a torch to guide life forward, yet lingers in shadows, quietly shaping our choices. It stands between good and evil, like a god-being poised at the edge of creation, life blooming on one side, malice flickering on the other, all enclosed in a circle that spins without end. It is seen in the written word, books, journals, the towering halls of a university. It is unseen in the scholar’s quiet grace, in the aura of inquiry carried like a second skin. Knowledge is both flame and silence, power and humility, a dignity we wear, as we walk through a world stitched with questions. They are seen. They are unseen, and still, they move us.

This painting is a moment between a researcher and a participant, exploring the act of witnessing and being witnessed in the context of public health research. The researcher holds up a magnifying glass, ready to observe, question, and document. But the mirror in the participant’s hand turns the gaze back, making the researcher see herself, forcing self-reflection. Drawing inspiration from Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’, the background symbolises emotional disruption caused by chronic illness, often hidden in daily life. The blister medicine pack on the table signals the ongoing, repetitive struggle. While material evidence is visible, the inner turmoil that seeps in through the open windows goes unnoticed, even as the researcher is surrounded by it. This work is based on my experience of being challenged to see more as a public health researcher. It is about the shift from observing others to becoming accountable yourself. It asks: What becomes visible in research that you can no longer ignore? And how do you carry that forward?

And you may find yourself is based on a moment shared with friends in Autumn last year, as we ended the day drinking and talking in the studio. The drawing was developed from photographs and memory, returning to the image over several sessions to build up tone and detail. The main protagonist sips her wine and looks across the room, with one of her early black and white artworks hanging behind her. Another figure appears in the mirror’s reflection, while glimpses of legs reveal a gathering around the edges of the composition. The work explores the influence friends have on each other’s lives and creative practices. It considers reflection, both literally in the surfaces of mirror and laptop screen, and in the personal act of looking both outward and inward.

An elderly woman struggles to thread a needle, a once-simple act now made difficult by the quiet erosion of time and vision. Her fading eyesight becomes a reflection for the invisible forces that slowly diminish our abilities, aging, fragility and the passing of time, often unnoticed until they affect us directly. What’s truly unseen is not just her struggle, but how easily society looks away. This work speaks to more than aging. It reflects how access to basic needs, dignity, care, and stability, can quietly slip away, especially for those who have been rendered invisible. Threading a needle becomes symbolic of survival, independence, and inclusion. In times of war, displacement, or everyday neglect, even the smallest tasks can become battles. The piece explores how easily we fail to notice what matters until it disappears. It asks, “Whose struggles do we choose to overlook?” One day, we too may find ourselves unable to thread the eye of the needle, left in the dark, unheard, and unseen.

This painting captures me at the start of a long haul flight. I was fully committed to the airport aesthetic with an eye mask, face mask, and neck pillow. Out of frame, my ear plugs are in hand and ready to go. Internally, it was dark, quiet, and (relatively) comfortable. Externally, I looked absurd. The contrast makes me smile. This painting is an ode to unserious self care, finding joy in mundane moments, and disappearing in plain sight.

To be nonbinary is to exist in perpetual union and opposition. I cannot control the forces created by institutionalised ideals on gender. I can merely attempt a daily negotiation to shape my own future. The limits of my agency to bend these unseen forces will always be invisible. Wheel throwing is a battle between centrifugal force and the tips of your fingers. An experienced potter turns the force into a dance, manipulating the power of the wheel and their hands to create what they wish to see. They are not infallible, failure possible at every stage of the throwing and firing process. Fragments of this fight remain. My fingerprints have dragged thin lines on the outside the vase. The clear glaze has reacted with the black clay to fire brown, a small smudge on the side of the vase, invisible pre-firing, shatters the perfect face of intent. The sharp silhouette a balance between agency and the inherently cylindrical shape of wheel thrown work. It is an imperfect existence.

There have always been conflicts and struggles for survival in the Middle East, but this time, the situation feels different. I am an Iranian student far from my hometown, and I can feel this pain from afar… days and nights pass, filled with worry and anxiety. The distance creates a new sense of ambiguity. I check the news and feel a sense of guilt. Why am I not in my country? Why am I safe while people in my country are under pressure and suffering? But a stranger told me, if your family and friends were with you, what would they want from you? To suffer? Or to do something else? Then I started painting, using art to express my feelings about this situation. This painting depicts an immigrant experiencing war far from their homeland. These feelings I experienced were intense; some were obvious, while most remained inside. This is what I refer to as the seen and unseen parts of me.

The peak of Mount Fuji is notoriously elusive, especially in June. During my recent trip to Japan, I planned several opportunities to see it from different vantage points. While it was technically there, every time it remained unseen, completely shrouded in clouds. It struck me, despite a large prominence, how Mount Fuji could be so easily hidden. Finally, on the flight home, Mount Fuji revealed itself, rising above the clouds, in its full, breathtaking clarity, as if to bid me farewell from Japan. Such a distinct and enchanting presence, a moment that has stayed with me. It spoke to the experience of being a PhD candidate, where progress is sometimes obscured by self-doubt, pressure, or expectation—both internal and external. It is easy to feel stuck, lost, or invisible. Yet like the mountain, growth, presence, and potential remain, whether seen or not. This painting reflects the quiet resilience of that truth: what matters is often hidden, and sometimes, clarity is just a shift in perspective.

Passing Through captures a quiet moment at sunset—a person and his dog walking along the shore, their silhouettes framed by the fading light. In the top corner, a small airplane drifts across the sky—easy to miss, but once seen, hard to ignore. This image is about the things we notice… and the things we don’t. On the surface, it’s a peaceful walk at the end of the day. But there’s more just beneath it—memories, passing time, emotions we carry but rarely show. The scene invites you to pause. To wonder about the stories behind what’s visible—and what stays hidden. In a way, it’s about all of us: moving through life, quietly, with parts of ourselves in plain sight, and others unnoticed.

Gumleaves is an intimate exploration of the natural world that surrounds me, drawn from the quiet corners of my garden. The composition is deliberately dense and layered, mirroring the frenetic pace of contemporary life. Yet, even within this visual busyness, nature carries an inherent calm – whether in vast, empty plains or tangled, thriving canopies. In my own life, constant movement and distraction often prevent me from pausing to notice these details. This work acts as both a meditation and a sober reminder: while we rush through our days, the natural world continues quietly, shaping and grounding us, whether we acknowledge it or not. Within the theme Seen & Unseen, Gumleaves reflects on what is visible – the familiar shapes of eucalyptus leaves – and what lies beneath: the overlooked stillness, resilience, and continuity of nature, and the way it can anchor us amid chaos when we choose to see it.

In this piece, I attempt to convey a moment of observation, through the depiction of a figure in thought. With her face turned away from the viewer, her emotions are ambiguous, as is the object of her surveillance. Perhaps it could be the obfuscated forest behind her, but then again maybe not. By avoiding your gaze, she keeps her secrets to herself. To see is to reveal.

The Philomena Project was borne out of an exploration of object and memory. I am an architect, currently working on the renovation of a family home that has seen several significant changes since the 1940’s. I am also an artist, and this same house is the subject matter I am using to explore questions around how we use objects to remember, and how we see and understand ourselves and the places we inhabit within the time continuum. The exploration behind the pieces of sculpture I have made for this installation began with the question of how narrative-driven art-making can reflect time and place. In the whimsical style of Italo Calvino and his Invisible Cities, I have written a story of the city of Philomena, a City of Memory. This is a story of the house itself, and those who have, do and will inhabit it. It imagines their pasts, their present, and their futures. This work imagines two simultaneously existing worlds, New Philomena and Old Philomena, the “Seen and Unseen”.

Memory of self, of others and our experiences across time inform identity. These memories can be repressed, suppressed, or sit just under the surface of the skin. But whether kept private or public, they are always ‘in play’ shaping identity and changing with time. Lost and found (2025), is a study of how memory behaves. The artefacts of childhood - beloved dolls, first drawings, and baby clothes packed away and vacuum sealed effectively pushing the memories down and away rendering them unseen. A childhood portrait re-photographed with affection, drawing attention to what was lost and holding space for the memories and emotions to be experienced and felt anew. Lost and found (2025) is an attempt to honour the parts of the self that get pushed aside or forgotten and recognising the role they play in identity.

Lately, I have been obsessed with my childhood, learning to embrace the childlike soul that still lives in this grown-up body and recollect memories of my springtime dream. One day, I realised just how powerful that innocent young boy’s dream can be. Just like flowers, which we often admire only in full bloom while forgetting they began as teeny-tiny seeds, little me’s big dream has always lived within me, perhaps unseen. Nevertheless, it reminds me to see the world through the eyes of child, making each day feel like a fun day worth living. For me, a childhood dream is like a pocket-sized map that helps me manoeuvre through the big-boy world with a pep in my step.

‘Road’ is a monoprint made using the road outside my house. I pressed the inked plate directly onto the bitumen to create a copy of the cracks, dirt and debris. At first, the print looks almost like a galaxy or cloud formation. But it’s just the road. I’m interested in the everyday objects, textures and surfaces we interact with but often overlook. The road is both seen and unseen. We walk, ride and drive along it every day but rarely stop to consider its material qualities. The dirt, debris and cracks in the bitumen hold traces of movement, stress, weather, time and collisions. I hope this work recontextualises a familiar surface and draws attention to what emerges when we pause to notice the everyday things around us.

Drawing from my experience as a queer man in STEM, I have created a decorative doily that reveals a gay slur when viewed from certain angles through a technique known as illusion knitting. Much like subtle homophobia, or offhanded assumptions about one’s identity, the quiet appearance of the slur forces us to process what has occurred before the image shifts quickly back into innocuous stripes. The unseen judgement of the slur from this angle again creates pause, providing space for reflection on our interactions with the object, illustrating how we can choose (or be forced) to make parts of ourselves visible. For me, knitting and crochet provide ideal tools to explore feelings of identity or belonging. These crafts allow the creation of useable objects that are interacted with regularly through day-to-day use. The process of making allows control over the way the object is constructed, giving the creator complete autonomy in their self expression.

Jingshu (GIN) Tan is a Chinese born and raised visual artist, curator, and producer. Working primarily with images, her practice centres on Sinophone diaspora, activism, and the intersection of memory and political emotion. Through a lens-based approach, she uses the camera not only to observe the world but also to examine the self, navigating identities in transition. She is the founder of Gingercan, a developing cultural platform for experimental curatorial work and Sinophone film initiatives. With experience across film festivals, music events, and art spaces in Asia and Australia, her projects explore how cinematic language can form alternative archives and intimate political dialogues. Currently, she is working on a photobook developed from her recent years of backpacking across Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, and Japan. Drawing from her encounters with post-conflict communities, spiritual traditions, and dailylife resilience, the work weaves personal documentary with cultural reflection, constructing a quiet meditation on place, displacement, and the emotional residues of history.

I went fishing with Dad when I was seven. I didn’t love fishing. But dad loved fishing, and I loved dad. I caught one. Pure panic. Dad had the biggest grin. Asked me if we could keep it. A beauty. Shiny, with colourful scales. Maybe. Okay. Yes! So happy. So proud. Glowing. Kill it, gut it, and into the freezer. Later, when no one was looking, I crept back to the freezer. To see what my pride had come to. Dead stiff freezer fish. This sculpture is about sudden decisions. Decisions that, in the moment, feel glorious, but when the glow fades, you feel a little duped. What drove you to make the decision becomes clear. Not as glorious as you first thought. Maybe it’s killing a fish just to make your dad proud or impulse buying some junk off Amazon to fit in, stand out, be less bored, or feel a little less empty inside. Bream and unbream.

This artwork explores the seen product and the unseen process of making and thinking. Inspired by Isamu Noguchi’s Akari light sculptures—objects balancing industrial production and handcrafted tradition—I chose a paper lamp as both canvas and concept. I transferred drafts of my mid-semester writing onto the lamp’s surface, using printed pages covered in notes and edits. When writing, I scatter pages on the floor, rearranging and annotating to reveal structure; this hidden choreography rarely appears in the finished text. By making these marks visible, the lamp captures the unseen physical and reflective labour that shapes written work. The project evolved through play and experimentation: testing how paper, print, and light interact, and observing how materials transform over time. This temporal, iterative process mirrors my studio pedagogies as an emerging educator—valuing reflection, craft, and experimental practice. Ultimately, the work makes visible what is usually unseen: the quiet material dialogue between thinking, making, and learning.

Simply Me! It is about the invisible battles we carry within and the resilience we’re forced to show when there is no space to be vulnerable. From the outside I was just another student attending classes, working shifts, behaving Normally! But inside, I was shattering. While my homeland was torn by war, no one around me could see the chaos I was living through. I encountered a pain I had never known! A strange, new emptiness, like a void in my chest! Behind that smile lives the quiet pride, the ego that kept me silent around those who’ve never had to carry pain like mine, even once in their lives. Using a simple exam pencil was intentional. A quiet medium for a loud truth. Life doesn’t always need color to be intense. Sometimes, the darkest realities are lived by the most ordinary people. The monochrome palette reflects the unseen weight of grief and fear. Every line carries a contradiction between visibility and invisibility, strength and collapse.

This artwork reflects how people often mask their true emotions in social settings and online spaces. The woman on the screen wears a mask-like smile, her face deliberately blurred to represent a universal self shaped by social expectations—not tied to any specific gender. Behind her, unspoken feelings spill out as swirling lines and seven hidden faces, each expressing complex emotional states like sadness, anger, despair, confusion, and fear. Using blue tones to evoke a sense of melancholy, I want to explore how much of our authentic self becomes silenced in the pursuit of social acceptance. I often notice how we feel pressured to pretend to be positive, even when we are struggling inside. Especially on social media, the version of ourselves we present is often carefully filtered, edited, and sometimes different from what we truly feel inside.

In an age of hyperconnectivity, this image captures a relic that once connected voices across cities and recounted innumerable stories across time. The payphone, with its receiver left hanging, stands as a quiet monument to conversations never overheard, messages never delivered, and emotions long faded. Shot in black and white to strip away distraction and the outside world, the photograph draws focus to the stark contrast between presence and absence, between what was seen and what remains unseen. These booths once bore witness to the full spectrum of human experience: heartbreak, reconciliation, desperation, redemption, joy. These relics were silent custodians of memories. Now obsolete, the phone booth has become a symbol of forgotten intimacy in communication. What have we left behind in our pursuit of constant connection? And what stories, now lost in static, might we have heard if only these telephones could speak?

Steps of a Graduate reflects my personal life as a student: going through various trials and tribulations throughout my education and now, standing before the glowing gate of an unwritten future. The piece illustrates my personal ascent as a student, from a structured secondary education (VCE) to the unknown realms of university. Each step represents not only academic progression but the emotional stresses, sacrifices, and moments of uncertainty that were invisible to others. Sometimes we forget the brokenness that led to the development of our character, but reflecting on it allows it to heal. My personal battle of identity and belonging ended in the fragility of my undergraduate degree (the fractured staircase). This artwork captures how transitions in life are rarely as linear as they appear – each step is built on the unseen perseverance, discipline, doubts and hopes within us. Through surreal architecture and soft symbolisms, ‘Steps of a Graduate’ invites viewers to reflect on their own trials and tribulations – the hidden layers behind their milestones.

Melbourne is known for its love of coffee, and we see many people lined up in front of coffee shops as shown in this photograph. However, is the public aware that mass production of coffee follows deforestation of the Amazon? Brazil is the largest supplier of raw coffee to Australia followed by Colombia. In the last three years, coffee production has increased both in Brazil and in Colombia responding to world coffee demand. Among other industrial farming, this triggers Amazonian deforestation. I covered myself in a forestation friendly coffee hessian sack and knelt holding the sign written half in Japanese and half in English, “森林破壊 (Deforestation) So What?” The artwork quietly provokes public innocence and political ignorance which is common concerning Amazonian deforestation and Climate Change. This artwork depicts both ‘Seen’ and ‘Unseen’. ‘Seen’ is the crowd in front of a coffee shop, while ‘Unseen’ is Amazonian deforestation hidden in popular coffee culture, for most of the public.

Message Behind the Artwork Melbourne is a city of culture, coffee, and confidence. But in its glow are shadows—those left behind, whose stories don’t make it to billboards or city brochures. The Seen: what we want others to see. The Unseen: what we’re too afraid, too busy, or too numb to look at. Yet the divide isn’t deep—it’s just a sidewalk away.

The piece is inspired by my Mamang (Grandmother) and her wooden house. It symbolizes overlooked moments I often run to as an adult. Memories of Easters that no longer exist and are rarely practiced in today’s time. The artwork reflects what I could recall from childhood memory. We have no photos of the house and it was later renovated into something more “modern”. Built entirely for her, the house, more like a small room, was made of wood, with an extended porch where she sat all day, listening to her radio. Situated beside my house and the family home, Mamang’s house became the meeting point for all activities. Easter was my favorite. We would gather to dye eggs, using candles to draw designs. As an artsy kid, I always loved that part. It was a simpler time. Mamang is gone now, and so is the wooden house. When life feels overwhelming I run back to this memory, back when my biggest problem was a scraped knee.

In pencil’s hush and paper’s glow, formulas march in ordered rows. Yet hidden lies the elegant grace, an unseen beauty fills the space. Numbers align, the proofs rise, whispered realms beyond our eyes. Shapes pirouette beyond the plane, where echoes of pure thought remain. Behold the Klein bottle’s embrace, a ribbon curled in hidden space. Two-dimensional, yet freed by four, to glide unbent, to wander more. Should mind pierce this veiling screen, pass beyond the seen, unseen — A fourth dimension opens wide, realities there softly glide. Allow your mind its daring flight, through unseen lands of vast delight. Seek the vision deeper than designs, feel the unseen where wonder shines.

This painting captures a quiet yet profound moment for my son. He is seated on our deck, immersed in reading after beginning treatment for ADHD. What may be seen as ordinary is, in truth, a breakthrough. Focus, once out of reach, is now possible. It is the first time he has read a book that I can remember. Nearby, Paddy waits longingly for his master’s attention, a gentle symbol of my son’s changing inner world. While the scene appears peaceful, it holds a subtle tension between stillness and effort. Working in oil, I used natural light and layered brushworks to evoke contrast and intimacy. The figure is rendered with warmth and clarity to draw the viewer’s gaze. The environment and dog are softened, echoing the mental shift where the external world recedes and focus takes hold. This work explores the boundary between what is seen and unseen. As a mother and artist, I wanted to give form to the invisible nature of ADHD and honour this moment of transformation.

A migrant’s reality is fragmented - caught between the place left behind and the one lived in today. This sense of duality is even more intense when the former home is a war zone. My painting is inspired by my experience of living abroad during Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Despite being physically far away from the war, my perception of reality has split in two since February 24, 2022: a peaceful daily life alongside unceasing worry and haunting images of destruction and injuries. I do not hear air raid sirens, yet I remain alert, constantly checking the news. I am not sleeping in a bomb shelter, but I stay awake until I receive a message back. I might be on campus, but I am also standing by the roadside, cheering for each bus during prisoner swaps. This painting reflects the experience of those whose deeper reality remains unseen: migrants with multiple homes, connections beyond borders. To all those who live in parallel realities - I see you.

This work explores the tension between visibility and value in contemporary society. Using the metaphor of a person compressed onto a scanner, I examine how identity is flattened and filtered through layers of material possessions. The scanned figure becomes both subject and object, reduced to what they own, yet seeking to be seen beyond it. My approach combines digital manipulation and conceptual layering to evoke the discomfort of being defined by external markers. The style is attractive and intimate, allowing the sense of confronting their own interpretations about worth and recognition. I was driven by a curiosity and questioning: why do we often equate a person’s value with their belongings? This piece challenges that notion, asking whether validation must come from attention or if true recognition lies in seeing the individual beneath the surface. It’s a reflection on how we perceive others and ourselves in a world obsessed with material identity.

I explore how colour theory and light can convey the instability and drama of climate. I am curious about human/nature entanglements and the outcomes that can reveal themselves with time. My work shifts between what is known and what is felt. I interrogate the emotional forces of the environment: what is visible, what is concealed and the affect it has on us and us upon it. I make collages from recycled materials that are interpretations of my drawings and photos, simplifying the original compositions. The abstracted reference is translated in oil paint onto a textured substrate. Painted layers are applied, rubbed off and scratched into with a range of fine metal tools to reveal colour and texture beneath the surface that I build on, mimicking the natural cycles of erosion, exposure and change. Now there’s a Hole in the Sky is one of the painted works created from this ongoing investigation.

This work is central to a broader investigation into taste and value. Rendered on a monumental scale using traditional oil painting techniques, the goat’s statuesque presence commands attention. Its exaggerated curly fringe introduces an unintentional yet absurd humour, offsetting the restrained, historical tone of the palette and material. Painted on unstretched linen, the work draws formal and conceptual links to the Western cannon - particularly the animal portraits of Thomas Gainsborough’s and the symbolic weight of Renaissance painting. It also gestures toward Albrecht Dürer’s 1498 self-portrait, inviting metaphorical readings about status, self-awareness and construction of self identity. The goat stands as both subject and symbol - visually striking and almost totemic.

In June 2025, I resigned from my job as a high school teacher to begin a PhD in an entirely different field. This artwork captures that moment of transition- a shift from one identity to another. As I close the curtain on my teaching career, I pause to reflect on the many seen and unseen moments that shaped my years in the classroom. The images, lesson plans, and notes represent those experiences, both challenging and joyful, that have left a lasting imprint. As I return to being a student, I carry these memories with me into the next chapter of my life.

Endometriosis is a condition where endometrial tissue grows and bleeds outside of the uterus, causing cyclical, chronic pain. Yet on average, women wait up to seven years for a diagnosis. Living with a hidden disease is isolating, and it took me years to realise the pain I experienced was not normal. It is well established that the severity of visible disease does not correlate to the intensity of pain. Even knowing this, when nothing was found on my ultrasound, I felt like I had imagined my pain. Inspired by Frida Kahlo, I used oil paint to capture my scarred uterus on the outside of my body, making the unseen seen. The ectopic endometrial tissue seeps into the street I stand on, permeating my life. In a crowded street, no one notices what is written on my skin, just as I cannot see what others carry. But through advocacy and acceptance I reclaim power over my body. That strength is reflected in my stance and gaze: we will not be over-looked.

This artwork portrays the hidden wounds behind a smiling international student. Elements such as a torn plane ticket, rejected résumé, and a solitary figure are embedded to symbolize the silent pressures of cultural shock, family trauma, and identity anxiety experienced abroad. The colored areas represent the visible, everyday surface shown to others, while the grayscale parts reflect the suppressed inner emotions. This visual contrast highlights the emotional gap between the “seen” and the “unseen.” It is not only a reflection of my personal experience, but also a voice for all who have faced similar struggles.

This painting, depict a student room intentionally distant from the external scenery, which represents the unrealised potential and opportunities that often remain unseen. The broken wall signifies the barriers we construct within ourselves, expressing a need to overcome self-imposed limitations and embrace personal growth. The fantasy-like landscape suggests a longing for transformative experiences, reflecting a sense of entrapment within the confines of reality. This imagery reflects the tendency to be preoccupied with future uncertainties, which can potentially hinder our ability to recognise and cultivate our inherent capabilities. The piece encourages viewers to consider the possibility of breaking free from these self-imposed constraints and stepping into a realm of greater potential. Chrysalis – A metaphor for transformation, where something is confined but preparing to emerge into a new form.

Film photography captures the seen, a truth, a reality. Double exposure, as used in ‘Flicker 01’ creates a trick, providing an unseen experience of our urban environment. The image presents the reality of the seen urban environment, and an unseen feeling of what it could be if we left more space for the natural environment and community shared places. I see a happier future if we allow for greater coexistence among the built, the natural, and people, taking it from our minds into how we live. I live in Naarm on the beautiful lands of the Wurundjeri Woi-Wurrung people. My thoughts often drift to what my surrounds looked like before buildings and bitumen, to how we could reconceptualise them for the future. These thoughts led me to take a series of photographs using double exposure with a film camera, blending two locations across the city. One location where buildings dominate and one where nature and community thrive together. Enjoy!

“Catching up for brunch” speaks to the shifting focus of the mind’s eye, and how our attention is constantly moving between the interior privacy of our running thoughts and active participation with the outside world. The framing of this piece leads the eye of the viewer past the shoulder of a brunch companion and into a great field of distraction, where that which is typically left unseen- an expanse of car park, architectural fragments, and a stranger’s movements- is rendered in bright detail. Having given in to curiosity and indulged in ‘deep looking’, one’s eye might tire and feel a pull back towards the foreground, and back towards our friend in the coffee shop, who is waiting for our reply.

One morning, I started my period, and I was in enough pain that I had to call in sick for work. I felt weird about telling my boss the truth behind my absence; is it unprofessional to tell them that you’re on your period? I didn’t choose this body, and I didn’t choose these organs. Beyond menstruation, my organs dictate my societal role, how I should behave, when I’m allowed to speak up. Sometimes I feel that they’re more of a curse; this is reflected in the piece by the bloody, visceral wound, and the gaunt stance of the figure. Ultimately, this piece expresses my rejection of gender roles, and reveals the unseen pain of menstruation through striking and uncomfortable imagery aimed to reflect the horror of our bodies.

Recently I have developed an obsession with one of the oldest games in the world, backgammon. The game is a beautiful analogy both visually and conceptually for the theme ‘seen and unseen’ through the visual contrast of the board’s layout, the community that is fostered around it and the myriad of ways in which a game can unfold. I have been creating boards from blackwood and redgum and in the process have completed multiple artworks in an attempt to illustrate my admiration for the game and the process that surrounds creating the vessel through which its played.

Whose gaze? Mine or yours? Bodies are constantly both seen and unseen. The body, especially women’s, occupy immense presence, scrutiny, fantasy, and manipulation. Clothing is an extension of our body, an actioned expression of a publicly acceptable body. Yet the labour behind creating clothing is another largely unseen process, and often devalued. I made this piece with over 30 scrap laces I’d collected over five years. I’ve been sewing and working with delicate stretch materials to make lingerie since 2018. For this piece, I didn’t use traditional patternmaking techniques but worked from the recycled scrap laces, layering and affixing pieces to fill gaps, to create something that could be worn publicly. I create pieces ultimately to decorate bodies, and to play with the boundaries of desire, pleasure, the imaginary, and the corporeal. It is not only the female body that is seen and unseen, but our labour, our creativity, our imaginaries, and our desires. I desire for my art to be seen through my colourful and playful gaze of creation.

Graduate life has been a culmination of unseen experiences, emotions, and hard work. Personally, this has included many late nights hunched over a laptop, racing against the clock to meet deadlines. These concealed moments of invisible effort often led to feelings of doubt. Such emotions wound through my thoughts, and I constantly felt weighed down by uncertainty, like chains that restrained me. I was unsure of what the future held or whether this degree was worth the pursuit. Amidst this, however, the ultimate goal, remained unchanged - to graduate and be draped in academic regalia. This would serve as a visible symbol and celebration of an arduous journey marked by hidden labour. The graduation cap in the drawing rests above, achievable only because of everything beneath it: the unseen, relentless work, the numerous sacrifices, and the resilience to power through to the end. I hope that in sharing this, it resonates with other graduate students who may also feel the weight of invisible struggles behind the visible success.

It is all in her head. A woman, smiling to the world, carries a path within her, one that grows each day, unfolding her struggles. She, who is brilliant, nurturing, and everything a woman is expected to be, holds an entire universe twisted within her cerebellum. With every step, an awakening stirs inside, an awareness of the world outside, shaped by the battles she walks through. The stairs she climbs do not merely rise; they lead inward, opening doors to a subconscious realm where her conscience is sculpted, piece by piece. In that space, she chases a vision, a moment to seize, to transform, a purpose etched in her soul. She makes the world better place for those who live unheard, unseen, those yearning for dignity, for recognition, for the simple right to stand tall. And that unspoken resolve, the fire she carries, reflects in that very same smile through it all. But in a world that only sees the smile, will they ever truly understand the story behind it?

This photograph was taken candidly during the golden hour in the evening, in my small village hometown in West Sumatera, Indonesia. Using minimal lighting and post-processing, I sought soft, warm tones to evoke a sense of calm reflection. The subject is my daughter, only a few days old at the time of the photo. She embodies a profound yet often invisible force in my life, the unconditional love and strength of family. Responding to the theme “Seen and Unseen,” this image reflects how some of the most powerful forces shaping our identities and experiences remain unseen to others but are deeply felt by us. The soft light highlights her face as a symbol of hope, warmth, and inspiration, representing the light that guides me through my graduate journey and beyond. She is the reason I look forward to the future, and her presence fills my life with hope. Not just today, but for every day to come.

In Memories, I explore the boundary between seen and unseen using grattage, a technique where images are revealed by scratching through black ink layered over wax. The process starts with a hidden background and requires working in reverse, guided only by memory and trust. Some areas resisted being revealed, as ink soaked through and blocked the background from view. These imperfections speak to how memory functions: partial, distorted, and textured by time. The only guide I had while working was my own photo archive, yet the final image always came with surprises. By embracing what could not be revealed, Memories becomes a personal meditation on how we try to hold onto fleeting moments, and how the unseen often shapes what we do see.

This photograph depicts a woman busy under a scorching summer sun, drying cured meat to prepare Ya Zha Bao, a delicacy recognized as a part of China’s intangible cultural heritage. It’s a traditional Chinese delicacy made by wrapping and drying spiced duck meat, is renowned for its rich flavor and its status as an intangible cultural heritage. The drier the duck meat, the richer its flavor. Wearing long sleeves and a mask, she labors silently in the scorching heat. A finger is noticeably missing from her right hand, yet she never stops. What we see is the intensity of her work, the visible signs of her disability, and the pressures of survival. What we don’t see is her inner strength and resilience, the quiet strength of a woman who earns her living and supports her family.

This photo was taken by a pond at dusk. Within the frame are four stages of a lotus: bud, half-bloom, full blossom, and wither. As the saying goes, “Flowers bloom and fall in their own time.” Each flower has its own moment—once and only once—never waiting for the viewer’s gaze.

Kitty Chrystal is an oil painter living and working on unceded Wurundjeri land. Their work explores queerness, intimate labour, and shame through the formal language of figurative painting. Influenced by sex work communities, feminist film theory, and art historical archetypes, Kitty’s paintings stage hyper-feminised figures in uneasy poses—often entangled, theatrical, and hovering between the erotic and the grotesque. Recent works insert queer, deviant bodies into sparse, Australian gothic landscapes. These backdrops, loosely drawn from colonial painting traditions like the Heidelberg School, act as unstable stages—reflecting the tension between pleasure and violence in both personal and national inheritance. Kitty’s interest in these settings emerged while researching their great-great-grandfather’s sheep farm in Victoria, which burned down. By inserting hypersexualised, queer bodies into these loaded historical settings, Kitty interrogates the contradictions of the Heidelberg School—outsiders complicit in imperial nationalism—and reflect on what it means to create art in a settler colony. Executed with immediacy and humour, Kitty’s work interrogates how bodies are bound—by desire, shame, or history.

I collect public domain illustrations relating to my Māori tīpuna (ancestors) through exploration of historical and library archives, and create works that reclaim these historically ‘stolen’ taonga (treasures). Through multiple layers of digital collage, their stories emerge through careful raranga (weaving). This work’ - Fig. 41.’ - shows a young Māori woman, condemned by an archivist to be no more than ‘half-caste’ (mixed-race), possessing a fantastical hidden imagination that emerges in her dreams. She uses this imagination to tell stories from her tīpuna (ancestors), including that of Tāne, the god of the forest. The unseen images of often nameless Indigenous figures - reborn through my imagination (and technology) - transcend to be seen.

This piece of art is a deeply personal narrative that traces my chaotic yet courageous journey through life, struggle, academia, identity, and hope. Each layer of watercolour, ink, collage, text, and number reveals a raw autobiographical story—moments of triumph (Australian visa approval, PhD offer, scholarships, publication, marriage, academic growth), heartbreak (financial struggles, poor grades, rejections, isolation, my mother’s illness, distance from loved ones), and resilience (being the first female in my family to pursue a PhD, traveling abroad, creating my own identity, and chasing dreams). This visual diary explores the tension between external achievements—what society sees and celebrates—and the internal battles that often remain hidden. I stitched together memories, dreams, and grief to understand who I was, who I am, and who I am becoming. Creating this piece was both cathartic and affirming—a way to reclaim my story and turn my scars into strength. This is not just my story—it’s a tribute to every unseen journey walked with quiet courage, resilience, and hope.

“Give Us a Smile (Starring Bella)” explores hyper femininity and the pressure on women to subscribe to the patriarchal narrative, to both be seen but also not to stand out. The high contrast photograph sees Bella, the platinum blonde alter ego of the artist, holding a banana to her face. Get Fucked it reads as a response to the title, the constant call from society to be the ever submissive “good girl”. Bella stands tall and strong, and finally, after a lifetime of heckling and cat calls, can tell them all to get fucked and be seen in her own way.

This painting is a private tribute to my mother. It carries my sentiments towards her that are difficult to express in daily conversations. Growing up, I witnessed her unreserved sacrifice and devotion to our family, particularly the tireless care she gave to my sibling with disability. Her remarkable resilience in the face of adversity has always been a great inspiration for me, though thinking of her also brings great sorrow: I wish that I could be stronger, wiser and I yearn to be able to ease her burdens. The painting was inspired by the song Piensa en Mi by the Spanish singer Luz Casal, which to me really captured the aching tenderness of the bond between mother and daughter. Visually, I took inspiration from Catholicism, particularly the symbolisms of the Virgin Mary and the Burning Heart. This work is about unseen sacrifices and unsaid words; it’s a kind of prayer, painted in place of what I cannot say aloud.

They say Pride is what we see — flags waving, music blasting, colours flooding the streets. But not all stories are told in daylight. Not all love is loud. A storm has passed — maybe outside, maybe within — and now, what remains is this: the courage to reach out, to express love that has long stayed unseen. A lover wrapped the vastness of the sky, skin soaked in sorrow, carried too many secrets. He reaches out: “I’m still here. I still love. I still hope.” The other receives it — not with words, but with closed eyes and an open heart. They’ve lived in the shadows, loved behind closed doors, cried in colours no one was allowed to see. Some love is loud. Some love is whispered. This love is brave. The wall echoes the truth: LOVE IS LOVE. Again. And again. And again. Until maybe, just maybe, the world finally sees. Even after the storm, when the sky is heavy with tears, a rainbow dares to rise.

As we journey through life, we encounter numerous challenges that ultimately lead to our growth. We grow much like a tree with its roots. At times, the very roots that nurture us are the same ones that once constricted our throats, closed our eyes, and bound our hands and feet. These roots have left us feeling powerless from time to time. Only we are aware of these emotions and the captivity they impose. No one sees that we have been shattered not just once but repeatedly, cracking open to reach greater heights. Ultimately, to flourish, the wounds within us must blossom. And yet again, no one sees that we have adorned ourselves with an invisible necklace made of those roots forever. Only we are privy to this truth!

“The trouble is that once you see it, you can’t unsee it. And once you’ve seen it, keeping quiet, saying nothing, becomes as political an act as speaking out. There’s no innocence. Either way, you’re accountable.” — Arundhati Roy As a human rights professional, I have found it deeply alarming to witness how our media, arts institutions, universities, and workplaces have silenced, or sought to silence, those who speak out about some of the most egregious human rights violations occurring today. Many experts have identified the situation in Gaza as a genocide. Famine expert Alex de Waal has stated that the current famine in Gaza is without precedent: “There’s no case of such minutely engineered, closely monitored, precisely designed mass starvation of a population as is happening in Gaza today.” I, like the majority of Australians, believe this must stop - the violence, the complicity in these crimes, and the silencing of those who speak out to support human rights.

A performative exploration of a Moreton Bay Fig tree planted in the Melbourne Botanic Gardens during colonial expansion in the 1880’s. Native to NSW, relocated and adapted to a new environment, its vast roots and canopy are visible, yet the histories it holds remain unseen. Stories of displacement, ecological adaption, species migration and cultural memory. I spent time under the boughs, sketching, photographing, taking rubbings - to intimately know and express the process of time and place. Rendered as a large-scale blackboard and wall drawing- one that is impermanent, gestural and open to erasure. Like memory, it can be wiped away yet it invites reflection on what has preserved and what fades. The weathered trunk reflects my interest in what lies beneath, the quiet sentinels that trees are. The enduring presence of colonial landscapes and the invisible and visible forces that shape identity and land. This work explores how a tree can become an archive of the seen and unseen and ask us to slow down and truly observe.

This artwork explores the infinite layers of perception—the cycle of the seen and unseen. What we perceive as seen today was once hidden, and as we peel back layers to uncover the unseen, we are met only with deeper mysteries. This cycle never ends. In our relentless pursuit of unveiling, we risk losing the quiet beauty of what is already visible. Sometimes, the urge to expose every secret dims the wonder of the moment. Beyond the Curtain serves as a reminder that while curiosity drives us forward, it is also essential to pause, to dwell in the seen, and to appreciate it without needing to unravel every unknown. Perhaps it is not necessary to see everything—but to accept that mystery itself is part of what makes reality beautiful.

The Unseen One is a portrait of survival shaped by pain no one wanted to see. I grew up under the shadow of my parents’ violence, both physical and verbal. Their words hurt as sharply as their hands. I was a child screaming on the inside, invisible in plain sight. Slowly, I sank into a private, silent abyss, until I even began to vanish from myself. However, something within me refused to disappear. This painting holds that fragile but fierce resistance. The small black figure represents me, a silhouette climbing from chaos toward a faint promise of warmth. Each rung of the ladder marks a choice not to give in: to speak, to create, to survive. Around me, the world bursts with colour—mountains, rivers, stars. However, it remains blind to the battle unfolding inside one small shape. How many people struggle in the cracks of what others choose not to see...This is my voice, a step from unseen toward being seen. At last, hope.

This acrylic painting, Departure, explores the emotional experience of an international student standing before a large airport window, watching planes outside. I used a realistic style with soft blending and muted tones to evoke a calm, reflective mood. The girl’s posture and facial expression suggest quiet anticipation, while the window acts as both a physical barrier and a metaphor for transition. Her faint reflection on the glass symbolises the duality of her identity—what is seen on the surface, and what is felt within. I chose this theme to express the complex emotions of leaving home: excitement, uncertainty, and hope. The airport is a place of movement, yet here it becomes a moment of stillness and thought. Through careful layering and light contrast, I aimed to show not just a scene, but a state of mind. This work invites viewers to reflect on their own journeys—both visible and invisible.

This work represents a snapshot in time displaying a small segment of a densely compressed complex living system, working to maintain its existence. The image reflects the overwhelming complexity of the proteomic systems that make up cells, which in turn make up us and all living things. It displays the somewhat understood, constant and endless machinery that keep us alive, allowing us to experience life. It is a thing you’ll likely never see, yet in turn allows you to see, to live, to exist. The goal of this image is to create conversations around the hidden systems that both we and the surrounding world are made of and how oblivious most of us are to them. This can in turn be used as an analogy for the complex lives that we all live, day in and day out, each with different trajectories darting towards different destinations.

Within the theme of Seen & Unseen, I explore the multiple facets of personal identity, where the calm centre portrait is presented to the public eye daily, but the inner struggles with mental health and personal turmoil are unseen beneath the surface. The broken glass reflects the darker sides of the inner self (depression and mania or any others). The darkness unveils these multiple facets, or does the darkness threaten to consume the individual entirely? This is the constant battle one faces with emotional turmoil and psychological stress. Whether you feel like you are constantly being judged, or living each moment with fear, many people disguise their inner emotions with a calm façade. I am a multidisciplinary artist who advocates for mental health and I hope people find a sense of relatability through my works. To those who survive each day in their own way, you are brave and you are worthy.

The visible, vibrant elements of nature, such as a bee, a butterfly, and “cotton candy” snails, are juxtaposed alongside the hidden devastation of environmental harm caused by a gold mining corporation and dam expansion. At the center, a Taino woman stands with tearful eyes that reflect the sorrow of those impacted by land destruction caused by corporate resource extraction. Beside her, vulnerable animals highlight the plight of nature. In the background, people overlook their destroyed lands. Beside the woman is a protest banner stating, “Save them.” This imagery draws from grassroots resistance against gold mining at Barrick Gold’s Pueblo Viejo Mine in the Dominican Republic. Dark clouds on the upper right side of the image depict thunder, pollution, and the presence of lifeless animals. The historical resonance is that Christopher Columbus arrived in my ancestors’ land, Quisqueya, in 1492, and the pursuit of gold continues. In 2025, Dominicans suffer from displacement, loss of livestock, and health and wellness harm from toxic mining chemicals like cyanide contaminating their water sources.

This is a painting of my room. It is probably much like any international student’s space, rented somewhere in the city. From the outside, people admire the skyline and towering skyscrapers. But behind each window, in each small room, quiet and unseen stories unfold. My story is like one piece of the puzzle; the connection between other people’s stories could complete a picture. I created this piece to remember a meaningful time from last year. It was just two weeks after my ACL reconstruction surgery, and I had returned to university study. The three things that accompanied me most were the view outside the window, my crutches, and the first crocheted bag I ever tried to make. In those lonely days, while slowly rebuilding both physical and mental strength, I finally understood what my parents and friends always meant when they said: “Take care of yourself.”

We all carry grief in our lives. The memories, purrs, and quiet comfort reside in the heart. This work is a tribute to Peter, a beloved cat who passed before my studies began, a testament to how love transcends physical presence, leaving an invisible mark on those who remain.

This artwork explores the theme “Seen and Unseen” through two versions of myself: my present self and my childhood self. The top figure represents who I am today—visible, shaped by adult life. The lower figure shows my younger self, full of innocence and wonder, often hidden but still part of me. Bright colors express emotion and contrast between what is shown and what is kept inside. The lollipop and shiny sequins on the face are symbols of childhood joy and memories that still influence me. By using expressive colors and layered composition, I reflect on the public and private parts of identity. This work shows how both the visible and the unseen shape who we are.

This artwork explores my evolving identity shaped by cultures deeply significant to me: Japan, China, Australia, and France. Using a unified colour palette and smooth gradations, I sought to visualise how these cultures blend within me without clear borders, reflecting interculturalism as an ongoing, lived experience. What is seen is a symbolic self-portrait composed of architectural forms—public, external markers tied to my cultural background. These structures reflect the aspects of identity that others can observe: recognisable, curated, and open to interpretation. Yet what remains unseen is the private self—the hidden emotions, inner thoughts, and lived experiences that cannot be fully captured in an image. This contrast between what is revealed and concealed invites viewers to reflect on how identity exists between visibility and invisibility. It reminds viewers that truly understanding someone goes far beyond surface observation. One must engage in genuine conversations and meaningful interactions to uncover the unseen layers of who they are. Through this work, I hope to prompt reflection on how we see and relate to others.

Art is a series of choices. Abstract art is a series of tactile and creative choices that only you would make, it exists for its own sake. My work is a way to make my inner world visible again and again, over time, with choices that are exclusive to me. I think in colour, with warm reds, vibrant yellows, voided blacks, line, curve and spot. The entirety of the unseen lives within our inner world, the thoughts, feelings, anger, marvel, boredom, offense, love and hunger, it’s all happening within. This piece is my inner, it’s what happens when you ask me to show you where my eyes are drawn, how I make desicions and how I see (and feel) my world. This is the unseen made seen.

This photo was taken at Point Ormond Lookout, 9 June 2025, of this man leaning on the guardrail by the beachside. I was about to ask him about his name, why staying here and if he would like to keep a copy of this - but sadly he left by the time I was checking the photos taken. The motivation for me to take this photo is that, from my perspective, it illustrates how our mind can function as a place of refuge from the restless currents of the external world. The distant, blurred cityscape seems to overwhelm people with hustle and bustle of the modern era - a world of never-ending motion and expectation from which the solitary figure has turned away. With all this visible/seen pain and exhaustion, our mind, which is frequently overlooked (and unseen), is just like an inner harbour where ceaselessly flowing thoughts can anchor and emotions can settle in the quiet, peaceful twilight, and where we can find peace with ourselves.

There are many versions of myself that I nurture, neglect, or force out. With the right conditions, some may naturally emerge. With graduate life, I’ve reflected on the decisions made leading up to where I am - celebrating parts of myself I’ve fostered growth in over the years (seen), and recognising where I’ve paid less attention (unseen). The latter especially during periods of stress during my studies. Forgetting about hobbies and self-care rituals, casting those aside to grow only a part of myself. Life is a garden. What is ‘seen’ at the top is not all that is needed to flourish, buds need to die out for others to grow, and sometimes we need to take a step back and bring back parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten. I wanted to depict these figures morphing together with the organic shapes of the flowers. You have to focus to see the full picture. This emphasises that what you may see at a glance is not everything that makes up a person.

My painting is based on the Vietnamese creation myth of Âu Cơ and Lạc Long Quân, who are considered the ancestors of the Vietnamese people and symbolise the connection between mountains and sea. I focused on Âu Cơ, reimagining her as a modern girl with a contemporary hairstyle and a stylised version of traditional clothing. Although I’m not part fairy or dragon, I wanted to highlight how we are shaped by the unseen actions of our ancestors. I drew her to represent the fairy queen, but she can also be seen as any modern girl, showing how culture and identity continue through generations. I also included a dragon form hidden among the clouds to represent Lạc Long Quân and the idea that some influences, like our ancestry, may not be immediately visible but are still present. I wanted this piece to reflect how we are shaped by the unseen actions of our ancestors through the choices they made, the traditions they passed down, and the stories that still influence us today, even if we aren’t always aware of them.

My painting explores the interplay between seen and unseen facets of identity. Small-scale (or large-scale, depending on the point of view), identical figures symbolising the various aspects of the self are set within a whimsical, game-like landscape. In this representation, all the figures wear the same face, because they all belong to one person. The picture frame represents the version of ourselves we present to the world at any given moment. The concealment and revelation of different aspects of the self is a natural response as we navigate different environments and situations. The checkered ground pattern resembles a chess board, suggesting that the figures are being purposefully arranged with intent. Hence, the chess board becomes a symbol of internal organisation, representing the private, unseen space within ourselves where we configure and reconfigure our identity. The playful art style, colour choices, perspective and scale contrast the serious theme by creating an atmosphere meant to evoke the dreamlike, imaginative worlds within our minds.

This work explores the subtle yet profound transformation that occurs when one steps beyond the boundaries of comfort and into the gaze of the world. The masked man represents the version of ourselves we curate for social survival—restrained, selective, and performative. Inspired by a period of intense self-reflection, the painting is a personal response to the dissonance between my private self and the persona I project in public spaces. The distorted musical instrument speaks to my habitual use of headphones—not as a conduit for music, but as a shield, an ambiguous soundscape to block the noise of external sphere. Through this piece, I engage with the theme “Seen and Unseen” by drawing attention to the invisible emotional negotiations we undertake daily—what we show, what we suppress, and how identity is fragmented by context. The artwork is a quiet confrontation with the unseen struggle of belonging, and a reflection on the masks we wear to navigate the vulnerability of life.

“Taking a picture of a person taking a picture From a window frame to a camera frame Who sees who”

“The Voice’s Vision - The Vision’s Voice” explores the inner vision that emerged during my performance as a vocalist in Opera For The Dead at AsiaTOPA 2025. While audiences experienced the performances in their own visions, me the performer self was supported by an unusual vision that arose during the season, and unseen to the audiences. My personal aesthetics, experiences, dreams energies are unseen too. This drawing highlights the use of blue ballpoint pen, seeks to capture make that vision and the unseen, unknown dimension of myself - seen.

In my first semester, in GSA art class, I drew a girl crying— her tears made the plants die. It was last winter, and I was really depressed. Now, in my last semester, I attended the art class again and painted a new version: her tears bring the flowers to life. What is seen is the transformation — from sorrow to hope, from withering to blooming. What unseen are the people and moments that shaped this transition.

A hole in the soul is a multi-medium art piece made mainly using charcoal, plater of paris and moulding clay. The canvas is textured on the ends with charcoal and plaster representing the outer void of external fears. The individual in gold amidst the crowd is portrayed as a charcoal scribbled black hole conveying the inner voices and internal void. Physically torn, the canvas reveals a tear with a fishnet, symbolising a safe space created by loved ones, from which a sculpture of the inner child delicately emerges. The piece encapsulates the personal battle with external and internal demons, culminating in a narrative of hope, resilience and the enduring strength found from dear ones.

“AT PEACE” is a superimposed, solarized print that aims to explore the tension between two forces; what one is and what one should be. This paradox of multiple selves is omni-present in graduate life, as ones´ identities continually fluctuates around external and internal expectations. By double exposing shots onto a single frame, I hope to intersect what appears to be contradictory. The two poses, a sunbather revelling in the sun contrasts with a more confrontational form: a vice grip around a neck. These images, taken of the same person at different times, reflect the simultaneous presence of alternative selves. Furthermore, via a developmental process called solarization I merge these intersected realities, using contrasts and tonal shifts to depict the continuous construction and deconstruction of self. “AT PEACE” grants the viewer the opportunity to explore student identities from multiple, sometimes conflicting, viewpoints, and to realise that oscillating among these creates something far more than the sum of its parts.

My hand-built vessels are records of embodied practice, formed through repetitive gestures that embed movement and memory into clay. Each thin-walled pot traces the subtle negotiation between hand and material, capturing the quiet dialogue of touch, pressure and rhythm. Their undulating surfaces reflect the layered nature of experience and time, inviting contemplation of what is seen and what remains hidden or unnoticed. I aim to create work that holds not just form, but the energy and stories of their making - containers of process, presence and the ephemeral marks of time.