A kid from the bush

From red dirt footy fields to sketchbook worlds—this is where it all started.

There’s something about Broken Hill that never leaves you. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the long, straight roads that feel like they go on forever. Maybe it’s the mischief. But for me, it’s the town where art, rebellion, and storytelling first collided.

I was raised in Broken Hill—out in the far west of New South Wales. It’s a place known for mining, yes—but also for its deep, surprising creative pulse. There are galleries everywhere, sculpture trails that cut through the desert, and a raw, unapologetic energy that fuels the local art scene. Broken Hill is an artist’s town, whether people realise it or not.

Like most kids, I played AFL. I wasn’t amazing at it, but I gave it a crack. My dad, on the other hand, was amazing—one of those players people still talk about at barbecues. While he was owning the field, I was off drawing monsters in the margins of my school books.

And sometimes… getting up to no good.

One of my most vivid memories? Vandalising a giant cartoon chicken on the local chicken and chips shop sign. Not out of malice—more like mischief and a strange need to "improve" it. That didn’t go over too well. I ended up being chased through back laneways by a couple of angry passers-by. Artistic vision meets small-town justice.

We didn’t have a lot of entertainment growing up—only two TV channels most of the time—so we made our own. That meant catching lizards in the bush, building stories out of dirt and rocks, and creating entire worlds in our heads.

And when summer hit—those brutal 40-degree days—we’d retreat indoors, crank the air con, and binge rented movies from the local video store. That rhythm—of cinematic escape and visual storytelling—fed right into my love of comics. I’d read whatever I could get my hands on. Each panel felt like a secret world.

Broken Hill shaped my art because it shaped me. It gave me grit. Gave me time. Possibly lead poisoning. Gave me room to dream. It showed me that art could be wild, funny, rough around the edges, and still hit deep.

Even now, that desert dust is in my linework.
That chicken still haunts me (a little). bergerk!
And those memories—of heat, heart, and hustle—are baked into everything I create.