Tia is actually an imposter from the Theatre. She only realized recently that the high you get from the smell of oils and turps is similar to the thrill you get from greasepaint, and the change rooms are bigger.
She hasn’t grown up yet, but she starting not growing up in Melbourne, bottlefed on music and galleries and sensory extemporanea,
travelled widely, lived overseas, and after a distracting few years is returning to her manna.
Whilst on holiday in Europe, just as COVID was biting into Milano, she started drawing late at night, and has not stopped since. She is not going to stop until she’s told to; or until she draws a 1,000 hands; or until she becomes very good at it, whichever comes first. It’s distracted her from her responsibilities and domestic chores, has given her dirty fingernails and bags under her eyes and she is grateful.
She still crushes on Jeffrey Smart, Francis Bacon, Bruegel the Elder, Da Vinci and any artist who credits humans in all their beautiful mess and glory.
She is fascinated by the invisible music; the intimate embracement of our human joys and fears, the bravery, and the electricity that occurs between the thought and the share that gets imprinted in perpetuity in works of Art.