As a very little girl in England, I loved to look at the summer-dry fields of hay, at a flat landscape made severe by the action of harvesters. On migrating to Australia, I discovered another version of the severe rural landscape: wider stretches, dry red earth, still and flat, a harsh demanding sky. When we moved to the Middle East, there it was again, the severe landscape, dry, brittle, windswept, sand-blasted, mountain-tall.

Late in life these feelings and images were revived when I discovered that I was not, as I had supposed, an abstract painter, but a landscape textile artist. Everything I do seems to end up with a foreground, a background and a sky. It was quite a revelation, continuing to unfold as I work, continuing to confound me.

My art process, like any good terra forming, is a many-layered one. It starts with using dyes as paints on silk, muslin, fleece and spun wool. Several rounds of felting meld different coloured fleeces with fabric. I will felt them together again and again. At some point, stitching takes over as the dominant method, but more felting ensues, as I wait, ever patient, for the piece to tell me that it has had enough and is finished.