The Architecture of Motherhood…

The minute I could walk, I limped us out of that death trap masquerading as a hospital.

"Mum, I want to go home. Please take me home."

My poor mother.

"AMA," that's what the nurse kept stressing. "Against medical advice. She has to sign the paperwork!"

"You just need to realise you are taking your daughter home to die. She will miscarry at any moment and, at best, if she carries the baby to full term, she will deliver a stillborn."

I could hear every word.

On the 18th of April at 9:30 p.m., my courageous Aries, 100% pure fire, arrived.

You're a Capricorn rising—no wonder you are a master at business.

You didn't cry.

When it looked like you would cry, I simply picked you up, and we had our first dance.

You have my mother's huge blue eyes, her plump lips, her olive skin, her German cleft chin, and her perfect teeth.

After such a turbulent beginning to life, you were a blissful infant. Like the stories of me as a baby, you were perfect. All we did was sleep.

Legend has it that Mum had to rub my tiny feet to wake me for feeds. I was sleepy, and so were you.

On the rare occasion you acted like an average baby and fought sleep, I had tricks up my sleeve.

You had cradle cap, and I would gently scratch your little head, ever so softly.

If that didn't work, I would tickle your face.

If that still didn't work, I would brush lightly over your eyes.

And if you continued to resist, I would bring out the dirty tricks and blow gently on your eyelashes.

Two seconds later, you were off dreaming with the fairies.

At five weeks old, one week shy of your immunisations, you got whooping cough.

Three generations of mothers kept vigil for endless days.

Eleven babies died during that outbreak.

Not you.

You're a fighter.

Just...

Like...

Me.

We survived the Princess Margaret Children's Hospital burns unit when you were seven months old.

Thank you, Dr Fiona Stanley.

They said you might need skin grafts.

Third-degree burns on your tiny hands.

Not even a scar.

You're too tough for that.

You lived in the true outback, a toddler on my lap.

Red dirt.

Kalgoorlie. Twice.

You and I would spend years together in that desiccated red earth.

We lived in the guest house of the Jones family, an epic sheep station.

The Jones family were one of largest landowners in Australia, second only to the Kidmans.

But what would I know?

I was an apparition in that environment.

I refused to relinquish my high heels.

And you would escape out of your bedroom window.

You picked a hole in the flyscreen and climbed out, running down to the dam to look for yabbies.

"JIMI!"

That's where the tiger snakes swam.

I would study on the lounge, you dozing beside me on a big fluffy pillow.

Until you made your objection.

You said nothing.

You simply pushed your tiny head closer and closer to my lap until my textbooks slid onto the floor.

And that was that.

Study time was over.

Just Jimi and Mum time.

It's Christmas, and you don't ask for a truck. You have all of those already.

You ask for a baby doll.

Your uncle is horrified.

"You can't buy him a doll. He's a boy!"

Santa brings you the baby doll you asked for and a pretty stroller to walk her in.

That summer, before the grass grew, in a sea of black Perth sand they call soil, you zoomed that stroller around at lightning pace, causing black dust to fly.

The baby doll continually came flying out of the stroller and shot across the yard on her forehead so often that she developed a permanent black graze in the middle of it.

"Jimi, it's a baby. You have to be careful with her," I coaxed.

"Mummy, I want to go fast!"

"Jimi, you can go fast, but remember, you need to strap her in."

Then April is looming.

Your birthday.

Your aunty asks you secretly what you want. Then she goes and, with great care, buys it, wraps it, and drives the three-hour journey from Margaret River to Perth with your uncle.

You shred that present open.

Your eyes are alive with excitement.

Pure joy.

It's the Tinky Winky costume.

The purple Teletubby.

Your favourite.

After all the fuss my brother made about you wanting a baby doll, your father couldn't help himself.

"Great one, Uncle Pete. You bought my son the gay Teletubby outfit."

Well, what was meant as a joke didn't land well.

"Get in the car, Kaz. We're going home!"

You wore that outfit day and night for years.

Often with no underwear, much to my dismay.

You wore it so long that it was four inches too short in the legs, and you were still squeezing into it.

I washed and hung up that purple thing so many times.

Our first WA renovation.

No money.

No furniture.

We still found a way.

During a pram walk, we discovered the antique auctions.

Trade only.

Dealers inhabited that space.

Not anymore.

Paris at school.

You on my lap.

This was the road to the promised land.

I taught myself to bid, and you sat patiently on my lap.

A strategy was born.

If you want it, truly love it, just put your number up.

We made it a game.

You held up the number and kept it up.

The dealers learned not to bother.

The ring-in lady and the cute toddler were taking that piece home.

Then we taught ourselves to restore furniture.

You and I.

You watched Foul Play non-stop on video for three weeks running.

You loved to laugh at Chevy Chase and the San Francisco car chase scene.

Iconic.

Just like you.

I remember everything.

Our first WA renovation.

No money.

No furniture.

We still found a way.

During a pram walk, we discovered the antique auctions.

Trade only.

Dealers inhabited that space.

Not anymore.

Paris at school.

You on my lap.

This was the road to the promised land.

I taught myself to bid, and you sat patiently on my lap.

A strategy was born.

If you want it, truly love it, just put your number up.

We made it a game.

You held up the number and kept it up.

The dealers learned not to bother.

The ring-in lady and the cute toddler were taking that piece home.

Then we taught ourselves to restore furniture.

You and I.

You watched Foul Play non-stop on video for three weeks running.

You loved to laugh at Chevy Chase and the San Francisco car chase scene.

Iconic.

Just like you.

I remember everything.

Every sleepless night.

Every hospital corridor.

Every surgery.

That moment tragedy almost struck on Christmas, and I drove it like I stole it.

Even the one after Hamlet had his skull run over the night before by the sweetest gay couple imaginable.

Those torch beams flashing through our driveway as I paced the hallway while you slept.

That time you put Paris in jail.

When you finally got sick of her endless taunts.

The sudden screaming.

I walked into your room to find your little heels scraping along the polished floorboards like pistons while your sister screamed.

"What is going on?"

"Why are you crushing your sister behind the door, Jimi?"

"She won't stop being mean."

"I put her in jail!"

You were the little one and born fighting every hit.

My sick baby.

She is 3.5 years older and 100% precocious—you were born lucky: two mothers.

Of course, one of them ran to your room if you cried, and the other ran away from home because you invaded her space upon arrival.

I warmed your bottle, and she secretly stole it when my back was turned, but we both loved you.

You looked at her like she was the sun, the moon, and all the stars.

Your eyes followed her as she danced through the room.

A McCluskey under an alternate name, but a James McCluskey all the same.

To the bone.

I am so proud of you, of us.

Our ability to fight back.

McCluskey comes at a price.

Your hearing.

Like the Jimmy before you, before me, the middle-ear infections were relentless.

Sky-high fevers.

The head of ENT at Princess Margaret Children's Hospital delivered the devastating news.

"Your son can't hear."

And here I thought you were ignoring me as a toddler.

He asked you to play with the toys in the corner with your back turned.

Loud noises.

The professor calling your name and clapping.

No response.

Silent play.

The verdict was delivered with care.

"You have a very, very intelligent son."

"He has taught himself to lip-read."

Pre-primary, and you can't hear.

Expensive private school.

"Keep him in the front row, please. He can't hear you and must lip-read to learn."

The rabid, unwise head of Pre-primary made one vital mistake.

She called me in.

She told me you were a very bad boy.

Disruptive.

An insinuation of bad parenting.

Oops!

But you were not sitting in the front row.

The class was too big, and you were ignored.

Left to drown in your silence.

My response does not need to be written.

When I left her, her hands were shaking, and I was calling a lawyer.

"Jimi, don't forget to give your note to your parents, and if you can, give it to your Dad."

I found you a better private school.

Only 40 kids in the entire primary school, as opposed to 600.

Who would have thought the Seventh-day Adventists would be your salvation?

That time in Hong Kong.

Paris and I swept out into the foreign streets.

In my Elle Macpherson PJs, panicked.

Across the hectic road, desperate to find painkillers for children.

For you.

The fever was spiking again.

You were in pain.

So much recurring pain.

Mummy and Mini Mummy succeeded.

Your first trip to China.

Platinum-blonde afro after a bleaching adventure.

It was remarkable.

Like crossing Bo Derek with Angelina Jolie.

You caused havoc.

We spoke three lines of Mandarin.

People crossed the crazy roads to take your photo.

You broke into an incredible performance of "The Worm."

You could just dance.

Crowds followed us everywhere.

You even stopped traffic, including an unsettling moment when a male bus driver stopped, hung out of the window, and whistled at you.

Good God!

Your blonde curly mop of hair brought China to a standstill.

When you are looking for me, for you, for us...

It's right here.

A Moment Captured That Almost Wasn’t…

The dandelions.

The cloud-strewn sky.

My love for her.

And a destiny.

A voice that screams and whispers at once.

I just wanted to be a mother... a wife... to die in the arms of the love of my life.

Not to be.

Skating close to the edge of exit stage left — six times in total.

She says I am an expert at circling the drain, then just when it looks like I am down for the count...

The third man in the ring calls.

8...

9...

I bounce up and wonder,

"Why is everyone crying?"

"I am just fine."

I am the very echo of her, on that vineyard.

Fragile and tough as nails in one tiny whirlwind.

And she is the echo of her daughter.

All the loops closing.

Her eyes are so blue.

Scorpio heart.

Kind.

Breakable.

I wonder about the ones who came before me.

Neuroscience tells us that DNA carries seven generations of trauma, all lying there before you even take your first breath.

I remember the moment you took your first breath.

Three generations of women all fighting for her.

Fighting for me.

I didn't even know a fight was needed.

Due on the eleventh of November.

Fate intervened.

An injury brought her home to the nest.

All the way from running the birthing unit in a major Sydney hospital.

I had idolised my cousin forever.

Seven years older.

Blonde and beautiful.

A midwife.

Brilliant.

Twenty-eight years old.

With her knee bandaged, all the generations decided I was going into labour that evening.

I was walked and walked.

Up hills.

Down hills.

Hours and hours.

To no avail other than exhaustion.

Marched into hospital.

Tests revealed you were in distress.

You were in danger.

Thank God she came home to Newcastle.

Things happened at lightning speed.

Induced.

Suddenly placed into the highly booked birthing suite I did not book.

Monkey bars and beanbags?

No thanks.

Bring me the drugs.

No such luck.

The spa instead.

He is overwhelmed.

Knocks her into the toilet.

What a circus.

Blinding pain.

Burns on both elbows from literally trying to pull the top half of my body away from the agony existing in the bottom half.

You arrive on a reclining chair.

The absurdity of motherhood.

Those big blue eyes.

Worth every moment of pain.

Then.

Now.

Always.

When the fog lifts…

The writing of this photographer's journal was done on instinct.

Autopilot.

I tend to run on deep instinct.

I wrote it for my father.

Anyone who ever looks for "me" can truly find me here.

My self-imposed proviso was to never lean in the self-indulgent direction.

I find most blogs lean that way.

Without true meaning, something is simply time wasted.

The earlier posts will read as stream of consciousness.

My mind spilled out onto the page.

They are what they are.

At that time, I was deep in coercive control and navigating a tsunami.

Drowning.

Being resuscitated by the amazing support crew around me.

But unable to scaffold myself.

I will not go back and edit those posts.

To do so would assassinate my authentic voice.

My truth.

My story.

Only now do I embody the presence of mind to understand it was this process that allowed me to find a way home to myself.

The process of retracing my footsteps through life.

My body of work, and who I was at that time, was the torch that lit the path back to me.

Coercive control doesn't just erode agency.

It erodes a sense of self.

A fog that blinds.

But as in life...

All fogs eventually lift when the temperature changes.

E = mc²…

When I was in primary school, I won the Science and Mathematics awards.

In high school, I shifted to Economics and English.

In my twenties, it became photography.

Cradling a search for the beauty of humanity.

I felt a deep yearning to find the story, discovered through images.

The journey is a fascinating process.

Now, full circle later, I have found the magic of E = mc².

By way of the transmutation of the energetic signature.

We're back at physics.

Everything always sat firmly in physics.

Energy is everything, and everything is energy.

When I work on set, it's energy I seek.

The superficial is one thing, but what lies beneath...

Your energetic signature is what lies beneath.

Everyone embodies their own beauty, or potential beauty.

It sits in the potential of their unique energetic signature.

I have been so blessed to work with the most divine models and makeup artists.

Lucky.

Always.

The extraordinary thing is the human condition.

Finding that within the moment is intoxicating..

Vulnerability.

Strength.

Attitude.

All energy.

All beautiful.

On autopilot, energy was what I sought to capture.

The unique energetic signature.

For years, I thought I was photographing beauty.

Perhaps I was photographing something else entirely.

I wasn't waiting for people to arrive fully formed.

I nurtured them.

Built them up.

Encouraged them.

Created a space where they felt seen.

Then something would shift.

A moment when they appeared.

Their unique energetic signature rising to its peak.

Then I pressed the shutter.

Do you see the surface, or do you see the energy of the moment?

Learning to fly …

This is one of my most loved moments capturing children at play.

It’s 100% pure energy.

I honestly do not know how I achieved this shot.

Though I brought the bubbles, and I encouraged the motion.

This beautiful child chasing a bubble — flying towards the lens.

Captured at f/2 aperture.

Abstract technical term stating that the camera’s focal plane is so shallow that it can only focus on the lens of the eye, if I miscalculate or press the button too late — fail — out of focus.

I love the energy.

The reaching for the bubble.

The metaphor.

Learning to fly.

But who was learning to fly?

Who was teaching?

Maybe both?

I sweated bullets on this shoot.

So grateful for the win!

I will never repeat this image, and that’s my definition of great success in portrait photography.

Just my thoughts anyway.

Finding truth - Coming full circle…

Yes, these are the beauty pages of Marie Claire Australia featuring my beauty photography.

In keeping with my decision to make this blog more journal and less marketing.

No vapid boasting.

At least an attempt to hold up the lens of meaning and life path.

To add something to a world that feels so lost at times.

So the mind that created the image above pours out onto the page.

I find it on the page first.

Always.

Then integration.

Expansion.

Life shifts.

Time passes.

Then it finds its way onto another page.

The me that matters most.

In the midst of the biggest project of my life.

Drowning at times.

Time is not linear.

It travels in circles.

Round and round we go.

I have always found beauty in the circle.

Closing the loop.

"Curiouser and curiouser."

— Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

I toppled down a rabbit hole decades ago.

Maxim Magazine…

They say it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.

If that’s true, make sure you know good people.

Kind people.

I can’t remember exactly how I met Matt Meyerson, the LA-based sports agent who runs RP-RT.com — an American sports and talent management company.

What I do remember is being struck by what a genuinely decent human being he is.

There’s something about hard-earned success that often creates humility rather than ego.

Over the years Matt has opened doors, created opportunities and been endlessly supportive.

For that, I am incredibly grateful.

Thank you for every opportunity, Matt.

x

Nic.

The things that find us…

Marie Claire magazine is beautiful.

To see your work stare back at you from those glossy pages is more than a thrill.

Life is such an adventure.

Am I coming full circle?

Alone in my room.

Surrounded by magazines.

The very definition of my childhood.

It started at eleven years old.

Harper's Bazaar.

So abstract now.

An eleven-year-old asking her mother to buy Harper's Bazaar every month.

And she did.

Then Dolly magazine.

More curious still.

I asked Mum to buy me scrapbooks.

Hours alone reading the articles.

Then cutting out my favourite images and carefully pasting them into the pages.

Whilst the words affected me — yes, I joined Greenpeace and the Animal Liberation Australia in primary school — it was the photography that captivated me.

I still have some of those scrapbooks.

I often ponder destiny.

Years later I discovered James Hillman's book The Soul's Code.

His "acorn theory" proposes that every life carries a blueprint.

A destiny.

A whisper seeking fulfilment.

Is that possible?

My life bears echoes of it.

Magazines and books defined my childhood.

At the beach with my brothers all day long, you could find me either fishing with my Dad or lying in the back of the car, far away and lost in the pages of a book.

Yet at no point did I believe I would become a photographer.

There was no pursuit.

No plan.

It found me.

The pages of Marie Claire were something I never even dreamt was possible.

Perhaps Hillman was right.

Or perhaps neuroscience explains it.

Endless hours staring at images created by extraordinary photographers.

Photographs of models I idolised who are now some of my closest friends.

Neuroscience tells us that what we repeatedly focus on shapes what we notice.

Shapes what we pursue.

Shapes what becomes possible.

Did my Reticular Activating System quietly take control of my future?

Did I stare so long, with such enduring focus, that I unknowingly paved my way here?

Blindly manifesting.

If so, what are you blindly manifesting?

A moment in time..

Is this what destiny is?

A gamble.

A gamble on me.

It felt like the most abstract decision of my life.

Seven thousand dollars of equipment.

I sat on the sand.

I watched my children play.

Guarded their safety.

Boxes.

Expensive boxes in a bag.

Then clouds.

I was reading instructions.

I am not great at that.

More instinct driven.

But the clouds …

Sudden inspiration.

Click the lens on the body.

Load the film.

rush rush …

Those clouds were screaming at me.

Torn across the blue canvas of a perfect day.

I call her name…

PARIS.

There are reeds.

Lord knows why we have the Japanese umbrella at the beach?

A mystery to this day.

Clearly an op shop purchase .. inspired .. blue.

That colour - follows me everywhere.

She is so kind.

Willing.

Play ceases.

I direct her to a tap post.

A point to anchor her.

I just say ‘play’, wave the umbrella around.

Evidenced in the negatives.

There after I am criticised.

“At least buy a swim suit that fits your daughter .”

But this is the shot.

It wins Site Unseen and ACMP awards.

Newspaper articles.

Magazines feature it.

We are off to the outback in the endlessness of the unknown

The image lives on, in a vacuum.

None of this matters.

Not then.

Not now.

That’s my daughter.

That was my beginning.

That's the innocence of creativity.

Grounded.

Grateful.

Finally able to accept the obvious fact that I am not just a creative.

I am an artist.

Paris–Elisabeth Eden …

PARIS.

37 weeks pregnant.

A whirl of navy with white polka dots on the dance floor.

A 50th birthday party.

Alarmed adults begging me to sit down.

"She is going to have that baby right there on the dance floor, Irene!"

I do as I am told.

Picture a long table.

A beautiful woman at one end — her quiet husband at the far end.

She is surrounded by Newcastle mums, engrossed in her Sydney stories.

He sits alone.

They are Paris and Larissa Burnet's parents.

The Bubbles Twins.

Famous models.

My idols.

Mrs Burnet tells stories of Larissa.

Her heir boyfriend.

Oxford University.

Rowing sculls.

Very glamorous.

David is sitting alone, so I excuse myself and go and sit with him.

He is such a gentleman.

A botanist.

He treks through the Amazon seeking unspecified flora to discover.

Returns home with precious gemstones for his wife.

He is kind.

"I love polka dots. They are sexy."

He is being very kind!

Although I am very thin due to constant morning sickness, I am very pregnant.

Then he talks about his other daughter.

Paris.

Ordinary words.

Depicting ordinary moments.

Said with such pride.

His face full of so much love.

Her boyfriend Simon studies science.

Forgetful.

She brings him tea.

"Oh Dad, he is so absent-minded. If his head wasn't attached to his neck, he would forget it."

Glasses with tape on them.

A young daughter in love and a father so deeply proud.

Some kind of magic in that moment stuck.

On the ninth of November, after three hours, at 9:39 pm, my baby arrived.

Everyone said it was a boy.

I didn't have to choose names.

Baby James was supposed to arrive.

Blessed instead with a girl.

I looked into her huge blue eyes and immediately knew her.

Paris.

Looking at her squishy little face, I was somehow transported right back to that conversation with David.

My mother-in-law said:

"Why call her that? Why not just call her Germany?"

David is why.

The name was a wish.

A hope.

Instant and strong.

One day I hoped her father would speak with such deep admiration and show sincere love for my daughter.

Our child.

So you were named Paris.

But for one so beautiful, a single name was not enough.

Elisabeth!

Elisabeth with an S.

Lisbet to all who knew her, and to know her was to love her.

Named by her father, Paul.

Named after St Elisabeth.

Patron saint of the poor.

My Oma — German for grandmother.

Elisabeth was beautiful.

The kind of beauty seen only on the silver screen.

She looked quite like Ingrid Bergman.

Elisabeth was smart, strong and resilient.

She fell ill at six years old.

Rheumatic fever.

Given the last rites by their priest, yet she refused to die.

A trick she would repeat again at eight years old, and then sixteen.

Leaving her with a rheumatic heart disorder.

Told she would never live to see eighteen.

Never marry.

Never be a mother.

She married the love of her life at the tender age of twenty on Christmas Eve.

Her husband said she looked like an angel descending the stairs from heaven.

Elisabeth had two daughters.

Survived World War II and worked in the Air Force — she said they had the sexiest uniform.

She moved to the other side of the world and lived until she was 82 years old.

Strength.

Fearlessness.

The stuff of legends.

All there in your bloodline.

Eden.

It is very simple.

Growing up surrounded by boys, all I wanted was a sister.

Then I was pregnant and everyone told me I was having a boy.

I was thrilled.

James.

The fourth in our family line.

Yet surprise — it's a girl.

So your middle name is Eden.

Because you were instant paradise.

I was so tired after delivering you.

I lasted only five hours in hospital before I whisked us home.

I fell into such a deep sleep that first evening.

You slept beside my bed in the antique bassinet I had slept in as a baby.

I had a beautiful dream that night.

I dreamt that I had given birth to a beautiful baby girl.

Then I woke and felt sad.

I was so exhausted I thought you were a dream.

I rolled over in bed and saw the bassinet.

As I lifted my drained body from the bed, I saw you there.

Awake.

Blinking those huge blue eyes.

My mother's eyes.

Not crying.

Just lying there, surveying the world you had landed in.

I bounced out of bed and picked you up into the safety of my arms.

I looked at you and said one line.

"What are you going to wear today?"

"You have thirteen designer dresses hanging in your wardrobe. Shall we go and look?"

Euphoria.

Paris–Elisabeth Eden.

I love you,

Mum x

The above image is shot in Margaret River.

An award winning image.

Thank you to Walkley award winning photographer Dave Dare Parker - award winning photojournalist, the judge who engaged with my entry and awarded me Site Unseen Student Photographer of the Year 2002.

104 - Eileen Kramer…

The remarkable thing about fearlessness is that when you embody it, you don’t know it.

Literally no idea.

Clueless.

You are just you.

Eileen Kramer is fearlessness personified.

Whilst shooting a flurry of actors, I was introduced to Eileen.

Force of nature.

Fragile.

Unbreakable.

Contradiction in motion.

At over 100 years old … still dancing.

Profoundly inspiring.

Life is so fascinating — as is humanity.

The sum of my random, instinctual choices always colliding.

My first agent + losing Bobby = Sinden Dene.

The Vivienne Westwood-clad, quintessential, immaculate in every way, perfect gay man.

I often describe myself as the tradie on set — a sparkie like my brother.

I bring the science, I build the sets, I control the lighting, and when things break — I fix it.

Sin often mimicked my Newcastle accent back at me in a horrendously mocking way.

It shredded my feelings, but they grow ’em tough in Newy.

Without Sin, this portrait shoot would be not just different — it would be less, far less.

That’s the beauty of juxtaposition.

Embraced, it creates a greater, stronger whole.

A wild ride.

So worth it.

Eileen had travelled to Paris in her teenage years.

She became a dancer.

Moved in Ella Fitzgerald’s circles.

Imagine.

An Aussie traversing Les Trente Glorieuses.

Post-World War II Paris — known as the Glory Years.

Christian Dior’s reinvention of art and resilience.

The Existentialist Era.

The Left Bank Renaissance.

Jazz clubs and an explosion of fashion, art and independent thinking.

There she was, courageously dancing on stage.

On set, Eileen could no longer stand with ease, so she danced seated.

104 years old in this image.

Nothing ceased the dancer in her.

Watching her dance was nothing short of hypnotic.

I was scouted for classical ballet at 18 months of age.

My first ballet shoes proudly sit in my lounge room.

By the time I was two years old, I was studying tap, jazz and classical ballet.

My first tap shoes were imported from Spain because, in Australia, you could not buy shoes that small with the leather soles required to screw the taps onto.

Sprayed silver.

Tiny Spanish shoes.

My first tutu was bright yellow and I twirled to “Rubber Duckie” centre stage.

Everyone else was four, twice as big.

Always running fast to keep up, I guess.

The only girl amidst a sea of boys.

You adapt or fall behind.

Recently, whilst studying neuroscience, I learnt that the mere act of my mum allowing me to take up ballet so young actually changed the intellectual architecture of my brain.

Portraiture is such a gift in my life.

It’s the very instrument that allows the study of humanity.

I think of where I stood that day, capturing the enduring magic of Eileen’s dancing.

The girl from Newcastle standing shoulder to shoulder with a dancer from the jazz clubs of post-war Paris and a session stylist who moved in the circles of Alexander McQueen and Boy George.

How lucky.

Always lucky.

Life keeps teaching me the same lesson.

When life comes calling and offers you something...

Say yes.

AND This Is England…

This is me out of my depth, but paddling like my life depended on it.

Hit the ground running.
Welcome to Sydney.

A complex moment in time.
A stroke of luck and a broken heart.

But let’s focus on luck.

After all, the heart heals.

I first fell in love with Sydney when I was 13.
Crown Street, Surry Hills to be precise.

Always on the pilgrimage from Newcastle to Sydney International Airport, one fateful day I saw the promised land.

Wheels and Dollbaby — fashion meets rock and roll.

Living a blessed childhood, I was lovingly given everything a little girl could want and more. I never needed to ask my parents for anything …

Not this day.

I begged my Dad to stop the car.
Park.
I had to see the wonderland that had just flickered past my eyes.

He was not stopping.

A country boy who hated the city.

But he loved his little girl.

A reluctant manoeuvre around chaotic Sydney traffic, and a dream was born.

It would take me decades to find my way home.

“He” would laugh at me — call Sydney my spiritual homeland.

Remind me:

“You’re from Newcastle!”

Mocking my internal compass.

He was right.

That I am, and proudly so.

To me, home is a place deeper than that.
More than a place of birth.

The place where you can breathe.

This Is England — a hair and branding collection.

My first in Sydney marked a moment in time.

Stevie English — a passionate master with not just hair, but rich vision.

This shoot was a well-oiled machine.
A cast of thousands.

National pride bounced off the walls.

I stood in pitch-black darkness, camera clutched in hand, and just tried to keep up.

The images created were hugely successful.

One image ended up on the TV show The Face, with the iconic supermodel Naomi Campbell commenting that it was one of the best beauty images she had ever seen in her entire career.

Black Bowie.

The sweet young model was thrilled.

Then came a call from a creative director in London.

A bid was placed to buy another image — The King’s Royal Guard — to be placed on a billboard at the entrance of an elite shopping centre in central London.

The entire shoot appeared in magazines.

It was wild — like the time my dog went viral.

An image I took of Muppet landed on the LadBible and then, for years, that image bounced back to me from every corner of the internet imaginable.

Finally, I am in Sydney.

Outback adventures made me adaptable and open to new frontiers.

How will Sydney shape me, and what adventures will come next?

I am ready.

Ever-ready bunny ready!

Thank you, Stevie English, for the opportunity to shoot your vision This Is England.

Nic x

Annabel…

Swan River.

Perfect moment.

Instinct.

Fate.

When I look back now, I feel overwhelmed.

So lucky to have found the perfect location.

I packed my camera gear into the VW Beetle I still drive
23 years later.

My dream car.

Lulu.

I parked in the same place.

Walked to the riverbank.

And then the magic always happened.

This little whirlwind of childhood wonder never stopped…

even when the wave hit her body as she lay by the shoreline.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t stop smiling.

She didn’t break eye contact with the camera.

She just kicked her legs in the water…

Annabel is my favourite memory of the Swan River.

I would wade into that river fully clothed.

Winter or summer.

Sometimes up to my waist.

Anything for the perfect shot.

Only leaving once the light was gone.

Always leaving in the same state.

Sandy.

Drenched.

And extremely happy.

Completely in love with my career.

Origins…

Hyde Park

Fallen leaves

School pickup

Cameras packed

Lulu parked

As an immigrant’s daughter and granddaughter, I was taught one strict rule…

No daycare!

To pivot from university student to motherhood to photographer with fluency meant one thing.

Evolve.

The women who came before me are truly the force that created me.

I was destined to be a mother.

It appears I was also destined to become a photographer.

Intertwining.

Looking at this image, shot on black-and-white film over 20 years ago, I feel really blessed.

Born lucky.

Photos mean everything to me.

In my bloodline, I am the custodian of all the images that tell the story of our origin.

The World War I official war portrait of my great-grandfather.

The sea voyage from Gundelsheim to Newcastle in 1954 that made me Australian.

My mother’s barramundi adventures in crocodile-infested waters in the Northern Territory.

Photography is so much more than just a pretty picture.

Well, it is to me.

…every tiny moment counts.

Children’s portraiture allowed me to take my babies on the journey with me.

Thank you x

It’s a lucky life…

“Lucky” is a word I constantly use to describe myself. That, and unexpected.

I am definitely unexpected.

But luck has followed me my entire life.

From birth, actually.

I was born into the bloodline of some of the strongest women you could ever hope to know.

My great-grandmother Pauline lived on our family vineyard in Schwarzwald, Germany.

Gundelsheim.

The Black Forest.

She raised three beautiful children, including my grandmother Elisabeth, her only daughter.

When tragedy struck and she suddenly lost the love of her life — my great-grandfather Paul — she took over the vineyard herself.

The vineyard that produced the most awarded Riesling in the region.

Her daughter Elisabeth was an expert grafter, so skilled that neighbouring vineyards would borrow her to graft their vines.

This was during a time when women did not own land, work in male-dominated industries, or attend university.

Yet my Oma — German for grandmother — attended university in Switzerland to study kindergarten teaching.

She also learnt knitting, crochet, embroidery, and dressmaking, eventually becoming a knitwear designer.

Oma was the first generation in my bloodline to work in fashion.

Mum was the second — a fashion buyer.

I became the third.

This editorial, published in New York, was photographed in a hidden local garden.

Another unexpected door opening.

I met a delightful older man while walking my dog.

He would sit quietly in the park with his feet resting on a used pizza box.

Such a charismatic character.

I sensed he was a little lonely, so I would sit with him and talk.

He was European and spent his afternoons waiting for his grandsons to finish school.

He loved teaching me about gardening.

At the time, I was learning about biodynamic and regenerative farming in my spare time, so hearing about old-school seed collecting and soil preparation fascinated me.

I loved to listen, and he loved to talk.

We were a match made in heaven.

One day, while I was telling him about an upcoming fashion shoot, he suddenly threw open his garden gate and invited me inside to photograph amongst the flowers.

You would never imagine such a magical garden existed behind that dilapidated fence.

How lucky.

The Weight of Beauty…

Beauty is such an abstract concept.

History is filled with both the preoccupation with beauty and the pursuit of it.

Art, pop culture, nature… beauty — and our interpretation of it — is everywhere.

My sudden detour from a planned career in feminist writing into photography became even more complicated when I found myself working within the beauty industry as a beauty photographer.

Let’s be honest.

“Beauty photographer” is about as far removed from being a serious feminist writer as a woman can get.

I felt the weight of that contradiction deeply.

What was I doing?
What was I contributing?

So I became obsessed with one question:

What is beauty?

I know one thing for certain: the camera is power.

It is the ultimate backstage pass. A gateway into storytelling.

So I went searching for a story worth telling.

And I found Beautiful Unity.

An ongoing photo essay masquerading as a beauty editorial published in a New York magazine.

Every race, religion, and age captured in the same raw light.

I met Kate Bell during this pivotal moment in my career.

Kate embodies organic beauty — the kind that is timeless and radiates from within.

Thank you, Kate. x

“Once again - from the top please…”

So here we are again.

Full circle, but through a new lens.

This time I am chasing it.

My passion for motherhood and capturing my children was the original spark that lit the flame.

I guess it’s time to light the world on fire once more.

Cinematic children’s portraiture that captures the essence of a moment is where I am headed.

It’s what I love looking at on my own walls.

Not just the child or the age, but the when and the where of that exact split-second moment in life.

The light.

The cloud-drenched sky.

The elements all conspiring to showcase the beauty and innocence of childhood.

Where lifestyle collides with portraiture.

There is no greater high than pressing the button and knowing even you cannot recreate the integrity of that image.

That fleeting, unrepeatable moment.

I’m coming back to the thing that made me feel most alive.

My brand of fine art children’s photography.

So Geronimo…

Here we go!

“Photography found me - and now the road back…”

My career in photography has been such a winding road.

Reflective perhaps, of a life less ordinary.

Throughout my childhood I was bred like a racehorse to do one thing: go to university, study law and become a lawyer.

A QC (Queen’s Counsel) was where my Father saw me.

No ifs. No buts.

My Father identified something in me from a very young age and my career path was set.

I took it as a compliment because it meant I was exactly like him.

Logical, articulate, able to stand up and wage an argument, with the will to stand up for others in the face of injustice.

But as often happens in life, fate had other plans.

No one ever really asked me what I wanted to do.

Not even myself.

My Mother, on the other hand, watching me closely, saw into my soul.

There she found one truth.

I wanted to be a Mother.

Just like her.

Off to university I went and I loved it.

Economics.

Then motherhood.

With a brief moment to think whilst nursing that baby girl, though still so young, I realised something.

I needed to choose carefully.

Looking back, I wonder who that insightful girl was, barely in her twenties.

That serious yet carefree version of me did one thing.

I read.

Two books created the distinct and definite detour.

“Someone Else’s Daughter” written by Julia Sheppard.

“Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders” written by Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Genry.

Not exactly light reading for a new Mum absorbed in the love of her infant.

Deliberate reading.

It was instinctual soul searching. University would reappear and I wanted to choose the right path.

So I immersed myself in true crime. Curt Genry was the prosecutor on the Manson case and I was throwing myself into the future world of criminal law.

As I looked into my baby’s blue eyes, I knew I was going to have to disappoint my Father.

Criminal law was never going to be for me.

I know myself too well.

I am too sensitive.

I would never forgive myself if I didn’t win the cases and those photographs of victims would haunt my dreams.

What would I do?

I have an analytical mind and I can write.

Psychology. Women’s studies.

I can help women.

In a sheep station guest house, surrounded by the blood-red dirt of Kalgoorlie and completely isolated, those textbooks became my salvation.

Back in the days where you had to be either this or that, I made my choice.

Then fate stepped in again.

It spun me 180 degrees once more.

Moving from red earth and 55-degree heat, to the terror of Sandstone, photography was now in hot pursuit.

Was I in pursuit of it, or was it in pursuit of me?

Who knows.

All I know is one of us gained ground and my career was finally cemented.

Fine art children’s photography in Perth.

Photojournalistic wedding photography in Margaret River.

Fashion photography, then beauty photography in Perth, then Sydney.

Multi-award-winning portrait photography, always reflecting my fascination with and deep love of humanity.

What a ride.

What a privilege.

What a wild ride.

The people I have met, always handing me their trust.

The moments in time frozen forever.

I got so lucky.

As I sit in my lounge room reflecting with gratitude, I look around at the countless black and white images I have of my children.

I would never have these had I not had the courage to follow my heart and try.

Just keep trying.

Somewhere along the way the world changed, and so did my life.

Quite dramatically, in fact.

Now you can have many careers.

You can have them all at once.

So I redefine.

I relaunch.

I will always be a photographer. It is the very air I breathe.

But I am so much more.

I am a photographer, a writer, a stylist, and I am deeply obsessed with studying neuroscience.

I love this new way of looking at career and identity.

The freedom to evolve.

To expand.

To become.

Where will it take me next?

Marie Claire beauty pages with Sinden Dene …

Here’s some evidence of the beauty images I create with Sinden Dene.

He is such a delight to work with.

Watching him create raw, beautiful skin, make up artistry is like watching magic happen!

Marie Claire beauty pages …

It is always a genuine thrill to see your work staring back at you from the glossy pages of Marie Claire Australia.

Marie Claire has always felt like such a beautiful magazine to me — aimed squarely at the thinking woman.

In 2023, however, this feature carried even deeper meaning.

This post is dedicated to my retoucher, Ellen Chernevich.

I began working with Ellen approximately eight years ago.

I was one of the very first fashion and beauty photographers she ever worked with, and at that stage her career was only just beginning.

From the very start, Ellen was incredibly talented, gentle, and an absolute pleasure to collaborate with.

I adore her.

Ellen was born and raised in Ukraine, where she still lives to this day.

At the beginning of our working relationship, that fact felt almost incidental.

At that point in time, it was unimaginable that her homeland would soon become a war zone.

That innocent women and children would one day find themselves living amongst bloodshed, fear, and violence completely beyond their control.

These days, whenever I send images to Ellen for retouching, I feel proud knowing my hard-earned money supports the career of a woman continuing to work and survive amidst war.

War is such a heartbreaking aspect of humanity.

When will our species finally evolve beyond fear, greed, and hatred?

Thank you, Ellen, for everything.

You are always in my thoughts.

Nic x