Elizabeth Pedler is currently working with the community of Wellstead. This work forms part of one of Spaced’s current programs, Rural Utopias.

An artist interested in the range of participation possible in art, Elizabeth's practice spans from playful and interactive installations to collaborative relational aesthetics. Identity, food, and community involvement are areas of particular focus, and have led to significant artistic development in her recent arts practice, engaging with audiences through the sharing of experiences and storytelling.

Here, Elizabeth shares an update from Wellstead.

After arriving late on Friday afternoon, the Australia Day weekend was rapidly underway. Saturday and Sunday there were extra bodies at Windi Windi, friends of Richard and Kerry’s from Wickepin and Perth having come down to spend the long weekend together. After moving some sheep Saturday morning, we spent a long day at the beach nearby, where I snorkelled around the rocks. I saw sea stars, sponges, and numerous fish darting in and out beneath the gentle waves. This snorkelling was a good preparation for Tuesday, when Mick Moir took Richard, Kerry, my friend Pip Kelly, and myself over to Cheyne Island in his boat, and we swam back to shore.

I’d thought about swimming from the island ever since I’d first seen it, nearly two years ago on my first visit to Wellstead. That first time I saw the island remains a strong memory. It was a late afternoon in March, and windy. Getting into the water I fought hard against a strong swell, diving deep beneath wave after wave to make it past the break. The island seemed an impossible distance.

Monday evening Richard knocked on the door to the Nissen Hut, and informed me and Pip that Mick would take us out on his boat to the island early the next morning. The distance to the island is 1.5km, I’d ascertained from looking at satellite images and maps. I knew I could swim that far, but across open water was a different matter to the swimming I’d done closer to shore in Perth.

Tuesday morning we drove over to Mick and Penny’s house, which overlooks the island, and Richard and Mick took the boat down to the shore. The ride across was gentle, and the water at 8am was a “glass-off” - silken and flat, without any waves in sight. The mist of the early morning had lifted, leaving a light haze of cloud overhead. We pulled up on the island beach, but the birds on shore took no notice. Richard and Pip stayed on the boat to watch while Kerry, Mick and myself jumped into the water, taking a few steps on the sandy beach before fitting our caps and getting ready to swim. I put on my snorkel, mask, and flippers, the other two with just goggles and their bare feet. Leaving the island, Penny and Mick’s house was a white beacon on the shore.

I saw only a few fish in amongst the seagrass beneath me. I was occupied more by keeping the boat and also Kerry and Mick in sight, but not so close I’d run into them (though I nearly did more than once). Alone, with no other bodies visible under the surface, the blue-green tinged ocean lapped around me and supported me as I moved in a slow freestyle stroke. With one kick to each opposing arm, my hands cupping and pushing through the water, my body felt weightless.

After reaching the pontoon, we paused, then swam the last fifty metres to shore together. Standing on the beach looking across the glassy water with the sun starting to burn off the clouds, the distance seemed shorter, the island smaller.

In the following days I spoke to more people; farmers, teachers, long time locals, and people more recently arrived. I recorded video of straw and then wool getting loaded onto trucks, of sheep grazing on stubble, of mud being excavated from dry dams, of sheltered creeks and spring-fed pools hidden in groves of reeds. When people asked what I’d seen and done, when I mentioned the swim they always had something to say, talking of those that had swum it, and about sharks sighted in the water. The island is a marker visible from shore, as well as from points of high ground overlooking the coast, where the bay wraps around seemingly in all directions.

Thinking last week about what to title the project I’ve been working on, I settled on “no one is an island” inspired by John Donne who wrote “No man is an island, entire unto himself.” These words had been circling in my thoughts recently. They brought to mind the tension between isolation and connection, between independence and cooperation. At times here I have felt isolated, and several people have asked me why I’m here. The titular island could be me, who came here as an outsider, but it could equally refer to farmers such as Richard, who lived alone on his farm for many years, it could even refer to the physical isolation of Wellstead itself. However, on close inspection, not one of these are separate, self-sufficient organisms. Each has connections, interdependencies, relationships with others. I’d swum from the island to shore at Cape Riche, not alone but with Kerry and Mick, and watched over by Richard and Pip. It gets clearer with each conversation shared that although I am an outsider here, I am not alone, and although there’s isolation, there are connections between everyone, and everything.

-Elizabeth Pedler