An extract from Angela Schaffer’s new book - Pearls - Wisdom and inspiration from women who are quietly changing the world.

A short drive from Orange, along eucalyptus-lined roads, Colleen Southwell’s magnificent garden sits in harmony with the rolling hills of the Central Tablelands. It is beautiful, calm and has stories to tell - much like Colleen herself - and as we wandered through her creation drinking in the heady aromas and flashes of colour, I noticed my mood changing as she pointed out details that even an avid garden-lover like me had missed. Besotted and absorbed, I started seeing nature as she does and the wider world vanished.

Colleen practises ‘slow gardening’ - mindful engagement with all she cultivates. And the rewards are plentiful. Countless creatures have made this floral oasis their home, there’s time to pause and think, and you’re reminded to appreciate the wonders right in front of you. It’s no surprise this garden provides boundless inspiration for Colleen’s art.

Replicating the beauty found in a garden, Colleen meticulously hand-crafts a myriad of delicate paper shapes, which together form an almost ethereal, monochromatic representation of the treasures that can be found in the natural world - as long as we take the time to look for them. Her art is joyful and mesmerising, and as we sat in the kitchen a little later, happily chatting over her just-baked rhubarb tart, I was drawn to a piece awaiting shipment to New York. Mounted with entomology pins, thousands of finely drawn, painted, cut and embossed pieces of paper had become leaves, roots, spiderwebs, nests and blooms; a whole world in a frame. The more I looked, the more I saw - and that’s a maxim for life if ever there was one.

Do you have an early garden memory?

I remember my grandmother’s garden at Dee Why which was so incredibly overgrown, almost like a jungle. The soil was sandy and there was no lawn, but it felt like there were dozens of trees and lots of canopy with nooks and crannies everywhere. I remember playing there with my cousins, and even though it was by no means a pristine garden, it was a magical one. One of those gardens where you imagined creatures living in the undergrowth.

I’ve also always adored Markdale at Crookwell, an Edna Walling garden. She was one of Australia’s most influential garden designers, and I love her garden designs because there’s such a sense of story in them - they evolve over time, almost as if she could see into the future. I connect with so many gardens of rural women though. It’s so inspiring the way they build homes and create gardens often against all odds - whether it’s drought, a general lack of water or difficult environmental circumstances.

A creative thread runs through both sides of your family. Can you tell me about that?

My grandparents on all sides were artists, so creativity was always seen as something valid, not just a pastime. On one side, my grandmother was a milliner and my grandfather made violins, and my other grandfather made steam engines and my grandmother was a painter. Mum is one of four girls who are all incredibly talented craftspeople, whether it was cake-decorating, painting or embroidery. Growing up, Mum made everything from the cushions on the chairs to our clothes ,and we spent hours bottling fruit - which I hated at the time but look back on now as a great experience.

What drew you to horticulture and eventually to your art?

I was working in agribusiness community development but really missing the creative side of things. I think if you’re a creative person at heart but don’t acknowledge it at some point, it always feels like something is missing, so I was drawn to horticulture because it blends nature and those creative elements together.

I started making my art about three-and-a-half years ago. I’d been feeling disconnected from landscape design because I sensed that for a lot of people the garden was more about being a showpiece than the process. But to me a garden isn’t a product - it’s a constantly evolving thing - and if you see it that way, you gain the most pleasure doing it. So I pulled back from garden design. It’s amazing how stepping away from something means other doors open, because that’s when I committed to that first exhibition at The Corner Store Gallery. I didn’t have anything completed - just a tiny, scrappy thing I showed Made [Young - the gallery’s founder and director] who said, “Yeah, there could be something in this.” The panic set in when I realised I needed pieces good enough to show.

Your first exhibition sold out before it even opened. How did that feel?

Oh, I had crazy imposter syndrome. I still have this person sitting on my shoulder saying, It’s all going to fall apart at some point and I hate that. It’s awful. But it’s been anamazing path, and it may sound airy-fairy, but I think it was meant to happen. I was approaching 50 but knew there was something else I should be doing, so was always searching and hoping for that bolt of lightning saying, This is what you’re supposed to do.

Everything came about by doing nothing really. I think life had been crowded with ‘stuff’ - things that you should be doing and should be achieving; this elusive idea of seeking perfection. But that lightbulb moment when I realised that the quest for perfection isn’t what brings you contentment came from being quiet and engaging on a personal level with things happening in the garden. It probably sounds clichéd, but seeing little things like a blue wren nest and buds emerge after along, cold winter is where contentment lies. It’s finding perfection in the everyday.

I want my art to encourage people to pause and look closely. With so many artworks you’re meant to step back to admire them, but to move in and notice those details is what I want. I’ve had people in exhibitions comment about the detail in something and then say, “I really must pay attention to that when I see it in the garden.” And that’s great, because it brings people back to seeing the perfection that’s right under their nose.

Is your technique changing?

It evolves with the seasons. I’m getting more and more detailed as time goes on and I’m discovering different materials, although it’s still paper-based because I love the way paper reflects the fragility of the subject. And there’s no colour in my work, which was always my intention - I think because I want people to see the structures and patterns first.

What makes gardening in Australia unique?

For a long time we were stuck in our British roots. I have elements of it, because my extended family history is British and that’s part of who I am, but I think we’re becoming wiser about plant choices and creating gardens that sit more gently in the landscape. Because we have a fragile landscape. We’re hilltop here and parts of the yard have good topsoil but otherwise it’s fairly shallow, so rather than levelling it all, we’ve built the garden on top of the hillside and planted in a way that complements the landscape.

I can lose an entire day when I garden - and can’t tell you what I’ve achieved - but come in feeling fantastic. Do you think gardening has benefits for us all?

The psychological and emotional benefits of gardening are enormous because I think there’s something about hands in soil, feet on ground. I’ve always battled with periods which weren’t really depressive, but a bit like that, which I think goes hand-in-hand with creativity. But gardening has been so emotionally grounding. It puts you in the present and teaches you that we’re not the be-all-and-end-all but part of a far bigger picture. That connection to something other than us is so important.

A lot of people don’t have that opportunity for connection though. I think that’s probably the root of many issues at the moment because so many gardens are disappearing with urban growth, even here in Orange. There’s no space for trees to climb or veggie patches, and I think we need to address that in some way.

I remember my other grandparents’ back garden, which was that classic Australian garden of a clothesline, choko vines on the fence and a lemon tree - it wasn’t glossy, but it was practical. Backyards fed us, and there was that definite link between that little plot of land and the person. Maybe we don’t need the rotary clothesline right outside the back door, but I feel we’ve shunned a lot of that practical connection at great expense.

Has making art changed the way you interact with the landscape?

Definitely. Because I take such slow, meticulous care making the artworks, so I’m more in tune to all the tiny details than I ever was before. I find it really interesting that to make the art, I’m doing what I want people to do: appreciate interesting shapes, unique patterns and even the margins of the leaves. I don’t ever try to replicate something, and many of the plants in my works are imaginary. It’s simply everything I see put together.

How important are regional galleries like The Corner Store Gallery?

Absolutely crucial, and we’re so lucky having a gallery like that here. There’s such a community around it and Madi initiates so many events that bring artists and makers together to sell their work. It’s really confronting putting your work out there - a bit like being a performing artist and standing in front of an audience and having no idea how they’ll react. So exhibiting in an environment like The Corner Store Gallery, which is safe, local and supportive, is fantastic.

AND ON A SIDE NOTE

What qualities do you look for in a friend?

I think people who care and are able to see things outside of themselves. I connect with people when there’s a warmth there, although I worry that people don’t see that in me because I’m quite shy and shyness can be seen as coldness - but it’s not. I also look for generosity and tend to lean towards people with a gentle character because sometimes I get overwhelmed by people who bowl through life. They’re fun, and I admire the way they operate, but I suppose I don’t understand them because it’s not the way I operate.

What would you tell your younger self?

So many things - I feel quite emotional thinking about this because I had a very loving childhood but like everyone has, there were challenges at times. But I’d say, “You are enough.” I’d tell her to have some faith in herself, because that’s always been the battle, and jump in and have a go - not be so afraid of what the outcome might be. And to try and see herself through the eyes of people who know and care about her, which is the conversation I’ve been having with my boys recently. They’re considerate and compassionate and I tell them: “You need to trust my judgement that you’re all you need to be, because I know you better than anyone.”

I think we all believe that it would be lovely to change some of the things we’ve done in the past. But it’s important to realise that everyone makes mistakes, so maybe we should embrace the decisions we’ve made because ultimately, they’re what sculpt you. And we also need to let go of the things that we have no control over - like knowing that you’re never going to please everybody - because we’re all different.

What would your younger self think of what you’re doing now?

I think she’d be pleased and would say, “Of course!” because when you’re younger you don’t tend to question what you’ll do - like be an astronaut - because you just accept that’s the way it will be. So she’d be happy I’m doing something I should be doing, although she might say, “It’s about time.” I wish I’d started ten years earlier, but then again, the time wasn’t right and doors tend to open when it is. You have to appreciate what’s happening in the here and now.

Who would you love to spend some time gardening with?

Definitely Edna Walling. But for me it’s really not about famous people - it’s more those everyday people who are quietly doing things in the background and making something out of their lot.

Colleen’s interview - along with conversations with 40 other brilliant Australian women - appears in Pearls, a book you can pre-order (in Australia only for now) here.

Photographs by Angela Schaffer and Em Wollen.