Welcome to the [mono]seum. I'm Kelly Hynes. I am a self-taught artist, originally from Sydney. We moved around a lot — I've lived in about 38 or 39 different homes. And where am I now? In my community, which I think I've finally found, in Clunes. I've travelled the world, lived in Melbourne for about 20 years, and I really feel like I've found my gang here.

I've been involved with the incredible community in Lismore — the LGBTQ+ community, which I was introduced to through a couple of my beautiful co-workers. One of my jobs is cooking at the fabulous Clunes Cafe and Store, which is right behind this incredible [mono]seum. And his name's Harry — go into the bottle shop and see him and you'll know what I'm talking about.

How did my art practice begin? I fell off a cliff and broke my ankle. We all do art at school, but my art teacher didn't like me — he would always mark me down. My fellow pupils would say, "Why did he give you that score? You deserve a lot more." So I didn't think I had it in me to paint, because of Mr. Lee. That's his name, Mr. Lee. He didn't like me because he had the hots for my really good friend, which wasn't reciprocated.

In my early twenties I fell off a cliff and smashed my ankle — tibia, fibula. I've got screws, plates, everything in my left ankle, which is now called Frankenfoot. Because I was laid out for six weeks, I needed something creative to do. My parents got me some pastels and paper, and that's when I started to sketch. The more I did, the more I thought: well, F you, Mr. Lee — I can paint. I am creative. I can do this.

I started with pastel and charcoal, and I loved it — your hands are connected directly to the process, to the creativity, and to the subjects. They would come to me subconsciously. I never set out to paint any particular person, but I would do some sketches and think, oh my God — that's my friend, that's my ex. I started using paint and I'm still developing my technique, because the paintbrush always seems to be in the way. I'm self-taught, and it can take a year to come across a technique you could have been taught in a day. My style keeps evolving and changing, and I feel like there's going to be a breakthrough soon — where everything I've taught myself, seen, and experienced gives birth to a whole new visual.

This piece is part of the Foyer series that leads on to the Penthouse series. In regards to my process, I'll often sit and stare at a blank canvas — sometimes for an hour, sometimes a couple of days — before I make the first mark. I'm trying to find who it is, what it is, and what it's trying to say. I just let it tell me in the end. The process was the same here. I spent time with the blank canvas, and then the first etchings came, and she turned into a very interesting character that progressed down the foyer into the Penthouse — which is basically the journey from virginity to sexual awakening, and what promiscuity might lead to down that rabbit hole. I've started to do a lot more colour work — obsessed with odd or bright colour combinations, which I think comes from my interior design background, which I did for 12 years. I also started a vintage caravan renovation company called Easy Luck Sunday Campers with my sister. Don't do it. Do not do it. The cost, the blood, sweat, tears and swearing — not really worth it.

What's one piece of advice for someone beginning their art practice? You have to have grit, bravery, and resilience. I'd suggest doing classes — a full degree if that's your path, but if not, any small course to work on technique and, more importantly, to meet other artists. As part of my own career, I spent three years acting, and they were three of the best years of my life — meeting the most incredible creative people who are friends to this day. Art can be lonely. We're often quite interesting characters, quite tortured creatures. Having that support matters — practically too, for joint exhibitions, for thinking outside the box. When I was in Melbourne we held a joint exhibition of about a hundred performing and visual artists in an abandoned car park. A really great success.

The more no's you get, just keep going. Your art might not fit the typical box, and the pretentiousness of the art world can make you feel like you have to change your style. I don't do art to just match the cushions on your couch. I want something thought-provoking and evocative — something that makes you ask: what are you saying? What's your worldview?

What song have I chosen and why? Oh my God. The best song ever written is Rainbow Connection, written by Paul Williams and Kenny Ascher for the Muppet Movie — for Kermit the Frog. Lyrically it's genius. The production, the way it makes you feel. It's such a poignant song — to still have faith in human nature, to remain childlike as you grow from childhood to adulthood. That's reflective of this body of work, the Foyer to the Penthouse — moving from innocence into what can sometimes be a very dark world. This song represents the hope, the beauty, and the kindness of humanity that we need more than ever right now. And I think Willie Nelson's rendition is a little better than Kermit's, so enjoy.

Thank you very much for this opportunity, Matthew of the [mono]seum. Bye.