Plastisphere: The Work That Disappeared

Recently, I lost momentum. A couple of rejections hit harder than usual, ones I’d really invested in emotionally, artistically and even financially. It’s a tough pill to swallow when you’ve poured so much of yourself into something, sacrificing time you could have spent earning, only for it to be unseen. Worse still, you pay to submit the work, and it never even gets exhibited. As artists, we’re no strangers to rejection. You tell yourself it’s part of the process. But some rejections sting more than others.

I wasn’t sure if I’d share this project publicly. It was made specifically for an art award, but after being rejected, it no longer had a place. It was only seen in real life by a handful of people. But the process behind it, that’s the part that still holds meaning.

This work, Plastisphere, was three years in the making.

Once a week after work, I’d walk the boardwalk from Panmure to Point England, collecting debris from the edges of the Tāmaki Estuary. One day, after a storm, I found thousands of tiny plastic fragments, far more than I’d ever seen before. They blended into the sand and grass, nearly invisible. I spent hours collecting them, knowing the tide would soon reclaim what I left behind.

That storm shifted something in me. I started experimenting with ways to tell the story of those fragments. Eventually, Plastisphere emerged.

The final work resembled a ghostly buoy - buoyant, but burdened. The outer shell was made of biodegradable polymorph; the inside was studded with microplastics and basalt rocks from the estuary, held together with translucent bioplastic. It was designed to look like a new kind of unnatural geology. These elements reference the growing phenomenon of anthropo-plastic rocks - human-influenced formations where synthetic materials begin to merge with natural stone. A speculative terrarium for a planet in flux.

A living Tillandsia plant was embedded within it, contrasting the fossilised plastic around it. It symbolised resilience, but also vulnerability. The piece was meant to be placed low to the ground, so viewers would have to crouch and look closely, mirroring the act of collecting those tiny, stubborn fragments from the land.

But the work no longer exists.

This wasn’t an act of frustration. It was always meant to be temporary. The polymorph shell has already been reshaped into the base of a new installation. The basalt rocks returned to the estuary. The plastic fragments will appear again, just in a different form. That dismantling was unexpectedly cathartic. Not seeing the sculpture in my studio every day helped me move forward. Maybe even brought my momentum back.

And while the rejection still stings, I’m proud that I made the work sustainably, using only what I had on hand. Nothing new was bought for this piece, and everything will go on to become something else.

It’s a very strange feeling, having no motivation to go to the studio. I have seldom felt that in my artist journey. It has taken a lot of self reflection to get that mojo back. So why keep making, when it’s such a battle?

Making with my hands is a form of active meditation. When I stop, my mental health suffers. Time disappears when I’m deep in the process. Despite the challenges, I do feel better for it. I feel fortunate to have a space to create and a community of amazing creatives around me. 

This experience reminded me that from now on, I make for me. If others like it, that’s a bonus. But I’ll keep making what feeds my soul, rejection or not.