Trees, Trees and more Trees

Trees have been on my mind a lot lately... And it’s not just because so many have been reported as fallen, damaged, uprooted, or tangled in power lines in the aftermath of Tropical Cyclone Alfred.They’ve been on my mind constantly.

Perhaps it’s the lead-up to the exhibition The Whisper in the Leaves, which I’m working on alongside two other women artists—Shelley Pisani from Bundaberg and Bronwyn Davies from Mt Tamborine. We've been planning this exhibition for quite some time: changing the name, applying (and being knocked back) for funding, and slowly pushing forward. Now, it’s finally coming together. The first showing will be at the Gympie Regional Gallery from 26 November this year to 24 January 2026. Each of us is approaching the subject of trees from a unique perspective. Bronwyn brings a political lens, acknowledging trees of significance along the East Coast of Australia, including Tasmania. Shelley takes a more personal route, tracing her family history in the Bundaberg region and its deep connection to trees. As for me—parochial at heart—I’ve been exploring the stories of my own region, primarily the Cooloola area.

Gympie Messmate: Eucalyptus cloeziana, commonly known as Gympie messmate or dead finish,[3] is a species of tree that is endemic to Queensland.

My focus has been on 4–5 iconic species of this region: the Gympie Messmate, Hoop Pine, Bribie Island Pine, Blackbutt, and Queensland Kauri. There are many more, of course, but for now, these are enough.

Research has taken me down countless rabbit holes—through colonial histories, the evolution of the forestry industry, and conversations with retired forestry workers, rangers, historians, and anyone else who shares an interest. I see this exhibition as just one chapter in a much larger body of work—something that will continue well beyond the gallery walls.

Sumana Roy, author of How I Became a Tree, offers some fascinating insights into the concept of becoming tree-like. The first sentence of Chapter One still resonates with me:“At first it was the underwear. I wanted to become a tree because trees did not wear bras.”It’s not the underwear that strikes a chord—but the idea of human transformation into something more rooted, more still, more observant. I plan to write a short story for each tree, told from the tree’s perspective—what and who passes by, events that have shaped their existence, even if briefly compared to their lifespan. For instance, the passing of Eliza Fraser and the Indigenous tribes travelling south beneath the canopy of an old Blackbutt tree…

Another book currently inspiring me is The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak, which similarly explores the inner lives and voices of trees. We know so little about how trees communicate—but we know they do. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize, to imagine they hear, see, smell, speak, and feel.

My upcoming article in Gympie Living magazine will spotlight a special place: Messmate Park, a 10-acre forest on the road to Tin Can Bay. It was preserved over 50 years ago thanks to the foresight of a few forest rangers and local councillors. Its name comes from the once-abundant Gympie Messmate, most of which were cleared and sent to the mill. After a bushfire, new Messmates emerged and have been left undisturbed ever since. Only one old remnant tree remains. I also grow Messmates on my property—mine are around 27 years old now and already quite tall. I’ll also be using Messmate Park for another project in June, as part of the Artists in Nature International Network (AiNIN)’s Les Nuits des Forêts initiative. I’m still drafting my proposal, but I’m leaning toward themes of communication—perhaps through Morse code or “panoplies,” a word that carries dual meanings: groupings or armour. Now to find the connection.

Work in progress for The Whisper in the Leaves exhibition, Joolie Gibbs 2025.

Currently, I’m working on a large-scale paper wall piece (2m x 1.2m) for The Whisper in the Leaves, reflecting on the destruction of these grand trees—the greed of early settlers and timber workers who, only too late, realised how little forest remained. My heart aches for those trees—and still does—every time I hike and see the remnants of what once was.

Do we ever learn?