Simryn Gill has developed a distinctive oeuvre that encompasses an array of media and processes, including drawing, installation and photography.

The series of relief prints Pressing In, 2016 was developed with Melbourne printmaker Trent Walter and are impressions taken off the surfaces of machine-shaped and hand-wrought timbers washed onto the shore in the vicinity of the artist’s studio in Malaysia. Various paper types are used, from a catalogue of butterflies, the locations of stars, the moral development of children, industrial design practice, and wage rolls and ledgers.

By the secret and the intimate, I am not trying to hint at seductive innerwear. I am trying, instead, to think about things as banal as, say, the linings of pockets, collars, jackets and bags. This is where skin meets stuff in order to create for us the experience, rather than the appearance, of what we choose to wear. And this is not, or not just, about comfort and convenience, but about a quality that has nothing to do with how we want to be looked at by others. It is what makes us who we are, purely to ourselves, when we put something on, be it a shirt, a shawl or a perfume. For those who wear clothes as well as for those who make them, the invisible is what lies closest to the person, and hence to personhood.

Edited by Tom Melick. Photocopies by Simryn Gill. Typography by Ruud Ruttens.

The sea-hibiscus flowers start off pale yellow with deep red centres, and mature into rich striated sepia, at which point they fall, still beautiful. A few weeks before, a photo of fallen blooms had appeared on my phone, sent by a friend who lives around there. I recognised them at once. What are these flowers doing on your side of town? I wanted to know. They belong over here, near the champak trees. And there are others, too: I think of the guava trees that unashamedly drop their steamy musky crop around them when in season; and someone has planted, with wavering success, a moringa (I know it as drumstick tree); and I have even seen a Java apple — Malacca jambu to some — attempting to fruit. I know these flowers, I tell my friend. They’re where I’m from.

Text and images by Simryn Gill. Typesetting by Ruud Ruttens. Edition of 50.

Here and there are industrial white buckets, some with the ends of the entrail-tubes from the processors falling into them; others full of chemicals and with their lids still on; others yet empty. There are racks of PVC and metal rollers for the machines, and standing in the space between them, a jerry-rigged mini-crane to help her lift the lids off the monster-machines when she needs to dip inside to dislodge stuck paper or adjust or change something. A deep metal sink runs the narrower length of the room, large rubbery black gloves hanging off the edge. Plastic trays of various dimensions, once white and now in various hues of brown and yellow, lean against the back. In one corner there is a silver recovery unit for the metal that washes out of black-and-white printing, and which brings in a little bit of cash now and again. (There’s a second, similar machine stored away, Sandy tells me, given to her by the technician who comes to take out the silver; there’s not much call for them anymore).

Images & Essay by Simryn Gill. Typography by Ruud Ruttens. Edition of 60.