There is only one possession yet I want to 're-place' in aid to this project; my framed four leaf clover. Although I did'nt get a chance to make the trek up Mt Usbourne- the only mountain in the Falklands- due to time, weather and driver availability constrictions, I intend to complete the journey one day when I return to the Falklands... to finish the task which I had set myself, and do justice to the project which has done so much good for both my artistic, a mental view of 'myself'. I truly now realise the importance of the journey, for getting us where we need to be within oursleves...

Cape Pembroke Lighthouse; school tin and Layla's apology note, 1:30pm 9th Jan, Marc drove me and Layla there

The lonely lonely landscape; Cape Pembroke Lighthouse... a symbol of the days of watching, guiding, assisting; saving.

It looks out towards what I call, "the end of the world". I brought my school things that I had kept hold of, here to the remotest, most separate place of watchfulness... that need was ignored or abandoned at the time, yet was still needed to bring a sense of reality back to an unreal situation, fraught with mixed messages, twisted messages and melodramatic traumas.

The past may not be changed, or hidden easily, but it can eventually become accepted; reconciled with.

Fitzroy; Spanish coin, 10:30am 9th Jan

As a child I stayed in a little house in Fitzroy settlement. I played on the wool bales in the shearing shed, terrified my Mum by crossing the bridge unsupervised on a regular basis, tempting fate by standing as colse to the edge as I could... but when I came back to 're-place' my childhood memories, the bridge didn't seem so huge, or so fascinating with a fence pulled across and its 'out of bounds' sign.

It was strange to go back to a place of so many memories to see it looking the same... but older... tired.

Helen's Grave; letter to Helen, and a few presents from her, 9:30am 3rd Jan, Mum drove me

When I was 15 one of my closest friends, Helen McKay, died in a car accident.

She was buried out at the family graveyard near Fitzroy Ridge, in a unique and decorated grave. I still think about her a lot of the time, and even though I read at her funeral, I've never quite got the 'closure' I've needed to fully cone to terms with her loss.

I wrote her a private letter and left a few things that she gave me there, for her to look after. Hopefully she liked my letter, and I felt better just for talking to her again.

Mt Tumbledown; Poems, 12pm 3rd Jan

At school we had to run up Mt Tumbledown annually as part of the House Cup sporting activites, but I never really bothered to take the time to go there and explore the nooks and crannies of the sheer rocky hill tops leading to the summit.

From the top you can see Stanley in its enitrety, and on a sunny day the views are spectacular. The walk there and the fun (and discoveries) of climbing amongst the rocks made the completion of the self- set 'task' even more rewarding.

Tumbledown was also the site of an epic battle between the British and Argentines during the 1982 conflict, and even now traces of it still echo across the hillside.

The Peatbog; 'tin of shame', 5 pm 3rd Jan, Dad helped me find the exact location, and to bury it

Dad is probably one of the only people left in the Falkland Islands mad enough to still cut their own peat, let alone still uses it as fuel!

The peatbog is remote, isolated, yet strangely beautiful in its dislocation. It is a scene of passing time and change, of hard work and an endeavour to provide necessities; even when all others abandon hope of it.

Things are usually cut out of it and taken away, so I thought I'd be perverse and bury things in it instead... to hide my embarrassments in the ground where no one can see them.

I had a hoarded object that I had been given by someone, that I wanted to take to the edge of the shore where the horizon of the sea looks as though it falls off the edge... and throw it in, cast it off the "end of the world". However it wasn't meant to be. I lost the object when I dropped my bag upside down accidentally in a bar on New Years Eve... so now it lies lost somewhere in the world of drunken mistakes... soaking in the irony that I can never cast this memory away... or maybe in the knowledge that I am finding hard to grasp... that I am not supposed to let go just yet.

The Dump; Snapple lid, 2:45pm 2nd Jan 2010, April drove, baby Darryl came with is

The place where the things no one wants anymore end up; where they are thrown away.

What we reject, rots in this cesspool... breaks down and becomes irrelevant... forgotten.

To throw a "fact", (the literal "fact" inside the snapple lid in this instance; that we spend an average of two weeks of our lives kissing) a social concept, a message of expectation there; is to reject it... to throw away the imposed social constraints and to choose for myself how I will live.

The Lady Elizabeth; 'tin of successes', 3:30pm 29th Dec, driven by Megan, accompanied by Ashley and Jane

There is something beautiful, yet tragic about the view of Stanley juxtaposed against the Lady Elizabeth's silent shadow... at least to me anyway!

It seems so lost, abandoned by a town which surrepticiously changes and stays the same... everytime I return home I feel a certain affinity with the lonely predicament of the once great ship. Yet, at the same time the resolute stance of the wreck against the angry pull of the waves towards the shoreline, is so strong; so determined to keep it where it is.

I placed a box holding records of my successes and loves there, looking down on the place of last stance; still a part of the landscape, apart yet still a part of it all.

Gift to Jane, given at Christmas housesitting house; guitar plectrums and jack, 12:40 am 29th Dec

Jane. A best friend since Senior school (high school). Jane was always the more musical of my friends. Sometimes I used to get quite impatient with her at times, but secretly when it was caused by music; it was fuelled by my jealousy.Iwas the "academic one", but I longed to be able to produce beautiful sound, beautiful music naturally... not rehearsed and awkward like my own musical endeavours.

But I was young, and I wasn't so 'clued-in' about accpeting the wonders of difference and ability in others... I wanted all talent, not to settle for my own, which I never thought it was good enough...

The Racecours; broken bracelets, 4pm 23rd Dec, accompanied by Ashley

The Racecourse is literally situated right behind my house, and at this time of year, (southern hemisphere so Christmas is Summer) the usually abandoned stalls are teeming with life, as people gather to watch the horse racing. As a "ner- do well" teenager, I used to escape to the racecourse at times to let off steam and lament my frustrations; my broken ideals and frustrated injustices.

Although so much seemed broken and damaged, I think that sometimes I forgot what was 'silver' in my life, and that breaks in the silver 'armour' were not neccessarily as unrepairable as they had previously appeared...

The Tree; Friends Shadow box, 7:00am 23rd Dec... hungover but up at the crack of dawn!

Location of the childhood playground of my two best friends Hannah, Layla and I, where we used to stage many of our imaginary games. We mapped, created, explored and discovered the surrounding area, developing our "safe haven" into the world in which we imagined.

I 're-placed' memorabilia of my childhood and early teens in this "hidden" place, remebering the freedom and innocence, the fresh enthusiasm and wild imagery in our worldly naivety... our distanced hopes and dreams of what was to come.

These hopes and old dreams are now 'immortalised' within this frame that represents to me how different the past could have made our futures... not a bad thing, just different...

My House; wooden box of miscellaneous treasures, 4:30pm 21st Dec

My House. The "scene of the crime" so to speak, where many of my happiest and unhappiest memories occured.

It was the hub, the nucleus of my earliest hoarding activities and tendencies... the place where some of the objects orginally began their placing.

For me it is an essential part of not only my childhood memories, but my first 16 years living in the Falklands... the memories of home within my home.

In order for my Falkland memories to 'belong' to me, yet to be stored within my mind critically and comfortably, they need to be stored somewhere I consider safe; somewhere I know I will alwyas be waiting for me to come back...

The Garland; 'treasure chest' box, 11:30 am 20th Dec, kayaked to the wreck with Mum

The Garland was used as a vessel, a hiding place after its abandonment; the SAS soldiers hid there when attempting to recapture Goose Green.

After kayaking there previously in 2007 to take photos, it has felt like a "treasure chest" to me; a man-made shell taken over, almost concealed by nature...

The journey, the physical test of endurance and determination to reach the destination, becomes a fanciful quest to hide; or to discover...

Darwin Corral; commerical papers, 2pm 19th Dec,

The Corral is a monument in itself; a monument to the past... another Falklands... another world within another world...

It seems so completely detached from the world which I became immersed in, and awestruck by after leaving the Falklands to go to college.

It seems so ridiculous now, but I was captivated by the commerical, material world; It made me feel as though I was part of the mysterious, shiny world that I had seen so much of in magazines but never been able to reach... in a twisted way adhering to it made me feel as though I was actually a part of the current moving Western world... living...

The whole experience of this replacement was quite amusing in various ways really- Gabi and I desperately trying to battle the wind and set fire to my materialistic paraphenalia (resulting in failure and me trying to sneakily throw it in the oven to avoid admitting failure to my parents who labelled the entire project as "Helen's burying and setting fire to things project"!) as well as my childhood memories of Layla and I drinking beer within its shelter; stumbling home across the rickety causeway... believing that 2 beers each made us hardcore drinkers!

Darwin Walk; sharkstooth necklace, 7pm 18th Dec

Every time I go to Darwin with my parents I take some time alone to walk along this same route; usually at the beginning and the end of the day.

It is quite a calming walk for me, it quiets and calms my mind when it is buzzing with thoughts, and the more I follow my self- made track, the more emerging natural beauty I see.

When it's dry below foot I often lie down in the long grass and watch the clouds roll by, thinking about life and all it's many possibilities...

Argentine Cemetry; flint, 1pm 18th Dec, drove there accompanied by Mum

I came up here when I was about 14, and for some reason I picked up a piece of flint from the pathway and kept it...

My guess is that it was because I wanted to show some internal acceptance and understanding for the majority of conscripted young Argentine soldiers who died in the 1982 conflict, rather than falling prey to the aminosity that it would be easy to hold when another country tries to invade your own, take your way of life for their own.

I felt it time to put the stone back, give it back and lay to rest past misconceptions of conflict and death, as well as my previous flailing and immature attempts at reconciliation with the crueler ways of the world.

Bodie Creek Bridge; memories of Grandparents, 3:30pm 17th Dec, I drove there accompanied by Mum

Bodie Creek Bridge is a symbol of the past; a crossing no longer used for its original purpose.

You are not supposed to cross... but it is still possible.

My Grandad was a keen fisherman, so the use of the fishing bag I used to protect the objects, and have attached to the underside of the bridge, but the setting of the bridge itself is more to do with my fear of 'the old'... what happens to those we love inevitably, and naturally. I liked the idea that the fishing bag exists, yet could be forgotten... touching lightly on the issue of my Gran's deteoration and eventual death after losing her identity to Alzheimer's disease, something which I have tried not to think about for many years.

My guesture is an attempt to meet that bridge halfway; and to eventually begin the crossing.

Parent's House, Darwin; Sea 2005 plate, Brooch, 1pm 17th Dec

This house is my parent's 'project', and has been since I was 12.

I used to resent the time, money and attention spent on it, as I resented my parent's seeming lack of understanding about me... but in time I have learnt that we were all just trying to find our own way towards comfort in the unfamiliarity of family experience...

Fitzroy Ridge: Brighton shells, Acorn cup and Freeport token, 11:30 AM 17th Dec

Strangely my favourite view at home; on a clear, sunny day you can see out to the seemingly ending horizon in all directions in a panorama of rugged, simplistic beauty.

It is the first and last memorable view that sticks in my mind during the journey to and from the airport... when I arrive home and when I leave home..

Placing the objects I have collected over the years I have spent in the UK here, made a physical mid-way location for a representation of my current mental and geographical displacement.

Estancia Stone run; hand-made notebook... 11am Dec 17th, Driven by Mum.

I chose this particular stone run more for its visual qualities and geographical uncertainty, but I placed the notebook here because I believed that some of my thoughts at a certain (more naive) time of my life would be more "at home" amongst the nooks and crannies of the unpredictable littering of stones. When I was a child I would run across them when the opportunity presented itself... hopping from stone to stone, hoping not to lose my balance and fall...

Once I had gathered sufficient research, and performed several observational experiments, (mostly to test myself, and my reactions to the prospects of deconstructuing or "re-placing" possessions that signified memories) I began to organise my memory box possessions into relatable groups- although this to some extent was self- defeatist within its process of deconstructing habits of collection and hoarding, I had to adhere to a small period of time in which to conduct my site-specific performance pieces, as well as limiting and changeable weather conditions- and chose relevant and meanignful sites and locations in which to "re-place" them. Over a period of one month during my Christmas holiday at home in the Falkland Islands, I conducted my "re-placement" performances... recording them through photography, sketchbook recording and journalistic entry, as well as by witness participation. The more I began to 're-place' my memory box possessions, the more relieved I felt, as if a burden had been stripped from my shoulders; and the more resolute my purpose towards self- reconciliation became. At times I needed others to assist with the transportation or the actual act of 're-placement', at times it was easier to do alone. The effort of preparation, and the mental satisfaction at the completion of the journey and the 'task', made the entire enterprise so vital and relevant to my current vein of artistic practice. I want to come to terms with the self; to look it in the eyes and say, "I don't accept all of you. But I see you, and I understand"...