Light from the periphery offers some clarity. I step into the frame and from my outer space see a world remembered from the back seat of a car, its eucalypt hues taint an otherwise colourless sky. I hug the curve of a smooth boulder the way a car hugs the camber of a country road. I steal its warmth with my imagined cheek and listen. I trace the hillside’s crests and dips and see its line of untethered fence posts—they stain the untidy landscape to the edge of the canvas and, I decide, beyond. I am alone here. Cook has…