I grew up riding bareback through the bushy scrub in regional Victoria where I absorbed the tensions of bushranger worship and scorn. Was Ned Kelly a hero or a crim, who cared really, I was happy either way. A few decades later I find myself diving into my collection of broken dolls and vintage puppets, costumes, old fur coats and gold leafed horse poop. I reassemble objects into new bodies based on the Kelly mob that includes a protector fox dog, taking the micky. These puppet-like forms feed into one another, their chopped-up remnants stitched and stuffed from one figure into the next. At the centre of The TroubleShooters is my recurring rogue matriarch, the weary, ever-pregnant, cigarette-smoking Ned Kelly mother, I call Ma. A symbol of resilience, surrender and constant shapeshifting. I prompt the victim and perpetrator thing, mix it with some life and death motifs and send them off to be played with, no strings attached.