Right now, my studio feels more like a post office sorting room than a creative space. Large, custom-made timber panels, many of which are recently completed Dangerous Career Babes paintings in high gloss enamel, are propped against the walls until they harden enough to be wrapped and crated for delivery. Two tables on trestles are covered with smaller works also waiting to be wrapped and sent to collectors while at the end of one, several canisters of film, divided by type and speed, are to be taken to the photo lab in Sydney at the end of the week. On the floor are unopened boxes containing paintings or photographs being returned from overseas dealers. I am trying to make space among them for the framed photographs due back on Thursday from the PORNO exhibition at MARS Gallery in Melbourne. Half of them will be sent to an art consultant in Tokyo who is confident of selling them to a client there. The acrid smell of enamel and solvents hangs in the air. Even the cool, brisk sea breeze that sets in each afternoon fails to shift it. I escape to my cluttered study, at the opposite end of the house, to avoid a headache.