(A message to the reader.)
Dean Greeno continues his ancestors’ practice of using dead trees as memorials.
“Driftwood”. It might as well be my nickname. Throughout my life, I’ve drifted along the currents of change—more than 40 jobs, several career paths, and an archive of certificates from defensive driving to aircraft maintenance engineering. The source of my constant evolution? Lady Barron on Flinders Island, where my family ran a commercial fishing fleet. I was born there in the late ’60s, and the island was home to three generations of my family. There were three houses on our land: one was built by my great-grandparents, another by my grandparents and great uncles, and then there was the house we lived in.
The most memorable of those homes was my great-grandparents’. Its charm lay in its imperfections; it was a collage of asymmetry, mismatched colours, unique fittings, and, of course, had an interesting story behind its creation. It wasn’t just a house, it was a patchwork of history, having been relocated piece by piece from another site by a bullock team. I still remember as a child my great-grandmother baking apricot jam tarts in her rustic kitchen after a week of harvesting mutton birds. It was during these “birding” trips that our whole extended family would gather on Flinders Island, carrying on one of our oldest traditions.
The house was originally constructed from timber salvaged from shipwrecks along the east coast of the island. Positioned near the “Potboil” (a shallow stretch of water with shifting sandbars), the house was surrounded by relics from the sea. Seven smaller sheds dotted the land, along with two giant, riveted water tanks which were once part of a barque wreck.
It was a modest, weathered house, painted in shades of blue, green, and red, with a double-sided chimney and various extensions added over time. The doors of the cottage were solid with portholes and angled timbers to keep the sea water out. It stood on a foundation of shipwreck bricks (likely once ballast) used to form a charming cottage garden. While not symmetrical or perfectly square, it was a home full of character, and it was where my sense of place, family, and creativity took root.
As I grew up, wandering the shores of Flinders and working on the boats, I was always drawn to the scattered remnants of shipwrecks—fragments of wood, iron, and other debris lining the shorelines. This fascination led me to driftwood, which I would eventually use as the primary medium for my sculptures. The first sculpture I made was a basic figure; it was rough and clunky, rushed, and full of mistakes. But that was part of the process of working with a new material, and I learned a great deal from it. Each mistake helped refine the next sculpture, and a core lesson re-emerged from my past: do things right the first time. Whether working on a boat in a storm or applying tools in an aircraft hangar, the principle of efficiency and precision stuck with me. I quickly realised I only wanted to gather driftwood once for each step of each project.
Each piece is a testament to time, weather, and the life process.
The act of gathering driftwood is not simply collecting objects. In a way, it’s a form of destruction. The pieces I find often appear in small clusters along sandy beaches, their textures and colours shaped by time and the sea. In estuaries and rivers, they form monumental, organic carpets, natural sculptures draped across the shoreline. Each piece is a testament to time, weather, and the life process. When you pull a piece from the sand, you’re not just retrieving wood. You’re uncovering entire ecosystems in miniature fungi, mycelium, and slime moulds, each of which tells a quiet story of its own.
In ancient times, our ancestors would place the dead in hollow trees, covering them so their essences could merge with the tree and pass on knowledge and spirit. Sculpting with driftwood, in a way, is an extension of that practice. Pieces of trees that have grown, lived, and died travel through the rivers, creeks, and oceans. When I gather these pieces, I am continuing the story they began. But to do so takes a trained eye.
The gathering process is deliberate. I select from known sites, secure permission, and need to be able to dedicate the right amount of time. I seek the right shapes, weathered textures, and colours that reveal the wood’s journey. I avoid sharp, broken pieces or timber that looks yellow and fresh. For me, the beauty lies in the history embedded in the wood, the root, trunk, branches, and sometimes even the bark. There are times when I’m collecting driftwood from an estuary that I come across creatures. One day, a water rat darted out from the back of a hollow log. Another time I encountered a tiger snake, who struck my leg in an unfortunate but non-lethal ‘dry strike’. Nature, as always, can be unpredictable.
The next lesson I learned was about the core or armature of the sculpture. Early on, I was adamant that the entire sculpture should be made of driftwood. I found that this was both impractical and dangerous. Through trial and error, I now use engineered metal armatures to give structure, using driftwood to build the form, allowing it to shine in its raw, weathered beauty. The armature also helps me compartmentalise the various elements during the creation process, providing access to the internal structure while preserving the integrity of the driftwood’s story.
The shapes I create often draw from human anatomy, animal forms, or nautical designs. I have made eagles, hands, canoes, and ships, all shaped by the driftwood’s natural contours, The forms emerge piece by piece like a singular, once-in-a-lifetime formation. The weathering of the wood is more than aesthetic. It is a record of its journey—its wisdom, its struggles, and its knowledge imbedded in its form, giving the sculpture a depth beyond mere objecthood.
I have countless stories, connections, and memories tied to this weather-worn wood. On my father’s boat, driftwood panelling was used to make the galley and sleeping quarters feel like home. My grandmother used driftwood for displaying shell necklaces, and my grandfather dragged pieces up to burn under the boiler he used for shaping sticks for cray pots. But it’s the driftwood itself—sun-bleached, weathered, and still standing in solitude that always calls me to continue the journey.
About Dean Greeno
Dean Greeno is a truwulway pakana artist, researcher, and tradesman from lutruwita/Tasmania, born in 1967 on Flinders Island to a family with deep ancestral roots in the Furneaux Islands. His creative practice is grounded in sculpture, often using driftwood, and extends to drawing, ceramics, glasswork, and multimedia, all deeply informed by his cultural heritage and connection to Country. Greeno’s work explores the dynamic interplay between traditional Aboriginal knowledge and contemporary environmental challenges, particularly the impacts of climate change on marine and coastal environments. He is also active in community education, facilitating cultural workshops and advocating for Indigenous-led solutions in environmental management, drawing on generations of family knowledge and a background that includes trades and aviation. Visit deangreeno.art, connect linkedin.com/in/dean-greeno-39b83b95/ and follow @darthfish09.
