The ute swings around the gravel bends, bald tyres slipping and struggling to hold the corners. The drive feels like an old school theme-park ride, rough and unpredictable.

My first glimpse of the Shoalhaven River on the way to Bundanon is broad and glassy. Late afternoon shadows darken the hillsides in deep shadow.

The ute is packed with large papier-mâché vessels, reminiscent of the war memorials that dot towns and cities across Australia. My plan is to turn them into obelisks of oblivion – memorials for the hundreds of species we have wiped out since colonisation. The Bundanon Residency for me will be a break from my river series. A time push the limits of papier-mâché.

The Bundanon Trust has set up artist studios and residences facing each other across a grassy square where wombats and kangaroos graze. My studio has sweeping views across green paddocks to the old sandstone homestead and pulpit rock, standing sentinel over the river.

As I’m settling in, Meghan from the Bundanon Trust says to me, “You’re free to do whatever you like while you’re here. Some artists, once they’re here, are overwhelmed by a desire to so something entirely different from their proposal, others are frightened by the isolation and others just use the time to think. “

I unpack my gear into the studio with it’s polished wooden floors and head down to the river in the fading light.

Down by the Shoalhaven River, on the small sandy beach, the water is dark and deep. It’s perfectly still, the waters reflect the rocks and cliffs and impossibly tall white trunks of the eucalypts. It feels like the world has flipped into an uncanny Rorschacht.

There and then, the course of my residency completely changes. There’s something haunting, unshakeable about this place.

My mind is transfixed by the idea of the sinuous thread of the Shoalhaven River running from my studio near the headwaters of the river – to Arthur Boyd’s beloved Bundanon, right here, near the mouth of the river.

I’m amazed by the stark divergence of the river as it winds its way from the harsh cold climate mountains to the temperate lush coastal bush.

I want to explore a conversation of contrasts, leaping through time and geography, bringing two worlds together. The river acts as my emotional conveyance, perceiving the landscape through the feelings of place rather than direct representation.

I see two figures compounding the scale of place. The conversations between the figures point both to a connection to the landscape and with each other. A quiet focus on the unspoken bonds of men. And between me and the artist I never met.

I feel slightly unnerved. I feel seen in a way I’ve never been seen before. Strange all the more because I was mostly alone most of the time, working 12-13 hours a day in the studio.

What happens in the end? There’s only one way to find out, join the mailing list of Michael Reid Southern Highlands and Tyger Gallery to see story yourself in the suite of 40 works.