Around any rural area you will find traces of burnouts. Left in the dead of night on lonely roads, they are as much part of the fabric of the local community as the church on the rise and rolls of hay in the paddocks, ubiquitous and anonymous. They are almost an invisible gesture, an fleeting annoyance, the activity of persons who have nothing better to do, nothing better to contribute to the community. But naturally I’m thinking different about these marks, in essence I see beautiful lines, sweeping from side to side, great arcs and curves. Burnouts are a compulsion to the act of mark making expressed in grand strokes. I found these particular lines on a little used lane close to town and knew it was important to work with them. They swept around a bend and wove up the hill for a hundred meters. I followed the lines with my spray pump and instantly they were no longer without identity. They were the same but renewed. They brought something new to the area. Like two giant worms meandering to infinity.