Interview with Anna Mould: “A lot of what’s impacted me has been the unexpected”

What does it mean to hold many threads at once — both literally and conceptually?

As part of her six-month residency at our Fire Station building, delivered in partnership with National Art School in Australia, Sydney-based artist Anna Mould has been embracing multiplicity while settling into a slower rhythm of making, thinking, and reconfiguring.

Working across painting, weaving, and embroidery, Mould’s practice resists singularity. Her approach is collage-like both in material but in method — layering references, cultural codes, and symbolic forms. In this conversation, she reflects on the productive tension of holding many things at once, and how the residency has allowed her to lean into that complexity.




Anna, your practice resists easy categorisation. How would you describe where your work is right now, and what you’ve been thinking through during the residency?

My practice is quite disparate — I work across painting and textiles, primarily weaving, though recently I’ve been focusing more on embroidery. I’m interested in so many different things, and it’s been a real challenge to bring them together conceptually. That’s what I’ve been working on.

The works I have in the studio are quite varied — I’m trying to get more comfortable with showing different kinds of work in the same exhibition, even if it looks almost like a group show. I’m getting there. Having the time and space to pull it all together has been invaluable. I finally feel like it’s starting to cohere in a way that makes sense to me.

I know what you mean. When you’re pulling so many threads at once, it can feel like you’re going in all directions. The places where they intersect often feel just out of reach — but they are there.

Exactly. And making sense of those intersections — in a way that’s legible to others, but also in a way that I can map out in my own head — has been the hard part. It’s about setting parameters for yourself, I suppose. Once you have those boundaries in place, you can always break them, but at least you’ve established some kind of structure. That way, you’re not reinventing the wheel every time a new idea or medium comes along.

Where did it start for you then?

I’m just over a year out of my Master’s at the National Art School in Sydney. So, I’m fairly new to the professional art world, at least in a formal sense, but I’ve been making all my life. I’ve always been drawn to images and textiles — they’ve been a consistent part of what I do. Painting has always felt more elusive. I enjoy it, but it’s a more slippery medium for me.

Textiles come naturally: I can pick up techniques easily, and I find it intuitive. Painting, on the other hand, feels esoteric — like I’m always chasing something. I studied painting for my Bachelor’s, then majored in drawing for my Masters because my school had a strong expanded drawing programme. That allowed me to bring in a lot of different elements and experiment with form. So, I’ve always been moving across media.

How did you navigate that kind of multiplicity in your work?

I started thinking about iridescence as a metaphor — you know, how something can appear to shift and shimmer depending on how you look at it. Like the surface of this shell: it’s reflective, multi-layered, and always moving. That became a way for me to think about layers of meaning, layers of material — a way to hold onto the complexity rather than flatten it.

"Having the time and space to pull it all together has been invaluable. I finally feel like it’s starting to cohere in a way that makes sense to me."

That's such a strong visual metaphor.

Yes, and a multi-dimensional one. It’s about surface, but also about what lies just beyond or beneath it. It’s not transparent, exactly — more like constantly in flux.

How did you land on that idea?

I’d read a few different essays where people were using iridescence in interesting ways — not in a visual art context necessarily, but the ideas resonated with me. I took those threads, brought them together, and developed my own kind of theory from it. I liked that it was both aesthetic and conceptual. I want my work to shimmer, to attract attention on that surface level, but also to carry depth and complexity.

It gives your work a context — not just in terms of materials, but also the themes you’re exploring.

Yes, exactly. It’s a convenient metaphor in that way. And it helped me reframe what I used to see as a problem: the idea that, as an artist, you need to find your one thing. You’re supposed to narrow it down, distil your practice. But every time I thought I’d found my one thing, I immediately wanted to explore something else. So, I started thinking: what if multiplicity isn’t a distraction, but the foundation of my practice? What if that complexity is actually the strength?

That’s such a shift. We’re so used to labelling ourselves, and afraid of seeming indecisive — but embracing complexity is also a decision. Is that where collage comes in for you? The layering of different materials and ideas?

Yes, absolutely. It’s about layering, but also about juxtaposition. I love the idea of placing things side by side and thinking about the social or cultural baggage each element brings.

It becomes about different worlds or contexts colliding — like the traditional associations of painting in the Western canon versus the political and cultural histories of textiles. It’s not just visual — it’s conceptual too.

Do you find that those meanings become more visible through contrast?

I think so — at least, that’s how it works in my head. I want the work to operate on multiple levels. Someone might appreciate it purely visually — and that’s great. But for others, who might be more familiar with art history or theory, there are references and symbols that might resonate differently. Ideally, there’s space for both.

You mentioned that this residency has helped you bring all of that together. Can you talk a bit more about that?

Honestly, it’s been exactly what I needed. Sometimes I look at my work and think — no one would ever guess how much thinking went into this. And thinking is hard work!

It is! It’s underestimated.

Totally. There are days I’m like, I need to lie down, I’ve just been thinking all day. And I don’t want my practice to be random — just throwing things together and hoping for the best. It has to make sense, even if that logic is something only I can fully see.

It always circles back to politics in some way. Questions about gender, hierarchies of power, how society is structured. I’m from Australia, where we’re finally becoming more conscious of how a Western perspective was imposed on a continent with its own long and rich histories. So, I’m always thinking about systems of power and how they show up in material culture. I’m interested in how visual language has been used by those in power to maintain the status quo — but also how others have subverted it.

"But the biggest shift has come from being immersed in a completely different context. Just uprooting myself and planting myself somewhere else for a while."

And how has being in the UK influenced that — your thinking or your approach?

That’s a good question. There’s something really interesting about being here. In Australia, certain parts of society are very aware of the impact the UK has had — the entire country, as it exists today, was shaped by it. We’re always looking back at this European influence and how it’s informed everything. So, to be here, in the place where it all started, is surreal.

Personally, too, it’s significant — as far as I know, my family is entirely English and Scottish. They were very much part of the colonial project. Being here feels like returning to a place my family left generations ago. I’m not sure it’s changed the form of my work, but it’s certainly been a really interesting exercise in perspective.

When I first came in, you mentioned the Bayeux Tapestry, which you saw in France after arriving in London — and how it had inspired you even before. Have there been other works or places you’ve sought out that shaped your practice? Or was it more about unexpected discoveries?

Honestly, I think it’s been less about individual works and more about the physical shift — being in a new place. I’d been in Sydney for so many years, especially through COVID and my studies. So just relocating was what I really needed.

Of course, I’ve loved seeing shows — particularly in the big institutions, which we don’t have as much access to in Australia. But the biggest shift has come from being immersed in a completely different context. Just uprooting myself and planting myself somewhere else for a while.

That feeling of immersion is something residencies offer — but it can also be quite intense. How have you found the balance, especially being constantly surrounded by your work?

I’ve actually loved it. And I think that’s part of why I’ve been able to finally work through all these ideas about my practice. I don’t think I could have done it at home in the same way — life there is much more compartmentalised. I work three days a week, and the rest is for my art.

Here, it’s been incredibly luxurious — I can get up in the morning and start making immediately. Probably a terrible work-life balance [laughs], but as an artist, your work is your life.

In Sydney, my studio is a 10–15-minute walk away from my house, which is great, but it still requires that little shift.

There’s a transition built into it.

Exactly — and that can be great. Walking clears your head, gets you into the zone. But I’ve found that having everything in one place here has made me more productive — not just in making, but in thinking. I’ve been living inside the work, and for me, that’s been incredible. It’s probably not for everyone, and I wouldn’t want to live this way forever, but for this period, it’s been perfect.

Has the studio itself — or the Fire Station building and its location — posed any limitations?

It’s a funny little area — there’s not much going on around here. It’s not like being in the middle of a buzzing part of London. But I’ve actually liked that. I feel a bit removed, and that helps me relax.

I enjoy getting to know a neighbourhood — walking up and down the canal, learning the rhythms of a place. I’m very much an introvert; I live in my head a lot.

"I’ve started noticing how I latch onto certain symbols that feel potent. It’s almost like building a visual code for myself — not literally, but close."

I feel like this space really supports that.

It does. It feels like a kind of cave — but in a good way. A space that becomes an extension of your brain. You’re living and working in the same environment, so it becomes its own little world.

Now that I think about it, Fire Station is set up so we’re all kind of stacked on top of each other. It feels private, but there’s still a sense of community. No one’s looking in on you, but you know there are other artists nearby, and we’re all living a version of the same life.

Have you met other artists?

Yes, most of them — though I’ve been here for months and still haven’t seen some people at all. There are four of us on residencies, and the rest are work/live artists. Some people are local, with their own lives, social circles, practices. I feel like everyone’s just got their head down doing their thing, which is great for me too.

That autonomy is actually amazing. And not having to work a day job for six months — that’s huge. Plus, we’re in London, so when you do want to go out and see something, it’s right there.

Do you find yourself doing that often?

Yeah, definitely. Even when applying for the residency, I did research — made a list of institutions and collections I wanted to see. So, I came with some sense of direction.

But a lot of what’s impacted me has been the unexpected — just walking around and stumbling on things. Like, the very first thing that caught my attention wasn’t in a gallery at all. I was walking up the canal to Tesco, and I saw swans. I hadn’t thought about swans at all — and suddenly I was obsessed. The first works I made here were all about swans.

That’s such a beautiful example of how inspiration can come from the most unlikely places.

Exactly. That’s what I mean about being somewhere new — things reveal themselves to you. I’ve started noticing how I latch onto certain symbols that feel potent. It’s almost like building a visual code for myself — not literally, but close.

Swans are a great example. They’re just beautiful, obviously, but also strange. These pristine creatures living in dirty canals, surrounded by the city. They feel ancient and mythical — and then there’s the fact they’re owned by the monarch, so they carry this weight of symbolism around power and tradition.

And then, in Australia, we have black swans — which carry their own mythology. I’ve been reading about how Europeans imagined the Great Southern Land before they actually saw it. They thought it would be the inverse of everything — people would walk on their hands, good and evil would be reversed. One myth even said the swans would be black. So, for me, the fact that black swans actually exist in Australia feels kind of supernatural — like this poetic inversion of the imperial imagination.

So, they were right?

[Laughs] Yeah, like, that was the one thing they kind of got right. I mean, maybe it was completely reverse-engineered — like, someone said it after they already knew black swans existed in Australia. But still, it’s such a beautiful symbol.

I was already obsessed with black swans, and then, arriving here, on my very first or second day, I saw these gorgeous white swans just out the back. They immediately felt significant — like they were speaking to me.

"It’s a real gift to be in a place run by people — many of whom are artists themselves — who understand that everything feeds your practice: the thinking, the wandering, the resting."

It sounds like a strong sense of place is important to your practice — you’re tuned into these symbols that feel meaningful in whatever context you’re in.

Yeah, they always find their way into the work somehow. And the more I make, the more I realise they keep returning — they reappear across time and across projects. It’s starting to feel like I’m building a kind of symbolic language, almost like a personal hieroglyphic system.

Is that what you’re most excited to explore in the second half of the residency? These signs and moments that emerge and maybe guide where your work goes next? Or is there something more specific you’re planning?

I think both. In terms of materials, I’m keen to bring in machine embroidery again. I haven’t been able to do it here because I don’t have my machine — it’s at home in Sydney and way too heavy to bring. So, I’ve mostly been painting, but I’ve been making with the intention of adding embroidered elements once I’m back. Some of the works I’m making now are just waiting for that second layer.

At the same time, like I said before, I’m really interested in how place — and nature, and geography — inform culture. I’m drawn to symbols and imagery that carry a lot of meaning, and I love art that’s rich in iconography. I want to keep developing my own kind of visual vocabulary — a library of signs that hold weight for me but can also resonate more broadly.

That idea of a personal library or vocabulary feels like such a beautiful way to synthesise the ideas — especially with a practice like yours, where the elements might seem different at first. Having that collection of references and symbols, it’s like your own system of organisation.

Yes — exactly. Like a collection of mismatched books that somehow make perfect sense together. I’m looking at the stack of books in my studio now — each one is its own thing, but together they tell a story. They build a picture.

There’s a common thread.

Or maybe just enough different threads woven together that they start to hold. Being here has helped me start to unravel them.

I’ve got a show coming up in Sydney this November, so I always knew I’d need to make work with that in mind. In some ways, that’s been grounding– it's given me a bit of focus, a sense of direction. But at the same time, I’ve really appreciated how supportive and relaxed the environment at Acme has been.

It’s a real gift to be in a place run by people — many of whom are artists themselves — who understand that everything feeds your practice: the thinking, the wandering, the resting.

You’re productive all the time.

Yes, you’re constantly switched on. So, in a way, a residency like this can feel like a holiday from that constant pressure, even though you’re still working. It just allows you to work in the way your brain wants to — the way you make meaning from the world.

I feel lucky to be able to do this at all, and especially to be here, with this space and time, and to focus in whatever way I need to.

Anna Mould

Since graduating with a Master of Fine Art from National Art School last year, Anna Mould has been a 2024 Archibald Prize finalist, held her first solo exhibition at Dominik Mersch Gallery, Sydney, and exhibited at Sydney Contemporary with Praxis Artspace, Adelaide.

Engaging with a range of media including embroidery, painting, weaving and photography, Anna Mould’s practice explores complex social, cultural and political themes. Using a technique akin to collage, she creates visual and conceptual juxtapositions between historical and contemporary references, that aim to conjure an acknowledgement of one’s location in time and space as a part of greater global human history. Recurring themes in her work include; hierarchies of fine art and decorative art; the gendered associations of textile art; and the ways in which certain artforms have been used to express specific political ideas.

National Art School

NAS is Australia’s leading fine art school, with an intensive and enriching studio-based teaching model that has nurtured many of the country’s most renowned artists. NAS currently offers recent alumni and academic staff residencies at the Cité Internationale des Arts, Paris and British School at Rome.

For more information visit https://nas.edu.au/.