Short List
Product / ServiceDREAMY
CategoryD05. Cultural Insight
Additional Company SNAP, INC. Santa Monica, USA


Name Company Position
Gavin McLeod Ogilvy Australia Executive Creative Director
Ben Smith Ogilvy Australia Creative Director
Luke Hawkins Ogilvy Australia Creative Director
Chris Little Ogilvy Australia Creative Director
Tom MacPhail Ogilvy Australia Art Director
Jake Ausburn Ogilvy Australia Copywriter
Isabella Smith Ogilvy Australia Copywriter
Chad Edwards Ogilvy Australia Design Lead
Christian Moore Ogilvy Australia Senior Digital Designer
Diego Poveda Ogilvy Australia Motion Creative
Magdalena Tomislav Ogilvy Australia Senior Strategist
Morwenna Farwagi Ogilvy Australia Senior Integrated Project Manager
Mireille Pons Ogilvy Australia Senior Account Director
David Radestock Ogilvy PR Australia Business Director
Bastien Legay Ogilvy Australia Digital Project Manager
Nick Robinson Ogilvy Australia Creative Technologist
Newman Sorenson Ogilvy Australia Director, DP, Editor
Rob Spencer Ogilvy Australia Executive Producer
Daniel Matotek Ogilvy Australia Senior Editor
Josh Blakiston Ogilvy Australia Editor, TV & Radio Dispatch
Liv Gillian Ogilvy Australia Production Assistant

Write a short summary of what happens in the radio or audio execution or campaign.

Acknowledging your sense of place physically is the starting point to better rest and sleep practices, whilst Acknowledgements of Country is one of the vital steps towards connecting with First Nations people, knowledge, and cultures. The Dreamy platform blends these two worlds together by, using modern-day storytelling formats (podcasts) to allow a new generation of non-Indigenous people to connect with the rich and timeless beauty of First Nations cultures; and doing so in a way that helps them physically connect with Country and achieve a revitalising sleep. Altogether we developed five podcast episodes written and narrated by First Nations storytellers and brought to life by First Nations mixed media artist, Carmen Glynn-Braun. The entire series also incorporated the latest sleep psychology practices for dual effectiveness. Each episode took a walk through our ancient land, helping listeners disconnect from their screens, and connect (through audio) to the cultures of our land.

Script & Translation. Provide a full English script and translation of any audio.

1. 'BILABANG' Written by Jazz Money Bila is the Wiradjuri word for river Bilabang is our word for a pool of water, the same word that has been anglicised to billabong, but Bilabang is also the word for our galaxy, our home which you may know as the ‘milky way’ the sun has gone beyond todays sky and now is the time for night and resting lay down here stretch out long and lovely let those eyes go heavy, soft and close become all comfort beneath these kind leaves and loving night turn your palms towards the skyand with eyes closed watch the moon rise from the space between your fingers that moon will rise and rise into the night the night that welcomes you now a sky that has always loved you an ancient sky full of ancient knowledges full of stars that sings and sing reflected in this ever expanding pool of water as your moon rises to join the others in our skies the stars begin to dance and shift to become feet and ankles leg and hip arms outstretching stars revealing the face of one that you have loved who has loved you always a face made of twilight glow and care go now where that softly stepping star lady leads along a great moonlit river slowly as she moves along with the current together you collect the seeds the grains the flame the water the promises of care held in bud and frond and blossom in a sky basket she collects all things needed to make home go with her learn respect and good ways learn the ways to look and see Country in all you do learn the ways to be in service of the place that is home home to kin of bird butterfly grass star and you budyaan, budyabudya, buguwiny, miima feel with your mouth a joy as you speak all the languages of care as you learn the true words of Country those seeds you collected will create a forest from which more water will rise the song of this river surrounded by the melody of this bush and the language of all who have lived here as always in this forest planted for kin and for the children who will walk here after a million more sunrises below the dancing grasses are the tender blades below the stems are the small sweet shoots lower still the soil the sand the loam the roots all this must be cared for tend with fire carry the seeds guide the water love this Country as your kin love this Country as your mother there are baskets to be woven with these grasses feel each soft grass dip in and under your touch as a heartbeat as a breath of the land tend your basket with those fingers full of knowing each loop to the pace of your breath in and out breathe in and out in and out your breath flows out to the skies of this place and each breath you inhale was brought to you upon a breeze carried in the hand of a star formed in the gum trees gifted by the ancestors listen Country has all you need and you are learning how to commune with the land and all who call it home that star lady now leads you by the hand towards that wide yellowing river dissolving into horizon a night sky strung out with a million tiny shells hold one to your ear can you hear the whispers of a dark quiet of a long ago told with a song in the throat low and comforting spiralling down carried upon smoke it will be a place familiar and safe like a dream remembered this is a place where you are home and this river has known you since you were a bub everything you do is because of bila care and everything you do should be in care for bila and all rivers caring for Country takes patience move gently with your basket amongst the seeds long planted this place of always care step through light and ash hear the soft brush sound of leaves overhead the last call of a bird into vanishing day feel the currents wash over your toes smooth and gentle telling you of all those whispered stories from beyond the bend from the mountain snow melt from the rains on far horizons feel the current take away all that you have carried through this day feel yourself become one with the river with the stars above there is campfire here to keep you warm feel the glow spread from toes moving gentle up legs soft through belly a spreading warmth moving through chest and arms calms your brow hear the low crackle of embers in the dimming fire the sound of river and of river homelands the sweet babble of running water lapping against the banks and hear the distant whisper of stars the smell of eucalypt heavy with healing in the evening air sweet smoke from the campfire the clear smell of fresh river air below your body the earth is warm and soft prepared just right for you right now feel the gentle heartbeat that comes from this land that heartbeat that has been with Country since always since forever since the first sunrise feel this Country in all the ways it knows you feel the ways it has cared for you, supported you, held you all day long and continues this care now again into night a river will show you the way the stars will show you the way the bush that stands all around that continues always with the flow of always rivers go gently drift upon this slow ever current bila guidance sinking into those singing stars go gently and flow out with the river to meet that ever expanding sky a river that becomes that becomes that becomes Bilabanga star sky galaxy made of all this loving Country 2. 'STAR DUST AND TAGAI' Written by Ghenoa Gela As a stingray – big, beautiful, gentle, soft, blue and grey – softens and settles itself in the warm sand bed of the nurturing ocean, allow yourself to settle, settle into your bedding. Once there, just gently bring your focus to your eyelids and imagine they are slowly but surely getting heavier, like a warm weighted blanket is covering your eyes. ... Breathe ... Allow yourself to let them get heavier and rest gently over your eyes and let your mind drift from the day and come with me to my favourite place as a saltwater woman of the Torres Strait Islands. ... Breathe ... In our culture, we have a Star Warrior called Tagai, and they use the milkyway as their canoe. With their fishing spear – the Southern Cross – in their left hand, they travel across the nights sky with their crew of twelve zugubals. These zugubals were beings that took on human form when they went to earth but are now apart of the Orion and Pleiades constellations. When my people look to the night sky, they look for Tagai, because wherever they all rest to fish, Tagia will tell them whether to plant or harvest in our gardens, hunt for food or when Tagai spear dips into the ocean, we know the monsoon season ‘Kuki’ is about to arrive. Our connection is not only to the earth, and sea, but it is very much to the sky as well. (And now you’re apart of that ecosystem) ... Breathe ... Allow all the weight of the day just sink through your body like grains of sand, slipping through the myriad of holes in a strong sandbag. Let the sand fall onto the always loving, always caring, nurturing earth. Let it all drip through, don’t hold on to it, just allow yourself to just, let, it all go... ... Breathe ... Soften ... Come, I want to take you to the place where I let go and replenish.. Let’s walk together, my hand is here if you want to hold it... Don’t worry, I gotchu... ... Sounds of a gentle breeze, coconut leaves swaying, and waves lapping on the shore. ... Take a deep breath and let the scent of the sweet and salty island breeze relax you. Feel the breeze softly caress your face as you step with me into the soft sand that gently hugs and massages away any lingering worries. Come, let’s sit down and just watch that sunset beyond the beautiful blue patchwork of the calming ocean before us. Let the gentle rock of the ocean on the shore calm all your senses. .... Lovely.. The radiant red of the lim – the sun is hypnotising – so strong yet soft and calming at the same time. As it dips lower into the horizon, notice how beautiful the last rays of the now deep orange sun, strike through the slowly changing blue, pink and purple sky. You can hear the soft sounds of birds as they play nearby in a tree. And slowly those rays displaying slithers of warm green as if reaching out to kisai – the ever stunning bright full moon – calling her to her sky. Here she comes, dragging her ever favourite, infinite navy blue blanket. As she wraps herself snuggly and slowly with her prized possession, as you watch lie back onto the soft, warm sand. Feel it lift you gently, and allow gravity to take any other lingering thoughts... Let them slip right off your body and into the nurturing earth. Just let them go... ... How lovely are the scattered stars across the never-ending navy-blue blanket? Take in that blanket... Take in that sky... Those beautiful, floating lights forming patterns across the infinite navy blue are starting to become clearer now. Some stars are more prominent than others, some are just twinkling, some are bright and some your eyes can barely see. You take in more of the patterns and slowly find yourself looking for the milky way. There it is... What a proper lovely sight ay... Can you see Tagai’s fishing spear - the southern cross? ... Now let’s watch Tagai and their crew move slowly across the sky together. Let’s watch them paddle past the archer, past the big dipper and onward to Orion. As Tagai drops off some of the crew for the night, we notice that stars are starting to slowly fall out of the sky... ... Very slowly the shining, glowing beauties fall toward us, leaving a sparkling long trail of stardust behind them. This part is my favourite part. Lie very still, calm your breath and let your body melt further into the soft, gentle sand. These stars are about to sprinkle us with stardust. ... Breathe ... Let it cover you all over. The small, gentle sensations of sleepy magic, melting you further into sleep. Let the stardust take you... ... Breathe ... Thank you for coming along to my favourite place with me. Go’on then. Drift into your peaceful slumber... Rest. Sleep. Dream. 3. 'LIVING ECHOES' Written by Dakota Feirer Wadbilliga, gugenyella, gadu mioroong Lay down, breathe, for now let me take you on a journey. Lay down, breathe, for now you rest on bed of leaves in a sandstone cave on Saltwater Country. Echoes may drum through the usual night. Though especially when the moon swells to this unusual size. Light breeze passing through gum leaves/gum trees. Subtle breeze sings through gumleaf canopies, and kisses your skin. Lay down, breath. This dream is about to begin. Loose bark scratching against trunks. Cicadas. Rustling above, bark fingers tap to cicadas’ symphony. Tonight, moonlight shimmers across a sandstone ceiling, dancing across cave walls in a ceremonial pattern. Water drops from cave ceiling into a puddle. Blueness glimmers from the ripples of a water well, perfectly circular. Made from the hands of ancients. Or perhaps eroded by the simple yet patient pattern of each water drop. A minuscule deeper, each generation. A monotonous lullaby, now your meditation. Water drops from cave ceiling into a puddle. On a sandy floor, green wattle leaves cradle your body. The warm kiss of wind, a worthy blanket. The smell of incoming rain, a bedside friend. Before long, the echoes come again. Thunder. During the rain, dreams often speak louder, as if to contest with the clouds and thunder. Drift into this dream now. You’re safe to fall ever more heavier, as rain dumps atop your shelter. Thunder and heavy rain. Underneath the rain you feel the temperature change. The echoes soon end while transforming a new morning. Rain grows fainter and lighter and rainforest birds softly enter. You sit planted under rock shelter’s edge. Your ears gather the affection of songbirds yearning beyond a blanket of mist. Your eyes find a waterfall replacing the usual drops. Across your face, a smile now swells as you ponder the waterfall in all of its power. You plunge into your fresh new well, a blessing from above, a cleansing shower. Contentment grows as your smile arises to the signs of sunrise in the call of I, gugenyella. Kookaburra calls. Fresh water trickles from your forehead finding the corner of your lips, you can taste the rainforest and all its living things this morning. And as if greeting an old friend, a happy song we choose to sing. Our way of shaking hands with sun rays, as they struggle through the grey haze of rain, mist and living echoes. More of your kin join this ceremony. Multiple kookaburras singing. Content with a bush orchestra, you lean down to take another sip of the water that now surrounds you. Though you pause for a moment, noticing that rain and ripples are only temporary, and you’re the only person here. Light rain/water drops on bush/forest floor. The heaviest of drops now been and gone, you decide it’s time to walk. You walk back into your sandstone room until you reach a now dampened, mysterious crevice. Just above your head and half an arm’s length deep. You pull from it an assortment of personal keeps. Two uneven sized stems from grasstree, and woven bag made from the fibres of stringybark, which sometimes caused itchiness when worn on days like this. Continued light rain/water drops on bush/forest floor. Fastening the bag around your neck, you kneel down beside where sunlight now bounces from puddles onto stone wall. You trace a white stencil of a much smaller hand, sandstone still damp from the morningness under your fingers, but paint feels far from fresh. You fix your eyes on a larger neighbouring stencil, and drift for a second into the softer edges than of your own hand, now pressed on top of theirs. Then I, timekeeper, gugenyella, let you know it’s time to go. Kookaburra Calls loudly. Stepping gingerly from your cave over a layer of white, silver and black. Bimbalas, pipis, abalone shells all scattered across the shelter’s doorstep. You farewell a tall spotted gum, as it stands strong just metres beyond sandstone and shellfish. Acknowledging its guardianship by brushing with both hands the sweat from your armpits. Caressing each nearest fleshy grey blemish, noticing how the tree is like you. Together we leave behind the sounds of the bush, and two old hands wave us goodbye. Bellbirds & cicadas. You continue on your journey, more budjarns of time pass by, signalling open skies. The sun is now shining high, as you slow toward mountain’s plateau. Following this ridge line helps you admire my voice, my windsong. Gentle wind through tall, thin, dry grass [signalling different surroundings]. Dry rib grass here, too high, feel it’s touch against your thighs. Time to heal this Country. You reach into stringy bag, removing a loose handful of dried palm bark. Taking a seat on the grassy path, you align each grasstree arm, according to the coordinates of the journey of the sun. You pause for another moment here, bringing your attention to the wind, and your own breath. Rubbing the sweat from your palms onto the dry, grassy bed. Clearing your head and staying present. Gentle wind through tall, thin, dry grass. You aim the thin stem vertically above, and perpendicular to its quiet partner. You rub your palms together, spinning one stem into another. Partnering with the tempo of your breath. Slow and easy, in, and out. In, and out. Far from effortless, though seeming too easy, an ember emerges from the grounded stem. A miniature version of the sun itself. You cradle your newborn life in its bed of palm, blowing it with your spirit, giving rise to the right fire. Laying it down you let me nurture the rest, while manufacturing a torch from a burning grass nest. Kookaburra calls. Gugenyella reminds us to walk. Heat brushes across your face each time lowering that fire, each time, burning a different side of your path. Crackling grass fire growing in size. Each time, we blow our spirit into it again, with love, and the affection of the wind. As we go on, your mouth feels drier. Without even thinking, you pull on the stem of lomandra, and chew on its fleshy white end. The same taste of life from this morning, mixed with plant this time. Crackling fire continues. You pay mind to the gentle fire as it trickles across the ridge line’s spine. Rippling in circles, smoke rises soft and white. You trace the newborn clouds with your free hand, and acknowledge in delight, the shapes dancing back at you. You find in this moment of peace and smoke, your attention drawn to a flying shadow. An observant white bellied sea eagle. You’re drawn away again, now to the smell of salt water, as a sea cliff barrels closer. Sounds of waves from a sea cliff. You take another moment, to breathe, and admire Country. As she spills from mountains into the sea. And like white belly, you descend towards this moment of peace. Living echoes closely follow. Softer waves on a beach. Your feet reach the beach front, exfoliating with each sandy step. Dancing in the shallows, you feel a shell bed. Breaching from your feet are pipis, you collect them with one hand, as your other hand rotates a fresh lomandra stem in your mouth. Taking only what you need. Knowing the itch from your stringy bag will grow in intensity, as will its heaviness increase. Your mind wanders to clear skies, dreaming of what the stars may look like tonight. Collecting the universe with just your fingertips and toes, filling your stringy bag with stars of black, white & silver. Sound of shells rattling. They rattle & scrape against one another. As a rocky point slowly draws closer, your excitement grows in the shape of an oyster. You trace with your feet, one ancient sea stone to another. Waves grow fainter as the reader departs the beachside and moves towards rock pools. Sounds of rock pools and seagulls. Rock pools swirl and greet you like no stranger. Before reaching into a perfectly circular portal, your eyes catch another. And before long the echoes come again, and you realise you are no longer alone. But with me my friend. I am their living echoes. I am your Country. Sounds of the beach/ocean. 4. 'MOON HOLDS WATER' Written by Dr. Romaine Moreton The sound of the ocean fills my ears. The waves sound like fire, wind, and water all at once. Sounds of the ocean and the crackling of a beach fire coming through ever so subtly continue underneath the narration. Our place, Fingal Heads, is the place where I grew up. It is the cherished place of childhood memories; of living with my mother, grandparents, Aunties, Uncles, and cousins. It was a place of beach worms, yugeri, or pipis, of fishing from the beach shore during the still of night. It is the small boats bobbing on the ocean, the fishing handheld lines disappearing into the water. Of fires made on the beach shore, where scrap pieces of tin were gathered, placed on the flickering campfire, the blues and oranges of its flame reminding us always, that it is a law unto itself. Yugeri are placed on the fire, then together, we watch them cook. All of us, our skins enlivened by salt water that sticks to our bodies, huddled around the fire, watching the seawater bubbling from the closed lips of the yugeri shell. The muscle of the yugeri shell expands then pops, the lips forced open by the steaming ocean water being heated within its shell. To this day, the smell of yugeri is the smell of belonging. Pause to hear sounds of the ocean waves crashing. Lying awake at night listening to the crashing ocean waves is like listening to infinity; of greatness beyond imagination. Of our greatness beyond imagination. In each ocean wave as it curls and crashes, are the memories of family, people and stories buoyant with love. Another pause to listen to the ocean. In each wave as it softly caresses the sand, are the gentleness of voices, carrying the stories from shore to distant shore. When we walk on the shoreline, we walk as though we are walking on stories, guided by voices, and whisperings of love that is unseen but heard. The sun warms our bodies, the salt air fills our lungs, and we are here, in this moment. As the waves crash, we know we are limitless. We know that with each step, we walk with relatives. Such as the small shells, seaweed and cunjevoi turned on the sand, rolled by the water as she returns to her vast body of greatness. These microscopic bodies are also our kinfolk; with their minute gills and spiralling shells, we breathe the same air. When we walk on the sand, we walk softly, quietly, and it is only in these times of noiselessness that we can feel the tongue of the yugeri tickle the souls of our feet. Pause to hear waves lapping against the sand. The yugeri teaches me to walk lightly in this world, so that I may hear and feel what the land is saying to me. We gather the yugeri, putting them into our buckets. We collect the seawater from the ocean in bottles, take them home, pour the seawater into the sink, and place the yugeri in the saltwater to purge. Gentle sounds of a kitchen. Wooden floor, a slight sound of pots; then the subtle sound of boiling water. The yugeri spits the sand from their stomach; collections of small beings and morsels that they feed upon. The purging of the sand from their stomachs will continue for hours, after which time, they will be ready to cook. In this moment of putting the yugeri into a pot filled with boiling water, I will give thanks to the sublime wisdoms of the yugeri as the generous offering of country. Subtle sounds of atmosphere to build the importance of this moment. This moment of eating the yugeri is a moment of reverence; of respect for all the knowledges that our ancient lands, countries and Old People have left us. With my family, we savour this moment as we carefully pluck the cooked yugeri from the shell. I take the empty shells and place them onto a growing pile of deplete shells in my backyard. Sounds of the backyard – crickets, distant sounds of the ocean. This is my midden; a place where stories of hunting and gatherings are stockpiled. Each shell, now bleached by the sun, is the story of a time of collecting, of our laughter on the shore as we gather the yugeri, holding it aloft with exuberance each time to show family we have caught one, is a moment more precious than gold. Atmosphere shifts from backyard sounds to ocean shore once again. We are going to catch beach worms to use as bait for fish. We pry open the shell of the yugeri, hold the raw flesh carefully between our thumb and forefinger, and wave it over the sand. The water is retreating now, and we see small heads push through the grains of sand. They are beach worms. Ancient in appearance, and up close, have a beautiful intimidation that fills me with awe. I hold the yugeri as instructed by my cousin who is teaching me how to catch the worm. I squat on my haunches, holding the yugeri over the sand as the worm nibbles the yugeri. I am transfixed by the beach worm, this prehistoric, ageless being. I watch the beach worm for many moments, so enamoured am I by its appearance; it’s existence; it’s purpose in this place that I call home; I am unable to take its head between my fingers and pull it from the sand. Instead in the blink of an eye, the beach worm disappears. I realise, for the beach worm and me, this place called home is one and the same. A place where we both eat yugeri, a place that we both carry purpose in the blood of our bodies. Our Ancestors also, are one and the same; infinite, storied, lawed, curious and courageous. Pause to hear waves lapping against the sand. The head of the beachworm is threaded onto the hook. My Bundjalung family have lived in this place since the beginning of memory, and my South Sea Islander families travelled here in the belly of a ship from Vanuatua. Memories live here, mine as well as those stretching back into the lives of the Old People. Of white sand on the beach, fishing with hand held reels, Aboriginal and South Sea Islander women swinging the line deftly around their heads, sending the sinker into the water, the hook with the beach worm sinking into the depths of the sea. On the shore in the same moment, strong black forefingers hold the line lightly between forefinger and thumb, waiting for the tug of an unseen fish beneath the water. The line becomes taught, and the strong hands pull the line in, hand over hand. Subtle sound of crackling beach fire on the sand overlaps the sound of the ocean waves. The fish on the shore, out of the water, flips itself vigorously, with vitality and energy. The fire burns strongly, the charring body of the fish is carefully turned over. The cooked skin of the fish is peeled back, and the white of its flesh steams. We pick the flesh of the fish carefully away from its bones with our fingers and place it in our mouths. We sit in silence as we eat. We look to the moon, full in the night sky. An ancient eye that reassures all of us with its enduring presence. My Aunty looks to the moon, and says the moon is holding too much water, and that tomorrow we will not go out in the boat to fish. In this moment, this delicate, sacred moment; we are a part of something majestic, infinite, yet as tender as breath. I inhale, and the saltiness of the sea air holds me, from within and without. I am home. Atmospheric sounds of fire crackling and ocean waves gradually fade. 5. 'JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE' Written by Aurora Liddle-Christie Would you like to come on a journey with me? I’ll be leaving in just a moment. We’re going to visit my homelands, a special place of rich history and culture from which there is much to learn. When my body grows tired and my mind races at the pace of the city. When I feel lost and disconnected from country. My aunty says my spirit can visit country, and country will give me just what I need to continue on my path strong and purposefully until the next time I can return. She said, take this place back with you. Remember her and tell others of her sacredness. So, when it’s needed for us to protects her, there are many whose spirits have met hers and will stand with us. So let us journey and see what awaits us in the red centre. I hope you find what you need, and your dreaming here on after is pleasant and insightful until morning when you come back to your bed and awaken refreshed and rejuvenated. So, find a comfortable position and we can begin to travel. We will take nothing with us, and we will leave nothing behind. Breath in (Aheye-angkeme) Drawing energy into your body, from your toes all the way up to the top of your head. Breathing out (breathing sounds) Letting your body relax. Breathing in (Aheye-angkeme) Again, drawing that energy up. Breathing out (breathing sounds) Releasing any tension that you’re holding onto. You can let that go now. Breathing in (Aheye-angkeme) Breathing out (breathing sound) We will take nothing with us, and we will leave nothing behind. Sound element to signify a transition. Swooshes, emerging into a subtle atmosphere of birds, breeze and crickets. Warm desert sand engulfs your feet, as your toes dig themselves into the dry riverbed. Before you and behind you stretches the winding gully lined with Eucalyptus Trees and Ghost Gums, snaking between hills of bouldering rocks and scrubby grasslands. The country has not long past seen rain and the memory of water (kwatye) remains here. Water which flows through the centre of this semi-arid desert country like veins through the human heart. Sounds of water and heartbeat. Pulsing and beating life into everything it touches. ... The land, the plants and the sky are a vibrant composition of red, green and blue hues. (Sounds of birds) Different species of birds such as the Zebra Finch and the Little Button Quail play and sing in the trees. Their sweet trills reverberate through the spaciousness accompanied by a whistle from the mighty Wedge Tail Eagle who circles above. ... You sit in the riverbed, basking in the heat of a mid-afternoon sun (uterne). Your Body tingling as the rays embrace your skin, as if each cell is a solar panel absorbing the energy of this golden guardian. You play with the sand around you, sifting through your fingers the grains of history, culture, language and story that belong here. A story that is still being told, through the resilience of it’s people with the odds stacked against them. ... A fresh breeze blows through the red rock hills, rustling the eucalyptus leaves, dancing with the birds in flight, washing over you with an enchanting sensation. Sounds of birds, crickets, breeze, breathing. Day turns to night and the Milkyway (Amiwarre) scatters a billion stars across the endless expanse of space. Just off the horizon are the Seven sisters who launch from where earth and sky meet, racing across the heavens from Orion who follows in pursuit. This is the same sky that has been marvelled for thousands and thousands of years. A celestial road map, a calendar and the greatest book ever written. Hung above like an array of diamonds amongst ebony coal. 50 meters ahead there’s a campfire. The flickering flame catches your eye, and you move towards it. Sound of footsteps. The desert night chill sets in and the warmth of the fire is welcomed. The setting of many a great story. ... Gazing into the dancing flame a message comes through. This message is from this country, ignited by the flame and whispered on the wind. Carved into hills and ranges and carried by the dingo’s howl. Swimming in small soaks and summoned by the Ancestors, defended by the sovereign people. Kindling in the dancing flame. Sounds of whisper, binaural, voice effect, music. This land is living, conscious and aware, with such intelligence to survive, regenerate and thrive for millions of years. Our footsteps are a grain of sand in the vast shoreline of those that have walked before us and those that will walk after us. But our steps aren’t always tread lightly and our imprints have become so big that the generations after us will not witness the same ecosystems we are so privileged to exist alongside. Country has cared for us, but some have forgotten that in turn we must care for her. That when our bare feet are on the ground, when we’re out in nature, when animals and plants are allowed to thrive, when country regenerates, we too are revived. Sound of fire crackling. The flame settles and the subtle ambience of the bush returns. You look up at the night sky and laying back in the soft sand, digesting what has been shown to you. You track the waning moon with your sleepy eyes as the fire burns low but steady by your side. Take this place with you on your journey. Remember her and tell others of her sacredness. So, when it is needed for us to protects her, there are many whose spirits have met hers and will stand with us.

Please tell us about the cultural insight that inspired the work

We effectively connected with young non-Indigenous people by fixing a problem that was completely out of our remit. But it was one that would authentically give us the platform to showcase what First Nations cultures was truly about, and why it was more relevant than ever before. Low impulse control meant teens struggled to tear themselves away from the endless cycle of online content consumption…. but we had the ultimate Trojan horse. At the heart of First Nations cultures is storytelling designed to connect you to Country. Country is not just a physical manifestation, but it’s also spiritual and emotional. The more connected we are to Country, the more easily we can disconnect from the addictive nature of the virtual world. Dreamy blends ancient traditions, with the latest technology, to help a new generation see the rich value and timeless beauty of First Nations cultures.


Website URL   |   Social Media URL