THE SHEARING SHED.

Limited Edition Print

Print Only. Frame sold separately elsewhere

Size: A3 (297mm x 420mm)

Edition Run: Limited to 50 prints

Details: Each print is signed and numbered in pencil by Jon Zijlstra.

Paper: Premium 240g Trophée linen paper.

Open Edition

Sizes Available: A4 (210mm x 297mm) and A2 (420mm x 594mm)

Details: Open edition prints are unsigned and produced on high-quality standard art paper.

THE SHEARING SHED.

The old shearing shed buzzed with life as the workday began. Dust mites danced in the beams of sunlight slicing through the weathered slats, and the rhythmic hum of the shearing machines filled the air. It was the heart of shearing season, and the shed was alive with the sounds of laughter, banter, and the occasional bleat of an unhappy sheep.

Dave, the seasoned shearer, stood at his station, gripping a large ewe with practiced ease. His singlet clung to his frame, damp with sweat from the morning's work. His movements were fluid and efficient, years of experience evident in every pass of the shearing handpiece. "Keep still, girl," he muttered, gently maneuvering the sheep into position.

Next to him, young Jack, the rookie of the team, wrestled with his second sheep of the day. Jack’s face was a mix of concentration and determination, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead. The older shearers teased him endlessly, but Jack was determined to prove himself. “You’ll be as fast as Dave one day,” the wool handler had quipped earlier. Jack wasn’t sure if it was encouragement or a joke.

By the sorting table, little Ben, the farmer’s son, watched wide-eyed. His bare legs were dusted with wool fibers as he helped his dad pick up stray tufts of fleece. This was his favorite part of the year—being part of the action in the shed, watching the sheep emerge from their wooly coats like new animals. He loved the feel of the lanolin on his hands and the smell of fresh fleece, earthy and warm.

At the far end of the shed, Molly, the wool handler, was working with her usual brisk efficiency. She wore a t-shirt with “Sunbeam” stitched on the back, and her golden hair was tied up in pig-tails. Molly was in charge of collecting the shorn wool, tossing it expertly onto the sorting table, and packing it into the wooden wool press. “This one’s for export!” she called out to no one in particular, patting the growing bale inside the wooden wool press, “Donald’s—The Sandow.”

Old Pete, the shed manager, leaned against the wall, sipping his tea and keeping an eye on the operation. He had spent decades in sheds just like this one, and though his shearing days were behind him, he still loved the rhythm of the work. “Keep those boards clean!” he barked, though his tone was more affectionate than harsh.

As the day wore on, the pile of fleece grew taller, and the team settled into a steady rhythm. Outside, the sheep waited patiently in the yards, their bleats occasionally echoing into the shed. By sunset, the team would gather around a makeshift table for tea and sandwiches, sharing stories and laughing about the day’s mishaps.

For everyone in the shed, the work was hard, but it was rewarding. It wasn’t just about the wool or the sheep—it was about the camaraderie, the sense of purpose, and the connection to a way of life that had endured for generations. In the shearing shed, they were more than workers; they were a team, each one essential to the whole.