Minna Leunig On Art, Activism And Australia’s Best Hikes
Minna Leunig is an artist living and working on Larrakia Country in Darwin.
Her paintings and murals celebrate the untamed, the interconnected, and the gloriously alive—bold silhouettes and instinctive lines carving out a world where animals and humans are equally wild: tangled in a writhing symphony of mischief, sensuality, humour, and resistance. When she isn’t making art, you can find Minna as outside as possible, always hiking and soaking up nature. She is the epitome of stopping to smell the roses in a person and we chatted to her about her art, activism and outdoor recommendations.
Give yourself an introduction. Who are you are in a nutshell?
I’m a visual artist originally from country Victoria, now based in Darwin on Larrakia Country. I make paintings and murals that often centre animals and plants, inspired by the wild places and people I encounter. My work tends to walk the line between playful and eerie—and seems to be spiraling deeper into rogue territory by the day. I’m increasingly interested in using my practice to support and speak to the things I care about—like community, land, and the living world. At its core, my practice is about staying connected to place, the untamed, and to spirit. Outside of painting, I spend a lot of time outside—hiking, camping, swimming. I like being in places where art, music, and meaning overlap. I’m drawn to things, places and people that feel alive, a bit chaotic, but full of heart.
When you’re creating a piece, are you listening to music? Inside? Outside? Tell me about your setup:
Because I live in Darwin, I usually paint my canvases inside—I’ve got a home studio, and that’s pretty essential in this heat. But when I’m working on murals, I’m out in the elements. I’m almost always listening to something while I work. For the most part, it’s music—hip-hop, soul, funk, disco, blues, electronic, and a bit of jazzy fusion. I also love podcasts—some political, some more lighthearted and conversational. I like having something in my ears to keep me in rhythm.
Where do you consider home? Does this have an impact on your art?
I have a few different homes. The place that made me is the Strathbogie Ranges in North East country Victoria. I grew up on a bush property out there—about 20 minutes from the nearest small town. It was a simple, quiet, but wild start to life, full of time, space, and natural beauty. That place runs deep in me. It shaped how I see the world, what I value, and how I move through life. I carry it with me everywhere I go, and it shows up in everything I make. I really honour those roots—they’re a big part of who I am.
I also spent about ten years living in Melbourne, mostly in the inner north. It’s deeply familiar and a great city—full of memories, old friends, and family.
But Darwin is the first place I’ve chosen entirely for myself. I didn’t move here for work, family, or a partner—it just resonated with me. It brings together a lot of what I care about and value, and it’s had a big influence on how I live and make work. Darwin feels like home for now. Though ask me again in the build up.
Do you consider your art as activism?
I’m not sure I’d call myself an activist—at least not in the traditional sense. I usually think of activists as people doing direct, on-the-ground work, and I’m not sure that applies to what I do. But I do think that every creative decision I make is shaped by the things I care about—what I think is worth protecting, highlighting or supporting. I’ve worked with groups like Defend the Wild, Bob Brown Foundation, and WAH-WAH because I respect what they’re doing, and I try to align myself with projects that are as in line with my own values as possible.
That said, I’m not perfect or here to hand out scorecards. Everyone’s operating under different circumstances and pressures, and I’m not interested in being puritanical. I just try to move through the world with as much awareness as I can.
Can you tell me about the animal symbols you use in your work and what they mean to you?
A lot of the animals I paint are ones I spent a lot of time around growing up—kangaroos, echidnas, cockatoos. They were part of my daily life and frequent wanders through the bush. I’ve been drawing them for so long now that they’ve become my own personal brand of visual language—like friends I carry with me.
Some creatures, like the crocodiles, came later—I didn’t grow up with those, obviously—but I’m absolutely enamoured by them. They’re prehistoric-looking beasts that feel completely out of time. Honestly, the fact that they even exist was almost enough to convince me to move to Darwin (which is a deranged reason to relocate, but here we are).
Then there are the more mythical creatures—human-animal hybrids, or dog-like beings with wings. I started drawing them like that intuitively, and I think it’s because I see both animals and humans as magical beings—more than just bodies moving through the world. These ones are slightly off-kilter, a bit wild, more spirit than flesh. In many ways, I often feel like I’m painting unhinged alter egos. Self-portraits, if you will. Painting them feels like tapping into something primal and internal, something playful and a little dangerous, but full of eros—life force energy. I’m painting to express a powerful feeling I can’t quite put into words, something that exists both in the land and in all living things.
A lot of your art is in earthy tones and colours - is that intentional?
I’m definitely drawn to a palette that is typically described as earthy. But I also use a reasonable amount of bright colours—particularly vivid reds and oranges—which are technically earth colours too. Once you start really paying attention to the natural world, you realise how outrageous it actually is—it’s full of lime greens, turquoise blues, hot pinks etc. I don’t necessarily use all those colours myself, but I like knowing they exist. It reminds me that earthiness isn’t always muted—it can be loud too. Nature’s not always subtle. If you’re paying attention you’ll realise it’s actually camp as fuck.
Stalking your instagram I see that you go on a lot of hikes, I’m kind of interested in getting into it, do you have a favourite hike that you would recommend?
Hiking’s one of my favourite things to do—both solo and with friends. I’d recommend the Larapinta and Jatbula trails in the Northern Territory. They’re both pretty dramatic in terms of landscape and feeling. I’m in love with the NT—from the Red Centre to the lusher, more tropical landscapes closer to Darwin.
Tassie’s also incredible. The Overland, Three Capes, or Maria Island if you want something chill and full of blonde wombats. It’s well set up for hiking, which makes it feel accessible.
The Victorian High Country is also magic in summer. The Bogong High Plains to Mount Feathertop loop is a personal favourite. Some climbs that will have you questioning yourself, but that’s part of it. Just don’t do it in winter unless you’re built different.
The Flinders Ranges in SA are also close to my heart. There are some dreamy day hikes out there—Yuluna Circuit and Wilpena Pound to St Mary Peak Loop are magic. Lots of red roos and emus. If you lie on your back and bicycle your legs, the emus will approach. Can’t remember why, but I’d recommend giving it a go.
What is the hardest thing about being an artist?
It’s never just about making images. Being a freelance artist means wearing a dozen hats—admin, social media, project applications, invoicing, logistics. You have to manage irregular income, stay motivated without structure, and keep momentum even when you’re not feeling inspired. There’s no guidebook—you’re just figuring it out as you go.
There’s also the emotional whiplash—going from feeling like a genius to wondering if everything you’ve made is garbage. It comes with the territory, and most creatives will probably relate.
Then there’s the shift from making to showing. After months in hermit-mode, you suddenly find yourself at an opening, lit up under gallery lights, standing next to something personal while people assess it. That contrast can be intense.
With murals, the challenge is painting in public. I’ve come to enjoy interactions with passers by—especially when I’m feeling good about how it’s all going. But you’re often on a tight timeline and trying to stay focused, and it can be hard to hold that focus while also being open and present with people. You also have to be okay with people walking past during those first messy stages and thinking it looks shit. Because at that point—it does. There’s a sense of feeling exposed, but you learn how to tune out the noise and hold your own.
Can you tell me about your work/collaboration with the Bob Brown Foundation? And why that is important to you?
I really respect the Bob Brown Foundation. They’ve been doing this work for a long time, and they do it with integrity—especially when it comes to protecting Tasmanian forests. I care about this land and the creatures that depend on it, so joining forces with groups that are actually out there protecting it feels natural. A lot of my work focuses on native Australian plants and animals, and I’m interested in the overlap between art and environmentalism. I think everyone’s got a role to play. For me, that sometimes means lending my art or my voice to campaigns I believe in, or collaborating with people and movements doing real work on the ground.
Where do you see yourself as an artist in five years from now?
To be honest, I’ve never been a five-year plan person. I tend to follow my nose and trust my intuition—it’s always led me where I need to go. Sometimes having a fixed plan can make you less present to what’s unfolding right in front of you. I’d rather stay tuned in to how I feel, what excites me, and what feels aligned in the moment, and let that guide the next step.
That said, I hope I’m still making work that feels true to me. I hope it’s taking me to unexpected places and connecting me with strange, interesting, or really hot people. I’m grateful to be on this path—and hope I’m able to keep walking it until I’m an old woman with a glorious white mane and a small, unruly gang of animals to tend.
Do you think art has the power to change the world?
God, what a cursed question. I mean—yes. It does. But not in some neat, idealistic “art will save the world” kind of way. Art shifts culture. It influences people, shapes how we see things, and documents lived realities. It shows where we’re at—socially, politically, emotionally—in a particular moment in time. Sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes it’s loud. It’s been central to social movements, to revolutions. It’s also how stories have been carried across generations, especially in cultures without written language. I think it’s an essential part of being human. Every culture has had its own forms of art, music and dance. So yes, it changes the world—but more than that, it’s part of what builds worlds.
