A selection of explorations in the visual, sculptural and decorative arts, this gallery is representative of my (client driven and personal) travails while also showcasing my skills and interests roughly between 2005 and 2015 –excluding music, voice, poetry. There is no statement of professional intent. There is no pretention. They are simply witnesses to my presence and my curiosity. Testament that I have given myself permission to investigate the world in which I live and the materials that touch me.
I tend to work layers of texture, weaving and interlocking, negotiating and arranging. And I seek always to discover how different tactile histories communicate with each other, symbiotically or imperially. The spaces they need, the spaces they take, how loudly they walk with a big stick. Always, the response of the hand that looks, tenderly invoking our human condition of labour. The eternal returns of the same and the trance that ensues when we are busy doing the same thing again. Like weaving or sewing or tying knots. But also clearing out the lint in a dryer, rubbing down domestic surfaces, chasing dust bunnies in the corners of solitary rooms. An ode to the domestic.
Repetition is a leitmotiv. Colour echoes are reminders. But mostly the thick descriptors expressed in materials whenever they can disturb our contemporary surfaces –ever more screen like, glassy, flat, smoother, slicker, forgettable– these thick material descriptors console me. I discover that I can do less and less without them. I like mess and tangles, they grow on me.
And now there is a desire for collecting and displaying, gathering and tending, all necessary to the creation of a relationship with traces…trace memories. Not in the head, but in the hand. I experiment, I beg, I engage and I often, more and more, just stuff things into my pockets, feeling somewhat like a thief or an eccentric old woman prepared even to collect wrinkles.
I clutch at the distresses of a material life. Dust, lint, selvedge, rough edges, earthy clay, clumped soil, petals and leaves and prickly stems growing longer. Tensile qualities and disagreeable surprises. Like the feel of a spot of dried sauce fallen accidentally on a silk blouse. Or a quilting needle pricking the skin of a finger. Then of course stones, pebbles, broken glass, splintered wood, cut hair, fake hair, yarns and threads, buttons and coins, an abandoned nest. Pollen when I can get it. Butterfly wings and fuzzy dead bees, husks of chestnuts, pits and seeds and samares.
I touch, but am being equally touched. They are things animate.