Artist living and working in London.
I enjoy grappling with the easiness with which writing in stone melts into dust. Situating my work in the blurry and wispy lands at the edges of our understanding, I ask: "what?".
You know how it is when you’re inside a cloud and you can see a solid 3 meters in each direction and the air is tangibly soggy.
Usually when you’re up a mountain but once in a blue moon the fog descends upon the lowland city and mythical pantheons become entangled on their descent, reality becomes a little wobbly. Lamp-post tridents and roaring cyclopes from the depths of Stockwell bus garage. The Styx and Thames tinge each-others extradimensional corners and all of a sudden by crossing in a southwesterly direction from Battersea bridge you find yourself in literal hell.
When the cloud creeps back to its atmospheric home urbanity can become caught in its hair, so, being in the mountain cloud can be a troubling experience. A pervasive sense that at any moment someone might emerge from the off-white and ask you if you’d like to help tackle knife crime. Even when the clouds start to dissipate a goat herd can be seen galumphing with a researcher in prosthetic limbs.
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