I just wanted to write, to you, to introduce myself and to say that I know that you are here.
I have sensed you on the periphery of my place and you should know that I am learning how to see through your veils. Through our veils. A part of my mind colludes to keep you invisible, it relies on my fears, my shame, my ignor-ance, so that I can be numbed in the tightened space and feel the false sense of safety in the squashed corners, in the space where breaths are shallow, where I restrain, refrain and retire whilst you grow in my sleep.
I’m getting to know the mechanisms I’ve used to hide you, to hide myself and to hide the world. I’m writing about them, drawing them, mimicking them in other rooms and inviting people to look and look again. In the forest I learned the ancient art of the senses, of primal aesthetics and the nature of looking and drawing meaning and I brought this art home so that I can bear witness to you.
In my home, our home, there is a clock and it is ticking.
In that tick tock pace I set the part of my mind that colludes with you to perform a task, a task of walking, talking, drawing over and over until it tires in it’s own automation and it’s defences soften. Then I get to see through the veils. I see my own reflection with something beside it. You.
I’ve captured these reflections and I’m sharing them so that other’s might see you too. In public spaces, in private spaces, in exhibitions and online.
It is uncomfortable for me to remain so squashed.