No Title.


The image of your face abstracted onto paper by mechanical reproduction.

This object I use is a taunt, a refuge, an unreal hologram at the edge of the universe.


/Smoother/ 


The more I use you for solace, the further your disappearance into that chemical base which apes your image. 


/Reflection/ 


Racing to keep a place that reminds me of times past sucks me in deeper, 

compressing the neuro/pathological daily time travel. 


/Dissolve/


Do you see what I see?

Employing new technology with old, mixing hand making with digital design can blur the boundaries of abstract creating, removing the creation and my vision of it into an abstract place as well as design. Thinking about how I use these media to represent research and thought is interesting and representative of subjectivity and presence, perception and intention.




Daisy and the girl.

The pressed copper ceiling traced lines of shadow into the room, the two single beds pushed together were covered with candlewick bedspreads of slightly differing colour, one pink and one coral, they felt smooth and warm as summer lingered. On the end of Daisy’s bed was the book that seemed to both fascinate and disturb her recently, it was given by a man in suit that came to the door promising some kind of liberation, right now she cried. Her censure of the young girls possible future life was definite, a warning of non repetition to be heeded lest she suffer the same inescapable issue. The girl was sad that her grandmother cried but in equal amounts perplexed and a seed of determination was sown to never cry and never be like Daisy, but only when she was like this. The girl loved her and thought she might like to at least be able to sing her child at bedtime and laugh like she did, hoping to bring home the smell of the outside evening air and red Rimmel lipstick after the Bingo, what was so bad? 


Daisy left the room to confront the ongoing ordeal of inescapable issues that Dave did not need to hear about. The girl traced the embossing on the orange book, her finger moving off onto lines between the wicking on the bedspread while she looked out of the window at Sam sitting in his deckchair out front.


Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do.

I’m half crazy

All for the love of you.

It won’t be a stylish marriage,

I can’t afford a carriage.

But you’ll look sweet,

Upon the seat,

Of a bicycle made for two.




Using Format