Walking along the busy road the whoosh of passing cars stirs the air and diesel fumes catch in the back of my throat. I turn hurriedly off into the woods. Everything falls – the light, the temperature, my heart rate. It is hard to write about this place, this space that is chaotic, dense, awkward. A little like the inside of my own head. Perhaps that is why. In the city the movement, conversation and striking juxtapositions of buildings and people allow for a deflection of the self. Here it is me and the trees and the undergrowth and the burn. Here is a language I have not yet grasped save the odd tourist phrase – ‘It is very green’, or ‘Where is my car ?’ So I fear it might take some time of coming back, of not just seeing, but being, here in this difficult space and, in the meantime my paintings and drawings will tell their own side of the story.
Mixed media on paper – 150cm x 65cm