A library. Of things found. In the woods where I walk and draw. Objects that offer clues. Evidence of home. A pigeons skull, lichen, beech nuts and peoples things, their cups and saucers lie broken amongst stones. I am searching for finds. I carry them home in a Fair Isle tammy, a nest of vulnerables making sense of a place. Breakable, overlookable. An archive, catalogued, photographed, stored for now in a small cardboard box that once housed five rolls of half inch wide masking tape.


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