Back and forth.



Ink on paper  – 60 x 20 cm.

My time spent drawing this wood is starting to come to an end. Once I get back from Italy I only have a couple of weeks to get all the images and text ready for the catalogue which I am making with Iain Sargeant and Alan from Fidra . So I am feeling a little reluctant to let go of this space, which of course I will visit again but not in the same way. It is difficult to say how exactly a landscape changes with the intensity of a gaze required to try and articulate what this space is, what it means and how it feels. Over the months this place has become another of my homes, somewhere I have made my own. I have shown some family and friends where I work, but mostly, I have been here alone. I have a slim understanding of how this place works and like a person I understand its moods brought by the seasons and changing weather. This wood has been a friend and I shall miss it .

Get Lost.

In a few weeks time I am off on an artists residency to the village of Collemacchia which lies in the hills between Rome and Naples. It is run by The Museum of Loss and Renewal and I have been invited to come and work. I will be away for three weeks getting my self lost, literally. That is the reason I am going . To walk in the hills all the while watching out for scorpions, exploring what it means to get lost and my response to this. This might involve drawing, writing and film making. How does one get lost ? Do the stories I make enable me to find a way home ? I will try and keep in touch but if I don’t it’s because I am lost – emotionally or in actuality. It will be an adventure and I’m nervous and excited….. Rebecca Solnit writes – ‘ Never to get lost is not to live, not to know how to get lost brings you to destruction, and somewhere in the terra incognita in between lies a life of discovery.’

Bird wing.




It is here, in the smallest of things where a trees breath glimmers, twinkles itself to death. Exhale.  Whats that noise ? Can you hear it ? Its only the wind you say. I raise my face, ready to run headlong, as usual. Giddy. There, see, look up my cushie-doo. Hundreds and hundreds maybe more, bird bones whoosh so close their feathers shiver my skin.

I laugh.