My work is memory.
It is my heritage, and yours. It is the story of our industry that once stood
proud and gave rise to the North. It is the story of the decline of our
industry under the hated Margaret Thatcher. It describes what I feel about my
life. It describes what you feel about your life. It wanders through walls. It
wanders through words. I wonder why it wanders in the way it does.
My practice hides.
It threatens to spill out what you are keeping in. It lets out the secrets from
the hospital wards. It holds a mirror to reality. It says things you don’t
like. It says the things I didn’t like. But most of all it hides. If you look
deep enough you can catch a glimpse.
My practice is
black. Oh, and sometimes it’s red. It is deep lines, black lines, scratched
lines. Ink. Pencil. Charcoal. Acrylic. Sweat. Blood. Tears. Exasperation. All
in every piece, for you to pay a cursory glance, if I’m lucky, then swing on.
My practice is not
happy. Neither is it unhappy. It’s how it is. It’s real life.
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