A pool of sunlight on the back wall; a car passes, heading for the village; a single bird chirping outside; Jessie’s footsteps out in the yard; and the ever-present drone of traffic on the A26. The roof creaks and pops now and then, constantly rearranging its component parts. Adjusting, steadying, holding on. Aren’t we all?
Conversations about making, doing, the discipline of practice. The mechanics of the byre. The place, space, rat race. From the banal to the philosophical and back in a blink.
Sitting solid on Noel McCullough’s bench. Firmly in that carved curve of solid tree. Nestled in. Stillness in this space that I’ve created, collated, curated? Standing my ground.
I didn’t consider the vulnerability of showing my work right here. In this place. Among the fields that raised me. In and among. A kind of homecoming.
The door slid closed and locked for the last time. In the coming days, the work will slowly disperse, but its trace will remain.