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Tropical Lab

Crowded onto a boat, fleeing terror, the demise of their land, a doing not of their own, the bombs come from abroad as often as the war does. As with others we turn them away, Tupac would not have sent them back, 30 years and we still haven’t changed, the message laid down on tracks back then, played again, again, again, again, the message repeated in different tense, over and over again, becomes hard to discern, distinguish, we struggle to see the patterns through the chaos. This side is bound, the writing on the wall lost amongst the trash as the building tumbles, another death, another massacre, another war, switch the channel for a plastic smile, sell me something prettier, shinier, distract, can my action be inaction, stick with the mass production, be wary of the grasses roots, condemn the hand-built, with it’s fragility it will never prosper, let me be on the winning side, our message is legible.

Rolling Pot

Combination, ways of working coalesce, or try to. Text cut in, deep, peels off like linoleum in a stylistic reflection of the 90's Fat Willy's surf style, a bit punk neon flare Cuneiform, this time with the lights turned out, black and off-white, fresh off the press some hundred years ago. This, mind, not to be buried, a message within the foundations, but to create their own, roll around on the floor speaking into the sand, over and over, the crockery press lays its message in the sand, over, over, over, until left to rest and the sand left to dry out, the message slowly loosing its form, hours, days, months of decay. 

The need for action, interaction, there is a message contained in this vessel, inverted, with an illegible bevel, like a woodblock revealed onto a flat surface as it is laboriously pushed in its arc, controlled pressure into wetted surface, building sandcastles of possible knowledge into the broken down matter.

Pendulum Danger

Like oil the print stark beneath the glistening underside of the dangling form, the faded red chequered text describe a scattered warning, nature screams in my ears and eyes in silence, the human forms stare up from the crevices, an explanation of our own undoing as the rope, taught, threatens to release us into our own effluence, to crack the scattered message below, our understanding to collide with our understanding, a potential cracking of it all.

Faded signal

half submerged 

in ochre grit

Clumps of past

parasitic hold

clinging still

Stinking thread 

binding true

Amongst the old

wreckage of life

Of a massacre

Once with point

discarded by us



Are we that



The sand is too dense where it is worked, continuously, by the tide, compacted into sand bars, good then bad, and around again, for the waves to form over. The hand has to loosen the density to speak back.

Hanging Forms

I have been here before. The glow of the fire inside is always enticing among these winter days when waiting is necessary, waiting is necessary. The wind has still time to calm before the ferry leaves, it is inevitable, Michael pays no heed to the hour but only to tide and weather, he will row when the wind eases or shifts to aide the journey. He sits, comfortable in the crowd, the knowledge of a man of the sea etched onto his face, he knows well that not all prospective passengers will make the voyage, his age allowing a broad view of the perils and an acceptance of loss for those ill prepared.

Essay 2.pdf


The drab pat pat of Takuhon, appears the image, in positive, away from the sea, back into the human comfort of printmaking with ink onto rice paper from exotic places, wrapped in a form of expression from this South West corner. The texture reveals itself like that moody sky on the horizon, unsure of its own existence, or me unsure of my own, rolls over the page, the weave, as it lays down some mottled apparition, a deluge by extension. The surface creases around the form, the clay sucks the moisture out of the paper, loosening the form, the hold, it sags and fidgets as the pad applies the the ink in a pitter patter of my efforts, always effort.

The net of the pot becomes revealed in this process, the arc, a not quite half-circle, inconsistencies open to observation. The loosened paper, wafer thin but strong, becomes like fabric, becomes a shawl, unwrapped and hung like the skin of the being that it was.

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