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Hanging Forms

With the weight of it all, dragged down by the old, our past tangles among us, we are bound to place, and places, the stories that fester and glow among the chaos and serenity alike.

This piece converses with the landscape, taking away snippets of the time spent within it, and parts of it. It is a study, intimate and respectful, into a sample of the Cornish coast, a stretch of liminality between the high and low.

The ceramic forms, coiled by hand into buoy-like things, have been carried down the cliffs of Whitsand Bay, dropped and rolled along the jagged rocks reaching up from beneath the sand, and carried back up before being fired and hung, to be stared at like Goose barnacles in the sun.

Rolling Pots

Traces of us all, and the rest them, or us, again, cling to the landscape, like rot and life. Our language speaks in reflection of the thing we create, physical and conceptual, our stories laid bare in the landscape, where we could observe and respond. Or not.

These 3 pots are engraved with text created by reduction and dissemination of the conversation of the text on the Map print. They, too, consider our understanding and relationship to nature and expand on the way time is often represented, like that of the tidal line as a set line; minutes, hours, days, high and low water; in graphical, geographical, or written form, unconcerned with the change a growing barnacle, rockfall and forming sandbar creates, without the view of the participants and observers recognise. How far removed this necessity is from the reality of dwelling in place, of both the struggle and embrace of those on the edge in such flux.

Coil built, hand carved, printed into sand; these tools leave their own, diminishing trace.

Map Print

We explore. It is in our bones. The language of the coastlines defines our movements, each contour and its refractions focus our attention on what the results will be in the sea. From the surface we read the seabed. From the trees we read the chop. From the sea birds we read the currents. Follow the cormorant.

A non-coast. Yet we understand it. We know the language. Surfers look at the angle of each point, the shape of each bay, and make decisions as to where to paddle out with the day’s wind and swell forecast. They read the land like time to plan their occurrence in these lands, imagining the lines approaching the mass.

Laboriously screen printed in 4 sections with 5 layers, the map uses an imagined landscape to consider our understanding of language; a mix of topographical references, surf culture, and invented symbolism and written language. This is overlayed with an essay by the artist that investigates our entanglement and estrangement to landscape and its myriad meanings.


The Forgotten Corner, Rame, Cornwall.
This is where we orientate ourselves. More or less. 
To live in these places takes a type of commitment; to embrace the dampness that once provided the climate for a band of rainforest spanning the western edge of the UK - the Celtic region. To weather the storms straight off the sea with no land to take the edge off. To be so far removed from any metropolis and the modern culture and financial stability that it can provide. It is a commitment in hand with compromise. A trade for the knowledge of a place. A deeper knowledge. In a way a trade as in the way you allow yourself to be known, your changes in living a reflection of the shifting sand bars, tumbling cliffs, flooded pathways. 
Within is a discussion around this, a map if you will, with no paths, no roads, no attractions, no landmarks, just insinuations of contours, gullies, the middle and the edge, a thing to find yourself or lose yourself amongst a feralness of place, of a corner mostly forgotten.

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