February 10, 2014 § Leave a comment



This is me with 3am feelings and intense dreams about the life and desires of a 19 year old horse rider living in the 1940s Lithuanian tablelands.

I want to be there, on a spit between sea and tidelands. The dream also saw me pushing a chair and trying to thread a burnt out lightbulb. The cliffs of the tablelands were dark rock cascading to the sea. In one part I saw the men in a game of horse-riding, maybe polo, played on the smooth flat grass. I saw a map, an atlas opened with the long lines of cliffs skirting around the very tops of the earth. The 19 year old should not have been riding, she was a woman. You could tell though by the dirt on her leather boots… scuffed slightly. I was changing the light in the hallway of a university.

I have been feeling down lately and I am not sure why. My show opens 21 May and I am speaking to the two lovely artists who will write some words for a catalogue. Trying to tease out of myself a lot of answers. I will be in Iceland in November I know that. What else I know.


ég er hreiður og hellir

March 13, 2013 § 5 Comments





Am I so cautious? I dreamed I was a beast, covered in hair, and I slept in a nest of hair. Then I awoke, thrashing about, and outside the top of the mountain was covered by a dark cloud. Up on the top, on the flat table of rock that is the peak, my hair bristled and shook at the dawn.


February 24, 2013 § Leave a comment


I have a lot of rebuilding to do. Dealing with my own negativity and fear, become more driven, positive, use my time well, work. Then to be better for others. Be truthful, respectful, loving. Build people up. Dont let my fear control or dictate how I interact with others. I had a bad dream last night that made me think a lot about how I want to be as a person in love and how I will be remembered by others – in this life or the next. That I want to move people, touch their hearts, but never scar them. How I can ask for forgiveness but can never expect it.

I want to walk along this jetty with you and sit at the end of it and tell you my fears and my dreams, and I want to hear yours. Look you in the eyes, hold your hand and be present with you.

I have a lot of rebuilding to do, and I am not too proud.

Talk to me about caves

January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

Cave of Forgotten Dreams by Werner Hertzog. WOW. I started to tear up. I got so many rushes to the words of Anne Carson and Henri Bergson, Maybe also Jean Luc Nancy. The space between things, the inevitability of propelling yourself toward a surface. Traces. Monsters, the driving arrow, forging rivers. The eyes staring back. And the sounds buried within pictures. Always the sounds.

“Let us imagine the unimaginable, the gesture of the first imager. He proceeds neither at random nor according to a project. His hand advances into a void, hollowed out at that very instant, which separates him from himself instead of prolonging his being in his act.But this separation is the act of being. Here he is outside of self even before having been his own self, before having been a self. In truth, this hand that advances opens by itself this void, which it does not fill. It opens the gaping hole of a presence that has just absented itself by advancing its hand.” -Jean Luc Nancy, Painting the Grotto, pg 75

Here I think of Bergson, describing the body at the edge of motion, “the body as an ever advancing boundary between the future and the past, as a pointed end, which our past is continually driving forward into our future.” – Henri Bergson Matter and Memory, pg 78

“A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.” – Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse

Inevitability, estrangement. The distance between you and other things. The impenetrable distance, even as close as you can get you can never, truly touch something else, only hover or rest against in millions of a millimetre thicknesses. the space between you and me, between me and a mountain, between the past and my own self; already advancing.

“Time isn’t made of anything. It is an abstraction. Just a meaning that we impose upon motion.”

“Meanwhile music pounded / across hearts opening every valve to the desperate drama of being / a self in a song.” – Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse

Fears are often very ordinary.

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