I wrote this piece 5yrs ago, and whilst the artist hasn’t changed her slap dashed typo and run ways, she certainly survives… THE CHURN I am endlessly twitching art into tight spaces- it copes- it survives and in some ever learning and growing way thrives in the dark damp tight places. Like moss and butcher […]
A flood churns, rips, overwhelms. Under the pulse of a false tide, one that froths at the edges. A drunk man churns, rips, threatens. Under the pulse of a false tide, one that froths at the edges. It, smothers life’s detail making the world invisible. He, smothers his wife’s detail to make her fear visible.