Instead of frames drawn or painted, leaving a ‘black’ space inside a frame, I meant leave a ‘blank’ space inside the frame. Blank, being unoccupied, vacant, hollow and not he ‘Hepworth/Moore’-esque opening-up of possibilities and dimensional freedom.
I initially had those frames uneasily and precariously balanced on a nail in the wall, but then I decided to put them on a clothes line. Finished yet incomplete, dripping with static, on a diagonal piece of chord harnessed by hooks to each of the two adjoining walls. You can see through them, and through me. I am washing my dirty laundry (my preoccupations) in public, hung and twisting in the autumnal currents of air drifting in the room. There seems to be no artistic insulation from flotsam and jetsam. Like my days in Leeds, people who weren’t students but living all around us used to have their washing strung out, above the traffic, connected to opposing Victorian terraced houses, yet the clothes seemed to get less dry beneath the elements rather than functioning as a drying process.
My intentions too seem to be failing, and perhaps I might have discovered an artistic cul-de-sac at the expense of actually forming a different narrative. Perhaps ‘art’ is the act of sharing failed intentions that just might connect people to embark on future possibilities. Why not?
I therefore look forward, not back or down.