On grounds of warm grey, small storms of colour drift in open space: a bloom of orange, a knot of black scribble, a smudge of pale blue, and threading between them a fine line, sometimes breaking into a run of handwriting in a language that does not exist.
What the work does is intimate rather than loud. Your eye follows that line the way you follow a thread through a dark room, moving from one form to the next, and you find yourself reading a script you cannot read, held by its rhythm even without the words. It is a way of looking at connection, at how people reach across the distance between them. There is tension in the thread, the sense that it could snap, and tenderness in the fact that it holds.
The message is quiet and generous. The writing asks nothing of you but your attention, and in offering itself without meaning it makes room for your own. However far the forms drift apart, the line still finds its way between them.
These are drawings about the space between people and the fragile threads that cross it, and they draw you in until you are part of what is happening on the page.
