What is a picture without its thousand words?
What is structure without its fabric?
What is left when we no longer remain to remember?
I always say the idea of an artwork hits me in the back of the head and it is some time before I understand it. I suddenly need to cut up men’s trousers, leaving only the seams, to build a memory net for Bevan’s abandoned photos. Did the test run today and happy with the results. Yeah I’m weird.