Ink on Paper, 2018.
She sits in her daughter's house. Exhausted. A lifetime should pass her by, but this is cyclical. Everything is on repeat. She takes a small sip of her Turkish coffee, and then sits quietly with her hands in her lap. She misses home. Her country, the familiarity of the language and food. What she'd give for a flight out of Norfolk and into the concrete park by her council flat on the outskirts of Belgrade. Half there. Barely here. She takes another sip.
Ink on paper, 2018.
A Presence. Shifting and moving.
Wrapped and in boxes. Lay into
the sheets,
unwind. Rest your head upon
my shoulder.
Ink on paper, 2017.
Ink on Paper, 2017.
Ink on paper, 2017.
Ink on paper, 2018.
Ink on paper, 2018.
Exhausted by the eyes who watch her. She sits to be seen, left to be thrown away. A forgotten image in a dispensible newspaper.
Ink on paper, 2018.
Ink on Paper, 2018.
Flash back a year. The sun streams across the pavement at Barbican. He lays on the bench. A playwright, contemplating contemplations. He has to squint.
Pen on paper, 2017.
Capture quickly, laughing, we run off and onto the next tube stop.
Ink on Paper, 2018.
Stare at difficulty in the face. Let it wash over you and pass through you as you continue as you are.
Ink on paper, 2020.
Ink on paper, 2020.
Ink on paper, 2017.
Ink on paper, 2017.
Ink on paper, 2017.
Ink on paper, 2017.
Perching on the central line, looking your way.
Ink on paper, 2017.