Well, aren’t you more interested in abstraction too? Clementine says to Patty-Anne
one evening outside the gallery. I simply can’t stand anything that even
tries to be candid, to be saying something, that tries to make a point, anymore.
She sips her Blue Moon from the pub next door. We’d spent all day ripping up Lino and
scraping yellow glue from the concrete floor in the studio and had ended up
in a lethargic argument about the show which, in two days, was supposed to
open, and which we had, to some degree, been installing. The artwork in question
was apparently in response to the climate crisis and the exhibition
text took great leaps, expounding upon the artists journey, the research, the process,
the books read and referenced, the materials (recycled, foraged, found in skips, bought).