My practice is based on developing a language of making that speaks to the culture and accuracy found in nature.
I think with my hands, I know material; I know measuring with my body as a tool as well as a place where topics germinate. I perform making, not to an audience but to create an ensemble who speak in chorus. Composition intrigues, a shape talks to a line about a scribble all with in a frame. The marks began as equal peers but grow up have relationships, sometimes marry, and new things are born. Boarders are crossed communities are formed and movements made, then rubbed out or buried. Sometimes these relationships are visible on a surface sometimes all that remains is my knowledge that they once did like an over exposed photograph, light filters through a window and bleaches the screen.
When objects or materials reach for something other than their intended means, poetry occurs. I take notice of this, this is, in part, what sculpture is to me. My involvement is similar to the embankment of a river. The river flows, and I do not wish to stop this, but I have a need to build on its shores, to live there to enjoy sitting on a bank and washing my feet.
My interest lay’s where things touch. This isn’t ornament. It’s not part of the architecture. I work with my hands, it’s quite simple; I work with my hands to make sense of material. Between object, poetry and utility is a tension, similar to that between drawing and sculpture. The mark of something acting on another is interesting and it is poetry. A chair is a complicated thing, it’s a moment when representation and function collapse into each other, its bisexual and universal, it causes comfort and discomfort. The potential of it as a sculpture is basic, maybe dangerously basic, when you sitting in it is impossible to look at as an artwork and when you’re looking at it you’re not sitting in it.
There are many hinges and points I turn on, gathering knowledge from cross table discussions, making work drunk with instability, drawing until you’re too tired to stand, laying flat on the floor until you’re too cold to breathe. Braking rules having rules break you, twisting outcomes until the lie gets too much, not just seeing but tasting, becoming too involved then leaving it all alone until the next spark. Noticing 3 shadows as you pass 2 street lights, holding a tool, using it badly, breaking the tool and using the broken tool. Cutting, dividing, spreading, layering then cutting again and again. When a drawn line gets built, when a tree grows horizontally, when you trip up on it, Stimulate the image, turn it over and stack it on a ledge, hold on, let go, chase it, always chase it. Forget it, then pick it up and examine it. Release it all, and sober up. That’s what happens when earth fucks with space.
2011 - 2013
Royal College of Art
2004 - 2007
Central St Martins
Letters to Maurice, Foundation and Trust Gallery, London
A difficult pancake, Leighton House Museum, London
Materials and Geometries, East Culture Club, New York
The Fool, Rod Barton, London
Drawing into Sculpture, Griffin Gallery, London
Herman’s Art Barn, Zabludowicz Collection, Salvisalo Finland
Royal College of Art, Show 2013, London
Modern Art Oxford, Oxford
Gallery Primo Alonso, London