My itchy feet and restless head have lead me on many a move. Each time the box of old notebooks gets heavier and harder to reconcile. Why keep them? If my words are kept bound up by calcified rubberbands and mould spotted ribbons - do they actually exist? Or are they just black scratches on pages waiting to rot?
I began posting to Instagram - some old, mainly new - to give these choked words some fresh air.
collaboration with 3yr old texta artist Eadie Workman
Scotch + old friend needing lover = me prepared to forgo creative development planning for one night.
Whiteboard markers and mirrors - possibly a greater match than blue cheese and ripe pear (big call)