Text by Christina Collins
In fairy stories, the colour of white is always evoked with snow. This is not a fairy story.
The colour of the sky before snow – that hard white defined with irrevocable lines dividing its looming presence from a cold earth; a white smeared with grey, an oppressive white which is the absence of colour and life – they are this white.
They are not the softness of silk. They are ruffled, used, scored and yet smoothed over in the potential of their beauty, or to lessen the obscenity of their abnormality.
Sprouting like a revelation, or the God Pan’s sick joke; wings from my shoulder sockets, where other people have arms.
Series of etchings created as part of a collaboration with a writer. 2008.