I made a shape against sky on flat land like a cut in the weeds, but I got bored and didn't finish. Concrete surfaces need support, and my illness made calculations difficult, shadows fell like hinges on erasures. This site is riddled with plastic wood panelling, plastic ducks and discarded coach lamps. The iconography doesn't ethically correspond to its cut up and eroded state. I make something which as it changes and falls apart, offers no clues to itself before, as if all shots were mobility frames.
Small daisies grow in the cut, preserving the shape.
Physical significance becomes an area lacking objects, a changing surface as limit, like the surface and mass of a lake. Nothing was completed, but there are a lot of sketches. Gilding was decoration, irrelevant to her private space. Now, when my work expresses loss or failure, I no longer say, get rid of that.