I have a book. An ongoing project. Years now. It holds patterns. Some made from memory, some made memories, others from images, most made from its predecessors, layered and subtracted to create something new. Copulations of patterns, children of each other, incestuous.
Sometimes they are applied to painting. Leaping from the sketchbook as projections. Traced by hand, defects encouraged, manipulating the patterns origins to fit the new landscape.
To save paintings these patterns come as a support team, adding scaffolding to the layers, bridging gaps, filling and creating space, moments, opportunities. Gathering the existing layers under their structures, embracing with their geometric arms.
Added slowly, a game of infiltration. Allowing the layers to settle around their new partners.
Paint and freedoms of movement are added to other canvases. A family affair as she explores her creativity, not holding on to the imagery she diligently paints over her initial image ‘just like mummy’ as it doesn’t matter, she says, I will always paint more.
I talk to her about permanence and temporality, we discuss if things need to last forever, she thinks this is bad as it will go mouldy so it best if we don’t last for ever. But she will miss us when we are gone. A brief hug and she continues to blank out her images with grey paint ‘to help mummy’
