Drypoint and monoprints based on a year of observation, eavesdropping and recreation of a Penryn that doesn't exist.
Washing dishes is the pivotal allegory for everyday life, and the flâneur is an avid dishwasher. Some seek perfection in a washed up, clean plate - a filtered and unstained porcelain surface to reflect one’s face. Others, like myself, are not interested in the clean plates, but the stained water they emerge from.
We exist as the murky reflection on the water’s surface - floating amongst the rejected pieces of salad and stringy meats, the lipstick residue and saliva-covered forks. It is the abject memory of a good (or bad) time. Washing dishes is a construction and reconstruction of past memories.
Our memory, like the fingers I use to wield and twist the dishcloth, absorb the rejected juices, morphing them into prune-like versions of themselves. My art is the dirty dishcloth.