Mystery, dawn and death

by Caitlin

The incidental dog

The incidental dog

We came through winter, the air thick, mist rising. I thought it would last forever, that shadows would never pass but only loiter set at one angle indefinitely. Spring has come. The strange time, when worms reveal themselves in writhing jumbles, the soil starts to dry and crack and life comes storming back with a vengence. It’s as if the clocks broke, and suddenly, late at night some trickster ran around reinstalling batteries. Tick tock, tick tock, the rootstock. At the same time, potency of life, the guts of existance hovers. Death is here. Knocking at my window. I don’t deny it, I look at the tawny veiny hand, tracing cracks in the window frame as I drink my tea in the morning. The breeze brings a closeness, everything so fragile. Robust. We die. Don’t we all turn into soil again. Heaving writhing worm soil. No one vanishes, just our form changes. But we are used to seeking out familiar forms. There is something supremely comforting about it. And I will miss you, mysterious and comforting familiarity, when you my dear are gone.

Nan Goldin shoots the wolf

Nan Goldin shoots the wolf

The clearest thoughts often come in the morning. Really early, when I should already be asleep. I lie there pretending that I’m going to sleep, and bam! The switch turns and all these visions come in. At the moment, I’m channeling a lot of ideas and sensations, textural, spatial, embodied, sonic, that I want to feature in the final exhibit of Stories to Wear // Sanctuary. I want the space to be rich, all consuming, disorientating, a place that leaves you lying on the earth. Returning back to stone, dust, dirt and the seed. Quite how it will come together, I’m yet unsure. It has to be organic, without constraint, no preconception. Simply listening to the idea; sanctuary in the natural world, and my and other people’s associations.

A man fishing

A resting man

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