About the work

The rust and damp earth linger, not as a smell, but as a felt knowledge, a memory of a particular morning. It’s a contrast to the crisp suit, a kind of counterpoint. The ukulele is played with a precision that suggests it isn't a new pastime, but something worked at, cultivated. And yet, the tangled fishing line speaks to a different kind of effort, one perhaps less successful, less controlled. There is a sense here of disparate selves, all held within the one frame, none entirely subsumed by the others. It suggests the person we are *now* is always a composite of all the others we have been, or tried to be, some of which we are still trying to shed, some we are only just beginning to inhabit. We are never just one thing, but a collection of our efforts, our aspirations, and the persistent tang of the soil we have walked on.