About the work

The pigeon once nested in the rafters of a disused textile mill, a vast, echoing space that smelled of damp wool and forgotten industry. Its parents had chosen the mill for its quiet, its height, and the crumbs dropped by the last squatters who left a year before the roof started to cave. Now it prefers the underpass, the sudden whoosh of air as cars pass overhead, the scattered seeds from an unknown source. It sees the painted walls, but only as different textures of stone, no different from the patterns of moss and lichen on its old home. The thought it carries, the only one that truly matters, is the memory of falling rain on a corrugated iron roof, and the surprising warmth of concrete in the afternoon.