I held this as a slab of clay, wrapped up into the shape of a baby. I rocked it, patted a non-existent imaginary sleeping child and walked around clutching it to me. As it tore apart. Breaking under its own weight: wet clay, it does that! I tried to hold it together. I tried to fix it, to make it all alright. But it continued to sink, to fall, to tear itself into anonymous pieces, falling away from the core. I kept each……piling them up, wondering how I could put them back together, how I could salvage it. I put legs on it: ironic really, to imply that it was ‘still standing’ in some way – that it could support itself: this inverted toddler distorted like a long dead corpse. And then, in drying, it became irreparable. It came apart completely, leaving only the legs and a few parts, indistinguishable from each other. It ceased to exist. In the fragile nature of it, which I had been wanting to explore, it became nothing. It literally broke down. The process, the clutching, the trying to hold it all together: that was all that was left.
And that I couldn’t control this….. there was something magical and liberating in that.