I spend many, many hours making a case for my art. I use the lightest, strongest materials. The case can be easily opened with fastenings. I stand in a long queue of people bringing their work for final consideration in a major exhibition. The air is curiously quiet for so many whose skill it is to express. We shuffle forward towards the thickening sound of bursting bubble wrap. I hand over my work gingerly, it is placed on a trolley. A moment later I witness the clatter of falling frames against my art.
I ponder on what is mine alone: my pleasure; my pain; my sensory experience; my thoughts; my trust; my hope; my happiness; my sadness; my memory; my being self aware; my love.
Although I cannot prove any of these most important experiences that define me, I can express them and indicate their presence through communication, art, music, and by the way I act.
I feel most vulnerable, most misunderstood, most alone without voice, and so I shout.
I walk in a wood of beech trees in early May close to my home. The wood is full with life, from its carpet of leaf and bluebell, to its canopy of glistening light high above.
As I walk I sense my nature and the nature of others. I sense my story as child and man. I sense myself as small moment of a greater thing that breathes.
This coming together, this interdependence is the 'experience', the inner world of plants.