Once again, Cullinan deplores her perpetual inability to perform in the arena of widely recognised accomplishment. What was once a weekly hiatus, now obliterates the life blood of creation on a heightened platform of acceleration.
Doomed to perpetual handmaidenhood, the artist questions whether this will be a once and for all indefinate definition of self.
It is both tormentor and muse, in which truth, the intimate association of close proximity brings at climax only loss. Humour relates a bitter truth again.
On a practical agenda, options are limited: Continuation on the path leading to self obliteration? Forge a DIY mindset and risk anihilation of a different breed? Or seal onself into closeted hermititude? Here, closet claustrophobia pervades.
