I’ve been shuffling around a certain something in the work. I’ve been glancing at things in the corner of my eye. The stitches haven’t quite caught it and neither has my pencil.
This evening I look back through this sketchbook I have already titled “LOVE IN DANGEROUS PLACES” and I catch a glimpse again and follow it… I turn the pages slowly. It is caught between the pages and lies beneath the drawn lines and between the written words. It is sat there and I recognise it. It is in the liminal. It is in that infinitesimal space between the parent and child, the hand and face, the skin and clothes. It leaves its mark, the attention given by one to another. We crave it. It is what we live for in our small packs. If we are fortunate, it is love and affection and a sense of belonging. But sometimes love exists in dangerous places.
…and that precious, violent attention sits waiting on the threshold between sweet anticipation and bitter dread.
The marks left are both golden and bloodied.
