I'm having an exhibition in my flat on October 3rd, so if anyone's in Bath that weekend - come along!

If anyone's in Brighton during May, I have 2 shows: Caroline of Brunswick pub, at bottom of Ditchling Road; and West Hill Hall, compton avenue - this one is every Sunday in May, 12 - 5pm.

These are the works written in the wings (for anyone interested!).
The Affair
Closer than a close shave they tangoed in the lambent night, not listening to the warnings silently given by the stoney stares of gargoyles, or the sad lonely hoot of an owl, far from home. They only had eyes and ears for each other, sweetly saccharin, LAUGHABLE. The dark canals, black deep and stenching, holding secrets and never giving them up, seem to pull them closer, with a sense of melancholy. Weeds cling to ancient buildings, stone worn and discoloured by the constant lap of the water. Once she was a strong-minded, independent woman, harsh views of the world given to her by cruel experience. But now she dances, unashamed, uncaring, just willing to give herself over to instinct. She laughs childlike and feels as free as the bird, whose feathers she craves so deeply. The gold-flecked bird whose beak cannot smile, whose eyes cannot show any depth of feeling or emotion. Yet he can dance in such a magnificent way and she holds him to her chest like a treasure. They walk now, over bridges whose railings gesticulate danger, but her one unmasked eye is downcast, fixated on the amber light which is cast from the moon. Her lashes gleam in it’s reflection, she looks inward. The smell of the canal is ranker here, again hinting at sunken victims and past conquests. It rides up the nostril and is CHOKING, yet she smells only the sweetness of the stench. Her one un-shielded eye looks up to his, but can see only blackness, a so deep chasm which can tell her nothing. But he can fly when he gently flaps his wings. LOOK LOOK, he is so hypnotic. She wants him to carry her away from these dark dark allies. He turns sharply, his sharp beak so close it could cut and break her soft white skin like paper. She laughs again and still doesn’t see the danger, only the excitement and with that farewell to boredom, day to day existence, watching clock faces, going nowhere. Life can never be the same for her now, she can never go back to that monotony. Yet now, can she fly? Will he take her along on those high distant journeys? Can she now achieve those ideals she believed in and craved when once as a small child she dreamed without suppression. Once adult-cursed the dreams began to fade and reality took her, halting her ambition and leaving her grounded and dream-less. But this now, this fated meeting, the coincidence, it must mean something. To be ripped from a mundane life and given a chance to experience magic – the way she’d always imagined it, when her guard was down and her eyes would cloud with daydream. He stretches, his wings gleaming in the streetlight, his beak glinting darkly and his claws clutching impatiently. He takes her tiny waist and rests his chin on her shoulder. They sigh and watch the moon’s reflection flickering gently on the syrupy water. ‘Can we fly?’ she asks, her words echo echo through the deserted buildings. ‘Can we fly?’ she asks, looping the echo and filling the air with her question. He nuzzles closer, ignoring words which for him have no meaning, but enjoying the sound they make in the emptiness. Frustrated she pulls away, needing to be recognized and demanding a reaction. He clasps her wrist, claws scratching, a bead of blood. She shouts, an anger building, unnoticed before but always lurking, existing in the gut and brooding there. As it emerges, her ears begin to acknowledge the sounds around her, the dying echo, the owl, screaming a warning TOO LATE he seems to cry. Her one eye opens fully and behind her mask she sees too darkly. She tears the mask from her face, it falls to beautiful fragments in her hand, feathers float in tiny motes on the air. Her darkened eye clears and at last she sees the signs around her – gargoyles, solemn-faced, water, buildings – deserted. And HIM – fully costumed and terrifying. Her nose clears and she almost FAINTS from the acrid back of the throat assault – stagnant water, pigeon-feather DIRT. She turns to run, but he’s there in front of her, anticipating her every move. The gold is running down his mask, pooling like blood, fake gold FOOL’S gold can’t resist the rain which now pours from the sky, fresh water merging with the stagnant canal. He pulls her closer, every second she gets closer to the sharp beak, knowing now that he will do her wrong unless she can somehow escape his clutches. HOW did I get here? She wails and tears begin at last to pour from her eyes, washing a trail of gold mascara down her cheeks and dripping onto her dress. At the end he speaks, his voice bird-like and weak DIDN’T YOU WANT TO FLY? He laughs, but the sound seems to catch in his throat. Her gold-smeared face is INCH close to his dagger beak when she digs in her heels and they freeze for a second. With all her strength she PUSHES and watches him fall into the canal.
His wings drag him heavily down.