Alice leaned over his small Ikea table, a curtain of blonde hair hiding her expression. He stood at a respectful distance, unsure if she was interested in him or just his art. Her black cashmere sleeve was pushed up to… Continue Reading
He loves bright, cold nights like this. I press my form tight against the shadows as a cloud of rank breath steams into the darkness. The watch-wyverns pause at the alley’s entrance and my heart drops, though I know they… Continue Reading
So, I was talking with several of my artworld clients and acquaintances when one of them, Moll E, a concept artiste and massage therapist, mentioned a frame she had in mind for a painting. The frame would be a life-size… Continue Reading
Deep in the concrete bowels of the Tate Modern, I grow large and choose my form. I become strips of aluminium, curved into arches, then glued together, banded into long cylinders. When I am ready and no one is looking,… Continue Reading