my hand comes around to grasp, to hang on. Back in my studio it has been difficult to find my way. A head full of voices, all whispering different things… what am I doing? … is this any good?…..recent frenetic activity has left me confused, out of touch with the process in my studio. I think about floods, about ebbing and flowing, about little spheres which are cast off and which we might glimpse, or catch; about feathers which are formed by the trace of a belly, and which might connect two people; about the birthing power of water, and of how we can float, or sink, or drift; about colour and how I long to return to its gloriousness.