The fabric of ‘home’ is fickle. I remember when the word was the evocation of a static filled room, a radio in the corner. I remember when the word was summer, a tepid humidity of light and secret garden places; or winter and a body of dark night safely wrapping the walls and windows.

My memories of home are childish, simple, colourful and yet they have fractured over time. Impositions and imperfections, strangers and strangeness have entered from outside the room and appeared within its depths. Memories expand, dripping out in all directions; they lengthen and diminish across the rock-surface cracks of the walls, picking up dust and detritus, dwelling in the cracks and hardening. What remains is a tactile ideal, crafted with the rough-edged intimacy of the handmade.

 

w.r.turner@hotmail.com