balfron organ2






balfrontable install






installation ceramics at LONDON, balfron tower, London, 2016










MickeyMouse, ceramic , 30 x 30 x 40 cm, 2014









embryo/maternity allowance, oil on canvas, 100 x 130 cm, 2014
cockeye, oil on canvas, 100x 130cm, 2014







untiteled, oil on canvas, 100 x 130 cm , 2014











'Eye in the Sky', leswin place, london




ROTATINGHEADS, ceramic heads suspended from spinning metal bracket. 2013




vaginablue vaginaflesh
all from vagina series, oilpastels on paper, 40 x 60 cm each approx, 2012









, oilpastels on paper, ,2012







'money', bronze and steel, dim. var., 2011












'Salami', digital prints, 2011






















'head' / ' i still don't know how to dress myself and J.B. is not the ascetic woman she thought she would be but i love this hat

'Kopf' / 'ich weiss immer noch nicht wie ich mich anziehen soll und J.B. ist nicht die asketische Frau die sie dachte dass sie sein wuerde, aber ich liebe diesen Hut'

(head byManuela Gernedel/ hat by Morag Keil), ceramic, 2009













"today was a good day and i don't owe anyone anything"

my play, performed at Maximiliansforum, Munich











everything must go,

Limazulu, London, 2010, with Morag Keil









'84 ', with Fiona MacKay and Morag Keil,Wilkinson gallery, London, 2010










posters for ourtv, with morag keil, chisenhale gallery & swg3, 2010










'Pflanze 1' und 'Planze 2'', ceramic, 40 x 40 x 40cm, 2009





The shadow of your smile

Mild und leise wie er lšchelt

We face each other. Iím paraphrasing, already, but I think it was Nabokov who said something to the effect that by paying attention to an object one ceases to perceive it, seeing instead the thoughts, memories and associations that it evokes. Transparent Things through which the past shines. So yes we face each other, but something holds me back, a familiar refrain, the music of time. Letís dance, I say. I realise I can picture the pattern on your dress but I canít see the expression on your face, and I wonder if I was avoiding it then, or if that pattern is the only key to a moment long passed. Perhaps Iím still too busy looking at the surface of the lake. Itís difficult to fathom what the Starnberger See saw below paradigms of archaeological knowledge which would pale in the face of the pearls of wisdom that were his eyes. We face each other. Day for night, night for day, their botanic majesties recquiesce by a regally appointed tableau. I infiltrate a flat formula of formally geometric factors and contradict its incontrovertible countenance with irrational contingencies. I call this place Ďhome.í Itís not always easy to tell when youíve arrived at where you wanted to go. Perhaps you didnít even have a destination in mind in the first place. Letís go for a walk I say. Where to? You say. Iíll tell you when we get there I say. Several hours later we arrive. Back home, where we started. Where is this place, home? You ask. Somewhere inside the spiralling circles of a tree trunk, you donít know until you chop it down. The agave, for example, takes one hundred years to flower, and then it dies. This is what I mean by home. We face each other. Meanwhile, concurrently, a concatenation of consubstantial strokes connote a continuous continuity, a series of expressive gestures I could have called them, and if I were reading this text for the second time I might have considered that it is only their apparent differences that mark them out as expressive or gestural. I might have noticed that while each is the same, none are identical. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I do. Perhaps we have arrived back home where we started. Perhaps I should read the end bit again, as a gesture. Consider the word gesture. Gesture, gesture, gesture, gesture, over and over and over, it loses its readability, it loses its meaning. Or maybe it simply gains a second nature, as physically it becomes more familiar, so familiar that legibility no longer seems relevant, a subjectivity is produced where the living being exhibits in a gesture the impossibility of its being reduced to this gesture. Within the tree trunk this script, this scrivinery, refuses to speak and spells a spiralling paragon of paradoxical parallax. I follow its dance from chirograph to choreograph as it flourishes within its baroque genealogy, as it devolves into my vestige, my vivacity, my occupation in Agambenís absence. So, you say, where are we going? I told you, for a walk. We face each other, foliage a deux, a recipe for reciprocity. But where is the paradigm? Iíll tell you when we get there. Now it could be that we are caught up in a gyratory gesticulation, and thereís an encircular logic of point and counterpoint as we trace and retrace our steps without repeat. A clock with two hands that never tells the same time twice. Again Agamben agrees a paradigm moves from singularity to singularity and that a gesture is what remains unexpressed in each expressive act, so it could be that this Ďunexpressedí is only revealed by the movement from one petition to its identical repetition, it could be that the gesture is in the difference between the two identical singularities. Distracted by the ornamental, the decorative, the oscillating multiplicity, by the ticking of the clock, by the pattern of your dress, I lost sight of that expression. Verdantly identifying two of the same genus without envisaging the genuine articulation in the constant return from one plant to the other, rather than the echo on the wall that sets the sight unseen. What do we share but the space between us when we find ourselves touching, lost in music, two first person singularities. Itís not always easy to tell when youíve arrived at where you wanted to go, but as I return home I think I can picture, mildly and gently, the shadow of your smile.

text by John Harrington



















propeller island extravaganza, Thureloe Place, Kensington, London, Jan 09














Ceramic horses, approx 60 x 60 x 70 cm each, 2008

















Breadball, ryebread, varnish, polyfiller, gymnasticball, 2007







black bushes, oil on linen, 2007







black kiss




black kiss, ink on paper,80 x 120cm,2007