Becoming a machine
There’s a point in the making process when repetition takes over — when things become patterned, rhythmic, mechanical.
I love when this happens.
It’s like a quiet, slow-moving production line. I can’t tell if it’s mindful, or mindless. I become a machine.
As part of my Receding Tide project, I’ve recently started the prep for a series of small paintings, using scraps of linen and recycled board.
The process of preparing the surfaces repeats itself again and again: cutting the board, cutting the linen, gluing, priming, smoothing the gesso, letting it dry — and then starting over.
It feels good to be in that space where rhythm meets unpredictability.
As the gesso dries, the linen naturally tightens and shrinks, pulling inward so that frayed edges will remain visible on the surface. I won’t hide them.
Those irregularities — the small misalignments, the imperfect edges — feel essential. They record the making; they make the work human. So, I’m not really a machine after all.
I’ve come to realise that those traces are quiet invitation to slow down. When I look at other people’s work, I feel pleasure in discovering a kink or mark that might escape a quick glance — it’s like being let in on a secret.
You can explore more about Receding Tide on my website — and follow along on Instagram for more work-in-progress glimpses and studio thoughts.