She was dying – actively dying in that room – that horrible room in the Medicaid-funded, locked dementia facility. Jail really.
I am weaving a basket that will hold you. Year by year I build it up, connecting each year’s strand with only two knots…
I haven’t cried, really cried for a
thousand years, since everyone died
and left us glistening at the bus-stop,
hemmed in by the mobile phone adverts.
Orb of golden petals
Around a darkened eye,
You look up to the heavens
And watch the sun pass by,
Ten years ago today
The sky was just this clear
In Dorset, as we drove –
Hearts soft, raw-opened from the nurse’s call –
To sit with your last breaths.
This drawing is a self portrait of me merged with my own death.
Cast sculptures in Wax, Coal, Bronze, Resin, Copper
My mother died today
Tears shed but
don’t grieve for me
Translating from Latin as “Remember to live, remember that you must die”, this saying describes the fascination with death and afterlife in the Victorian Era.
This piece is about love and loss, joy and pain, life and death, and the cycles of human emotion.