Material memory

Sometimes, I think I handle two art practices:

1. The first is a material driven, playful experiment. Something in the physical handling of objects; the way they can be transformed, copied and manipulated. The work that is seen.

2. The second goes on secretly. It happens every moment I'm breathing; it winds its way through the first practice and permeates the everyday. Sometimes it is unknowable to even me.
This practice is my investment in thinking.

That isn't to say that I am not thinking when I physically make work. In those moments, I believe that thoughts become translatable as actions.

But there are still pockets of each 'practice' that remain hidden to one another.


Recently, (for a while now really) I have wondered about our memories.
'Our' memories.
The reality is, I can only ever speak from where I am now, with all the experiences I've had, that some how amalgamate to make me the person I am in this very moment.
I can only speak from my position in history; from the places I've lived and visited; from the cultural heritage that is my own and from the knowledge I've adopted.
I could only tell you what it was like for me; I can only show you - or try to show you - what I dream about at night.

I can only use the word 'I'.
But I am not the first 'I'.

I am because of my parents, and because of their parents, and because of their parents.
I am because of women before me.
I am because of history past.
I am because of the teachers who taught me to read.
And because of the friends who kept in contact.
I am because of every forgotten stranger who smiled at me in passing.

All of these little things that ensure my highly subjective view point.

What is it for me to see an art work?
What is it for you to see the same thing?

Do we even see the same thing at all?