Dominic Hiatt

Let's cut to the chase. I have no idea what I'm doing here. I'm almost certainly a fraud, but in art there can be no truth so I'm good with that. First and foremost, I'm a man of words and yet language, my tool, is dead. It was beaten to death with a clawhammer by Dylan Thomas mid-20th Century, roughly a third of the way through Under Milk Wood. So here I am, attempting to relay this lamp black unconscious through a tube of Titanium White and a style that could conceivably be labelled 'formless'. It's either that or drink myself to death - and, for now at least, I choose life.

Irrelevant.

None to report. Repeat.