My work is always across media, working ideas through drawing, collage, sculpture, installation and writing. In a practice which is so deeply rooted in process, often questions get asked about planning; How do you plan your work? This show attempts to address that question, in showing the interwoven nature of the drawings, sculptures, collages and an installation piece. There are photos from years ago; small plans or models which reflect forms now realised. There are the remnants of previous installations, materials kept and reused;
I think of the installations as expanded, with lots of space in them. The materials are spread out, finding form in relation to existing buildings or structures. When they are dismantled, they return to the studio and are reworked, compressed into new forms. The sculptures become their final resting place, contained the energy and patina of where they have been previously used.
This show also explored the metaphor of the boat as a means of protection and survival. Often I am asked how life is as an artist, and I always reply “The boat floats”. It has holes, it is battered by storms, and yet it bravely raises a tattered sail and floats, strangely in it’s own self sufficient glory.
It has a dark anchor with a pinking balloon
It drifts determinedly through your painted blue
mass twirling flirtatiously like I have to,
towards cut out pencil marks pouring up and outwards.
It is made of pieces of all of you. Some so long ago I don’t know where to look.
Goat horns will have to do, I think, and a string or two.
Trawling finding the glints among seeming
Absolute rubbish.
It is fragile and strong,
All made up.
an occupation of site which tightens but this is a badly expanding point
this is a body boat I have, I have although I cleaned, ceiled, coaled,
falling with appliances which talk
we build factories
gold ones, rough ones, made from the sea we are we are
trying to make seaweed
I had a hand, you had a cave
I don’t know what you mean
I don’t know what you mean
I want the lot
The shoulders, the dog, the sand, the bust we are broke we are rumbles he says wow then how do you climb and we reply yes, a club, yes, a blanket and still, there is no protection but we talk, we tell, if it was yours I would keep it, keep it , keep it safe
Just here, we are quiet, the machine was dark, and made for pavements
shot me something, feed her guts so small in a palm I can’t keep up
There is a certain frequency
This may be inside you
The world, is the one which does not make its list
Yes. No. Maybe.
Sian Torrington Artist 