Statement

On a screen, the first reaction is often: how beautiful. That's fine. It's a first meeting.

In front of the actual work, something else happens. People step closer, step back, tilt their heads. Sometimes they ask if they can turn it. And then the questions come. What is it? What am I supposed to see? I see a bird. Is that right?

My answer is usually: that could well be.

I don't say what it is anymore.

Every work begins with something real that I photographed, at home or outside. Later I turn, mirror, shift colour, remove things, bring others forward. Somewhere along the way, the original subject loses its grip and something else starts to appear.

At my first exhibitions I would tell people what I had photographed when they asked. You could see the uncertainty leave their faces, and then the work was filed away. When I explained what a work meant to me, much the same happened: polite interest, and the attention was gone.

So I stopped.

Some people find that interesting. Some are a little put out. Some keep trying, offering one interpretation after another, hoping I'll confirm one. I don't, because the not-knowing is where it begins.

As long as you don't know, there is a chance to let go of the mental itch to name something and simply look. Underneath that is sensation and feeling. Sometimes, further still, there is a moment when you are just there with the work. You only notice it afterwards. The moment you realise it, you're already out.

I know that moment from making work, but also from skiing, tennis, or simply being with someone. Attention becomes complete for a while. There is nothing to solve.

There is no right answer to what you see. What you find has to do with you, with your own history. The moment you recognise something, the image may slip away again.

That space between recognising and not knowing is where I want the work to stay.