I have cut my hair and moved my desk. All in all, it is the end of a year. As it should be.
In transit work station/Monday
Work spaces here at BIG are everywhere. I take notes on the back of my shopping list, ask my son to remember a story, steal snatches from the studio to follow a new flock of birds for a secret second. All in quiet flight. Lilly learns to turn off her iphone in the Sydney night, to ignore the words I send her at my midnight and her 3am. She sends me fragments of days I never see and I write to drawings of hers that are still in the dreaming stage. We share ideas like water. We still have not met. It has been twelve years since we sat on the doorstep of Tasmania. Our sudden shared workspace takes us both by surprise. It is driven. She completes a commission on the weekend, and so we swap stories of deadlines and showings and exhibition openings. Fleetingly. There is not time to answer the questions asked of each other. Not even regarding BIG. We are so much in the work of it, of this BIG thing. That is all our time allows. And so we work.
Tonight, cities are moved around me and new countries are created in rooms of the same house. A series of ancient wooden ducks emerge in a box inherited from my Great Aunt Jacque, a researcher and keeper of histories. I sit in transit and virtual travel, riding on the back of birds and waiting for pigeons to return with news of the world while I ribbon presents away behind whispers of christmas and change.