The Visitors 2021
Steel wool installation with text
A shaft of light reflected off the steel wool that plugged the gap between the oven and cupboard. There was a natural pause in the voices on the radio as the programmes transitioned from Monday’s to Tuesday’s schedule. For a moment I cherished the silence. I’d been forced into nocturnal living to coincide with my uninvited guests. I needed to be on high alert with them around. I felt compelled to stay in the kitchen as much as possible to keep track of where they had been. Like burglars, they had robbed me of my security and made me highly sensitive to extraneous sounds. Across the yard my neighbours were dormant. The curtains were drawn, the lights were off. In the stillness I sat down at the table, about to savour my dinner. The warming fragrance of homemade chilli filled the air.
It began with one or two, mostly spotted at dusk or when the outdoor light was triggered by the motion sensor, but as winter drew in, whole families started to inhabit the yard. Their pointed noses sniffled amongst the plants and their long tails dragged behind them. I followed their movements closely. Their paths were invisible lines of germs, rather like slug trails.
I awoke suddenly, disturbed by an unfamiliar sound from the cupboard under my sink in the kitchen. A cross between shuffling and scratching. I crawled out of bed and crept along the corridor, my heart pounding quicker with each step. With nothing untoward in sight, I tiptoed to the cupboard. The noise faded. I stood motionless and listened. The scraping recommenced. It reminded me of the sound of my colleague concentrating, rubbing her acrylic nails against her desk. Not a wholly unpleasant sound, but unnerving. My heart quivered and I noticed how my usually dry hands were clammy. I kicked the cupboard door. A frantic pattering sound came from behind, moving from left to right and then fading. I remained in the kitchen on tenterhooks.
Within minutes the noise returned, this time amplified, as if there were more lurking behind the doors. Underneath the cupboard there was movement. A grey tip emerged from the gap between the cupboard and the floorboard, and I yelped. A shadow shifted from left to right. Two tiny black shiny eyes met mine.
Such sightings became frequent over the following few days and weeks. They expanded and gained the confidence to roam around the room. They dominated. Gnawing was detected from behind the fridge. My cooking and eating space soon became my living and sleeping space too, although the extent to which I was able to be vigilant and rest, was questionable.
Alerted by some disturbance, I witnessed an infant squeeze through a gap by the washing machine. As it ran across the kitchen it stepped on a sticky mat and paused in its tracks. Watching it struggle was distressing. With each wriggle, the glue got a stronger hold on its fur. Eager to end its torture, yet disgusted by what I was about to do, I approached the mat cautiously, arm in a bin liner. I had a plan. I would attempt to scoop the mat into the bag and flip it inside out avoiding any contact with the squirming flesh. Another infant scurried out of the same hole and padded straight onto the trap, joining its pal. The glue did not have the same hold on this one, so it was able to thrash its body round more vigorously. I feared that it would escape. The mat jolted as the two bodies tried to flee from the grips of the adhesive. They began to squeal, and I took a deep breath. I had to be quick.
My sweaty hand stuck to the inside of the plastic bin liner. I bent down only to jump back in shock as a third monster approached the scene. As the other two were covering most of the mat, the latest addition, a much bigger specimen, did not come into much contact with the glue. Instead, it clambered over the two bodies, which suddenly summoned all their might to detach themselves from what they were stuck to. I gasped. Retrieval of all three would now require a different approach. As the mat shifted on the floor, I put my second hand in the bin liner and shovelled them into it.
Eventually I discovered their entry point. Their gateway to the hotel that was meant to be my home became an opportunity for my freedom and their demise. Blocked with coarse steel wool and sealed with oodles of expanding foam, the hole was no longer a viable route in. With every other nook and cranny sealed, stuffed, or covered, my hope of a return to my previous, undisturbed life was reignited and finally I reclaimed my home.
In parallel, I was invited by Melinda to make work in the barn, (also her studio). I seized the opportunity to be invigorated by a new environment and gain a better understanding of the rural context. My love of nature and the outdoors was stimulated. I found nests amongst the rafters, the pigeons cooed and the spiders happily spun webs. My senses were stimulated by the different surroundings and a quiescent part of me was awakened.
Yet I felt a sense of unease. An insecurity. I felt an intruder, an outsider who was disturbing the ebb and flow. In an attempt to make myself more comfortable, I disappeared into the vast expanse of fields and submerged myself amongst the blades of long grass. I climbed over and buried myself within piles of rubble. I eroded the land beneath my feet as I explored the locality on numerous walks. When I returned to the barn, I immersed myself in a process of drawing. Using steel wool, I mapped the pathways between the bricks, mended the gashes in the aging walls, and filled the voids created by wear and tear. In this meticulous activity, I found a way to belong.
Steel wool installation with text
A shaft of light reflected off the steel wool that plugged the gap between the oven and cupboard. There was a natural pause in the voices on the radio as the programmes transitioned from Monday’s to Tuesday’s schedule. For a moment I cherished the silence. I’d been forced into nocturnal living to coincide with my uninvited guests. I needed to be on high alert with them around. I felt compelled to stay in the kitchen as much as possible to keep track of where they had been. Like burglars, they had robbed me of my security and made me highly sensitive to extraneous sounds. Across the yard my neighbours were dormant. The curtains were drawn, the lights were off. In the stillness I sat down at the table, about to savour my dinner. The warming fragrance of homemade chilli filled the air.
It began with one or two, mostly spotted at dusk or when the outdoor light was triggered by the motion sensor, but as winter drew in, whole families started to inhabit the yard. Their pointed noses sniffled amongst the plants and their long tails dragged behind them. I followed their movements closely. Their paths were invisible lines of germs, rather like slug trails.
I awoke suddenly, disturbed by an unfamiliar sound from the cupboard under my sink in the kitchen. A cross between shuffling and scratching. I crawled out of bed and crept along the corridor, my heart pounding quicker with each step. With nothing untoward in sight, I tiptoed to the cupboard. The noise faded. I stood motionless and listened. The scraping recommenced. It reminded me of the sound of my colleague concentrating, rubbing her acrylic nails against her desk. Not a wholly unpleasant sound, but unnerving. My heart quivered and I noticed how my usually dry hands were clammy. I kicked the cupboard door. A frantic pattering sound came from behind, moving from left to right and then fading. I remained in the kitchen on tenterhooks.
Within minutes the noise returned, this time amplified, as if there were more lurking behind the doors. Underneath the cupboard there was movement. A grey tip emerged from the gap between the cupboard and the floorboard, and I yelped. A shadow shifted from left to right. Two tiny black shiny eyes met mine.
Such sightings became frequent over the following few days and weeks. They expanded and gained the confidence to roam around the room. They dominated. Gnawing was detected from behind the fridge. My cooking and eating space soon became my living and sleeping space too, although the extent to which I was able to be vigilant and rest, was questionable.
Alerted by some disturbance, I witnessed an infant squeeze through a gap by the washing machine. As it ran across the kitchen it stepped on a sticky mat and paused in its tracks. Watching it struggle was distressing. With each wriggle, the glue got a stronger hold on its fur. Eager to end its torture, yet disgusted by what I was about to do, I approached the mat cautiously, arm in a bin liner. I had a plan. I would attempt to scoop the mat into the bag and flip it inside out avoiding any contact with the squirming flesh. Another infant scurried out of the same hole and padded straight onto the trap, joining its pal. The glue did not have the same hold on this one, so it was able to thrash its body round more vigorously. I feared that it would escape. The mat jolted as the two bodies tried to flee from the grips of the adhesive. They began to squeal, and I took a deep breath. I had to be quick.
My sweaty hand stuck to the inside of the plastic bin liner. I bent down only to jump back in shock as a third monster approached the scene. As the other two were covering most of the mat, the latest addition, a much bigger specimen, did not come into much contact with the glue. Instead, it clambered over the two bodies, which suddenly summoned all their might to detach themselves from what they were stuck to. I gasped. Retrieval of all three would now require a different approach. As the mat shifted on the floor, I put my second hand in the bin liner and shovelled them into it.
Eventually I discovered their entry point. Their gateway to the hotel that was meant to be my home became an opportunity for my freedom and their demise. Blocked with coarse steel wool and sealed with oodles of expanding foam, the hole was no longer a viable route in. With every other nook and cranny sealed, stuffed, or covered, my hope of a return to my previous, undisturbed life was reignited and finally I reclaimed my home.
In parallel, I was invited by Melinda to make work in the barn, (also her studio). I seized the opportunity to be invigorated by a new environment and gain a better understanding of the rural context. My love of nature and the outdoors was stimulated. I found nests amongst the rafters, the pigeons cooed and the spiders happily spun webs. My senses were stimulated by the different surroundings and a quiescent part of me was awakened.
Yet I felt a sense of unease. An insecurity. I felt an intruder, an outsider who was disturbing the ebb and flow. In an attempt to make myself more comfortable, I disappeared into the vast expanse of fields and submerged myself amongst the blades of long grass. I climbed over and buried myself within piles of rubble. I eroded the land beneath my feet as I explored the locality on numerous walks. When I returned to the barn, I immersed myself in a process of drawing. Using steel wool, I mapped the pathways between the bricks, mended the gashes in the aging walls, and filled the voids created by wear and tear. In this meticulous activity, I found a way to belong.