Gwennan Thomas

When I was a child, I dreamt of living on the ceiling. I’d lie on my back and swing my legs in the air. I’d imagine walking that blank space with the one bulb upright in the centre, crouching amongst artex waves imprinting themselves onto my skin. The ceiling was everything the floor was not; a blank canvas, no objects (bar the one), a restful place of almost silence, an off white, like putting your ear to a seashell and listening.

First touch to paper, liquid oil sinks and it is colour that shapes that liquidity, more unctuous though, like water against skin, oily. Trying to find an image amongst wavy lines, among the brushstrokes, find something I remember vaguely, like a wave passing through, you throw a net out to sea, see if you can catch something. The net catches the motion of the waves, weaving across, a loose grid.