‘…Yet there is a space where small gestures slide into dreams, where the familiar turns. A place of quiet intensity. Where the textures of memory are smooth and white and velvet and blue. Where they absorb into linen and cotton and canvas and celluloid, are a mass of material, shadow and ghost, are as fine as hair, as ephemeral as light, as sharp as pins, as random as discarded thread. Where there is the will to repair and disrepair, to reveal and conceal, to caress and embrace, and to imagine and muse, and to invent and create and to remember and forget, and…’
