In collaboration with London based poet Tamar Yoseloff. All text © Tamar Yoseloff 2017 all images and soundtrack © Bill Jackson 2017
(from East Wind Drawings Land And Sea)
written by Tamar Yoseloff
The artist waits until the dead hour, when his eyes
yield to darkness. Only now can he draw, the burden
of sight lifted. He rises from sleep, takes a nub of charcoal,
firm and dry between his fingers, hears its churr against paper,
digs a line into the coarse weave.
He wants to be nothing more
than motion, not even a hand, something without source;
he wants to make a mark that doesn’t resemble anything
he knows, no word assigned to it. He wants to draw loss –
like a gush of air released through a long unopened door,
like the way night sucks shape and colour from the chair or rug,
even though he knows they’re still here.
He can’t be certain;
things are unmade in darkness. His body has vanished,
just ticking organs, a funnel of breath. Walls melt away;
the room opens to sky. Faith unravels like a ball of string.