oirae Moss

My work begins with a carved block: one form, exact and unmoving, an anchor for the eye. Everything after that is water. Colour spreads, thins, pools and dissolves at the edges, and I let it go where it is already going rather than argue with it.

Nothing beyond that first form is fixed. Ink finds the cloth on its own terms. The image is not resolved before it exists; it arrives through the printing itself, and the work is to recognise it when it does.

I print onto sacks made to carry grain and cement, and hang the pieces from branches gathered off the ground. Neither was meant to be looked at. Here the sack becomes the canvas and the branch holds it.

The same thing happens to the images. A horse's head runs and becomes stardust. Form gives way, edges fail, a shape comes apart into whatever it becomes next. I have stopped treating dissolution as a loss. It is the condition the work is made under, and increasingly the reason for making it.