If you sit still long enough
you will understand we’re never really stopping.
Everything inside me churns and escalates,
makes a pattern of tight blanket stitches.
Even if the light takes my angles
and makes them sweeter than porcelain
no-one is really fooled,
they turn their own head because they can.
I know a woman who breathes too much
and one day she will die, holding herself.
Her mouth is better than mine
but lacks the will to shut up.
I can sing anything in my head,
so long as fingers are pressed into me.
I do not need more than these simple things:
a shape of almost human, a dampened smile.
Cullis is about the moment; she explores now beautifully, carved from the inevitable future
The tactile fabric of clay and cloth become the intangible material that is time, and the inverse
The artificial becomes real; the real is art
What can art accomplish? Is creation a simulacra of life? Is life (and therefore ultimately death) a side-effect of creation?
In creating, do we kill ourselves little by little as we live little by little? How careful must we be?