a cover is a covering a ceiling a blanket.
it covers first the transformer so as to trace, to rub, to transfer. it collects sun wind rain needles, and insects wander and meander atop.
i climb up, survey, convey, a tricep lift, a turn, then a jump (i could and do repeat).
the view point is close, caressing along the surface, a blur at times.
the chemistry leans against a branch, a trunk, on the moss it soaks up some acidity (or was it the blueberries) and plays not with blues but with purples, greens and greys, all the while attending to the wind the rain the sun.
i draw, it draws; in contact that is often near yet unsuspecting, unassuming. sometimes we detach, blow off.
a kaleidoscope points to the fir tops, another along the line where meadow path and woods meet.
the fourth blanket was the first, a garden tree in sun and rehabilitation. neither curtain nor quilt (with skills for either discussed while making the bed), it becomes potential, to fold, to enclose, to caress. the tool may be my gran’s sewing machine. you reach it while tracing the spring meadow’s abundance.
For cover presents four covers created across a rural autumn and early winter. It utilises tactile media (graphite rubbings and contact printing) to move-with wind, rain, sun, plant matter alongside hands and other bodies. It did so in an unexpected site, across the small village, just where it meets the forest: a cover is a covering a ceiling a blanket, to potentially cover you and perhaps I.