The first ribbon was not made, but stolen—plucked from the mane of a comet as it raced past the edge of the world. The siblings who took it tied it between them, knotting themselves to a promise so old that even time blinked and lost track. Some say that’s why ribbons fray, why they slip loose—because they are still trying to return to the stars.
My practice mediates between photography and painting. Female narratives develop as time is being recycled over.
Watercolour, watercolour pencil
10 Artist Reviews
£300
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The first ribbon was not made, but stolen—plucked from the mane of a comet as it raced past the edge of the world. The siblings who took it tied it between them, knotting themselves to a promise so old that even time blinked and lost track. Some say that’s why ribbons fray, why they slip loose—because they are still trying to return to the stars.
My practice mediates between photography and painting. Female narratives develop as time is being recycled over.
Watercolour, watercolour pencil
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