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Hot Water Only, 2015

site specific text for 'Tara has no rooms inside', Unit 1, London


A furry animal emerges from a river or a lake somewhere in the cold wilderness, shaking its heavy skin. Defeating the purpose of sealing, loosened from its bearing; drops depart in all directions in slow motion. As it dries it grows to its former size.

If it's dry it will tear, it will blister; the skin, the minuscule scales. As the plaster dries, you can give it a little touch test. If you don't disappear into it, you can start pulling it until you achieve a nice, smooth finish.

Soft footed furniture, walking about the room with no knees to bend.

I often hear the sounds of you taking a bath. You know how the walls are in this house. You run hot water only, I can tell by the lament of the pipes. You let it cool of for ten minutes or so, then enter. Once inside the bathtub your movement becomes restless. Your skin screeches against the enamel, spasms force your arms and legs closer together. Your lungs open your chest up into gills leaving you struggle for air, your body too slow to shrink, to immerse itself completely. Quiet down, lie flat flesh coloured fish. 

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