Shown at Say What?, ASC Gallery, London
12th Sept - 28th Oct, 2016
with Kit Craig Alex Lawler, James Prevett, Fay Nicolson, Emily Rosamond, Lisa Selby, Madalina Zaharia
Included A day of performances - with performative reading: "Always carry your keys in your pocket, 2016" 

Fingers scrolling fingers scrolling fingers scrolling fingers 2.0, 2016
Bronze with verdigris fingerprints, accidental photographs, silicone rubber, nails
45 x 35 cm

Shown (and pictured) at:
A Symptom of Objects
Andrew Gillespie, Rowena Harris, Ian Jackson, Joshua Johnson, James Stradner, Emily Tilzey, Lily Ackroyd-Willoughby
Supercollider, Blackpool
17 Nov - 11 Dec 2016

Becoming somewhat aware of my digitopalmer complex, 2015
Iphone 4s and animation, 3D printed hand bones
Dimensions variable

Always Carry your Keys in Your Pocket, 2016
Performative reading, with video projection

(video still)

(video still)

Excerpt of reading:

I read somewhere, that the true state of a culture is most easily determined by the shit thats left on the ground. It was something thing that an archaeologist said, I think. Cultural dropout. I was thinking about this as I stepped outside to smoke. Smoking so I could extend a moment, whilst, shortening my life.

The sun was shining enough to offend my unshielded eyes, but not nearly enough to leave the lit, life-full fag to retrieve my sunglasses. They were far beyond easy reach of the open door and smoke-free interior. Committed, I took purposeless steps away, and thought into the distance.

The wind blew, and, inevitably the door slammed shut.

This door was very familiar to me, largely due to my regular crossing in and out, when my untamed nicotine urges propelled me. Therefore, I was always well aware of potentially being locked out. To counter this I carried my keys in my pocket - the pointed metal against my skin, the weight on my right side and the jangle when when I moved, produced a satisfying feeling of safety.

Except this time. This time, when I reached in panic, the keys were not there. They had a left a phantom presence in my pocket, and duped by this feeling, I had left them inside. Scheisse, I thought.

I was alone locked out. With no keys and by the way no phone. It was also an odd time of day, in rather a remote location which gave little hope for other human assistance any time soon.

In my other pocket I did have a few remaining fags, thankfully, a bit of loose chain not more then 70p and mostly in coppers, a key of good use to another door, but not this one, a paper clip, a USB stick, a badge that said I love dick, a sharpie - described as thick, a toothpick, a biro that the french call bic, a lego brick, and some white ear phones with a 3.5mm jack, as if to doubly rub in that I was going to have to sit this one out with no further auditory, or alternative stimulation other then from my own mind...