After Gerry Davis’s, exhibition ‘Burrow’.
Picture a pram in a dark, empty warehouse where a child waits to be requisitioned. Salvation beckons in the smell of soap on the wind that crackles through washed sheets on a line, surges in the song of a stonechat perched on a fence. Picture a young man trapped inside his own jacket contorted by the effort of trying to escape it, of trying to get his head above his own shoulders; whole days spent stumbling down dead-end paths trying to side-step the memories that left him marooned on a ditch like a trailer with a missing wheel. Listen for the songs he always meant to sing, stranded mid-air, drowned out by a plane that flies over the empty chair he dragged into the middle of the road. Picture him as he clambers out of the plane-crash of his past and climbs onto that chair, looking up to greet returning swans and catch in his outstretched arms that brief moment before they lose their airborne grace - the chance benediction of a child who still waits.
IMAGE: Ghosts, Oil on Canvas, 183 x 152 cm, 2012. Gerry Davis©