I love the dark hours of my being in which my senses drop into the deep. I have found in them, as in old letters, my private life, that is already lived through, and become wide and powerful now, like legends. Then I know that there is room in me for a second huge and timeless life.
But sometimes I am like the tree that stands over a grave, a leafy tree, fully grown, who has lived out that particular dream, that the dead boy (around whom its warm roots are pressing) lost through his sad moods and his poems.
An exploration of the caricatures & satirical prints that filled printshop windows & littered the streets of England during the long eighteenth century (c.1660-1837). And perhaps further afield too, if I’m feeling particularly adventurous.