Time is collapsing. The past and the future are redrawn in the present.
Postcard interventions (original postcards dated 1897-now, collage, paint, pencil, thread)
Ongoing series by Sarah Gillett
Anxious Chronicles gallery
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He is a red man all over, everyone can smell it. Even through the jasmine oil I apply so liberally before each shave he reeks of rusty iron and musk like the heavy gate to the bull’s field that was left open last year. I prattle on about the weather and tug my comb through his beard with my fingers crossed. Every time I snag on a knot I wince, afraid by the size of his huge hairy fists and the bulk of him sprawled across my biggest chair.