Category: Artist Studiosssss

LOWERING HAND

by Mariette Moor

‘I am alert to small moving things, and spin around toward a floating dust mote. I am alert to darker spots against a lighter background, but these are only the roses on my pillowcase… The stillness of death. When the small creature does not move away from the lowering hand… In the cardboard trap, five or six of them are stuck-frozen at odd angles, alive with an uncanny stillness, in this box like a child’s miniature theatre… The white autumn light in the afternoon. They sleep behind a child’s drawings on the kitchen wall. I tap each piece of paper and they burst out from the edges of pictures that are already filled with shooting stars, missiles, machine guns, land mines…’

Excerpt from Cockroaches in Autumn – Lydia Davis

A close up photograph of small dark fruit flies, stuck or walking on a lime green surface that crosses the image. It is unclear if the green shape is fly tape or a tube, but fluorescent turquoise lights in the background colour the image in an unreliable fashion.
Photo by Andrew Kernan
A close up of abstract colours, light blue, dark blue and shades between. It is as if an insect has been drawn across these thick paints, fine tracks left behind by his passage.
Traces of an insect walking through the paint, July 1889, a detail from Van Gogh’s Olive Grove.

3. SOME PEOPLE HAVE THE EXPERIENCE OF FINDING THEMSELVES IN A SPACE AND HAVING NO IDEA HOW THEY GOT THERE.

by Helen Stratford

The photograph shows an image of a computer monitor displaying a close-up view of a hand drawing on a hand-drawn chart or grid filled with handwritten text and heavy black lines written in deep black charcoal, making much of the content obscured. On the screen in front of the image white text in typewriter font reads: 53. Have you had personal experiences with the supernatural? behind the screen there is pink and cream fabric printed with hand-drawn circles, lines, grids and dashes in red, white and black lines. In front of the screen, partially obscuring it are machine embroidery charts and diagrams in red stitching on red fabric.
The photograph shows an image of a monitor with a black frame displaying a close-up view of a hand drawing heavy black lines in deep black charcoal, in the image golden early morning sunlight casts a long shadow of the hand across the paper. On the screen in front of the image white text in typewriter font reads: 3. Some people have the experience of finding themselves in a space and having no idea how they got there. Behind the screen there is pink and cream fabric printed with hand-drawn circles, lines, grids and dashes in red, white and black lines. In front of the screen, partially obscuring it are machine embroidery charts and diagrams in red and pale blue stitching on red fabric. Further behind the fabric and the screen on the right there is a view of a doorframe and a plug socket indicating this is a domestic space.
The photographs shows an image of a monitor with a black frame displaying a close-up view of a hand drawing heavy black lines in deep black charcoal. On the screen in front of the image white text in typewriter font reads: 53. Have you had experiences of the supernatural? and 3. Some people have the experience of finding themselves in a space and having no idea how they got there. Behind the screen hangs pink and cream fabric printed with hand-drawn circles, lines, grids and dashes in red, white and black lines. In front of the screen, partially obscuring it, are machine embroidery charts and diagrams in red and pale blue stitching on red fabric. In the bottom image, behind the fabric and the screen there is a view of a doorframe and a plug socket.

I’ve been experimenting with bringing together some of the things I have been exploring during the residency in a space that might form an exhibition proposal. These photographs form a sketch towards what that might be. One of the things I want to develop is an immersive and sensory space that speaks to crip time and optimisation processes in ways that play with the wellbeing visual models and assessment devices I have been collecting. Many, if not all, of these models and devices are owned and invented by physicians and psychologists; researchers and scientists who patent, trademark or commercialise specific psychological frameworks. All propose to change your life for the better. The image brings together a film of drawing and redrawing a mental health assessment matrix in a space filled with printed drapes and embroidered textiles. Together, they pay attention to the repeating forms and labour embedded in the models; making them into a series of unending patterns that make visible the ridicularity of their amount. At the same time they translate them into textural and sensory fields which, like the accidental door frame and plug socket in the second image, rub up against these neat and tidy models of progress.

FUTURE : NOW

by Helen Stratford

A photograph of an unopened white envelope on a wooden plywood bookshelf filled with architectural magazines and journals. Only the spines of the journals are visible. The envelope sits in the space remaining on the shelf in front of the journals. On the envelope hand-written text reads "To Helen. Wishing you all the best for your special birthday with Lots of Love from Mum." The handwriting is old-fashioned joined up writing with flourishes, written carefully in black pen in the middle of the envelope. In the top right of the image, a thick hardback book rests horizontally on top of the journals, satisfyingly filling the remaining gap between the next shelf. The book is red with the words healthy on the spine in white capitals and Caitja underneath in black capitals.

I mentioned this image in the group meeting. It is a photograph of an unopened card written by my mum for my 60th birthday which won’t happen for a while yet. My mum accidentally wrote it to me instead of my sister last year. It occupies a bookshelf in my house, waiting. In the meeting Mariette commented how it relates to questions of measurement that I have been exploring elsewhere in the blog and the residency. Its writing prompts a judgemental measure of what is incorrect (the wrong day, the wrong year, the wrong person) but, in another reality, it generates a different measurement of time. This is what I love about it. In many ways, the unopened card is an adherence to rituals; to processes; to obligations. At the end of the day, it is just a birthday card, like the multiple others I have received from my mum over the years. Yet, it sits in-between time, in front of architectural journals from up to three decades ago and below a book on Healthy Scepticism from this year. And at this time, it contains precious time; a time when many things might happen.

I devised a performance piece that had instructions for what to do in the case of different eventualities, who might open the card and who will be thanked for the love it contains. The unopened card makes me think about three people and their connections to each other. Perhaps when it’s opened it will have been written to my sister after all. It is a deeply sentimental, bittersweet and poignant object, and I wondered whether to post a picture of it because of that. But after our conversation I post.

MEASURE

by Helen Stratford

I wanted to respond to Sophie’s most recent post on Measured Speech. As part of my wellness coaching course I have been collecting wellness model diagrams; redrawing them with imprecise charcoal and ink and then stitching them using digital embroidery that picks up all the glitches and traces of the drawn line and translates it back into precise yet imprecise detail. The image shows machine embroidery of wellness model diagrams including ‘Spheres of Influence,’ ‘Wheel of Awareness’ and ‘Solution Focused, Decisional Balance’. What I have noticed from drawing and redrawing these models is that the models always follow a pattern of optimisation. Everything is always in a circular one way motion (clockwise or anti clockwise) on a linear scale (from left to right or upwards) and always heading towards change and growth. This one is provisionally called ‘Measure’.

Close-up of a blood red textile artwork combining drawing and embroidery. Pale turquoise stitching creates layered looping lines that resemble topographic contours or movement traces. Pale pink embroidered arrows point in multiple directions, accompanied by short dashed markings and a large question mark on the right-hand side. A dark red raised band runs diagonally from lower left to upper right, disrupting the flow of the stitched lines. Loose black drawn lines are visible in the background, adding another layer of marks and suggesting uncertainty, navigation, or competing directions of movement.

thinking about

by Mariette Moor

I’m thinking about the difference between painting over something, wrapping it, compressing it, binding, embalming or mummifying it, and all the skins these produced. I’m thinking about how unusual harvestmen/daddy long legs are. I’m thinking about looking away, looking downwards, and eradicating hiding spots. I’m thinking about eyes that muddy, magnify, or mosaic. I’m thinking about what the opposite of sky view is. I’m thinking about how long I’d have to stay sealed to a wall for my heart rate to stop objecting to my upright position and accept a new orientation. I’m thinking about how porous skin is, and how sponges are usually the dirtiest thing in a kitchen. I’m thinking about the ice pack I’m about to press to my forehead, the ice machine supporting my dad’s knee post-butchering, the frozen peas on my mum’s face. I’m thinking about how insects like bees and ants clean each other, licking each other’s wounds and scraping parasites or spores off their bodies before they can hurt the whole, but then termites seal the sick within individual burial tombs. I’m thinking about isolation, about illness, about how I skirt around them because I’m scared they’ll swallow even more parts of me. I’m thinking about Clarice Lispector and how she understood that the most minuscule objects can completely unravel us. I’m thinking about how I want my access support artist, Steph, to help me wrap my feet in dough on Saturday or work out how to turn a Reddit thread into a song. I’m thinking about how actually I need her to help me finish my PIP application. I’m thinking about what I really really want her to do – wash my hair, hoover under my bed, and hand-wash my compression garments. I’m thinking about dust as always. I’m thinking about how long I want to spend editing this.

Sepia-toned photograph of the Shroud of Turin, showing front and back impressions of a human figure, faintly visible across the length of cloth.
The Shroud of Turin, 1978, Barrie M Schwortz Collection.
Close-up photograph of the translucent, amber-coloured larval stage of a black vine weevil, lying on dark soil with its legs and segmented body clearly visible curled up.
The Larval/Pupa stage of a Black Vine Weevil, 2024, Robert Heemskrerk.

PERSISTENT

by Helen Stratford

A floor creaks. There is the sound of a shuffling movement inside a room and cars driving past. There is a long sound of something being drawn slowly across a page. It sounds like a felt tip pen but feels dry and lightweight, unlike the wet sound of a paintbrush. It grates a little bit with the surface of what might be paper; not a sharp, high-pitched scrape like chalk but a dry friction that nevertheless causes a little feeling of discomfort. There is a gentle crack of something tiny falling quietly or breaking apart on the paper.

The sound is consistently spaced, and while it stutters and stops at moments as if hesitant, it persists in a regular rhythm. These charcoal lines create a sustained, low-pitched rasping sound, like a steady breeze rustling through dry grass or an unrelenting hiss. Birdsong occasionally overlaps in the background and pigeons coo repeatedly. As the stroke slows down at the end of a line, the sound drops in pitch and becomes a deeper, more tactile scrape.

A motorbike seems to mark the end of the regular long, drawn-out sounds which are then replaced by short bursts of notation. These are also regularly paced, as if filling in gaps at regular spaces; producing quick, rhythmic clacks as the charcoal stick abruptly meets the paper. Two voices start an inaudible conversation in the background in the street outside, and a short electronic tone or horn pulse is emitted by a car’s security system to confirm its doors are open or unlocked by its owner.

Seemingly outside of these early morning greetings and routines, the drawing continues, persistently. It has its own rhythm. At moments it stops for a long pause before regaining pace. Sometimes it is drowned out by the vehicles passing but it continues, nevertheless. In its own time. It sounds like whisper moving across a room. In the distance, more voices greet each other and the traffic noise ebbs and flows in intensity. The floor creaks. The traffic noise grows. The pigeons coo. There is an inaudible sigh in a moment of pause.

This is a first attempt at trying to write an audio description of the drawing process I have been exploring and filming during the residency. In the description I am paying attention to all the sounds: the drawing and the sounds in the space and in the street outside. I was interested to hear how the sound is different to how I imagined the drawing would sound in relation to my experience. In my mind there were more gaps and pauses, but from the sound there is a constant and persistent rhythm which counters the irregularly spaced sounds of early morning activity coming from outside the room. It reminds me of my experience of chronic pain – of never being able to be calm – and of responding to an embodied and non-negotiable time frame that was often in conflict with or rubbed up against that of the outside environment.

SAMPLE 2 119MINS / TATAMI SATIN CROSS STITCH

by Helen Stratford

A series of 6 photographs with black borders showing two pairs of pale skinned hands tracing embroidered lines on bright red fabric. One pair of hands is visibly older than the other. The textile contains stitched diagrams, arrows and looping forms in pink and pale blue thread. The images document a tactile encounter with the embroidery, as the raised stitches are explored through touch.
A series of 6 photographs with black borders showing two pairs of pale skinned hands tracing embroidered lines on bright red fabric. One pair of hands is visibly older than the other. The textiles contain stitched diagrams, arrows and looping forms in pink and pale blue thread.

I show my mum my current work-in-progress. She is partially sighted, so the showing becomes a feeling. Tracing the lines of embroidery with our fingers, we talk and laugh about wellness models, illness and autonomy through a tactile and sensory conversation.

In the 1950s my mum worked on garments for Queen Elizabeth II as a dressmaker for a London Fashion house. One of the dresses she worked on is currently on display at the King’s Gallery. This is exactly the sort of exhibition I try to avoid. The exhibition centres garments produced for royal ceremonies and state occasions, histories inseparable from empire and colonisation. Yet, I became emotional when my sister, niece and I recently took my mum to see the dress we’d heard about (repeatedly) all our lives.

The feeling is difficult to untangle. Partly it was seeing my mum encounter a piece of her own history. Partly it was the accumulation of years of stories suddenly materialising in front of us. Partly it was an awareness of all the other hands that remain absent from the story. I found myself wanting to find all the hands that worked on these exquisite outfits: the hundreds of unnamed workers whose labour supported state weddings, coronations and diplomatic visits; work entangled with wealth drawn from extracted lands and colonial systems. Their contributions remain largely invisible while the finished garments become objects of national celebration. At the same time, I was frustrated by the lack of access design. The hand-drawn sketches that accompanied the garments were displayed too high for my mum to see from her wheelchair.

There is no touching in the exhibition, only admiration.

by Helen Stratford

3. Some people have the experience of finding themselves in a place and having no idea how they got there.

16. Some people have the experience of being in a familiar place but finding it strange and unfamiliar.

53. Have you had personal experiences with the supernatural?

by Helen Stratford

A large sheet of white paper mounted on a tripod easel stands in a harvested field covered with golden straw. Drawn on the paper is a hand-written grid or chart filled with repeated letters and numbered cells, with column headings including words such as 'always,' 'usually,' 'often,' 'sometimes,' 'rarely' and 'never.' In the middle of the paper is a crescent shape of light. it is a partial solar eclipse projected through a telescope the end of which is in view. The lower right corner of the paper curls forward in the breeze. Behind the chart, mature trees are silhouetted against a clear evening sky. To the right, a bright green tent or windbreak is partially visible, while drawing and workshop materials are scattered on the ground beneath the easel. Warm, low sunlight casts long shadows across the field.
Close up of a detail of a charcoal drawing on white paper of a grid infilled with letters and numbers. The numbers 31,32,33,34 are visible in the frame and the letters AUOSRN, repeatedly. A golden crescent-shaped projection of a partial solar eclipse moves slowly across the view, from top left to bottom right. The video is silent.
A close-up view of a hand held in front of a white projection screen outdoors. Bright sunlight passing through a telescope projects a glowing crescent-shaped image of a partial solar eclipse in the centre of the palm. In the foreground, part of a telescope is visible, aimed at the screen. The lower edge of the image reveals straw-covered ground, suggesting the scene is taking place in a harvested field. Warm evening light illuminates the hand and screen, highlighting the projected crescent shape, creating a fleeting interaction between body, light, and astronomical observation.

HEAD ONLY

by Mariette Moor

The floor is covered in shit, but it’s the end of my shift. I’m in a tall, worn service elevator that can comfortably fit multiple gurneys lined up in a row. It’s essential I get to the deepest basement level to clock out as soon as possible, but the lift is completely stationary. The doors are not jolting towards each other, or even whirring, to signal that they still have the capacity to do so.

Between the silent, gaping doors and the extensive yet entirely unresponsive button board to the left, the side panel is interrupted by a second, much smaller set of doors, with flashing lettering above: ‘HEAD ONLY’. Am I allowed? I’ve never properly inspected it before, and there are no buttons to speak of, but it looks operational, and fast.

It opens, revealing a clean, rectangular niche. It’s straightforward to position my head inside – my body so irrelevant that there isn’t even a scene of decapitation. I spare it no thought as the doors seal shut behind me. 

I can’t see much with my eyes pressed up against the wall, I hear metallic grinding and releasing noises begin, and harsh lights start to flicker past my periphery. And although I no longer have a stomach, I still feel the continuous jolts that tell me I’m plummeting faster and faster – or at least, my head is. As I drop further, the rectangular space starts to contract around my skull, tightening with every floor that whips by, until I sense the metal groan in its desire to vacuum-pack my face. While it’s not succeeding at warping against every fold of flesh, the pressure is growing unbearable, as is my sense that there’s not enough air to last all the way, and that the bottom is still miles down. Does a head have further to travel on its own? I decide to count, but I keep losing track – I think one floor for an elevator comes to at least twenty for a head. The doors open, and I reassemble without fuss.

Frictions

by Helen Stratford

Tuesday: my mum and I go for a slow walk – carefully navigating and registering every slight change in surface, every minute change in level, avoiding every raised kerb and seeking solace in the shade. It is a form of attentive and responsive, embodied and situated research. Yet this mode of attention is not voluntary. It is born out of non-negotiable necessity and exposes the frictions of the built environment that often remain invisible to those who move through it more easily.

Long shadows of two people stretch across a sunlit paved path. One is holding the other one's arm. One shadow appears taller and broader, while the other is slimmer and carries a long object resembling a walking stick or cane. They are divided by a raised curb. The low-angled sunlight creates strong contrast between the dark shadows and the bright pavement.
Long shadows of two people stretch across a sunlit paved path. One is holding the other one’s arm. One shadow appears taller and broader, while the other is slimmer and carries a long object resembling a walking stick or cane. They are divided by a dropped curb. The low-angled sunlight creates strong contrast between the dark shadows and the bright pavement.

STRANGE-ING TIME

by Helen Stratford

A bright blue digital display set against a black background reads ‘Monday Before Dawn’ in capital letters above the time 4:54 a.m. in larger numbers in the centre of the screen. Running along the bottom of the screen the date reads: 17 August 2026. There is a reflected light from a mantlepiece and the illuminated screen emphasizes the stillness and darkness of the pre-dawn hour.

I am back at my mum’s. At first, I think I can’t continue with the residency process in this space: practices of art and care feel in direct tension. But then I start thinking about how conventional Western ideas of neoliberal productive time hold very little meaning here. I think about anti-disciplinary scholar Lisa Bradley’s article ‘Life without Clocks’ in which she tries and fails to ‘strange’ time by living without clocks for 12 days. For Lisa, the failure is not in removing the presence of clocks, rather it is in how the rhythm of time has ‘woven its threads through the fibers of my body long ago.’

Here, caring for my mum, time has not disappeared. It registers in the fading daylight, in ‘morning’ and ‘night’ pills, mealtimes, bin collections and the presence or absence of people passing. But ‘Monday morning’ and the productive week become absurd concepts. I have a vague memory of Friday night, but I’m no longer entirely convinced it exists. Instead, time gathers, circles, drags and folds into repetition, reassurance, waiting and attention. Rather than treating this as an interruption, I lean in.

ON FAILURE

by Helen Stratford

Last week I experimented with filming myself drawing and redrawing the assessment chart. I tried to film in morning light as a way of bringing together two types of time and a link to ecologies (with a nod to Carolyn Lazard and Jade Montserrat). BUT I keep failing, I am not a film maker and the filming is out of focus, is too dark, doesn’t fit in the frame, stops before the end, also, because I am tired, I get up too late for the sun, my body aches from drawing this way and I have to stop repeatedly. It is incredibly frustrating but then I realise this is the process. This is the ridicularity and failure I am trying to embrace. And the rub against normative aesthetic, even architectural, desires to make it neat and tidy is palpable.

A blurry image of a chart of lines, numbers and letters drawn in black on a white background. Most of the image is in shadow with some patches of sunlight on the right which are white and tinged with yellow. The chart is composed of numbers that run from 1 to 62 and repeated letters AUOSRN. At the top there is some indistinguishable writing that appears to be a legend for the chart.
A blurry image of a chart of lines, numbers and letters drawn in black on a white background. Most of the image is in shadow with some patches of sunlight on the right which are white and tinged with yellow. The chart is composed of numbers that run from 1 to 62 and repeated letters AUOSRN. At the top there is some indistinguishable writing that appears to be a legend for the chart.
The image shows a video camera on a tripod pointing at a wall. Taped to the wall with masking tape is a large piece of paper. It has ripped edges and looks as if it was cut in a hurry. The wall behind is papered in woodchip wallpaper and painted with magnolia paint, the kind you find in a domestic bedroom, and the top of the wall has a faded decorative wallpaper border with repeating motifs. The paper contains a hand-drawn chart or grid filled with handwritten text and heavy black lines written in deep black charcoal, making much of the content obscured. Across the top are handwritten notes defining letters, including 'A = always, U = usually,' 'O = often,' 'S = sometimes,' and 'R = rarely.' The camera’s fold-out screen displays a close-up view of a hand drawing on the grid. Black plastic sheets cover furniture or stored items beneath the wall.
The image shows a video camera on a tripod pointing at a wall. Taped to the wall with masking tape is a large piece of paper. It has ripped edges and looks as if it was cut in a hurry. The wall behind is papered in woodchip wallpaper and painted with magnolia paint, the kind you find in a domestic bedroom, and the top of the wall has a faded decorative wallpaper border with repeating motifs. The paper contains a hand-drawn chart or grid filled with handwritten text and heavy black lines written in deep black charcoal, making much of the content obscured. Across the top are handwritten notes defining letters, including ‘A = always, U = usually,’ ‘O = often,’ ‘S = sometimes,’ and ‘R = rarely.’ The camera’s fold-out screen displays a close-up view of a hand drawing on the grid. Black plastic sheets cover furniture or stored items beneath the wall.

LOOSE GRIP

by Mariette Moor

Two images of hands, covered in pizza dough. The first is splayed out, fingers spread, coming through the top right corner of the image. The second is the a hand coming from the bottom left of the image, a fist with knuckles facing us. Each look as though the hand of a gargoyle has been juxtaposed onto the wrist of a human.

The last post of gathered images reminded me of when I encased my hands in dough for a test shoot for a short film.

ALWAYS USUALLY OFTEN SOMETIMES RARELY NEVER

by Helen Stratford

A photograph of deep dark red digital embroidery stitched onto a paler blood red fabric. The embroidery is in the form of a grid with numbers that run from top to bottom 4-8 and 27-31 consequentially and letters that read AUOSRN. The chart is cut off and in places the letters A are cut in half and in others red stitching is over sewn in white. On the right hand side a piece of brown tape with ripped edges has been stuck on the fabric. on the tape hand written text in black felt tip pen reads: Sample 2 119 mins / Tatami Satin CROSSSTITCH.
A photograph of deep dark red digital embroidery stitched onto a paler blood red fabric. Numbers run from top to bottom 4-8 and 27-31 and letters read AUOSRN. On the right hand side is a piece of brown tape with ripped edges stuck to the fabric. On the tape hand written text in black felt tip pen reads: Sample 2 119 mins / Tatami Satin CROSSSTITCH. Image: Josie Turnbull

I’ve been redrawing this mental health assessment chart for a while now. I have drawn it in charcoal, in watercolour, in ink, on fabric and translated it into digital embroidery. I am excited to explore where the material of the chart breaks down and fails, but also the performance-based repetitive action of filling in nonsensical questionnaires as an embodiment of crip time. I drew it recently on a whiteboard as part of a performative lecture at a the Society of Social History of Medicine conference at Leeds University with my co-conspirator 20th century healthcare historian Dr Caitjan Gainty. As I drew Caitjan talked about the histories of efficiency and productivity in spaces of work, medicine and healthcare…

The photograph shows a view of the front of a typical lecture theatre or classroom. On the right a projection screen displays 19th-century motion-study photography and chronophotography illustrating human locomotion phases of upright male figures, notably featuring works by Eadweard Muybridge and Étienne-Jules Marey. These were the foundation of 'time and motion' studies by which awkward or redundant movements could be eliminated, tool layouts redesigns, fatigue reduced, and factory assembly-line efficiency maximised. Beneath the projected image is a whiteboard. A pale skinned woman in a black sleeveless knee height dress with red curly hair is drawing a chart on the whiteboard. She is leaning, a little awkwardly, to the right in order to bend to reach the extent of the board. On the left is a desk with a visualiser and lectern. A pale skinned grey haired woman with black rimmed glasses and a lanyard is speaking and making hand gestures to an invisible audience in front of the desk.
Caitjan Gainty (left) and Helen Stratford (right) presenting ‘The Ins and Outs of Productivity’
at SSHM 2026: In/Out University of Leeds July 2026: 20 minute paper and live drawing presentation.
The image shows a grid drawn in bright blood red ink on pale cream silky fabric. The brush strokes from a wide stiff brush can be clearly seen in the lines of the grid. Inside the grid are letters and numbers drawn in a thinner brush that read AUOSRN and the numbers 22 and 23. On the top right hand side the grid is overlaid with an appliqué addition made from a darker cream translucent fabric. This has smudgy monoprint drawn and precisely stitched concentric circles in bright and deep red which break down and unravel at the top. It looks like an oyster or a finger print.
A grid drawn in bright blood red ink on pale cream silky fabric with numbers 22, 23 and letters: AUOSRN. On the top right hand side the grid is overlaid with an appliqué addition with monoprint drawn and precisely stitched concentric circles in bright and deep red which break down and unravel at the top.
The stitch time for the appliqué was around 22 minutes. Image: Josie Turnbull.

MUMMIFIED ROOMMATE

by Mariette Moor

Eight image gallery showing insects in different precarious positions. First a spider painted over a white wall, second and third: two cockroaches painted over a wall, fourth: a grasshopper somehow fossilised in cement, fifth, sixth and seventh: more spiders painted into white walls, and eight: an image of a large number of daddy long legs clustered onto the corner of a ceiling piled on top one another as if to look like a collection of hairy legs.

1. MetalKingFlandango, r/NotMyJob/, Reddit, Guys who painted my shop just straight up painted over this spider. 5y ago. Access Online.

2. Palafitteposide, r/mildlyinteresting/, Reddit, This bug I found painted over on my wall today., 7y ago. Access Online.

3. chelsea, a human woman? @chellzyeah, Twitter, My landlord painted over a fucking roach, 11:39PM Sep 4, 2021. Access Online: Carly Stern, Daily Mail, Texas woman reveals her landlord painted over a COCKROACH on her wall as she shares a hilarious image of her ‘mummified roommate’ – sparking a wave of memes and jokes on Twitter, 8th September 2021.

4. Vincent van Gogh, detail of Olive Trees. Access Online: Mark Brown, Guardian, Dead grasshopper discovered in Vincent van Gogh painting, Wed 8 Nov 2017 18.36 GMT.

5. zestywitchy , r/mildlyinteresting/, Reddit, This spider was painted onto the wall. 10y ago. Access Online.

6. Alarming-Caramel, r/paint/, Reddit, Found a spider painted into a wall in my house. 2y ago. Unknown source. Access Online.

7. ZEROZAFIR , r/mildlyinteresting/, Reddit, This spider got caught in drying paint and died stuck to my wall, rip, 6y ago. Access Online.

8. National Park Service, Harvestmen, also called daddy longlegs, on a building at Glacier Bay National Park & Preserve in Alaska. Access Online: Katherine J Woo, New York Times, Did This Building Grow A Beard? Nope. Those are Legs: Daddy Longlegs will sometimes collect in large groups. Don’t mistake their dangling limbs for fur. Oct 31. 2020.

Audio recording by Papa Moor

WELLBEING COACHING MODELS

by Helen Stratford

The image shows a hand written list of Wellbeing Coaching models and tools written in capital letters in black charcoal on a white background. The list from top to bottom reads: T-GROW Silent GROW Rose, Bud & Thorn Integrating Wellbeing The Six Criteria of Well-Being Self-Determination Theory PUNCHY Purpose & Values Mounting Lasting Change The Wheel of Awareness Healthy Mind Platter PERMA PERMA⁴⁺ Decisional Balance Change Talk vs Status Quo Talk Transtheoretical Model Stages of Change Motivational Interviewing D.A.R.N.C.A.T. Wheel of Wellbeing

During the residency I am trying to finish an assessment for a wellbeing coaching course. This is a list of wellbeing coaching models and tools. It’s not, nor ever will be, exhaustive…

ceiling, moth & cheese

by Mariette Moor

A single unlit birthday candle sticks out from the top of a closed match box as if it were a cake.
A subtly textured wall with small lumps and marks on it is illuminated by a warm, orange light. The tips of leaves from a house plant creep up at the bottom.
A close up photograph of the interior of a cheese grater, which also looks like a blue toned, futuristic corridor with reflective surfaces and geometric cut outs.

Left: c. mae bloom, Firelights flickering on the ceiling of the world, 2025.

Middle: Foresaken-Werewolf-23, r/mildinginteresting/, Reddit, Peice of plaster on my wall looks like someone painted over a moth or butterfly, 7mo ago

Right: Vince Moriarty, Positive Quotes Diaries, Facebook, Does the inside of a cheese grater qualify as a liminal space? 9 January 2024

Audio recording by Papa Moor

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