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Last year I did a residency at the IAAB, an international artists exchange programme in Basel, Switzerland.
I took my interest in Alpine Romanticism a bit literally by coming down with pneumonia and spending most of the time weakly convalescing instead of tramping about the Alps having elevated thoughts about the Sublime. When I got out of hospital I filled a room with clouds so I could pretend to walk among them without having to climb a mountain. Then I filled the place with a gently lapping ocean swell of plastic dustsheet so, like Friedrichs monk, I could stare dreamily at the horizon, from my convalescent bed. This year, thankfully back to health, Ive been artist-in-residence at Wysing Arts, Cambridgeshire, where instead of collaborating with some high-flying scientist as intended, Ive been thinking about something scientists pretended into existence the Subtle Ether. We know whence comes our belief in the ether. If it takes several years for light to arrive to us from a removed star, it is no longer upon the star nor is it upon the earth; it must be sustained somewhere, and supported, so to speak, by some material. Poincaré, 1900 Its the stuff between things, explaining effects at a distance, what the light from distant stars...
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