A neighbour’s question set this piece in motion, she asked "Don’t you get tired taking your dog along the same stretch of beach each day?" along with a line that’s been quietly circling my thoughts, by Emily Dickinson: “Forever is composed of nows.” I find myself returning to it, often.
As a maker of artists’ books, and as a printmaker, my work almost always brings together image and text. A simple question about walking the same stretch of beach each day led me to a series of quiet observations about small, everyday pleasures; found items, a friendly encounter, a shared, beautiful sunset, which in time slowly gathered themselves into this book.
It led me to reflect on how easily we slip into moving too quickly, always looking ahead, measuring time by what comes next. There’s often a quiet impatience in that, or a low hum of anxiety, as if we’re living slightly ahead of ourselves. And in doing so, the quieter details can get lost: the shift of light, the rhythm of the tide, the small, steady presence of the everyday.
Working by hand offers a different pace. It requires time and attention, a willingness to move slowly and really notice what’s there. There’s value in that slowness, in doing something deliberately and allowing things to unfold in their own time. It gives me space to gather my thoughts, and to follow the ideas that begin to surface from the small finds I carry back to the studio.
