These drawings are a few of many that I make reflecting on life. After the death of my husband, nothing could ever be the same again. Everything is broken. Shattered dreams, broken mirrors. Diamonds. Melancholy. A garden with a fountain in the wilderness, like an early medieval space, where so much is unknown about the outside terrain. Water as crystal tears. The seed that becomes two children. It is not fair, you dying. I am a widow and I am climbing up the stairs to bed. ALONE. I stretch my arm over to your pillow but you are not there. Quotes from poetry, in this case Leopardi, articulate my thoughts better than I can in my own words. This is why we have poetry. These drawings are like poetry.
Emma Talbot lives and works in London. Recent exhibitions (all 2009) include Storytime with Dexter Dalwood at Gallery North, Newcastle, One should not be thwarted by antidisestablishmentarianism, Primo Alonso, London, The Jerwood Drawing Prize and Awopbopaloobop Transition, London.
20 Pages, 14 x 20 cm, b/w Photocopy, Edition of 150, 2009
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