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Being the creation of dissociated fingers and thumbs, collaboration feels always to have been a weak interaction for me, only scaling with abstraction. I recognize the impact of my knuckles when I punch the clay, but where are they once the moist flourish of your touch has smoothed the edges, imposed love-hearts and swirls and the outline of an ashtray!? It is fortuitous that I have learned to appreciate the aesthetic; the joke and the conceit.

If the only way I am to witness you is from within a grey slippery maelstrom of impulse, prescription, reversion and recursion "C'est la vie." With all this, the rainbow persisting within me is the vanity of hope and all the unknowns of serendipitous possibility. Yet how might we paint this with my palette so cold to the investment, pragmatic to the grandeur, so resistant to disease?! There is no doubting I desire something to pass between you and I. If it is not to be love, or even a kiss, then at the very least we know can easily finesse a wank of cold uncooked sausages…