‘This chair is old and wooden. I am young and flesh. Echoes of our mime slithering through to formal existence. It’s always a shift, we are always in oscillation. In its becoming it hails teal, in its dissemination it hails white. What it gives is a transparent slate. Make of it what you must. Perhaps a ladder. Stained chalky white and dressed unevenly with cinnamon and dust?’ - excerpt from performance.