for Andrew McDonald
Like a natural outsider over listed cobblestones to this once mews-like stable block, then chocolate factory, hence its name, on a visit to your studio, I’m late – caught in the rain. It’s accessed by some iron steps and walkways to the farther end, narrow, an anchorite’s cell. Dray horse or temperance beverage, whatever the likely images were conjured from its walls, once inside, I had imagined a hayloft on your upper level with traps to feeding troughs below. Now hatter’s heads and a worktable, tacked prompts, stacked finished articles tell a further tale … By artisan potter and craftsperson, you practice this outsider art. The walls screen muse-like distances. With impoverished materials, inspiration, improvised, they break through still where stored, restored, the work gets fired, good and done.