Second tier, top left, with a dear friend.
My dear friend observed that for all the beauty in Collins' images, that we still need technology to understand them.
The eye is drawn to the sheer variety that exists in nature: its colours, its shapes, its curves. It is disturbed, however, by the clinical, precise, and ugly modes we use to measure them.
My eyes were fixated on Duncan Bellamy’s pulsating cymbal rhythms. A stray low tom hit hinted at a new development, only for Bellamy to stick rigidly to instruction for a considerably long time.
Jack Wyllie’s saxophone reminds me of passages on Taphead and Eden by Talk Talk. His long-held notes echo into the ether, perhaps forming a bridge with Collins' images so they can meet and converse.
Less gorgeous was the bus home, audibly aching from the potholes. I’m sat at the back, and I can feel it’s groan. Hopefully I’m helping to absorb its pain. The bumps in the terrain make me queasy as I scribble these notes.
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