Memory is a curious thing. Hold it up to the light, and it refracts. When I think about my childhood, there is no dialogue: only sensation and colour. Catching bees in glass jars and throwing parachutes from balconies. Grass stains. Sleeping in purple tents. Tobogganing at night.
To capture something as nebulous as memory, the artist confines herself to the tower. She separates the darkness from the light, the other from the subject, calling them night and day, she and I. She is the creator of binaries, and thus perspective. She measures the distance between the sun and stars and joins them to tell stories. She is everybody and nobody at once–the shadow of our collective unconscious.
she is also invisible.
This is why the world reveres and fears the artist.