Time is mysterious.
Watching moving images of faraway places it moves slowly. It has been moving slowly all day.
Here in the dark, hidden from the noisy gallery, it is like a cocoon, but what shall I emerge as?
I can hear the rumble of the crowds. Is anyone out there even looking at art, or just promenading in the place to be seen?
I don’t know what I am watching or why, but it is calming, soporific – jungle, mirrors, spirals, ruins.
While I am lost in a this Mexican idyll, Martin (same age as my mother) dies.
Then time speeds up again. Suddenly I must rush to meet you, and those two hours together are gone in a flash.
The writing on the wall says: ‘I am interested in the way that time records itself into things and people.’ And I am. And in the way people feel time.
Naomi Young 