Tired Calligraphy (from a series)

The ink runs down the frayed strips unguarded, delicately wafted by air with compliant complacency, so no longer is there a perfect, blank white space where marks choreograph or compose the page. Instead these tangle and melt into one another, spiralling in exhausted patterns until they sink into torpor, depleted of vigor, and wearily stop short. They cannot bother to exert, preferring just to jumble with other marks: a garbage of collaborative, automatic language and mixed meanings. Chinese ink, silk, brass chain