(1947 London) burns into his archetypal pieces an imprint of real time. Each line of burnt holes is made from repetitions of equal quanta of time. The lines together form a shape of time. He always works from left to right, the lens in his right hand, the sun over his right shoulder. It is as though he were writing a text. But the text is made from repetitions of one meaningless sign of fire. He finds his wood on the land at the sea’s edge. (part of Chris Yetton’s text, february 2003)