It seems important for my drawings and ceramics to remain unimportant; small, sparing, a light footprint on the world.  No excitement or pronouncements, just the endlessly disappearing moment, one after another, as the objects lose themselves in the inconsequentiality of time.  They are not a design for something other than themselves, but are a process never finished, a continuation of the 'always more' of Crowther or Merleau-Ponty. [i]

The possibility of 'finishing' is perhaps impossible.  It reminds me of Winnicott's 'good enough' mother, where the concept of achievable perfection is ousted, and replaced by the concept of an adequate balance; where further effort towards perfection merely spoils things.  The balance prior to tipping over into the overworked.  'Finished' is an arbitrary point; a subjective judgement; a running out of ideas, a deadline arriving like a full stop.

   

And yet within each drawing, though I say they are modest and merely process, there is an ego present:  an assertion of individuality, a gesture of hand and mind.  The equal on a small-scale of any "voila" art object experience.  And each drawing moment is finished in that voila.

 

The difference and repetition of Deleuze. [ii]