. Sarah Stubbs
Whispers, secrets, doors softly closing. Cakes rising, glass touching, shoes dragging on carpeted floors and billiard balls flying.
Roller skates, ice creams, mountains and fiscal icy dreams.
Moving, quickly, faster to erase the stench of the old country, the unspoken yet present past.
Convict shirts, hidden under loose suits, anchor tattoos and scars covered over with pink and white marzipan.
Dreams, desires, truths and lies sifted with flour through a sieve, and baked in a cake.
Maids, silently making beds, tucking tissues under stiff sleeves.
Starched white sheets, rich brocade, fingertips tapping on tables, nails glistening, bags dropping to the floor.
So many stories could be constructed and told. From famed marriages, to explorers hiding, and secret dalliances. The past is rich oscillating in volume.
Pressing clay into its crevices, it is the present that draws me in, the staff who move about with care, the clients sitting with bags on leather chairs, the music drifting from the bar, the two women asleep at their table, their cakes and sandwiches half eaten.
An art prize so rich and brazen in its ambition. I feel at home, as I sit at the table in the bar, quickly sketching into clay all that I see and imagine. Past, present and future collide wedded to my fiction.