When I was about two years old my family moved into the house that my mum and dad had been building since I was born. It was made out of concrete blocks. Solid as. We had to move in before it was finished so it was still a work in progress during our first year there. Most of the interior decorating hadn’t yet been done and there were no coverings on the floors, just bare concrete. At mealtimes I would be put in a highchair to eat, and apparently when I had had enough, I’d throw my plate on the floor and shout “Finished!” I must have liked the sound of the plastic plate clattering on the concrete and the reaction that it got from my sisters – laughter, and my parents – probably also laughter but no doubt subverted into a parental display of discipline and mild annoyance. Drama either way.

The question of what it is to be finished is a central part of my art practice. I realise now that it’s something that perhaps I already had a good handle on when I was two. Finished meant making a noise, making a gesture, making a mess – making. Finishing wasn’t an ending, but the start of a new action. A generative act that’s just another part of an on-going process. Finished for now,  my agonistic catch phrase.

I’m fast approaching the conclusion of the MFA programme and five years of fine arts study, but it’s not an ending to my practice. It’s an ending to structure and the safety net of institutional learning. My practice and this current project feel robust enough to have life after university, I’ll just have to provide my own structure. Working to deadlines is always useful. I’m putting proposals in for RM and Depot and looking for other opportunities to show my work. Hopefully one of them will be successful so I’ll have something to aim towards.

In the meantime I keep making and if I ever get stuck, I can just make a noise, make a gesture, or make a mess and generate a new beginning.

So, in the spirit of being finished for now, here's the beginning of a new work.