Turning as my phone displays an incoming call, my low hanging elbow clips the top of the lidless Windsor and Newton bottle of ink. With the cap clenched between my teeth, the ink pen taking my right hand out of the equation and my left hand at a positional disadvantage the bottle hits the desk. Black ink glugs out of the neck and all over my pristine white keyboard and editing desk.
Then the strangest thing happens. I’ve half committed to the first step of a desperate bolt for the bathroom to get tissue when I stop dead. From the corner of my eye, I see something morbidly attractive in this tiny catastrophe and I turn on my heel, almost falling backwards before grabbing my camera from the shelf and documenting the scene.
I’ve grown obsessed with the mistake, the beauty and originality in imperfections and the revelations they bring. My artistic style has grown to become unfinished, raw, unapologetic mark making and that love has taken giant steps forward in recent weeks thanks to the spillage...
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